Sour: My Story: A troubled girl from a broken home. The Brixton gang she nearly died for. The baby she fought to live for.. Tracey Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ shank no one or nuttin like that. They called him Killer because of his killer lyrics. He had that Shaggy, Sean Paul ragamuffin style going on.

      He liked the class of this poor little Asian lady the best. She taught Social Science. Used to put on documentaries and films and shit, so it was her own fault really. Victim of her own success, innit. Her class was meant to have been around 30. Instead, 40 would turn up. She was slim and frail and her voice barely carried beyond the first cramped row of tables.

      Just as she’s got the class under control, having settled in the nerds trying to learn, and soothed the disruptive ones who couldn’t care less, this black boy bursts through the door, singing a cappella.

      Gyal dem ah wine anna move mek di man dem take notice,

      Gyal look so hot, when she move but she already know diss.

      They were his own lyrics. That boy had talent. We jumped up and cheered Killer P as he started MC-ing from the front of the classroom.

      “Alright!”

      Bloods who knew the lyrics started singing with him, drowning out Miss Deng who looked like she was about to cry. Classmates started to whine on the tables, like they were dutty dancehall girls. I sat back in my seat, enjoying the spectacle.

      Gyal shake up your batty let mi see, gyal come over an whine pun mi,

      Gyal dem ah call me Killer wid da P, mi just waant pure love and harmony …

      The door slammed shut. Miss Deng had gone.

      “Miss, come back!” shouted Killer P. “I just spitting out a ragga song.”

      For some of the teachers, that woulda been a good day.

      There was a maths teacher with dreadlocks. Probably fancied himself as a bit of a Rasta, knew his music, the kind of guy who tolerated no shit, one of the few who tried to keep things in order. We liked him. Poor man. He’d tire himself out chasing bloods down whole corridors. Even he gave up eventually.

      As for the unpopular teachers, well, they used to get slapped down. Simple as.

      Come November, there would always be fireworks getting let off in the classrooms. When it was snowing, dirty snowballs went off everywhere.

      We had a sports field. It needed a sit-down lawnmower, and that lawnmower needed petrol. More than once, I looked out the window and saw youts who’d raided the gardener’s shed, pouring tins of fuel from the top of the hill towards the classrooms, and setting the rivers alight, until the grass was streaked with lines of fire.

      Oh my days, that would lead to proper chaos. We were always pleased to see the fire crews appear because it meant we could hit the road.

      One time I even saw a moped ridden through the corridors. Yeah, it all used to happen. Every class at Dick Shits was like a scene from Gremlins.

      Kept things colourful, that’s for sure. No two days were the same. Assemblies on Friday were always a highlight. One minute you’re sitting there thinking everything’s cool; the next some idiot has gassed both entrances and the emergency exit, and suddenly everyone is stumbling around, choking, with their eyes streaming.

      You might ask how they could they get away with it. But you’re not understanding. We had control of the school. Why do you think it’s knocked down now?

      Police officers floated through the corridors. Their presence made little difference to me. I knew there was nothing to fear from them. I’d learned that early, from a shoplifting spree with Yusuf.

      We went out licking stuff from Alders, the department store in Croydon, tiefing garmz and slipping chops – necklaces, bracelets, that kind of shit – down our sleeves.

      Yusuf got us caught. The police station had beige walls and lino flooring the colour of cream soda. We didn’t feel intimidated or scared. We hung around, got a nice cup of tea, grabbed a sandwich – which was more than was waiting for us at home. The officers were really nice. They showed us the custody suite. It was like another fun day out at The Bill.

      They gave us a caution that day. I still remember the nice, white police officer who said he hoped it would be the last time he saw us. “Good luck with your life,” he said, as he showed us out.

      And that was it. As we left, I remember smiling. If that’s all the police do to you, I thought, I’ll stop worrying.

      Stop and search was a problem for plenty, but not for me. There were always bare complaints from the boys. But girls? Who’d stop and search a girl? More fool the Feds.

      “Have you got it today?” they’d ask. Sometimes, I’d answer them, sometimes not. They never asked to see it. The secret was to let them imagine – they’d always imagine the worst.

      When you know you’re carrying the power to take someone’s life you don’t need to exert yourself.

      I never flashed it. Didn’t need to. I wasn’t crazy in the head, y’know. Let everyone else assume, that was my motto. Only the fools will try to test you.

      I knew well the effect of a flash of chrome. When my mum picked one up, I’d seen the way people would run. You got a whole sense of respect carrying a weapon, and I liked it.

      Carrying a blade was like having an “access all areas” pass for the V Festival. I jumped the queues, and got the best seats in assembly. All the backstage benefits came flooding in. The two-tails stole to impress me. Others wanted to have me on their side. Resting by my hip underneath my grey school jumper was the knife, and when the situation presented itself I had every intention of using it. Otherwise, what would be the point?

      I soon got fast-tracked to top dog status without even trying.

      Sometimes an angry parent would give you grief, but I had no fear of adults. I had no fear of anything.

      “Just do it,” I thought, watching the latest hard-faced mother stride across the playground, frothing at the mouth over her bullied child, demanding to know “where is the little bitch?”

      I’d watch them, stroking the rabbit skin under my blazer.

      “Go on,” I would dare them, in my head. “Strike me. Slap me. Do something to make me use this.”

      I was eager to test it out. Was it sharp enough? Would my reflexes be quick enough? I was always disappointed when they backed down. But I knew I’d have another chance soon.

      I was walking home in a boisterous mood one afternoon. I had cash in my pocket, which some of the two-tails had likked from Brixton Market over the weekend.

      It took only 10 minutes to walk home, but I jumped on the bus to be with the crowd. That was always good value. Sure enough, we stormed on, out of sight of the driver, pushing past the people trying to get off, and ejected some of the smaller kids from our preferred seats at the back.

      The rugrats shared my boisterous mood. In those days, buses had light bulbs you could unscrew. And no CCTV. One of the crew scampered over the seats, untwisting the bulbs, and pelting them at cars from the window.

      Cars started tooting. The bus pulled over at the next stop.

      “Exit!”

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