skimming frisbees and stuff; white boys playing Madonna and Prince. There are cruising turd-burglars with active eyes, and the usual London liggers, hang-gliders and no-goodies waiting to sign on. I feel outside everything, so up I go, through the flower-verged alley at the end of the park, where the fudge-packers used to line up at night for fucking. On the wall it says: Gay solidarity is class solidarity.
Outside the café is a police van with grilles over the windows full of little piggies giggling with their helmets off. It’s a common sight around here, but the streets are a little quieter than usual. I walk past an Asian policewoman standing in the street who says hello to me. ‘Auntie Tom,’ I whisper and go into the café.
In this place they play the latest calypso and soca and the new Eric Satie recording. A white Rasta sits at the table with me. He pays for my tea. I have chilli with a baked potato and grated cheese, with tomato salad on the side, followed by Polish cheesecake. People in the café are more subdued than normal; all the pigs making everyone nervous. But what a nice guy the Rasta is. Even nicer, he takes my hand under the table and drops something in my palm. A chunky chocolate lozenge of dope.
‘Hey. I’d like to buy some of this,’ I say, wrapping my swooning nostrils round it.
‘Sweetheart, it’s all I’ve got,’ he says. ‘You take it. My last lump of blow.’
He leaves. I watch him go. As he walks across the street in his jumble-sale clothes, his hair jabbing out from his head like tiny bedsprings, the police get out of their van and stop him. He waves his arms at them. The van unpacks. There’s about six of them surrounding him. There’s an argument. He’s giving them some heavy lip. They search him. One of them is pulling his hair. Everyone in the café is watching. Ipop the dope into my mouth and swallow it. Yum yum.
I go out into the street now. I don’t care. My friend shouts across to me: ‘They’re planting me. I’ve got nothing.’
I tell the bastard pigs to leave him alone. ‘It’s true! The man’s got nothing!’ I give them a good shouting at. One of them comes at me.
‘You wanna be arrested too!’ he says, shoving me in the chest.
‘I don’t mind,’ I say. And I don’t really. Ma would visit me.
Some kids gather round, watching the rumpus. They look really straggly and pathetic and dignified and individual and defiant at the same time. I feel sorry for us all. The pigs pull my friend into the van. It’s the last I ever see of him. He’s got two years of trouble ahead of him, I know.
When I get back from my walk they’re sitting on Howard’s Habitat sofa. Something is definitely going on, and it ain’t cultural. They’re too far apart for comfort. Beadily I shove my aerial into the air and take the temperature. Yeah, can’t I just smell humming dodginess in the atmosphere?
‘Come on,’ I say to Nadia. ‘Ma will be waiting.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Howard says, getting up. ‘Give her my love.’
I give him one of my looks. ‘All of it or just a touch?’
*
We’re on the bus, sitting there nice and quiet, the bus going along past the shops and people and the dole office when these bad things start to happen that I can’t explain. The seats in front of me, the entire top deck of the bus in fact, keeps rising up. I turn my head to the window expecting that the street at least will be anchored to the earth, but it’s not. The whole street is throwing itself up at my head and heaving about and bending like a high rise in a tornado. The shops are dashing at me, at an angle. The world has turned into a monster. For God’s sake, nothing will keep still, butI’ve made up my mind to have it out. So I tie myself to the seat by my fists and say to Nadia, at least I think I say, ‘You kiss him?’
She looks straight ahead as if she’s been importuned by a beggar. I’m about to be hurled out of the bus, I know. But I go right
Outside the café is a police van with grilles over the windows full of little piggies giggling with their helmets off. It’s a common sight around here, but the streets are a little quieter than usual. I walk past an Asian policewoman standing in the street who says hello to me. ‘Auntie Tom,’ I whisper and go into the café.
In this place they play the latest calypso and soca and the new Eric Satie recording. A white Rasta sits at the table with me. He pays for my tea. I have chilli with a baked potato and grated cheese, with tomato salad on the side, followed by Polish cheesecake. People in the café are more subdued than normal; all the pigs making everyone nervous. But what a nice guy the Rasta is. Even nicer, he takes my hand under the table and drops something in my palm. A chunky chocolate lozenge of dope.
‘Hey. I’d like to buy some of this,’ I say, wrapping my swooning nostrils round it.
‘Sweetheart, it’s all I’ve got,’ he says. ‘You take it. My last lump of blow.’
He leaves. I watch him go. As he walks across the street in his jumble-sale clothes, his hair jabbing out from his head like tiny bedsprings, the police get out of their van and stop him. He waves his arms at them. The van unpacks. There’s about six of them surrounding him. There’s an argument. He’s giving them some heavy lip. They search him. One of them is pulling his hair. Everyone in the café is watching. Ipop the dope into my mouth and swallow it. Yum yum.
I go out into the street now. I don’t care. My friend shouts across to me: ‘They’re planting me. I’ve got nothing.’
I tell the bastard pigs to leave him alone. ‘It’s true! The man’s got nothing!’ I give them a good shouting at. One of them comes at me.
‘You wanna be arrested too!’ he says, shoving me in the chest.
‘I don’t mind,’ I say. And I don’t really. Ma would visit me.
Some kids gather round, watching the rumpus. They look really straggly and pathetic and dignified and individual and defiant at the same time. I feel sorry for us all. The pigs pull my friend into the van. It’s the last I ever see of him. He’s got two years of trouble ahead of him, I know.
When I get back from my walk they’re sitting on Howard’s Habitat sofa. Something is definitely going on, and it ain’t cultural. They’re too far apart for comfort. Beadily I shove my aerial into the air and take the temperature. Yeah, can’t I just smell humming dodginess in the atmosphere?
‘Come on,’ I say to Nadia. ‘Ma will be waiting.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Howard says, getting up. ‘Give her my love.’
I give him one of my looks. ‘All of it or just a touch?’
*
We’re on the bus, sitting there nice and quiet, the bus going along past the shops and people and the dole office when these bad things start to happen that I can’t explain. The seats in front of me, the entire top deck of the bus in fact, keeps rising up. I turn my head to the window expecting that the street at least will be anchored to the earth, but it’s not. The whole street is throwing itself up at my head and heaving about and bending like a high rise in a tornado. The shops are dashing at me, at an angle. The world has turned into a monster. For God’s sake, nothing will keep still, butI’ve made up my mind to have it out. So I tie myself to the seat by my fists and say to Nadia, at least I think I say, ‘You kiss him?’
She looks straight ahead as if she’s been importuned by a beggar. I’m about to be hurled out of the bus, I know. But I go right
Similar Books
