Heaven's Promise by Paolo Hewitt Page A

fuddles the brain too much.’ He left me ten minutes later staring up at the ceiling.
    I had just started DJ’ing and my financial position was such that I was required to stay at home. This was cool with my folks but as they were itching to go AWOL and put their feet up on some large cruiser and watch the world go by, I was looking to move.
    It was the Brother P. who threw me a lifeline by securing me a spot at The Unity and pointing me towards my flat on the Stroud Green, P&M helping out with the deposit and a month’s rent, which is where I was now heading for.
    It was now 2.30 p.m. and as I hit the Stroud Green concrete, brilliant sunshine poured down onto the street, cutting through the fading crisp air. It was delightfully warm but very unsettling because February had no business being this hot and everyone around you knew it.
    It was the most serious sign that seasonal changes, the secure routine of winter, spring, summer and autumn, which as a child you set your watch and life to, was now under threat and when something as fundamental as the world’s temperature starts to malfunction, a quiet panic slowly envelopes you. When you consider that the problemo is man-made you get even more panicky. Everyone knows about man’s capacity to destroy, but, sad to say, the judges are still out on his ability to see the light and start the healing.
    A shrinking, bleeding ozone layer shrank the future and was yet another 20th century concern that made you want to holler at the way they did your life. It detonated inside you the kind of shock feelings you get when someone you know unexpectedly dies and in a terrible flash you clearly felt and saw how fragile life truly is, and what’s the point of making plans or dreaming dreams if that’s how it is, which, let’s face it, is not the most healthy way to conduct your affairs.
    That said there was a real rush to be had by the scenery that swarmed around me as Africans strolled the streets in their traditional gears, and then there was the local guys and gals all dressed up as if they had just stepped off the set of the latest Spike Lee flick, old looking Greek guys disappearing into shops where the windows were all blacked out, shopkeepers shooting the breeze with their customers, children chasing each other in and out of the other shoppers who cursed them out, and not to forget the old folk who, like the young, had their own particular dress code.
    It was like being in a film with so many characters to grab your attention that my mind was totally elsewhere when my heart dropped a beat and I realised that the very serious gal standing outside my front door was none other than Sandra.
    â€˜Hi,’ she said, as I caught up with her. I said nothing, simply nodded at her and opened up the door, leaving it open for her to follow me up.
    This she did, locating herself in my front room whilst I made for the bedroom where I keep basic coffee making equipment, utensils, I ruefully noted, that I had used not so long ago as she lay sleeping in my bed.
    As I made the coffee I had the notion to try and keep everything formal between us as if we were two people who had just met and were about to have a coffee before we got down to business. I still have no idea where these crazy ideas come from.
    â€˜What have you been up to?’ I asked her as I came in with the coffee. Sandra sat on my small sofa amidst the mess of records, sleeves, magazines, cassettes and opened envelopes.
    â€˜Nothing much,’ she replied, taking her coffee. ‘Just getting on with things. How about you?’
    She nodded to the three record boxes over by the dex. ‘Still DJ’ing I see.’
    â€˜Yeah, normal runnings. Been going out at all?’
    â€˜Nah, I’ve had other things on my mind.’
    We sat in silence, the tension between us as palpable as the hot cups we held for we both had separate programmes to follow and were determined to do so, whatever the