The Dirty South by Alex Wheatle Page A

way if someone shanked your black ass forty times.’
    It was close to 2 a.m. when we was climbing the steps to Dryneck’s fourth floor flat. The lift didn’t work. I was proper screwing ’cos I wanted to stay in the car and listen to some music but Noel insisted that I meet Dryneck.
    Noel pressed the buzzer and after a while some chick came to the door and asked, ‘Who is it?’
    As she looked at us through the spy-hole, Noel answered, ‘It’s me, bruv… Noel, Noel Gordon from Tulse Hill ends. Your nephew. Or cousin. Remember me? You know my mum Cara. Man coming on business. Open the fucking door, bruv. Tell the bitch to open the door.’
    We could hear the chick walking away. ‘Can’t you ever have manners?’ I cussed in a strong whisper.
    â€˜Dryneck should know my voice,’ Noel said, irritation all over his face.
    Then the door opened to the sound of clicks and rattling keys. This white chick with Lana Turner-like hair stood there in a pink dressing-gown with fluffy white cuffs and the reddest lipstick I have ever seen. She stood aside with a bunch of keys in her left hand and only let us in after offering Noel one bitch of a stare. She then led us along this short hallway which had framed photographs of Daffy Duck, Donald Duck, Bugs Bunny, Barney Rubble, Betty Rubble, Cheetara from the ThunderCats, Jessica Rabbit, Pepe the skunk and a painting of an aroused Wily Coyote hanging from the walls. I offered Noel a quick glance and he read my mind instantly. This was fucked-up childhood, strange crazy, public enquiry, social worker issues shit. I didn’t want to stay in that place for too long.
    We came to a halt in the lounge that had a fake polar-bear rug on the wooden-tiled floor and almost covering one wall was a cinema-like screen. It was showing a
Top Cat
cartoon with the volume turned down. This black leather sofa was in the middle of the room like in American sitcoms and I could see smoke that came from its direction. Some Japanese cartoon Manga shit was hanging from the walls in wooden frames. I glanced behind me and opposite the gigantic TV screen was a life-size picture of Michelangelo’s
David
.
    Just as I was thinking of making a run for it, Dryneck raised his head from his laying-down position upon the sofa. He was one ugly mother. He was wearing a yellow silk dressing-gown like the one Sylvester Stallone wore in
Rocky
and he was smoking a big-head with one of those Marlene Dietrich cigarette holders. He didn’t look cool, he looked like a fucking idiot, as is always the case when aghetto brother tries to look classy. He was burning high grade if my senses wasn’t fucked up by the surreal environment of that place. I had to close my eyes for a couple of seconds and open them again to see if all this shit was real. Unfortunately it was and I still felt like running to the exit screaming… Noel didn’t seem to flinch but I guess being ignorant in certain things is sometimes a blessing.
    â€˜Noel, Noel Gordon from Tulse Hill ends,’ Dryneck said. ‘Yes, I remember you well. From when you was a child. We’re second cousins.’
    The chick joined Dryneck on the sofa and she laid her head upon his chest. She took a generous toke from his zoot and formed her mouth into an O to blow the smoke. I had an immediate erection. Dryneck’s neck wasn’t as bad as I imagined it to be. It was just, well, a little dry. But Lord Jesus was he ugly!
    â€˜Nasser,’ greeted Noel, choosing not to use the nickname. ‘What’s gwarnin?’
    â€˜Well, Noel,’ Dryneck said. ‘Trying to be successful. And the definition of a successful man is that he can always earn more than what his girl spends.’
    â€˜And the definition of a successful woman is to find
that
man,’ the chick added.
    This was getting more weird by the moment. I nudged Noel. Hopefully he would have got the message that we had to finish the