There was love in their eyes. I was sure of it.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
Still in a good mood, I went to see Baz. Ready to start work.
An he dropped a bombshell.
Sorry, mate, I can’t use you no more.
Why not?
He just looked at me like the answer was obvious. When I looked like I didn’t understand, he had to explain it to me.
Cos of what’s happened. Cos of what you believe in. Now don’t get me wrong, he said, you know me. I agree, there’s too many Pakis an asylum-seekers over here. But a lot of those Pakis are my customers. And, well, look at you. I can hardly bring you along to some Paki’s house and let you work for him, could I? So sorry, mate, that’s that.
I was gutted. I walked out of there knowin I had no money. Knowin that, once again, the Pakis had taken it from me.
I looked around the shoppin center. I didn’t see love anymore. I saw headlines on the papers:
RACIST COUNCILLOR
VOTED IN TO DAGENHAM
Then underneath:
KICK THIS SCUM OUT
I couldn’t believe it. They should be welcomin us with open arms. This was supposed to be the start of the revolution. Instead it was the usual shit. I just knew the Pakis were behind it. An the Jews. They own all the newspapers.
I had nowhere to go. I went to the St. George, but this was early mornin an there was no one in. None of my people.
So I just walked round all day. Thinkin. Not gettin any-thin straight. Gettin everythin more twisted.
I thought of goin back to the St. George. They’d be there. Celebratin. Then there was goin to be a late-night march round the streets. Let the residents, the concerned populace, know they were safe in their houses. Let everyone know who ruled the streets.
But I didn’t feel like it.
So I went home.
An wished I hadn’t.
Tom was there. He looked like shit. Curled up on his bed. He’d been sick. Shit himself.
Whassamatter? I said. D’you wanna doctor?
He managed to shake his head. No.
What then?
Gear. Cold turkey. Cramps.
An he was sick again.
I stood back, not wantin it to get on me.
Please, he gasped, you’ve got to get us some gear... please...
I’ve got no money, I said.
Please...
An his eyes, pleadin with me. What could I do? He was me brother. Me flesh an blood. An you look after your own.
I’ll not be long, I said.
I left the house.
Down to the part of the estate where you don’t go. I walked quickly, went to the usual spot. Waited.
Eventually he came. Stood before me.
Back so soon? Aaron said. Then smiled. Can’t keep away, can you?
I need some gear, I said.
Aaron waited.
But I’ve got no money.
Aaron chuckled. Then no sale.
Please. It’s for... It’s urgent.
Aaron looked around. There was that smile again. How much d’you want it?
I looked at him.
How much? he said again. An put his hand on my arm.
He moved in closer to me. His mouth right by me ear. He whispered, tickling me. Me heart was beatin fit to burst. Me legs felt shaky.
You’re like me, he said.
I tried to speak. It took me two attempts. No I’m not, I said.
Oh yes you are. We do what our society says we have to do. Behave like we’re supposed to. Hide our true feelings.
What we really are.
I tried to shake me head. But I couldn’t.
You know you are. He got closer. You know I am.
An kissed me. Full on the mouth.
I didn’t throw him off. Didn’t call him a filthy nigger. Didn’t hit him. I kissed him back.
Then it was hands all over each other. I wanted to touch him, feel his body, his beautiful black body. Feel his cock. He did the same to me. That python was inside me, ready to come out. I loved the feeling.
I thought of school. How I was made to feel different. Hated them for it. Thought of Ian. What we had got up to. I had loved him. With all me heart. And he loved me. But we got found out. And that kind of thing is frowned upon, to say the least. So I had to save my life. Pretend it was all his doing. I gave him up. I never saw him again. I never stopped loving him.
I loved what Aaron was doing to me now. It felt wrong. But it felt so right.
I had him in my hand, wanted him in me body. Was ready to take him.
When there was a noise.
We had been so into each other we hadn’t heard them approach.
So this is where you are, they said. Fuckin a filthy nigger when you should be with us.
The foot soldiers. On patrol. And tooled up.
I looked at Aaron. He looked terrified.
Look, I said, it was his fault. I had to get some gear for me brother...
They weren’t listening. They were staring at us. Hate in their eyes. As far as they were concerned, I was no longer one of them. I was the enemy now.
You wanna run, nigger-lover? Or you wanna stay here and take your beatin with your boyfriend? The words spat out.
I zipped up my jeans. Looked at Aaron.
They caught the look.
Now run, the machine said, hate in its eyes. But from now on, you’re no better than a nigger or a Paki.
I ran.
Behind me, heard them laying into Aaron.
I kept running.
I couldn’t go home. I had no gear for Tom. I couldn’t stay where I was. I might not be so lucky next time.
So I ran.
I don’t know where.
After a while I couldn’t run anymore. I slowed down, tried to get my breath back. Too tired to run anymore. To fight back.
I knew who I was. Finally. I knew WHAT I WAS.
And it was a painful truth. It hurt.
Then from the end of the street I saw them. Pakis. A gang of them. Out protecting their own community. They saw me. Started running.
I was too tired. I couldn’t outrun them. I stood up, waited for them. I wanted to tell them I wasn’t a threat, that I didn’t hate them.
But they were screaming, shouting, hate in their eyes.
A machine. Cogs an clangs an fists an hammers.
I waited, smiled.
Love shining in my own eyes.
Sic transit Gloria Mundi
by Joolz Denby
Bradford
We put six black plastic bin bags of stuff in that Rent-A-Wreck transit van; that’s what we took, and we left another twelve or so of rubbish in the house. We’d cleaned up too — or at least what we thought of as cleaning; though it’s no good excuse, you’d have needed an industrial steam-cleaner to shift the muck in that kitchen. And we left a note, taped to the spotted mirror in the front room:
Dear Mr. Suleiman,
We are very sorry to run away and not pay what we owe you for the rent. One day we will come back and settle up, we promise.
Yours sincerely,
The tenants at no. 166
And we set off in the middle of the night, an old transistor radio and tape deck wedged on the filthy dashboard, the rain smearing the windscreen as the wonky wiper jerked spastically across the glass and we put “Babylon’s Burning” on at full distort and we laughed and you floored the pedal until the engine howled.
Oh, man; running away from Bradford in the lost, gone, and sadly not-forgotten ’80s. Running into the great spirit gold of the rising sun and the hot rush of cutting loose at last from the viscous, clinging mud of small-town England; every weekday the dole and just enough coarse cheap food to keep you alive, every Saturday night the same round of drinking, fighting, and dreaming, every Sunday a long smashed afternoon of everyone droning on about how shit it was and how if only they had the breaks, cha, just watch ’em, they’d be rock stars and axe heroes and Somebodies.