Wednesday, April 26, 2006
“Because I’ve got a little bit of heart, you know, I turn away when them kinda things happen. But it happens and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Then he’d light a cigarette, blow out the smoke and stare at the floor and you’d know what he was thinking. One day his name would come up and he’d have to do one.
“Otherwise it’ll be me with a hole in my face.”
That’s the way it was. You couldn’t remain a foot-soldier for ever, you either had to move up into the inner ring or they’d make you take a fall and spend a long time in prison to protect one of the higher-ups. And if you refused you’d get blown away and somebody else would go to jail.
Static Boy, with the smooth skin, high cheek bones and oriental eyes, loved his knives and his brothers. Both were necessities. He didn’t talk, he spat, spat out words like a Mach-10 on short burst.
What about the kid?
“Yeah, always knew him. We grew up knowing each other.”
And why did he die?
“Because his name come up. It’s easy to get blowed. He did something that doubled back on his people. Maybe it was meant, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe didn’t even know what he’d done, I don’t know. Anyway it happened. He’s gone and that’s it. Tomorrow it could be me, or you. They killed him, shot him in his mouth and his throat.”
Static has a little bit of heart. Sure, he never killed anyone, not yet. But he’s stabbed people and cut them.
“Never shot anyone, not at close range. I don’t mind fcking somebody up but I won’t blow them in the mouth. My other bruvs have, obviously, but I ain’t, cos I’ve got a little bit of heart. One day I’ll have to though, I guess. Otherwise it’ll be me with a hole in my face. I turn my head when I see them things happen. It happens and there’s nothing you or anybody can do about it.”
He left school at 14.
“My father was a junkie, fcking low-life, robbed banks and went inside when I was 12. I never saw the lovely life – nine to five, kids, settle down – only the grime. Yeah man that’s what we call this life, the grime. And this all there is. I’m on the run, lived in fifteen places just like this in as many months.
“This is it."
It's like a bunker in a battle zone. There is a bed, a busted suitcase full of clothes, rubbish on the floor, a small black and white television, the remains of a pizza. No carpet on the floor and no furniture except a broken up old foam rubber sofa with no upholstery.
This is where they do everything, count the money, sell the drugs, stash the guns.
They are an affiliation of gangs, Muslim converts, fanning out beyond London. They hold up banks and post offices, deal in guns and tax drug dealers.
Things used to be different. You could hook up with a crew and get out any time you liked.
That was all over.
It was this Muslim thing, it was for life. That was what it was all about. It was their way to keep a hold of you. You couldn’t just come in and leave the next day like you could before.
Things used to be loose, as long as you were cool and didn’t go mouthing off to the police or bad friends.
“Now you either get wasted or step up to the hard core – if they want you.”
There was only one other way. He’d heard about a couple of the guys who’d done it like this:
“You do a certain amount of murders. You know, sensitive deals, things no-one else wants to do. Then you can get out on the last one and you got respect. Maybe they set you up with something nice, like a little club or something, or a cab stand. You’re home free.”
But you had to do the first one, let them know you were up for it, that you’d do anything, kill anyone: women, kids, whatever. Whoever they needed to blow for whatever reason.
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