What Others are Saying about Hoodie
‘Wow! What a read! This is a superb book with everything thrown in the melting pot! Romance, drugs, crime, teenage angst and social commentary are cleverly interwoven to produce a superb book. Brendon Lancaster should be very proud!’ ~ Self Publishing Magazine
‘...a top novel...’ ~ Paddington and Westminster Times
‘…clockwork orange with a twist…would make a good film…’ ~ John F.
‘…a compelling dialogue and impressive depth of character development…a slightly surreal rites-of-passage…I particularly enjoyed the boys’ relationships with the girls, which felt suitably confused and hormonal.’ ~ H. Davis, Freelance Script Reader
‘I have recently read your book 'Hoodie' with great pleasure. What a great book, with a breathtaking ending!’ ~ Emma Brocklehurst
‘Brendon Lancaster’s first novel is written well and I found myself feeling for the characters. Everyone will be able to relate to some aspect of the flawed personalities. But it must be noted that my favorite part to this novel was the last chapter -Can You See Me, where the author incorporates a personal poem. I found it poignantly emotional and authentic as well as an original concept to arrange an entire chapter that way as well as provide a clear and perfect ending to the story. I give this novel four out of five HOTS’ ~ Ami Blackwelder, Hot Gossip, Hot Reviews
‘I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and could feel what must be the heartfelt sadness of a lot of teenage boys and girls. The loneliness of more than one character, although different personalities and different moral standards, gives not only teenagers someone to identify with, but a lot of broken adults. This is a book that I would happily give to my grandchildren to read and would hope that it would be used in schools giving students something educationally stimulating yet gripping that they and hopefully the tutors will associate with and maybe learn from.’ ~ Jean Hassan
‘This is a great book and very well-written. The reader will want to it read in one sitting; I found it very difficult to put down. This is not a book for someone who wants fantasy and froth; in contrast it is brutal, gritty and honest. Hoodie is a book for and about today’s generation. It tells of dreams, consequences and coming of age. Hoodie is not a particularly likeable character, but his vulnerability in the fact of the harsh reality of life is endearing. We will all find something of the protagonist in ourselves, and while that may horrify some of us, if we are honest, we have experienced some of what Hoodie has too’ ~ Self Publishing Magazine
Hoodie
by Brendon Lancaster
Copyright 2011 Brendon Lancaster. All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition
Author website: http://www.brendonlancaster.com/
Cover artwork: http://www.graffitiartist.com/
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
This book is available in print at most online retailers
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organisations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter 1
Flying down the third floor stairwell at top speed and with minimal contact with the ground, Ben spun in a mid-air pirouette round the corner, his thin bony shoulder bouncing him off the tiled wall and landing him into the perfect position to leap the next ten steps in one go.
His lungs were bursting; his breath was shallow. The result was a mix of fear, adrenaline, thrill and sheer exhilaration, accompanied with a large dose of light-headed madness and a small dose of asthma for good measure. All triggered at having just pulled off the most daring and high-risk ‘crime’ imaginable. His lean, sinewy legs had never felt more powerful, propelling him at ever increasing speeds further downwards - at times leaping high over the shoulders of the unfortunate pupils who happened to get in his way - whilst his usually steady hands were shaky and barely able to control themselves. They flapped around at his sides, making his otherwise impressive athletic descent appear more like a bird attempting flight with wings ten sizes too small.
But this was no time for Ben to worry about grace. If he was to carry off this trick and escape being caught then speed was the only thing that mattered. And in the back of his mind he knew that being caught carried the risk of him never be able to walk again, let alone run. Or worse.
Although more than aware of the very real danger in which he had put himself, in an exercise of self-justification Ben’s mind was busy processing whether what he had just done was strictly a crime. Is a theft a theft if the item in question was not supposed to be there in the first place? Or if its owner had no legal claim over it? Or the item itself was illegal?
Ben’s mind was never at rest and he enjoyed testing himself with these brainteasers; in this case playing out the roles of both judge and jury. He quickly - almost instinctively - came to the impressively complex yet concise conclusion that although his actions were not in themselves illegal, he was perhaps at risk of being subsequently stopped and searched and being deemed illegal for different reasons. However, the risk of being stopped was far too minimal for him to worry about, and the punishment for being randomly caught and subsequently punished negligible. In any case, the rewards from his efforts and the exhilaration he was feeling provided him with the moral justification needed to press ahead so determinedly. These matters were simply off limits for your regular law enforcers, and subject to the basic law of the jungle – survival of the fittest (or he with the sharpest wit). Legal irrelevances aside, the immediate threat of being caught by the victim of his so-called crime continued to dominate the forefront of his mind. He switched his focus back towards his escape.
As he sped round the last turning before the exit on the stairwell he found he was blocked by a group of dawdling year 10 students. His mind racing, and hopping impatiently from foot to foot, Ben started hyperventilating. His frustration wasted no time in welling upwards from the pit of his empty stomach through his torso into an authoritative, reverberating scream;
‘Get out my fucking way! Noooow!’
The sound of his voice left even Ben impressed with the tone of urgency he’d managed to convey. In reaction, the boys instantaneously turned their heads round, their wide eyes and crouched positions betraying their shock and fear like scared rabbits. Ben smiled to himself as he regained momentum and sprung through an emerging gap between the boys, pushing them towards the tiled brick walls. In the process, he tripped on a carelessly outstretched limb which knocked his centre of gravity off balance. He landed with a tumble and a thud on the ground floor, just a couple of metres from Paddington Comprehensive School’s exit, knocking his left hand, elbow, shoulder and head in the process.
Sprawled face down on the floor, Ben looked at the palm of his hand. It was grazed with the impact of landing awkwardly on the polished floor and burnt intensely. He realised that this would be the last time he would ever leave this establishment which he had come to detest so much over the past five years. Moving with the sure confidence of an actor relishing the fact his lead scene has arrived, Ben picked himself up slowly from the floor and turned to take one last look at the place where he had spent ‘the best days of his life’. An involuntary contemptuous sneer worked its way across his face in remembrance of those ‘best days’.
As he looked around, the entrance lobby to the school looked smaller and somehow different - almost pathetic in comparison to the draining effect it had exerted on him on a daily basis. Peggy, the school secretary, was sitting behind her protective glass-fronted box of an office, apparently unconscious of anything going on outside it. A few students who were milling about idly now stared at him, wondering what the commotion was about. The pile of now pissed-off students were starting to pick themselves up from the stairs, and the group glared back at Ben with a mixture of looks which managed to convey not only their anger at being pushed over, but also their disgust and contempt for him. Ben took their expressions as a personal affront. One of the bigger lads held his hand over another’s chest and was muttering something quietly into his ear to the effect of ‘leave it’.
Turning squarely to face them all, and having forgotten about his burning palm, he smiled at them. His head became dizzy with a sense of euphoria as the realisation that he would never have to return to Paddington Comprehensive began to sink in. He cocked his head back slightly, pushed forward his bony rib cage in defiance and took a small but very confident step towards the rabble on the stairs. Almost comically, his step forward was mirrored precisely by their heads moving backwards and their eyes glancing downwards submissively. He despised them all.
Ben’s power restored, and having savoured the moment for long enough, he changed tack. Quick as a flash, he threw a stiff middle finger upwards and screamed: ‘FUCK. YOU. ALL!’ at the top of his lungs. Turning to make his grand final exit, he heard a distant voice booming from within the building.
‘HOODIE? HOODIE? IS THAT YOU? I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF FOR THIS!’
Ben’s blood ran cold in reaction to the deep tones of ‘Papa Tee’, otherwise known as Trevor, the most ruthless, violent and volatile wannabe drug dealer in the whole school. Ben had always laughed to himself at the fact that this 6’ 2” muscularly built thug had been blessed with the name Trevor. No one called him that, of course. At least not to his face.
The last boy who, in a state of nervous laughter, dared call him Trevor was Gary Connor from class 9 and he ended up on the receiving end of a black snooker ball inside a sock while having a smoke in the school’s outdoor toilets. Cracked a small dent in his skull, it did.
The story had it that Gary had challenged the need to cough up on demand to Papa Tee’s ‘taxation system’ when told to hand over his cigarettes, on the naïve basis that it wasn’t fair. Fair? Hmmf! What an unrealistic expectation.
Papa Tee had not responded well to being questioned and, in his usual off-this-planet-I’m-a-nutter manner, explained to Gary in monosyllabic tones that those who live by the sword die by the sword, and as Gary was smoking when he was not supposed to, he had therefore opted out of the boundaries of any normal sense of the rules of fair play and stepped into different territory.
Gary realised too late that he had pushed his point too far by trying to laugh off Papa Tee’s thinly veiled threats. To make matters worse, he foolishly invited near suicide by addressing him as ‘Trevor’ in an attempt to reason with him on an equal man-to-man basis. Bad move.
Papa Tee (let’s stick to the name he’s best known by) pulled out of his blazer pocket a black snooker ball with the word ‘white’ tipp-exed across it, popped it into a spare sock he just happened to have in his left pocket, and coolly and calmly (some would say cold-bloodedly) started preaching something about the strength of the black ball and the weakness, temporariness and insignificance of the white writing upon it. Without any outward display of emotion, (according to the other boys present, who had by that time retreated into the cubicles) Papa Tee swung his weighted sock over his head and brought it, with full force, down onto the top of Gary’s skull.
The sound of the impact was not loud, but haunting. It did not sound dramatic or even human, but dull and inanimate. The lasting memory from this incident was the whispered recollections from those viewing in horror through cracks in cubicles, who saw Gary’s body slump to the ground like a lifeless rag doll, arms limp by his sides and head askew. A thick steady flow of blood oozing from the side of his head had left his cowering friends with no illusions of the reality of the situation. The only one unaffected by the situation was Papa Tee and, to a lesser extent, his sidekick Smudge who had remained silent throughout.
Whilst Gary lay motionless and his fellow pupils stayed silent behind cubicle doors, Papa Tee had turned and nodded to Smudge who obediently knelt down, frisked Gary’s breast pockets, and pulled out an open packet of ten Lambert and Butler. One of the boys watching was Dave who had reported the incident back to Ben.
Two operations, four months off school, a droopy face and slurred speech for life for ten poxy Lambert and Butler.
Although the incident did not attract great local media coverage (it got a couple of lines in the local Independent), Paddington Comprehensive’s (and, to those in the know, Papa Tee’s) reputation had become legendary to teachers and pupils alike. Police had been called in, but no one talked. No names were mentioned. Some cited the possibility of slippage on wet flooring against one of the porcelain sinks as being the cause. School governors were not prepared to take action in the absence of any concrete evidence. Although they had their suspicions, none of the teachers were prepared to suggest the involvement of the bully with the biggest list of unsubstantiated allegations against him.
Gary could not or would not admit to remembering anything. His parents were left angry and in despair. No justice was ever served. Mr Peters, the headmaster in denial, had eventually caved into parents’ demands for action by writing out to all outlining the school’s policy on bullying. Following which, Ben’s nickname of ‘the chocolate teapot’ for Mr Peters caught on well.
From that day onwards, Papa Tee domineered over the school as if he had been dealt a ‘get out of jail free’ card. Teachers (yes, all of them) turned a blind eye to his activities (or those of Smudge and his growing number of followers). ‘Tax’ was put up and pupils unquestioningly accepted his increased demands for cigarettes, money (20% of anything found in their pockets was considered kind), biscuits, homework assignments, errands and whatever else he asked for.
Ben had always felt that boys-only schools were unhealthy for many reasons. He remembered reading somewhere that girls were a necessary calming influence on boys and that without them, boys would always revert to being barbarians. His experience over the years had not given him any reason to doubt this theory. However, despite Papa Tee’s increased air of authority and overbearing physical presence, his actions had only served to intensify the feeling of disgust and unjustness Ben felt towards him.
Today was payback, and Ben had just hit him right where it hurt most.
Luckily, Ben had never attracted much attention from Papa Tee, who had largely chosen to leave him be, given that he was too small and thin to present any real physical challenge and visibly too poor to present any financial opportunity. As long as Ben remained submissive, spoke only when he was spoken to, and showed respect when it was demanded, he was dealt the usual verbal threats alone. Ben was clever enough to know how to follow the line of least resistance in his dealings with him. But that did not alter his deep-rooted feelings of injustice and the need to retaliate against him on behalf of every poor sod he had terrorised. The fact that Papa Tee was in the sixth form firstly to retake last year’s exams by virtue of being so thick and, secondly, to retain his captive admirers, victims and customers (his corrupt empire was sufficiently bright to realise that selling drugs was the quickest way to get rich quick) had only intensified this need for revenge.
Flashing a final wink to the crowd on the stairs and sounding a cocky click from within his cheek, Ben sped towards the exit and ran as fast as he could through the school doors towards the perimeter gates. He continued to sprint down Bishops Bridge Road, taking huge strides as his clenched fists drove invisible prongs into the ground propelling him even faster forward. As he approached the upward slope towards the iron bridge which ran over Paddington rail tracks he glanced over his shoulder to see Papa Tee outside the school gates, some 800 metres away, searching for him. Ben continued over the peak of the bridge, safe in the knowledge that he would soon be out of sight. His pace slowed to a gentle run. He spat out a mouthful of phlegm the size of which only teenage boys seem able to produce. His buttocks ached. His chest and back were overheating and soaked with sweat underneath his trademark zipped hooded top. By the time he reached the outside of the Crypt his frail frame was almost giving up on him.
Panting heavily, he leant against the wall surrounding the grounds of the disused church and glanced in all directions for fear of being spotted. When he was sure no one was watching, he pulled himself up the wall by the black railings and leapt sideways over the top of the fence, landing on the grass below. He jogged lightly past the gravestones and jumped down onto a ledge which led to a disused entrance in the church’s basement. He edged his way round the piles of rubbish, breathing as shallowly as he could to avoid the stench of pissy ammonia until he came to a big black arched door with a huge padlock and chain strung across. The chain was thick and the padlock strong, but Ben knew his way around. Effortlessly, he flipped the screwless hinges off their foundations, leant on the door and squeezed his way in, closing the door tightly behind him and leaving it looking secure to anyone who might happen to be passing.
Once inside, Ben felt relieved and safe. Although the Crypt was windowless, its pitch black surroundings and total silence carrying an eerie edge, to Ben, he felt he had reached his spiritual home. The familiarity of the damp stench gave him the reassurance he needed. He had reached his destination.
As soon as his breathing had slowed to a steady wheeze he took his phone out of his pocket and switched on its light to get his bearings. He glanced round his surroundings and acknowledged the chalky arched brick corners leading on to the labyrinth of pathways which wove their way round the underground of the disused church. Having located his points of reference, Ben switched off the light on his phone and headed down the right hand corridor, running his hand along the brick wall as a guide. Twenty metres forward, a left turn, through the brick arch on the right and two steps upwards and down a narrower passage took him to another doorway. He switched the light on his phone back on and was about to turn the handle when he heard a cough from within.
‘Waaayyyyyy’, he shouted as he flung the door open and threw his hands up in the air in triumph.
‘Yaayyyyy’, shouted the rest of the Shady Boys in return, shining beams of torchlight into his face.
‘Hoodie, yer wanker. Yer not dead then?’ joked Dave.
Doing a little dance on toes and wiggling his fingers in the air, Ben replied: ‘Lighter fingers than Freddie the light-fingered fiddle player, my friend. Smoother than Silky the silk worm in silk pyjamas. Quieter than…’ He paused. ‘…something fucking quiet…’ he continued, collapsing into laughter.
‘Quiet?’ laughed Dave. ‘We could hear you wheezing all the way down the corridor. And we heard you trip up at least twice,’ he teased, much to the amusement of the others. ‘Don’t count yourself ‘Double O Hoodie’ yet, mate.’ Animated chuckles filled the room.
‘Well, did you do it, or what?’ Dave asked, showing his impatience.
‘You telling me you ever doubted the power of ‘The Hood’?’ Ben teased. ‘I’m telling you, you would not believe what I have just put myself through. I nearly shit myself at one point. In fact, check this out…’
Ben grimaced as he leant back and rummaged around in the back of his baggy jeans, wiggling his knees forward and outwards. Dave, Luca and Mo stared at him in confusion and anticipation. Ben, with one eye half closed and his face stretched out long, smiled and looked relieved as he pulled out two glistening dark brown chocolate-coloured chunks the size of large bars of soap. The dim torchlight and overlapping shadows thrown within the room made it difficult to discern what was being produced as Ben slapped the slabs down on the salvaged table in front of him.
‘Christ, he really did shit himself,’ blurted Luca.
‘Don’t be a plank,’ hushed Dave, adopting a low, serious tone. His eyes widened as he frowned and moved closer to inspect Ben’s spoils. His mouth hanging open in disbelief, he whispered ‘I don’t believe it! Look at this shit. This is bigger than I expected. Two brand spanking new bars of the finest paki black money can buy - no offence, Mo - have you ever seen something like this before?’
‘None taken. Half Lebanese remember?’ said Mo.
Luca looked blank but stared fixedly at the slabs of hash, waiting for someone to speak. Mo leant forward to level himself with Dave, shook his head slowly, and said: ‘This is serious stuff we’ve started here.’
Ben, still on an adrenaline rush from the day’s events, broke the sombre direction of moods by adopting a Southern American drawl and announcing ‘…Aaaaannnd not only that, ladies and gentlemen, but tonight we have something a little special for you…check out these curlies.’ With which he shoved his hand down the front of his jeans and pulled out a sealed food bag stuffed full of loose skunk, some ready-wrapped deals of hash, a few smaller see through bags containing what looked like off-white raisin sized rocks, and a fistful of twenties.
‘This, my friends, is not only the end of school life as we know it, but the start of a summer of lurve’ said Ben, beaming from ear to ear. The others, still in state of stunned silence but under the spell cast by Ben’s energy, sat back and stared in wonderment at the booty before them.
****
Chapter 2
‘Come on guys, let’s get this party started’ said Ben as he opened the food bag and removed one of the lumps of hash.
‘Whoa, this stuff is intense,’ he said inhaling the pungent aroma of the tightly packed skunk inside. Luca unscrewed a litre bottle of white table wine and passed round plastic cupfuls; there were some advantages to living above the family restaurant. Dave threw packets of crisps onto the others’ laps. Ben passed the small brown lump of hash to Mo.
‘Do your stuff, Mo’.
The room inside the Crypt had been the perfect discovery for the boys who had previously used a large willow tree near the Italian garden in Kensington Gardens to meet up and use as the centre of their activities. The tree had been their main meeting point for years, right back to their more innocent days at Junior school together, and had been the focal point for many happy evenings and weekends perfecting roller-skating skills, playing frisbee, football and general larking around. As time passed, it also became their preferred alternative to secondary school. Its location had also helped establish their self-proclaimed nickname of the Shady Boys with their reputation for being a bright bunch of witty loafers. ‘Shady Boys’ had gone down particularly well at the time as their naming had coincided with Eminem’s release of ‘The Real Slim Shady’ which was an instant hit at school.
However, Ben, Dave, Mo and Luca each attracted attention in his own right for wit, sporting skills, natural expertise at the latest fad, or just plain old good looks. Collectively, their combination meant that they were considered the coolest group to hang around with and many wanted to join the Shady Boys clique. They may have had their admirers and hangers-on but no one had ever been allowed into their inner circle. Boys wanted to be like them, and girls wanted to be with them. But as they entered their teens and the testosterone-filled bravado of teenage rivals started to encroach on their space, the indoor privacy of the Crypt became better suited to their needs. Recently, they had even withdrawn to the damp, dark environment of the Crypt in preference to their other favourite haunt – the skating bowls underneath the Westway flyover. The introduction of CCTV cameras ‘for the safety of its visitors’ signalled the death of yet another perfectly safe and peaceful underground haunt. The final nail in its coffin was when corporate sponsorship in the form of Sony Playstation moved in. That left them feeling that it was not their own space any more. And the boys needed their privacy in order to keep feeling free.
So the Crypt had become their number one meeting place and was now well kitted out since Luca first discovered it in an urgent and desperate hunt to find some seclusion one night for an adoring date – who was madly passionate too, if Luca’s version of events was to be believed. Since then, it had become a useful and regular haunt. Of course, Luca - with the romantic flair of a true Italian - had been the first to introduce some furnishings by way of a few old cushions to sit on. And some bedding ‘for the colder months’. Dave had added some small chairs and side tables that his carpenter Dad picked up as surplus from his jobs. Mo had brought down his iPod docking station and speakers which, with each other’s company added, gave the boys everything they needed. In an attempt to demonstrate their civilised manners they had even added a bucket in the corner to remove the need to piss up against the wall and prevent the stale damp air from smelling any worse. The boys argued that the bucket’s presence also provided good insurance against fire hazards.
‘Seeing as you are today’s hero,’ Mo said in his deep, precise manner, ‘I am going to make you something very special to commemorate this occasion in your honour.’ His long dark fingers pulled a pack of Rizlas out of his shirt pocket. ‘But get this fucking wine out of my face for starters. Did no one bring me my Coke?’ Mo turned round to set his iPod up and selected Notorious B.I.G. by Biggie Smalls. He beamed up at Ben and said: ‘This one’s for you’ just as it kicked off with the Duran Duran hit single sample ‘…No.. no.. notorious! No.. no.. notorious…’. Mo’s music collection was vast and he had a knack of picking tunes to match moods. He was also quick to copy any CDs he or his friends liked onto his home PC and iPod, which now contained over 20,000 tracks, carefully catalogued, and spanning all genres. His collection had become well known for being large and varied, with an impressive collection of present and past music, matched only by his extensive knowledge of artists and groups. He had recently been going back in time and building up his retro section by obtaining a season ticket to Westminster libraries and starting the process of copying their entire music collection - just for fun. Ben approved Mo’s choice of tune and sat down, lips pursed and chin bobbing up and down in time with the music.
Dave laughed and produced a litre of Diet Coke from behind his chair and passed it to Mo with a fresh plastic cup. It was a running joke between the boys that Mo refused to let a drop of alcohol pass his lips (‘my Dad’d fucking kill me’), especially as he had no such qualms about following the path of a weed connoisseur. His flawed logic was based on the belief that weed was a natural plant product and not necessarily a drug in the same way as alcohol was. The others suspected the fact that Polos could mask the evidence of weed much more effectively than it could alcohol was more of a factor in his reasoning. That point aside, they all respected and understood the influence of Mo’s father (‘call me Huss’) even if he had left the family home. Despite divorcing (amicably), he still lived locally and had remained a tower of strength and good father to Mo, leaving him wanting for nothing. His import/export business had continued to thrive, and he had even managed to find time to settle down with a pretty younger wife, who - after seeing her - the boys were pretty taken with. Despite Huss’s strict Muslim beliefs, he was also very accepting and friendly towards Dave, Luca and Ben, all of whom liked him. He was a good guy. But he did not tolerate alcohol. Mo described himself as being like his Coke: ‘Muslim Lite - a watered down version of the real thing, which meant he did pretty much what he wanted.
Mo took a sip of his Diet Coke and put the cup carefully down on the side of the table. In ritualistic silence, he took two Rizla papers and stuck them together to form a square with one gum strip left exposed down the side. He took a third paper and stuck it face down to the ends of the first two and placed it in the middle of the table. He removed a Marlboro Light from a packet in his pocket, licked it butt upwards, pulled the moist strip of paper off the cigarette and emptied its contents into the Rizlas. His big brown eyes twinkled, their corners creasing up as he looked over at Ben with an admiring half-smile. He put the cigarette butt behind his ear, tucking his loose black curls back in the process and started to warm the corner of the hash with his Zippo. The lump started to smoke slightly as its edges singed, throwing a small puff of smoke into the air and releasing a musky aroma into the room. Luca rubbed his hands together as Mo pulled a small penknife out of his back pocket and used it to scrape fine crumbs of hash off the block and sprinkle them up and down the line of tobacco. Then, with all the speed and skill of a magician, Mo added a sprinkling of sticky skunk, popped in a roach, rolled the joint up and down, gave it a lick and a twist and held it upright in front of Ben.
‘Look at the top, Ben. This is a knee-trembler with a little extra. I am calling this one “The Hoodie”.’ The paper twist at the top of the cone-shaped spliff had been moulded perfectly to form a small hood.
‘Gee, thanks buddy,’ said Ben in mock-American accent as he took the spliff from Mo and placed it into the corner of his mouth.
‘Time to blaze up and prepare for lift off,’ he said before lighting the hooded tip, creating a second flame momentarily and inhaling deeply. Grey-blue smoke spiralled upwards. The atmosphere in the Crypt was hypnotic.
Ben took a couple more draws and winced before passing the joint on to Mo. Dave knocked back his drink and poured himself another while he waited for his toke. His trainer heel bounced up and down in time with the music. Luca did what he did best and just sat back looking cool, his chiselled features framed neatly by the long thin line of beard which started just below his ear, traced the edge of his jaw and ended up in a pencil-thin goatee which framed his mouth. His gelled back black hair glistened in the limited light. He sipped at his drink and stared blankly ahead, as if watching the world go by from some Milanese café rather than sitting in a damp basement in West London.
Mo turned slowly to adjust his iPod to his signature Ganja Smugglin’ by Eek-a-Mouse and exaggerated his facial movements as he drew and inhaled deeply on the joint. Without fail, Mo always played that retro tune for himself when taking a fresh smoke and its appeal had not aged over time.
‘Mmmm. Not bad,’ he commented. The slow tinny bass of Eek-a-Mouse echoed round the room while Mo held a mouthful of smoke and twisted his mouth shape round to make the smoke slide up his face and into his hair.
‘…Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Me'hen. Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Bong Bong Bidi Me…’ started the comical ‘lyrics’. Mo’s Lebanese father had passed on a look which made it difficult to judge where his genes originated from. His skin was a clear and smooth cappuccino colour. His hair was somewhere between dark brown and black with loose curls. He had big dark brown eyes framed by strong eyebrows and - it has to be said - unusually long eyelashes for a boy. Although his Mum was as English as they come, Mo could get away with claiming to be from anywhere from the Middle East to North Africa or even the West Indies. He knew this, and slyly played on it to his advantage whenever it suited him. It broadened his appeal to others, enabling him to engage - and appease when necessary – a wide range of people at school. And the resulting devilish mix of Johnny Depp/Ronaldhino he was left with meant girls would often target him as their first choice amongst the boys. Something that he readily acknowledged but rarely acted upon. ‘…Early, early Sunday morning it was a big ganja smug-er-ling…’ continued Eek-a-Mouse ‘…One by one, load up de van, all of-a ganja it ram…Put it on a plane, the weed gaan a Spain…Money jus’ pour like rain…’. Mo clicked a smoke ring out from his mouth before handing on the joint on to Luca.
‘Dat stuff is really mellow, you know,’ he said through the expanding circle of smoke.
Luca squinted through the smoky atmosphere and took the joint by his thumb and forefinger, cupping it protectively within his hand. Flecks of ash fell onto his stylish short-sleeved shirt. He took a draw and blew the ash away with a fine trail of smoke.
‘Ahhhhh. Das better,’ he commented.
Luca had managed to incorporate an Italian lilt to his accent, more to complete the package than through family upbringing. He was London born and bred and spoke no more Italian than the rest of the gang but the overall Italian sound and image served him well with girls.
Dave, betraying his impatience for a smoke with the speed at which his second drink was disappearing, asked Mo and Ben whether they thought the hash was any good. They had often debated the pros and cons of different weed purchases in the past and Ben always struggled to answer honestly. Mostly it was all new, smelt musky to varying degrees, and took him to a more relaxed place. If he was asked what effect it had on him, he could have talked for hours providing colourful and entertaining descriptions. But was it any good? That was a bit more difficult. So he copped out from directly answering Dave and turned to Mo for an opinion.
Mo, adopting the plummy tones of Prince Charles, said: ‘Well, I don’t really know how to respond to this. Does one admit one’s inner joy and contentment at the smooth taste and aromatic aromas by saying “fantastic”; or does one retain one’s grandeur by dismissing this exquisite blend as goat shit? I simply don’t know. Gold dust or goat shit? What’s it to be?’ Luca found this impression hilarious and spluttered in mid-inhalation, leaving himself coughing violently for half a minute. A gob of phlegm fired onto the opposite wall eventually drew his noisy spasm to a close.
Ben, eager to play off Mo’s humour, mimicked a Jilly Goolden tone in response and, using his hands to animate his description, replied: ‘Well, if I’m not mistaken this particular product originates from an old tribesman in Afghanistan called Wizard Whitebeard.’ He widened his eyes to emphasise seriousness and rabbit-sniffed the smoke hanging in the air.
‘Yes. I can see it all now. Wizard Whitebeard collects only the finest leaves from the finest cannabis plants – like PG tips, actually – grinds them into a paste and heats them into the hottest, stickiest, ickiest goo you’ve ever seen.’ Switching to a David Bellamy impression he continued ‘Once thin enough, this goo then changes in molecular stwucture to welease it’s full psychotic potential pwesenting us with this fine form of wesin we have before us today.’ Mo, Luca and Ben collapsed into fits of laughter.
‘It’s impossible to get a serious answer out of you two when you’re like this. Give it here,’ said Dave, taking the joint off Luca.
‘Wizard Whitebeard…,’ choked Luca, with tears now streaming down his face. ‘…Where’s Wally?…tss tss tss.’
Dave ignored the others’ mirth and looked huffy. He wanted to talk business. Out of the group Dave was the biggest and strongest. He had excelled in just about every sport he played at school, making his most notable achievements in athletics and the football team (where he was nicknamed Dangerous Dave). His looks were plainer than the striking features of Mo and Luca, but he accessorised to compensate. Adidas tracksuits were his usual garb, as was his white Nike baseball cap over his shaved head. He had a gap in his left eyebrow as a result of a clash of heads on the pitch which, despite the ‘chavvy’ jibes, he was quite proud of. He was what some might call slightly rough and ready. And as is so often the case with sports minded souls, he was driven by ambition and totally focused on winning, but was not necessarily the brightest.
‘Before we start this Summer of Love, we need to sort out what we’re going to do with this lot,’ Dave said, tipping his head towards the two blocks of hash and bag of pic ‘n’ mix on the table.
‘Did Papa Tee see you? If he knows it was you he’ll come looking for you and we need to be prepared.’
Ben managed to reassure the group that he had not been seen and retold his version of events, exaggerating himself into being some form of modern-day Robin Hood in the process. He slightly overplayed the bit about someone needing to stand up to him, given that he had been totally clandestine in seeking revenge, but there was no doubt that he had ‘done good’ given the risks involved.
The operation had been planned some six weeks earlier in June, following the end of exams. It had been made well known through the school’s jungle grapevine that Papa Tee would be taking the opportunity to stock up on his supplies for the benefit of his customers on the last day before the summer holidays started. Dave, Ben, Luca and Mo had all agreed that not having to see him again (providing he decided not to return for his inevitable retakes) would be sufficient reward to mark the end of term and their time together at school. But they also agreed that the icing on the cake would be if they could hit him where it hurt most and deprive him of his most precious treasure just when was relying on it most. That would be the least he deserved in return for all the misery he had caused to so many others at Paddington Comprehensive, especially Gary Connor.
The last week of school had been billed as both ‘Activities Week’ and ‘Work Experience Week’ largely for the benefit of parents as it meant that, with exams out of the way, pupils could turn up when they liked and attend which classes they wanted. This meant vast numbers of pupils sitting around in the resources unit playing computer games, idly surfing the internet and updating their Facebook profiles. Which - for some professions - was probably all the ‘work experience’ they needed.
On the last day of this tedious week, the boys had deliberately split up to avoid being seen together. Dave was in the playground showing off and kicking a ball about with some others. Mo had retreated to the arts and crafts studio to take part in a still life painting exercise and Luca had opted to join the geeks in a computer games championship.
Ben had made his way to the upper floor of the building where he could hear Papa Tee and his cronies laughing and joking. Papa Tee was as loud and vocal as ever, wearing a yellow string vest as an alternative to the school uniform, which no-one wore in full, and wearing a heavy gold bracelet, displaying the proceeds of his ill-gained cash. He looked muscular in the vest but the overall effect was gaudy. His glinting gold tooth completed the look. As Ben passed him silently in the hallway he glanced sideways and noticed that he was flashing around a handgun (replica or not, he could not be sure) in pure wannabe-gangsta style in front of his gormless hangers on. That was unexpected and new, he thought to himself.
They had all piled into the makeshift cinema room to catch the DVD showing of Goodfellas. Ben had positioned himself on his own in the far corner of the room. As the lights went out and the film started, Papa Tee’s attention left his trainer bag which he had looped round the leg of his chair and turned to fiddling with the new toy on his lap. Before eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness of the room and whilst minds were focused on the opening scenes of the film, Ben had seized his opportunity, crouched down and edged his way along the back of the room towards Papa Tee’s chair. He had carefully unzipped the bag and gripped two fistfuls of its contents, shoving them down his jeans before heading back to his seat. He had then managed to spend the rest of the film in a fearful sweat, staring blankly at the screen. When the film finished and the lights went back on, the room was full of boys stretching and yawning. Apart from Ben, who was wide-eyed and alert. Making a point of being the first to rise, Ben had strolled straight past Papa Tee unable to resist pointing out that his bag was unzipped as he made his way towards the exit - the final cherry on the icing on the cake. Then began his mad dash to safety.
‘So what we gonna do with it now?’ Ben asked, nodding towards the stash in the middle of the room.
‘For your – er, our – peace of mind, we gotta make sure no one finds out we got it,’ cautioned Mo. ‘’specially if that nutter is walking round with a gun now. This stays between the four of us. Right?’
‘No problemo,’ replied Luca
‘That’s a whole lotta dope we’ve got, though. How much is there?’ asked Dave. Mo picked one of the slabs and flipped it round in his hand.
‘It’s a neat, uncut block. Must be a half kilo, I reckon’
‘Phe-ew…’ winced Ben. ‘How much is that worth?’
‘Difficult to say,’ said Mo authoritatively, ‘but supposing each block contains twenty ounces…hmmm…twenty ounces. Fifty pounds per ounce…errrr… a grand each? Plus whatever’s in that other bag. Maybe two and a half grand altogether.’
‘Whoa!’ said Dave ‘That’s a fair bit of wonga. It’s gotta be worth at least three grand then, with some careful cutting and weighing’, he said winking and grinning from cheek to cheek.
‘Careful, Dave,’ warned Mo. ‘Don’t you think that Papa Tee will have already spread the word that his stash is missing? We can’t just go round flogging this to anyone we want without word getting back. It’ll bounce straight back to Ben and I’m not having that.’
‘’S’true,’ added Ben, as the consequences of his actions started to sink in. ‘We’ve got to be very careful. Lie low for a while. We can’t tell anyone about this.’
‘Okay, okay, I know,’ said Dave. ‘But we’re not gonna smoke all of this ourselves. And it’d be a crime not to share such quality with others, especially when there’s so much money to be made…’
‘So what we gonna do?’ chipped in a sleepy looking Luca, barely able to keep up.
‘We say nothing to no one,’ said Dave. ‘We deal with no one direct. I’ve got a couple of lads who I can trust from the team to sell for us. We lie low for a week or two and then I’ll tell them I’ve found a cheap supply and drip feed them cuts off these babies to sell in blocks for fifty pounds. They can pass it on, and make whatever profit they can from under-weighing. That way, we get some money, they get their cut and if Papa Tee gets wind someone else is selling, we got an early warning buffer system in place. Agreed?’
Ben, Mo, and Luca exchanged silent glances.
‘I’m not 100% happy, but what does Ben think?’ said Mo.
‘If you guys are happy, I’m happy,’ said Ben, starting to feel warm and giddy from the effects of the joint. ‘If we got spliff, plus a little pocket money for the summer, then that’s fine with me. But no one touches the rocks, okay?’
‘Okay,’ the others echoed back in unison.
‘So here’s a little something to start off with then,’ said Ben, dealing out three twenty pound notes to each.
‘Well, I iz glad we got dat sor’ed out,’ said Luca curling up into a pile of giggles on some cushions. ‘You da best, Hoodie!’
****
Chapter 3
It took less than an hour of smoking and joking to sip their way through the remaining wine (Dave glugging the lion’s share), leaving Mo feeling like a rich man with over a litre of Diet Coke left in front of him to soothe his hash-dry thirst, when they heard a click, click, click, click coming down the corridor.
‘Shhhh! Wassat?’ twitched Ben, nervously. Mo instantaneously sharpened up to a state of readiness.
‘Relaaaax…’ said Dave ‘It’s probably da entertainment Luca and me organised.’
‘If dey ‘aven’t forgetten da way since yesterday,’ grinned Luca.
Mo flashed them a disapproving glance, whisked the dope off the table, and tucked it into a cavity created by a missing brick in the corner of the room. With the limited light it would be impossible to pick out. Two loose ready rolled joints were left in the centre of the table.
‘Dis way ladeez,’ called out Luca. Click, click, click, continued the sound, as Chloe and Hannah tottered in.
‘Pooh! So what you guys up to then?’ said Hannah. ‘It stinks in here.’ She looked at the joints on the table and nodded knowingly. ‘No wonder!’
‘Cooor, they don’t call you Bullet for nothing, do they,’ said Dave. Hannah responded by tipping her head sideways and forcing a sarcastic smile.
‘So why the silence? We not interrupting anything are we?’ Hannah enquired.
‘Private conversation,’ lied Luca. ‘Wanking techniques.’ He smirked smugly to himself at his blatant attempt to shock.
‘Was just saying how left hand is good,’ said Dave, playing along. ‘Feels like someone else.’
‘’Cause no-one else is gonna touch it, are they?’ dismissed Chloe.
‘I tell you, honey. One ’and is not enough for my monster,’ boasted Luca.
‘Oh, here we go,’ said Hannah rolling her eyes. ‘Boys and their little toys…’
‘But I is serious…’ continued Luca. ‘I need at least two hands to tame my beast.’ He leant forward suggestively, all wide eyed and eyebrows raised in earnest trying hard to maintain an air of seriousness.
‘You wish,’ said Chloe dismissively. ‘You sure you don’t need tweezers instead?’
Luca laughed and declared with all seriousness: ‘Da only implement I ever use is a hairdryer.’
‘What?’ Chloe said, screwing her face up in confusion.
‘Yeh. To turn the pages of me magazine while me ’ands are full,’ he said, laughing. ‘Anyway, you can’t expect me to give all my top tips away when you’re not telling us any.’
‘Us girls don’t do that sort of thing,’ she said a bit too defiantly. Luca saw her blush and went in for the kill.
‘You telling us you never flicked the oyster’s pearl?’ he grinned cheekily.
‘No,’ said Chloe frowning and looking away.
‘Wot? It’s nuffin to be ashamed of you know,’ continued Luca with confidence. ‘It’s only sex with someone you love after all.’
Chloe’s cheeks turned crimson as she continued to ignore him. Her exposed, pushed up high, cleavage started to blotch red to match her face as she felt she was in the spotlight.
‘Two on the town and one in the brown?’ he continued, much to the amusement of Dave who was trying hard to suppress a fit of giggles.
‘Ah-em,’ coughed Hannah, stepping in to defend her friend and feigning prudishness. ‘C’mon Chloe, I fink we ‘ad better leave these little boys to what they do best.’ She spun round indignantly, swishing her thick brown ponytail theatrically in the air and stepping back towards the door.
‘No, no, no,’ spluttered Luca desperately in an attempt to redeem himself. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, backtracking on his clumsy repartee while patting the spare cushions next to him. ‘Only joking, only joking…’ he said, grinning sheepishly in a feeble attempt to regain some charm.
Hannah, with Chloe in tow, edged her way round the table towards Luca and, with one hand against the wall, lowered herself down slowly next to him, her knees locked fiercely together to prevent her mini-skirt from revealing more than it should. She felt the boys’ admiring glances wander over her body and wished she had worn some tights after all.
It was the first time the boys had seen the girls out of uniform and, it being last day of term, they had both made an effort and looked good. Hannah tucked her feet under herself and tugged her skirt downwards for reassurance. The fake stones in her necklace sparkled as she rearranged it across her chest in an attempt to guide straying eyes back above waist height. Loose jaws were in abundance around the room. She had always fallen into the fit category but, wearing her own fashionable and flattering clothes, and with newly displayed confidence, this had increased to ‘highly desirable’ and ‘ripe’.
Hannah and Chloe both attended the nearby Sacred Heart School, and had become good friends of all with the boys over the past year. Paddington Comp’s boys and Sacred Heart’s girls had, in their time, created many mutual admirers through their wire perimeters but few had the confidence to break the rules and leave the grounds. Hannah and Chloe were different from the rest in that they did not seem to worry too much about what rules existed, nor what others thought of them. This independent attitude was what first attracted the boys, which led on to approval as they started to take the odd afternoon off and spend time together. Since the end of exams, these afternoons had become more frequent as the need to attend school felt increasingly superfluous and rules were less rigorously enforced. Mostly, they would head off down the canal and pass time teasing each other and chatting generally about mutual friends, fashions, music and the future. For all of them, these liaisons had been slightly standoffish as, within the confines of their single sex schools, none of them had formed any real friendships with the opposite sex. Aside from Luca, who was spoilt rotten by his older sisters.
‘What is this shit?’ asked Hannah, referring to the sound of LL Cool J’s classic Jingling Baby blasting out of Mo’s iPod.
‘I can change it,’ offered Mo.
‘Something for da ladeez, please,’ said Luca.
Mo thumbed through the pop genre of his iPod directory and selected Toxic by Britney Spears. As it started to play, Ben shook his head and chuckled. ‘Fuckin’ Shitney Spears? What the fuck you doing with that nutter on your iPod?’. Hannah laughed.
‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, mate,’ Mo said. ‘This tune is pumping. Anyway, I told you, I’m expanding my collection.’
‘Fair do’s, mate, but did you really need to copy the whole of Shitney’s Greatest Hits?’ teased Ben, clocking the fact that the whole album was displayed on the iPod. ‘Man. Your stred-cred just dropped ten points, bro’’. Truth was, Ben liked the track, but not enough to admit it. It was still Britney Spears.
‘I don’t particularly like Britney Spears either,’ said Hannah. ‘Dunno why you thought I’d like it just ‘cause she’s a girl. Play what you like.’
Luca offered Hannah a smoke; she accepted without hesitation. The boys stared at her, mesmerised with the way she navigated her decorated nails around the fragile joint. They were eye-catchingly long, painted with deep blues near the root becoming lighter towards the tip. A few of them had diamante studs. They looked impractical and, to the boys, were totally incomprehensible accessories - ‘high maintenance’ indicators, usually to be avoided. But she wore them well and did not give out any sign of having the slightest difficulties with them. Besides, with her hoop earrings and nose stud they completed her style.
Hannah came across as confident and self assured and was always keen to show she could muck in with whatever the boys were up to or talking about, whether it be skating or plain old banter. In truth, the boys led and she followed. But she was good fun and they all enjoyed each other’s company. Their friendships were all platonic, but suggestive flirting was a regular occurrence among them all. It was difficult – sometimes painfully confusing – for each of the boys to decipher the unspoken conversations taking place between them and work out where their new-found friendships might be leading. But it was this unknown quality which was a large part of the mutual attraction between the girls’ and the Shady Boys. There was an obvious keenness from Dave and Luca. But that was not unusual from either of them who acted like over-eager dogs with bones to bury by default. Mo was effortlessly cool and aloof.
But each boy vied for this new found female attention in his own way. Hannah and Chloe got on well enough with each of them for it to be possible to take their relationship to the next stage, but both girls were smart enough not to blow their chances too early by expressing who they favoured and were and deliberately holding back to keep their options open.
Ben enjoyed both the girls’ company but was deliberately polite and reserved – almost gallant - in his approach towards them. His romantic ambitions lay with the curvaceous and flame-haired Isabelle who he hoped to hit the jackpot with over summer.Hannah puffed quickly and nonchalantly at the joint, as if rushing to finish before getting onto a bus, and hurriedly passed it on.
‘Wassup, Mo?’ Chloe enquired, breaking her silence.
‘Nuffin,’ said Mo evasively. ‘Just chillin’.’
‘You look a little nervous,’ she persisted, safe in the knowledge that coarse backchat was not Mo’s style.
‘I wasn’t till now,’ he joked.
‘So. That’s school finished with then. What’s the plan now?’ pressed Chloe.
Mo looked up towards Ben. Ben looked to Dave, then Luca. Dave and Luca stared back silently.
‘Nuffin really,’ continued Mo, picking up the pace. ‘Just looking forward to the break. Clear my head. Take a bit of time out to relax…have some fun…you know.’
‘You not going away then?’ smiled Chloe, trying to break past his reserve.
‘Naaah. My Dad said I could join him on some of his trips abroad, but I’ll probably stay at home and keep my Mum company. And keep an eye on these guys. You?’
‘France,’ she said without emotion. ‘But I’m not sure yet’.
The music continued playing unobtrusively in the background. Further joints were lit and the quips and the jokes continued. Life was rich. Friends amongst friends. Trust, warmth, security and humour were plentiful. As they relaxed, talk turned towards their future aspirations. Each felt he was on a unique path to success. The atmosphere in the room was buzzing with energy. Every now and then one of the boys would look towards the corner of the room where Papa Tee’s stash was hidden, glance back at the others and exchange knowing nods.