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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      I was still laughing to myself when I reached the estate to find someone standing outside my mum’s door. It was a young black guy I didn’t recognise, about my age. I stopped.

      “Who you waiting for?”

      He spun round. He seemed agitated.

      “I want my money, innit.”

      “What money?”

      “The money owed to me by that little shit.”

      He gestured inside. He must be talking about Yusuf.

      “Are you crazy in your head? What are you talking about?”

      “I want paying.”

      “Seems you lost your mind. What’s going on in your head? Now get off my mum’s doorstep.”

      “I told you have some respect, innit. I gave him an eighth. Said he’d pay up.”

      “Step aside. I’m sorting this out.”

      I left him outside, ranting and raving about his resin.

      Yusuf was playing his Nintendo.

      I went straight past him, into the kitchen, and picked up a very large piece of knifery.

      Who the hell was this character, trying to take me for some little pussy?

      “Get the fuck off this estate, right now. And take your shit-ass tush weed with you.”

      I chucked the bag at him, which I’d picked up from the front room table, and threw at him a sorry-looking cube of resin. It was as shrivelled as this boy’s bravado.

      “Mad bitch,” he muttered.

      “I’m sorry? Say that one more time? You dickhead!”

      He bolted down the stairwell, darting right around the building towards the Pen.

      I pretended to make chase down a couple of flights, but to be honest I ain’t never been an athlete.

      Besides, he was the fearful one, so he had an unfair advantage, innit.

      “Don’t ever make me catch you,” I shouted after him, watching him dash across the courtyard.

      Wow, I gotta get fit, I thought to myself, as I caught my breath by the bins.

      When I went back up the stairs, Peggy had come out to see what the commotion was.

      “Nuttin, Peggy,” I told her, holding the bread knife tight by my arm. “Some kids just ain’t got no manners.”

      She smiled, unconvincingly, and stepped back inside. I heard the chain slide against the lock.

      When I went back, I took the second control, put Street Fighter on pause and shouted at Yusuf what the hell he was doing.

      “You don’t even bun green.”

      He shrugged. “Was gonna try to sell it.”

      Then I spotted the other bags, lined up along the coffee table, alongside an empty jar.

      “Yusuf, what the hell is that?”

      He brightened up, eyes twinkling.

      “You think I could sell it? I worked it out. You can get at least 20 wraps out of a single jar.”

      The wraps looked like heroin. The powder was dark beige, the colour of sand, wrapped in scraps of cling film, which had been twisted and sealed, by burning the top off.

      “Number one – what you talking about? And number two – what is in those bags?”

      He smiled, looking pleased with himself. Yusuf could be a charmer when he wanted.

      “It’s Horlicks, innit?”

      I took a deep breath. He was 12. Horlicks was an old man’s drink. More importantly, how did he even know that’s how they wrapped heroin?

      “Yusuf, last time I looked, Roupell Park didn’t have a big problem with addiction to nutritional malted milk drinks.”

      Lord have mercy.

      He nodded.

      “Exactly. Costs £2.49 for one of the big jars. Sell 20 wraps for around £20 a pop, and you’re in the money. Good business, innit.”

      “And who the fuck is going to buy it?”

      “Cats are desperate, ain’t they? It’s just a one-off.”

      “Well, it’ll have to be, innit, unless they’re just wanting a good night’s sleep. Because ain’t no one going to ask again.”

      I felt a stab of affection for my little brother at that moment. He wanted to become a mechanic. Just as well, ’cause I knew right there and then that he wouldn’t be making it as Tony Montana.

      Selling fucking Horlicks.

      I went to my room and put my music up loud. That night I fell asleep wondering if maybe, just maybe, it might just work.

Steaming

      I had my associates at school. But back home, at Roupell Park, my crew was made up of whoever was around. Who’s coming today? Who’s up for it?

      There was no recruitment, no initiation. It ain’t no rotary club.

      The ones from good homes kept riding with you till their mums or dads shut them down. The rest of us were just along for the ride.

      Most days, we were just a loose collective of bored kids from the estate. Jamal, a big-built Ethiopian guy who was only our age, but looked bloody 18; Eddie, another black boy in the same block; and Sizz, the cousin of a friend. Other two-tails would come and go, but these were the main bloods.

      They were up for anything. I was the only girl, and as such I occupied a role all to myself.

      The trouble with being a brand-name, as I soon learned, was that once you start you can’t back down. It’s like grasping for the rope of a runaway balloon, innit. Your feet leave the ground, and suddenly you’re stoked by the thrill of soaring high above the rest.

      By the time you look down, it’s too late to let go. Part-time wasn’t an option.

      No, if I was going to be Sour, sour I had to stay.

      I wanted to see who could prove themselves. If I was going to have their back, I needed to know who was just talking the talk and who would take a risk. I told them what they could achieve, and I wanted to see who could achieve it.

      I was a very callous young woman. Really, it was just that СКАЧАТЬ