University of Surrey



Another London: A novel and critical commentary investigating representations of the white working class in media, politics and literature in an age of multiculturalismbyJonathon CreweSubmitted for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Creative WritingSchool of English and LanguagesFaculty of Arts and Social SciencesSupervisors: Dr Paul VlitosProfessor Bran Nicol? Jonathon Crewe 2016DeclarationThis thesis and the work to which it refers are the results of my own efforts. Any ideas, data, images or text resulting from the work of others (whether published or unpublished) are fully identified as such within the work and attributed to their originator in the text, bibliography or in footnotes. This thesis has not been submitted in whole or in part for any other academic degree or professional qualification. I agree that the University has the right to submit my work to the plagiarism detection service TurnitinUK for originality checks. Whether or not drafts have been so-assessed, the University reserves the right to require an electronic version of the final document (as submitted) for assessment as above. Signature: J.R. CreweDate: 5th January 2017AbstractThis project consists of a creative component in the form of a novel and a critical commentary that investigates white working-class representation in mainstream media, politics and literature, and its links to socio-economic and political inequality in a purportedly democratic society. The creative component of this thesis, Another London, is a novel in six parts of approximately 91,000 words. It is set on a council estate in East London between 1991 and 2011 and follows the social and psychological development of a white working-class boy into adulthood as he lives through fictionalised parallels of real-life events, such as the London terrorist attacks in 2005. At the age of eleven he witnesses a racially-motivated murder that affects his relationships with his friends, family and local community. Unable to find a job, he turns to a violent gang for work. Influenced by far-right political party rhetoric, the gang begins to perpetrate hate crimes, which forces the protagonist to confront his own ethnic and class identity.The critical component uses a series of case studies and close readings of political speeches to analyse how media and political elites use the white working class as scapegoats for socio-economic inequality and systemic racism. Using Fredric Jameson’s theory of the ideologeme it traces representations of working- and white working-class characters from the Victorian era through to contemporary literary texts and shows how they have been influenced by, and fed back into, mainstream representations of the (white) working class. The thesis then examines the use of free indirect discourse in literary texts and how it feeds back into stereotyped representations of the (white) working class.The creative component, by juxtaposing free-indirect discourse and first person narration, exposes the ideologemes of white working-class literary representation by providing a space in the public arena for white working-class voices to be heard, and therefore challenging the stereotypical representations of the white working class as espoused by media and political elites. Acknowledgements I would like to thank my primary supervisor, Dr Paul Vlitos, for all his help and support in completing this thesis. I would also like to thank Professor Bran Nicol and Dr Churnjeet Mahn for their feedback throughout this project. Table of ContentsCreative Component Another London 1 – 262Part 1 – Spring 1991 1Part 2 – Summer 199334Part 3 – Autumn 200090 Part 4 – Summer 2005152Part 5 – Spring 2010183Part 6 – Summer 2011234Critical Component 264 – 429Introduction264Chapter 1 – The construction of (white) working-class identity in mainstream media and politics 290Chapter 2 – The construction of (white) working-class identity in narrative literary texts352Chapter 3 – The use of first- and third-person narration in Another London396Conclusion410Bibliography418 Spring 1991.The Gulf War is over. The Prime Minister reveals his vision of a ‘genuinely classless society’. Downing Street is mortared by the Provisional IRA. The unemployment rate rises to over ten percent. The Government announces the new Council Tax. British Front Party candidate, Len Coombes, gets a three-year prison sentence for assaulting an Indian waiter. ‘The One and Only’ shares radio play with The KLF. Dean stepped outside onto the walkway, squinting in the warm sunshine. Behind him, the curtains of the living room were drawn, leaving only the faint outlines of cluttered furniture. The flat was silent and still, a static jumble. He dropped his bag and undid his shiny puffa jacket. The zip caught at the bottom where the fabric was torn and the soft innards were continually fighting to escape. He tugged violently at the fastener, ripping another hole. Screwing up his face he wrenched the jacket from his body and threw it back into the flat. He grabbed the knocker angrily ready to slam, but held it still instead. He listened to the electronics’ standby hum from within. He drew the door shut gently. He pulled his bag’s long strap over his head, displacing his crudely brushed hair and dragging his grubby white school shirt all lopsided. As he trudged towards the end of his floor, stepping over a handleless tea-stained mug filled with cigarette butts, he surveyed the estate below. Eldon was a giant triangle hemmed in by the A48, Handonwell Junction and the closed Eldon Brickworks. His eyes followed the tarmac access roads that ran right angles between the rectangular concrete buildings and found the barren grass patch next to the overflowing bins. It was littered in takeaway wrappers, empty cans and bottles, and rolled up cigarette butts. It was a sure sign that the gang of older boys from Addington had been out late last night. He kicked open the wire mesh glass door that led out onto his stairwell and grabbed hold of the banisters. Holding his breath past the damp corners, he raced down through the building three steps at a time. At the midway turn between the third and second floor he caught a glimpse of movement from behind the garages. A dirty tennis ball flew out, followed by a boy of about Dean’s age. He raced across the cracked road to the ball, turned and booted it back towards the garages. Dean stopped and shouted across the courtyard.‘Oy,’ I shout as hard as I can. Madu stops running and turns towards the building, but he’s not looking in my direction. ‘Over here, you knob.’ He spots me and raises his middle finger. I give him a quick Vs and shout back. ‘What are you playing?’‘One touch.’ He says it like he’s asking me. I bet he wasn’t even playing it. How can you play one touch on your own? He starts to walk back to the garages. He won’t run if I watch. He wants to be hard. He thinks he’s well cool. He’s alright. I like one touch. I run down the rest of the stairs quickly. There’s no door at the bottom so I call out before I even jump the last ones.‘Can I play?’ I launch off the last steps like the heroes in one of my cartoons. They’ve got weapons. They jump down from buildings and out of the sky and fight the invaders. There’s a leader, who’s the best, and an old one who has secret powers and tells them legends and how the enemy is evil and wants to take over their planet. There’s a really strong one with huge muscles and a bad attitude and he drives the space ship. There’s a girl and some kids that try to be funny but they’re just silly. When we play, me and Madu take it in turns to be the leader and the strong one. Sometimes we’re the old one too. I run along the curb to the garages. Madu chucks his bag on the floor. ‘If you want, but I go first.’ He kicks the ball at the garages. It makes a massive noise when it hits the metal door. It’s well loud and echoes off all the walls. ‘You only get one kick.’ He explains the rules, but I already know. Everyone knows how to play one touch. It’s obvious, it’s called one touch. Madu’s always like that. He pretends he’s a bad man, but always tells you the rules. But actually it’s good because you need rules for games, otherwise you can’t win. It would be rubbish. Even Nintendo has rules, like you can’t go backwards on Mario. Even if you forget about the secret tunnel. And in Mortal Kombat Two you have to press the right buttons to do the finishing move. My favourite’s the one where Kung Lao stabs his opponent up and then punches their head off. It’s mental. Some rules are stupid though, like homework, or wearing a uniform to school. We all look different anyway. I drop my bag next to Madu’s and boot the ball as hard as I can. It doesn’t go where I want. Instead it flies off to the left and into the dustbins. Madu starts pissing himself.‘Toe punt. Toe punt.’ He’s really pissing himself. It’s not that funny and it wasn’t a toe punt anyway.‘Fuck off.’ Madu laughs even more. ‘You’re shit at football.’‘Fuck off.’ It’s not even a football. It’s a tennis ball and I haven’t got my proper boots on. Madu struts like he’s so smart. He puts on a voice like a quiz show host.‘That’s why the England team is all blacks.’‘Shut up. And anyway if that’s true it means that you’re shit at football ‘cos we never win the World Cup or anything.’ Madu stops laughing, but he’s still got that stupid grin. Like he’s the best at everything and I’m rubbish at everything. ‘It’s your go anyway.’‘I ain’t getting it. You kicked it.’‘It’s your fucking go.’‘You fucking kicked it. It’s my game and it’s the rules. If you don’t hit the garages then you lose a life and you have to get the ball if you spaz up.’ He’s not laughing now. Just pointing at the bins. I know why he doesn’t want to go. The bins fucking stink of shit. People put nappies in there and dead animals. Everybody says so. Once, there was a dead cat on the road. Its eye was hanging out on a string and loads of kids were looking at it and then a man from the Paki block came out with a shovel and threw it in the bins. Madu said that in Africa the Muslims would have eaten it. That’s what his Dad told him anyway. I said they cook cats in the chinky takeaway, and dogs too. We pissed ourselves. People slash in the bins as well. I saw the older kids do it when they were drinking beer and whiskey. They fucking stink. But, it’s no point arguing. It’s Madu’s ball and if I don’t get it he won’t let me play anymore and I want to hear the garage doors banging again. Everyone leaves their boxes and black bags on the floor. They try and put them in the bin, but there isn’t any space so they just put it next to it. I find the ball near a tin foil container. Curry I reckon. The sauce looks like a skid mark. I’m not going to touch it so I have to kick the ball away from the bins first. When it’s back on the tarmac I dribble it over to the garages and line it up in front of the middle one.‘Oy. It’s my go.’ Madu pushes me away from the ball.‘I got it.’ ‘You can’t start. You just lost a life.’‘How many lives are we playing?’ Madu thinks for a second. ‘Three. You’ve got two and I’ve got three.’ Usually we play five, but he thinks he’s going to win easier if we play best of three. He always cheats and he doesn’t even need to because he’s better than me.‘Whatever, I’m going to win anyway.’ I say as he places the ball down on the spot. He takes a few steps back.‘Shall I boot it really hard?’ He smiles wide with big white teeth. When he does that I always smile, even if I don’t want to, because I know he’s going to do something funny. I nod my head and grin. I really want to hear the garage echo around the estate again. Madu walks backwards until he’s about five metres from the ball. ‘Watch this, motherfucker.’ I grit my teeth as he rushes forward and smacks the ball. He kicks it so hard the ball comes off the ground. You have to hit it really hard for that. It hits the garage right in the middle. The noise is mental and goes round all the buildings. It sounds like war. It’s well cool. We piss ourselves. ‘Oy.’ The yell comes from behind us, from the building at the edge of the estate where all the Pakis live. It looks like all the other buildings but it smells of curry and has a pile of black bin bags in front of the main stairwell entrance. Everyone says that’s what they do in Pakiland, but I saw a woman from our block put hers there as well. There’s lots of graffiti on the walls of the Paki building too. One bit says Fuck Off in luminous orange and pink. I like that one because it’s on the first floor and you can see it from our kitchen window. It would be cool if it glowed in the dark. One of the Pakis leans over the railing in front of his flat with his head above the ‘fu’ from ‘fuck’. He waves his fist at us. ‘That’s my fucking garage. You little bastards. Fuck off.’ Madu and I look at each other and then give him the up yours sign. He doesn’t know what to do. He screws up his face. He can’t do nothing. Madu picks up his ball and we grab our bags. We walk past the garages and Madu kicks the Paki’s garage. We run off as fast as we can. I don’t know if the Paki is following us. I don’t look around until I get out onto the main road. Madu stops by the post box. He’s knackered. He coughs laughter between breaths. I think he’s going to die. It’s well funny. I piss myself.The two boys recovered their breath and set off along the pavement, slapping each other and banging shoulders as they recounted the incident over and over again. Their bags swung back and forth as they spat onto the street, rush hour traffic jolting past. The bus stop’s plastic panes were scratched in a jerky scrawled calligraphy. The backlit adverts had been touched up in red and black marker, penises and breasts adorning the cereal boxes and the hair care models. The bus stop stood at the far end of Eldon, shadowed by the nearest block in the morning and then again by the Brickwork’s empty warehouse in the afternoon. Dean kicked the lime green corner post and dropped himself on the buckled plastic bench, mottled and pockmarked from extinguished cigarette ends. Madu went to work straight away. He pulled a pair of compasses from his back pocket and began scratching the outline of the estate buildings behind on the inside of the transparent pane. He drew slowly, tracing the straight lines and harsh angles. The windows, doors and colours repeated themselves in rows and columns, maintaining a homogenous fa?ade. Dean shuffled back and forth along the seat, feeling the rough texture beneath him. He closed his eyes and lost himself to the sensation until his backside went numb and he had to stand to stop pins and needles spreading through his leg. He looked up and down the road, but there was no bus in sight, just lines of fuming cars and trucks. Dean looked over Madu’s shoulders at the shapes taking place. He couldn’t see the whole pattern until he bent down and got the angle just right. The light shone through, catching the depth of the scratches and bringing the picture to life. It looked like the estate. Jagged and dirty. He kicked the bench just as the bus pulled up. They sat on the top near the back and picked at the fabric around a penknife cut. The back of the seat swore at them in permanent black marker and the smell of detergent wafted up from the stain on the floor. The boys bounced up and down as the bus lurched forward. They spoke loudly, ignoring the irate looks of other passengers trying to read their morning papers and bookclub paperbacks. Madu began gesticulating wildly.‘I’m telling you it was so cool. That film was wicked.’ Madu saw Indiana Jones last night. We’ve been talking about watching it all week. I make up that I watched it, but just say about the bits I saw on the adverts. He’ll think I’m a gaylord if I tell him that Mum was asleep and I didn’t want to wake her up. Madu goes on a lot. He’s a real telly nut. He watches everything. He says he’s got his own telly in his room, but I bet he ain’t. They can’t even afford one. His Dad don’t do nothing. I bet they’ve got a black and white set and you can’t even see which team to support on Match of the Day. He’s still talking about that stupid fucking film. I wish I’d seen it. ‘And then there was that bit when Indie’s in a market and this Muslim guy in a dress starts waving a sword all threatening like and Indie just doesn’t even bother fighting ‘cos he ain’t even worth it so he just pulls out his gun and shoots him.’ Madu pulls his trigger finger and then twists his head like he’s doing sums. ‘And then he pulls a face just like this to show that he’s well better than the Muslim, you know. Like who the fuck does he think he is trying to stab up Indiana Jones. It was well funny that bit, init?’ I nod, pretending I know what he’s talking about. It doesn’t sound great to me. A proper sword fight would be better like kung fu films. Do they even get Muslims in America anyway? Or maybe it wasn’t in America? Madu is still laughing and then pulls the same face again. I laugh at him because he looks like a wheelchair kid when he does it, but he thinks I’m laughing at his jokes, but I’m not. I don’t know what he’s even talking about. I hate Indiana Jones. Madu laughs more when I laugh. I know he’s going to ask me about the film and then he’ll know I didn’t see it and he’ll take the piss out of me all day and go on about how great it was. I ask him first.‘Where did Indiana Jones shoot him?’‘What?’‘That bit where he shot the Muslim?’ ‘The heart. He died like right away. Sick, man.’‘No which country?’Madu stops laughing and thinks for a moment. He doesn’t have a clue. I’m smarter than he is. We’ve only got two more stops. We’re already late for registration, but what’s Mrs Tosser going to do? She can’t do nothing. Nobody can’t do nothing. ‘I dunno. Egypt or Pakiland.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Somewhere in India.’ ‘Egypt’s in Africa.’ I’m good at geography. I know all the capital cities and rivers. We’re going to do mountains next, but I already know the Alps and Ben Nevis. Madu’s such an idiot.‘No it ain’t.’‘It is. I know. I got an A 1 in our last test. We had to say where countries were.’‘But they ain’t proper Africans. They ain’t even black.’ Madu’s not laughing now. He stares at me like he’s trying not to blink. Good. He won’t talk about that stupid film anymore. It’s nearly our stop. It’s the one after the paper shop that we nick sweets from. ‘It ain’t in Africa.’ ‘Wanna bet? I’ll prove it on the geography room map. It’s miles away from India.’ Madu won’t listen. He never listens to anyone. Even if I show him he won’t believe me. Even if Mrs Tosser says so. He thinks Africa’s only where his Dad is from. But it ain’t. Nigeria is just one country and they’re all different. We learnt about it in Black History Month last year when we were in Mr Osborne’s class. We learnt about people from all over the world and Mr Osborne showed us videos and pictures and we even made our own costumes. He’s not in our school anymore because he got a better job somewhere. Madu’s fucking stupid sometimes. He’s getting angry about it. ‘Are you saying I’m a fucking Muslim?’ Madu squares up to me. ‘Are you saying I’m a Paki?’ I don’t say anything. We’re almost there. I press the stop button, but the light doesn’t come on. I hope Madu doesn’t deck me. He’s the hardest kid in our year. He even decked a big white boy from the year above once for calling him a nigger. I don’t say anything. I just pick up my bag and walk down the aisle towards the steps. Madu grabs me from behind. ‘Say I’m a Paki Muslim again and I’ll fucking have you.’ My face goes red, I can feel it burning, but I don’t turn around. I just stay cool and walk down the steps. Madu can’t deck me ‘cos I didn’t say anything. I never called him a Paki, I just said where Nigeria is. I don’t know what’s his problem, there’s Muslims in Nigeria anyway, we learnt about it and saw pictures. They’re always scrapping with the Christians and just ‘cos his Dad slags off Muslims, Madu hates them too, but he hasn’t even been to Nigeria. He’s going to fail our test next week. I bet he doesn’t even know where Mount Everest is. That’s the tallest mountain in the whole world and if he doesn’t know where that is he’s a fucking idiot. I hate Madu sometimes. He runs past me as we get off the bus. ‘Come on. We’re well late.’ He waves at me to follow. He’s forgotten already. Madu always gets angry and then friendly again quickly. He stops at the school gate and turns back to me. ‘Mrs Tosser’s gonna go mental.’ He beams a huge smile. His teeth are really white and it makes his face look even more black. He’s my best friend. I forgive him, even if he is a dick.The bell had already stopped ringing as Madu and Dean ran across the concrete playground, hemmed in on three sides by main roads. Its only barrier was the rusted fence that ran jaggedly around the tiny play area. The boys skipped over the faded and peeled paint of games outlines and dashed towards the main entrance. The two storey redbrick fa?ade intended to be read as a grand statement of the function of education now stood helpless, cast out between the twin estates of Eldon and Addington, dwarfed by their scalar dominance. Behind the entrance lay the tattered extensions of the classrooms. Built as a temporary solution to the influx of pupils when the estates first went up, they were never replaced and the quick fixes left their sides scarred. It was cold and damp, underfunded and under resourced. The boys tried to sneak in past the front reception desk but were caught by the Deputy Headmaster, who made them wait until assembly was over. He wore an ill-fitting suit that hung on him like it had been bought for a more ambitious version of himself. His glasses failed to stay on his nose and he had long since stopped trying to make them. He looked as tired as the shabby décor and fading posters of the entrance hall. The grand archway above the Deputy Headmaster had been built to inspire knowledge and hope, but now it seemed redundant, sheltering only production line curriculums. They were all stuck there. The room was cold, even at the height of summer. Dean shivered and regretted leaving his jacket at home. Madu resorted to putting on his baseball cap to stay warm. The Deputy Headmaster brought them over a biscuit each. They were only Rich Tea, but neither Dean nor Madu complained. The three waited for the assembly to finish, winking at each other to silently acknowledge the secret snack they had shared. When assembly was over, the Deputy Headmaster gestured for the boys to join in the scramble of pupils rushing back to their classrooms. They skipped along the corridor, conspicuous with their bags still over their shoulders, and reached their room before anyone else. They had to be quick before Mrs Prosser came back, so they ran to put their bags on the hooks and sat down at their desks. They weren’t on the same table, but were close enough to whisper if they wanted. They laughed again about the garage door and promised to keep the biscuit a secret. The rest of the pupils started to stream in. The uniforms were drab, a light grey and blue affair. They were supposed to wear ties, but most just didn’t bother and the teachers had realised this was the least of their problems. The room was almost full and Dean turned away from Madu to stare at the door, waiting for the person who would fill the empty seat at his table. Mrs Prosser entered the room but had no effect on the noise level. She ignored the children and plunged herself down behind the teacher’s desk, losing her attention amongst the drawers. Then Ghalia walked in and changed everything for Dean.I don’t like her, even though everyone says I do, but it ain’t true. She’s just funny. She makes me laugh. Actually, I hate her, ‘cos she’s a girl and boys hate girls ‘cos it’s always boys against girls in our class and you have to hate your competition. Like in football when you call the other side names and deck their fans. She’s not my enemy though, but she is a girl, so I don’t like her. But when she makes me laugh then she’s not really like a girl, more like a boy. But I like it when she comes to class and I try and watch when she comes through the door because it’s like in movies in slow-mo. Mrs Tosser just came in so Ghalia should come in soon. She always walks behind Mrs Tosser. Mrs Tosser thinks she’s a good girl but it’s really so Ghalia can pull faces behind her back. It’s well funny and makes me piss myself, but I have to hold it because if Mrs Tosser sees me she’ll know that Ghalia is doing faces. Sometimes I pretend I’m remembering a joke from the telly. That always fools Mrs Tosser. She’s well stupid. All teachers are apart from the Deputy Headmaster. He gave me and Madu a biscuit and we were late and everything. He teaches us sometimes and he’s funny. He does impressions of all the kids in class. He doesn’t sound anything like us, but we always know who he’s pretending to be. I don’t piss myself, but I giggle like my Mum does when she watches her programmes. It’s a different funny, but I like it. Madu hates him. And I bet even though he gave him a biscuit Madu will slag him off to everyone. I don’t care, I just say nothing. Mrs Tosser doesn’t even care. She hasn’t even said hello yet. Something hits me on the back of the head. I turn around and Madu is pretending to whistle. Does he really think I’ll believe he didn’t throw it? ‘Fuck off.’ I whisper it so Mrs Tosser can’t hear, but she’s got ears like a hawk. She can hear everything. But she must have wax today ‘cos she doesn’t tell me off. Madu laughs and then shows me his empty biro. He sucks bits of paper and then blows them at people through it. I do that too. Madu’s a really good shot. If they were real bullets he could kill a bird if it was close enough. I wish they were real bullets. Then I could shoot the clock and we could go home early even though I like school because I get to see Ghalia. She lives on Eldon too, but in the Paki building next to my block. But she’s not allowed to play with the other kids on the estate. I don’t know what they do in there. I reckon she lives with like all her cousins and uncles and brothers and sisters and grandparents and Mum and Dad, because there’s always more of them every day. I haven’t counted them but you can tell and anyway everyone says so. Madu makes a face at me so I give him the Vs. He does the face again.‘It’s your girlfriend.’ He says it loud enough for other people to hear and I go bright red.‘Fuck off.’ I tell him and then turn around and see Ghalia. But she’s different. She’s got a scarf on her head and I can’t see her long curly hair. She walks over and sits down opposite me. I can’t see her hair. It‘s long and curly and black. I always wanted to touch it ‘cos it was the opposite of my Mum’s hair and Mrs Tosser’s hair. They’re boring, just straight and yellow. Ghalia smiles at me, but her face is different. It’s like a circle now. It doesn’t look part of her body. Like it’s floating around on its own. Like a moon face, but a brown moon. Like a moon made of chocolate. I think it’s like chocolate because her smile is white chocolate and her eyes are like buttons. She’s still smiling at me. She always smiles at me. We sit opposite each other and sometimes we kick each other under the table. Not hard, because I’m a boy and I might hurt her, but just for playing. Like foot war. She’s got smart shoes. They’re shiny blue and she says they’re real leather from her Uncle’s shop. I wear trainers. They’re black Nike Air. They’re well cool. Mum got them down the market and Madu says they’re fakes but everyone else says they’re nicked. That’s okay ‘cos if they’re nicked then they’re real ones and that’s well better than real leather. My trainers have a real leather upper anyway so they’re better than Ghalia’s stupid shoes. They’re for girls anyway. She pushes my pencil case.‘Hi Dean. Cat got your tongue?’ She always says things like that. I wish I could think of cool things to say. She sounds like the clever one in my cartoons. They always know a cool thing to say too. I really hate Ghalia because she’s so clever. Her voice is lovely. She doesn’t talk like me or Madu. We recorded ourselves on a tape and we sounded really funny. Madu tried to speak really hard, like a tough guy, but he sounded stupid like a kid. My voice was flat and wasn’t exciting. I thought it sounded like the noise on the telephone before you dial. Then we played with the switch that makes it go high or low. That was so funny. We sounded like chipmunks and then like ghosts. We pissed ourselves. Then we swore a lot too. That was well sick. We can be bad man sometimes, even though swearing ain’t that bad ‘cos they do it on the telly and Mum does it on the phone. Ghalia doesn’t swear. It wouldn’t sound right. Her voice is like singing. When I hear her speak I imagine I’m on the swing in the play park and I close my eyes and I swing harder and then the creaky chains stops creaking and the whoosh of the ground stops going past me when I’m at the bottom and I go higher and higher until the whole of the swings start floating into the air above the estate and I can see the top of the buildings and they sparkle blue and then everything goes away and I’m just swinging in space, but I feel still, like when I wake up from sleep and then I’m back in the classroom again when she stops talking. She’s got a lovely voice, but I don’t like her and I really hate that stupid fucking headscarf. She pushes my pencil case harder and I look at her shit moon face.‘Are you not talking to me?’ She kicks me under the table and I kick her back. I don’t want to smile but I can’t stop myself. It’s funny. She kicks me again. ‘I’ve made up a new face for Mrs Tosser, look.’ She pushes up her eyes with her fingers and then looks down so it’s only whites left. Then she uses her little fingers to push her nose back like a pig. Her tongue drops out of the side of her mouth and she leans her head to one side. It’s well good. It looks like a freak pig. I laugh at her and she stops. ‘I’m going to do it after break when we come back in from the playground.’ Something hits her on the side of the head. We turn to see Madu doing the Vs to her. I don’t say anything. Madu laughs and Ghalia doesn’t say anything either. Madu does another Vs and this time moves his pointing finger up and down so he does a Vs and then up yours and then Vs and then up yours again. It makes me angry ‘cos I taught him that and now he says he made it up, but he didn’t and he never tells the truth about it and even if I say I made it up, which I did, then everyone will say that I’m just copying. And Madu knows I made it up but he doesn’t even admit that to me and it makes me angry because he really thinks he made it up. It’s good when we do it together ‘cos we time it so he does the Vs and I do up yours and then we swap and I do the Vs and he does up yours. It’s well sick and we look much cooler than the other boys from Eldon. Ghalia turns away from Madu and looks at me. She’s not angry with Madu. She doesn’t care anymore I think. She’s brave. Madu’s the hardest boy in our year, but he probably won’t hit a girl and Ghalia will never say anything bad, so if Madu hits her then everyone will hate him because he hit a girl who didn’t even do anything. I look at Ghalia. She’s not smiling anymore, her teeth have hidden behind her lips. Mrs Tosser tells us to get our books out. It’s maths now. I’m only on the green cards but Ghalia is on the blue ones, that’s the next level up. When I get ten out of ten on the green cards then I can do the blue ones. The sums get harder until you get to the black ones but nobody’s on them as they are really for the next year up but we have them in the class just in case. Maybe Ghalia will do them one day. I hope so ‘cos then I can see one and I know I can’t do them because I’m not good at dividing and if Ghalia gets one we’ll be the only table on a black card and I’ll be really proud of her. Madu’s only on green too. We’re not as clever as Ghalia, but Madu thinks he’s better, but he ain’t. He can’t even add one plus one. I finish the first question, but it’s always easy so I don’t even try. Ghalia works hard. She bends all the way over her workbook. Her scarf is falling forward onto the page and she keeps having to move it. I kick her.‘Why are you wearing that stupid scarf? It looks stupid.’ She doesn’t look up. She likes sums. I kick her. ‘It’s not cold. I didn’t even wear my jacket. It must be well hot.’ She looks up from her maths and kicks me under the table. I kick her back and we kick each other for a few seconds. It’s fun and she smiles at me and I like it when she’s happy. ‘Why don’t you take it off in class?’‘I can’t.’‘Why not? Have you got nits?’ She looks back at her sums and speaks really quietly. Not a whisper to stop Mrs Tosser hearing, but like she’s done something naughty. ‘It’s my birthday.’ ‘What a shitty present.’ Madu whispers loudly across at us. He’s been listening in like a spy. He’s just jealous. I think he likes Ghalia ‘cos she’s the prettiest girl in the class, but she hates him. I hate him too now. Why’s he picking on her? She doesn’t look at him and gets back to her sums. Madu gets bored and looks away. I don’t look at him ‘cos if I do I’ll laugh and then Ghalia will think I am playing with Madu, but I’m not. I don’t even like him. He’s a right bully sometimes. I don’t mind when he bullies the other boys and sometimes I join in because they’re all pussies and we’re harder than them and then it’s fun and me and Madu are the bosses of the estate. That’s well cool. I didn’t know it’s Ghalia’s birthday. I tear out a page from my workbook and write Happy Birthday on it and then fold it in half. I kick Ghalia and then pass her my card. She smiles when she reads it and I feel very hot in my tummy. ‘Thank you.’ I can’t look at her and stare at my book. I want to run away and jump up and down in the play park and have a go on the slide. I can jump from the top without even falling over. Only me and Madu can do that. I kick her instead. ‘I’m nine.’ She says. ‘So what? I’m nearly nine and a half.’ ‘I’m a grown up now.’ I don’t get it. She’s not big yet. She’s smaller than me. In fact, she’s the smallest girl in class. She’s so stupid. I kick her. ‘My Mum don’t wear one.’‘You’re not Muslim.’ Now I understood. All the people in the Paki building are Muslims too. Everyone says so. All the women dress like ghosts. Me and Madu pretend they are day ghosts ‘cos at night ghosts wear white sheets so in the day they must wear black sheets. We spy on them from around the corner and then run away before they get too close. There’s always too many of them. They all go together like a pack of dogs. Everyone says so. My Mum says they all wear designer gear from the market under their sheets, but I spied on them once and I saw one of them had Nike trainers on. They were total fakes ‘cos the tick was upside down and looked like a willy and balls. I told Madu and we pissed ourselves. ‘Do you have to wear it forever?’‘Not with my family.’ Only her family?‘Can I see your hair?’ I feel stupid. I don’t mean that. She’ll think I like her but I don’t. ‘No.’ She puts her head down and doesn’t look at me. I don’t care. I hate her and her stupid scarf and her stupid family. They’re all fucking Paki idiots with fake trainers anyway. I kick her under the table but she doesn’t even kick me back. I hate her. She looks unhappy. Good. It’s her birthday and I made her sad. I’m well pleased. Stupid cow. I go back to my green card and look at question two, 27 ÷ 3. I hate divided by. I jab my pencil into the book and break the lead. Fucking hell. I hate school. ‘Madu.’ Mrs Tosser shouts across the classroom. Everyone looks up. Madu has pulled his jumper over his head and is pretending to be a girl. It’s really funny, but Mrs Tosser shouts again. ‘Madu. Take that off immediately.’ She’s really angry. She never shouts like that. Her face is red. She’s going to explode. Really. It’s not even funny anymore. Everyone in the class is silent. We’re like statues. Even Madu and Mrs Tosser. It lasts for hours and then she shouts in a whisper. ‘Madu. Take that off.’ Madu has gone red like a Coke can. I didn’t even think he could go red ‘cos his skin’s really dark. Actually, it’s more like his eyes are burning. I can see his face twitching. Everyone knows Madu wants to be the hardest. ‘Why?’ His backchat isn’t strong like usual. His voice is weak, like a pussy. He’s scared of Mrs Tosser, but he wants to look hard. But he’s not hard. He looks scared. He points his hand at our table. ‘What about Ghalia?’ Madu is such a dick. It’s not even funny. He doesn’t have to pick on her. Why doesn’t he pick on the new boy? He’s well fat and can’t hit back ‘cos he gets out of breath really quick. It’s not her fault she has to wear the scarf. And even if she wants to wear it, she can. He’s just jealous ‘cos he has to take off his baseball cap in class. It’s a stupid hat anyway. It says FUCT and he wears it all the time like it’s stuck on with glue and when I tried it on it smelt ‘cos he never washes it because he never takes it off. He loves that hat. I want one too, but just with NYC. That would be well cool and we’d look well hard, especially when we did the Vs and up yours together. No one would touch us ‘cos they’d think we were American. I can even do an American accent. If I went to New York nobody would know that I’m English. I wonder if they have estates in America. Me and Madu would be the big bosses, even though Madu can’t do an American accent. He’d still be the hardest in the year, even if we lived in New York. Mrs Tosser shouts so loud the windows rattle.‘Right now.’ Madu looks around the class but everyone is quiet with their heads down at the desks. No one wants to look at Madu ‘cos he’ll make them laugh. He slowly takes his jumper down off his head. Mrs Tosser stares at him for a second and then sits back down in the teacher’s chair. Madu throws his textbook at Ghalia.‘Fucking Paki.’‘That’s it.’ Mrs Tosser goes apeshit and grabs Madu by the arm. She pulls him out of the classroom as quick as a flash. Everyone is shocked. Nobody’s seen Mrs Tosser go mental before. She’s gone proper mental. I think she’s flipped in the head. One person starts to talk and the room goes bananas. Everyone talks at the same time. We all want to tell what happened again, in case we didn’t see it and we forget. This is the funniest day in school ever. Mrs Tosser has gone apeshit and Madu is getting well told off. I reckon they’ll phone his Dad. Fucking hell. It’s well funny. But I’m not laughing. I can’t even think about it. Madu just did his raghead impression and Mrs Tosser went apeshit and then Madu backchatted her and she dragged him away to the headmaster for a super bollocking. I can’t concentrate on it. The classroom has gone Loopy Lou. Everyone is talking at the same time. Some of the other kids are being Madu and some are being Mrs Tosser. It’s well funny. I kick Ghalia.‘Did you see that? Mrs Tosser went mental with Madu?’ Ghalia doesn’t laugh. Her smile has gone away. She’s crying. The morning lesson continued without Madu. Dean managed his usual six out of ten, whilst Ghalia faked a wrong answer and stayed on the blue cards for another week. Mrs Prosser had returned shortly after dragging Madu out and shushed the class with one of her stern hisses. She dropped herself down and accepted nothing but silence for the rest of the lesson. One by one the pupils would come up to her desk and wave their card and answer papers in front of her. She’d scratch across their work with a large green tick or a small red cross and send them back to the cracked plastic ice cream tubs to collect the next card of the same colour. No one got ten out of ten. It was a typical morning all in all. Dean worked slowly on his sums, not able to concentrate, his thoughts bouncing between Madu, Ghalia and the television programmes he was going to watch after school. Most evenings Dean’s mum wouldn’t get back until well into the night. She had to take the late shift as it was almost an extra pound an hour. It didn’t bother Dean much anymore. Sometimes he’d play with Madu or watch the comings and goings of the estate. Sometimes he’d make himself a beaker of squash and watch his cartoons. If his mum had worked a double and been there all night, she’d be asleep by the time he got home from school. Dean would sit in his room and play with his toys until she’d come in and tuck him into bed with a cuddle. The morning was slow and the divisions were not getting easier so he decided to give up on them. When he took them to Mrs Prosser, she just crossed and ticked and sent him back to his seat without explanation. There were far too many pupils in the class just to get through, let alone help individually. Dean couldn’t stay focused on his work and his eyes wandered around the peeling paint and curled poster edges of the makeshift walls. Under the blu-tack were rolling hills of green and brown stains where water dripped from leaking pipes and ceilings, and rising damp continued its slow takeover of the school. The pupils looked disinterested in their work and sat in murmured silence until eventually the break bell rang. The class jumped up as one and rushed to collect their bags from the pegs before clambering outside. Mrs Prosser looked out the window. Dean ran too and hoisted his rucksack off the hook. He was desperate to find out what had happened to Madu and whether the school had phoned his Dad. As he was leaving he caught sight of Ghalia. She hadn’t moved from the table. The two of them hadn’t spoken to each other the whole time since Madu had been dragged out of the class. For a moment he felt like staying with her. Remaining behind was not an option though, as Mrs Prosser waved him out. He trudged along the main school corridor, torn between Ghalia and Madu. His head down, he watched his feet as they took one step after another over the smooth non-slip floor. He contemplated moving and how he stayed upright. He tried to walk quicker, at the same pace he would if his eyes had been forward. His feet kicked out in a constant natural rhythm that hypnotised him. All thoughts of his two friends evaporated and he trundled along the corridor blindly. He sailed across the plane and lost all sensation of thought, only foot, foot, foot. His head bumped into a soft object that stopped him in his tracks. He looked up at the Deputy Headmaster who smiled questioningly at him. He’d been caught daydreaming and could already feel the red guilt of embarrassment creeping through his body to his cheeks. The Deputy Headmaster stepped aside and guided Dean to the main door. A quick pat on the shoulder and Dean was outside in the screaming vortex of the playground. Groups huddled together scheming up rules to games they would never play, break time running out before they could all agree how to start. Others dashed around staging enactments of dramas and adventure movies, narrating their role before, during and after they played it. A few skipped, a few sang badly and some walked silently around the periphery staring through the prison mesh fence at the jostle of fuming mid-morning traffic. The day was warm and the sun hung just behind the ridge of Addington, so only a thin slice of the tarmac was out of the shadows. Madu stood in spotlight recounting the horrors of his ordeal. He had cast himself as hero in an oppressive system that outlawed fun and laughter. The group of boys standing court around him listened intently as he wove his story again and again, embellishing dubiously established facts with impossibly tall tales of cruelty, staunch resolve and bravery. Dean, spotted his friend from afar and dashed over to hear of Madu’s adventures. Madu’s like a superstar. The sunshine on him looks like a spotlight when they sing on the telly. He’s well the coolest boy in our year and the hardest and I’m his best friend so no one messes with me. I push my way through to the front of the crowd and stand near Madu. Everybody lets me ‘cos they know I’m the second big boss and that me and Madu will deck them if they say anything. I can stand in the sun too. It’s well warm. I can’t see properly ‘cos it’s really bright, but Madu’s got his cool baseball cap on so he can look directly into the sun if he likes even though we’re not allowed to ‘cos it’ll make us go blind. I don’t mind. I’m in the spotlight too so everyone knows that I’m Madu’s best friend. It’s hot in the sun. ‘And he even got this big ruler thing and bent it like a whip or something and said that he was going to beat me in the head with it. And I was like you can’t even do that and if you do I’ll get my Dad on you. And he said I don’t care ‘cos I can put him in detention.’ I bet the Deputy Headmaster didn’t do that. He smiled at me and gave me and Madu a biscuit. I don’t think he hit Madu. I don’t think teachers hit us ever. Maybe they do, really crazy ones, but then they go to prison and the cops handcuff them and take them away and they never can go back to a school and have to work as dustbin men or cleaning toilets with their tongue, which is the worst punishment ever. That’s well gross. I don’t even like to poo in school. I only wee and save my poo for when I get home and I can read a comic. ‘He’s such a knob. I reckon we should do something to him. Like a trick.’ All the boys say yeah together and shout stuff like slash his tyres or smash his windows. One boy shouts stab him up and everyone shouts yeah, but I don’t ‘cos he’s nice and gave me a biscuit and I bet he didn’t even do anything to Madu. He didn’t even call his Dad. Madu is well unfair. He’s a liar liar and makes everything up like he’s got a colour telly in his room and that his uncle is in the FBI and that his Dad’s been on telly. I don’t care ‘cos I never believe him, but the other boys don’t know he’s a liar and they’ll follow him and stab up the Deputy Headmaster, even though they won’t really do it, but they’ll backchat him a lot and he might leave like Mr Osborne who was funny and now we have Mrs Tosser and she doesn’t even care if we get our sums wrong. She just wants us to shut up. When the Deputy Headmaster teaches us he wants us to talk. And we speak to each other and he comes and listens and asks us questions and wants to hear what we think and makes us feel like when the grownups talk on the news. One time we had to write our name on a bit of paper and then BBC or ITN after it and the Deputy Headmaster drew this big telly on the board and we pretended we were telling the news and the rest of the class were watching from home and the Deputy Headmaster pretended that the board rubber was a remote control. It was really good fun. And then another time we drew faces of ourselves and I did a big circle and eyes and nose and ears and hair and mouth and then I finished and then the deputy headmaster looked at it and made me put my hand on the paper and see if it was the same colour. It wasn’t even the same even though everyone says that I’m white, but I’m not. I’m more like pink or light brown. I couldn’t even make my colour with the felt tips because they don’t mix and everything turns purple and then the page tears because it’s too wet. He did the same to Madu and he’s not really black even and then he did it to Ghalia and she’s in the middle of me and Madu. That was my favourite lesson. Madu’s pulled his jumper up again. He’s pretending to be himself when he got done. It’s well funny. ‘So I just pull my jumper up and pretend I’m a stupid Muslim and I have to wear a scarf over my head in case a bird does a shit on me.’ He dances around like he’s a girl. Everyone pisses themselves and me too. ‘And then Mrs Tosser shouts at me and I’m thinking like what. What did I do? I didn’t do nothing. And Mrs Tosser goes well mental and her face goes this bright red and I think she’s going to explode like the Incredible Hulk. But I don’t care so I’m thinking fuck off you old bitch.’ He does an impression of Mrs Tosser and puffs up his cheeks and makes his eyes go crossed and waves his arms like an octopus and points his fingers at one of the boys from the year below. He makes a funny voice. ‘Take that off now Madu.’ Madu does himself again. ‘Why should I? That stupid Paki bitch doesn’t have to.’ Madu pretends to be Mrs Tosser again, but it’s not funny. He’s being nasty to Ghalia and she didn’t even do anything and now everyone will call her stupid Paki bitch because they want to copy Madu ‘cos he’s the hardest boy in the year and everyone thinks he’s well cool, but he’s not. He’s nasty and sometimes he’s nasty to me too, like when he broke my favourite toy car because I didn’t let him play on it because I knew he’d break it and then one time he kicked my football onto the road and it got run over and popped and no one could fix it. Why does he do it? I feel sorry for Ghalia because she’s just nice and smiles at everyone. She even smiles at Madu and he always tells her to fuck off. She should say fuck off to Madu and see if he likes it. He’s got his jumper up again and tries to speak like Ghalia. But her voice is lovely and Madu just sounds like a dick. I hate him. ‘And Ghalia creeps on me and tells Mrs Tosser and says miss miss Madu is saying bad things to me. She’s such a creep. She licks Mrs Tosser’s bum. Fucking teacher’s pet. Stupid fucking Paki bitch.’ I can feel my body is shaking. I’m really hot and the sun is making me hot too. I hate Madu. He says stuff like that to copy his Dad but it’s not even the truth. It didn’t even happen and I know because it’s on my table and Ghalia didn’t say anything. ‘Don’t trust Pakis ‘cos they’ll tell on you.’‘Ghalia didn’t do nothing.’ I say it out loud and then everyone shuts up and looks at me. But I don’t care. I feel like my face is burning like when me and Madu set fire to plastic bottles. It’s all bobbly and melting. I don’t care. It’s not fair. ‘She didn’t creep. Mrs Tosser told you off for it. Ghalia didn’t say nothing.’ Madu’s face goes nasty. He’s a real bully sometimes. He points at me but is looking at everyone watching. ‘Dean’s a Paki lover. You love Pakis.’‘Fuck off. No I don’t.’ I push him on the arm. ‘You love Ghalia.’ He puts his jumper up over his head and does his stupid fucking voice again. ‘Kiss me Dean. You’re my boyfriend. Let’s make us a baby.’ He does kisses to me. Everybody is pissing themselves, but it’s not even funny like normal. I can’t concentrate on him and I want to run away, but I want to stay and fight him ‘cos he’s a stupid fuckhead. I’m getting hot and I grip my hands together. Madu pushes me away and laughs. ‘Dean loves Ghalia. Your girlfriend is a Paki bitch who wears a headscarf. She should cover her face ‘cos she’s well ugly too.’ I hate Madu. Why does he pick on Ghalia just ‘cos she’s a Paki. No one picks on him ‘cos he’s black. How would he like it if everyone calls him a stupid nigger? He’d go crazy and everyone says it’s well bad to say that, even worse that fuck off and shithead, but Madu always says Paki and bitch to Ghalia and it’s not even her fault and she’s not even a bitch. She’s nice and Madu is a stupid fucking nigger. Madu pushes me again. Everyone’s laughing and it’s really loud. I can’t think properly. I start to burn all over. I can’t stay still, all I see is Madu’s stupid grin, like he’s won. ‘Look.’ Everyone turns where Madu points. Ghalia is standing on her own by the main door. Madu shouts at her. ‘Ghalia. Ghalia, over here.’ Ghalia looks up and sees us. Me and Madu are in the sun. Everyone else is in the shade. She looks at me. She smiles at me. Madu shouts again. ‘Dean says you’re a stupid rag head Arab Paki bitch Muslim and you smell like curry and shit.’ Ghalia stops smiling and she goes all limp. My chest goes tight like I’m in a bear hug. Ghalia’s mouth twitches and it makes my ears burn on fire. Madu pushes me and smiles at me with his stupid fucking grin. I hate him. I really fucking hate him. I want to stab him up and kill him and break all his toys and smash his stupid fucking head in. I’m burning all over. Ghalia goes back inside the school and I go mental. I run at Madu and hit him as hard as I can. ‘Stupid fucking nigger.’ I shout at him as I hit him in the head. ‘Stupid fucking nigger.’ How does he like it? I hit him everywhere and push him against the fence. He tries to hit me but I can’t feel anything. I punch him in his stupid face and I see blood on his white teeth. It makes me go mental. I hit him harder and harder and faster and faster and he tries to hit me but I don’t care anymore. I hate him. I feel two big hands on my shoulders dragging me backwards. I try and fight but I can’t do nothing. Everyone watches me as I’m carried backwards. I fight and scream and shout but I can’t do nothing. I see Madu get up from the fence. He doesn’t even do an up yours. He’s got blood on his mouth but he doesn’t even care. Everyone watches us. I stop fighting. Madu stares at me from across the playground. He looks small and weak. He doesn’t look like the hardest boy in the year. He doesn’t even do the Vs. I’m far away now. Almost by the main door. But I can see Madu watching me. He doesn’t even care about the other boys shouting at him. He’s my best friend. I don’t hate him anymore. He just stands there watching me and my burning makes me feel sick. The door is shut behind me and I can see Madu through the glass. He looks so small.Dean sat in the deputy head’s office, kicking his feet against the wooden chair leg. His Mum had been called and they were waiting for her to arrive. Madu had told his side separately and been sent back to class with a harsh reprimand for fighting and a serious threat of calling his parents if he added a third misdemeanour to the day. The Deputy Headmaster filled in forms, scratching his pen across the paper while Dean absently kicked his heel against the floor. There was a knock at the door and Dean’s Mum was shown in. Her scraggy blonde hair had been finger combed to create a semblance of respectability, but it was undermined by the lopsided slap of make up that barely covered the emerging smoker’s wrinkles. Lipstick ran over the lines like a kid’s colouring book and when she forced an upturned grimace of a smile it emphasised her overlapping yellow teeth. Her one size fits all uniform hung over her skinny, bent frame, making flapping noises as she moved. She explained that she was in a rush and was desperate to know what the trouble was as any absence was docked from her pay. This had already cost her a tenner. Dean muttered his story once more, again avoiding the real reason for the fight. He didn’t look up once. His Mum was surprised to hear that Dean had attacked Madu, she told the Deputy Headmaster, they were best friends. Well, boys would be boys and getting into a fight over a pretty girl, even a Muslim one, was understandable. She didn’t really get what all the fuss was about and was keen to get back to her job. The Deputy Headmaster explained that it wasn’t simply the fight but the language that Dean had used. They had no choice but to treat this as a racially motivated attack. Dean’s Mum protested, they were best friends and this would blow over by the weekend. She suggested that the Deputy Headmaster come down to Eldon one day and hear how the blacks talked about the Pakis and how the Pakis talked about the whites and how everyone talked about everyone else. It wasn’t racist language, it was just how they spoke down on the estate, or weren’t they allowed to use those terms anymore? The Deputy Headmaster did understand her point and felt very sorry for Dean, but in a situation as sensitive as this, he had to follow policy. He’d be happy for her to bring it up at the PTA meeting next week as they’d be discussing the cultural diversity awareness weeks and the taking down of all the Union Jacks. He gave a smile of reassurance to Dean’s Mum. It was only a few weeks of suspension and then Dean would be welcomed back to the school. The Deputy Headmaster asked Dean if he knew how seriously these issues were taken, but Dean just shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t going to say anything. He wasn’t a creep and he certainly wasn’t going to dob Madu in. He was his best friend. Dean’s Mum left him at the school gates and went back to work. She’d lost twenty quid and was fuming. She gave Dean a slap around the head and power walked off to the bus stop. Dean looked at the cracked pavement and then up at Addington. It frowned down like the grotesque twin of his own Eldon estate. The lines were fraught, the high walls and corrugated steel imprisoned everything inside. Life there was adrift from the sleek new cars that glided past the school on their way to another part of the city. Dean stood between the twin facades of the estates and understood that this was where he belonged, his real home. He turned back to the school and looked across the playground. The sliver of sunlight was gone and the building was dark in shadow. Madu was in there somewhere, probably picking on Ghalia. Dean thought about what had happened and the burning came again. He raised his middle finger to the school. He hoped they all fucked off and died.Summer 1993.The War in Bosnia rages. Buckingham Palace is opened to the public. An IRA bomb explodes in Bishopsgate, City of London. Unemployment at almost three million. First train journey though the Channel Tunnel. The British Front Party win a council seat in Tower Hamlets. 2Unlimited knock Whitney Houston from number one. Deep in the heart of Eldon, basking in the courtyard midday sun, Dean checked the grass for dog shit, lay back and looked up at the looming grey square outlines the tower blocks cut from the blue sky. He put his hands under his head and closed his eyes. Daytime television had not been what he’d expected and one touch was just not the same on his own. He’d started a small fire with some newspaper behind the abandoned skip, and even though he liked the gust flare from spraying deodorant, he didn’t get the same rush without his mates. He’d watched some younger children chasing flying debris that eddied and jostled across the carpark. He’d trudged around the corners of the blocks a few times and wondered if skiving was all that. He always ended up returning to the same place he was now. Lying back, he thought of all the other kids in school, stooped over desks, scribbling away pointlessly, whilst he could just relax. Being alone might not be great, but it was better than that bullshit. He was shut off, the horns from the A48 just breaking over the estate horizon of sound. He listened to the artificial trade winds whistling around the buildings’ edges, bringing with them the smell of exhaust fumes and metal. He dozed in peace. A loud sharp crash jerked him from his sleep. He didn’t move, just opened his eyes and turned his head towards the large bins, their rubbish spreading over the rims like muffin tops. Dean watched as one of the closest began to tilt forward and back, eventually toppling over, crashing to the ground and echoing thunder around the courtyard walls. The contents spewed out across the gravel and spread in a fan of torn black bin liners, nappies and teabags, all marinated in a thick brown juice. The fallen bin revealed two boys in their late teens, bent double in hysterics as they kicked empty baked bean tins across the tarmac. Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows and watched as three more lads appeared from behind his own building. They sauntered forward, lips pursed, dragging the last remnants of smoke from their finger-nail-clenched rollies. One of them spat out a glob of phlegm, bent over and sprinkled it with a few more droplets of spittle. Still looking at the floor the same lad shouted over to the two boys at the bins to stop fucking around. The whole gang erupted into a volley of swearwords that ricocheted off windows and bounced away through the estate. They swayed on their pins and jostled and tumbled, spitting at garage doors. Their white and grey trackie bottoms flapped in the breeze as Dean watched them go by. None of them paid him any attention except the boy who’d first spat. From under the exposed elastic of a red hoodie, he caught Dean’s eye. His face was long, uncooked pastry skin pulled taut over his sharp jaw, a thin shadow line of rat whisker hair under his nostrils. A short, silent nod of recognition and he turned back to his gang. Dean looked on and watched as they picked up strewn bottles from the bin and threw them at Madu’s building. The glass exploded as the boys ran from the scene, disappearing along the main artery road towards Addington. Dean, still resting on his elbows, kept his eyes on the blank space of the access road left in their wake. He sniffed and spat to his side, but still watched, listening as the gang’s shouts mingled together and were lost in the sounds of the city. ‘What a bunch of cunts.’ Georgina stands behind me staring at the clapped out Ford Escort near where the gang just left. She’s got that sideways squint like she’s shooting a crow. She always does that. And her mouth hangs down, like she’s stopped halfway in a chew, but she’s not even got any gum or sweets. I don’t have any either. I only get fifty pee a week pocket money and I already spent it on a coke and some highland toffee. It tastes creamy and sweet and sometimes I put the whole thing in my mouth in one go and I can’t hold it in and all my spit runs down my chin. It’s sticky and lush. The wrapper’s hard to get off though. Georgina’s got a pink top on that shows her arms. She’s got her hand on her hip ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ style. She thinks she’s grown up just because she’s in the year above. But she ain’t. She isn’t even a year older than me, it’s just because her birthday’s in July and mine’s in October. She’s only going to be twelve for…July, August, September…three months before me. Another reason school is so fucking stupid. Georgina sniffs her nose up into a ball and drags both her hands over her hair. She says it’s blonde, but it’s more like ginger, in fact we all say that to piss her off. And it works. She goes mental and tries to punch you, but like a girl, using the side of her hand so it looks lame and doesn’t even hurt, which makes us laugh even more. She swears a lot and calls us pricks and dickheads and wankers, especially if you call her Georginger. That’s well fucking funny and I made that up with Gary. He said Georginge and then I said Georginger, which sounds much cooler. I’m way cooler than Gary, easily. He’s got asthma and can’t do sport so I always win at everything and he wears Hi-Tecs and a duffer coat. He never stands still and my Mum says he’s got ants in his pants. He’s alright and sometimes I beat him up. She’s still staring at the knackered Escort. I sit up and look too, but there’s nothing there. I try and imagine the gang, but they all look like the leader with the tash and the wicked hoodie. ‘They should fuck off back to Addington.’ She says with a snarl. She puckers up her lips and looks down at me. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’‘Why aren’t you in school?’ I snap back angrily. I hate people telling me what to do. She ain’t me fucking Mum. Georgina rolls her eyes because I already know her excuse. She comes back to check on her Nan at lunch to make sure the old bid hasn’t snuffed it. Georgina folds her arms and slowly blinks her eyelids. I feel my face going red. She starts tapping her heel on the floor and it makes her skinny knee bob up and down. I shuffle on my arse and don’t know what to do with my hands. I keep moving them from my pockets and then holding them together and then putting them back in my pockets again. Georgina watches me and then looks over her shoulder towards my building.‘Do you wanna sit on the wall?’‘Fuck off.’ I want it to be hard, but it comes out weak and my voice sounds high like a gaylord. Georgina smiles at me and walks towards the wall at the end of my building. I scuff my trainers against the floor. They ain’t got no grip anymore so I can do the best ice slides in winter. You run up to the ice patch and skid along it. I did nearly ten metres once. Gary’s shit at it. He’s too pussy to run up fast so he only did a centimetre. His bones click so he’s worried they’ll snap if he falls over. Madu used to do it the best, one time he did a slide across the whole car park. We didn’t play this winter. I push my foot hard into the ground and watch my toes curl up at the end. It’s not the same without Madu.‘Are you coming or what?’ Georgina sits on the wall and shouts at me. Her voice feels like a bread knife, all bumpy and sharp. ‘I ain’t got all day.’ She’s a right bossy cow. Just because she’s in year eight. She can fuck off, stupid fucking bitch. I give her an up yours. ‘Dean, I’ve got to go.’ She says it more softly, with her head tilted to one side. I look back at my feet and I feel bad for doing the up yours to her. Her Nan’s really ill with heart cancer and can’t even piss or shit on her own and Georgina has to clean her and feed her tomato soup. I sniff as hard as I can and feel a hard lump move from behind my nose and into my mouth. It feels a little sore but really good, like having a dump. I gob it out. There’s a dollop of green in it. Georgina’s kicking her heels hard against the wall. She looks lonely on her own. I don’t want her to go back to school. I get up and walk over. As I get closer my tummy starts to feel like it’s shrinking. I slow down, but Georgina pouts her lips at the wall. I sit next to her and look at her knees. Her skin is white and pink and she has a brown and yellow bruise on her thigh. My legs are longer than hers. I can touch the floor, but she can’t. She’s tall for a girl though. My Mum says Georgina could be a super model if she didn’t have a wonky nose. Mum says she was born like it, but Georgina told me in secret that her Dad punched her in the face before he got banged up. I think it’s okay. It’s not that big or anything, it just goes to the side a bit. I don’t even stare at it anymore. Georgina puts her hand on my face and leans in and kisses me. I keep my mouth shut and we press our lips together. Georgina moves side to side and I do too. I put my hands on her shoulders. When we first kissed I didn’t do that, but now we’ve done it a lot and it’s how they do it in year eight. I like touching her skin because it always surprises me. I think it’s going to feel like my own, but it’s cool and soft and smooth and I just leave my hand there until it gets sweaty. I wonder if she thinks the same when she touches my face. We don’t do frenchies because Georgina says we’re taking it slow, but we’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend for nearly four months so I’m probably going to have to finger her soon and touch her tits. That’s what everyone says. I don’t know when to stop kissing so just keep going until Georgina pulls away. I take my hand off her shoulder and she smiles at me. It feels okay. I like kissing Georgina, but it’s not like on the telly when a sexy girl with big knockers kisses Bugs Bunny and his heart jumps out of his chest. Sometimes, I think about ice sliding.‘I’m going back to school.’ Georgina lets herself down from the wall and walks off. ‘See you later.’ I do the Vs behind her back, but only for fun. I watch her for a bit and then get down from the wall. The sun’s gone in. Dean kicked around the courtyard for a while longer before heading back home. The door opened onto a staircase with an opening to the right that led into the living room. It was small, but just big enough for him and his Mum. A faux leather two-seater faced the television, with a round fold-up table stashed in the back corner next to a cabinet awash with gossip magazines and some of Dean’s comics. He walked past the pile of boxes under the stairs and headed through the hanging-bead door to the galley kitchen at the back. He grabbed himself a beaker and filled it halfway with blackcurrant squash. He began to run the tap so the water would get cold and took a small sip of the cordial. The sweetness coated his mouth and made his lips purse. He turned off the tap and filled the rest of the beaker with squash, heading back into the sitting room. He dropped himself down onto the sofa and immediately got back up to turn on the television. He flicked through the four channels, declaring them all shit before settling on a cookery show. He fell back on the sofa and sipped his purple syrup. Within minutes the TV chef had finished his Jamaican Jerk Chicken and Dean had knocked back the complete beaker of undiluted squash. As the credits rolled, he switched off the television and wondered why there weren’t any foods called British something or something. He couldn’t hold the thought. The sugar was going to his head and he could feel his eyes begin to pulse. He walked around the sofa a few times and then out onto the walkway in front of his house. He took in some deep breaths of fresh air and looked out over the square horseshoe buildings. To his left was Madu’s block and to his right was Ghalia’s. He didn’t see much of either anymore. After coming back from suspension, Dean had been moved to a different class and sat on a table with Gary, who had an already greying curly mop of hair and patchy bum fluff all over his blotchy pink face. At first Dean hadn’t liked him. He was one of the best pupils in class, but also a real teacher’s pet. As soon as he’d finished the task, he’d run to the front desk and show Mr Buck, waiting patiently for the green ticks and smilies that were inevitably coming. On the way back he’d be bursting with so much pride that he couldn’t hold back a gap-toothed grin. This, and Gary’s lack of arrogance, pissed Dean off so much he made it routine to grab Gary’s chocolate bar at lunch and crush it into his yoghurt. It took him a while to realise that Gary still ate both and on some lunch breaks would pre-empt Dean by doing it first. It came to a head when Dean decided that cheese and pickle sandwiches mushed into Gary’s juice bottle would be a more effective form of bullying. It served Gary right somehow and got Dean another three days off school, which turned into a week from his own truant’s volition. It was during that time Dean had seen Madu playing one touch by himself. The ritual of suspension covered the fact they hadn’t spoken since their fight and Dean had rushed down the stairwell to join his friend. By the time Dean had reached the garages, Madu had already spotted him, picked up his ball and headed back to his building. Before he’d disappeared into the stairwell, Madu had shouted that he wasn’t allowed to play together anymore. Dean became friends with Gary the day he went back to school. Dean scraped his nails along the walkway bricks. There was a sickly rasping in the back of his throat that he couldn’t get rid of. He spat over the low wall and watched the droplets float down to the floor. The day dragged on. He stooped over the wall and watched and waited for anything to happen. Nothing did. He was bored. He’d been bored these past two years. Even so, he was in no rush to start going back to school. He dropped his chin onto the ridge of the wall and felt his neck contract against the brick as he swallowed against the tickly dryness still there in his throat. His eyes wandered lazily around the courtyard. If he could draw well, he’d be able to render this view from memory. It didn’t change, just deteriorated. His eyes came to rest on the faint Fuck Off on Ghalia’s building. The council had painted over it and the next day it was back, bigger and brighter. In the end they just gave up and left it there to fade along with the rest of the estate. Dean traced the outline of the spiked lettering and wished he could create the same jagged words. He could see the pictures in his mind, but just couldn’t get his hands to follow. On the ground floor he saw movement. A man walked a few steps ahead of a smaller figure, head to toe in navy blue. Dean stood bolt upright. He knew that movement from a mile away. It was Ghalia. He followed every step she took along the walkway, every shuffle around a discarded black bin bag, every wisp of scarf as she turned her head. A year ago she’d won a scholarship to go to an all girls school in the next borough. According to what Dean and Gary’s Mums had heard around the estates, she’d got in because of other reasons, but they didn’t like to talk out loud about that. Since then Dean had only caught glimpses of her. He often thought of her round face floating above her shoulders and occasionally he dreamt of reaching out and gently loosening her scarf and running his hands over her hair. She hadn’t spoken to him again after the fight with Madu. Dean had earned himself a reputation that many of the estate families didn’t appreciate, especially those in Ghalia’s block. She got to her floor and began along the walkway towards the door the man with her had already begun to unlock. Dean felt a panic rising inside him, gripping his innards and squeezing his whole body in desperation to see her face just once before she went in. Ghalia reached the door and entered. She didn’t look back. The door was pulled shut and Dean was again left alone in the fractured silence of the estate. ‘Stupid fucking Paki bastards.’ I spit it out quietly under my breath like the men outside the bookies. I don’t even care about Pakis, but it pisses me off that Ghalia’s never allowed out. All the other girls on the estate are. Georgina can stay out until midnight if she wants. She’s in a gang of girls who rule all the way until the main road. But they only rule the girls. The big bosses are the gang from Addington. One of them is nearly eighteen and they all smoke. Actually some of them are from Eldon, which is why they can come here too. They did the cool graffiti on the Paki block and they always tell the old codgers to fuck off and die. I don’t want old people to die, but they always tell me and Gary off for playing games on the grass. They must have such shit lives if all they care about is some grass. It’s not even nice grass. It’s covered in dog turd. And even though there’s a sign that says no ball games or fires, where else can we play footie? They’ll moan whatever. You just can’t win. If I had a gang, I’d tell them to fuck off too. Madu’s got a gang now. Well, he thinks it’s a gang. Three black kids pretending to be gangsta rappers is rubbish. I bet they can’t even rap. They can’t do nothing. They’re not a real gang, they don’t even bunk off school. They all sit there doing spelling and learning about Afreeka. Who gives a fuck about it anyway? No one in school has been there. What’s the fucking point in learning about Africa and India and Pakiland? Some kids can’t even speak English. There’s a boy on mine and Gary’s table called Janek who can’t even say hello or goodbye. I bet he can’t even count to ten or do the alphabet. He knows how to swear though. He must watch eighteen films. It’s funny ‘cos he says wanker bitch and fuck off wanker bitch. He doesn’t even know what it means. He should go back to nursery school. Me and Gary heard Gary’s Mum say that loads of people think they should go to a different school, like a special school for kids who don’t speak English. I don’t care about them, it’s the teachers I hate. All the teachers like Mr Fuck and Mrs Tosser love them so much because they don’t speak properly. They never get told off or detention. One day we had to write about what we did at the weekend and the boy on mine and Gary’s table only wrote two sentences and Mr Fuck gave him two ticks but he didn’t even look at my story. Gary got two ticks as well, but he licks the teacher’s arsehole so he always gets lots of ticks. I tried really hard too. I used loads of describing words and even checked my spelling in a dictionary, but no one cares. I don’t care either. School’s shit. It must be final bell now. Everyone will be getting their bags from the pegs and doing secret Vs and up yours to the teachers. I always did that. I always like going to school and leaving school, it’s the bit in the middle I hate. Gary told me that. It’s clever ‘cos it sounds like you’re a teacher’s pet, but really you hate school. But Gary loves school. I think he wants to marry it. I don’t know why we have to go. None of the gang from Addington do and they rule two estates. They’ve got the latest Nike Air trainers and they didn’t even buy them from the market. And they smoke and drink and no one tells them off. Everyone lets them do what they want. Nobody can do nothing anyway. I always get in shit because I don’t go to school, but why should I? They never teach us about the stuff I like. Things like the history of football or how to cook a roast dinner or about London and how a Nintendo works and people like me and Mum. And in music we never listen to pop songs. It’s always African drums and twangy guitars that sound like cats having it off. We learnt steel drums once. That was my favourite lesson because we did calypso and it made me feel like I was running on a beach in the sun and I hit my drum at the same time as I ran and everyone joined in and there were all the kids from my class running and we all had big grins on and we jumped up and down together like a tribal dance as the music got louder and I imagined Ghalia in the middle even though she’s not in my class and she didn’t have her scarf on and her hair was waving at the same time as the ocean and we danced together. Then Tubby, the fat kid, fucked it up and we had to start again, but it wasn’t the same because I couldn’t get the rhythm right and it sounded like dropping glass bottles down the stairs of my block. I was so angry I imagined cutting open the fatty and seeing how many sweets he’d ate for dinner. I called him a fat waster instead. He can’t do nothing. He has a heart attack if he runs a metre. But we all say he’s the fastest thing on two legs if you give him a dinner ticket. I made that up and I told everyone and everyone got it and laughed a lot. Then Mr Fuck found out and I had to go to the Deputy Headmaster’s office. I think he’s bored ‘cos he just made me sit in silence until the final bell. Stupid wanker bitch. People are coming back from school. Everyone walks along the access road next to Ghalia’s block and then split up to go home. Sometimes we hang out in the courtyards or play one touch, but most days we go and watch telly. I usually come out again when the news is on. Tyrone and Darren come round the corner into the courtyard. They’re Madu’s new friends and they think they’re well hard just because they’re in his gang. Nowadays they swagger through the estate giving it all that. They soon fucking shut up when the gang from Addington are around. Then they run and hide in their block and shit themselves and cry to their Mummies. They can’t even do graffiti or smash windows and if they try to smoke they cough their guts up. I saw a cat puke up once and Madu said it was from smoking hash. And there was a rumour that someone shot it up the arse with an air rifle. I laughed but it made me feel sick and I thought of the cat dying slowly and I dreamt about it and woke up crying. I feel sick now as well. I’ve got a tummyache. ‘Hey batty boy. Where’s your boyfriend?’ Tyrone shouts up at me and Darren does the up yours sign. They’re trying to be bad man but they can’t stop giggling as if they’re still in year one. ‘Where’s the rest of TLC?’ I shout back down and give them a Vs. They hate it when I say that because TLC are all girls and it also means Tyrone Loves Cock. Everyone knows it’s true because when he was in year six he said Darren was his special friend. I said Madu was my special friend, but nobody remembers. Darren and Tyrone are like peas in a pod and my Mum says she can’t tell which one is which. But it’s easy. Tyrone is the gay one. They used to be pussies and sometimes me and Madu would ask them to play and then beat them up, but now they think they’re harder than me and always give me shit just because I beat Madu up. Madu wasn’t even their friend. They only care ‘cos he’s black and they all gang up together against white kids. They think they’re in a war and they’re all soldiers, but who cares anyway? It’s stupid. I only beat up Madu ‘cos he was a dick. I wish we were allowed to hang out together again. ‘Come down here and say that.’ Tyrone shouts. He always talks for Darren and then when Madu is there he just backs up Madu. I give them the Vs.‘Yeah. I will.’ Some other kids are watching from the edges of the courtyard. Tyrone and Darren haven’t noticed but I can see them from up here on my walkway. ‘Yeah. Come on then.’ Tyrone cups his hand to his chest and then moves his head like a spitting cobra. Darren stands next to him trying to snap his fingers together like a rapper. They’re as lame as Gary. They won’t come into my block and they know I’ve beaten them up before so they’ll back down first. They notice the other kids looking and pull their shoulders up. They look quite big. I can feel my face going red. Everyone’s staring at me. They want a scrap, but I feel like I’m going to puke. I only beat them up when I was on Madu’s side and they’re bigger now. Everyone is waiting for me to step up. ‘Yeah. I’ll fucking deck you.’ I give them a Vs with each hand. They look at each other and then Tyrone nods his head up to me. ‘Yeah. Two against one?’ They cross their arms at the same time. They must have practised it for ages because it looks really cool. All the kids watching are impressed and are whispering to each other. Tyrone and Darren look mean. It’s not fair if I fight them both, even though I can, because they might win and then everyone will say I’m a poof and the big boys will give me shit for being beaten up by a black kid. No one will care that it’s two on one. That’s not how it works. ‘One at a time.’ I shout down. I don’t feel well. I burp and it tastes like tinned pineapple in syrup. I don’t want to fight them. I want to go in, but if I back down I’ll be a pussy. If I can beat up Tyrone then Darren will run away and I’ll win. There’s too many kids watching. I clench my fists ready to go down. Darren is looking at Tyrone. I bet he wants to go home and cuddle his teddy. He’s the pussy. Tyrone punches Darren on the arm. He’s showing off, trying to be a bad man in front of all the other kids. ‘Yeah. Alright.’ Tyrone shouts up but his voice is wobbly. We stare at each other and then I start slowly along my walkway towards the stairs. My tummy has got butterflies, but it hurts like wasps or stinging nettles. All my skin is prickly and my legs are heavy. I drag myself in slow-mo to the door. I wish it was locked and I couldn’t go down, but it’s always open and anyone can come in and nick your stuff or do a shite-a-lite. All the kids watching are shouting scrap scrap scrap. I stop at the top of the stairs. I’m dizzy. If I try and walk down them I’m going to fall and roly-poly all the way to the bottom and out into the car park. The chanting stops and my heart goes crackers. Tyrone and Darren must have come into our block. They’re coming up the stairs and are going to get me by surprise. I turn around and look out over the courtyard. Tyrone and Darren are still there. But now, Madu is too. He looks up at me with a brick face. He looks older. Like a real bad man. He turns back to Tyrone and Darren and nods at his building. ‘Let’s go.’ Madu orders them like a commander from the army. Tyrone gives me an up yours and swaggers off with Darren. Madu stands still for a sec and then follows them. I watch until they go into Madu’s block. I was well going to beat the shit out of Tyrone. He’s lucky Madu stopped the fight otherwise he’d be bleeding by now. I walk back to my front door. My hands are still clenched. Madu didn’t even look back. He’s such a dick. He thinks he’s so cool and tries to act like his Dad and the rastas off the films and music videos. He’s not. He’s just a kid who goes to school and backchats the stupid teachers and bullies people. He’s a fucking dick. I’ll beat him up and Tyrone and Darren. Three against one. I punch the front door as hard as I can. At first I don’t feel anything, but then it rushes through me. The pain takes over my hand and I can’t move my fingers. It makes my tummy do a somersault. I grab my wrist with my good hand and open and close my hand. It hurts a lot. Stupid fucking door. I kick it, but not hard. I look back over the walkway wall, but everyone is gone. Fuck them. I wish I was still Madu’s best friend and we’d deck them all.Dean slunk back inside and collapsed on the sofa in time for his programmes. He played through the pre-fight build up again and again, conjuring up smart aleck retorts that would have floored Tyrone and Darren without a single punch. He rehearsed them time after time and with each run through his sick anger waned. By the time his favourite cartoon came on he’d forgotten the whole affair. Nowadays he liked a programme about a family of aliens who had to move to a different planet because their own had been destroyed. They got on well with some of the people of their new home, but most episodes had to fight against an evil emperor who was hell bent on killing them or sending them back. Dean liked the way they fought with swords and bows and arrows even though they had the technology for spacecrafts and land vehicles. The episode had just got going when the key went in the lock and Dean’s Mum came in. She walked straight up to him and slapped him hard across the face. Dean told her to fuck off so she hit him again, once with each hand. She’d had another phone call at work, Dean had been playing truant and if he didn’t come to school they’d need to inform social services. She’d had to swap shifts to get home and now she was going to have to do an all-nighter. She already had a shift in the morning. She didn’t need this hassle and he’d be at school tomorrow or she’d put him up for adoption. Dean blasted back he’d prefer that but his Mum shouted him down, nobody would have the little bastard. She had to slave over sixty hours a week to keep a roof over their heads and food on their plates and if he thought he could slouch around all day doing bugger all he had another thing coming. Dean changed tack, he felt like he was going to puke. His Mum turned the television off, went to hit him again but stopped short and retreated into the kitchen. Dean pictured pushing his Mum over the walkway wall and seeing her splatter on the concrete below. Then he imagined reporting her to the cops and suing her for child abuse. He punched the back of the sofa and hurt his bad hand even more. He swore under his breath and turned the telly back on in time to catch the heroes explaining the moral of the story. He hated that part and never understood why they didn’t just end on the big fight. That was the important bit after all. Dean’s Mum stormed back in and pulled the television plug out by the cable. If she heard it on again she’d sell the bloody thing. It wasn’t as if she ever got to watch it anyway. Dean hadn’t seen his Mum so angry for a long time and backed into the corner of the sofa. The lines on her face cut deep and Dean saw how tired she was. She didn’t say anything else, just stood there staring at him. Dean stared back, defiantly avoiding acknowledgement of the tears running down her face. Dean’s Mum shook her head and ran upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her. Dean couldn’t keep his mind on one thought. He vacillated between his Mum, Madu and his favourite cartoon. He was angry, but couldn’t pin down the cause. He tried to imagine punching his Mum in the face, but he couldn’t conjure up the image. He began to feel sick again and a wave of nausea ran through him. He went to the kitchen and grabbed the scratched and faded washing up bowl from the sink. He held it up to his head and wretched up a few globules of red phlegm that lined his throat with acrid syrup. The feeling past and he washed his mouth with water direct from the tap. On the counter his Mum had left an empty mug next to an open jar of instant coffee. The kettle was steaming. Dean went back to the sofa and sat quietly for a while with the bowl beside him. He wasn’t angry anymore, just blank. He didn’t feel anything apart from a growing sense of boredom. He pushed himself off the settee, grabbed a comic from the sideboard and trudged upstairs to the bathroom. He didn’t need the toilet, but wanted something to do. The tiny landing was three sides doors and one side stairs, just enough room for two people to squeeze past each other. The thin walls were only slightly thicker than the fibreboard doors, which were so light that Dean had punched and kicked a number of large dents into them over the past couple of years. He sat on the toilet and began to read the cover story of his comic. The main character bullied the soft one all the way through until the last pane when the Dad smacked the bully’s arse with a slipper. Dean rushed through it and turned the page to the next strip where he watched a girl do exactly the same thing. Halfway through he was distracted by a noise reverberating softly through the wall. Dean moved his head closer to listen. It was a rhythmic sobbing, stuttering between breaths. His Mum was crying. A chill ran through his body and he sat upright clenching his teeth. He went back to his comic but couldn’t focus on the words. He flipped through the pages until he reached his favourite character. He read the first few panels but didn’t take anything in. He went back three times and read them over again. His Mum’s crying had become deafening. The nausea came back, sweeping across his body. His stomach lurched upwards, threatening to jump out of his throat. He threw the comic on the floor and ran quietly downstairs without flushing. He buried his head in sofa cushions. He plugged in the television but didn’t turn it on. He flicked through the pages of his Mum’s magazines and then tidied them into a neat pile. He did the same with his comics. In the kitchen, he reheated the kettle and finished making the coffee, preparing one for himself as well. He put the mugs on a tray next to three biscuits in a neat line on a saucer and carried it all upstairs. He struggled to turn the knob whilst balancing the tray. Dean’s Mum watched silently as he put the two mugs of coffee down on the bedside table and offered his Mum a biscuit. She took the saucer, put it aside and gave her son a hug. Dean felt warm and guilty. He was sorry for being bad. He didn’t want to make his Mum’s life harder and he promised to go to school. Dean’s Mum held him close. He stayed in his Mother’s arms for over a minute. She stroked his hair. She sat back and took a small sip of her coffee. Dean grabbed his lukewarm mug and gulped down a mouthful. A fountain of purple juice exploded from his mouth, covering the bed, the bedside table and Dean’s Mum. The room stank of pungent blackcurrant as the neat cordial soaked into the duvet.Dean’s Mum tucked him up in bed with a glass of hot milk before putting the washing machine on its hottest cycle and leaving for her night shift. Dean felt fine. Since he’d vomited the nausea had abated and he was ready to go out. He gave his Mum ten minutes to get off the estate before he jumped out of bed, got into his tracksuit and headed downstairs into the evening. It was getting dark. Plastic wall mounted lights loosely screwed to the edge of the blocks illuminated the high bricked walkways between the blocks. Dean’s courtyard was empty, just the purr of the night traffic on the A48 and the night creatures waking up to their breakfast bins. He sloped around the garages for a while searching for dog ends before throwing a loose stone towards Ghalia’s building. The Fuck Off was lit by a streetlamp. He thought of the back of Ghalia’s head and decided to look for Georgina. He didn’t want to see her particularly, but he was bored on his own and there was no way Gary was going to be allowed out at this time of night. He turned round and sauntered off along the concrete walkway running between his building and Madu’s. The air had a chill kick to it, but it was fresh and made Dean feel awake and alert. The passage was narrow and damp. There were puddles here even in the height of summer. It opened out behind Madu’s building onto a lone access road that stopped at a gravel patch in front of a half finished breezeblock wall. Dean pricked his ears up to the night. There was a rustling on the breeze and through the triangles moulded into the blocks he spotted movement. It was low and furtive. His instinct was to run, but instead he moved closer.I can see it. It’s looking at me, I can see the twinkle in its eyes. What the hell is it? Too big for a cat and I don’t think it’s one of the neighbours’ dogs ‘cos there ain’t no-one around. I bend low and move towards the wall. I don’t want to scare it. I make a squeaky noise like a mouse and then some clicks with my tongue. That makes me sound friendly, like I’m not going to put it on the barbecue. Madu says that barbecue is said B B Q, but that’s just how it’s written. Everyone knows that. We had a big B B Q on the estate when I was in nursery school. Everyone was there and they burnt the food and drank beer. I had a shandy. I played tag with all the kids and even the Pakis were there, but they didn’t eat sausages because they look like cocks. I ate a samosa. It was so spicy that I had to drink a gallon of lemonade. My mouth was on fire for an hour but it was delicious. And then me and Madu tried to drink as much pop as we could to see if we could keep pissing and drinking at the same time so that it was going in and coming out like a tap. We pissed a lot. Then we went round the back of Madu’s block by the abandoned skip and had competitions to see who pissed the highest and furthest. Madu won the highest and I won the furthest. And I had the best aim and even weed into a coke can from ten metres away. That was one of my favourite days ever, apart from Christmas and birthdays. I stand on the gravel and it crunches. I stop moving because I don’t want to scare whatever it is. Its eyes move away from the bricks and I can see something ginger. I take a few side steps so I’m looking through a broken bit of the wall. Someone’s kicked it in so there is a pile of breezeblocks next to a big U shape hole. I used to walk along the top of the wall and it’s the big challenge to keep going past the hole. I tried a lot but I couldn’t do it until year six, then I didn’t bother anymore. I can see the thing moving. It steps out into the gap in the wall. It’s a fox. It’s dirty brown and orange. It’s not like the foxes in my school books and on telly. They’re always bright red with a white stripe on their tail. They poke their heads from behind bushes and trees. You never see a whole fox at once and they always smile. This fox isn’t smiling. Its head is down near the floor and it looks frightened of me. I can see its skin through bald patches. It’s manky and skinny like the anorexic girl in year nine. You can see her bones through her skin and if you shine a torch on her back you can see her heart beat. Nobody’s done it, but you can tell it’s probably true. Georgina said she saw her in the changing room and all the girls called her Ethiopia. She’s flat as a wall. I’d feel sorry for her baby and her boyfriend. She couldn’t even give him a tit wank. Everyone says the problem’s in her head, but it must be in her mouth. She should just eat steam syrup pudding and Maccy Ds for a week. That’s what I’d do. It would be cool. I might pretend to be anorexic too. But the fox is sad. It’s got an empty crisp packet in its mouth and they’re only ready salted. Foxes eat rabbits and hedgehogs. It stares at me for a moment and then jogs away. I want to help it. I climb through the U shape crack in the wall and look for the fox. I can’t see it anymore. There aren’t any lights and it’s pitch black. Mum said there used to be a park here, but they knocked it down to build another block. But there isn’t one. It’s just piles of rubbish and bricks and metal. Me and Madu used to come here even though we’re not allowed because it’s dangerous. We built a base out of corrugated iron and bricks. Me and Gary came once and played inventors. I threw nails at him and he went home. What a wuss. The fox is gone. I can’t see it anywhere. I can hear noises. I put my hands behind my ears for super hearing. It’s footsteps behind me. I turn around and see two black shadows step through the breezeblocks and walk towards me. There is light behind them so I can’t see their faces, but I already know who it is by the stupid way they walk. ‘So we meet again.’ Yep, it’s Tyrone and Darren. Tyrone heard that line off a cartoon. It’s always the baddy who says it. They want to be gangsters but they’re just TLC. ‘But now you’re on our turf.’‘You can have it.’ It’s just a pile of shit anyway. ‘I saw a fox.’ It comes out before I even think about it. ‘Really? Wicked. Where?’ Darren drops his mouth open and I can see his white teeth. You can’t see black people in the dark. It’s unfair. They’d be really cool night soldiers and snipers and ninjas. Their weak point would be their mouth and if they smiled everyone will shoot them in the face. If I had to fight them, I’d put a feather in their shoes to make them laugh and then I could kill them easily. Pakis would be better in the evening. Tyrone punches Darren on the arm and they both stand up as tall as they can, but drop their heads at an angle. They’re such dicks. I’m going to find Georgina. I walk back towards the wall but Tyrone stands in my way. I try and go around him but he does the same thing again. ‘Time to finish what we started.’ Tyrone puffs his chest out and folds his arms like the security guards in the shopping centre. It doesn’t sound like Tyrone speaking. He sounds hard, but his voice goes up at the end. He’s frightened. I try to barge past him again, but this time he pushes me backwards. It’s strong and shocks me. I can’t think what to do. ‘We still owe you for Madu.’ Tyrone steps up to me. I look at Darren but he just stands there holding his hands together. Tyrone pushes me in the chest again.‘Fuck off Tyrone.’ It was two years ago. The burning is coming over my face. I’m going red. They can’t see it in the dark but I can feel it. My body goes numb like after being tickled. Another layer around me. Like getting caught in a spider’s web. Tyrone pushes me again. ‘Come on white boy.’ He nods his head at me. He wants me to start so everyone will blame me. But I won’t. He can fuck off. I’m not getting in trouble for him. He pushes me again, but this time I stay where I am and our faces get closer. I clench my fists. ‘Are you starting?’ He’s so close his spit hits my face. It’s like tiny hot dots that quickly go cold. It’s skank. It’s makes me mental. I spit back. It’s not a greeny or anything, just spray and it goes all over his face. We don’t move for minutes. I know what’s coming. I shut my eyes tight and clench my face. Tyrone punches me. It’s not straight, it bends around my head and hits me in the ear. It doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel anything. I’m all numb. I can’t even hear what I’m saying. I swing my arms at Tyrone, like I’m doing a doggy paddle, trying to punch him on the top of his head. His face is all wrinkled up. His mouth is shut tight with a zip and his eyes are almost closed. My fist comes down on his nose and knocks him backwards. Noses hurt a lot. Everyone says you can kill someone if you punch them on the nose at the right angle. The bone goes right into their brain. I hope I don’t kill Tyrone. I only want to hurt him a bit. He staggers back and puts his hand to his nose. He looks down and sees blood on his fingers. It’s not fair. I’ll get told off and I didn’t even do nothing. It’s stupid Tyrone’s fault. I want to go home. I turn away, but my legs catches something and I fall over. I hit the ground hard and bang my head. It echoes in my brain. I can’t see anything. It’s too dark. I roll over and see Darren backing off. He must have tripped me up. He’s such a pussy. He’s not brave enough to scrap with me, even two against one. You can’t attack from behind, everyone knows that, it’s the rules. Madu must have taught them because we did that special move too. It fooled everyone and we were the hardest because we used our fighting brains, just like the smart ones in cartoons. Tyrone kicks me in the arse. It sends a shock up my back. It really hurts. I try and get up but he kicks my legs and knocks me over. I look at his face. He’s gone mental. He’s snorting like a horse. He kicks me in the side. I cough. I can’t breathe. I don’t have air. My chest is going down the plug hole. I hear myself wheezing. I sound like Georgina’s Nan. I’m going to die. I don’t know what that is.‘Tyrone.’ Darren’s voice is wobbly. ‘Let’s go.’ I’m grabbing my chest and roll over on my back. Darren is moving towards the wall. He’s looking around nervously. He wants to run away. He’s the worst. He didn’t even fight properly. I’m going to smash his head in. ‘Come on.’ Darren says it loudly. I roll back over and see Tyrone. He kicks me in the face. Silence. It’s blurry. The world is upside down and Darren is still like a statue. My face is numb. I turn myself the right way up. My face feels like a balloon blowing up. Pain explodes in my head. It zigzags all over me. I hear myself crying out. It sounds like a hoover being turned on and off. I roll over and over but it doesn’t go away. I can’t shake it off. The pain is inside me and on me and stabbing me with fire. I can hear shouting. Lots of shouting, loud and angry. My eyes are broken. It’s dark and the light is blurred. Shadows are running towards me. I rub my face. It’s wet. It must be blood. Above me the shadows have stopped. I see feet and trackie bottoms. I follow the legs up. I see hoodies and chins sticking out from the black holes. It’s the gang from Addington. They’re shouting and punching at the night. There’s nothing there. Tyrone and Darren have gone. I can make out swearing and threats. Cunt, nigger, piece of shit, kill you, wog, dead and lots and lots of fucks. They punch the air and do Vs and up yours and one of them is cupping his hand and waving it up and down. I know what it means. It means wanker. Sometimes I do it from my forehead and that means dickhead and if I do it from the side of my head then it means right dickhead. One of the gang is waving something. I can’t see what it is, but it reflects the light. It’s a knife. The leader’s holding it. The one who looked at me in the car park. He does a stabbing action and I imagine Darren getting sliced open and his guts falling out. He waves the knife in the air and shouts.‘We see you again round here and we’ll fucking kill you.’ He walks over to me and puts out his hand. I hold it and he pulls me up. ‘You’re alright. You’ve got a nosebleed.’ His face comes out of the shadow of his red hood. It’s like a ghost, so close to my face. I can’t do nothing. ‘Don’t let us catch you getting beaten by niggers again.’ He slaps me hard across the face. ‘You understand?’ The pain rushes over me again. Now I recognise it so it doesn’t hurt as much. But I don’t like it. I feel weak. I can’t do nothing, not even speak. He stares right at me and I feel embarrassed. I don’t want to look at him but I have to otherwise he might hit me again. I nod my head. He purses his lips, spits past my ear and gets up. He stands over me. ‘Don’t let the black cunts think we’re weak. This is our land.’ He bends back towards me and holds the knife to my face. The blade glows. One side is sharp and the other is all jagged. It’s not like the knives in our kitchen. It’s a hunting knife for killing animals and chopping down trees and making bases. I’m scared, but I want to touch it. I want to chop things in half. Me and Madu once made spears by sellotaping nails to the end of a bamboo pole. We hunted and made targets out of coke cans and aimed at birds but we didn’t hit any. Then we used them to smash up a plastic sign and some stupid old bitch shouted at us so we ran away. The knife is really close to my face. If he falls over he’ll stab my eye out and I’ll have to wear a patch. The Addington gang leader touches the knife against my cheek. ‘If a nigger gives you any shit, just let us know and we’ll fucking sort him.’ He stands and puts the knife in his trackie bottoms. The gang all clump together and swagger off towards the broken wall. They hunch their shoulders and bang into each other and slap each other on the back and snort and spit. I watch them until they disappear. They rule. Dean’s Mum shook him awake in the morning. His blurry eyes opened to see his bloodied clothes gripped in her hands. She was furious, had he been fighting again, who with, why, wasn’t he in enough trouble already? Dean’s face hurt. His cheeks were puffed and bruised and he still had a dried blood Hitler moustache. His Mum kept on, waving the tracksuit in front of him, shouting and swearing and threatening to sell the television. His head was muzzy, his eyes couldn’t focus and his whole body ached. A deep swelling moved from the pit of his stomach and pulsed through his chest. He began crying chokes of tears and snot. It was intense, uncontrollable. Dean’s Mum stopped shouting. She put his grubby clothes to one side and sat down beside him, taking the boy in her arms. He didn’t hold her back, just convulsed against her. After he’d explained everything his Mum cursed Tyrone and Darren and muttered they were all as bad as each other. Dean only half listened as she went on claiming it wasn’t all blacks of course, whites did a lot of bad things too, like those thugs from Addington. She was glad they’d stopped the fight, but she ordered Dean to stay well away from them, they were trouble, a right bunch of good for nothing sods. She tutted and gave Dean a squeeze. She had to get going as she had an early shift. She kissed Dean on the forehead and told him to be good, making him promise to go to school. Dean cleaned himself up and set off. It was a typical post-truant day. He turned up late, reported to the Deputy Headmaster who gave him the same spiel about the importance of school for his future. Every time he said it, Dean felt as though both he and the Deputy Headmaster believed it less and less. Dean was behind in his work and was kept in detention to catch up. He drew cocks on textbooks, tits on desks, gazed out of windows and swore under his breath. He snogged Georgina behind the rusted climbing frame and went back to Gary’s house to play Super Nintendo. Gary’s Mum cooked them sausage rolls and chips, tutted at Dean’s explanation for his black eye and gassed on about all sorts of rumours she’d heard about that Madu boy getting into trouble, always swearing at teachers and bullying other kids. But then again his Father was no better. Never had a job as far as she knew. All the men in that block were bad ones. Some of the women were nice though. In fact, she had tea once a week with Vie who made delicious ginger cake. Dean and Gary had stopped listening and concentrated on car racing, street fighting and big boss bashing. All they wanted to do was complete another level.The games devoured the evening and it was already quite late when Gary’s Mum told Dean to bugger off home. Gary lived right on the other side of Eldon and it was a good fifteen minute walk along the access roads, or ten if you cut across the courtyards. Dean hovered by the first passageway disappearing off into the unlit depths of a square’s inner sanctum. He backed up and took the road instead. It was a quiet night, only the distant hum of the evening traffic penetrating the estate. Dean watched as the blocks went by one by one. The shapes, the patterns, the colours repeated. Building after building echoing each other from one side of the estate to the other. Eight storeys high and fourteen flats long. One hundred and twelve identical front doors. One hundred and twelve identical living room windows. One hundred and twelve families packed inside. Dean walked past, they were all just like his own flat. He wondered if all the families were similar too. If they all wanted the same flat. Why else would they live here? Why else would these blocks have been built this way? He was lost in thought by the time he reached the junction for his block. So much so that he didn’t notice the figure walking towards him from the opposite arm of the T. He stopped dead, clenching his fists tightly. He carefully weighed up the dark figure silhouetted against the streetlamp and realised they were shorter than him. He let out a silent breath and relaxed. He moved forward into the orange light cone and the other child followed suit. He saw the smoothly curved head, the confident steps and knew exactly who it was. He froze, his pulse dead, his mouth hanging half open. Time shifted to slow motion. The voice came and lifted Dean clean off the tarmac. It was Ghalia. ‘You should shut that before you swallow a seagull.’ She sounds the same. I’m in a bath and the bubbles are popping on my skin. The water’s warm and smells of dissolving jelly cubes the day before birthday parties.‘Long time, no see.’ I shut my mouth. She always says cool things. She makes me feel dumb, but I’m not. I’m even on the black maths cards. I wish Ghalia was still in my school. ‘You alright?’ ‘Yeah.’ I mumble and feel small, which makes me angry. ‘Why are you outside?’ I spit it as an accusation, but I don’t mean to. I want to be nice. I haven’t seen Ghalia properly since fighting Madu and now I can’t control my insides. It’s all going topsy-turvy. ‘I thought you ain’t allowed out at night.’ I say it as soft as I can, but it feels rough as it comes out of my mouth. Ghalia puts her head to one side and bites her bottom lip.‘I’m not.’ She bursts out giggling and her white smile shines in the middle of her face. It doesn’t look like a moon anymore. It’s longer and browner, but maybe that’s because it’s night and I’ve never seen her in the dark before. Her mouth is different too. Her lips are bigger. They look soft. I giggle with her, but I don’t even know why.‘Have you run away?’ I ask. She pulls a duh face at me. Her eyebrows make a V at the top of her nose and she pouts her lips out like an angry page three model. ‘No.’ She shuffles her shoulders as she says it and it unwinds her face. She does a two footed jump forward. ‘My brother didn’t collect me from my piano lesson.’ ‘What? Your Dad’s going to go mental. Shouldn’t you get home?’ Ghalia sticks her jaw out and moves her eyelids up and down.‘It’s not my fault. Mahmud’s going to get in trouble. Not me.’ Her eyes open wide and she bites her tongue. It’s the same thing she used to do when she told me about her new ugly faces for Mrs Tosser. It means she’s thinking about doing something bad. I feel nervous and the back of my neck goes cold. Ghalia moves closer and then a big naughty grin spreads over her face. ‘I had to walk home all on my own.’ She puts on a babyish voice. ‘But I’m just a little girl and haven’t done it before so I couldn’t find the right way and got lost.’ I point down the road towards our buildings.‘It’s that way. I can take you.’ Ghalia shakes her head. ‘I know where I live Dean. It means I can stay out as long as I want and I won’t get told off.’ I don’t get it. She opens her eyes really wide and moves her head in a circle. It jumps right into my mind. She’s going to lie to her Dad. Now I get it. She’ll get her brother into so much shit. I bet Ghalia’s a really good actor and her Dad will believe her and ground Mahmud for a year and give Ghalia more pocket money and she’ll have to collect him from school instead even though he’s her older brother. Ghalia’s smart. ‘What are you going to do?’ I’m more excited than her. She bites her teeth together and kicks me in the leg.‘You can show me all the cool places.’ She kicks me again and walks off. ‘Come on then.’ I catch up with her.‘What do you want to see?’ ‘The bits you like.’ I never thought about it. I live here. I can’t think. I picture the different parts of the estate but none of them are great. I want to take Ghalia somewhere really good, but it’s impossible. We go into the first courtyard and I point at the garages.‘We play one touch here. You have to kick the ball against the garage but you only get one touch. That’s why it’s called one touch. If you spaz up you lose a life, but if you hit the concrete bit at the sides or the top of the door you get a life back, but you can’t have more than five.’ Ghalia nods and I continue. ‘You can play with a football or a tennis ball or even a bouncy ball, but that’s only for experts. We play five lives usually, but sometimes three if we don’t have much time. And-’ ‘Dean.’ She interrupts and I stop talking. Maybe girls don’t like one touch. Actually, that’s not true. I once played Georgina and I only beat her with two lives left. Probably Pakis don’t like it. Ghalia looks over her shoulder at me. ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ I stare at the garages. My face and shoulders go heavy. I feel stupid. One touch is for kids. I don’t want to look at Ghalia. I scuff the side of my trainer against the gravel. ‘If you want.’ My voice is quiet and the words sound jumbled. I grip my hands together and crack my knuckles. I don’t look at her. ‘Where do you want to go?’‘I don’t know.’ Ghalia punches me on the arm. It doesn’t hurt but I can feel the spot she hit. It’s glowing. I want her to do it again. I look at her. Her head is on its side and her eyes are looking up to the sky so only the whites show and she’s sticking out her tongue like she’s dead. I laugh out loud, she looks like a zombie. Ghalia would be great at Halloween. We could use tomato sauce to make it look like we’re bleeding from our brains. Ghalia stops pulling her face and pokes her tongue out at me. ‘There must be something exciting around here.’‘I saw a fox the other day.’ I say it before I think it. Ghalia’s eyes go really wide and bright and her mouth drops open. ‘No way. Where?’ She’s really excited. She moves her head forward and her whole face shines. Ghalia seems taller. She’s really close and there is a glow all around her. Her eyes twinkle orange and so does the edges of her headscarf. She looks like an angel. I think it’s the streetlamp behind her.‘Watch this.’ I run over to the lamppost and kick it hard. ‘Look at the floor.’ The light patterns wobble on the road. It makes you want to go swimming. Ghalia watches them for a second and then looks at me. I point up at the light. ‘It’s because of the rain water stuck in it.’ I worked it out all by myself. Me and Gary were having a competition to hit a streetlight with a tennis ball. When the ball hit it all the light went weird and we thought we’d bust it, but it went back to normal after about a minute. We searched the post for ages and then I threw the tennis ball at it again. I saw the water swishing around in the plastic cover and guessed it was from the rain, even before Gary did. I try and stop myself smiling. I want to look smart in front of Ghalia, like it’s nothing special. I have to clamp my mouth tight together to hold my lips straight, but I can feel the edges are going up. I can’t hold it. I quickly turn away from Ghalia and kick the post again. I bite the inside of my cheek and then take a breath to control my smile. I lean against the post with my shoulder and look super cool. ‘It’s wicked, isn’t it?’‘Yeah, yeah.’ She does a couple of little nods then tilts her head forward. Her eyebrows go up so far they nearly disappear under her headscarf. ‘Where did you see the fox?’ I bite the inside of my lips and stand up straight. Ghalia makes me feel small. She’s the one having the adventure and I’m the annoying kid who gets into trouble and everyone hates except the hero who almost dies trying to save him and everyone’s happy in the end. But then in the next film it all starts again with a new girlfriend and a new dickhead kid and everything’s the same. What happens in the middle? Do they all have a scrap and tell each other to fuck off and get out of the house? It’s stupid. And anyway, Ghalia can’t find the fox without me. I’m the only one who saw it so she has to follow and I’ll be the leader. I stretch out my arm as far as I can and point at our buildings. ‘By the broken wall.’ I use my hero voice. It’s strong and serious and everyone knows I’m not joking. Ghalia shakes her head.‘I can’t go near my house, my Dad’ll see me.’ It doesn’t matter though ‘cos I know all the shortcuts and secret passages. Me and Madu explored everywhere on Eldon and found the best hideouts and lookouts and places to ambush our enemies and all the fastest getaway routes from the pigs. I don’t even know how Ghalia got this far home on her own. She’s never allowed out so how can she learn where to go? And now it’s dark so she’ll need me to show her the right way. ‘You can go round the back.’ I nod towards the road behind Madu’s block. Ghalia does a naughty grin and walks off without waiting for me. I stand still and watch her get smaller. Where’s she going? She’s quite far away now and I can only see the outline of her body in the darkness. She doesn’t stop. Why isn’t she waiting for me? Maybe she doesn’t want me to go with her. I clench my teeth together and kick the streetlight angrily. The orange light goes wavy. I discovered it and I still like the patterns no matter what she says. I scrape my foot on the pavement and look at the floor. Ghalia can fuck off‘Are you coming or what?’ Ghalia shouts back at me and I run as fast as I can to catch her up. We don’t say anything but we bang shoulders accidently on purpose. I’m smiling a lot and I can hear from her voice that Ghalia is smiling too. I can’t see her mouth, but I can tell. We come out behind Madu’s building where the road stops at the broken wall. The breezeblocks look rusty in the street light, but in real life they’re grey. I can lift two at the same time easily. Gary can only lift one. He’s a real pussy. The streetlamp isn’t very strong and there is a dark orange circle of light on the ground behind the U shape hole in the wall. It spreads out like pancake mix. It’s thick and heavy and makes you feel held down in place. At the edge it goes black and you can’t see nothing and it feels as if you’ll step into the dark and float off into space or fall into a bottomless pit and keep falling and floating and falling and floating. Sometimes I like the light more and sometimes I like the dark. Sometimes I dream that I keep jumping higher and higher until I’m bouncing above the estate and right out into the universe and I can’t stop, but I don’t care, I just keep jumping. It’s always night in my dream. Maybe because I’m asleep or maybe it’s because I like the darkness more or the stars or maybe I want to jump to another planet to see how it feels. I like sunny days too. ‘Is this where you saw it?’ Ghalia whispers. I nod and put a finger to my lips. ‘But we have to be silent so we don’t scare it off.’ Ghalia does a serious face, copying doctors and scientists off of the telly. We wait in silence. I can hear my breathing. It’s so loud. I take tiny sips of air to be quieter but my chest starts to tickle and ache and I can’t hold it and I breathe in a big gulp. Ghalia turns to me with angry eyebrows and a finger over her lips.‘Shhhhhhhhhhhh.’ She pushes her hand slowly up until it reaches her nose and the fingertip disappears up her nostril. Her mouth twists like she’s drinking lemon juice and she bursts out laughing. She kicks me in the shins. ‘Come on Dean. This is boring. Let’s hunt.’ She turns and walks towards the hole in the wall. I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. She stops, but doesn’t turn around. I can feel her body through her cardie. It’s soft and round, not bony like Georgina. I shiver all through my legs and my balls and my tummy. It’s like having the runs. I move my hand away and pinch my leg really hard so it hurts. It makes the feeling get softer, but I’m light and my brain is all higgledy-piggledy. But I’m the leader so I have to be hard and go in front. I go past Ghalia in a big circle so I don’t touch her. ‘Follow me.’ I spy on her from the corner of my eye as I tiptoe around her. I keep my head forward and just move my eyeballs. It’s what James Bond does. Ghalia is looking dead ahead. She’s very still. Her face is in a shadow and I can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. I keep moving and after a second I hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t look round. I’m the leader after all. I step over the lowest part of the wall and wait for Ghalia. The light circles us but stops about three metres away. There are black dots of midges and flies whizzing around our heads. Flying would be ace, but I don’t want to be a fly because you’d have to eat shit. I look back at the lamp and see lots of moths and midges and animals flying around it. I wonder what they’re after. Maybe they think it’s the sun. If they like light so much, why don’t they come out during the day? It’s funny that light has an end. I used to think that if you put a mirror next to a torch then you could light a whole room, but you can’t. It just makes the light go in a different direction. It’s good for doing shadow puppets though. I can do a dog and a crocodile and a horse. Gary says he can do a rabbit, but someone said it looked more like a squashed baby. Ghalia pulls her ears out from under her headscarf and cups her hands behind them.‘It gives you super hearing.’ She whispers. I try it and everything goes digital. I can hear electric wires buzzing and the wind whooshing and cars revving and it all sounds crisp and clear. I take a few steps back.‘Pssst.’ I hiss until she turns to me. ‘Hello. Can you hear me?’ I say it as quietly as I can. Ghalia whispers back.‘No.’ She mouths back. ‘But I can read your lips.’ It’s true. She didn’t say anything out loud, but I understood.‘That’s so cool.’ I say it at normal volume and Ghalia waves her hand at me to shut up. I grab my mouth and hold it tight. Ghalia pushes her bottom teeth over her top lip and then rolls her eyes up. It’s a moron face. I feel like a moron too and it’s even worse because it’s in front of Ghalia. ‘You’ve scared the fox away.’ She’s still whispering, but I don’t think it matters now. Foxes have big ears so it could hear us better than when we use our hands for ears. It probably heard us talking miles away and is hiding. I still feel like a fucking idiot though. Ghalia walks to the edge of the orange circle. ‘We’ll have to look for it.’ She walks into the dark and I follow her. I step out of the light and my body goes mental. I start breathing quickly out of my nose and my chest goes bananas and thumps me hard from the inside. The air is too thick and I choke. I can’t move my foot forward. My eyes are itching and the edges are hot, I want to cry. I step back into the light and grab my hands together. They’re really sweaty. I can’t breathe normal, it’s all juddery and fast. I can feel tears on my cheeks. I feel hot and embarrassed and rub my eyes with my sleeve. It’s painful. I can’t concentrate. I’m all on my own. Someone presses my arm. Everything slows down. I focus on the fingers holding me. I breathe long and deep. I hear a voice.‘Dean. Are you alright?’ It’s Ghalia. She’s close. Her face is next to mine. It’s beautiful. I feel such a dick. I pull back and rub my eyes with my fist.‘I’m allergic to foxes.’ I mumble as I try and wipe the tears away before Ghalia sees. She’ll think I’m a baby. She doesn’t let go of my arm. She holds me, but it’s not tight. It’s just resting there. My eyes are blurry from rubbing them and Ghalia’s face looks orange, like it’s in the middle bit of a flame. She smiles at me. I remember my Mum from when I was really young, before I went to school, and I had chicken pox. She made me soup and bought me Lucozade. Mum always smiles more when I’m poorly. Ghalia lets go of my arm but stays close. She pokes out the tiniest tip of her tongue and it makes me giggle. She’s not taking the piss. Nobody else is like Ghalia. She giggles with me. It’s not even funny, but it’s fun. Like when my Mum makes the bed and I lay out on the mattress and she flings out the sheet and it floats down on top of me until I’m completely covered and it’s so still and silent and I think it must be what heaven feels like. And then Mum tickles me so much that I can’t stop laughing and it hurts my sides enough to make me cry and my throat feels like swallowing burnt toast but I just laugh and laugh and laugh. Then it’s over and I have a hole right in the middle of my tummy where all the bad stuff was. There’s nothing there. But it’s fun, not funny, just happy and fun. I want to do that to Ghalia. I want to make her smile and laugh and jump up and down and feel like she’s in heaven. I wish I knew how to. I don’t know what to do. I even ruined her chance to see a fox because I’m such a pussy. ‘Sorry.’ It chokes in my throat. I mean it, but it’s difficult to say it out loud. Heroes never say sorry, just the annoying kids who get them into trouble. Ghalia’s a better leader than me. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her voice hits me in the chest. She’s half smiling, but her eyebrows cut an upside-down V from her forehead. It’s the same face that the Deputy Headmaster does when I tell him why Mr Fuck’s thrown me out of class. But Ghalia doesn’t look as if she’s thinking about something else. It makes me sad. I sniff and feel the runny snot gurgling in my nose. I want to blow it out my nostrils like a football player, but I can’t in front of Ghalia. Instead I snort it right to the back my throat and swallow it. Ghalia’s mouth drops and her chin disappears into her neck.‘That’s disgusting.’ She sticks out her tongue and shakes her head side to side. At first I think she’s serious, but she keeps doing it for ages and it gets bigger and bigger. It’s really funny. She stops and gives me a cheesy grin. Her teeth are all orange from the streetlamp and her ears stick out in front of her headscarf. She looks like a clown. I burst out laughing through my nose and it makes all the snot fly out everywhere. Ghalia points at me and laughs and that makes me laugh even more and that makes her laugh even more and then we’re laughing together so much that we can’t breathe and we gasp for air and grab our waists and bend over until we start coughing and choking and then we stop. We look at each other. Ghalia’s lips twitch. I bite the inside of my cheek. Our mouths go tight at the same time and we piss ourselves again. ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ Ghalia has stopped laughing. I’m still snorting air though and can’t look at her. I sniff and wipe the tears and snot onto my sleeve. I rub the palm of my hand all over my face and wipe off the sweat. I must be bright red. ‘What?’ My mouth is full of spit and it makes the word sound underwater. Ghalia grins. I pinch my leg to stop myself from laughing again. My ribs hurt when I breathe in. Being happy is so painful. ‘My uncle’s afraid of the dark too and he’s six foot tall.’ I don’t know if Ghalia’s being nice or teasing me. I gather the rest of the saliva in my mouth and gob it out. I sniff a few times and clear my nose. When I spit out the snot, it makes my chest hurt, but in a good way. It tickles from the inside. One of Ghalia’s eyebrows go up. She uses them a lot. They’re dark and thick and stand out against her skin. I didn’t notice them before. Perhaps she’s getting pubes too. ‘I’m not afraid of the dark.’ I say it angrily, but I don’t want it to sound like that. I want to be strict, explaining like the man off the News. I can’t get it right and everyone always thinks that I’m in a mood or having a strop. Sometimes I am, but sometimes I’m not and I just want to sound serious but no one listens to me and they just tell me to stop shouting and hitting things and then I do get angry because no one lets me speak. Then they start shouting at me and that makes me swear at them and I lose control and kick stuff. I don’t know what else to do. Ghalia doesn’t shout at me. She doesn’t move away. She just stands there and smiles. It makes me want to lie down on the floor in a ball. My head drops to my chest and I stare at the ground. ‘I just don’t like that place.’ ‘Why not? Is it haunted?’ Her voice is mucking around and it makes me feel better. ‘No.’ I shake my head and look up. Ghalia is staring at me. She’s kind, but strong. I think she’s stronger than me. I want to tell her all my secrets. ‘Tyrone and Darren beat me up in there. It was two against one and Tyrone kicked me in the head.’ I blurt it out. It feels good. I want to keep talking. ‘I could’ve won but they cheated and did a-’‘Why did they beat you up?’ Ghalia’s voice is really quiet, but it feels loud and makes me stop speaking. ‘To get their own back.’ Ghalia comes closer. We’re almost touching. My body is shaking, but not on the outside. It feels like I’ve swallowed an ice cube and it’s gone down my spine and into each leg, making my bones wobble. ‘What for?’ She’s so close and looking right into my eyes. I want to look away but then she’ll think that I’m lying or that I’m a pussy. I don’t want to tell her. I feel stupid and guilty. I push the side of my foot into the ground and scrape it backwards and forwards. ‘Did you do something to them?’ I breathe out of my nose and shake my head. I’m not going to tell her anything. Her face is really close and I can’t focus on both her eyes at the same time. I flick from right to left and back again. She’ll think I can’t look at her, that I’m not telling the truth. Well, I’m not going to say anything. I force my eyes to stare directly ahead and try and concentrate on her pupils. I’m a statue. I won’t even blink. ‘Dean, tell me what happened.’ She puts her hand on my wrist. Everything goes silent and it’s just me and Ghalia. I feel so light, like I’m floating on my back in the swimming pool with my ears under the water. The sun comes through the windows and it’s so bright I can’t see anything. But it’s warm and quiet and, almost, even better than the diving boards. ‘It’s because I beat up Madu.’ I hear the words come out of my mouth as if it was somebody else talking. Ghalia’s face changes. She looks sad. Maybe she’s angry with me, or disappointed. I want to tell her everything and explain. ‘He said nasty things about you and said that I’d said them, but I didn’t. I never said anything and it made me really fucking angry that Madu lied and made you upset and think I that didn’t like you, which isn’t true. Madu’s a bully and he shouldn’t treat people like that.’ I speak quickly, but I don’t think Ghalia is listening. She stares through me, as if I’m invisible. Her hand is still on my arm. Her grip is soft, but not loose. She’s holding me. I don’t know what to say. I feel small. There’s a lump in my throat. I swallow hard. If I let it come up I’ll start crying like a baby. Ghalia makes me feel stupid about getting angry. I feel bad. I don’t want to make Ghalia upset. It makes me want to cry because I hurt her. ‘I’m sorry.’ I mean it. I say it and I mean it and it feels good to say it. ‘I didn’t want to fight Madu. I didn’t want to make you sad.’ I look at Ghalia and she looks back at me. I can feel tears on my face. I don’t care. ‘I’m sorry Ghalia.’ She grips her hand tight on my wrist and looks directly at me. We kiss.A soft amber light spread a feathered circle across the discarded construction site. Cracked breezeblocks were piled high amidst sand and gravel beds, all strewn with microwaves, washing machines and disused white goods. Car tyres jostled for space amongst the weed grass and rusted metal of no discernible function. A junkyard, a wasteland, a relic of an abandoned vision. Here, Dean and Ghalia, awkwardly content, shared their first kiss. It was a messy, slobbering affair of whirling tongues and bitten lips. Teeth banged together and noses itched uncomfortably whilst hands groped for acceptable places to hold. Their bodies pulled together, pressed gently, warming through the fabric of their clothes. It was a disjointed, fumbling, amateur-dramatics of a kiss. It was squidgy and wet and it didn’t even taste very nice, but for Dean and Ghalia, it was wonderful. As soon as it was over, they fell back into empty chitchat. They spoke about Ghalia’s new school, about cartoons, about anything other than what they’d just done. Their mouths and bodies followed the same patterns of stimulus and response, but their thoughts were off in another direction, trying to piece together a semblance of understanding. They’d kissed with tongues. It had been spontaneous, no planning for days, no negotiations, no egging on by mates from either side. They’d been lost together momentarily and neither had known that feeling before. It stuck to their insides and held them burning. They walked around the access roads and passageways until Ghalia finally declared she’d pushed her luck far enough. Dean showed her the quickest way back to their courtyard and they hid behind the corner of his building to say goodbye. They both knew how difficult it would be to see each other again, regardless of living on the same estate. The trivialities trickled away and they were left with nothing but the inevitable. Before she left, Dean ran his fingers across her cheek and behind her ear, still exposed from beneath her headscarf. The back of his knuckles brushed across a few strands of her hair. Ghalia reached up and took Dean’s hand in her own and pressed it softly, holding it in place against her skin. They said nothing and then it was over. Dean watched Ghalia shake herself into order, straightening her headscarf and wiping her lips clean. She smiled at Dean, stuck her tongue out, kicked him in the shins and left. He spied on her from behind his block, watching as she appeared on her walkway. He saw her knock on the front door, her Father dropping to his knees, her Mother running from inside without her hijab. Ghalia was subsumed and the whole family quickly retreated inside the flat. The night went quiet and Dean was left with the sound of his shallow breaths. He lingered in the corner shadows lost in thoughts. Images, sensations, emotions and words all flooded through him and he was unable to pin any one down for more than a few seconds. He was delirious. He walked past the entrance stairwell of his building, but the thought of being confined to his flat made him nauseous. He needed space, open air, the access roads and courtyards. The growing sensation inside him required the whole estate to be its canvas. He wandered aimlessly through the uniform blocks, projecting scenes of Ghalia on every blank wall. In the streetlamps’ glow he felt her lips. On the tufts of grass struggling for life amongst the concrete he touched her flesh. The swirling breezes brought her hair to his cheeks. Ghalia was all around him. He repeatedly tried to recall the encounter, playing the narrative out like a film. Yet he kept getting stuck at the same point. Ghalia’s tongue had been in his mouth. Whenever he’d see her again how could he think of anything else? His tongue had been in her mouth too. It was disgusting and exciting and sent shivers down his spine. He drifted through the blocks with an irreducible grin. It was growing late and Dean had unwittingly wandered to the far end of the estate. Here the blocks began to taper in as the A48 cut towards the city, pulling the estate into a point. After the last Eldon block, the access road stopped dead at the edge of a triangle of unkempt scrub. At the tip was the Handonwell junction, ringed by a warren of pedestrian subways. Eldon’s prick, as it was known on the estate, was a short cut between the buildings and the major bus stops at the junction. Dean caught where he was and snapped out of his revelry. How the fuck had he walked this far? It would take ages to get back to his flat. He let out an angry grunt and turned to walk home. He took a few steps but stopped when he heard shouting. A boy, not much older than Dean, burst out onto the grass from behind the other end of the last building. He sprinted towards Handonwell Junction, throwing frightened glances across his shoulder. He was followed closely by a group of five older lads who were making most of the noise. Dean backed against the wall instinctively, keeping out of sight, and watched as the younger kid stumbled. He hit the ground and scrambled desperately to get back to his feet. Before he could, he was set upon by his pursuers. Lunges, punches and kicks reigned down amidst a volley of swearwords so discordant it was impossible to make out any individually. The violence transfixed Dean. Held him tight to the wall. His lungs contracted and emptied. His heart pumped fast and hard. He watched the onslaught.It’s not like cartoons. I don’t know who’s bad and who’s good. But it’s not fair to fight five on one. And they’re bigger. It’s just a bundle. I can’t see anything. The light from the junction is too bright and they all look like shadows. The big boys have their hoods up and their faces are just black holes. They’re all shouting and it’s just a noise. I can’t hear any words. Maybe fuck and bastard and nigger, but I don’t know really. It feels like banging your head when you fall over or wearing a motorbike helmet like one of my Mum’s special friends had. It’s just a fuzz of noise. My body is so loud. They’re going to hear me. I stop breathing, but my pulse is banging like an African drum from music class. My heart thumps me again and again and again. It’s painful. I want to run away, but I want to see everything. I like fights on the telly and in the playground when the baddies get beaten up. But this looks like a scrap and the big boys are hitting really hard. I can hear the punches and kicks and they sound dull and heavy. I’m shaking. I want to puke. I clench my fists and my toes. I press harder against the wall. It’s rough, like glass paper, but I push more. The big boys stop hitting the kid and he runs away. I can’t see his face properly, just that his black skin is shiny with sweat. One of the big gang is holding something in front of him. It’s too dark. I want to go nearer. I can’t move. They stop shouting and the one holding something spits.‘Where you going nigger?’ It sounds something like that. And it sounds like the voice of the Addington gang leader, but it’s all blurry. Everything sounds the same. It’s all mumbo-jumbo and wishy-washy. I don’t know if it’s even real. The big boy in the middle puts the object in his trackie bottoms. I see a quick orangey red flash as it reflects the light. I can’t see properly, everything’s all orange and black. The whole gang run off over the wall at the end of the prick that goes to Handonwell Junction. They disappear and I look back to the other boy they were beating up. He’s gone. He must have got away and ran home. It’s not fair to pick on one person if you’re in a gang. It should be one against one or the whole gang ‘vs’ the whole gang. Only a few heroes can win against an army, but just the ones with superpowers. He looked ordinary. I can feel the wall against my face. I think I’ve grazed my forehead where I pushed so hard. I take a small step forward and look around the prick to make sure the boys are definitely gone. Maybe it was the gang from Addington, but the leader didn’t have a red hoodie and anyway, I couldn’t even see their faces. I walk a few metres onto the grass. I want to see the battleground. My skin’s covered in sweat and feels colder every step I take. I can feel my pulse pounding and it’s like I’m wrapped in cling film. I can hear breathing. I hold my lungs and listen. It’s fast and shallow. There’s a soft cry and some choking. I turn and a few metres away there is a body on the floor. It’s the boy who got beaten up. I don’t move. He’s breathing very quickly and his body is shaking up and down. He’s in a dark patch. I can’t see his face. He whimpers and groans and shudders. I can’t see anything else. Just the kid who got beaten up. I can’t think. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do nothing and if the big boys come back they’ll beat the shit out of me too. He’s breathing. I look around but there is nobody. I can’t do nothing. I take a step back and then another. He’s still breathing. I turn and run. I’m going fast. I don’t see the buildings. They swoosh past. I follow the white lines of the access roads. I’m in a tunnel. My feet thump against the ground and it sends shockwaves up my legs and back and it makes my head pump. I reach the turn to my block and look over my shoulder. No one is chasing me. I feel my breath. It’s thin and scraping like an asthma kid. The inside of my chest is lined with barbed wire. My lungs are going in and out and they’re really big, but I can’t get air. I stick my tongue out. It’s cold. I look towards the prick again. Nobody. I can breathe. I want to get home as fast as possible. My legs are on fire. Like pins and needles but with knives and forks. I run a few steps and then walk and then run and then walk. My body doesn’t do what it’s told. I can’t make it. It’s not mine anymore. My throat is a hoover pipe full of hair and stones. The stairs to my floor are Mount Everest. I use my hands but I don’t go faster. It makes them dirty. Outside my door I look over the courtyard. The garages and the bins look different. They look alive. There’s no one around. I listen. Traffic and some music in the distance. I look at Madu’s building and I breathe out suddenly. It’s hard and I cough and choke. I look at Ghalia’s building. The faded Fuck Off looks cruel. I see Ghalia in my head. I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to think about anything. I go inside and lock the door and check it three times. I turn on all the lights in the flat and go into every room. When I know it’s empty I go to my room. I get into bed and then get out and close the door. I get back into bed, but I want the door open. I want to hear if anyone breaks in, so I can escape or hide. I’ll hide under my bed or in my wardrobe. Or maybe on top of my wardrobe. I’ll put pillows under my duvet and they’ll think that I’m asleep. I pull the duvet right over my head. I see the knife shining and the big boys punching and kicking and the boy on the ground. He’s shaking and shaking and shaking and never stops. I turn over and push my face into the pillow. It’s so thin. I wish I had a thick pillow that I could pull right around my ears. I want to black out and wake up and have breakfast with my Mum and go to school and see Gary and make friends with Madu and kiss Ghalia and feel Georgina’s tits and try hard and do my best and tease the fat kid and play one touch and get a SNES Super Nintendo for Christmas and see Ghalia again and I want to forget. Dean slept soundly. His Mum had done a late shift so he got ready for school on his own and slipped out quietly. The morning was uneventful. Dean gave Mr Buck the usual backchat, but got eight out of ten on the spelling test. He kissed Georgina behind the rusted climbing frame. He tried to push his tongue in but she kept her lips tightly clamped together. Neither mentioned it. Dean and Gary played one touch and swapped a packet of roast chicken flavour crisps for a three pack of ginger nuts. The whole school was rounded up and gathered in the assembly hall after lunch. Gossip spread amongst the pupils as this only ever happened on special occasions like Diwali or Eid or Christmas assemblies. The Deputy Headmaster stood solemnly at the front with two police officers. He gathered silence faster than usual as the children were intensely curious to know what it was all about. One of the officers stood forward and talked to the school in an interrogative tone, silencing the whispered words still hovering amongst the students. Last night on the Eldon estate there had been a vicious assault on a black teenager. He had been stabbed twice and had died before the ambulance could get him to hospital. It was being treated as a murder investigation and if any of the pupils in the school had seen, heard or knew anything about it, they should come and talk in secret to either of the officers or to the Deputy Headmaster. The announcement pinned Dean to the floor. He couldn’t comprehend the situation and his mind crashed. The police officer was talking directly to him. It was just the two of them and they knew exactly what the other was thinking. Dean stared at the officer. From that moment, the same two distempered images of the fight constantly flicked out of sequence in his mind. The glinting orange knife and the victim’s rapid, dying breaths. He was stuck. Dean had become stone. The boy, Dwayne Campbell, had lived on Addington before his death. He was fifteen. Every one of the gossip channels claimed to have known someone who’d known him. Eldon became an ants’ nest of stories and accusations. Anonymous sources sent to the police reiterated the same names over again and a few days later the Addington gang were arrested. A national newspaper ran a front page spread with pictures of the five adolescents leaving the local police station. Dan Jenkins. Phillip Harris. Brian Cobb. Matthew Cobb. Simon Brown. Killers. The press flooded Eldon and Addington and the papers ran story after story of racially motivated crime statistics in the borough and the degenerate lives of the benefit scum. Saint George’s crosses tattooed onto skinheads ran alongside testimonials of ethnic harassment and filled the tabloid pages. Those murderers were the evil that resided in the depths of the London estates. That white filth brought shame on the country. The hooligans, the single mothers, the truant kids, the juvenile delinquents, the lack of discipline, the lack of respect for authority, the dregs, the underclass. That was Eldon. That was who they were, every last one. The reporters asked loaded questions and demanded loaded answers. Was it drugs? Was it gangs? Or was it motivated by racial hatred? They ran with guilt and condemnation of a broken community that had allowed this to happen. The murder may have been committed by five local thugs, but they were all to blame. It was a disgrace. The media moved on, new stories to push and papers to sell. The residents of Eldon and Addington were left torn and scarred. New barriers were drawn up. New fears sprouted. Allegiances were formed and friendships put in doubt. Dean drifted through those days in seclusion. The story washed up on him, circulated around him, permeating deeper into his memory. The events of that night played over again and each time the details contorted and mutated and twisted in and out of each other. He could only be certain of the knife and the shaking boy. The voice he’d heard now seemed distant and unreal. There’d been no mouth to utter it, just a faceless void of shadow under a hoodie. According to Gary’s Mum, it was a gang thing, after all, that’s what happens nowadays. It was all about these drugs and turf. Her sister lived on Addington and she’d seen them scuffling on more than one occasion. They used to keep her up at night with their awful music and shouting. And a friend of Gary’s Mum’s sister’s from another block swore she’d seen Dwayne buying whacky backy off some black teenagers. It was always the blacks who were selling, that’s what she’d heard anyway. Dean noticed that his own Mum got upset every time she read the papers and would swear under her breath at the pages. When Gary’s Mum came around, Dean sat on the sofa and listened in to his Mum complaining about it all in the kitchen. Both Mums tutted and grunted in agreement as Dean’s Mum went off on one. She wasn’t some scrounger. She wasn’t a racist either, she didn’t care where anyone came from as long as they didn’t start making problems. All that stuff in the news about the people on the estates. It was always white people causing problems for blacks and Pakis. It was always white people who were the bad ones. She’d never done anything to any of them. She’d always made an effort to say hello even to the ones who didn’t speak English. She never called them names, even when they left their bin bags everywhere or other people did. It wasn’t fair that everyone thought she was like those nasty bastards from Addington. And it wasn’t fair that niggers could call each other niggers as loudly and as often as they wanted wherever they were, but if you even said the word out loud you could be sent to jail for it. It didn’t make any bloody sense. It just made her angry. The words echoed around Dean’s mind, reminding him of his fight with Madu and getting suspended from school. It made him angry too. When they sat on the wall together, Georgina made sure Dean knew her opinion. She was glad that the cunts from Addington had been put in prison. They were dirty fuckheads and deserved everything they got. She’d overheard her Mum talking to some of her friends and they all agreed too. The gangs were the problem. Especially the black ones. They were always stabbing each other and fighting over things. The papers never said about it, but that was the real problem in the borough. That black kid who was killed was almost certainly involved in drugs. This was confirmed when Dean went to Georgina’s for dinner one evening and Georgina’s Mum’s explained that a friend of hers from Addington knew it for sure. Everyone all said it. In fact, that Dwayne boy had a criminal record for dealing, although they never mentioned that on the telly. No wonder then. It was just drugs and gangs like all the black on black violence. It made the place dangerous. That nasty bunch of white kids needed a good hiding, that’s for sure, but they shouldn’t go down for murder. Georgina’s Mum repeated it over a forkful of peas. Not for murder. Dean was whisked around in the vortex. Battered and bruised, flung here and there. The more he tried to recall that night the more it didn’t make sense. Were the killers really the gang from Addington? He did all he could to conjure up their faces and place them on his memories of the night of the murder. Yet, every time he couldn’t get them to stick. Maybe he’d not been able to see the faces in the shadows because they’d been black. Surely white skin would have been easy to see, even in the dark. It didn’t make any sense to him. And now he kept hearing about all the gang wars around the other estates in the borough. Turf wars over drugs amongst blacks. Why else was Dwayne Campbell on Eldon? Perhaps he was hiding out, running away from the dealers he owed money to. Dean pictured the knife and followed it along to the bearer. The hoodie wasn’t red. He seemed taller than the Addington gang leader who had saved Dean from Tyrone and Darren. It was the voice that echoed in Dean’s mind. It was familiar, but strange. Now he’d recognise it and the next moment it would be alien to him. He wasn’t sure. And if he wasn’t sure, maybe the police weren’t sure either. He didn’t know what to do. He was scared and confused and it got worse the more he wrestled with his memories and listened to the rumours and the stories and the community facts that circled around him everywhere he went. It became so consuming he couldn’t even enjoy break time anymore. Eventually he decided to tell the Deputy Headmaster. Then he told it again to the police. They asked him if he was sure he’d really seen it. Had he really not recognised any members of the gang? Was there nothing distinguishing about them at all? It was a very serious matter and he had to be sure. The more they demanded his certainty, the more convinced Dean became that the gang from Addington weren’t guilty. Events swept along quickly and Dean found himself giving testimony to a video camera as part of the court case. He was ushered in and out after practicing what to say. The whole affair had been a go on the waterslides. Dean fell through the tube and dropped out at the other end unable to remember any of the ride. The case was dismissed and the gang from Addington were released. It was over. The fuss died down eventually and Dean’s life went back to normal. Only now, his tongue had been in Ghalia’s mouth. Autumn 2000Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother celebrates her 100th birthday. The Immigration and Asylum Act 1999 comes into force. Big Brother airs for first time in Britain. Len Coombes elected leader of the BFP. Visitors to The Millennium Dome number 46% below target. Tabloids campaign for Sarah’s Law in honour of murdered Surrey schoolgirl. Fuel protests across the country. Baha Men’s ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’ shares airplay with Britney Spear’s ‘Oops I Did It Again.’ The Tate Modern opens. In a sixth floor flat in a central block, Dean sat slumped on the worn sofa. The flatscreen television cast a mutating glow over the still room. The curtains were drawn and the little light that made it through just about illuminated the unchanged furniture. The cabinet at the rear of the room tucked away in a dark corner now exhibited Dean’s Mum’s collection of miniature jugs rather than magazines and comics. She’d started it after getting a promotion and treating herself to a week in the Costa Del Sol. A tiny ceramic sangria carafe still stood pride of place in the centre of the display. She’d brought Dean back a bottle of expensive sherry. They’d drunk it together, Dean wondering silently what all the fuss was about. The television was on mute and the daytime images smouldered, inciting no reaction from Dean. The remote sat loosely in his palm and he ran his fingers over the rubber buttons, pushing them sideways, absorbing the tension. The last two years had found him here too many times to count. School had remained of static interest, getting no better or worse after moving to the nearest secondary. He’d left with four token GCSE passes that had not helped him find work or a place on a training scheme. The days had lapsed into the biweekly turn-up-and-signs at the Job Centre Plus. He’d drag himself to the other side of Addington, queue up to be patronised for ten minutes and then wait for the money to show up in his account. That was Dean’s fall-back allowance. The money he gave his Mum to help cover the bills and rent. The rest of his income he earned by odd jobbing around the estate. He’d found a bunch of old dears who couldn’t make it to the supermarkets anymore and were spending more than their pensions on low quality products from the local corner shop. He did about ten runs a week and made nearly a hundred quid out of it. Georgina once mentioned she’d overheard her Mum talking about the nice young lad who did the shopping. After that Dean started asking his clients questions. They rewarded his fake interest with the inclusion of out of place alcoholic items on their lists. A bottle or six pack of something usually found its way into Dean’s hands at least once a week. He smiled, he winked, he gave it all his youthful charm and won them over. They ended up spending more than they ever had at the corner shop, but it kept Dean’s pockets turning over. To be honest, he’d actually started enjoying some of the conversations and had even succumbed to a cup of tea now and again. He’d have hated to see his own Mum ending up as lonely and desperate. The old girls weren’t as bad as everyone said and hardly any of their houses actually smelt of piss or lavender. It was an easy life really. He couldn’t stomach the thought of doing a job like all the other mugs who forced themselves to work sixty hours a week on minimum wage just for it to be taxed to kingdom fucking come. He was better off doing a bit of cash in hand and having most of the time to do whatever he wanted. The line of light the curtains admitted had crawled across the living room wall and was now warming Dean’s remote control gripping hand. The buttons had become pliable under the friction and the sun added to the effect. The rubber nodules bent at his will as he circled them with his thumb. The television shone through the muted room. Dean didn’t move, his shallow breaths the only hint of life. The day wore on. The shifting shadows traced the passing time across the living room. Dean stirred around mid-afternoon. It was just a couple of hours before Georgina got back from college. He made a cup of tea and stood out on the walkway, looking over the estate. The small hot sips burnt his mouth, but he liked to feel it. There was nothing worse than lukewarm tea. The courtyard was empty, the graveyard hour. Some of the squares had people around all day, but not this one. The blocks kept themselves to themselves around Dean’s place. For a while after leaving school he’d taken to walking around, looking for anything to do. All he ever found were other lads smoking spliffs and drinking strong cider. Georgina wasn’t into any of that stuff and she wouldn’t let him touch her if she caught a whiff of either. No matter how many extra strong mints he chewed, or deodorant he sprayed, she could always tell if he’d been hanging out with the wasters three blocks down. Dean followed his dick and only smoked weed when he knew he wasn’t seeing Georgina. They’d fucked the first day Dean went to secondary school. Her Nan had been in the next room, but Georgina had explained that her Grandmother’s salivation level was a perfect indicator of how aware she was of anything going on around her. That day her spit was forming stalactites. They could have fucked on the old woman’s lap and she wouldn’t have noticed. Dean liked having sex with Georgina. He liked her sucking him off and didn’t mind licking her in return. After their first tryst, they spent most evenings and weekends hanging out and, apart from a couple of heated hiatuses where they both went off with other people, they’d stayed together. She’d finished school with enough grade Cs to get onto a health and social care course. Dean had been supportive, she could get a job in a local nursery or something like that, whatever it was she was learning there. The only downside was the pregnancy. She’d told him just last week and was already two months gone. Dean got it. He knew what had happened and what was going to happen, but he hadn’t really understood. He’d sat himself down on a number of occasions since finding out and tried to think it through, but he just couldn’t get it to mean anything. Georgina had cried when both families had come together and they had eventually decided to keep it. Dean’s Mum had talked them through applying for a flat and they’d been placed on a waiting list. Nothing would happen until it was born though. The only thing Dean had realised for sure was that his days of doing shopping runs for the estate biddies were coming to an end. His other job opportunities were limited. Eldon and Addington offered little financially. There had been only one option left, one that he’d never have considered until now. The gang from Addington had graduated into the drug scene and were now the main suppliers across the twin estates. Trade had picked up since the Eldon Brickworks had been renovated and the gang had expanded their patch beyond the main road borders. They recruited runners and lookouts from amongst the BMX kids, and security from the tattooed bruisers who beat ten bales out of each other after a win, lose or draw football match screened at the local stab pub. The gang ran both estates and did whatever they pleased. Dean had been singled out by the leader for special privileges. He could wander the estates at will and enter the no go areas without fear of getting his face kicked in. Gear was always available and on more than one occasion he’d been offered gainful employment in the growing business. Six and a half years ago Phillip Harris had spat menacingly that Dean’d done right by them and they owed him for it. So far he’d managed to avoid asking them for anything. As Georgina repeatedly pointed out, they were a bunch of cunts and made life miserable for the vast majority of the people living on Eldon and Addington. They didn’t just hate the ‘niggers’ and ‘Pakis’, they also threatened anyone who crossed their path, regardless of age, sex or race. Crime had gone up, violence had risen and vandalism was more widespread than cleaning. Dean knew they were bastards, but he enjoyed the benefits his association with them brought. No one had given him any shit for years. The dirty sideways looks he got from the people in Madu’s block were easily compensated by the deference he received from the BMX kids, who happily threw abuse at everybody else. Since Georgina had told him about the baby, it had only been a matter of time. The bottom half of his tea had gone cold. He threw the grey liquid over the wall and watched its spiral cascade to the ground. He swallowed a tightening sensation in his throat and pulled the front door closed behind him. Below, the courtyard was quiet, but he knew that the twin estates were a battleground, a business, a dangerous and exciting world that called him and scared him at the same time. Up here he was distant, away from it all. But he needed to be part of it, to embrace it, for his kid. It was the only way he was going to earn enough money to buy the little sod all the things he’d never had, like a SNES Supernintendo or a colour television in his room. He knew exactly where the gang from Addington would be. Everyone did. Third courtyard in from the Brickworks gate. All he had to do was walk there. He kicked the low walkway wall and moved off towards the stairwell. At the top of the steps he looked out over the buildings. He wanted to think of something, but was completely blank. He couldn’t even hold onto a feeling. There was nothing inside him, just a slow churning in his stomach. With every step he descended, it swelled, moving up through his chest and throat. By the time he reached the last stairwell turn to the ground floor, he was so nauseous he thought he’d vomit. He held his breath and let it out through his nose. He concentrated on the image of his unborn son, a wrinkled pink blob, a replica of his own baby photos. He took the last few stairs down and stepped out into the courtyard. I know this isn’t the right direction. I should’ve taken the passageway between my block and Ghalia’s and then joined the access road up towards the Brickworks. I’m walking along the road towards the Junction. I don’t even remember deciding. I’m just walking. It’s completely the opposite way. I don’t know why, but I don’t care. My stomach is doing rollercoaster loops. I can’t go and see Phil like this, he’ll think I’m a right fucking wanker. A bit of fresh air is good, that’s what Georgina’s Mum always says. She smokes like a fucking chimney though so I’m not sure where she got that nugget from. Some telly doctor. I never listen to that bullshit. Every week something different to worry about. Mum’s got more pills and creams than Boots nowadays. Guess I’ll start having to though, what with the baby and all. That’s why I’ve got to sort myself out and go and see Phil, start making some proper money. Just some fresh air first though. I look at the buildings lining the main access road. There are so many people living here. It’s mental. I think of all the food they must eat. Where does it all come from? London’s so fucking big. Who gives a toss about Eldon? Who gives a fuck about anyone? I’m walking fast. I didn’t even notice, but I’m nearly at the end of the estate, right up by the Junction. I come out by the side of the last building. I haven’t been here for ages. There’s still grass on the prick, about the only place there is. It’s pretty tatty, covered in weeds and dog turd. I step off the tarmac. It’s like walking through a maze of crap. One foot wrong and you’re up to your ankle. I zig zag left and right, head bent down, checking my feet. I try and go faster, dodging this way and that, like a footballer doing spins and turns to beat the defender. I hunch over and I’m dancing through it. Stepping up through the grass path. I know where I’m going. I stop. Underneath me is a small square tablet. It’s hidden flat in the grass and it’s got shit on it. I know what it is. It’s so fucking small. What’s the fucking point? It’s not going to do anything. My face is burning. I clamp my jaw tight and purse my lips. I’m not going to fucking let myself down. I scrunch my fist to my eyes. They’re itching, hot and wet. I pinch my thigh and twist the flesh. Not going to let it get the better of me. It ain’t nothing to do with me. It ain’t my fault. Just ‘cos the police couldn’t catch them. It’s their fucking fault. Not mine. I don’t think about it anymore. I just said it, but I didn’t really know. I was just a fucking kid and I didn’t know. I still don’t know. Fucking pigs’ problem. Not mine. I open my mouth and breath deeply. I calm down and my blurry eyes go clear after a few blinks. I stand up straight and look around. Nobody. Just the noise of the Junction. I’d hate to live in this block. My breathing’s normal again. I look at the plaque. In memory of Dwayne Campbell, 1978-1993. I push the dog shit off it with the sole of my trainer and walk back to the access road. I don’t want to take the road. I don’t want people to see me. I want to disappear. I drop off down a passageway that takes me to the back of a courtyard. I skirt around the buildings and blocks, avoiding the open spaces. I know Eldon better than anyone, I swear it. Me and Madu learnt it all by heart. Every path and cutting. I go past Georgina’s block. She won’t be back for at least an hour. I’ll go and see her later. It feels strange fucking her with our baby inside. Maybe, she’ll give me a blowjob instead. I wonder if her pussy will get looser after she gives birth. If it does I’ll have to do her in the arse. I think of fucking Georgina. It gives me a semi and I feel the urge in my balls. She’s great in bed. I fucked a girl from Addington once but she just lay there and didn’t do nothing. I might as well have had a wank or done a sack of potatoes. Georgina’s like a fucking animal. I let myself go and talk a load of dirty shit to her and it just makes her wet. I love it when she comes and I can feel her pussy getting tight. The baby better not fucking ruin it. I’m at the back of Madu’s block, nearly home. It’s still the wrong direction, but I can go in for a slash. At the corner of Madu’s building I see the broken wall. It’s just a pile of breezeblocks now. That’s where I snogged Ghalia for the first time and saw a fox. I try and imagine fucking Ghalia, but I can only think about cuddling her. I haven’t seen the fox again. I go back home and have a dump. It’s runny and makes my guts turn inside out as I do it. It’s a really clean one and I only wipe twice. I feel empty. I’ve shit out everything, even the sickliness. I feel good. I’m properly ready now. I leave the flat and head straight to where the gang hangs out. I usually avoid this way ‘cos I don’t want to bump into Phil or the stuck up cunts from the Brickworks who only come to Eldon to buy gear. As I get closer to the third courtyard, I see more BMX kids. They hang out in pairs, watching the road for the filth. They pretend to be doing stunts and wheelies so the police don’t know they’re lookouts. Truth is, they are actually playing and some of them are really good at doing tricks. They don’t have to worry about the cops ‘cos they never bother showing up here and if they do it’s so fucking obvious they might as well announce it on the nine o’clock news the day before. The BMX kids nod as I walk by. Some say alright Dean. They’re a bunch of little bastards. I walk through the last passageway into the gang’s courtyard. There is a line of nice looking souped-up cars parked in the centre. The gang from Addington walk around them, listening to the music from an open boot. I can make out all the main crew, Phil, Simon, Dan, Brian and Matt, plus two or three of their tattooed bruisers. Now and again, someone turns the base so loud it bounces off the windows of the blocks and rumbles my insides. It’s mental. Fucking cool. The gang rule. I feel invisible here. All you can see is them and their cars and their designer clothes. I look at my trainers. They ain’t even good fakes. I don’t fit in. But I ain’t got no choice. I step out into the courtyard. The first car is a red Volkswagen Golf with two exhaust pipes and a double spoiler. I reach it before they even notice me. Great fucking security they’ve got. Phil sees me first. His squinty eyes go sharp and then wide when he recognises who I am. ‘Alright Dean.’ He doesn’t shout. He just says it in a normal voice, but even with the music, everyone hears him. The whole courtyard turns in my direction. They all say alright, except Simon who just nods. Everyone says he’s the nutter of the gang, just ‘cos he’s the hardest. But it ain’t how tough someone looks, it’s what they’ll actually do. Simon would beat the shit out of anyone who stared at him funny, but it’s just mental fighting, you ain’t in control. Phil, he’d properly think about it. He’d want you to know how much he’s hurting you and that’s proper fucking mean. ‘Alright Phil.’ I nod towards the others. ‘Alright.’ I wonder what they do here all day. Smoke and snort and drink themselves stupid, I guess. Fuck, that’s something Mum would say. Phil takes a few steps towards me.‘What you up to Dean?’ It feels like he’s trying to catch me, like a fucking pig interrogation or something. Every question seems deeper. No matter what I say he’ll suss it out.‘You know, just hanging out.’ His head moves to one o’clock and his eyes get narrower. ‘Yeah?’ No bullshit, get to the point. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask for that favour.’ The whole gang’s staring at me. Simon’s arching his back ready to attack. The courtyard is silent, even though the music is loud. I can hear knuckles cracking and teeth grinding. Phil stares at me. He doesn’t move anything. He’s a statue. A machine. A weapon ready to strike. I’m contracting slowly or the world is expanding without me. It’s still. The calm before the storm, like what everyone says. Things slow down and your brain goes mental and you can think about everything super quick, like being Einstein for a second. I only think about Phil’s face. ‘Sure.’ His body drops into a tight swagger and he waves me closer. The music comes back up and the rest of the gang go back to whatever it was they were doing. Simon keeps staring and I catch his eye by accident. I quickly look away but I get the message. He’s a fucking head case, really. Phil slaps me on the back and leads me towards one of the blocks. ‘You done right by us Dean and didn’t I always say we owed you?’‘Yeah.’ I nod, but don’t look at him directly. I need to look him in the eye, show I’m not a pussy. We reach the stairwell and he puts his hand out, telling me to go up. We walk to the first floor landing. He doesn’t speak and I don’t know what to say. I feel cold. He leans on the landing wall and looks out over the courtyard. ‘Fucking shit hole, innit?’ He doesn’t look at me. His face doesn’t change. I follow his eyes and see the courtyard. It looks the same as mine. They all look the same to me. I don’t get what he’s talking about. ‘Why’d anyone wanna live here? It’s full of scum. Pakis and fucking niggers everywhere.’ He spits over the wall and turns to me, looking me straight in the eye. I can’t do nothing. I have to hold it. ‘If I could, I’d skin every black fucker alive and set ‘em alight.’ He moves his head so close I can feel his breath on my face. It’s hot and dry. ‘I’d blow their arms and legs off and tell ‘em to swim back where they came from.’ Our faces are next to each other. His nostrils flare. It’s tiny, but I can see them pulsing in and out. It makes me feel drunk. My legs are heavy and my eyes are burning dry. Phil moves away and I blink and breathe. He looks back at the courtyard and I feel the pain of my heart throbbing. The blood is shooting through my body so hard it hurts. I lean on the landing wall and pretend I’m looking out at the courtyard, but it’s all 2D, flat squares in a row, tiles. I don’t see anything real. Phil speaks quietly. ‘Dean.’I turn to look at him. His face is serious and mean, but there’s something different too. His eyes are redder, his lips are juddery. His voice almost cracks. ‘Don’t forget you’re white.’ Fucking hell, I get it. He’s scared. He bolts back up into his metal pose. ‘So what is it you want?’ I can’t follow how quickly he changes. I swallow and shake myself as I push up from the wall.‘I need a job.’Phil arches his lips and nods. ‘Okay.’ That’s it. He doesn’t say anything else. He slaps me on the shoulder and gestures to walk down stairs. I follow him out to the courtyard and back to the cars. The gang are all packed together, staring into the boot of a beamer. They don’t notice we’ve come back. Phil jolts his head in the direction of the access road. I follow his gaze. I don’t get it. I turn back to him. I’m confused. What does he want? He smirks. ‘Start tomorrow.’ I don’t move. ‘Later Dean.’ He joins the rest of the gang and leaves me alone. I’m a rabbit surrounded by eagles. I want to get out of here. I stand still. The music is too loud to think. I need to move. I pinch my thigh and it bolts into life. I’m walking. I’m at the access road. I go past a couple of BMX kids. I don’t even look at them. I drop off down the nearest passageway. I look around me. There’s nobody. I run. Down alleys and across car parks, past dented garages and rubbish bins. I don’t stop until I’m outside my front door. I go inside. It’s dark and smells damp. I pull the curtains open and light pours in. I go to every room in the house. It’s empty and noisy and silent. I put on the kettle and put a tea bag in a mug. I go to the living room and drop on the sofa. I wiggle and shift and twist my body, lying down, sitting up. I can’t get comfy. I turn on the telly, but the programme’s shit as usual. I jam my thumb onto the off button. Fuck, I caught my nail. I grab my hands together and hold my throbbing thumb. The kettle’s boiling in the kitchen. I want to see Georgina. I leave the flat and slam the door behind me. I don’t notice anything on the way. I’m at her flat before I even realise it. Where did time go? I can’t remember it. None of the blocks or the bins, or even if I saw anybody. It’s all gone. Where’s my brain? I can’t concentrate on anything at all. I knock. I have a key. Why did I knock? I haven’t done that for years. Me and Georgina practically live in each other’s flats. I take my keys out, but my hands won’t do what I say. I fumble with the key ring and go through all the keys, passing the one I need. The door opens and Georgina stands there chewing gum. She’s only wearing her pink hoodie and a pair of knickers. Her hair is everywhere like a bog brush witch. She puts her hands on her hips and pushes her cunt towards me. She is so fucking hot. ‘Let’s move in together.’ I blurt it out. ‘Let’s not wait for the council.’ I don’t even think about it. I haven’t even thought about it, but I want it. I smile at her. Georgina’s jaw chews twice. She looks at the keys in my hand. She blinks and her eyes are on mine. It lasts for ages. Her mouth drops open and I can see stretched chewing gum lines from her top teeth to her bottom ones. ‘Don’t be such a knob, Dean.’Dean and Georgina bickered for a bit. Her Nan stared lifelessly into space as they sparred around her wheelchair. Georgina wanted to wait until they got a flat. Dean, on the other hand, thought they’d be better off waiting for the Queen to do a streak through Eldon. Shouldn’t they practice first before the baby came? Georgina asked exactly what they were practising for. Surely they’d done too much of that already, hence being up the gut. The heated discussion went on until Georgina let it slip that she’d actually like to live with Dean, but they had nowhere to go and no money. Dean told her he’d got a few extra regular runs from the old bids and that would cover them until the benefits came through. He didn’t dare tell her about working for the gang from Addington. She’d go spare. In the end they decided that neither wanted to live with a zombie grandmother, so it would have to be Dean’s flat. Dean’s Mum told them to fuck off. Couldn’t they just wait until they got the council place? There weren’t enough room for her and Dean as it was. And what the bloody hell were they going to do when the baby got here, put it in the airing cupboard? And for fuck sake, they practically lived together anyway. What was the fucking point? Dean played the only card he knew would turn his Mum. He wanted to be a good father, to be there for his son or daughter, right from the start. Him and Georgina needed some space to get used to it so that when the baby came it wouldn’t hit them so hard. It was pantomime. Dean knew he was bullshitting, but he also knew it was true. They all knew it but within a week Georgina had squeezed her way into Dean’s bedroom. No one noticed any difference at first. Dean’s Mum was hardly ever there anyway. Her promotion had meant much longer hours for a disproportionately low pay rise. She actually got less per hour now than she did before, but the title sounded better. Georgina spent a good portion of her time at college or back home looking after her Grandmother. They fucked almost as much, but as she got bigger, they spooned and doggy-styled more. Dean’s everyday life changed in other ways too. He kept up the shopping runs for the old folks, but was now doing a couple of shifts for the gang from Addington. He’d gone back to Phil the day after he’d asked for a job to find out that he’d be entering the retail industry. He was given an empty bread bag full of weed and hash baggies and told to hang out on the corner beside the number two bus stop opposite the back entrance of the gentrified Eldon Brickworks. The artists who’d moved in with their loose clothes and socialist graffiti had soon been followed by their old school friends from the city who funded their raw food delis and gastropubs. Prices had shot up and so had the demand for class A and Bs from the likes of the gang from Addington. Dean was given a list of instructions. Block was ten and weed was twenty, five for the price of four, don’t toke any of it and don’t get fucking caught. Dean dropped the gear in his rucksack, but before he left, Phil gave him one piece of advice. He shouldn’t worry about the posh cunts from the Brickworks, they might talk it up, but they were scared shitless of people from the estates. They wouldn’t lay a finger on him even if he told them to go fuck their own mother up the wrong un. What’s more, they’d keep coming back, begging to buy more drugs from us, because what they were really, really terrified of doing, was going to the blacks for them. Dean began loitering outside the Bricks and Water Organicafé. At first he’d hunched up, hiding in the shadows, desperate that no one would buy anything. He quickly recognised the shaky faux-confidence of his customers. He could spot them from the other side of the road. They’d walk through the Brickworks with furtive little glances around them and then assume a stiff awkward swagger as soon as they got in sight of the bus stop. They spoke funny, with an accent that shook in and out and were always deadly serious. He came to the conclusion that they were all dicks. If they thought buying weed from Dean was scary, they should try hanging out round Eldon at night. He couldn’t care less about them. He preferred the grannies on the estate. Only thing was they didn’t pay as well as Phil and the gang from Addington. Dean was soon making a few hundred a week, which pleased Georgina no end. They spent weekends and free days from college heading down the local high street at the other end of Addington, shopping for baby gear. They bought clothes for it, a pushchair that doubled as a pram, toys, nappies and a play mobile. It was fun. They held hands, they kissed, they talked about names. The pregnancy had brought them closer. Dean never gave Georgina all the money he was earning. He guessed that she’d suspect something dodgy if he just turned up with a few hundred quid and claimed it was from a bunch of flat-ridden pensioners. He opened a savings account and started putting the extra into it. Maybe they could have a holiday after the kid was born. Somewhere hot and exotic, like the Costa Del Sol or Tenerife. Georgina was doing well at college. She was getting merits in most assignments and only had to resubmit work on two occasions. She wasn’t going to be able to finish the course before giving birth, but the college had agreed to let her continue from where she’d left off. During the later months, her face had filled out and her skinny legs had gained a muscled outline from carrying around the extra weight. Dean thought she looked the best ever. A few weeks after leaving college Georgina had been contacted by a researcher who wanted to interview her for a study they were doing on single mothers. They wanted to meet Georgina before and after giving birth and then again a year later. The first interview took place in a rustic looking coffee shop around the corner from the Eldon Brickworks. A café where the brickwork was exposed on purpose rather than neglect and the seemingly random collection of furniture had been carefully handpicked from vintage markets to look authentically complementary. Dean didn’t get what it was all about and asked why Georgina was even bothering. It seemed like a waste of time and Georgina wasn’t getting anything out of it. The least the researcher could do was pay her for her time, a tenner would be a good start. Georgina was a bit vague but said she had enjoyed it. The questions the researcher had asked made her think about things she’d never thought about before. It was interesting. And she’d got a free cake and coffee and Dean should’ve seen the prices in that place. Dean asked what sort of questions, but Georgina didn’t really give any concrete answers. They were kind of about everything she said, the estate, the people, her feelings, her life, and the…you know…race thing. Dean didn’t really understand. What the bloody hell does someone from…Hampstead or….Chelsea have to do with them? Why couldn’t they study their own lot? You didn’t see anyone from Addington or Eldon hanging around in their neck of the woods and if they did they’d probably think they were robbing and mugging and call the police. And what about the race thing? Maybe it was because they didn’t have blacks and Pakistanis where they lived. If they want some inter-racial gang violence to research, they’d have to let the immigrants into their posh white suburbs first. Fucking waste of time if you asked Dean. Rich bastards always think they knew best, trying to tell the estate how to make friends and live in harmony. What a load of bollocks. Give us some fucking money and a few of their big swanky houses and we’d soon sort it out. It took the piss. Working on the Eldon Brickworks patch didn’t help Dean see things any clearer. He started to despise the customers from the new builds. He hated the suits they wore and the stupid shoes and the pretend just-out-of-bed haircuts and the attitude of not giving a shit when he could tell they were the type of person who’d study non-stop for a week just to take a sight test. It did his head in. And they all had so much fucking money. Some of them wore clothes he wouldn’t even tarnish a dustbin with, but they’d be drinking these bottled beers that cost more than a six pack of lager. They’d take taxis to pick up weed and stop off to buy champagne on the way back to one of the Brickworks’ cafés who’d charge nearly three quid for a fucking pot of tea. What a bunch of losers. That said, it was a job and he was on to a good screw, so he could put up with it. It was an easy patch to sell in as the cops never bothered the yuppies and the neighbouring black gang knew the Brickworks crowd wouldn’t buy from them. On Dean’s patch things were generally smooth. He’d drop off back to the third courtyard in on the way home and hand someone from the gang the leftover bag of gear and the wad of notes. If Phil was there, he’d sometimes hang around. Phil occasionally told Dean more about the business. Weed was only one of their lines. They had the full range of top quality narcotics and they were planning to move into firearms soon. Just needed to make the final arrangements with the supplier. Dean was fascinated and tried to picture the extent of the gang’s empire. Their turf stretched across both Eldon and Addington right up to the high street, including the new Brickworks of course, and their front line was as far as the Handonwell Junction. Phil explained that this was where the threat came from. The Brickworks formed a natural barrier, as did the A48. The other side of the high street was controlled by a white gang they’d made an amicable peace treaty with. The only patch of their turf that had seen serious incursions was up by the Junction. A black gang of pushers had set up around the streets on the other side of Handonwell and had been seen selling crack on the prick. So far there’d only been a few scuffles and beatings, but Phil confided that the blacks were recruiting and gaining in numbers. He was sure something was going to kick off and there was going to be a war pretty soon. He needed Dean on side. It wasn’t just about turf, it was about pride. This was theirs, he reminded Dean on many occasions, this was their land and no fucker was going to take it from them. It washed over Dean. He listened to the rhetoric, but none of it hit home. He just liked the parts about the dealings and the money making. It made him feel like part of a bigger machine. A corporation like those in America, where they wheeled and dealed and paid off the government so they could drill for oil in a nature reserve. Money could do anything. Phil didn’t really frighten Dean anymore, but he was still wary of the cold unknowable streak that ran through him. His time in the third courtyard was still limited and Phil would make it quite clear when Dean should leave. Dean didn’t mind. He was making money and that was why he was there after all. Just a job, who gave a fuck about any of the rest. Georgina’s belly had got tight and round. She was within days of her due date and Dean would spend hours rubbing his hands over her protruding stomach, occasionally giving her pubic hair a gentle stroke with his fingers. Those days were peaceful and calm. They cuddled for hours without saying anything. Dean rested his head on Georgina’s lap. He was doing a shift that evening and had the afternoon free. He’d made a cup of tea and brought it into the living room with a plate of biscuits. Being a father wasn’t that hard after all. Before he left, Georgina checked he had his mobile with him, just in case. She kissed him deeply and told him that she loved him. He didn’t respond, just grabbed his things and went. He walked through the estate towards his patch thinking about Georgina. What did she mean? Well, of course, he knew what she meant, but what did it mean? It puzzled him, he’d never really thought about it. Georgina had just been there. Sometimes after sex he felt like wrapping himself around her and squeezing her into his own body, but at other times he often just wanted to slap her. She could be really fucking annoying. She didn’t whinge or anything, but she was always putting him down. She knew just what to say to make him feel tiny. She was smarter than him, Dean knew, but that was also part of the reason he felt rising lumps of pride in his throat when she got good marks at college. He didn’t really care what she was actually studying, but she was getting on just as well as any of the stuck-up kids. Georgina confused him, or he was confused about Georgina, or he was just confused about the whole thing. The train of thought took him through the third courtyard, one of Phil’s lectures on race relations, and over to his corner hang out. The evening was warm and he skulked around the bus stop serving the regulars with his usual disdain. He spat back monosyllabic responses whilst doing a deal and told a couple of punters to fuck off and come back ten minutes later just to make them wait. The night pushed on and Dean had already sold his target average. His bread bag was now only a quarter full and he had a pocket full of notes. An hour or two more and he would be able to go home. He heard some chatter from inside the Eldon Brickworks gate and watched as a group of three girls came out onto the main road. They were dressed down in jeans and T-shirts, their blonde hair let loose across their backs. They were playful and giggling, bouncing along the road arm in arm. One of them was wearing a tight white top and her dark nipples pushed firmly against it. Dean stared. He could fuck that. One of the girls caught his gaze and pulled the rest in line. They threw him silent cautious glances and then hurried off along the street with their heads down. He felt the rejection at the pit of his stomach, just above his subsiding semi. They could fuck off, he didn’t need bitches like that. He watched their arses disappear around a corner. Still, he could definitely fuck that. Behind Dean, a man in a loose vest top and baggy jeans nervously built up the courage to ask for two bags of weed. Dean took a glance over his shoulder and then watched until the last buttock had vanished. He turned and looked the customer up and down. The long hair, the goatee, the skate shoes. Did they make all these knobs in the same place? He chuckled to himself, forgetting about the transaction. The guy asked again, but Dean interrupted him. The number two bus was coming and they’d have to wait until it was gone before they could continue. Dean leaned against the rotating advert for sanitary towels, a breakfast cereal and an action film. He waited for the film poster to come back up, ignoring the furtive glances of his customer. His phone buzzed and he read a text from Georgina saying how lucky she was to have him. That was news to Dean, but he couldn’t help smiling as he put the phone back in his pocket. The bus pulled up and Dean kept his head down as a couple of people brushed past. He watched their shadows slide across the pavement. He heard the bus’s hydraulic door clamp shut and noticed a shadow that hadn’t moved away. ‘You looking for something special or have you just got a thing for pavements?’ I know that voice. I follow the shadow up to the body it belongs to. I can’t fucking believe it. I freeze. I stop breathing. I stare, but I remember to stop my mouth dropping open at least. It’s her. It’s Ghalia. She’s covered from head to toe in one of them Paki tent dresses, but she’s showing her face. It’s round. Her whole body is rounder. She’s all curvy. The dress is tight on her body and I can see her knockers. They’re huge. Fucking hell, she’s changed. I stare at her tits. I can’t help myself. Ghalia follows my eyes. ‘What’s wrong Dean, not seen a woman dressed modestly in the name of Allah before?’ I force myself to look at her face. One of her eyebrows is higher than the other. Her lips are pursed but curved at the corners. She’s taking the piss out of me. She always has something cool to say and I’m left with an empty mouth. I feel stupid around Ghalia, but it’s a good stupid. She’s just having fun, she’s not being mean.‘Mate. What about that…you know…thing?’ The fake hippy has got closer and is trying to lean into the conversation. He’s blocking Ghalia. ‘Fuck off.’ I snap at him. It’s not aggressive, but it’s a warning. I catch myself. What about Ghalia? Shit, she’s going to suss it out. I don’t want her to know I’m dealing drugs. I look at her wide eyes. They look at me, then at the customer and then back at me. I don’t know what to say, my tongues caught between Ghalia and the buyer. I can’t back down to him, but Ghalia’s going to hate me for it. Her eyebrows are raised, asking for an explanation. I stare back, blank.‘Look, mate. Can I just, you know, get some?’ He moves closer to me, getting between me and Ghalia. I’m nailed to the floor. I can’t stay focused. Ghalia moves towards me and touches me on the shoulder. She turns her head to the customer.‘He told you to fuck off, didn’t he?’ She nods her head in the direction of the prickworks entrance. He goes to say something, but Ghalia gives him a dirty stare like Mrs Tosser used to do to shut up backchat. He hovers, then turns and walks away quickly. He must be proper shocked getting told off by a Paki bird. The whole thing’s gone right through me. I look at the back of Ghalia’s head. Her headscarf is light blue and falls in a wave down her back. I feel her hand on my shoulder, it’s heavy and hot. I can feel every line of her fingerprints. I can sense her pulse, it’s beating with mine. I’m lead, I’m air, I’m a feather cushion, I’m drowning and flying. I see an imagine of me wearing her headscarf and Ghalia’s thick hair is flowing like in a shampoo ad. She turns to face me.‘I hate those arrogant twats.’ She takes her hand off my shoulder and smiles at me. I want to say something, but nothing comes out. I just look at Ghalia. She’s really beautiful and her knockers are massive. ‘You’ve been smoking too much of what you’re selling.’ I look down guiltily at my rucksack. I feel small, like I’ve been caught doing something naughty and I know I’ve been a bad boy. She slaps my arm. ‘When’s your shift over? You can walk me home.’ Her mouth is a serious straight line, but it’s curving up on one side. She’s trying not to smile, but she can’t hold it. It’s funny. I laugh out loud and Ghalia joins in. ‘Why? Where’s your brother?’ I try and be ironic to keep the laughter going. ‘I thought you weren’t allowed out on your own.’ Ghalia rolls her eyes and makes a duh face.‘I’m eighteen.’ She gives me a wink that scrunches half her face up. ‘Mahmud’s probably cruising through Vauxhall.’ She looks at me like I should get it. I wink back. I’ve no idea what she’s going on about. Change the subject. ‘Come on then.’ I want to take control. I want to show Ghalia I’m grown up. ‘Let’s go.’ We walk towards the entrance to Eldon. We’re side by side and our shoulders sometimes touch. I try and sneak glances at her face. I like watching her mouth move and her white teeth shining in the streetlights. I look at her body. Her arse has got bigger too. It bends round from her back and her full length dress drops from the edge of it like a waterfall. She walks so smoothly. I can’t see her knees. She glides along the pavement and now and again I see bright red leather shoes poking out at the front. I try and make jokes and she laughs a lot. Sometimes she laughs and even I know it’s not funny. Ghalia’s strange, but it’s exciting. I wish I could see her every day. We walk through the estate along the main access road and I tell her about a customer who was so scared that he gave me a fifty quid note for two bags of weed and told me to keep the change. She lets out a huge laugh. It actually echoes it’s so loud. She bends over double and stumbles as she tries to move forward. I put out my arms and catch her by the shoulder. I pull her up straight. Her body is full and heavy. I can feel it under her dress. It makes me shudder. I keep my hands gripped tight until she’s steady. Our faces are close and we look at each other. Ghalia giggles and then her face softens. I look into her dark eyes. I feel lost and warm. Like I can do anything. Ghalia coughs and the air whooshes into my face. I catch a smell I recognise.‘Have you been drinking?’ She doesn’t take her eyes off me. She rubs her mouth and takes a step back. I let go of her. She clenches her body tight and then drops it loose. ‘What do you think?’ She gives me her serious face. The one that’s supposed to make me feel wrong. The one with the raised eyebrow and the hand-on-hip expression. She pushes her head forward a tiny bit, wanting an answer. ‘Yeah. I do. You smell like you’ve had a skinful.’Her face gets wider and longer. It’s wrapped in her headscarf and looks like a big brown balloon. Funny that you don’t get brown balloons. I never thought about that before. She looks surprised, but she can’t fool me. I’ve been drunk loads of times. ‘You look pissed.’Her blown up face collapses into a giggle. I watch her body shake under her dress. She’s like a big kid. It’s cute and funny. I want to grab her and squeeze her tight. She’s got her hands on her hips and then wipes her cheeks with her palm. Her eyes roll and look off somewhere into the distance.‘I don’t want to go home yet.’ She lets out a choke of a laugh. It sounds as though she’s sobbing. I really can’t tell. Maybe she’s doing both, like when you hit your funny bone. Ghalia looks past me, in the direction of our courtyard. ‘Take me somewhere Dean.’ She’s stopped laughing and is looking right at me. Her eyes beg me. She looks so sad and I don’t know what to do. I reach out and rub her shoulder at arm’s length. I feel so useless and pathetic. Ghalia watches my hand go up and down on her arm. She splutters out a laugh and her spit flies everywhere. She shakes herself upright and uses her sleeve to dry her face. When she’s back to normal she rolls her eyes to heaven and pushes her palm into her forehead. She snorts. ‘I’ve been celebrating.’ I don’t understand. I’m a blank. I can see Ghalia knows it too. I want to be in charge, but I don’t know what I’m in control of. Ghalia is so different to me. But not because she’s a Paki or a girl, just her brain works in a weird way. Maybe, I’ll never understand her. I like that. Ghalia takes my hand. She guides me along the access road towards Madu’s block. ‘I got into university. I’m going to study Law.’ I hear all the words, but I’m not really listening. I’m here, but somewhere else. All my concentration is on the touch. Ghalia’s hand in mine. I float along and I can’t feel anything but her. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. ‘My parents are both so happy and congratulating me all the time.’ ‘That’s cool. Congratulations.’ I crack open a big smile and do a face like I know why it’s good. She lowers her head and walks slower. ‘If I’m honest, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to study Law.’ I nod my head, but then I actually think about it. Georgina tries so hard in college and won’t even be able to finish. Ghalia’s so lucky she’s smart. ‘Well, you know, it ain’t that bad. I mean some people don’t even get the chance.’ Ghalia squeezes my hand without looking up. I want to make her feel better. ‘And you’ll be great. You’re really good at maths.’ Ghalia snorts a laugh through her nose. She smiles at me with a huge grin. I smile back, I’m glad I made her laugh. I don’t know how I did it, but it doesn’t matter if she’s happy. ‘Oh Dean. I know, I know. It’s not just that, though, there are a lot of things.’ I nod my head. I kind of get what she’s talking about, but I also don’t really know at all. She’s probably on the blob or something or doesn’t get on with her Mum and Dad. I’d like to know. I’d like it if she told me everything about her. I wouldn’t get bored. I’d just sit back and nod like a Hollywood therapist. I try and make a joke.‘Is that why you hit the bar?’‘Yeah, something like that. I just needed to get away from it for a while.’ She slaps her thigh. ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a pub. I didn’t even know what to do.’ Her eyes widen like a full moon. ‘They’re weird places, aren’t they? It had rowing oars on the wall and it’s not even near the river.’ A huge grin spreads across her face. ‘You should’ve seen the face of the barman when I showed up and asked for a bottle of gin.’ She lets out another huge round of giggles. I don’t see the big joke. All the girls I know love getting pissed. Actually though, fuck, that is quite a lot.‘Did you drink a whole bottle?’‘No. Two glasses and it almost made me vomit. I gave the rest to some old guy who thought I was an angel.’ Ghalia looks up and tugs my hand. I realise where we are. At the end of the road behind Madu’s block by the pile of knackered breezeblocks. ‘You want to see something cool?’ Ghalia pulls me forward and we climb over the bricks. She struggles a bit in her dress, but I help her like a real gentleman. As she clambers down she looks out into the darkness. ‘Someone once told me there was a fox here.’ Her voice is like going on a slide, it starts high, falls and then flips up at the end, and it’s as much fun to ride. I never forgot this place. I sometimes dream about it. I can’t believe Ghalia remembers too. She’s so horny she must have had loads of boyfriends. I feel special. I don’t know what to say and just watch her. She turns away from me and looks out over the wasteland. We’re quite close and I look over her back. I can’t see any of her skin, it’s all covered, but I can make out the shape of her body, all the curves, her hips, her round arse. She turns back towards me. Her head is slightly forward and she’s looking up to me from under her eyelashes. The night air is getting warmer. It’s clammy. Everything’s getting smaller as Ghalia gets bigger. She steps towards me. My heart pounds ten to the dozen. I can feel her, even though we’re not touching. There’s a force field around her and one around me and they’re rubbing up against each other and fizzing and buzzing and sparks are flying but we’re still moving closer until they join and we’re both in the same one. Ghalia’s lips are full. They move in slow-mo as she speaks. ‘A fox, huh. What a terrible chat up line.’ It’s a joke, but the words are heavy, grainy as sand. Her voice is deep. It’s coming from the bottom of her belly, from deep inside her. ‘It’s the only one that ever worked.’Time vanishes. We’re locked together. My lips on hers, our tongues slip-sliding against each other’s. We bite lips and scrape teeth. Spit dribbles from the join in our mouths. I don’t care. Ghalia doesn’t care. We’re working together. Our hands journey across our backs, pulling us so close we’re going to blend. I’m touching her arse. It’s soft but I can feel the tension underneath. It works in my hands like plasticine. I pull her hips towards mine. I can feel how hard I am against her body. I’m behind her, groping her tits. I push my dick against her buttocks and thrust. She groans. Her head tilts back against my chest and her mouth opens. I put my hand to it and she sucks my fingers. I drop my lips to her neck and lick. I get a mouth full of headscarf. It breaks my concentration. I can sense the separateness between us. I feel her knockers in my hands, they’re big, but I can’t relate them to the woman sucking my fingers. I’m turned on, but not connected. I want to fuck her. I want to rip off this stupid fucking anti-sex dress and fuck her hard right here. I pull my fingers from her mouth and pull them down over her headscarf, across her tits and potbelly and down to the fold of fabric between her legs. I cup my fingers hard around her and start to rub. Ghalia bends and uses her bum to push me away. She swivels about her hips and makes the space between us wider. ‘We both know that’s not going to happen.’ She runs her hands over her face. Her eyes are closed and she breathes out deep and long. It’s Ghalia. My hard on is showing against my trackie bottoms and I feel embarrassed. I just want to cuddle her. She fiddles with her headscarf and makes a mess of pulling it straight. She waves her hand and gives up. She opens her eyes with a sad smile. ‘It was nice to see you Dean.’ She’s going to leave. I won’t see her again. I feel a burning swell in the pit of my stomach. I’m fixed and heavy. Water runs out of the bath. I panic. Ghalia takes a step towards the breezeblocks. I can’t take it.‘I love you.’ I say it and I know it’s true. I feel it glowing all through me and Ghalia is at the centre. It’s a relief. Like coming to the surface at the deep end. My brain feels loose. My arms are light and tickly. It’s true. I love her. I love Ghalia. She comes close and kisses me gently on the lips. It’s soft, no tongues. I close my eyes and feel her mouth on mine. She breathes into me. It’s sweet. ‘I know.’ She speaks whilst kissing me. I hear it though my skin, not my ears. She puts her arms around me and pulls me close. We hug. Her head is on my shoulder. She squeezes tight and then pulls away. She moves toward the pile of breezeblocks. She’s caught in the orange streetlamp and I can just see the outline of her body. ‘And by the way, congratulations.’ She’s gone. I stand still. Everything is spinning. I feel sick and happy and sad and everything at the same time. I love her. Do I really love her? I don’t know. I don’t know anything at all. I’m so fucking dumb sometimes. I chuckle to myself. I felt Ghalia’s tits. They’re amazing. She’s so fucking hot. I could fuck her. A light tickly jet rushes through my chest and I want to cry out with joy. I love her. I should have touched her hair, but I went straight to her knockers. My phone buzzes. I ignore it, but it shakes me back to life. I climb over the breezeblocks and start walking behind Madu’s block. I need to drop all this stuff off. I reach the main access road and take my phone out. I’ve got two missed calls and two voicemails. I dial up and listen. It’s Mum. Georgina’s gone into labour.Dean arrived at the hospital with a rucksack full of class Bs and a jacket pocket stuffed full of twenties. Georgina had given birth and, according to the doctors and nurses, mother and child were doing fine. Dean’s Mum was already there. It was hard to tell which had flustered her the most, the grandson, Dean’s absence at the birth, or the ride in the ambulance. She was all up and down, hugging Dean one minute and scolding him the next. He had to wait almost an hour before he was allowed in to see Georgina. Cradled in her arms was a shrivelled pink curdle of flesh that occasionally flapped like a beached fish. The nurse smiled and left them alone. Georgina looked down on the baby with a joyful grimace, tears streaming down her face. She looked up and told Dean he’d better not fuck off and leave them or she would seriously rip his fucking balls off. The teenagers stared at each other from the opposite ends of the maternity ward bed. Dean was transfixed. He saw in Georgina’s pained, desperate expression that she wasn’t just making one of her put-down faces, she needed him. He looked at the lump of wrinkled skin again. He felt distant, outside. Was this kid really part of him? How did his spunk produce that? It was going to grow up and go to school and tease the fat kids and feel up girls and have a little baby all of its own. His child’s life flashed before him and he wanted to do everything he could to make it better than his. He took a few steps closer and leaned in to see the boy. It was hideous. A proper little runt. But it was his, whatever that actually meant, and he was drawn to it. He reached out and touched its face. It was so warm, almost hot. It surprised him and he took his finger away instantly. He was a father. He was going to do all he could to protect his kid. They were going to get a flat off the council, do it up nice, get a load of toys and bring up their boy. Dean was determined that he’d encourage his son to finish school and go to college. He wanted him to get a good job so he didn’t end up selling weed to a bunch of wannabe hippies. He wasn’t ever going to run away like his own Dad had. He was going to stay put and see it through. He was going to be a good father. He held his finger to the boy’s lips. The baby licked it and the image of Ghalia flooded back. The family went home to Dean’s Mum’s flat and settled back into their new routine. The baby slept in with Dean and Georgina and the living room housed the pram-cum-pushchair as well as the playpen and mobile. The day after the birth, Dean showed up for work and the gang from Addington gave him a four pack of expensive lager and two weeks off to enjoy the first taste of fatherhood. Phil had suggested George for a name, but in the end the couple settled on Harry, short for Harrison, as in Ford. He was nothing special. Just an ordinary baby that puked and shat himself and cried a lot. Georgina breast fed for a while, which turned Dean on, until he realised he hadn’t had any for so long even a slight glimpse of tit gave him a rager. As the novelty of the maternal bond faded, he started enjoying Harry in his own right. As the days past he recognised repeated movements and sounds coming from the boy. He found patterns in his behaviour that made him seem alive, like a real person. There was still a strangeness about the connection, that Harry had come from Dean having sex with Georgina. How did that work? He’d glanced at the prenatal textbooks lying around the flat and thought he had a firm grasp on the biology. But life? What made the boy move and grow and sprout a personality that was different from everyone else? They put food in, Harry shat it out, every day he got heavier and everyday he would get bigger, until one day, Dean thought, the little bugger would snuff it along with the rest of the world. What was the point of that then? Seeing life develop in front of him made Dean more philosophical about existence. He’d look out over the estate from his sixth floor walkway and wondered what was going on behind all those closed doors. Did they all think like him? Have thoughts and emotions? Could he ever know anyone else like he knew himself? Did he even know himself? He asked other people too, but decided to stop after questioning Phil about his ethnic musings. What made them different to us other than skin, you know, biologically? What if we wanted to go and live in another country like America, would all the people there hate us? What about the football players and Olympic stars? We’d be rubbish without them. Dean’s probing didn’t go unnoticed. Phil began to question Dean’s allegiance to the cause. Dean on the other hand realised that Phil could never give him more than a stock answer, which didn’t really answer anything at all. Back home, Dean’s Mum had been invaluable in sorting out everything with the council. She’d filled in the forms for them and got them off to the right department. Now that little Harry was here she was sure they’d be in a flat as soon as one became available either on Eldon or Addington. Georgina’s Mum was hardwired into the estate gossip channels and news stories of questionable truth always got to her first, although on several occasions they were ones she had actually started herself. She’d heard from several reliable sources that there were at least three flats soon becoming available on Eldon. Surely Georgina and Dean would get one of them. As Georgina’s Mum was proud of repeating, they now had four generations living there. Georgina’s Grandmother had been in one of the first waves of families to move in, and now, what with the kid and all, there was no excuse not to give them a place. Dean’s Mum’s job kept her away from home most of the time, but still the couple were desperate to move out. It had been alright before Harry was born, but now they felt they couldn’t breathe. Both Mums were constantly giving Georgina conflicting advice and it was starting to drive her crazy. In turn Dean got the tail end of the flak. Both just wished to bring up their son on their own terms. Not that they wanted to sever links from the in-laws, far from it, they just wanted to be their own family. They waited on their haunches, tensed and ready to move at short notice. The weeks passed and no word came from the council. Dean went back to work. The job didn’t get any better and Dean was keen to make some extra cash. Neither he nor Georgina had realised just what a money vampire a baby was. The benefits were handy, but they weren’t even enough to cover the basics, let alone any mini luxuries. Selling weed was one rung up on the ladder, just above the BMX kids, the real money was in amphetamines and coke. Phil wasn’t sure Dean was up to it. He’d have to move to a different patch that was a lot more shady and prone to police raids. The clients were a different sort too. He’d still get the knobs from the Brickworks, but there’d also be some proper cases that would need a certain level of tact and balls to handle. Phil agreed to let Dean have a stab at it when a patch became available, but for the meantime he’d have to stay put. Phil wasn’t just worried about Dean’s inability to deal class As, he was also concerned about the increasingly regular scuffles between the gang from Addington’s pushers and those of the expanding black gang on the other side of the Junction. There’d been a lot of threats and beatings thrown back and forth over the Handonwell front line and things had come to a violent head just last week. Simon and a couple of the tattoo security lads had given a black dealer a good kicking after they’d found him selling on Eldon. It had gotten nasty and turned into a bloody session of nigger bashing. They found out later that the victim was a member of the Handonwell gang and Phil had feared a revenge attack. It came in the shape of a baseball bat knocking the life out of a white teenager. The kid had been out walking his dog on the triangle of grass at the end of Eldon and been set upon by three black gang members. His skull had been caved in and his face left unrecognisable. He died instantly. Dean had gathered with the rest of the Addington gang in the third courtyard in from the new Eldon Brickworks to find out what was going to happen. Phil explained that the teenager killed was nothing to do with the business. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that was no excuse. The gang from Addington vowed to avenge the life of one of their own. Those murdering bastards from Handonwell had it coming. It was war, all out fucking war. But for the moment they’d have to keep their heads down. The feds were going to be all over their turf for the next few weeks so no one was to do anything stupid. Keep a low profile and sell your shit discreetly as fuck. The gang was to bide their time, wait for the black fuckers to think they’d gotten away with it, and then strike. It was a solemn, violent meeting and Dean felt scared of what was going to happen. Phil spoke like an American general from a war film who pep talked their troops into committing a massacre. Dean didn’t want a war. He wanted a quiet life for his family and that wasn’t going to happen if the estate became a battleground. Of course he felt sorry for the kid who’d got murdered, especially as he wasn’t even part of the gang, but couldn’t they all just call a truce and leave it at that. After all, what about Dwayne Campbell, he got killed for no reason. Why not just let it go? Although Dean already knew the reason. Phil actually wanted to fight. They weren’t just waiting for the cops to leave, they were using the time to get armed. Things were just going to get worse. Dean witnessed the shock waves sent through the estate communities by the murder of Gareth Etherington. People talked about innocence being lost. Others talked about Dwayne Campbell. Some whispered about taking the law into their own hands and getting rid of the gang from Addington. For some it was a revenge too long in coming. For others it was a racist attack against whites. Mixed race friendships became suspicious and suspicions became aggravated. The estates of Eldon and Addington became split down coloured lines. For the media it was just another drug related murder. Some kid got his brain mashed from a bat rather than from drugs. One was just quicker than the other. Who was going to want to read about the death of a wasted youth? The news made it to a few national pages deep in the double figures. Small columns declaring an innocent victim of a gang murder. No reporters came, no television crews. Not even a picture in the local paper. As Phil had predicted the police were gone in weeks. Another unsolved crime to further stain the walls of these blood sink estates. The media and official response to Gareth Etherington’s murder stirred up memories of the storm that had blown up around another killing on the patch of grass at the Handonwell Junction end of Eldon. They were not random killings, accidental or spontaneous. The perpetrators knew the identities of their targets. It was written all over their skin. Dean, along with the residents of Eldon and Addington, was not blind to the difference in the reporting and the narratives of unfair treatment spread through the estates like a pandemic. He heard it echoed in the bus queues, over tea and biscuits, at the launderette, in the pubs, in the evening dog walks, in the primary school playgrounds at going home time, through the alleyways and courtyards, it permeated every atom of the estates. It was one rule for them and one rule for us. And those at the top had chosen whose side they were on. The lines were drawn. Eldon and Addington became pockets of separated communities. They all knew it. The estate whites had become the outsiders. Dean did as he was told. He kept his head low and sold weed to the Eldon Brickworks’ population, who lauded ethnic diversity, but still didn’t dare go to the Handonwell gang for their expensive thrills. He’d taken on another shift as a couple of his supermarket runs had fallen through. He didn’t blame them for taking on a black kid instead of him. The old dears probably preferred someone of the same colour, what with everything going on. Dean understood and it made his guts twist painfully. He was white and that bought a whole lot of shit with it. But, fucking hell, it was better than being black or a Paki. He saw first hand the crap they got from the BMX kids and it made him feel like a complete cunt. But what could he do? Georgina’s Mum now started everything she said with a negation of her racism and his own Mum finished every statement claiming she wasn’t allowed to say it anymore. Everyone knew that the estate whites were being treated unfairly. Everyone knew that the council favoured every other group except their own. It was obvious, wasn’t it? And like seeing a younger sibling get a better present on their birthday, resentment of the estate minorities grew. Dean floated above it. He’d seen it from both sides and wanted to keep out of it. He grunted muted responses to his mother. He turned off when Georgina’s Mum went off on one. He stopped asking questions to any of the old folks who wanted to tell him how good it was before that lot had all come here on the back of a boat. He wanted to stay neutral, keep out of it. He had no intention of joining Phillip Harris’s new crusade. People were just fucking people and the sooner everyone got it the fucking better. That was until he came home one day to find Georgina and her Mum bitching about housing. The gossip was in and for once it was true. The available flats on Eldon had already been filled and no one at the council could do anything about it. Even though, as Georgina’s Mum repeated, they had four generations on Eldon, the flats had gone to families more in need. Dean instantly knew to whom. Everybody knew. They’d been swarming here in the thousands, so the papers said. Husbands, wives, kids, cousins. Whole villages were uprooting and relocating to the inner city estates of Great Britain. It was a legal invasion and the losers were people like Georgina and Dean. Everyone knew it. ‘Fucking Pakis.’ I spit it out. I’m so angry. I’m raging. There’s a tight spring winding up inside me. It’s a low bittersweet pain between my gut and my lungs. It’s coiling so fast I can’t control it. I punch my hand through a glass pane on the cabinet. There’s a dull crack and the glass shards split into splinters. My hand’s bleeding but I can’t feel it. I just see blood running over my knuckles and down my wrist, soaking red into my trackie top. Everything’s fuzzy and I see Georgina give Harry to her Mum and come to me. She puts a baby wipe over my cuts and her other arm on my shoulder. I can hear Harry crying and Georgina’s Mum cooing to him, but it’s as if they’re in another room. Georgina wipes the blood away and I notice the broken glass. Did I do that? I feel Georgina wiping away the blood and pressing firmly on my hand. It stings. Fuck that hurts. Georgina’s comforting me. The women are looking after the men. Mum always said girls were stronger. Georgina guides me to the kitchen and washes the gash in the sink. The cold water brings me back around and it feels like I’m coming down. ‘I’m sorry.’ I feel guilty. I shouldn’t have done that, it ain’t going to solve anything. It ain’t going to get us a flat. I can’t fucking believe they gave them to Pakis. The anger washes up again, but I feel Georgina drying my hands gently and it holds me steady. She looks at me and smiles, but I can see she’s upset. Her eyes are curled down at the edges. Usually they’re tight and pinched. Now they’re open and she looks weak. I need to be strong for her. I can’t go round smashing up the furniture. I kiss her forehead and we hug. Georgina’s Mum makes us a cup of tea and we sit in the living room watching Harry paw the air above his pram. ‘Apparently they’ve got three kids and the husband doesn’t have a job.’ Georgina’s Mum calls through from the kitchen. She’s shouting to be louder than the kettle, but there’s no fear we won’t be able to hear her. She’s got a right gob on her. She whispers like a barking dog. ‘So they obviously need it more, apparently.’ She makes the word need last for ages. I know she’s being sarcastic. She doesn’t have to spell it out. She does my head in sometimes. ‘And apparently, they’ve only been in the country ten minutes.’ She brings through a tray of teas and biscuits and sits down on a dining room chair. ‘And somehow that gives them more rights than you two, apparently. Well it doesn’t seem very bloody fair to me.’ She sips her tea, dunks a bourbon, swallows it in one and carries on talking without even blinking. ‘I don’t mind them coming here and working hard like the rest of us, but it don’t seem right them getting a house for nothing. Especially when there’s English people who have lived here all their lives waiting for a place. And with a kid and all. But according to the council, they deserve it more for some reason.’ She sips her tea and twists her head back towards us. ‘Apparently.’ Georgina’s getting angry at her Mum. ‘They’ve got to put them somewhere.’ I can hear it in her voice. There’s a rough grinding teeth to it. I hope it doesn’t turn into one of their slanging matches. I’m out of here if it does. ‘Yes I know. But why the bloody hell does it have to be here when we don’t have enough blimmin’ houses as it is.’ Georgina’s Mum snaps back and I see that Georgina’s backing down. She’s lost her fire since Harry. I want to hold her tight to me and rock her. I want to see the old Georgina. She was a bitch but she was smart and angry and always fighting and slapping down everyone with a cool line. This house thing has knocked the last of it out of her. I guess she’s losing everything. No college, no hanging out with her mates and getting pissed, living with my Mum and now she’s told that Pakis are more important. She must feel worthless. I want to cry and smash everything to pieces. I don’t even care about Pakis, but Georgina’s Mum’s right. What about us?‘In my day you’d get given a place as soon as you had a kid. Everyone had the right to a home. You didn’t have to move to the other side of the city, you stayed close to your family.’ She slurps a mouthful from her mug. ‘But now it’s all about keeping the blacks and Pakis happy. And if we complain they’ll say we’re racist.’ She puts her mug down on the tray with a bang that makes Harry cry. Georgina takes him out of the pram and cuddles him to her shoulder. Her Mum doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘But I’ll tell you who’s racist. They bloody are. Those posh buggers. Where are all the Pakis in their neighbourhoods?’ I usually ignore Georgina’s Mum. She goes on too much and talks a load of shit, but today she’s making sense. It’s true. I shrug my shoulders. ‘Exactly. They shove them all here. Sweep them under the carpet and let us deal with them. But we’re the ones who suffer, not those bastards in the Government. They just let us get on with it. Ruining our neighbourhoods and then blaming us like we’re the reason all the foreigners came here in the first place. And when we get angry and do something about it they tell us we’re in the wrong and they’re in the right and we all have to live side by side and like it or lump it. And we’re not even allowed to complain when a family with a new born baby are told they have to live with their parents because all the houses have been given to coloured people who’ve just got off the boat. It’s just not bloody fair.’ Georgina’s Mum is crying. I didn’t think it was possible. I thought she was made of leather and iron. She’s more upset than me and Georgina and it’s not even her who hasn’t got a flat. I am pissed off though. I still feel the anger looping figures of eight in my guts. The Pakis get everything done for them and we’re left behind. It makes me mad. I don’t want to live with my Mum anymore. I’ve got a fucking kid, my own family. Why should we have to live like this? We can’t just up sticks and go to Pakiland and get given a house. And why should we? I’ve lived here all my life. So’s Georgina. Why do we have less rights than foreigners in our own country? I think about it and makes me go crazy. My brain just plays it over again and again. I can’t get it out of my head. I imagine the Pakis moving into our flat. A fucking herd of them covered head to toe in those stupid dresses and headscarves. I bet they don’t even speak a word of English and they’ll get given so many benefits that they won’t even need to get a job. They’ll sponge off hardworking people like my Mum who’s had to work every bloody day of her life. I look around the living room. This flat is all she’s got to show for it. I see the cabinet with the broken pane. I walk over and start cleaning up the pieces of glass. There’s blood on some of them. I pick up the miniature sangria jug Mum brought back from Spain. The handle’s snapped off and there is a V shaped crack along the mouth. I swallow a lump in my throat. My eyes are wet. I feel a hot line run down my cheek. I choke back a cough. I pinch my leg, but I can feel it coming. I can’t stop it. It’s all too much and I just can’t control it. I have to leave. Now. I walk out the front door and along the walkway in front of my flat. My head is down and I can only see the grey tarmac floor and cigarette butts. I push through the glass door and rush up the stairs to the top landing where it stops at a brick wall. I let go. Snot and tears and spit stream from my face. Strings of mucus drip from my nose and mouth. I see the liquid joining the piss and beer stains on the ground. It doesn’t stop. I don’t want it to stop. My body shakes and I don’t care. It’s all shit. It’s all so fucking shit. I kick the wall and the pain flashes through me. It stays inside. I can feel it holding on to my stomach walls. I want to control the pain. To keep it ready to use. So I can fight. So I can hit back whenever I need to. I’m ready for a war. I’m ready to take back what’s mine. What’s ours. I drag my trackie sleeve over my face to soak up all the flob. I breathe deep, clearing my head, trying to focus. I check my face with my fingers. I’m clean. No one will know I’ve been crying, but they’ll know I’m fucking angry. I walk down the stairwell and head towards the access road. My big toe is killing. I spit as I go past Ghalia’s block. Fucking Pakis. Dean walked through the estate to the third courtyard in from the Brickworks. He was early for his shift but didn’t want to go home. He felt like hanging around with the gang from Addington. He wanted to vent his frustrations. He wanted to swear and curse and have other men nod their heads in agreement. Georgina’s Mum wouldn’t let him get a word in edgeways and Georgina would put him right on the subject before he’d even have a chance to speak. The gang would listen to him and understand why he was so pissed off. He paced past the BMX kids and into the courtyard. The scene was different than usual. The cars were silent, no booming bass or thundering beats. There was a small crowd gathered around the entrance to Phil’s block’s stairwell. As Dean got closer he saw that the whole gang were circled around two men in suits. The shorter of the two stood on the bottom step where he just about reached the height of the second. He had a blotchy pink and white face and a thin razorblade mouth. He spoke in short snappy slogans, gesticulating abrasively as the buzzwords flew from his lips. The taller one, a square and compass, stood still, occasionally glancing at the speaker and nodding dumbly in solemn agreement. The gang were enraptured. Dean joined them, Phil briefly acknowledging his presence with a quick glance over his shoulder. Dean listened in. The government had abandoned the white workers of Britain. They were giving all the jobs and houses to foreigners. It was a flood. England was a soft touch and the asylum seekers and refugees all came here because of the easy access to benefits. You only had to look around you to see that whites were becoming the minority in this country. But if you tried to say that to your local MP you’d be shouted down and told you were racist scum. Enough was enough. It was time to put the kibosh on all this softly softly political correctness bullshit. Whites had rights. But you weren’t even allowed to say that. Not that anyone in power listened anyway. The gang lapped it up, hanging on every word, echoing some of the repeated tagline phrases. Dean didn’t get swept along so easily, but some of what the short man was saying did resonate with him. He didn’t agree with the part about sending them all back, but the bit about having a proper say in parliament was important. The politicians in the borough council should listen to the problems of people like Dean and Georgina. They shouldn’t be ignored. The speaker went on to explain that he represented a party that were going to stand in the next local elections and if they got in they were going to make sure that the working white voice would be heard. The two suits left the courtyard in search of other white blocks on the estate. It was clear to Dean that Phil had been quite taken in. He began to relay the unofficial party policy to the rest of the gang, who carried out the smear campaigns with zeal. Dean generally took a wide berth, but got caught up in the rhetoric whenever he had to go to the third courtyard in from the Brickworks. As Phil repeated, blacks were still an issue, but the real threat was the Muslims. They were swarming here in unrestricted numbers and sponging off the state. They were getting council flats that were by rights the traditional local community’s and forcing white families to relocate, splitting up whole neighbourhoods who’d been living together for generations. The local government were a bunch of Paki lovers so weren’t going to do anything about it. So, Phil iterated, they had to target them directly, make them wish they’d stayed back in their own country. As a result, verbal abuse, harassment and targeted racist graffiti shot up all over Eldon and Addington. Phil got the BMX kids to raid the dog shit bin and throw the contents at any block that housed brown-skinned people. Dustbins were tipped over, car tyres were slashed, everything was done to make the lives of the estate Muslims hell. The majority of whites did nothing but mutter blunt condemnation under their breath. The blacks were just grateful it wasn’t them, and to be honest, the Pakistanis had it easy compared to their own parents who’d had to work a damn sight harder and face a lot more open, even official, discrimination. Perhaps if the Muslims got proper jobs and paid their way, they wouldn’t face so much hatred. Dean couldn’t bring himself to do anything either way. He agreed that there was a problem, but beating up Muslims wasn’t going to solve it. He woke almost every morning to see another attack of some sort against the residents of Ghalia’s block. The faded Fuck Off had been renovated with a vengeance and was now joined by a swathe of Swastikas, Cunts, Go Home Pakis, Turd Turbans and many more Fuck Offs. The pile of black bin liners were regularly slashed and thrown at open windows, along with bricks at closed ones. Shit through letterboxes was a frequent occurrence as were handwritten death threats. Dean stood mute through it all. He knew the gang were behind everything, but he still sold their hash by the number two bus stop outside the new Eldon Brickworks. He was helping finance their violent campaign of hate and still listening to Phil’s gradually more articulate rants on immigration. He drank his tea and watched the residents of Ghalia’s block cleaning up the night’s abuse. He could sense how they felt and he wanted to go over and join them. The police sometimes made an appearance. They’d jot a few lines down in their pad and then drive back to the station to add another incident to the rapidly growing hate crimes folder. There was the odd arrest, but none of the main gang members were ever picked up. The new political party secretly guided Phil and the rest of the gang from Addington. It was a covert operation run in plain sight. There could be no obvious links between the party and the gang. Phil had to keep his hands clean and he was becoming more astute at it. Dean witnessed it all. The perpetrators and the victims. He didn’t realise it at first but the situation was slowly cutting into him. It was a scalpel gently slicing through his flesh, so smooth and delicate that he was unaware of its effect. The more he saw what happened to the people who lived in Ghalia’s block, the more he detested what the gang were doing. Yet, what caused the most profound pain in Dean was that, deep down, he wanted the gang to succeed. Dean secretly hoped the families would eventually move out, leaving an empty flat for Georgina, Harry and himself. The situation ripped at him and left him barbed and quick tempered. He snapped at Georgina continuously. He stormed out of arguments that he’d purposely caused. He punched and kicked his way through the tatty furniture in the flat, replacing it guiltily with MDF knock offs from the market. As his violence grew, Dean’s communication with Georgina waned. He didn’t notice that she no longer got pleasure from swearing and put-downs, or that she was constantly tired from Harry. She’d tried to tell Dean about how the researcher had visited again and that she’d asked as many questions as the researcher had, how they’d discussed so many different topics that her head was like popping candy by the end and how it was the first time since Harry was born that she’d felt happy. Dean, however, took it as a dig, told her to fuck off and stormed out, slamming the door so hard it broke the lock. It cost him twenty eight quid to fix and got him so angry, he almost broke it again by kicking the door. When Georgina finally got around to telling Dean she’d decided to do 3 distance learning A-Levels, he just ignored her and left. He’d taken to walking the estate rather than punching things. He often went to the wasteland where he’d seen the fox and would smash discarded glass bottles. It didn’t make him feel any better, but it was something to do. He spent more time away from his family than with them. He sometimes imagined returning home to find Georgina and Harry gone. He knew if it happened it would be his fault, but he couldn’t stop acting in the same way. And besides, where was she going to go? He could always find Georgina at her Mum’s place. It was a pointless concern and he continued to walk and spit and destroy. His general demeanour with customers had also changed. He was determined to intimidate them. He wanted to be the stereotype, the front page image of the internal enemy, to drive fear through them every time they came close. He couldn’t do anything else. He knew he was desperate and it drove him to ever more frequent outbursts. He had no options left. If he wanted to get out of this hole he needed to move up the ladder in the gang. It was the only way he could escape the cycle he was caught in. The thought dragged him down and it was weeks before he acted upon it. The turf war with the black Handonwell gang had been put on a backburner while the gang had concentrated on victimising Muslims. Even so, it bubbled beneath the surface and incursions onto Eldon were still happening. When one of the gang from Addington’s dealers got severely beaten up whilst selling near the Junction, Dean took the opportunity to prove himself to Phil. As soon as he found out, he headed straight to the third courtyard in from the Brickworks to ask for the patch. It was early evening when he arrived and the estate was shrouded in a violet dusk. It was calm and still and the winds were at rest. Dean entered the square via the passageway behind Phil’s block and found the gang huddled in silent debate. A couple of BMX kids watched from a few metres away. They chewed gum with drooping mouths. They’d come here to give information, but they’d stayed for the show. This was their education and they were keen to learn. Dean ignored them as he walked past. He was building himself up. Stoking the fire inside. Ready to show he was worthy. He wanted to join the gang proper, no matter what that meant.I push my hands deep in my pockets until my fingers curl into fists. My shoulders are hunched over and I can’t relax my face. I’m tight. Rusted up. I feel short and stocky. My legs are heavy and I have to drag my feet off the floor. I’m going slow, but I’m almost at the gang. It’s quiet and they haven’t noticed me yet. They’re just whispering to each other. It must be serious. Phil’s face wrinkles up as he drags the end of a fag. He spits out some gob with the smoke. I’ve stopped walking. I’m a couple of metres away, but I can’t go closer. I want Phil to notice me so he’ll talk first. It will be easier that way. Simon looks over his shoulder and sees me. ‘Fuck off.’ He shoots it silencer style at me. It’s contained but brutal. It stuns me, shakes all my guts up. I can’t catch myself. I want to puke, but I just stare at them. Simon takes a step but Phil grabs his shoulder.‘Give us a sec, Dean.’ Phil doesn’t look at me. He turns to the rest of the gang and says something I can’t hear properly. His voice is low and direct. I can’t trust him. I should get out of here, go back to helping old bids. I look over at the BMX kids. One does a wheelie, and then at the top, kicks the bike in the air and jumps right off the back. I wish I could do that. I never had a BMX. I think of Harry. Not him exactly. I mean it ain’t a baby. He’s a kid, maybe seven or eight, and he’s on a mountain bike, a proper MTB. He can cycle right over bricks and everything. I’m well proud. I want to cry and take a photo and hold Georgina’s hand and tell my Mum. I breathe in some of the dry air. It sticks in my throat like splintered wood. How can air be so painful? Phil breaks from the gang and nods for me to come over. I join the gang and they stand around. Dan, Brian, Matt and Simon, all staring at me talking to Phil. I can feel my insides jiggling around, crows swooping and pecking at my belly. I look them all in the eye and nod an alright to each. I focus. I look at Phil. He spits at the ground.‘You alright Dean.’ It’s not a question.‘Yeah, alright.’ I nod sideways at the BMX kids. ‘What’s going on?’ Phil twists his head at me like he’s tightening a bolt. He’s caught me, got me in his grasp and is crushing me. I panic. I don’t even know what I’ve done. Why am I shitting myself? Phil’s lips purse. I swallow a dry chunk that’s stuck in my throat. I have to say something or I’m going to faint.‘It’s like a funeral.’ I force a gurgle laugh. ‘Where’s all the music?’ I bounce my head and shoulders. I hear the bass in my head. It’s out of time and warped. I look at the gang. Their faces are stone cold. Simon’s nostrils puff wide as he snorts. He puts a finger over the side of his nose and blows a spray out of the other. He wipes away the snot from his lip using the sleeve of his trackie top. He squints at me. Phil’s face is dead. His skin is always pale but now it looks like bacon rind. There are streaks of pink blood pulsing across his tight cheeks. His eyes go straight through me with X-ray vision. He knows all my bullshit, knows I’m faking. But faking what? I don’t even know. I can’t even think about it. I just want more money so me and Georgina can get a flat. He’s a machine, a robot. And he’s gotten worse since those fucking suits came. Now he wears a poker mask. He wants to carve you or mould you or use you as his bitch. I can’t trust him. He ain’t a good man. He’s fucking nasty. Proper nasty. I don’t want to be here anymore. Nothing’s worth putting up with this lot of cunts. The gang sneer. Phil’s eyes stab me, and then, he smiles. No time has past. Just a split second. Phil slaps me on the shoulder and nods for me to join the circle. I take a step into the gang and they close around me, but I just look at Phil. He’s looser now and his smile is tattooed on. He’s not happy, but I feel better. It’s just a job. Selling crack to whores and junkies. Who cares? They’re going to sell it anyway. And what else can I do? Work in KFC? Fuck that. Just got to prove to them I can hack it and they’ll leave me to it. I can just keep selling the hard stuff and making a lot more cash for myself. I can sort everything out then. Nobody else is going to do it, are they? I push back my shoulders and get up to my full height. I’m taller than Phil, but I don’t feel it.‘You still looking for a new patch?’ ‘Yeah. That’s why I came over, in’it.’Phil takes a sideways glance at the gang. ‘You heard then?’I shrug my shoulders. ‘Heard what?’ Phil examines my face, but I don’t know what he’s going on about. ‘There’s been hassle down on the prick.’I hold back a shudder. ‘You mean the kid who got…’ I can’t say the word. My voice won’t let me. I can’t get my tongue to work. Phil watches me closely, but I can see his brain is judging me. ‘Yeah, kind of.’ Phil grinds his teeth. ‘The niggers are back.’ He points at the BMX kids. ‘They’ve just told us they saw one of them dirty black cunts selling there.’ I don’t say nothing. I just listen. Phil pushes his bottom lip out with his tongue. ‘It’s your patch if you want it.’ He watches me closely for my reaction. I bite the inside of my cheek. I say no, the gang will think I’m a pussy, but it’s fucking dangerous. That Handonwell lot will stab me up. They’ll think I’m one of the gang, but I ain’t. I just want the money. I don’t even give a shit about the niggers. They can do what they like for all I care. I don’t hate them like Phil does, but they’ll think I do. And they’ll smash my brains in like they did that poor Etherington kid. But I could get done in by them at any time. When the war comes they ain’t going to ask what I think. No one’s ever cared what I think. I’m selling for the gang and I’m a white boy. That’s all that’s going to matter.‘Yeah, alright.’ I speak seriously, showing that I mean it. Phil pushes his lips out duck style and nods slowly.‘Good.’ He slaps me on the shoulder. It’s too hard. It almost knocks me over. ‘Give the fucker a good warning.’ He jolts his head at me. ‘You know what I mean.’ I look around the gang. It’s clear what I have to do. I know it and I’m not scared. I’m committed now. I’ve chosen a side and I’ve got to follow through. I ain’t got any option. Never been brave enough to make a choice. I’ve just let everything go and been pulled along. Same now. ‘Yeah.’ I can’t say anything else. What can I say? Nothing’s going to change round here. Not for me. Not for my little boy. This is the fucking life I’ve got. My mouth is clenched. It’s so dry. I need water or tea or squash. I ain’t drank that shit since I puked all over Mum, but I’d neck a bottle in one right now. I shuffle on my feet. They’re moving side to side. I try and stop them, but I can’t. It makes my stomach go inside out. It’s making me buzz. My heart’s pumping madly. I look at my hands. They’re steady. Calm. Ready. Phil places a knife in my palm. The blade is about half a foot. It’s sharp and smooth. The other edge is serrated, like you could use it for sawing off people’s legs. It flashes in the sun. It’s heavy. Much more so than kitchen knives. It’s proper steel. Proper metal. A weapon. The light bounces off it, orange and black and white. I see it hanging in the air, changing positions in my outstretched hand. I watch it hack and jab and slice the thin air. It’s in my back pocket. I’m pacing through the alley that leaves the third courtyard in from the Brickworks. I reach the access road and walk. The BMX kids watch me go past. They don’t say anything. I don’t look at them. I only move forward. The knife weighs down my trackie bottoms. I have to keep pulling them up. The cord’s disappeared into one of the waistband holes so I can’t even tie them. I worry about showing off my arse. I lose focus and start to see the buildings again. I’m almost at the prick. I’d tried not to think. Shut all that shit out. It was better like that, but I understand what I have to do. A warning. More than just a threat. Not too deep, but they got to feel like it could’ve been. I can feel my heels treading on the bottom of my trackies. I pull them up and take out the knife. It rolls over in my hand. Fuck it’s heavy. I look around in panic and quickly stash it in my trackie top. The pockets aren’t deep enough so I have to keep my hand on it to hide it properly. I get to the last block and go around the back. I know where they’ll be. Just at the end of the alley behind the communal bin wall. They can look out from all sides to check for the old bill or rivals. Everyone knows that’s where to buy and sell. The cops must know it too. Fucking shows how good they are, stupid cunts. Fucking police. They know what’s going on, they just don’t give a shit. They’re happy to let us tear each other to shreds. Don’t want to get involved. What for? I understand. We ain’t worth it. A bunch of niggers and some stupid scum white boys, or the Pakis for that matter. No one cared when they were getting fucked over. Cops have got better things to worry about. Like some posh cunt’s car gets nicked or a rich little girl goes missing. Why are they worth more than us? Stuff like that is all you ever fucking see on telly. A load of shit that keeps it just nasty enough for all the nice folks to stay inside. I don’t get no choice. I haven’t even got a flat to stay inside of. And we ain’t never going to get one, are we? There aren’t even enough and who chooses anyway? It ain’t the Pakis fault, is it? I bet they don’t want to live here either. I feel sorry for them. It’s the cunts who put them there that I hate. They’re the fuckers who make us do these things. They should try living here for a while before telling us how shit we are. I’m raging. I can feel it pulsing through me. I want to destroy stuff. I want to kick in windows and axe furniture and throw all the stuff off the sideboard onto the floor, just like in a movie. My blood is boiling. There’s a fire burning in my guts. It’s ice cold. It’s jolting through my muscles, making me twitch for violence. I walk through the alley and look out over the prick. I see someone just standing there. I can see their back and their tight black curly hair. It’s the dealer from the Handonwell gang. I don’t even think. I storm towards them, not running, but determined, like a soldier. I’m gripping the handle of the knife. Every step closer my burning gets worse. I’m trembling. I’m furious, ready to strike, ready to destroy all the shit which fucks me over. I’m two metres away and pull the knife out of my pocket. I don’t see the blade. It’s part of me. I can feel the air sliced by the tip. I’ve transformed into a warrior like the cartoons I used to watch. I’m one step away. I’ve centred the target. On the right side, just above the arse cheek. I pull my arm back. It’s fluid. I lunge at the dealer just as they turn to face me. Everything falls apart. I drop the knife and it clinks on the tarmac. The metallic tings rattle around the prick and all is still until they fade. Our eyes are locked on each other. It’s Madu. He hasn’t changed. It’s exactly Madu. His glare crawls over my face. His lips curl. He smiles. It’s like being hugged or doing a shot. It’s warm. It makes me feel comfortable, easy. But it’s hard too. My mind’s everywhere. I’m pissing into a coke can with him. I see the blood on his white teeth. We’re playing one touch. Madu does a Vs to some Paki kids. He’s in the playground staring at me as I’m dragged away. He’s small. He’s bigger than me. His grin goes right around his face and I laugh and laugh and laugh and can’t stop for hours. His smile drops and he looks down at the blade. He pushes me hard on the shoulder and I stagger backwards. ‘What the fuck, Dean?’ Madu stares at me and then back at the knife. He reads my face. He’s closer to it than I am. His voice is different. He sounds like a pussy gangster rapper, but it’s Madu. I can tell it’s him. Maybe my voice has changed too. I’ve changed. Madu kicks the knife away. ‘Fuck.’ He spits it out. ‘You gonna stab me up?’The knife is on the other side of the car park. He could’ve picked it up. I don’t know what to do. I shrug my shoulders. ‘Dunno.’ I shake my head. ‘Yeah.’Madu’s arched shoulders drop. He swings on his hips. He’s tall and thin. His clothes are loose and they make him look bigger, but he ain’t. He’s skinnier than me. He looks fucked up. ‘You alright man?’ I ask him because I’m worried. He looks sick. No, he’s off his head on something. His bright eyes are blotchy red and his cheekbones stick out, pulling his skin tight to his teeth. He doesn’t say anything. ‘What the fuck you doing selling around here?’ I take a step forward and Madu backs off. He waves his hand across his body. ‘What do you think?’ He rolls his eyes like I’m stupid, but I know what he means. We’re just stuck here and neither gang give a shit. Madu can’t stand up straight without wobbling. I feel a pinch in my ribs. It’s so hard and painful. I can’t get enough air. It’s heartburn and the shits all rolled into one. I panic.‘Madu, you’ve got to go. They’re going to fuck you up man.’ I move towards him as I speak. His head comes up to meet mine. He pulls his lips back and bares his teeth.‘What the fuck do you care?’ The words are blunt and dull and rips through my skin. ‘Everyone knows you sell for those cunts.’ He brings his face close to mine. ‘You know what they think about people like me. And Pakis and chinks.’ I can’t answer. I can’t say anything. I feel weak. Madu hardens his pose and his eyes stare into mine. ‘I’m just another nigger to you.’ ‘You’re my friend.’ It comes out on its own. It drags all the pain from me. I don’t want to smash stuff anymore. I just want to go home. ‘Fuck, Dean.’ Madu’s sways backwards and around in a hoop. ‘What’s wrong with you man?’ He tries to stand upright, but his shoulders are all wonky. He whispers. ‘You’re not my friend.’ I choke. I feel guilty. I want to help him, but I can’t. I know I can’t. I gather the spit in my mouth. There’s only a drop and it’s impossible to swallow. It sits at the back of my throat, tickling. I want to tell Madu I’m sorry. I want to explain. I need to say it. Madu looks past me. A couple of BMX kids are staring at us from the other side of the prick. One of them takes out their phone. I hit Madu on the shoulder. ‘Go. Fucking get out of here.’ Madu doesn’t move, just stares back at me blankly. ‘Fucking, now.’ I hit him again harder. I punch him on the arm, but nothing. I’m shaking all over. I’m pumping and angry and afraid. I push Madu again. ‘Get out of here, Madu. Go.’ He snaps and pushes his chest out at me.‘Where the fuck am I going to go?’ He takes a step forward until I can feel his breath on my face. His eyes are deep and full of pain. I feel regret. What has happened to him? He speaks slower. It’s deliberate. ‘Where the fuck am I going to go?’‘Madu, please.’ I stare at him. I stare right into his blood red eyes. They twitch. He snorts viciously, turns and stumbles off towards the Handonwell Junction. Madu’s right. Where can we go? I can’t do nothing. I can’t change nothing. Neither of us can. We’re fucked. We were born fucked. My boy’s going to be fucked. Hands grab my shoulders and jerk me backwards. I hit the floor hard and bang my head. Pain staggers through me. It’s dark. It’s blurred. I can see light and buildings. Madu’s gone but the noise of traffic and shouting comes through. I try and roll over but there’s a weight on my chest, pinning me down. It’s crushing. A face looks down on me. I blink to clear the mist from my eyes. It’s Simon. He punches me in the face. It knocks my head to the side and I scrape my cheek on the tarmac. Dull throbs pulse through me. I don’t feel pain exactly, but I’m broken. Damaged. Fingers grip my hair and drag my face back round. I force my eyes to open. Simon draws his fist back. He’s happy in his hatred. He wants to smash everything. I understand him. He’s about to strike, but looks to one side. He lowers his fist and moves off me. I cough up blood as the breath escapes my lungs. I wipe my face with my hand. It’s snot and blood. Green, yellow and red liquid soaking into dirt. Phil’s face appears above me. It’s at an angle.‘We’re done, Dean. Understand? We’re equal now.’ He snorts. ‘If you ain’t on our side, then next time, you’re just another nigger.’ He sniffs hard and pulls phlegm from the back of his throat. He flobs on me. He leaves. I wipe Phil’s spit from my face. It mixes with my own. I can hear shouting. I prop myself up on my elbows. It takes a moment to get my bearings. I follow the sounds and turn my head to see the gang from Addington waving their arms at the Junction. I blink a few times and rub my eyes. I focus. I can’t see Madu. He’s gone. A fist slams into my head, knocking me back to the floor. Phil leans over me, knife in hand. He gobs on me again and then puts the blade in his pocket. The gang swagger off slowly. They clap each other on the back and spit and swear and laugh. They rule the estates. I hate them. I feel liquid dripping from my face. There are droplets of blood appearing on the tarmac. They look brown against the grey floor. I take in a deep breath and stand properly upright. Legs are okay. Just my head is all wishy washy. Sounds come and go in fuzzy waves. I can’t keep my eyes on one thing. They wander off on their own and swoop and climb and circle. I pinch my thigh. I press it as hard as I can. It brings me around. I stagger and sway through the estate. My blood drips in a trail that trickles out behind me. I reach my courtyard and drag myself up the stairwell, step by step, each one a battle. I think only of my flat. I reach the sixth floor and slam my fist weakly into the blue surface. The door opens and I push past Georgina. I don’t even see her face. I just drop onto the sofa. I can hear strong deep rasping breaths. It’s mine. My ribs are cracking under the pressure. I’m wheezing in desperate gasps of barbed wire air. I’m choking on salt water running down my throat. I cough it up and spit blood and mucus all over myself and the sofa and the floor. My chest is tearing apart. Pain everywhere. I don’t care. All I see is Madu fucked up and stumbling away. I hope he’s safe. But, I can’t do nothing. I look at Georgina. She’s white. Her eyes are puffed and she’s streaming tears down her cheeks. Her hands are by her side. She doesn’t move. I understand. I’ve fucked everything up.The police wanted answers, but Dean said nothing. He had been attacked from behind. He didn’t know by whom. The gang were arrested and released. The police moved on. The journalists fired off another story about the troubled estates and the morally corrupt scum who lived there. The slant was on drugs and gangs. They were all deprived together. The jury was in, there was no hope left on Eldon. The tabloids got bored and packed up, leaving Dean with all his fight gone. After his kicking he spent three months living with Georgina’s Mum. It was easier for him than the rest of the family moving. He spent his days with Georgina’s Nan. He fed her and cleaned her. It was calming and reassuring. Many times when Georgina’s Mum was at work, he’d pull up a dining room chair and hug the old lady. He could stay like that for hours. Sometimes thinking of Madu. Sometimes thinking of Ghalia. Sometimes thinking of nothing at all. His body recovered quickly, but it took him a few weeks before he could face Georgina. They first time they met was in the courtyard of Dean’s block. He sat next to her on the wall and rested his head on her shoulder. The second time Georgina held him back. When he moved back into his Mum’s flat, the relationship had changed. The sparked conflict had been replaced with flat continuity. They began to bond as a family. The childhood affair was over and their emotions fused as the adults they’d had to become. However, they were in a financial crisis. Without the regular income from Dean’s job, they had to dip into the savings he’d not so secretly put aside. Dean came clean about his involvement with the gang and where he’d got all the money. Georgina had known all along, but had turned a blind eye for the sake of Harry. Even so, he was still a cunt for getting himself in too deep and almost getting killed. Although, she admitted, they had needed the money. They still needed it. They spent their days worrying and any arguments they had were centred around it. What were they going to do when the savings ran out? They both looked for work but it was impossible to find anything. They took it in turns to do the shopping runs for the old folks and even managed to get a few others on the books, but it was never enough, not even close. They had nothing but each other and the few quid both their Mums could spare now and again. They waited for word from the council about a flat, but nothing came. They were stuck on Eldon. Cast out from the greater city networks and left to fight, hand to mouth, for survival. They were the lowest of the low. The dregs. They were scum. Summer 2005Pictures of Prince Harry wearing a Nazi uniform published in national newspapers. Four British men released from Guantanamo Bay detention centre after three years without charge, an estimated five hundred and twenty inmates still remain. The Prevention of Terrorism Act receives Royal Assent. Three British Soldiers found guilty of abusing Iraqi prisoners. TV show EastEnders celebrates its 20th Anniversary. A series of co-ordinated terrorist bombs explode across the London transport system. The Metropolitan Police mistakenly kill a Brazilian student believing him to be a suicide bomber. James Blunt’s ‘You’re Beautiful’ tops the singles chart and is followed by Crazy Frog’s version of ‘Axel F’. On the morning of the London bombings Dean was in South London General waiting for Georgina to give birth to their second child. This time he’d been at Georgina’s side all through the labour. She’d been admitted the previous afternoon and the whole family had come too. Dean’s Mum had gone home with Harry just after midnight and promised to come again it if wasn’t all over by lunchtime. The four of them all still lived together in the same flat. It was cluttered and cramped, but they’d found a routine that just about allowed them to cohabit without killing each other. Dean’s Mum was out most of the time and Georgina had found some odd babysitting jobs whilst Dean still did shopping for the older residents. All the savings from his time with the gang were gone and they just about made ends meet with the extra cash the two Mums gave them. Georgina’s Nan had died a year back to the painful relief of the family, which meant a little extra money flowed in the young family’s direction. They still hadn’t gone to Spain or bought a BMX for Harry. They lived out of charity shops, discount supermarkets and hand-me-acrosses from the extended connections of Georgina’s Mum’s gossip vine. The couple had settled into an everyday tolerance of each other. They got by and kept it together. The new child was an accident from their infrequent couplings. Neither seriously considered abortion and neither ignored the possible incentive for the council to give them a flat. As Georgina’s belly grew, so did their hopes for social housing. As long as it wasn’t stillborn, Dean’s Mum was ready with the forms and prepped to post. This time they were bound to get something. The unborn foetus became the family’s unspoken hope. Dean kicked about in the corridor watching the nurses pass by. He checked out a few, but couldn’t get any fantasies going. He drifted off into sleep a few times only to be woken by the automatic lights flicking back on when someone moved across the tiles. It was really boring being a dad, at least mums had something to do during labour. He wondered if it hurt as much as they said. Maybe women all just ganged up and agreed to pretend it was painful. It couldn’t be worse than getting hit in the nuts though. Just thinking about it sent a pulsing cord through his abdomen. The worst time was when Madu had got into a strop during one touch and thrown a tennis ball at him. It was just unlucky, but Dean still remembered how the pain traced up through his balls and swelled in his abdomen just above the base of his cock. He’d collapsed, holding his testicles for dear life while Madu mimicked him, laughing so hard he couldn’t stand up. The pair had rolled around on the floor until Dean farted and the pain subsided. By then they were both in fits and re-enacted the whole thing for the rest of the morning. Dean smiled at the memory and swallowed back the emotions threatening to rush through him. He had no idea what had happened to Madu. About a year after the beating by the gang from Addington, Dean had seen Madu selling around the Handonwell Junction. They’d nodded at each other, but nothing else. Days later, Dean had found him slumped unconscious between the swelling communal bins in the courtyard. He’d looked a proper state, like the drought victims Dean remembered seeing on children’s news programme. Dean had called 999 and then slunk back to his flat and waited on the walkway until the ambulance came. He’d wished he could’ve done more. He should’ve done more, but he’d not known what to do. He’d not seen or heard anything about Madu since. Dean hoped he hadn’t snuffed it. He thought about ice-sliding. Dean pulled his head up and looked around the maternity ward. So many posters bearing wise advice and pictures of healthy families. He’d never really thought about children, just had them. Harry had turned up and joined their lives, and Dean loved him, but he still didn’t really see the point. It was just a given that people were going to have kids. That was how it was. Fucking and breeding and fucking and breeding. There had to be a reason for it somewhere. He got the fucking part. He even saw the benefits of being a father. But, in general, why bother with it? Perhaps there just wasn’t anything else. He stumbled in and out of thought as his eyelids weighed heavy on his tired body. Georgina was making a right song and dance over it. He’d been here for hours and could really do with some proper sleep. He dozed off and was woken by a sharp tap on his shoulder. A nurse with a school ma’am face stood over him. If he wanted to be there for Georgina, now was the time. Without speaking, he followed the nurse obediently through the ward and into the delivery room.It’s so bright in here. Won’t it scare the baby? It’s noisy. Everyone’s talking and there’s a weird rumbling coming from somewhere. I look through the army of green bodies and see Georgina on the bed. She’s breathing like on the telly when they have a baby. She’s sweating and gulping in huge mouthfuls of breath. It sounds like a broken vacuum cleaner. They pull Georgina up onto some cushions and I force myself to look down between her legs. My chest contracts and I stop breathing. Her cunt is wide open and covered in thick red blood. Somebody pushes past me, but I want to see. I crane my neck to get a better view. Georgina’s pussy looks so big and round. I didn’t imagine it could go like this. I’ve put four fingers up her, but I’ve never managed a full fist. Now it looks like she’d be able to take my whole arm and some of my leg. I can see something inside. It looks like a mangled lump of meat. A nurse runs a cloth around it. I feel myself get hard, but I’m not even turned on. It’s disgusting. Like a proper horror film. All the nurses are talking at the same time and Georgina’s just in the middle huffing and puffing and making faces like she’s doing a shit. But actually, it’s more like me doing a shit. Georgina’s dumps smell the worst, but they just pop out and she doesn’t even look like she’s straining. A nurse knocks me again as they rush past with some tool or whatnot. I don’t move. I just stand, almost like I’m not here. Nobody is looking at me. I don’t know what to do. The nurses all start to babble at once. Georgina cries out like she’s been stabbed up and a lump of flesh pops out of her crack. It’s the fucking head. A baby’s head. How did that get out of that? It’s huge. It’s meat, cut straight from the pig and covered in gloop. It’s ugly and mank and fucking evil. Georgina howls and cries out. Who the fuck came up with this? Does every baby born fuck up their mothers so badly? The nurses twist and tug and wrench the rest of it from Georgina. I can see it’s human now. With arms and legs and all the other shit. The cord hangs between the baby and Georgina’s cunt. They’re connected, like an electric cable. It just takes all the stuff down the tube and then never stops eating, even when it comes out. That little sperm nicking all the good stuff from Georgina and then growing and growing inside. It’s like cancer. The nurse cuts the cord and cuddles the baby up in a towel. Georgina’s pussy looks like a proper axe wound, blood and gunk everywhere. She’s collapsed back on her pillow. She’s pale and blotchy. She could be dead. I don’t know anything. It’s war. Maternal bond bullshit. It’s war. Just blood and meat and fighting to survive. Is that what it’s all about? A nurse cleans up Georgina and covers her up. Another brings the baby over to her. A nurse waves for me to go closer. I shuffle along the edge of the bed. Georgina’s got a proper face on, like she’s just finished the London marathon. She looks at me and smiles. Fuck, how can she smile after that? Probably all the drugs they’ve got her on. I could do with some of them too. I put my hand onto Georgina’s shoulder and look down at our child. I’m proud of her, going through all that shit for this. And I bet the little fucker will give her nothing but grief. I need to tell my Mum I love her. I’ve never told her. I’m going to love this thing. Hang on, I don’t even know if it’s a boy or girl. ‘What is it?’ I look up. There are only two nurses. I could have sworn there were more. I wasn’t really thinking. The black nurse is cleaning up and nods at the baby.‘Have a look.’ She’s got a strong accent. It’s lovely. I follow her gaze back all the way to my baby. I lean down and kiss Georgina on the cheek. The baby’s face is all squished like roadkill. It looks like Harry. Its brother. I’ve got two kids. Fuck, that’s more than my Mum. I’m a proper dad now. I take hold of the side of the towel on the kid and pull it back. Its body is all purple and beetroot. There’s a lump sticking out of its belly with a peg on it. I look at the bulging stomach. It makes the insides of my thighs go weak and tingly. I picture the peg popping out and a gush of blood and baby insides spraying all over the room and into my mouth. It makes me retch. I’m going to puke. It comes up my throat but I hold it. I look around but the nurses are busy. They don’t see me and I can’t speak or I’ll throw up all over Georgina. I turn and rush out the double doors. I find a bin and puke up in there. The air stinks of bin liners and bile. The smell makes it worse and I bring up another mouthful. The black nurse comes out of the delivery room and hands me a towel.‘Don’t worry, I seen older men than you do much worse.’ She pats my back as I rub the towel over my face. It’s rough. It feels like I’m scraping the top layer of skin off. I clean up, use my tongue to tease out the last lumps of sick and feel a lot better. ‘Is it all gone?’ She asks as I spit the last lumps into the bin. I look at the nurse properly for the first time. She’s got a really dark round face, with black dots all over it. Her nose is flat with huge nostrils that disappear like caves into her skull. She’s old and beautiful and I want her to be my grandmother. She puts a hand on my shoulder and I feel warm through all my body.‘Go home and sleep. Georgina and your son need to rest.’ She pats me. ‘Come back in a few hours and bring the whole family.’ The sentences wash over me and I don’t get what she’s saying. I look past her at the double doors. They’ve got silver and black scrapes across the middle. The nurse’s words finally hit me.‘It’s a boy?’ She nods her head. I want to see him again and hold him in my arms. I feel such a pussy puking up. I try to walk past the nurse but she puts out an arm to stop me.‘You been through a lot too. Go home.’ Her voice is deep and liquid and I feel hypnotised. I turn and walk through the corridors and out of the hospital. I step out into the car park and the daylight brings me up. It’s morning. It must be early. I check my phone. Nearly quarter to nine. I can go home and kip for a few hours and be back after lunch. I can’t wait to tell Harry that he’s got a little brother. And Mum, I need to tell her I love her. I have to remember that because it’s true. She’s always looked after me as best she could. Just because I didn’t have a BMX or my own telly doesn’t mean she didn’t love me. I know she did. I can feel it. Like Georgina, but different. More like how I love Harry. I don’t think about it, it’s just there swishing around me. I look at him and I love him and want to take care of him and make him happy. Even when he’s a little shit and he knows he’s being a little shit. He’s old enough now to know what he’s doing, little bastard. He’s a naughty son of a bitch. Always knocking stuff over and throwing his food on the floor. I never thought, that means Georgina’s a bitch. I’m not even saying bad stuff to Harry, just slagging off his Mum. Yeah, mums get a lot of shit. Poor bitches. I reach the entrance to the car park and cross the road to the bus stop. I can get the forty eight direct or the one three four and walk from Addington High Street. The countdown board says no information available, as bloody usual. I don’t know why they bothered putting them up, they never fucking work. And what’s it matter anyway? You’ve still got to get the bus if it’s one minute or twenty one minutes. I can hear sirens. They’re coming down the road. All the cars have stopped and are letting the cops through. Fucking hell, there’s loads of them. Like at least fifty. Or maybe around ten. But I’ve never seen so many. There’re proper going for it. Whizzing through the traffic like on telly. But not American programmes, they always look well cool. British cops are lame and most don’t even have guns. But in real, I’m glad they don’t have guns. They’re still going past. What the fuck’s happened? Maybe someone’s tried to blow up the Queen. I imagine Fuckingham Paleass exploding into a million bits and pieces and the Queen going ‘One does not approve’. I laugh at my posh accent. But, they fucking should do that. The royal family just stole all the money anyway. They should turn all the castles and stuff into Disneylands and make a load of money for the country. We were told in school that all the royal stuff is owned by us. So if it’s worth billions of pounds they should sell it to Americans and share the profits out. I reckon me and Georgina would get a few thousand quid each. We ain’t ever going to meet the old cow. She can fuck off and all the rest of the tossers who lick her arse. She’s just a person. Who gives a fuck? It would be cool to be king. Georgina would be queen and Harry and…He doesn’t have a name yet. What are we going to call it? I reckon it should be James after James Bond, but Georgina’s Mum wants a pussy boyband name like Duke or Jaden or Tyler. They’re not even real names. I like Russell too. A couple of ambulances zoom out of the access road next to the car park. As they swing onto the road they put their sirens on. They go in the same direction as the police. Some of the cars on the street are doing u-turns and driving away from central London. The bus stop countdown still says no information available. Lots of cars are turning around now. There’s a lot of beeping and no order. They’re all trying to do it at the same time. And really fast. My heart’s pumping hard. I walk over to a smart looking car and knock on the window.‘What’s going on?’ I shout through the glass. The man inside is dressed in a suit. He glances at me quickly. He looks shit scared. He doesn’t answer, he just grabs his wheel and starts to turn. He doesn’t care that I’m here and I have to jump back to stop myself getting run over. I tell him to fuck off and give him a wanker sign. I don’t think any buses are coming. Everything’s gone haywire. I see people coming up the street towards me. A whole group of them. But they ain’t together. They’re all on their own. Just bunched up. I ask the first few that pass.‘What’s going on?’ They don’t say anything, just brush past. I panic and ask more, but they do the same. I grab a young woman in a power suit. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ She looks scared. She tries to pull her arm away from my grip, but I won’t let her go. ‘Tell me.’ She pants. Her chest is bursting. I let go of her hand. I don’t know what to do. I need to know. ‘Please. What’s happening?’ ‘An attack.’‘What?’ I don’t get it. She shakes her head. ‘Explosions. Bombs.’ She looks me straight in the eye. ‘They think it’s a terrorist attack.’ She rushes off without looking up. I watch her disappear amongst the other people. My head is fuzzy. I can hear sirens everywhere. I look at the hospital. It’s okay. Georgina’s safe. What about Mum and Harry? I take out my phone and call Mum. It doesn’t connect. I look around in a panic. Everyone’s on their phones. The network must be overloaded. I write a text and it sends. I start walking in the opposite direction of everyone else. I kick my feet up, halfway between walking and running. As I get close to the centre there are more and more people. The roads are almost empty of cars. People are flooding up the road towards me. So many of them. They fill the street in every direction. A wall of bodies trying to get out. It’s like those refugees I saw on the news once. They were carrying all they owned in wheelbarrows and on their shoulders. They walked for hundreds of miles to escape. Loads of kids too. I felt sorry for them. I didn’t understand why they had to leave their homes. All these people here are in suits and ties with briefcases and rucksacks. No one speaks. They walk in silence. I push through the crowd. No one looks at me. No one thinks I did it. My pocket vibrates. Mum and Harry are safe. I let out a lungful of nervous air I didn’t know I was holding. I stop walking and the crowd drags me with them. I get myself to the side of the street and climb up some entrance steps to get out of the flow. In every direction the roads are packed. Curb to curb, people shuffle out of the city. There ain’t no fancy cars or trains or jumbo jets or helicopters or nothing. Everyone walks the same way together, away from the violence. It’s funny when you think about it. That’s how we all live back on Eldon. Everyday. But we can’t just get in our suits and shift out to our four bed detached house with a ten foot fucking fence around it. We have to live with it every bastard day. This ain’t nothing special. It’s the same shit, just bigger. I don’t know who did it. Probably IRA or the same people who blew up the twin towers in New York. But they’re just getting revenge. No different from the estates. Kill a black kid, kill a white kid, kill a black kid, kill a white kid, kill a Paki, a Paki kills black and white and everyone kills each other. That’s fucking life. None of these cunts know that though. They’re all the fucking same. We’re all the fucking same, me and all. People aren’t different, they’re just greedy and stupid. It makes me mad. I’m feeling so fucking angry. The whole thing. I hate all these people and I hate the terrorists who blew up whatever they blew up. I hate them because they think they have a right to do it. I just had a kid today. No one has the right to kill it. Not even me or Georgina. I look at them herding past. All black and white. Like fucking robots. ‘Cunts.’ I shout it as loud as I can. Spit flies out of my mouth and covers my face. I don’t care. ‘Cunts.’ I shout it again and again. I don’t even know why. I’m just torn up and twisted inside and my whole body has gone into a frenzy like I’m having an epi. But I can’t stop, I just need to shout and scream and cry out. ‘Cunts. Cunts. Cunts.’ I’m out of breath. My throat is raw. I stop. I bend over and take in air. I feel lighter. It’s gone. I think of my new baby, James or Russell or Jaden, who cares what it’s called. I see his flat, scrunched up face and his flapping stump arms and I want to cry. I love him from everywhere in my body. I think of Harry, the little fucker, and it’s the same. I don’t know why. There’s no reason. I can’t answer. It’s just there. I need to get home to my son. I look up. No one even noticed me. No one gives a shit. I barge through the crowd, knocking everyone out of the way if they get in my path. They can’t do nothing. I get to the A48 and drop off at the Handonwell Junction. I hop the wall and speed through the estate. It’s quiet. A ghost town. I see a few people looking out from their walkways. They see me and then look into the distance towards central London. I don’t even care about them, I just want to get home. As soon as I open the door Mum gives me a huge hug. She’s crying. Harry’s on the floor playing with a toy car. He doesn’t even look at me. We sit down on the sofa. Mum’s got the telly on. It’s saying the same thing over and over again. Terrorist attack on London. Tube trains and buses were blown up. There’s pictures of all the people hurt, with blood streaming down their faces. Their eyes are all open and wide and they look fucked up. The reporters put microphones in their faces. There are loads of ambulances and police vans and people wandering like they’re lost. It’s mental. Properly mental. I try and feel sorry for them, but I can’t. They’re too distant. There’s nothing inside for them. Mum is crying. She’s all bent over watching the news. I feel sorry for her. I put my arm around her shoulders and she cuddles into me. I feel her body shaking with sobs. Harry makes a crashing noise when he smashes two cars together. I kiss my Mum’s head. Her hair is wiry on my lips and smells of smoke. I hold her tighter.‘You’ve got another grandson.’Dean forgot to tell his Mum that he loved her. Instead, he went to bed and slept for a few hours before walking back to the hospital. The new parents didn’t call their new boy Jaden or Russell or Tyler. They argued for a while and then Georgina suggested Matthew. Dean was ready to say no, but it caught him. It sounded right, good somehow, and he couldn’t see the kid with another name. Although she’d only mentioned it on a whim, Georgina completely agreed. Matthew slept through the entire discussion. He woke up marked and labelled. He cried, shat himself and puked on Dean. It was a wonderful afternoon. Five people over three generations levered themselves into the Dean’s Mum’s flat. It was a tight squeeze and the addition of Matthew added to the economic problems. All they could do was walk eggshell steps around each other and wait for the council’s response. Dean tried again to find work. He managed to pick up a contract with a sports chain down on Addington High Street. The only problem was that it didn’t guarantee any hours, so he never knew when he would be asked to work. The first time they called him to cover a shift, he was already mid supermarket trip and had to say no. They didn’t call again. Apart from the regular shopping runs, he really had no other form of income. Deep down, he didn’t really want to work as some loser sports shop assistant, it was hardly his great ambition in life. But he didn’t actually know what was, or even if there was a point to having one. He remembered when he was a kid and he used to set himself challenges, like drinking a glass of squash in one, or climbing on top of the garages or, even better, jumping off them. He’d felt great when he’d finally done it, but it was only temporary. It didn’t change his life, it didn’t make him a different person. He kept on going in the same way he had before. Maybe all ambitions were the same, just a bit bigger. How could that be it? Otherwise you’d have to kill yourself as soon as you’d reached your goal. And what was the point in that? Dean knew he wanted more money and a place for his family to live, but that was it. His satisfaction didn’t come from collecting the cash at the end of a shopping run, it was the time he spent chatting to the old dears. They were all so lonely. He had become the highlight of their week. Even more than their favourite television programme. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it made him proud and happy and content. To know that he actually made people’s lives better somehow. Of course, the old biddies blabbered on about nothing most of the time and they usually repeated the same stuff again and again and again, but it didn’t matter to Dean. Through the shopping runs he’d learnt to recognise the happiness in his own life. Teaching Harry one touch. Cuddling up to Georgina when the boys were asleep. Being the first one to see Matthew smile. Getting drunk with his Mum on fizzy wine. Just sitting in the living room watching telly with his family. He was content. Almost. Thoughts niggled at him daily. There was something missing that he couldn’t put his finger on. It lingered in the background, hollowing out more and more space in his mind. He found himself dwelling on a thought that he could not articulate. It was just present, somewhere inside. It was over a cup of stewed tea in the ground floor flat of one of his old dears that he started getting close. He sat on the dusty armchair at an angle to the television whilst she doddled backwards and forwards between the coffee table and the kitchen. First she brought out a plate of biscuits, bourbons especially for Dean. Then a sugar bowl. Then a milk jug. Then the two cups and saucers. And finally the pot of tea. He didn’t have the heart to suggest she used a tray, or even offer to help. He knew she wanted to feel useful and still able to host guests. Dean never said much with this one. He just sat, drank his tea and listened to her prattle on about whatever it was she’d seen on television that morning. She started gassing and Dean turned off. He took up the tiny teacup and dunked a biscuit. He held it too long and it dropped off into the cup. He swore out loud and looked up guiltily. She didn’t even bat an eyelid, just carried on. Normally Dean would have returned to feigned interest, but the old lady said a word that caught his attention. She was talking about a news report she’d seen on the Muslims. They were having an awful time of it since those terrorist attacks. People calling them names and the police always arresting them for nothing and stuck up politicians saying they didn’t belong in the country. She could still remember a time when we were so proud of ourselves because we were in their country. Why did the British Empire take over all those places and give them democracy and freedom if the people there weren’t allowed to come to England? She had a lovely home help woman who came in once a week to change the sheets and give the house a clean. She was a darkie. Not like the black ones who could speak English properly, but the lighter coloured ones with the strong accents that sounded like poems. She was very nice and friendly and always stayed longer than she needed too. She had told the old dear that she couldn’t walk anywhere without someone shouting abuse. The old woman’s craggy face stiffened. It made her furious. What ever happened to common decency? It’s a disgrace and those people on the telly just made it worse. They should be ashamed of themselves, being so nasty like that. No wonder everyone was so violent nowadays. It wasn’t safe to leave your house anymore. Those Islams really did get a raw deal. If everyone got punished every time a loony did something stupid, we’d all have permanent red backsides. Then she started repeating herself and Dean made his excuses to leave. He grabbed a handful of biscuits on the way out, Bourbons were his favourite after all. The encounter sparked a train of thought in Dean. He wandered home, taking a roundabout route through the estate courtyards. He started to look at the blocks more closely and saw how separate they were. Almost every building contained a homogenous group, bundled together and sectioned off. If it wasn’t the whole block, then it would be segregated by floors. Dean wondered why they chose to live apart from everyone else? Why didn’t they make an effort to join in? No wonder they got the hassle they did. If they shut themselves off then what did they expect? He arrived at his courtyard and made his way up to the sixth floor. As he reached the top of the stairwell he looked out over the patchy tarmac that ran between the three buildings. He stopped and stared. Why was Madu’s block mostly black and why was Ghalia’s mostly Pakistani? Did they choose that? How could they? Him and Georgina couldn’t even get out of his Mum’s flat, let alone decide on where they wanted to live. Perhaps the council put them there. Swept them under the carpet all together. Let us deal with them. He looked at the graffiti fa?ade of Ghalia’s block. Dean couldn’t hold his eyes on it. His head turned away and he thought of the old dear he’d just had tea with. Was it really their fault? Did they deserve it? He’d tried to avoid seeing what had been happening, but the estate whispers were too loud for him to ignore. Everyone knew that the suicide bombers had been British born Islamists and the guided retribution had been harsh. Alongside the verbal and physical abuse, there had been more symbolic assaults. Pigs’ heads on doorsteps, alcohol through letter boxes. The people in Ghalia’s block got so much stick, but they hadn’t blown up the twin towers, had they? And the talking heads on telly were no better. In one sentence they’d say we’re all equal, slag off the BFP and demand that we must respect everyone’s culture and religion. Then in the next breath, they’d go on about how headscarves should be banned and we should stop letting anyone with a different opinion in the country. No wonder the Muslim fuckers got it bad. It seemed to Dean that everyone from top to bottom knew these Muslims were incompatible with British values. Forcing their women to hide, not learning English, wanting their own schools, fighting for sharia law, which, according to the BFP, was where they cut hands off for stealing and tongues out for lying and stoned women to death for having sex with their boyfriends. They weren’t like us and everyone knew it. The short blotchy BFP man in a suit returned with his stalwart companion, who led new recruits in dropping marketing leaflets through the doors of the white estate residents. Their ‘I told you so’ tagline was reiterated across the twin estates, becoming an almost daily occurrence after the terrorist attacks. Dean kept a wide berth, mainly because he didn’t want to see Phil, who now accompanied party leader, Len Coombes, everywhere he campaigned. The gang from Addington had moved on from dealing drugs after Dan Jenkins had been jailed for possession of a firearm and Matthew Cobb had overdosed. Nowadays, Phil wore suits and curbed his language. He no longer ran the drugs trade on the twin estates, but had hand-picked the BMX kids who were now in charge and who enacted the BFP’s underlying message on his behalf, attacking anyone whose skin colour and dress roughly correlated to their assumptions of what a Muslim looked like. The War on Terror was brought to its logical conclusion in the walkways of the twin estates, where the vigilantes of the right were just doing their bit to fight imported terrorism.Georgina’s Mum’s gossip channels absorbed all life on the estates and the anecdotes, arguments and carefully selected facts dispersed through the community, picking up sentiment and skewed justification on the way. As well as the usual complaints, they now stood on a foundation of accusation. It was a mad moral inversion to protect these Muslims, so some of the papers said. They weren’t victims of oppression, they were the perpetrators of crimes against the hard working British public. And although they might not have triggered the bombs themselves, if you read the surveys and checked the stats, most of them sympathised or even openly supported the attacks. Well if they hated Britain so much, why didn’t they just go back to where they came from? It was time to stop blaming the victims. Just because whites were the majority, it didn’t mean they were being ‘oppressive’ or didn’t have rights. And it was about bloody time that was recognised by those in power. Them at the top didn’t listen to the likes of the estate folks. It was them at the top who put the Muslims and Blacks here in the first place. And if they couldn’t see the problem, the BFP would rub their bloody faces in it. They were too politically correct to tell the truth about immigration and how it affected the lives of honest hardworking whites, only the BFP were brave enough to do so. These newcomers took the jobs, the houses and the benefits that should be given to the white families who’d been here for thousands of years. But the underlying message of the BFP manifesto was more than that. The immigrants were different to us. They wanted to change our way of life. They were an infestation threatening to take over and make Britain their own. It was clear. Just look at the terrorist attacks and how all those Human Rights groups and the Government protected the perpetrators and the people sympathetic to the cause. Britain was being given away right under our noses. Those immigrants weren’t like us and everyone knew it. But Dean didn’t know it. He didn’t feel like he knew anything about it at all. The estate voices often became too loud and he took to standing on the walkway outside his flat just to get some peace. He’d look out across the Eldon landscape while sipping on a mug of tea. All he really wanted was a flat for his family and a regular job that paid enough to get by without constantly worrying. The rest didn’t matter. A couple of weeks after the attacks, a large white van drove into the courtyard and spluttered to a noisy halt outside Ghalia’s block. Dean watched absentmindedly as two burly men traversed up and down the stairs carrying boxes and large plastic storage bags from one of the flats and loaded the van with them. Faint hope swelled in his belly. After a few criss-crossing trips, Dean realised that one of the families was moving out. The boxes kept coming and were followed by furniture. Dean’s heart was racing, but he tried to suppress it. They’d been disappointed so many times before that this really meant nothing. Yet, it was still another chance. The two men stopped at the van and rubbed their hands together proudly. One of them called up to the empty flat in a language Dean didn’t understand. A whole family burst out through the front door and scrambled down the stairwell. Dean stared, following every move, trying to catch another glimpse to confirm what he’d thought he’d seen. At the bottom, the family bundled into the van one by one. The last, dressed top to toe in black, turned her head towards him just as she stepped into the vehicle. He was right. It was Ghalia. The doors closed around them and the van convulsed into ignition. A jolt of panic struck him and he darted along the walkway and down the steps to the courtyard. He saw the white van move onto the access road and head towards the A48 exit. He turned on his heel and sprinted through the courtyards, he’d be able to cut them off at the junction between Eldon and Addington. He reached the crossroads just as the lights turned green, the removals van already stuttering across. He climbed over the iron rod fence that delineated Eldon from Addington and ran along the pavement, trying to keep the van in sight. The adrenaline had carried him this far, but his body was staging an all-out revolt. His heart hammered his chest, his lungs scraped glass-paper air through his throat, his legs were leaden and dead. He staggered to a walk, which instantly collapsed into a doubled over heap of frantic gasps for oxygen. The pain raged through him and held him firm to the spot. He forced his head up in time to see the Ghalia’s van turn left onto Addington High Street. He tried to kick his heels up, but all he could manage was a short lurch forwards. He had to breathe. He couldn’t go any further. It took some time for Dean to recover enough to move again. He sat on the Addington estate wall and filled his lungs. His ribs hurt like he’d been beaten with a crowbar. When he could walk again he swayed along the pavement in the direction of the high street. It was too late of course, but he just kept walking, moving forward, chasing Ghalia. He turned left on to Addington High Street at least a quarter of an hour after the white van. He didn’t know why he kept going. There was no motive, just an image of Ghalia. If she left Eldon, he would never see her again. It felt as if someone were yanking an organ right out of his body. Ghalia was lodged in his being, part of his existence and the thought of losing pushed his legs onwards. He walked past the market traders selling knocked off kitchenware and football shirts, past the Full English cafés, past the pound shops, halal butchers and frozen food stores. He walked on blindly until he came to the end of the market. Breaking through the throng of people and out onto the discarded vegetable littered street shook off the anxiety. He was too late. She was gone. He felt abandoned, left behind. Why had she deserted him? She’d probably been made to go against her will. That’s what they were like, these Pakis. Always forcing their women to do what they were told, making them cover up. He’d read about it in the newspapers his Mum sometimes brought back from work. All Muslim girls were told who to marry and if they said no they’d be chucked out the family. In some cases, the parents would be so angry they’d throw acid in their own daughter’s faces, or even stab them up. The news articles called them honour killings. Dean didn’t understand it all. It was worse than what the gang from Addington and the BMX kids did, and this was to their own family. It was fucking backwards. Stuff like that didn’t belong in Britain. If that was their sharia law, or whatever it was called, they should all be banged up. He was fuming. He lashed out with his foot at a yellowing head of broccoli, catching it square on and launching it across the road. With a dull thud it slammed into the side of a stationary white van. Dean’s eyes lit up. He took a wide berth and spied on the same two men as they unpacked the last items. They carried the boxes through a side door to some stairs, which Dean assumed led up to the flats above the shop. It was one of those indefinable stores that sold cheap everyday household paraphernalia alongside garishly tacky ornaments and wall hangings. The two men left and drove the van away. Dean backed off and waited. He hung around for hours, watching the door for signs of Ghalia. He bought a cup of tea from the nearest café. It burnt his hands through the polystyrene cup so he placed it on the ground to cool down. He forgot about it as he watched the market shut down for the day. The traders drove off one by one leaving the skeletons of their stalls lining the street, dust and rubbish billowing up in their wake. Dean was left alone as the dead street shops slowly brought down their metal shutters one by one. He paced up and down, with an eye always focused on his target. He found the cold tea he’d left and kicked it in anger. The cup split apart on impact and the liquid ran through the holes in his trainers, soaking his socks to the skin. He swore and spat and banged his heel against the curb. He wasn’t thinking anymore. He was consumed by her. He’d wait all night if he had to. Ghalia was everything. Not long after the last shop had turned off their neon signs, the side door opened. Dean froze and the panic, the fear and the loss held tight in his chest. The black figure was covered entirely from head to foot, but Dean had memorised those curves. He knew before she’d turned around from locking the door. Her eyes glanced up and down the street before coming to rest on Dean’s. He’d found her.She stares at me. I can’t tell if she’s happy to see me or angry. I feel the muscles in my own face. They’re tense. I try and relax them but I can’t. Because I am angry, that’s why. Maybe she can sense that. Ghalia’s too fucking smart. She’s going to say something to make me look stupid and feel small. I can’t let her. I stare back. We don’t move for hours. Like we’re stare fighting. I don’t even blink. Ghalia shakes her head and walks towards me. She stands about a metre away and puts her head to one side. I don’t move. I want to be in control. I want to tell her I’m angry because she left me behind on Eldon. I purse my lips and bite my teeth together. I’m not letting any of the rage out. She slow blinks a couple of times and then rolls her head to the other side. ‘Are you too busy playing statues to come here and give me a hug?’ Her eyebrows shoot right up to her headscarf and open her face up. It feels like a punch in the stomach. I’m winded. I notice my lungs have stopped moving. I’m rigid, so tense. I can feel it all over, like I’m forming crystals all through my body, rough and prickly.‘You’ve moved.’ I spit it out. I want to know why. I don’t even care. Not really. I just want to hear her explain. I want to know it’s not my fault. Her shoulders sag as she pulls her head straight.‘Come on Dean. Let’s not…’ Her eyes drop to the floor. She can’t even look at me. Do I disgust her that much? She looks back over her shoulder at the stupid Paki shop of shit and then nods towards the market stall frames. ‘Can we walk for a bit? I don’t want-’ ‘Them to see us.’ I interrupt. ‘Why?’ I growl it at her. My teeth are gritting. ‘Ashamed of me?’ Ghalia breathes out and takes a step closer. I clench my fists. She looks up with her bright white eyes. ‘No Dean. I’d just like to talk to you alone. Without being interrupted.’ She looks sad. My fingers loosen and I follow her along the street. We walk between the rows of empty metal boxes. It feels like death. But not recent, from many, many years ago. All the life disappears and nothing comes back. It just rots and goes back to dirt. We don’t speak for minutes. It’s a thick silence. I can feel it brewing like a fog between us. I can see her and I know it’s Ghalia. The same Ghalia too, but she can’t get out of it and neither can I. We’re both stuck, apart from each other. Everything around us stops us. We’re getting pushed in one direction and I can’t control it. It’s like being on a rollercoaster. Once you’re strapped in you can’t get out even if you want to because it goes too fast and if you try and escape you’ll just die because you’ll come out at the top of a loop the loop. There’s no fucking choice. It makes me so furious. And makes me want to crawl up into a circle and cry and cry and cry. Ghalia says something first.‘Why did you come here Dean?’ She doesn’t look at me. Her head is facing forward and I can see the outline of her nose and jaw and forehead. She’s beautiful. I feel a pang deep in my chest. I breathe out all juddery. Some of the anger goes with it. I came because I love her. Or loved her. Or think I love her. I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I can’t say that, because there’s something else. It’s all trapped inside me and bottled up. She’s part of it. Maybe the cork holding it in. I can’t explain. ‘I saw you moving out.’ It’s all I can say, but she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look up at me. She just keeps walking forward step by step. I can see shiny blue shoes poking out underneath her long black robe. Everyone covers up in some way I suppose. Perhaps Ghalia will listen to me. Maybe she’ll understand better than I do. I let some air out of my nose. ‘I wanted to, you know, before you...’ I stumble over the words and stop. I swallow and try once more. ‘I thought I’d never be able to see you again.’ I look ahead at the metal frames. They’re all black with oil and grit, just a few clean spots gleam in the streetlight. I draw my attention away. I can’t look at Ghalia. I’m embarrassed about what I said. It’s true and I’m glad I said it, but I feel like it makes me weaker. It gnaws at me and I look at the floor. From the corner of my eye I see Ghalia glance at me. I look up without meaning to. She looks away, but I saw her face. She had tears on her cheek. I’m all mixed up inside and want to say everything, but I don’t even know how to start a sentence. Are there even words that mean it and if there were I wouldn’t even know the right ones. It all gets fucked somehow. I kind of know everything, but don’t understand it. It’s all in my brain, but so disorganised I can’t make head nor tail. It’s this mess that makes me mad. I just want to start putting things straight. I know what I want to express to Ghalia, but I say something else.‘Why are you leaving?’ It’s not the question I want to ask, but at least I was softer. I don’t want to blame her, just find out. She keeps walking.‘My uncle owns the shop. He’s just bought another in Handonwell so my parents are taking over this one.’ She looks across at me. ‘We were going already, we just went a bit earlier.’ ‘Earlier? What do you mean, earlier?’ I don’t get what she’s going on about. Ghalia stops walking and looks up at me. Her face is open and wet. The tears roll down and get lost in the black fabric along her jawline.‘Dean. Please. You know why.’ I do know, but I can’t say anything. It cracks at my ribs. I’m getting bruised from both sides. I stay silent. My face tenses. Ghalia waits. She sniffs and rolls her lips. ‘Try living amongst those thugs. You’ve seen what they do to us.’ She’s crying hard, but her face is so strong. I feel so small next to her, like I’m being told off. But it’s not my fault. I didn’t do any of that shit. I try to defend myself, but I can only mumble a response.‘It wasn’t me.’ It’s such a stupid thing to say. Ghalia’s face changes. Her eyes widen and her bottom lip drops and starts to shake.‘I know Dean.’ Her voice is low, but it’s full of fire and razor blades. ‘You didn’t do anything. You just stood there and watched those racist fuckers spread lies and abuse us.’‘But I-’‘You’re no better Dean. You used to sell drugs for the same people who threw shit at my family. You’re one of them, you know. You’re all the bloody same. You think because some cunt pretending to be Muslim blows up a tube train that we’re all strapping explosive vests on and heading for Saint Paul’s Cathedral.’ She breathes quickly. She’s gone mental. Her eyes drill into me. ‘And what do you do about it? Nothing.’ She takes a step forward until she’s brushing me with her clothes. ‘You told me you loved me, Dean. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything? You’re just like the rest of them.’ She’s shaking, breathing in heavy nosefuls of air. Her words are still echoing in the street. Or maybe in my head. ‘Like who?’ Ghalia steps back and looks up at me. She’s still and spits it out.‘All the other white chav scum.’ She holds my gaze and then drags her right hand down across her nose and mouth. She sniffs and uses her sleeves to dry her face. Neither of us move. I feel the walls between us. At last she’s told me the truth. She never loved me back. I was nothing but a piece of shit to her. Another white trash loser. Well, fuck her. ‘Fuck off Ghalia. You’re just as bad. You’re like all the other stupid fucking Pakis coming here and stealing shit from us.’ As it comes out, it grates my tongue with the hatred in it. But I want to say it, even though I regret it. Even though it hurts me and hurts her. I want her to feel that pain. Ghalia doesn’t move. She absorbs the words like a final nail. Her face goes stony and pale and looks like a machine. ‘The first problem with that Dean, is that I’m British.’ Her tone has changed. There’s no passion anymore. I don’t even know if I’m listening to Ghalia or some recording. ‘The second thing is that my parents are from Bangladesh.’ She changes her stance. It’s rigid and forceful. She’s not speaking to me, but an audience far behind me. ‘And this is the issue. You’re all so ignorant. You think all Muslins are terrorists, but you don’t even know the difference between Bangladesh, India and Pakistan. People like you and your racist friends in the BFP make us want to join together and defend ourselves against your stupidity. Every piece of shit you throw at us, every politician trying to ban the hijab, and every time one of you stands by and lets it happen, it hardens our resistance and makes us want to fight.’ Her face is iron and steel. The voice cuts glass and is meant to be a weapon. What’s happened to her? It makes me mad that she says we’re all to blame. Me and Georgina and my family never done anything to hurt her. None of the old bids either. What right does she have to criticise us in our own fucking country? Stupid bitch. I can feel a burning in the pit of my guts. It’s brought back the rage from earlier. My foot is damp from the tea I kicked and everything joins together. She’s not Ghalia anymore. She’s one of them. ‘What the fuck does that mean? Fight for what? All you Muslim cunts want to do is nick our houses and then complain about your neighbours. Why didn’t you stay back in Pakiland if you don’t like it here?’ It all flows out of me. I’m a machine gun. I’m firing everything I have into the night and I’m desperate to kill. ‘This is England. You follow our way of life. Our rules. We don’t want your twisted fucking religion. Forcing kids to get married, cutting off people’s hands. It’s…It’s sick.’ I don’t see Ghalia anymore. I don’t see anything. I can’t stop. ‘All you backwards Pakis should be kicked out. You’re all murdering fucking terrorists.’ Ghalia’s hand strikes me hard across the face. There’s no pain, just a flat red echo. She stands staring at me. Her face is twisted and ruined. All the muscles in it are flaring at once through short bull breaths. ‘How dare you?’ Her voice is deep and wobbly. ‘My father hasn’t stopped working since he came to England.’ She juts out a hand behind her, pointing to her Uncle’s shop. ‘We work hard. We pay taxes.’ She pokes a finger at me. ‘You’ve never even had a job.’ The words punch me, but she keeps going. ‘Your lot all want something for nothing and complain when others get on.’ Her red eyes get closer. ‘You’re the ones who are lazy and immoral, not us.’ She snorts a dry laugh. ‘I mean, talk about values. Yours is about the only white family on Eldon with both parents still at home. Yet you still have the nerve to say Muslims are the problem in this country.’ She spits on the ground. It’s dry and weak and pathetic, but it drags me down to the sewers beneath the pavement.‘You Dean, are just a racist, scrounging, piece of shit, scum.’ She breathes hard once through her nostrils, stares me in the eyes and then turns and rushes back up the street. I watch until she disappears back into the flat above the shop. I look at my hands. They’re shaking all over the place. My whole body is. I’m numb. I can’t feel anything. The scene rolls again and again in my mind. Whizzing faster and faster, double time. I hear her words and I hear mine. The wall is complete and she’s on the other side. I picture her face just before she left. She blames me for everything. I am her enemy. In the freeze frame I notice, at the edge of her cold eyes, there is a tear. But I don’t care. I don’t feel anything. I don’t feel anything at all.Dean wandered back thinking of nothing. When he got home, he didn’t speak to anyone. He dropped into bed and slept for twelve hours straight. He woke with tears in his eyes. He tried to absorb them in toilet tissue and then wash them off in the shower, but neither worked. They hung low at the point of his eyes and threatened to fall down his cheek at any time. He skipped breakfast and hung himself over the walkway wall outside his flat. The courtyard was quiet. He looked over at Ghalia’s block and picked out the door to her vacant flat. Still there in the depths of his stomach was hope for his family. Maybe now they’d get somewhere from the council. It hadn’t been the right way to get rid of Ghalia’s family and the fact caught in Dean’s throat. But, they shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Estates like Eldon and Addington needed more room for whites and that meant getting rid of the immigrants. Maybe Ghalia was right. Maybe he was like all the others. Was doing nothing the same as doing something? What could he have done? Phil would have stabbed him up for sure. He couldn’t have done anything and he didn’t want to do anything. At least he knew that now. It was the truth, but it hurt like a hammer to the spine. The tears persisted. Dean stayed watching Ghalia’s flat until he was disturbed by the postman. There was the same flutter of rubbish, but also a letter from the council. His heart skipped and he was lost for a moment in suspense. It was about their latest application for a flat. They’d been rejected. Spring 2010Death toll for British Forces in Afghanistan reaches three hundred. Chancellor George Osborne outlines a ‘fundamental reassessment’ of government spending. Former Prime Minister Tony Blair defends the UK’s role in the Iraq war. Child benefit and public sector pay are frozen, public spending cut by a quarter. 2,777 Afghan civilians killed in six months. Four MPs prosecuted as part of the expenses scandal. The first non-white member joins the BFP. Lady Gaga dominates the charts. Georgina, through huffs and puffs, recounted the scene. She had been walking to college when the first National Defence League march took place on the A48 crossroads and it had pissed her off no end. Phil Harris had split from the BFP, unhappy with their new direction, and set up the NDL for a more direct approach to campaigning. The paltry crowd of hardliners had gathered around him as he stood on an impromptu podium of two upturned shopping baskets. No-one else on the street had any idea what was going on. Most people were just trying to get past, muttering fucking hells as they jostled sideways along the pavement with their overloaded shopping bags. The irate drivers’ honking horns had given Georgina a splitter and she wondered how the hell anyone could hear what Phil Harris was saying through what looked like a kiddy’s loudspeaker. She described the crowd to Dean, the fake Ingerland shirts and greasy grade-two-all-overs. They weren’t there to listen. Phillip Harris could have been shoving a melon up his farthole and it wouldn’t have mattered, they’d have still gone away ready to spit on someone with brown skin and a headscarf. What got on her tits most, she explained, was that such a measly crowd managed to get far more attention than it warranted. The media jumped on the story, exaggerating the wrath of white backlash as much as they did the threat of homebrewed jihad. Georgina was tired of picking up every newspaper to see the place they lived in described as a problem desperately needing to be solved. She hated watching the television programmes that shed ironic light on the lives of the destitute. Where the producers fished these fat, lazy, illiterate bastards from, she’d never know. But it certainly wasn’t from Eldon, or even Addington for that matter. Dean, on the other hand, thought he could name a good few families who fell pretty close to that end of the spectrum, but, he did agree, they were certainly in the minority. Georgina hadn’t finished though and continued ranting at Dean. It made her sick to be deemed scum by the likes of the tabloid press, who’d chastise the white estate folks for concerns over Muslims and then run an article on the terrorist cell threat developing in every mosque in Britain. It was never her life on display, never the grind nor the joy, just the drudgery and destitution. It really did piss her off no end. Although, she admitted, it was the best kick up the arse she could have got. Georgina had been working for the last few years in a call centre sorting out pointless complaints from people who didn’t read the small print on their mobile phone contracts. After passing her A Levels with just enough points to scrape in, she enrolled at a university affiliated adult education college that rented a few classrooms in Eldon Secondary comprehensive. She was doing well and spent most of her time studying. Dean helped out a lot more around the flat. He was happy to, even if he didn’t really understand Georgina’s passion for school. He’d been about as happy as he could remember the day he turned sixteen and could finally tell the Deputy Headmaster and all his crony teachers to go fuck themselves. Although all he actually did was spit on the Headmaster’s car and staple some library book pages together. Still, Dean frequently reminded himself, it was her A Levels that got her a job, which was a lot more than he could say for himself. He had fuck all education to his name and he could hardly call selling weed to posh cunts a career. He still did the shopping runs for the old dears of Eldon, only nowadays he’d usually have Harry and Matthew in tow. At first he’d hated having to drag the kids with him, whining and grizzling, but they were precious little earners of gifts and treats from the old bids. He and Georgina never had to splash out for sweets or pop or cake or chocolates. They also gave Dean a readymade excuse to leave the musty lavender flats as soon as he wanted, which was generally pretty sharpish. He settled passively into his role of flat husband, taking on the responsibility of looking after the kids without really noticing. It never felt like a burden because it was something he enjoyed anyway. Hanging out with Harry and Matthew was great. He taught them how to play one touch, how to kick a ball so it flew up into the air, and how to boot the motherfucker so hard it crashed the garage doors and sent thunder around the courtyard. Matthew couldn’t get enough of it and took to kicking the garages directly. Dean couldn’t bring himself to tell his boys off, mostly because he wanted to do the same thing himself. Sometimes he’d take them to Burnham Park behind the New Eldon Brickworks. The kids would use the open-air gym equipment as a climbing frame while Dean watched the yummy-mummies and the homeless alcoholics silently corner-eyeing each other. They had the same bewildered look as the springer spaniels and bull terriers that faced off near the dog shit bin. Neither knew what to make of the other. However, Dean and the kids’ favourite times happened when Georgina was at her evening classes. Dean would take the kids to the abandoned wasteland behind Madu’s block to go fox hunting. He showed them how to tiptoe stealthily along the line of broken breezeblocks, sneaking up quietly to the shallow dip in the wall. Harry would scramble over and Dean would give Matthew a gentle lift and then all three would shuffle forwards towards the edge of the circle of light. The amber glow would shimmer against the darkness and an uneasy tension would take hold of Dean. The boys would take it in turns to put one foot into the unknown whilst Dean would back up and sit on a pile of bricks, remembering the time he’d felt Ghalia’s tits. He only got a hard on once and saved the sensation for a session with Georgina that night. She always came back horny as hell from college and Dean could pretty much do what he wanted. That evening he’d turned off the lights and opened the curtains to let the orange streetlight flood the room. He took Georgina from behind and pictured Ghalia’s ripe round arse bouncing away on his penis. He was in tears by the time he came and had flattened his head into the pillow whilst Georgina stroked his hair. Those feelings came in waves that would drag him out to sea before smashing him against the cliffs. But generally, he just existed, casually moving through life from one supermarket run to the next. Events had little more than the mildest impact on him. He watched time go by through the eyes of his kids, stuff happened all around him, but he neither instigated nor concluded it. When his mother had moved out he’d helped her wrap her miniature jug collection and even carried it to the removals van. They’d embraced, she’d cried, she’d waved desperately from the passenger window until the truck pulled away along the A48. The flat had stayed in Dean’s Mum’s name in case they got kicked out by the council, but the place was theirs. Dean didn’t really register the change for weeks. He just woke up in a different room, staring at different patches of curling paint. Nothing struck him anymore. Nothing pounded at his chest demanding to be felt. Only the infrequent bursts of anguish managed to penetrate. He didn’t mind. He didn’t care at all. As long as he was with the kids and Georgina he didn’t have to think about anything. Now and again he’d listen to her ranting on about something she’d read, or something someone at her college had said, or something he just didn’t have a clue about. He didn’t get involved. She’d tire herself out as he nodded in the right place and kept one eye on the television. He never asked about what she studied, even when she stayed up until the small hours. He didn’t complain, it was her money and time she was wasting, she could do what she wanted. And if there was one thing to be said for her course, it had certainly put the fire back in her. She’d started watching the news and repeatedly told people in suits, who Dean didn’t recognise, to fuck off. It was great to watch, much more entertaining than what those newsreaders were going on about. Dean loved it, especially because it got Georgina all riled up and by the time she came to bed she’d be gagging for it. Dean was comfortable. They didn’t have anything left over at the end of the week, but they just about got by. It was easy living for Dean. Most mornings he’d make breakfast for everyone, unless Georgina had a late shift, in which case she’d have a lie in and it would just be the men of the family. It was usually cereal and instant coffee, but he’d sometimes do them gypsy toast as a treat. Eggs, bread, milk. The kids loved it. One Easter he’d blown an egg and filled it with cooking chocolate, placing it in an egg cup along with the regulation margarine soldiers. When the rest of the family cracked the top expecting to find a badly soft boiled egg, they got a lump of chocolate instead. Matthew and Harry’s eyes popped out in shock and Georgina burst out laughing. She’d smiled about it for days. After he’d done the school run, he’d work his way around a couple of clients, before dropping on the sofa for a cup of tea and some talk shows he didn’t listen to. Then it was kids again and a run to the supermarket on the way back from primary school. Play with the boys, Matthew to bed first, Harry next and then back to the sofa to wait for Georgina. That was it. He didn’t notice the increasing number of red and white flags displayed outside his front door. The marches along Addington High Street passed him by. The idle chitchat of the old dears, who spat-whispered the word Muslim whenever they had a gripe about something, which was every time anyone was there to listen, bounced off him. His cocoon was thickening and it suited him. Basically, he had enough. Georgina, on the other hand, began revising for her exams. She stayed up long evenings with her head in books and her fingertips on a can of energy drink. Her eyes dragged and the bags filled with facts and theories and names and dates. The late nights and early shifts caught up with her and she took two weeks off to revise. Dean did his bit by keeping the kids out of the house as much as he could. He took them to play parks and over to see their Nans. Georgina’s Mum only lived a few blocks away, but her shrill voice set his hairs on end and so it was to his own mother’s that he inevitably took the boys. She was still working the marathon shifts, which had brought her in enough to finally move out of Eldon. She’d taken up in a comfortable studio flat out in zone 5. It was in the attic of a converted Victorian terrace. The ceiling curved down in the corners, which Dean thought gave the whole place a disproportioned Charlie and the Chocolate Factory effect, not least because of the myriad of garish tat Dean’s Mum had insisted in filling every empty space with. It was a car boot of worthless junk and she loved every last piece. One afternoon in the second of Georgina’s revision weeks, Dean, Harry and Matthew were at Dean’s Mum’s flat. Harry spent the time watching cartoons, whilst Matthew tried to find matching pairs of the now vast jug collection. Dean and his Mum drank a full tumbler each of sherry and talked about how much little Matthew resembled his dad. Dean agreed with his Mum rather than drag out the conversation, but actually thought he had more in common with Harry. Well, at least the cartoons. He’d have preferred to watch them instead of idly chatting to his Mum. But nowadays he felt it wouldn’t be grown up enough, so he just snuck them on when nobody else was around. Dean’s Mum gassed on about the new neighbourhood. So peaceful and quiet. Everyone smiled to each other in the street and the corner shop, but the tea in the local cafe was over three quid and none of the sandwiches were made with white bread. She had to take a bus to get to her nearest pound store and the local market only sold vegetables that still had dirt on. She’d been to the pub once and was certain the barman had smirked her at because she’d ordered a peach schnapps and diet lemonade. It was so safe. She could walk around at night and even across the parks. Not long after she’d moved to the area, on the way home from a late shift, she’d turned a corner into a group of hoodies, all hunched over, scuffing around and dragging on blackened rollies. She’d held her breath whilst power-walking past, but when she heard them speak like wildlife documentary narrators, and calling each other things like Charles and Alexander, she’d almost burst out laughing. They weren’t going to hurt anyone. It was lovely, so English and so utterly boring. She missed Eldon, but wouldn’t go back for only one reason. It was being taken over by those bloody Muslims. They were everywhere nowadays because of the government giving them houses left, right and centre. She still didn’t understand it. Why weren’t hardworking British people getting places to live? And they all hated England anyway. She’d read in the paper that most of them agreed with blowing up buses and burning down churches. If they didn’t like it in Britain then why the bloody hell did they come and why did everyone on the telly want them here so badly in the first place? Her face streaked pink and put Dean in mind of the red marble floor in Addington Town Hall. A web of red lines pooling surface blood across the skimmed milk skin. His Mum was looking older. The smokers’ folds wrinkled her face, scrunched up and dry. She looked like one of her grotesque ornaments, waxen and transfigured forever, stuck in a suburban studio waiting to be swallowed by bulldozer progress. Dean didn’t listen to her anymore. She had become nothing more than furniture in his life. But that was all he could say of anyone. Furniture and ornaments that made the passage more comfortable. The thought didn’t depress him. It curled and looped around in his mind and then dispersed as quickly as it had come. His Mum was still going on about Muslims always speaking Islamic too loudly in public places and how they treated their women, covering them up and forcing them to marry their cousins. Dean nodded a mindless agreement and finished his sherry. He was beginning to feel hemmed in amongst the diatribes and cartoon war cries and whoops of joy and calls to watch. He needed open space to let his mind wander and leave his head easily blank. His Mum smothered the boys in thick sherry breath perfume, kissed Dean on the cheek and promised to transfer him a little something in the bank. Dean hugged his Mum back and felt the rolled skin under her blouse. She was getting plump. Harry and Matthew loved their grandmother’s street. They jumped along the pavement, avoiding the cracks between the slabs, and swung around the trunks of the line of trees that sheltered the road. It was a couple of buses back to Eldon. They got the front seats upstairs on the first one and the boys were asleep before they reached the first corner delicatessen. Dean felt the slow burn of sun through glass on his face. He closed his eyes and let the dancing shadows lull him into thought through the thin lids. Like fuck she’ll send me any money. She always says that and never does. I’d much rather she just gave me a tenner straight. Georgina wouldn’t find out either and I’d be able to buy some sneaky beers and the ‘pick and mix’ I like from the supermarket. Maybe I can get some to share with the kids. I reach into my trackie bottoms pocket. Shit, I’ve only got a quid twenty. If I get off at the High Street I might be able to nip into the ninety-nine pee shop and pick up a bag of jelly babies or chocolate éclairs. I wonder how they can do all the stuff in that place so cheap. Someone must be getting screwed over. Probably China, that’s where they make all that shit. But sometimes they get stuff that’s made in Britain. Who’s going to work for a quid an hour packing sweets? There are some right mugs about. It doesn’t matter what job you do, you’re going to get fucked over. The bus driver breaks like a bitch and wakes up Harry and Matt. There’s some pissed up tramp stumbling across the road in front of us. Fucking wanker. He’s mumbling away to himself about something. The driver blows the horn and the tramp starts shouting. ‘What’s he saying Dad?’ Harry looks back at me through the gap in the seats. ‘He looks pissed.’ Matt turns around and jumps up on the seat. He grabs hold of the handle and bounces up and down. He always gets excited at swear words. I never bother telling them off. They’ll do it anyway. I just warn them not to do it in front of the teachers or their Nans, even though Georgina’s old bid swears like a fucking bricklayer. I reckon Harry’s picked up most of his from her. Yet she’ll give him a clip round the ear if she hears him say even pussy words like shit or bollocks. It ain’t fair on them. It’s fucking stupid if you ask me. It’s like spanking Harry for hitting Matt. How’s that going to teach them anything? ‘Is he pissed Daddy?’ Matt points out the window at the wino. Harry giggles but Matt sounds serious. He doesn’t even know what getting pissed means. I gave Harry some beer once but Matt only smelt it. I put on a funny voice and screw my face up like the tramp, with one eye half open and my shoulders hunched. ‘I’m not drunk, I’m not. I’m the Prime Minister of all of London and all of Britain. And I’m very…’ I hiccup and the boys both giggle. ‘Very…’ I do it again. ‘Angry at this giant red…sausage.’‘It’s not a sausage, it’s a bus.’ Matt bends over giggling. Harry rolls his eyes, but I can see he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. I carry on playing. I go cross-eyed and start to rock back and forth. I point out of the window towards the sky. ‘I’m trying to get to a very important meeting with Big Ben and you’re in my way.’ The tramp leans backwards and almost tips over. He staggers onto the pavement and the bus rumbles forward. I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue.‘Now which way is London?’ I laugh with Matt at my joke, but Harry’s getting too old for my silly impressions. He’s ten now. I remember I used to love stupid voices and faces. Me and Madu could do a New York accent really well. I was better than him. Ghalia was the best though. She’d do lots of faces behind Mrs Tosser’s back and I’d piss myself. I hope Harry meets a girlfriend like Ghalia. She was well cool. And fucking hot. I think about her tits and arse. But it’s weird ‘cos I see her as a grown up, but also like when we were at school together. I want to laugh with her and play foot war and then bend her over. I feel a bubble in my chest and it’s squeezing right up my throat to my head. I can feel my eyes get hot. I pinch my leg hard to stop the tears coming. I stare out the window and read the road signs. Central London straight on. M25 turn right. All Other Routes turn left. I keep reading until our stop. I hold Matt’s hand as we cross the road. Harry doesn’t let me anymore. The bus comes quick and we have to stand all the way back to Addington High Street. I stand next to a fat woman wearing a huge coat. It’s the middle of summer and she stinks. Her nose must be fucked. Or maybe she’s just got used to it so much that she really can’t smell how fucking rank she is. It’s just normal for her now. How can something so fucking awful become normal? You’d have to be pig ignorant not to do something. It smells like she washes in piss. I hold my nose for the rest of the journey. I make us get off one stop earlier and walk to the pound shop. Matt plays with the toy guns and Harry fiddles with the tools. I grab a bag of two for a quid chocolate éclairs. It’s a quid even if you buy one. Someone really is getting screwed over. I shout along the aisles for the boys after I pay the ten-foot spotty kid behind the counter. Where do they find these mugs? We share a pack of sweets as we walk back through Addington. I keep the other one for Georgina and me to share when the boys are in bed. I’ll get most overall. I don’t even unwrap them. I put the whole thing in my mouth and clamp my teeth around it. I pull at the wrapper and the éclair drops out into my mouth. It doesn’t always work and then I have to take it out and undo it normally and it makes my fingers sticky and wet with spit and sugar. I chew on the chocolate toffee in my mouth. I can’t suck it. I bite and swirl it over with my tongue and the juice runs down my throat. It’s sweet and tickles me almost to cough, but it’s delicious. I don’t even think about where I’m going. I’m just walking forward holding my son’s hand. Fuck, I’m a Dad. It still sounds fucked up. How did I become a Dad? I’m twenty eight, but it feels like I’m still sixteen, or whatever. Like I’ve just been playing one touch with Madu or fingering Georgina on the wall near my block or beating up those two wimpy black kids or playing video games at Gary’s house or ice sliding and falling on my arse or spying on Ghalia’s front door from the walkway outside my flat and I can still see her hair, all black and wavy. It’s all yesterday in my head. It’s mental. I don’t even look different at all. And now I’ve got two sons and a missus and I’ve never even thought about it. It just happens and that’s that. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. I wouldn’t know what to change it for. Different kids in a different house with a different missus? It’s all the fucking same anyway. What else you going to wish for? World peace? Fuck off. Money and shit, but that don’t change nothing, just the labels on the clothes you wear. I’d just wish to forget stuff. All that shit that makes me turn over inside. It’s always still, no movement, just colours and shapes and their eyes staring at me. My chest goes bonkers. Not hard, just quick, like a moth’s wing and my ribs are so light that I think my heart’s going to stop. I’d wish for a distraction, that anything could be a distraction. That’s all I need. My mouth’s so full of sticky toffee chocolate saliva it’s dribbling out between my lips. Harry’s managing alright, but Matt’s got brown smudges all over him and he’s trying to lick it off with his tongue. I piss myself. I fucking love chocolate éclairs. I reach the road that separates Addington from Eldon. I didn’t even notice the buildings we just walked through. I make sure Harry’s standing on the edge of the pavement next to me. I grip Matt’s hand a bit tighter. ‘Look left.’ They follow my actions. ‘Look right.’ I wait for a second. ‘Listen.’ Me and Matt put a hand to our ears. Harry can’t be arsed anymore, he thinks he’s too old to do this. He probably is. I wandered all over the fucking place when I was his age. Georgina won’t let them go out at night on their own. She thinks there’re too many cunts and nonces around. I never got paedoed up so I don’t know why she thinks it’s any worse now. Fucking dirty old perverts’ll be too shit scared to come round Eldon anyway. ‘No cars?’ I check with Harry, who ignores me. Matt shakes his head. ‘Okay then, let’s go.’ We take a step out onto the road and I look up. ‘Fuck.’ It comes out quietly. Like it slipped out of my brain and between my lips by accident. Nobody can hear it or see my mouth move, but everyone knows I said it. Walking towards us is Phil Harris and his boy. He’s staring right at me. I can’t move my eyes away. He steps off the pavement and walks across the road directly towards me. He holds his son’s hand loosely, like the kid could just run and hide and get smashed to bits by a truck. He just keeps coming. Matt pulls my hand and I let go. He steps into the road and stops. He looks back at me. Harry’s staring too. Phil keeps coming. I don’t move. My kids can sense something’s wrong, like animals and earthquakes. They just step back and stare, their hearts dragged down into their bellies. Mine too. My muscles are ticking on and off, pulsing through me. Phil takes a step up onto my curb. I watch his black real leather shoes go heel down first and roll over onto the toes. He walks flat, dead straight. He brings his second leg up. He’s wearing dark blue jeans. Tight and expensive, from the discount label store. There’s nothing fake about Phil Harris. He’s real, so fucking real. It’s heavy. It blocks my mind. He stops close to me. His face is chubbier. He used to be ratty and greasy and dirty, but now he’s all smooth and looks like a football player at a nightclub. He’s got a white shirt on, buttoned to the top. You can’t tell who he is. But I know. I know who he is and it makes me feel like I’m going to crack open and puke all over myself. He raises his head in a sharp nod.‘Alright Dean.’ His voice is rounded at the edges, clean. I rattle my head up and down in response. He points his chin at Harry and Matt. ‘Your kids?’ It’s not a direct attack. It builds up around me brick by brick. I can’t do nothing, just watch myself being imprisoned. My jaw trembles and I force it to stop by jelly nodding. ‘Yeah.’ It rasps out dry. I realise I haven’t breathed since I saw him. I suck in a mouthful of air and speak weakly.‘Harry and Matt.’ A thin line curls on his face and his mouth opens to a tobacco grin. He looks down at my lads. I want to step between them. To hide my kids. I never want them to know who he is. Or meet someone like him. They can’t go through the same shit. It ain’t right. I feel numb. I feel anger. I feel like I want to punch his fucking lights out. To smash his cheekbones in. I want to hear them crack under my hands. I want to disfigure, to scar him. But it’s all distant. I can’t touch it. All that hatred and shit, it’s just whirling around, but I can’t grasp it. It’s in another me. One that’s somewhere else. Maybe in a different time or whatever. I just feel empty and numb and completely fucking fake. Just skin hanging over a bony frame, pretending to be alive. I can’t do nothing. I’m pinned down, nodding like a plastic dashboard dog. I can’t even protect my kids. ‘This is my boy, Tommy.’ Phil pats his son on the shoulder and jerks him back and forth. He’s got that smug gleam in his eye. He’s just so proud of his kid. I don’t get it. Proud of what? That he managed to put his dick in someone and spunk up her pussy. Any fucking moron can do that. Tommy doesn’t even look up at his Dad. He just stares straight ahead towards my boys. Phil Harris ain’t got nothing to be proud of. It’s easy to make people angry. And if his son turns out like him, he’ll be a right cunt. I don’t want Harry or Matt ever to play with him. I don’t even want them to know that Tommy exists. But it’s too late. They’ll know everything one day. They’ll find out what a coward their old man is. I never did nothing or said nothing. I’m so weak. I can feel them all staring at me. Phil Harris and Tommy, my boys. Their eyes are hooked into me, waiting for me to stand up straight, but I can’t. My legs are buckling, like a skyscraper being demolished. It’s always in slow motion, always sad. So much work to build something up, just to destroy it. Phil squints. I see the crow’s feet stamped on his temple. I have to say something. I look at Tommy.‘Alright?’ The word sticks in my throat and makes me cough. I use it as an excuse to put my hand over my mouth and look away. I breathe deeply. The air cools the fire. I feel on edge, shaking through my veins, like I’ve drunk too many strong coffees. But I’m calmer. I’m ready to face him. Phil watches every move I make. I know the way that cunt works. He’ll be measuring me, checking everything I do. I just got to nod my way through this and get home. I look back at him just as a car passes. The driver stares at us. I don’t know them. Maybe they can see more than we can. You can only ever see the other half of the conversation after all. Phil turns and watches the car go by. It breaks his stare and I feel my feet underneath me again, I’m back in the shallow end. The car turns off down the main Addington access road. None of the kids say anything. They don’t know what’s going on, but they’re scared of the silence. My Mum used to say ‘a noise annoys’ and laugh. I never got it. Noise is safe. I try and think of something to say. Anything. Phil gets there first.‘Still living with your Mum?’ His tone is different. I don’t hear fighting in his voice. ‘Nah. Just me and the kids and Georgina.’ I try and make it sound natural, like I’m having a normal chat with somebody. Phil raises his eyebrows at me.‘Got your own place?’‘Me Mum moved out.’ I nod my head to my left. I don’t even know if that’s the right direction. I just do it ‘cos that’s what you do. He snorts through his nose and jerks his head back.‘Sounds about right. We’re getting forced out one by one.’‘She’s got a flat in Milton.’ I don’t even want to say it. I just want to go home and eat the rest of the chocolate éclairs. ‘Council?’ His face is still, but I know him, I can sense the sneer tickling the edge of his mouth. He’s toying with me. I shake my head and push out my lips. I’ve never noticed it before. What I do. But with Phil Harris I have to watch every move, just in case. I’m looking at myself through a periscope in the top of my head. I can see all the twitches in my face and arm movements and my swaying a little side to side. I can’t stand still. I’ve got St Vitus’ Dance. I’m bopping all over the place like I’ve done a gram. It’s mental. I never even noticed it. I force my head to stop shaking and try and stand my ground. ‘Nah. Private.’ I pout and my jaw rocks forward and back. I fucking give up. ‘Yeah. Good for her. Got out of this place.’ He takes a step forward. Or does he lean in? I don’t even know, he just seems closer suddenly.‘It don’t surprise me. When was the last time you heard of a white family getting a house round here?’ I don’t have an answer. He doesn’t want one. It doesn’t seem like a conversation anymore. ‘Everything’s going to the Muslims. Every last flat. Even the blacks are getting squeezed nowadays.’ His head flicks to the side and then whips back round to face me, gathering speed so his next line sounds like a bullet. ‘You want to know why? ‘Cos the blokes at the top don’t really want them, do they?’ His face is going red. His voice is angry, but it’s not crazy fucked up or anything. It’s like when Madu used to cheat at one touch and I’d go mental, but I wouldn’t deck him, I’d just think really fucking hard about doing the best kick in the world and all that mentalness would funnel down my leg like an electric bolt and come out of my foot and into the ball and it would just fly harder and more accurate than any shot in the world. Phil’s anger is all controlled and not going all over the shop like it used to. He didn’t even say Paki or nigger. ‘The rich people at the top let Muslims in because they want to pretend they’re sorry for all the stuff they did hundreds of years ago. But they don’t have to deal with them. They shove all the immigrants here and it’s honest white people like us who lose our rights as a result.’ His face has gone all puffy and he looks like he’s out of breath. Harry and Matt must be wondering what the fuck’s going on. His Tommy stands dead still. Poor fucking kid, he must have to listen to this bollocks every fucking day. He’s going to turn out a fucking psycho or bent or something. I hope he marries a Paki just to piss off his cunt Dad. That I’d like to see. Phil sucks in a gulp of air. All the talking takes the edge off him. He’s just an ordinary knobhead spouting off shit. I want to punch his fucking lights out. But I can still see those rolling thoughts behind his eyes. He could still do anything. He’d still slice me without a fucking care. People don’t change that much. He’s still Phil Harris and I fucking hate his guts. He puffs out his cheeks and makes a big deal about blowing the air out. ‘And that’s it. They’re left here and forgotten by the Government. They all bunch together and don’t even try to join in with British culture. They don’t bother learning English, they just speak in paki to each other. You hear it on the bus and in the shops. It’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel like you’re in England anymore.’ His arms wave rigidly, like a wooden toy octopus. His shoulders are hunched over and his voice juts up and down between strong whispers and girly pitch sarcasm. He’s talking very weird. I don’t really get it. I can feel my forehead wrinkling. I try and relax in case he notices. ‘But what gets me most is this Sharia law they want. It’s barbaric. All eye for an eye.’ This time he takes a step forward and waves a pointed palm in my face. ‘For example. If they catch you stealing something, they’ll cut off your hand. Or if you blaspheme, they’ll rip out your tongue.’ I don’t know what blaspheme is. I’m not sure if Phil does either because he said it more quietly than the other words. I’m not sure he knows what any of it means. He’s just saying stuff. It just gets like that. You say the same shit to the same people every day. Most of the time it doesn’t even make sense. ‘If a woman gets raped, guess what, they blame her and stone her to death. You understand what I’m saying? You can rape up a woman and she’ll be the one who gets punished. You know what I’m saying? They’ll smash her to death with rocks with their own bare hands.’ The sentences hit me all at once. I can see it. I imagine Ghalia getting her skull bashed in because I felt her arse. Phil opens his palms to me, his chest wide open. ‘Where’s the justice in that. It’s not a law. It’s evil. There ain’t a place in Britain for that.’ He stands back and rolls his shoulders over his neck. His arms, palms up, spread out to each side like a shrugging Jesus. Ghalia’s still there in my head. She’s got blood pouring out a gash in her headscarf. Her eyes roll and a bunch of beardy men dance around her praying about Allah out back and then they burn an American flag. I’ve seen it all on telly. It’s always on those late night news programmes Georgina watches. I never really gave a shit. If we’re going to blow up their country and nick their oil, I can see why they’re going ape shit at us. Same as fucking Guy Fawkes night. We still burn him every year and he didn’t even manage to destroy anything. I never saw it properly, but Phil Harris is right. It’s fucking wrong to smash in people with rocks because they had a shag. I shiver. I feel all the hairs on my arms stick out. It makes me feel like I’m welling up, that I want to cry for all the horrible stuff people do in the world. But it’s more than that. I get this tingling. An itching right through my arms and legs, right inside my body. I can’t get to it, can’t scratch it. It’s along my veins and making me all on edge and ready to flinch. I just need to hit something. To punch my way through a door or kick a dustbin over. I want to smash something. I see Phil still in the same pose. Like he’s suffering. Like he gives a toss. I know you Phil Harris. I know who you are. You’re the type of cunt who’ll slice someone for looking different. You wanted me to stab up Madu. He was helpless, off his head. You’d have killed him. You cunt. You dirty cunt fucking bastard. I want to rip that fake concerned face off. I want to tie you down and stamp on your arms and legs until they’re broken. I want to cart you along Addington High Street so people can see what a hypocrite, two faced fuckhead you are. I’m mental. My muscles are tensing and untensing and tensing and untensing. My whole body’s going ACDC. My fists are clenched. Proper tight. Rocks. Ready to destroy him. I go to lift my arm, but something grabs it. I tug at it, but the grip holds steady. I force my head down and see Harry holding my wrist.‘Matt needs a piss.’ Harry’s voice is quiet and weak. I jerk my head towards Matt who’s holding his knob under his shorts and squirming like he’s got a spider in his bum. I don’t react. I freeze up. It’s all trapped in me. All that shit. All that crazy bullshit. It’s got to come out. I can feel it bulging at my seams. Trying to split me down the middle. Harry pulls my arm softly. I feel his hand grasping around the skin on my wrist. He won’t let go. He’s holding me down, like an anchor. His face is all squished up and he’s pursing his lips against the trembles in his face. He’s afraid. It breaks my heart. All the anger fucks off in one go and I just want to get my kids home. Matt’s dancing on the spot, both hands down his trousers. Let’s just get out of here. I look back up at Phil.‘I got to go. The nipper needs the bog.’‘Well, good to see you Dean.’ He pouts his lips and nods at me. I pat Matt on the back and guide him in the direction of Eldon. ‘See you later.’ The three of us walk off. Harry’s still holding my hand. We get to the other side of the road and Phil shouts. ‘Have a think about what I said.’ I turn and see his stupid fucking grin. Like he knows something special. He knows how to be a complete cunt. ‘Maybe we’ll see you at one of our rallies.’ He raises his eyebrows and chin to me and I turn away and walk as fast as I can without running. One of his rallies? Like fuck he’ll see me. None of us speak until we reach the stairwell in our block. At the first landing, I take hold of Matt and push him towards the corner. ‘Piss there.’ Matt takes his willy out and starts spraying.‘In the f-ing corner.’ I pick him up by the waist and drop him close to the wall. His rigid body turns to jelly and you can hear the sigh evaporate off him. It feels so fucking good to have a piss when you’re desperate. I smile at the pleasures of life. I turn to share it with Harry, but he’s got a serious face on. ‘Who was that man, Dad?’ He looks me straight in the eye. Kids ain’t fucking stupid. They don’t get a lot of shit, but they know when something ain’t right. ‘I used to work for him a long time ago.’ Harry squints his face up at me.‘What? Shopping?’ Harry’s got that same way of asking questions Georgina does. She already knows the answer so why the bloody hell does she even bother? Why don’t she just say stuff straight out rather than making a bleeding song and dance about it. Be easier for everyone. Harry ain’t letting up.‘No. Not shopping. Just odd jobs, but it don’t matter. It was a long time ago like I said.’ I turn back to Matt as I can hear the tinkling has turned to drips. He bends over forwards and uses both hands to zip up. When he turns around he’s covered in patches of piss that have splashed back from against the wall. He’s got a grin right across his cheeky little face. It’s well funny. I look at Harry who’s trying to stop giggling, waiting to see how I react. I catch his eye and we both crack up laughing. Matt doesn’t understand why. He’s just watching us with that after slash grin on his face. He don’t get it but then he just starts laughing with us anyway. Me and Harry piss ourselves even more. I let it all go. We laugh and laugh and laugh. We bring the bloody house down and I don’t care if they hear us all the way to Addington. I don’t give a flying fuck no more. I’m with my kids. What else do I care? We don’t stop laughing for hours, or it seems like it. Matt stops first then Harry and then me. I don’t think I was even laughing at the end. It was just noise coming out of my mouth. Cranking up through me from the bottom of my guts. I hold my belly. It’s empty and in pain. Nothing’s there. We all struggle up the stairs. We laughed so much we hurt. But when we catch each other’s eye we let a little burst out. We all share it. It’s our secret, the three of us. Even more with Harry because he knows what we were actually laughing about. It makes us close. Like a family. I’d do anything to make them smile like that again. I wish I could. We get to the front door of our flat and go in. I can hear Georgina’s talking to someone and there’s a strange long coat hanging on the bottom banister of the stairs. I tell Matt to go and change his clothes and Harry to go and play in their room. I can hear Georgina’s talking to someone on the phone. I tell Matt to go and change his clothes and Harry to go and play in their room. I wait until I hear their bedroom door close and then listen in to Georgina. He placed himself against the thin plasterboard wall between the hall and the living room. There was about three foot of it between the front door and where it opened out into the lounge. He could hear Georgina. There was tension in her voice, a restrained anger that she usually reserved for when he’d done something stupid, like spend most of the housekeeping on scratchcards. He would normally have walked right on in but Georgina’s tone was unfamiliar. She stopped talking and there was a breath of silence. Dean waited, holding his lungs. Georgina shouted a fuck off to the receiver and hung up. Dean squirmed against the wall for a moment but decided to go into the living room. He didn’t want Georgina thinking he was spying on her as he’d get a right bollock full. He walked in overly casual and pretended he was looking for the television remote. He kept a half an eye on Georgina as she hovered by the window. She was properly riled up, red eyed and tearless. Dean wanted to ask, but now it felt that it had been too long to do so. He was in a bit of a pickle as he couldn’t keep up the fake search for much longer. Georgina leant over, picked up the remote from next to the TV, where it always was, and held it out to Dean. It had been Susan on the phone, she explained, the woman who’d interviewed her a few years ago. Georgina had called to ask her for help about the upcoming university exams, but the topic had soon turned to the NDL marches. Georgina had told her straight. They were cunts, banging on and blaming brown people for their own shortcomings, but they weren’t the real problem. Dean, the remote gripped in his hand, prepared himself for one of Georgina’s outbursts. They were better than TV and always got her hot and bothered and ready for a fuck. He raised an eyebrow. The problem, Georgina continued, was the way the news made it out like every one of the thousand odd families from Eldon and Addington were out calling for the blood of Muslims, rather than just the few dozen protesters buzzing around Phil Harris like flies around bullshit. They were just a gang of bullies picking on someone weaker, or wanting someone to blame. Georgina pointed out the window behind her. There were a lot of people pissed off with what was happening around here, forced to welcome people they’d never invited, and then getting told they were racist when they complained about housing. Dean had thought the same thing. Why hadn’t his family been given a place? Were they less important than immigrants? Georgina’s family had been here four generations. Why had they been ignored? Dean put the remote down and sat on the arm of the sofa, listening to every word. Georgina didn’t give a flying fuck about people coming to Britain and she knew very well that they needed somewhere to live. What she had a problem with was the two-faced cunts in power who got round the issue by dumping them into places like Eldon. After all, how many ‘brown skins’ did they have living around their manor? And how the fuck was taking houses away from people who needed them and giving them to some other fuckers who needed them going to end up with anything other than a shortage of houses and a lot of people getting severely pissed off with each other? Georgina was in full flow, pacing between the sofa and the window, jutting out her arm behind her to point past the estate and to the city beyond. Dean imagined she was pointing all the way to the Houses of Parliament and was standing in the commons giving the Prime Minister the finger. She took a breath and nodded angrily at the television. It was the extremes that drove the media nowadays, wankers like the NDL. Nobody cared about the average. No, that wouldn’t sell newspapers or appear on late night news reports. It was always nut jobs like Phil Harris spouting rubbish through plastic loudspeakers on telly. They only ever showed the worst. It was their way. Always their terms. And it was all part of the same fucking problem. Dean wasn’t exactly sure who they were, but they could all go fuck themselves up the piss hole. Georgina was right, the estates on telly were always the same and always shit. Who made these programmes? It certainly weren’t people like him or Madu or Ghalia. So how the fuck did they know what it was like here? Eldon was his and Georgina’s home. It had been the home of their Mums and Georgina’s Nan. What was wrong with it? Why was theirs so much better? Georgina echoed Dean’s thoughts, putting them into words he couldn’t find. She was connected to the area, to the history, to the culture. She wanted their kids to know where they came from. She didn’t want to escape to some white middle-class suburb, she wanted respect. That’s why she’d done the degree, to prove that she could. For them rich kids it was easy, even expected, to just keep moving up. But for people like her, starting out from bugger all, every step she took was like a fucking miracle. And if she had to be judged in those terms, then it should be how far she travelled, not where she reached. But this continual judgement was the cause of it. Who was judging? From where? And how did they get to choose what was best for everyone? There was nothing wrong with the estates. There was nothing wrong about the lives people lived here in Eldon and Addington. What pissed her off, she went on, what actually really upset her, was rich people insisting there was something inherently right with theirs. It was bullshit. She stopped. She breathed in. She breathed out. Bullshit. Dean lingered on the arm of the sofa, hoping for more, but Georgina had nothing else to say. She stared out the window for a moment and then sat down to her books, spread across the dining table in the corner of the room. She began reading. Dean thought he understood. He wanted to tell Georgina that he got it, but instead he walked past her and into the kitchen. He put the kettle on, dropped two spoonfuls of coffee into a mug and loaded a small plate with a custard cream and two bourbons. He looked out of the kitchen window, viewing the identical estate buildings through the greasy smears of the glass. He didn’t know if it was bad or good or anything. He just took it all in. The water had already cooled too much for coffee by the time he remembered the kettle. He poured it in anyway, stirred and let the microwave make up the difference. He put the mug and biscuits next to Georgina’s pile of notes. She gave him a quick smile of thanks and was back lost amongst the pages. Dean put both hands on her shoulders, kissed the back of her head and then went upstairs to play games with the boys. Georgina took her exams a week later. She did a double shift back at work after finishing her final test. Everything was ordinary and no one in the house mentioned anything. Dean was getting ready to take the boys down to Southfield Shopping Centre. They went once a month and the boys loved it. Matthew got to go in the posh toyshop and Harry would spend ages playing on the tablets in the trendy, minimalist computer store. Dean would hang around on a wooden bench next to the escalators and read one of the free newspapers. They never bought anything, but the trip meant a detour back via Addington High Street to share a portion of cod and chips. Harry would get a battered sausage because he didn’t like fish, even though he’d happily eat fish fingers if they were smothered in enough tomato sauce. Georgina had left for an early shift that morning, but Dean had got up with her to prepare cheese on toast the long way for the boys. Matthew was up not long after his Mum had gone and had plonked himself in front of the television to watch the Saturday morning children’s show. Dean stuck his head in the living room now and again to see if there was a good programme on. He hated the overly smiley presenters with their bright outfits and northern accents. No one he knew in real life was like that. He’d rather watch the American cartoons. They were all about beating up the enemy and defending the planet or whatever it was for that show. The important thing was there was good and bad and no one pretended that life was all smiles and games. Harry came downstairs dressed and ready to go. He shared his Dad’s views on kids’ programmes and joined Dean in the kitchen until a good show came on. When one did, Harry joined Matthew, and Dean was left trying to watch via intermittent glances through the living room door whilst attempting to cook breakfast. He toasted the bread on one side and then added the grated cheese and milk mix to the other, spreading it right out to the corners. He pushed the slices under the grill and then tried to gather what was going on in the cartoon. There were a lot of children shouting at each other and each of them seemed to control some kind of animal that changed into a weapon whenever the kid threw something at them. He couldn’t work out who was fighting who, who was winning and losing and why they were fighting in the first place. It was noisy and flashy and although he was arse over head with confusion, he was hypnotised by the colours and shouting. The end came suddenly and brought no explanation for what the hell was going on. Eyes and ears released, his nose kicked in and he caught a whiff of burning fat. The topping mix had bobbled black and crusty over the edge of the bread and had splattered the grill pan in blistered cheese. It was mid-morning before Dean had remade breakfast, cheese on toast the short way on the second attempt, and the family was ready to leave. Matthew ran off down the steps, jumping from the last three before the landing. He flicked his leg out trying to do a karate kick. Harry exaggerated a belly laugh at the effort and then proceeded to show him how it was done properly by jumping from four steps up and doing the same thing just as lamely. Matthew looked unimpressed and Harry insisted he should watch him do it better at the next landing. They continued until the courtyard, neither improving on their technique. At the bottom of the stairwell, Dean watched as they both convinced the other they had done at least one good one and so could leave the game content. Dean paced down behind them, concerned a little about the time as he had a shopping run that afternoon. Instead of walking, they’d grab the number 53 from the New Eldon Brickworks, which would get them to Southfield a bit quicker. At the bus stop Matthew and Harry tried and failed to tightrope walk the mottled plastic bench. It was angled and too shiny and they kept slipping off. Dean looked at Eldon’s blocks through the scratched glass back of the bus stop. He traced the square outline of the estate buildings with his finger, following the straight lines and harsh angles. He stopped when he noticed both boys watching him. The bus took a different route than usual and they arrived at Southfield almost as late as they would have done if they’d walked. They didn’t have time for the posh toy shop, so they went up and down in the glass lifts for a while and then played on the tablets in the sterile computer shop. Dean gave the boys ten minutes before he rounded them up to walk back, purposely taking the Burnham Road exit so they could go past Homes Direct, the discount chain ironmongers that pretty much sold everything from lawnmowers to milk. He kept his kids close by and headed straight for the sweets section, grabbing a pack of custard creams for the road. Matthew kept tugging at his leg and pointing to the chocolate boxes on special offer along the queue aisle. Harry was more interested in the plastic machine guns. A recorded cashier number six called out to them over a fuzzy loud speaker and Dean, pulling Matthew’s hand off a pack of rum truffles, herded the boys over to the till. He dropped the biscuits on the counter, took out a handful of coins from his trackie bottoms’ pocket and looked up at the cashier.It’s his eyes. Like someone’s pinched him on the temples and stretched them around his head. They’re creamy white with yellow splodges by his nose and thin red lines that zigzag across to his black pupils. Funny how eyes make you. Probably why people blur them out on sex match websites. Madu stares at me. He’s not smiling but his teeth are showing. They’re so different, blacks and browns and dirty yellows. His grin used to make me laugh and laugh and laugh and I couldn’t stop. Now it makes me want to spit and buy my kids mouthwash. He’s so thin and I can’t do nothing. It’s Madu.‘That’s a pound.’ It’s flat, dull. No one would notice, but I know Madu. ‘What you doing here?’He snorts and his big nostrils pulse.‘Job, in’it.’I look at his cupped hand. His skin’s cracked around his pale fingertips. He’s wearing one of those cheap red and black polo shirt uniforms with a name badge. Madu, here to help. ‘That’s one pound.’ His tone doesn’t change.‘What happened, man?’Madu looks left and right at the other cashiers. ‘Got a job. One pound.’I hand over a fiver. Madu takes it, turns to the till and speaks again quietly. ‘Done some thinking.’ The drawer of the till clatters out and Madu shoves the note in. He rummages for change and, without looking up, mutters like it’s to himself.‘I made mistakes.’Madu never backs down. He was the hardest kid in school. But he’s older, bigger. So am I. I’m not a kid anymore. I get it. I wish I could have done more, done stuff differently. But I can’t do nothing. I want him to know that I get it. ‘I’m sorry.’ It hovers in the air between us and we both know what I mean. ‘Yeah.’ He sniffs dryly as he takes a handful of coins. ‘I deserved it. She was just a Paki, but I didn’t even know what that meant.’ He hands me the change and holds my hand. ‘It don’t mean nothing.’ I feel his grip. I want to hug him. I want us to be kids again. I want to do ice sliding and play one touch. I want to go back and make it not happen, none of it, not school, not the prick, nothing. I want us to be friends. He looks at me.‘Dean.’ He smiles. I think he smiles, I can’t tell. I really don’t know. He squeezes my hand. ‘Thanks for not stabbing me.’He lets go and I take the change. He presses a button behind the counter that calls the next customer to cashier six. I turn away and push the boys out of the shop. It’s all a blur and we’re out of the automatic doors and walking along the Burnham Road past the bins and the crossing. We keep walking and I feel something tug at my arm. It’s Harry. He’s excited about something.‘Did you stab that man up, Dad?’It jolts me. I’m still holding the change in my hand. Five pound coins. I laugh out loud. All the way from my tummy. It’s noisy and crackling and I don’t give a fuck who hears me or stares. Both my boys are looking and smiling and I take their hands, one on each side and we keep on walking back towards Addington. I want to tell them all about it.‘No, I never stabbed him up. He was my best friend.’ Dean told Harry and Matthew about Madu, about one touch, ice-sliding, coke can pisses, Mrs Prosser, exploring Eldon, inventing doing the Vs and up yours together, the Deputy Headmaster, stupid voices on tape, beating up the fat kid, doing special moves and everything else he could remember. He hadn’t thought about it for so long. He talked all the way back to the edge of Addington. The two boys zigzagged back and forth, sometimes in front of Dean and sometimes behind him. It was quiet when they reached the Burnham Road junction with the A48 that would take them to Addington High Street. Dean noticed that there was hardly any traffic and it set him slightly on edge. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly. There was a buzz in the air that rattled the boys. It was how he felt when he was getting close to the edge of a big public event, like the annual fireworks in Burnham Park. Before you even saw the gathering crowds you could sense the mass of people, the anticipation, electrifying the air. The estates were full of potential energy and the closer he and the boys got to Addington High Street, the more his hairs stood on end. The first sign anything was up came in the shape of a police car and van parked on the A48 slip road. As if the two were intrinsically connected, Dean immediately heard the faint rumble of shouting and foghorns. He called the kids to his side and told them to stay close. They walked together towards the noise. It sounds like a football match. I’ve never been to one. I don’t really get the point. You can see it much better on the telly and all the good bits are shown in slow-mo repeat. It’s just the crowds. They’re all argy bargy and get aggro when their team loses. Who gives a toss? It’s not like it’s your mates playing. Half the players ain’t even English, but it doesn’t stop knobheads like Phil Harris supporting them. There’s a policewoman walking in circles gabbing on her walkie talkie, but there’s no-one else around. It’s just the noise. Sounds like a thousand people all shouting at the same time. But it ain’t together like a football chant, where everyone shouts the same song. It’s like when a top player does a run and is about to score and everyone in the crowd goes on their own run with them, like they’re actually playing the game themselves. It all builds to a big mess and you can’t make any words out or nothing. It’s weird when you think about it properly. Getting all riled up over kicking a ball. I never cared that much if I lost at footy or one touch. We walk past the copper and are almost at the top of the High Street. The shouting is getting louder and there are few more police now. ‘What’s going on?’ Harry’s holding back slightly behind me and tugs on my t-shirt. ‘I don’t know.’ I don’t look back at the boys, but I grab Matt’s hand and pat Harry on the back to make sure he stays close to me. We walk around the last few buildings until we can see through to Addington High Street. There’s loads of pigs bundling down the access road. It’s like on the telly. They look like robots, all dressed in black riot gear with shields and everything. When I was a kid I always liked shields more than swords. Defence is as important as attack. Best not to get hurt and not hurt anyone else either. Sometimes I want to kick people’s fucking lights out though. But usually I don’t care. Harry and Matt stare at all the cops. The boys don’t have a fucking clue. Their mouths are half open and they don’t want to blink. It’s the first time I notice how similar they look. Just like brothers. I hope they’re friends when they’re older. I hope they’re best friends. We walk a bit closer, until we’re at the edge of the access road pavement. I try and see through all the riot cops, but I can’t really make anything out past the blur of helmets. The noise is getting louder, moving towards us up the street. I know it’s people but it sounds like a machine. Through the cops I see a great big flag. There’s no wind so it’s all floppy and limp. I can’t even see what it is, just white and red bits. Loads of people appear and the noise hits us directly. There’s a massive lot of them. They’re all walking along Addington High Street shouting stuff I can’t make out. ‘England.’ Matt points out a banner held up between two poles. It’s an England flag with England written on it. I don’t know which one of them Matt recognised, but either is pretty good for his age. He’s a smart kid. He must get the brains from Georgina. That’s what everyone will say if he does well at school. I must have got mine from my Dad. He wasn’t around much either. I smirk at my own joke, but then I hear something I understand. I can’t see him but I can hear his voice through the noise. It’s crackly and buzzed, like a dusty car speaker without the cover. You can wire them directly to a stereo and then put the volume up to max and they shake and rattle and the music is all distorted like it’s been blasted through a fairground mirror. That’s what he sounds like, twisted and mangled and fucked up. That’s Phil Harris. He’s shouting bollocks through a megaphone. The words are all lost in the crowd, but I know it’s him. My teeth are grinding.‘Are you with them?’ The policewoman who was on the walkie talkie has come up behind us. I turn my head to follow her finger. She’s pointing at the bundle of people on Addington High Street. They’re making a right fucking racket. I can’t think straight. I look back at the copper. She’s got a little blonde cut like open curtains across her forehead and if it wasn’t for her army sergeant face and grown-up school trousers, I’d probably have a go on her. I see her eyes squint just a little bit. Then she looks my kids up and down like they’ve just been nicking sweets from the corner shop. What’s her fucking problem? I look back at Phil and his cronies. I shake my head. The stupid pig stares at me, like I’m lying. What am I going to lie about? Does she really think I’d take my boys along to some fucked-up march? Bitch. Cops make you feel guilty even when you ain’t done nothing. Think they’re something special cos they’ve got a shiny badge on their hat. She looks back at my kids again. Police want to be seen as so high and fucking mighty, but how can you trust them when they don’t give a shit about the estates. They just let us get on with it and only come round if they want to give one of the black BMX kids a beating. She can fuck off. She heads the air to her left.‘Where are you going?’ It sounds more like an order than a question.‘Eldon.’ She looks me right in the eye. Like she doesn’t believe me. ‘Take Tyler Street and you’ll come out near Handonwell tube.’ She doesn’t blink the whole time she says it. It pisses me off and I feel my hand gripping Matt tighter.‘Yeah, I know. I’ve lived here long enough.’ I can’t be arsed with her anymore. Stupid pig. I look down one by one at the boys. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ I pull on Matt’s hand and pat Harry on the back. I don’t even look back at her. We walk in a diagonal across Addington towards Tyler Street. I hear Harry muttering under his breath, but he obviously wants me to hear because he’s saying it loud enough. He ain’t that stupid.‘Stupid pig.’ He’s shuffling his feet against the floor, scraping his trainers against the tarmac. They wear down too quick when he does that and it costs me and Georgina a bomb. But I can’t say nothing. I still do it now sometimes. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want Harry to start hating the cops. They’re a bunch of bastards but they’re better than the new gang on Eldon.‘Some are alright.’ I say it quietly. Under my breath. We reach the start of Tyler Street. It goes round the back of the shops on Addington. One side is all businesses and shops and stuff and the other is all shitty houses. Proper old ones where the painting is falling off and the bricks are crumbling and you can actually see proper zigzag cracks along the walls. If we ever had an earthquake, these wouldn’t last a second. A tin sound rattles off one of the walls. I shoot my head round and see Harry kicking a beer can. He lines it up and gives it a massive boot. He’s pretty good. He gets it off the ground and everything. One day he’ll beat me at one touch, but I won’t even mind. He’ll deserve it. Matt tugs at my arm. He wants to go and play with Harry. I let go of his hand and nod towards his brother. Matt runs off and tries to kick Harry’s can. Harry pushes him away and Matt goes and finds his own along the curb. The boys shout and kick and the tins send metallic hell along the road. Wouldn’t surprise me if these buildings all fucking collapsed. I put my hands in my trackie bottom pockets and walk slowly behind my lads. I watch them play. Matt tries to copy Harry, but can’t do it. It must piss him off. Harry just boots the fucker every time, but Matt clips the side and sends it spinning off in all directions. Matt never gives up though. Even though he’s shit, he still tries to kick the can. When I was his age I’d have just crushed it with my foot pretending to be the Incredible Hulk. But then that’s game over. You can lob the flat can a bit like a death star, but it makes your hand smell of beer. It’s rubbish really. I reckon my boys are top. The little fuckers. Harry climbs up onto a wall and places the can down. He swings his leg and whacks the tin right out into the road. What a cool kick. I notice some old nosey bastard watching from one of the rotten windows in the row of crap houses. He’s peeping half a grey face from behind dirty net curtains. I look directly at him. He can’t do nothing. It’s just kids having fun. Let him watch if he wants. There’s nothing wrong with it. The whole fucking world can watch if they want. Matt is trying to climb up too, but he can’t get his knee up high enough. He’ll make it one day. He keeps trying until I’ve walked past him and call him to catch up. He’s a proper trooper that one. Both of them run on ahead. I feel light. It’s as if I’m sitting on the sofa after drinking a cold beer. Watching my boys makes me feel so comfortable. I shout for them to wait for me at the next turn. Stupid pig obviously doesn’t know the area better than a local. There’s a short cut through the alley at the back of the frozen food shop. It’s only big enough for one car, but I ain’t driving so up yours bitch. I turn off down the alley and walk towards the first bend. It doubles back on itself like a chicane in a grand prix. I reckon it would be cool to go on a go-kart down here. Pretty fucking dangerous though. There’s loads of shit everywhere. Garbage bags and broken bottles and old wooden crates and loose bits of metal. It’s more like a fucking tip than a street. I can’t hear the rattling tins anymore. I open up my ear holes and listen. It’s too silent, which means the little cunts are planning something. I don’t turn around. I’m going to fool them and play them at their own game. I walk normally around the first bend in the alley and then run. I get halfway to the next bend and turn to see Harry running, followed by Matt, both holding the crushed cans in their hands. I pretend to keep moving and head towards the bend, but really I’m letting them catch up. I look over my shoulder at them as I turn the corner. They catch up and take aim. The cans whizz past me and there is a shattering of glass. I spin round quickly and freeze. Right there next to a pile of smashed bottles and two beer cans is a young woman. She’s got a dark blue headscarf on and one of them Paki dresses. She came out of nowhere. Must be trying to avoid all the shit happening on Addington High Street. She’s skinny. She’s dead still. She’s not moving a muscle. Playing statues. She’s staring right at me. Her eyes look really open and white against her brown skin. They’re so big. They catch me and pull me in. I feel like I’ve been shipwrecked on her island pupils. She doesn’t move. The boys are at my side. They’re probably staring. We’d better go or we won’t get back in time for lunch. I take a step forward and the girl shudders, a proper flinch. I stop and look at her. Her lips are tight back over her teeth. They’re yellow buck rabbit style with a big gap in the middle. I want to laugh, but it doesn’t feel funny. There’s something weird about her, but I can’t make it out. Maybe she’s a bit simple. I stare at her properly. Maybe I should help her or something. She’s just standing there like an ice statue. Only her nose is moving. Her nostrils are flaring up. They’re huge black holes. I look closer and see that she’s breathing quickly. In fact it’s her whole body. It’s shaking. I can see shivers all through her. She must be having a whack attack. I look around, but there’s nothing. Maybe it was the kids. Perhaps she thought they were throwing the beer cans at her. But they weren’t, they’ve just got bad aim. Fucking hell. She looks really freaked out. I go to explain, but someone shouts from down the end of the alley. I turn, but all I can see is a dented metal dustbin. I look back at the girl. She’s still staring at me. Her hands are grabbed together so tight I reckon the bones are going to pop out. There’s another shout and I bolt round. Some bloke lurches around the corner fast. He’s looking behind at something and shouting, waving his arm forward. Then there’s loads of them. Hundreds of women and men dressed in jeans and shirts and with dreadlocks and glasses and they’re old and young and they’re white and black and brown and everything. They bundle up the alley towards us. A lot of them have their hoodies up and their caps down and it ain’t even cold or sunny. I turn back around and the woman is gone. Fucking weirdo. I push Harry and Matt to one side of the alley to let the crowd go by. Who the fuck are they anyway? ‘Paf.’ Matt points at a flag bobbing up and down in the wave of people. He’s got good eyes. P. A. F. Never heard of it. They get closer and some of them stare at me. What’s this? Everyone stare at fucking Dean alley? Even though they’re all gabbing off about something, I can see them looking at me and whispering. I can read the flag now. It’s The, in small print, People Against Fascism. What? I’m not even sure if I should know what that means. Who are fascists? The Government? I thought fascists are like Hitler and the Soviets. They hate the Jews and queers. I learnt about it in school. Or were they communists? I can’t remember exactly. More and more people are staring at me as they walk past. I look around, but it’s just me and the kids. I ain’t spilled nothing on my T-shirt or anything, so what’s the fucking problem? There are more flags. Down With Racism. NDL are Scum. Britain is for Everyone. Eng-All-Land. The last one makes me smirk. It’s smart, sounds like the football chants. Hingerrlaand. Wankers. Why don’t they just shout England like it’s said properly? I think I get it. This lot must be coming through here to catch up with Phil Harris. Good luck you bastards, there’s loads of cops and they ain’t pretty. I smile at the PAF as they go by. They stare back, all of them at the same time like they’re connected by a wire. It’s a bit freaky deaky. They look pissed off. Proper annoyed. They’ve got hate all over their faces. How can you hate someone you’ve never met? I don’t get them. The ones on the other side of the alley are still shouting stuff I can’t make out, but all the others are giving me the proper evil eye. I look around again, but really, there’s nothing. We even got out of the way to let them pass and we’re in a fucking hurry to get back for fish and chips and battered sausage for Harry. They could at least say thanks. In the middle of the group a tall skinny young one slows down and he’s giving me a proper eyeballing. I shrug my shoulders. I ain’t got a clue and I don’t care. I hope they catch up with Phil Harris and they can all go and fight each other and leave me alone. The skinny bloke pushes his way through towards me and some of the others are egging him on and whispering shit to him. What the fuck’s his problem anyway? He gets proper close. He’s taller than me and has these turned down eyebrows that make a furry Y above his nose. He’s got long hair too. He looks like the arseholes I sold weed to outside the Eldon Brickworks. Just like the ones who spout off about changing the world and shit and then go and smoke themselves brain dead thinking they’re getting enlightenment. Dick. He’s got that arrogant ‘I know what’s fucking best for you because I read it in an article about a book that I heard about once from a teacher’ look. Stupid twat. If you don’t know something, better not bother trying to pretend you do. And if you don’t like the way other people live, then don’t live like that. Doesn’t mean you can boss everyone else around because you think you’re the bee’s bollocks. Just let everyone get on with it and leave them alone. Matey has got proper close now and is looking right down his nose at me. He can fuck off. I can stand my ground against anyone. Most people anyway. I don’t give a shit about him. I don’t even know what his problem is. I raise my head sharply and point my shoulders up to my ears. What the fuck’s he want? He snorts his nose, bends forward and spits on the ground in front of me. I stand still. I watch him turn around and run back to the tail of the group. The whole lot fuck off around the chicane and slowly their shouts disappear. I don’t do nothing. I just stand there staring ahead. He spat at me. Properly gobbed a greenie right at my feet. Cunt. Fucking cunt. I’m with my fucking kids and all. I want to run after him and gob in his mouth and see how much he fucking likes it. Fucking piece of shit wanker cunt. Cunt. I turn and kick one of the beer cans and it sends a spray of broken bottle glass all over the alley. Some of it bounces back onto Harry and Matt. Shit. I bend down and help them brush it off. It isn’t in their eyes, but glass splinters are the worst. If you can’t get them out then the skin grows over and they’ll get absorbed into your body and go into your blood. They don’t have any in their eyes or faces and I check their hands carefully. They’re alright. I stand up and look back at the alley. What a bunch of cunts. They don’t know nothing about me. Giving it all that. Who fucking put them in charge? How dare they fucking spit at me. What’ve I done to them? Fuck all. I think Phil Harris and all the knobs in the NDL are cunts too. Everyone does. What’s their fucking problem? I’m fuming. I’m so angry I reckon I must have flames for eyes. I look at the boys. Matt’s still looking for glass on his shoes. Harry stares off down the alley towards Southfield. I take a big old breath into me lungs and hold it. I’m pumping myself up from the inside, filling my chest with all the bullshit. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. I let it all go through my nose. Everything. I look at my boys. Who cares about those NDL and PAF cunts? Let them tear each other to shreds. They both deserve it. I pat my boys on their shoulders.‘Let’s go.’ I push them softly down the alley and turn to follow them. Something glints in the corner of my eye. I stop and look back. There’s a silver panel window to the side of a stack of wooden palates. I must have seen my reflection move. I take a step backwards and come into view. It’s me, but it’s different, not like a normal mirror because it’s all shimmering and distorted. But it’s me. Fuck, it’s me. I can see it. I’m so fucking white. Blotchy pink and white. Look at that crew cut hair. I scrape my hand over my head. It feels good, tight and cushioned. But it looks…I don’t know. I do know. It looks like all them other ones who hang out in the third courtyard in from the Prickworks. I’ve even got the same polo shirt and grey trackie bottoms. Even me white trainers ain’t different. I can’t move. The reflection holds me. It’s the face. That’s what gets me. The eyes are slant and the cheeks are puffed and pointy at the same time. And the mouth. I see my lips curl up to one side like an Elvis quiff. I’m sneering. Like I hate everything around me. Everyone around me. Like I hate myself. The face stares back at me and I know who it is. It’s Phil Harris. It’s all those fuckers in the NDL. It’s the BMX kids on Eldon and Addington. I’m them. I look like them and everyone in the whole fucking world sees me like it too. That poor girl probably thought I was going to rape her up and kill her and send her back to Pakiland. I think of Ghalia. She floods my brain. It’s all Ghalia. She must have known. She must have seen it. But I’m not like them. I’m not fucking like them. I can see myself rubbing tears away from my eyes. It’s all rising up again. All that shit. Ghalia and Madu and the kid whose name I can’t remember and everything. It’s all coming up and I can’t stop it. I need to see her. I need to tell her it ain’t me. He isn’t me. Harry and Matt moaned the whole way back through the alley and all the way along Tyler Street. What about fish and chips and a battered sausage for Matt? Why had that man spat at them? But really, what about the chips? Dean didn’t heed the protests. The words washed over him, bounced off him, vanished into the ether. His sights were set on one final destination. They reached the market end of Addington High Street to see a line of police plastic barricading the PAF from following the NDL. He held the boys back as he flicked his eyes across the street. The scuffle was a good fifty yards beyond Ghalia’s shop. Dean didn’t wait for it to move any further. He grabbed both boys by the wrist and dragged them across the street. The metal grille was battened down and even the neon tat had been turned off. It was a frontline, holding the NDL out as much as the occupants in. Dean went straight for the side door that led up to the living space above the shop. He manhandled the kids to one side, making them stand so close they were treading over each other’s feet. He was solid, completely unresponsive to either of their complaints. He didn’t feel like their Dad anymore. It seemed as if something had jumped him, gotten inside. Or maybe something inside was trying to get out. He knocked again with the ball of his fist, but there was no answer from within. They were deep purposeful blows that echoed through the fine bones of his hand. His fingers spasmed with shooting pain, but he felt none of it. He banged the door again. He waited longer, but nothing. He brought his ear close to the door. Was there someone inside? He bent down and pushed the letterbox open with the tips of his fingers. The hallway was dark except for a sharp diagonal of light from the first floor that cut across the shabby carpeted stairs. The straight lines were in feathered relief and Dean noticed a curved shape caught in silhouette about halfway up the stairs. He put his mouth to the opening and shouted through. He quickly returned his eyes to see the shadow bob up and down briefly. Through the letterbox he made it clear that he could see someone hiding. A few whispered words in a language he couldn’t understand were followed by a stern, yet discernibly shaken, fuck off. Dean heard the anxious response and understood why they were trying to conceal their presence. He explained he knew Ghalia and needed to talk to her. It was urgent. They told him to fuck off again. The tight springs of the letterbox were starting to weigh heavy on his fingers with the sharp edge of the metal flap digging into his knuckles. He put his lips to the hole and pleaded. His hands gave out and the letterbox slammed shut. He looked at the chipped door and swallowed long and hard. He was hunched, arms loose at his side, lips turning over each other on clenched teeth. The air seeped from his lungs. He blinked a couple of times, flicking daylight into his eyes. He went back to the letterbox and gently pushed it open with the tips of his fingers. Before the first creak of the spring, a solid kick from inside slammed the flap shut against his hand. The door shook on its hinges and fell silent. He turned, away from Harry and Matthew, and stared along Addington High Street. The PAF and the police ground together, coalescing into one indistinguishable throbbing mass. And somewhere, at the other end of the road, would be the same scene with the NDL. Dean looked through the swarm of bodies and saw Ghalia and himself walking through market stall frames, bathed in orange streetlamp glow. They walked up and down, side by side, laughing, arguing, stuck in the middle. It was years ago now and what had changed? It dragged him down. Nothing had actually changed. On the surface it seemed like there were different groups fighting different groups with different slogans and different buzzwords, but underneath it all, the reasons were always the same. They were right and every other fucker was wrong, and they would kill to prove it. And the likes of Dean and Ghalia didn’t matter. They weren’t even part of the equation. They were just stuck in the middle. Another fuck off brought Dean back to the doorstep. The letterbox had been pulled inward. In its place was the shadowed outline of a jaw and mouth, which reiterated that it had told Dean to fuck off. What the hell was he doing coming here on a day like today? With all the shit going on? What had possessed him to think he could speak to Ghalia? She wasn’t here anyway and even if she was he would still have to fuck off. He wasn’t welcome. His type would never be welcome. So he should just fuck off now and not come back again. The flap sprung down and sent a single clack out into the street. That was that. Dean ruffled Matthew's hair and patted Harry on the shoulder. It was time to go home. They weren’t going to be able to get fish and chips anyway as the whole of Addington High Street was in chaos. The situation struck him as funny, the kind of funny that made him choke. It was mental, surely, what was going on. The new gentrified Eldon versus the old estates. The NDL getting at immigrants and the PAF getting at the NDL. It was like a dog chasing its own tail and ignoring the cat. Dean seriously didn’t get it. Why did they blame others for all the problems? It wasn’t the blacks or Asians or Muslims or whatever that pissed off Dean. They didn’t change a fucking thing. It was the future of his kids. They were fucked. They wouldn’t get a fancy, gothic mansion education. They wouldn’t learn an instrument or go horse riding. They wouldn’t get on the rowing team at Oxford. They wouldn’t get a job that paid them hundreds of thousands. They spoke the wrong way, they grew up the wrong way, they lived the wrong way. And their kids would do the fucking same. It wasn’t just his boys either. It was everyone from the estates. It didn’t matter who they were, they were fucked. And the NDL and the PAF having a barney about immigrants just meant the real problems got ignored. It was a bloody joke. Dean smirked at the thought. That someone like him had the power to keep the blacks down or house the Pakistanis in the worst estates. Fuck no. Even the wankers in the NDL didn’t have the power to do that. They couldn’t stop them going to school, or choose where they lived, or block their job opportunities. The whites, the blacks, the Asians, whatever, it didn’t matter. They were all fucked in the great big British scheme of things. It was so ‘kind of funny’ that he choked out a dry, empty laugh. Addington High Street was a dead end. They’d have to take the long way around back to Eldon. The boys were silent and shuffled along behind Dean as he loped along the pavement. Dean turned the corner at the end of Addington High Street which curved around to the back end of the estate. A sharp muffled shout came from behind them. Dean heard his name hanging in the air and turned to come face to face with Ghalia’s brother. It’s Ghalia. Her eyes and lips. They’re the same, he’s just like her. My breathing goes fluttery. I grip my left hand and curl my palm around the thumb. It’s clammy. He’s got a diamond face that cuts into his open pink shirt. He stops a metre away from us and juts out his chin. He’s skinny. The rest of his body’s as sharp as his head. His grey suit is too tight and you can see his bony knees through the cotton. He looks like a bender from the seventies. He looks kind, like Ghalia. I’m all filled with warmth. Not hot, just comfortable. I want him to speak. To tell me about her. ‘What the fuck were you thinking, coming to our house?’ His head juts forward as he speaks and snaps back at the end of the sentence. I go to answer but he interrupts.‘I know all about you. Ghalia’s told me everything.’ He spits it out, his shoulders tensing. ‘It’s the only reason I’m here. She likes you.’ He leans his face towards me and shout-whispers. ‘Our parents would go fucking crazy if they ever found out.’ He points a slim brown finger. ‘This is not the time or the place. So just fuck off back to Eldon before you cause any more trouble.’ Ghalia’s brother can’t stand still. He’s all jerky movements like he’s done a line too many. I don’t get it. Why did he chase us up the road just to tell me to fuck off again? He’s proper psycho. He keeps wrenching his head round, checking over his shoulder. I look closer at his face. He’s sweating. He looks nervous as hell. I bet he fucking is, what with Phil Harris and his bunch of angry white twats shouting that Muslims should be sent back to where they came from. And now I know. They all look like me and I look like them. No wonder he’s shitting himself. It makes me mad. Why should he feel scared in his own country? I’ve known Ghalia longer than me own kids. Where’s she supposed to go home to? This is where she was born and where she grew up. Same as me. What makes her different? I’m fuming. I want to scream and shout, but I know it’s a stupid question. I look at Ghalia’s brother. We are different. Our families are different. Our food’s different. They all speak differently. But so what? Why does it matter? Why’s it such a huge problem? Fucking hell, life is boring enough without everyone having to be the same. I want to be different too. Especially compared to those cunts in the NDL. I want Ghalia to know that. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with all that shit.’ I point towards Addington High Street. ‘Most people on Eldon don’t.’ ‘I know all that.’ He shakes his head. ‘We told each other everything. All our secrets.’ His face softens and I see even more of Ghalia. It calms me. I want to listen. He carries on speaking, but it’s quiet now. I can’t hear anger anymore. Just sadness.‘It’s not easy for us. We’re stuck. There’s so much pressure from all fucking sides.’ He stops twitching and his arms drop to his sides. ‘And these bloody fights outside our home don’t help anything.’ His eyes are bloodshot. As he speaks his hands start karate chopping the air. His voice rises up and down like the beeping machine next to a dying man. It makes me go cold and shivery. ‘It’s so simple for them. The NDL. The PAF. It’s all just about race and nothing else. But how does that help? So what if the PAF support Muslim rights? How does that protect other, different Muslims like me? Or Ghalia?’ He says her name quietly. He pauses. I think he’s finished, but his lips purse and he swallows. ‘They’re all doing the same, judging people on how they look, or what group they think they belong to, or what culture they come from. Like it’s that simple. Those extremes don’t help anybody. It’s never about what we feel inside.’ He bangs his chest with his fist. It’s hard. It must really hurt. I feel it. My ribs ache. My whole body aches with him. I understand. It’s just like with Ghalia. Like I’m connected and he’s my own brother. I want him to be. I want to hug him, like we’re family. I don’t move. He doesn’t move. I see her face. ‘How’s Ghalia?’ It comes out like a whisper, but it feels so loud inside that I shake. Ghalia’s brother’s shoulders collapse. He holds his hands together and his eyes drop to the floor. He doesn’t say anything or even move. ‘She’s in Bangladesh.’ He looks up as he says it. He stares at me. His eyelids fall slowly and rise a moment later. They’re wet. ‘They’ve found her a husband.’ They stood staring through each other. Ghalia’s brother twitching, Dean still and slumped. They were distorted echoes cast by voices they couldn’t control. Ghalia’s brother shifted his weight continuously for a minute, nodded tight brows and pursed lips, spun on his toes and scurried off back to the shop. Dean’s lava guts twisted and churned, spewing forth and then absorbing back. No emotion held firm. None allowed him to know how to feel. He could see what it had done, what all this conflict meant for Ghalia and her brother, what it meant for him and his family. They’d had to make a choice and if they didn’t, it was made for them. But it was the wrong choice. Those extremes just pushed people further apart, made the differences seem to matter. Dean and Ghalia’s brother were the same. He felt sorry for him. How could a secret bum burglar cope in a family who sends their daughter to Bangladesh to get married? The thought bubbled through Dean, eruptions of anger and sadness, loss and regret. He desperately wished he’d fucked her when he had the chance. Then he cursed her parents. He hated them for making her leave. Fucking Pakis. Then he wordlessly swore at the NDL for making it all ten times worse. Then he thought about Georgina and felt guilty for feeling so shit about Ghalia getting married. It came and went before his mind could take a grip. All Harry and Matthew saw were the creeping tears across their motionless Dad’s cheeks. But they could tell he wasn’t crying. Inside him was a tumult that matched the fighting on Addington High Street. He could still hear it, even from where he was standing. Such a violent uproar when all else in London was silent. And that, Dean realised, was at the heart of it. That some suffered whilst others thrived. That labels were given by people who had none themselves. It wasn’t the Muslims. It wasn’t the PAF. It wasn’t even the NDL. But what could he do? What could anyone do? He took his kids by the hand and walked silently home. It was a simple answer. Fuck all. Summer 2011An additional public holiday announced to celebrate the marriage of Prince William and Catherine Middleton. British forces initiate airstrikes in Libya. The Serious Fraud Office arrest suspects in connection with the collapse of Icelandic Kaupthing Bank. A British Muslim is sentenced to twelve years in jail for calls on his blog for the murder of MPs who backed the war in Iraq. Hundreds of thousands of protestors march in London against government spending cuts. Prime Minister David Cameron criticises ‘state multiculturalism’ in a speech on radicalisation and the causes of terrorism. The demolition of the Eldon and Addington estates in East London is approved by the Major of London. Police shoot dead unarmed Tottenham local, Mark Duggan. A peaceful vigil turns violent and riots spread across London. Previous X Factor contestants outsell pop rivals. Dean and Georgina had followed the story on the news. Georgina laughed bitterly whenever adverts for the gadgets people were stealing came on between the reports. What did they expect would happen when society was taught to be consumers rather than citizens? The politicians dismissed the whole thing as criminality, mob rule by the uneducated. It made Georgina hiss. Whose job was it to educate people? The same leaders who were out sunning themselves in the Seychelles and the Maldives and were too pig ignorant to come back to the UK where the population was going ape shit at the policies no one voted for. That’s whose fucking job it was. Dean didn’t respond as such, he was more interested in the videos of hoodies running around with high definition widescreens. Although he did get why Georgina was so pissed off about how everyone on telly talked about the riots. He’d seen her work so hard to pass her degree with a 2:2 just to be rejected at every interview she went for. She said it was because she had the wrong accent and came from Eldon. The interviewers probably just assumed she was like the estate scum they kept seeing on television. So she carried on working in the call centre, went to see films and gave up looking for jobs she’d never get. A week after she’d got her results, Georgina had ordered a cheap digital camcorder from the Internet. The English translation of the instructions made no sense to either her or Dean and she’d spent over a fortnight working out how to use it. She started recording scenes from Eldon and showing them to the rest of the family. Kids playing in the courtyards, dogs fighting, tattoo canvasses chain smoking on breeze block piles, BMX kids selling dope to scared bearded hipsters, old bids laughing together over shopping trolley handles, the square of sky, the square of ground, the square boxes they all lived in. She explained to Dean that she wanted to make a record of Eldon before they destroyed it. Four generations of her family had lived here. This was her home and she was being forced to leave. But she wanted to remember the angles of the walls, the hardness of the tarmac earth, the bustling air on access road winds, the night sky she’d watched from her teenage window. She wanted to remember the touch of life, of existence on Eldon, and all that made it real. Dean kind of got it, but couldn’t quite understand why Georgina welled up every time they watched the footage. For him, he saw the arrival of a proper video camera a little differently. It only took a little persuasion for Georgina to consent to recording their fucking, but she’d put her foot down to him trying to sell it on amateur porn websites. Dean had only mentioned it as a joke, but Georgina’s reaction made him feel as though he were onto something. If she was that worried that people would see, there must be a whole lot of people watching. They could make a fortune and it wouldn’t even be porn because he was fucking his girlfriend. They could take requests for kinky stuff too. He spent many a wanking moment visualising his rise to triple X internet sensation. Although he knew it would never happen. Georgina would punch his lights out if she found out that he’d been selling their dirty videos. But it didn’t stop him imagining it. Other than the addition of sexual playback, his life hadn’t changed. The notice to leave Eldon had stirred him a little, but since finding out about Ghalia’s marriage he had receded to days of apathy. He played with the kids, he did the shopping runs, he fucked Georgina and he pretended to watch the news and care about bankers nicking millions and not getting done. What else was there to do? His Mum was getting plumper as her perm got tighter. She talked more shit so he visited her less. She never came back to Eldon. She was scared of the place nowadays, what with everything on the telly. Bulldozing it was the best thing that could’ve happened. Him and his family were lucky to be getting a new place. It would be bigger too, she’d bet. Dean nodded along with her when she went off on one, but even he knew that the new homes were going to be just as shit as Eldon, just further from the city centre. He didn’t really care about it himself, but he did feel sorry for his kids who would have to move schools and lose all their mates. But what could they do? Their names weren’t even on the tenancy. The lady at the council had bent over backwards to get them on the list for the relocation, so she’d said. As far as he could make out, him and Georgina had done all the hard work. How many fucking trees had they cut down to produce that many forms, let alone the plastic and ink for the biros. It had all been sorted by the time the protests broke out in North London. All they had to do was wait. Dean took the riots a different way from Georgina. Whereas she’d got angry, he saw an opportunity. There was a load of top notch gear going for free. As soon as he saw the post go up on his phone, he was off. People throughout Addington and Eldon were filtering through the night towards the high street. He’d worn his favourite hoodie for the occasion but realised that would make him easier to catch if they got him on CCTV. The first thing he was going to nick would be a new one from the discount sports shop. He rubbed his tongue across the back of his teeth thinking of how smart he was and how easy it was all going to be. He’d never been looting and he was quite looking forward to it. He already had a shopping list. New video game thing for the boys, new smart phone for himself and a brand spanking new camcorder for Georgina. He knew she’d tell him to fuck off when he gave it to her, but after a week of it staring at her from the coffee table, she wouldn’t be able to resist. That was Georgina all round. On her high horse one minute but never too lofty to join in with the estate crew if she’d get something out of it. She was smart enough to know that she could never afford one and Dean reckoned she’d convince herself on account of bankers and politicians stealing fuck loads more and always getting away with it. What harm did it do anyway? So what if some chain stores got their windows smashed in and their stock nicked. They weren’t even going to notice it. Some of those companies had more money than small countries, or so Dean had heard on a programme he’d half watched. It was about time his lot got something back. He came out of the estates at the A48 end of Addington High Street. It was busier than a Saturday morning in the sales. Dean pulled his hood down over his face and slouched his shoulders even more than normal. A huge grin spread across his face. This was going to be fun. It’s like what carnival is. Or one of them illegal raves in a field. Everyone’s just doing what they like and no one gives a shit. I walk down Addington High Street and feel like I’ve bombed a Rizzla. People are zigzagging all over the road and ducking and diving into the shops, but all the lights are off except for the ones in the street. Everyone’s got their hoodies tight over their heads and I just see glimpses of their faces for a second and then their gone again. Girls and boys and old and young and black and white and brown. It’s pick and mix night on Addington. I’m all a daze. I look at the row of shops and people are just hopping in through the smashed up main window. It’s mental. There’s a bloke carrying a fuck off big flatscreen. It’s still in a box. Where the fuck are the police? I look around, but it’s just us. No pigs anywhere. It’s fucking paradise. I’m going to get a new pair of trackies too. A big black geezer runs past me carrying a kitchen chair. Where the fuck did he get that from? I watch him throw it at the pound store. The chair bounces off and doesn’t even crack the glass. It makes me laugh. He turns and gives me a ‘watch-your-shit’ stare and I realise that my hoodie’s down. I must have pulled it back without realising. I feel like I’m rolling and I only ever did that once when I was a kid. I always preferred weed and booze. But I get it. It’s fucking mental. Does your head in the next day though. Like a hangover that makes you want to slit your wrists. No wonder all those junkie film star kids top themselves. I grab my hoodie and pull it over my head. I feel safe now, protected. Nobody knows me. I can do anything. The fella with the kitchen chair has picked it up and is smashing it against the glass. I think it’s cracked a little, but he might as well be using his cock for the good it’s doing. From nowhere a couple of kids arrive carrying a breezeblock and it goes straight through first time. The black guy clears the hole in the window and they all disappear inside. Fuck. I look around. Still no feds. Fuck. I’m going to do it. I run over, keeping my head down, and climb through the hole in the window. It’s pretty jagged. Looks well sharp, should have a danger warning. I laugh inside my brain. The pound store is weird. It’s dark and the rows disappear towards the back of the shop. It’s like putting your head into a big cardboard box. I stand still. It’s like in a dream. Everything’s in the right place, but it’s all wrong somehow. The two kids push past me. I see one of them is white. He can only be a couple of years older than Harry. Fucking hell. I wouldn’t want him out in this. I move deeper inside and the noise from the street fades away. My feet are heavy. I can’t make out the floor in the dark. I feel naughty. Proper badman. Without the lights it looks graveyard or zombie movie. A shiver runs all through my body and I’m supersensitive. I can feel a single drop of sweat drip from the back of my skull and slide halfway down my spine. Every hair it bends feels the size of a matchstick. I’m buzzed to high fucking heaven. I grab at the shelf and grope for something. I can’t see in the dark and bring it close to my face. Weed killer. Fuck off. I put it back on the shelf. What am I doing? I take the bottle and drop it on the floor. Guilt flashes through me, but it’s good. I like it. I want to go bonkers. I can hear the other guy knocking stuff around at the back. I wonder what he’s looking for. Then I think about it. What am I looking for? It’s a fucking pound store. I know what I want. I run over to the aisle next to the tills. Jaffa fucking cakes. I love that shit. I pick up a carton and then change it for the triple pack. Better value. I leg it. Back on the street I crack them open and stuff three into my cake hole at the same time. They’re dry as hell and fill my mouth and I choke. I hold them at the front of my gums, swallow the stray bits and then start chewing again. This time they all go down but stick in my throat. I wished I’d nicked a bottle of fizzy to wash them down with. I eat the rest one at a time. I walk down the street eating my jaffas like I’m watching a film. A van drives past with music blaring. Drum and bass. It’s too distorted though. Just thuds and fuzz. It pulls up next to me and a bloke with a green scarf round his mouth asks if I know where the main action is. I shrug and shove another cake in my gob. It drives off and disappears. I keep moving along the High Street towards the market end, checking out the bust up store fronts. It always looks like there’s more shit kicking off further down the road. Maybe there is, but this is enough for me. I get to the electronics shop. There’s a fucking queue to get in through the window. It’s one in one out. It’s so mental it makes me laugh out loud and the orange bit of the jaffa cake falls out my mouth. I laugh even more. Everything’s loopy tonight. Nobody can do nothing and nobody cares. London is crackers sometimes. I stand behind the other people waiting to get in. I hope they’ve still got the games and camera left. When I get inside I feel different than the pound shop. It’s busy as hell and everyone’s got their mobile phone torch lights on. It’s almost as bright as the day but the lights move disco style. Most people are grabbing at the smart phones. There’s so many people, I ain’t even going to bother. At the back of the shop I find the games console section, but they’re all gone too. For fuck sake. I’ll have to get the boys something else. Luckily they’ve still got cameras. I haven’t got a fucking clue. I grab one with a Japanese sounding name that looks expensive. My breath goes short when I hold it. It’s not like lifting biscuits. This is proper. If I get caught I’ll be fucked. I look out from under my hood. So many people carrying shit out the shop. Pigs’ll have to arrest the whole neighbourhood. Ha. They’d probably like that. Relocate us to Wormwood Scrubs instead of zone sixty six or whatever we’re getting sent to. My joke isn’t funny. I drop back from the shelves and watch the hoody shadows in the orange streetlamps. It makes me angry. Not the stealing. The fucking cunts making us move out of Eldon. I’d like to see them try that in Mayfair. All the posh cunts would get their butlers to pay off the prime minister. I don’t know what would happen, but it don’t matter because it never would. We’re always the bastards who get kicked around and then blamed for not being grateful that they’re turfing us out our manor and moving us away from our mates and families. All of central London’s going to be full of wankers like the knobs from the Prickworks. Bunch of fucking fakers pretending they’re in love with the planet and each other and don’t mind gaylords or pakis or niggers and still go to work in the city where they screw over everyone in the whole bastard world. I don’t take much notice, but I know those cunts ain’t as fucking holier than Jesus on a broomstick as they make out. That’s what Georgina says anyway. I’m all hot and bothered. It’s fucking right I should nick this camera. Get my own back. I wish they had some game stations left. I’ll just have to get the boys some American hoodies or something. I leave the shop. It’s practically empty. A good job done by all. I give the main shop sign an up yours. They make us want all this stuff so they should expect us to fucking nick it now and again. Their own fucking fault it’s so expensive. I wonder what toffs nick when they go rioting. They probably just smash stuff for the hell of it because they’ve already got loads of cool shit. You can do anything with money. It ain’t surprising our leaders are all posh cunts. If you get everything you want you’ll get bored with stuff and have to go looting for power instead. Kind of makes sense. Maybe I’d do the same if I was born with a silver spoon up my arse. Seems like a waste of time though. All that effort just to make a few people richer and lots of people poorer. What’s the point? Better we all had a bit and we wouldn’t have to go smashing up Addington High Street or mugging old ladies for their pension. That’s all bullshit though. People are just greedy fuckers, no matter who they are. My knickers are getting knotted and I try and focus on what I’m going to get Harry and Matt. I reckon a matching tracksuit and trainers would be good. I think about my boys. I really don’t want them out in this. It ain’t a place for kids. All this violence and payback. It’s not exciting anymore, it’s angry. I just want to get my shit and go home. The discount sport shop’s down the other end of the high street by the market stalls so I start walking quickly. I keep my head down and try and blinker everything. The camcorder is so light. Maybe I’ve just grabbed an empty box. Too late to worry now. I keep going. I try not to look at the smashed windows. They look right, but I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to live in a place where this seems okay. I don’t want my kids to grow up only thinking about smart phones and tellies. I don’t want them to believe this is the way to get our own back. I don’t even know who we’re getting our own back on. I just know that we’re at the bottom. That’s what everyone thinks. That we’re shit and scum and worthless. But why? I just don’t get it. I get to the end of the pedestrian bit of Addington High Street, opposite the cheap bakery. They’ve got lush Eccles cakes, two for a squid. A gang bundle past me and push me aside. I want to give them the finger but there’s about ten of them. I ain’t got a death wish. They’re swigging away at spirits. Fucking hell, they’re knocking that shit back. I guess this is a party for them. Like they’ve won the lottery while getting a blowjob. There’s a couple of nippers with them too. And girls. All mixed up. They don’t care who they’re with as long as they’re having a good time. It’s funny to watch them pratting around. A few of them are lobbing stuff at shop windows, but nothing serious. I watch them as they reach the other end of Addington High Street. We come out at the end of the market stall frames and join the road proper. It’s quieter here. There’s only really the discount sports shop and a few shitty stores before you reach the T-junction that leads to the A48. One of the gang drops back, picks up something from the bins on the pavement and then lunges past the group shouting for them to watch. He runs across the road towards one of the tat shops and lobs whatever it was right through the big display window. Glass goes everywhere and leaves a hole big enough to drive a tank through. The kid turns back to the group and celebrates like he’s scored the winning goal of the FA Cup. Fucking hell. He’s only little, can’t be more than ten. He shouts a big wahey and disappears through the shattered display. The gang bundle in after him. I walk a bit closer. Shit. It’s Ghalia’s shop. I look through the broken pane. They’re smashing all the neon crap and throwing around all the plastic baskets. One of them throws a bird feeder out onto the pavement. It’s all wrong, they’re not even stealing anything. ‘What the fuck are you lot doing?’ I hear myself shouting through the window. I didn’t mean to. It just flew out of me with a life of its own. Like my brain’s making all the decisions and not telling me. It’s going to get me into shit. None of them even look at me. Ignorant little bastards. They’re too into smashing the novelty ashtrays and the shiny pink and gold glass Mecca pictures. I mean, they are shit, but it ain’t right. Ghalia’s family hasn’t screwed anyone over. They’re not some big chain store with a million shops, making billions of quid. I shout again.‘What the fuck are you stupid cunts doing? Why you smashing up this place? What the fuck they done to you?’ They turn and look now. I can see their dilated eyes glowing in the shadow of their hoods. I don’t care. ‘What are you proving with this? That you’re badass? Go smash up the cop shop if you’re that fucking hard.’ It seems the whole world goes silent. I look back down the High Street, but there’s nobody around, just me and a dozen loony looters. I’m fucked. I want to run, but I’ve got to stand my ground. Better to take a kicking than be a coward. Shit. The whole lot of them move together, like their doing a dance routine. I try and stand up straight. Make it look like I could hurt them, at least a little bit. I wait outside on the pavement and eye them as they step one by one through the hole in the display window. The first few pass me and don’t do nothing but stare. Maybe, they’ve listened. Maybe they understand what I said. Maybe I got through. A tall girl punches me in the face as she steps onto the street. It stings numbly all the way down my spine and into the crack of my arse. My face burns. I shake it and stare at her. She smiles at me and smacks me again. I’m on the floor. Jabs and spikes from all angles. I curl up into a ball and I can feel the broken glass grating against my side. They keep kicking. Shouting that I’m a poof and a pig lover. All the impacts blend into one, like being massaged by a heavyweight boxer. I don’t feel pain. I’m cocooned by their attack. They’ve stopped. I didn’t even realise. I peak out from behind my hands. They’ve backed off to the middle of the road, huddled together in a group. They weren’t serious, they didn’t even kick me in the head. Little cunts. I try and move and my chest creaks and snaps. The pain cuts me in half. I choke on it. It pulls me back to the floor and I roll and contort but it doesn’t go. I lie still. Take in air. Something’s trying to explode me from the inside out, like there’s a bike pump shoved up my A-hole. It’s fucking agony. I hold my arms around my ribs and run my fingers over the bumps. They seem alright, no breaks, but I’m not a fucking doctor. I don’t even know what they should feel like. I move up onto my knees. It feels a little better. The pain’s going or I’m getting used to it. I choke a few times as saliva gets stuck in my throat. I cough it up and it goes all over my hoodie. It’s blood. Bollocks, that’s my favourite hoodie too. Fucking bastards. They’ve ruined my best top. They’re still here. A couple of stray ones are drinking huge gulps straight from the bottle as they tightrope walk along the white road lines. I wouldn’t mind a shot of something to help with my fucking chest. The girl who punched me gives me a bright white grin from under her hood. She’s quite hot actually. I’d have a go on that. She must be a right handful in the sack. Have to watch it if she got kinky. She almost broke my fucking nose. At least they’re not in Ghalia’s Uncle’s shop now. They might have decked me, but I reckon they listened. They’ll never admit it, but that’s why they ain’t still in there smashing the dayglo. I don’t care if I got kicked in. I fucking saved Ghalia’s shop and learnt people up about this shit. I stand up. It takes me a second or two, but I make it. I’m not that hurt. They didn’t even put the boot in properly. They’re not bad kids really. Fucking hell that sounded like what Georgina’s Mum would say. ‘Oye. Pig poof.’ One of the group shouts over at me. A nipper from the middle of the group lurches forward. He’s got something in his hand. Glowing yellow. He lobs it into the shop through the busted window. There’s a whoosh and then a blanket of flames covers the shop floor on the inside. My mouth hangs open and I stagger backwards into the road. I don’t feel my chest anymore. They’ve torched the place. My brain’s on go slow, like I’m doing long division. I just see fire. Turn. See the group’s yellow teeth laughing. They shoulder punch each other as they swagger backwards and forward in bullshit hysterics. Inside the shop cricks and cracks in the heat and the smoke starts pummelling out of the gaping hole in the display window and into the street. I can’t see inside anymore, it’s just puff black on sharp gold. There’s shouting, a woman’s voice, but I can’t see her. The group point above the shop. They stop laughing. They look scared. They turn and leg it. They disappear down an alley and I look up to where they were pointing. There’s someone hanging out an upstairs window on the second floor above the shop’s main entrance. She’s shouting. I can hear it clearly and the voice rips me more painfully than the kicking or the heat of the fire. It’s Ghalia. She hangs out the window, arms windmilling. She shouts for help. I get closer.‘Ghalia.’ I shout up at her. She doesn’t hear me and I shout again. ‘Ghalia, I’m down here.’ She looks down and her face changes.‘Dean.’ Her jaw drops back and her eyes bulge. I wave.‘Alright?’ I call up and smile. I stare at her. It’s Ghalia. Fuck, I miss her. A flame jumps up from the ground floor and licks the window frame below her. Her face clenches into a fist. ‘Dean, really. Get a bloody move on.’ She’s frightened. I breathe heavily. My ribs kick back. The pain surges through me, but it wakes me up. I’m energised, batteries in my balls. I look around, but I don’t know what for. There’s just litter and the shells of the market stalls. One still has plastic tarpaulin around the base. I run over and tear it off. I’m so strong. I don’t even realise. I run back to the shop and shout up at Ghalia.‘I’m going to catch you.’ ‘Don’t be stupid.’ She spits it snake tongue at me. I blink hard. Have to focus. ‘Hang from the window and jump when I tell you to.’ ‘Don’t be such a moron Dean.’ She looks at me with disgust. Like she’s so smart and I’m so dumb and don’t know anything. I sometimes hate Ghalia. She thinks she’s so great. I’m mad. My blood’s boiling. My face is burning. My ribs hurt. And she’s giving me a load of shit. Fuck off.‘Ghalia. Just shut the fuck up and do what I say.’ It’s brutal. I mean it. I’m fury and the beast. Ghalia goes to say something but stops. She looks at me and I see her smile. Or maybe it’s just the fire shadows on her face. I feel fucking ace. She turns from me and shuffles out the window arse first. It’s so round and juicy. I shake myself out of a hard on. For once, I really have to concentrate. Ghalia hitches up her Paki dress and hoists her legs out one by one. I rush forward with the plastic tarpaulin outstretched. I lay it down over the fire by the shop door, directly under Ghalia. It covers the flames. Got to be quick.‘Now.’ Ghalia lets go and she falls. I put my arms up to catch her. Impact. Darkness. I can’t breathe. I’m on the floor. My mouth is full of cloth. I kick my legs and grab thin air. I can’t move it. I’m drowning. The weight lifts and Ghalia grabs my hand and pulls me away from the shop. I scramble to get up and we both tumble into the middle of the road. We’re in each other’s arms. Tight together. Holding on to life. The shop burns and the flames reach the top floors. The whole building is on fire. The window where Ghalia was is now flickering knife points of yellow and red. She’d be dead. I saved her. I’m a hero. Fucking Ninja Squad. I laugh out loud. Ghalia is crying. I see her home burning down reflected in her eyes. They’re so wet. So many tears. But she can’t put it out. It’s all gone. She cries and cries and cries. I want to cry with her. I feel like I should. But there’s a block inside me. I watch the fire gut the building. It’s the wrong one, but it feels good. Destruction calms me. It clears away the crap and lets better stuff come instead. I want that fire in me, burning through everything. Through me, through Eldon, through the whole fucking country. Something ain’t right if we want to do this. There’s got to be something fucked. And I ain’t done nothing. Ghalia’s done nothing. We ain’t fucked up, but someone has. Some cunts have made this the only way to say anything. Make people know we’re still here. That we’re still alive and we’re people too. Me and Ghalia and everyone on Eldon and Addington. Fuck you. I touch my face. It’s wet. Ghalia has stopped crying. She sniffs a huge wet noseful in and then wipes her face with her sleeve.‘You okay Dean?’ Her voice is pillow soft. It holds me close. Comfortable. She guides me over to a bus stop and we huddle in the corner together.‘Yeah, I think so.’ I nod to the shop. ‘Your family?’‘In Leicester. It’s my cousin’s wedding. I was supposed to go tomorrow.’A siren echoes through Addington High Street and cuts Ghalia off. We both turn to see a fire engine pull up. I stop breathing. I’ve never seen one so close before, properly on duty and everything. The firemen jump out and run around, pulling out hoses and start spraying the building. It’s mental. The water’s so powerful it goes right up to the fourth floor no problem. It looks like when me and Madu had pissing competitions. We sometimes used to aim at matches. One of the firemen comes over and takes off their helmet. He’s a woman. I didn’t know they had firewomen. That’s pretty cool.‘Were either of you in the fire?’ ‘She was.’ I point at Ghalia. ‘It’s her family’s shop.’ The firewoman talks to Ghalia.‘Are you hurt?’‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Ghalia points back at me. ‘I landed on him. He’s probably got a few broken bones.’ Me and Ghalia try and laugh, but it doesn’t come out right, more like choked sobs. The firewoman waves her hand at us.‘Wait here. I’m going to call for an ambulance.’ She goes back to the fire engine and hops in the cab. Ghalia lays her head on my shoulder and we hold each other, watching the shop burn. Ages pass and it feels like we’ve been here for hours. The fire people aren’t running around anymore, like it’s all under control. They’re just standing and chatting and taking it in turns to hold the hoses. I’d love to have a go on one of them. Finally, the ambulance pulls up behind the fire engine. I nudge Ghalia. ‘Time to go.’ She lifts her head.‘Aren’t you coming with me?’‘Nah, I’m alright. You didn’t crush me that badly.’The paramedics get pointed over by the firewoman before Ghalia can say something.‘Hello. We heard that you were in a fire.’ ‘She was.’ I nod at Ghalia.‘Okay, we’re going to take you in to hospital, just to check that nothing’s wrong.’ The medic puts out her hand to Ghalia and helps her up. I stand too. My arse has gone to sleep. It’s numb and the pins and needles are going to kill. ‘Could you give us a minute?’ Ghalia is still holding my hand. The medic looks at us. She probably wonders what the hell is going on. White estate scum and hardline Muslim holding hands. She nods and leaves, but her face says it all. It’s funny. It’s just me and Ghalia. She takes both my hands in hers. ‘Thank you for saving me.’‘That’s alright.’ I look at her hand in mine. It looks black against my pink mitt. But it’s the same shape. It’s got four fingers and a thumb. It’s what’s around us that makes the difference. Under her Paki dress she’s got a pussy and tits just like Georgina. She shits and pisses and has the painters in every month. We all do. Not the blob or pussies, but the idea. We’re just animals and all work in the same way. Paki dresses and headscarves and suits and doors and rules and underwear and stupid cunts spouting off rubbish makes the differences. We hide it. We hide the fact that we’re all the same and all equal. People like Phil Harris. Cunts like Al Queerdo who blew up the twin towers and the tube. I fucking hate them. I want to tell Ghalia. I want her to know that we’re not that. That I know she’s not that. ‘The NDL ain’t England. Don’t let it change you. It ain’t us. It ain’t like what it says on the telly. That’s not me.’ I mean it. My voice is strong as it comes out. I feel it from my chest, not my mouth. Did I even say it? I look at Ghalia. Does she know who I am? Her eyes close and open. Her eyes smile and are followed by her mouth. It’s my Mum’s face. It’s Georgina’s face. It’s my own when the boys say something they’ve learnt themselves. Not from school or adults, but they sussed it out all on their own. She pulls my hand closer to her chest and holds it in front of her. Her skin is smooth and her hands are soft and plump. I can tell her anything. I want her to feel the same with me. I think she does. She puffs out through her nose and speaks.‘I’m not worried about the NDL. They’re just very annoying.’ Her face hardens for second. ‘Very fucking annoying actually. But they’re just a day to day pain in the arse. They can’t change things. There’s only a few people in this county who can. But they don’t.’ Ghalia lets out a sigh, like old ladies do when they’ve finished laughing about a rude joke that wasn’t even rude. ‘You know, it’s almost funny.’‘What?’‘These riots. The marches. All of it.’ She’s looking through the flames and waterspouts and black outlines of the firemen and women. ‘I grew up on Eldon. I know how it is. We’re good people Dean, you and I. Everyone here. But nobody knows it and nobody wants to.’ She shuffles her body closer to mine. ‘Do you know what Martin Luther King said about riots?’‘Is he the bloke from South Africa?’ Ghalia shakes her head and pulls me into a tight hug. It’s long and close. I don’t feel like I want to screw her. I just want to feel her near me. We stand together. When she pulls away she kisses me on the lips. It’s soft, not passionate like before, just gentle. The way I used to kiss Harry and Matt when they were toddlers. She loves me. I kiss her back the same way. I love her too. It’s not ‘fucking’ love. It’s like family. Like she’s part of me. It makes me want to burst out laughing and crying and shouting. It makes me want to hold her close and say nothing. I want her to be happy. She pulls away slightly. We have to say goodbye again. We always do. Always will I guess. She takes both my hands in hers. ‘Bye Dean.’ We walk to the ambulance and I help Ghalia get up into the back. ‘I’m sorry about your Uncle’s shop.’ I watch from the road as Ghalia sits down.‘I wouldn’t worry too much. It was mostly tat anyway.’ Ghalia pushes her nose up with her little fingers, rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. Freak pig face. The medic slams the door shut and Ghalia is gone. I wished I’d have done her, just once. Even a finger would have been enough. At least I had a go on her tits. I try and picture what they felt like, but I just keep seeing freak pig face. The last time I saw it was in school. Twenty years ago. Fucking hell. It was Ghalia’s birthday. I remember it. I remember white teeth and blood. I remember the heat and rage. It all feels so close. I remember Madu slumped next to the school fence. Frightened eyes. No, I see it. Sad eyes. He was my best friend. He was a dick. I remember how he treated Ghalia. What a cunt. And she never said nothing. She was always smarter than us though. She knew we were just kids. Madu didn’t know any better, he was just copying stuff. Ghalia would forgive him. I know she would. I hope Madu would forgive me. Maybe he has. I don’t fucking know. I grab my head and run my fingers through my short hair. I don’t want to think of that. The ambulance pulls away. I rub my eyes. I want a cup of tea. I’m going home. The fire’s almost gone now. They’re still chucking on loads of water though. Got to soak everything because any spark can set the whole thing off again. A van pulls up next to the fire engine and a woman in a trouser suit jumps out, followed by a bloke with a big camera. Where’s Georgina’s camera? I go back to where the gang jumped me. The little fuckers better not have nicked it. Maybe when I caught Ghalia. I don’t remember having it. I turn back to the shop. The woman’s talking to the firewoman in front of the camera. Must be reporters from the telly. They’ll love a story like this. Dumb scum burn down own house. That should look good on the news. Cunts. I guess they show what we like. People want extremes. That’s why we go on rollercoasters and watch horror movies. No one’s going to pay good money to go on a simulator of the teddy bears’ picnic. The firewoman points at me and the reporter rushes over. They’re here already. The camera’s up. She doesn’t look at me, only the camera guy.‘Ready.’ The camera guy gives a thumbs up and then she puts the microphone to her mouth. It’s just like off the telly, but I’m at a different angle. It’s weird. She speaks quickly.‘You rescued a woman from this fire, is that right?’ She shoves the mic in my face. I look at it. It’s like a big furry gun. I shift my head away.‘Yeah. Sort of.’‘So you’re one of the heroes of the riots? Ready to take a stand against the mindless violence?’ The mic comes back to me. I don’t know if it’s a question or not. I mumble.‘I don’t know. Not really. I was just here.’‘And what do you think of these violent criminals? The people who set fire to this innocent shop?’ Her face is stern. Like she cares, but there’s something wrong. It’s as if she’s doing a game. Role playing, like when me and Gary used to pretend to be football commentators. I don’t believe her. She’s fake. ‘Well, it’s not right. But they’re just kids. They don’t know any better. They’re just pissed off about stuff.’ The reporter pulls her chin back as if she’s stepped in shit, then points at the burnt out shop.‘And this is the best way to express that?’ The microphone hovers in front of my face. The reporter sucks air in through her pursed lips and over her teeth. Who the fuck does she think she is interrogating me? She’s only about twelve and probably comes from Surrey. What does she know about round here? And she’s trying to tell me what to think. Get the right story so she can sit on the news desk with that black fella. Bitch.‘No, it ain’t. But you wouldn’t be down here talking to me if this was a peaceful protest, would you?’ I’m mad. Tingling with fury. I just want to electric shock her. That’s all they show, the bad stuff. Gang killings or those NDL cunts or Islams burning flags. They ain’t interested in real people. What life’s really like here. Just extremes. Never the middle. I take a couple of sharp breaths. I stare her in the eye and then turn to face the camera. ‘Fuck you.’ I walk off and don’t even say goodbye. I see Georgina’s camera fallen next to the high curb. I pick it up and head home. I think about the interview and laugh. That’ll learn her up. I imagine myself on the news, telling her to fuck off. And I said cunt. Or did I just think it? Don’t matter either way, they’ll never use it. They can always choose what they show. They choose what everyone sees. We don’t know nothing that don’t come off the telly. We don’t choose the stories. I understand why Georgina gets so angry at it now. They really don’t care about ordinary people. They don’t care about what really happens here on the estates. Thousands of people live here day in day out. They have jobs, they have families, they fall in love and they all snuff it. What’s the big fucking difference? Nobody cares about all the good stuff. Nobody wants to hear about me having tea with lonely old biddies. Or that group of teenagers who clean off the graffiti once a month and don’t get paid nothing. Or the candlelight peace walks that loads of people go on, no matter who they are. Nobody wants to hear about me taking my kids to the community kitchen once a month so they get to understand their neighbours, not be frightened of them. They’re not going to show that on the news, or write a book about it. Nobody gives a fuck about that because that’s not what they want us to be. We have to be different from them, because if we ain’t then everyone will see we’re the same. They got to hide that, because otherwise we might ask why they’ve got everything and we’ve got fuck all. They got to keep us fighting each other to stop us fighting them. Just like their wars for oil and shit. It pisses me off. I don’t even know who they are. They’re invisible, just suits on telly. But what can we do? Burn down Paki tat shops? I don’t know. Fuck I’m tired and my ribs hurt. I just want to go home. My steps ache. I walk slowly. Drag one foot past the other and repeat. I’m in Addington. I take the main road through towards Eldon. I’m limping a little. I feel like a spaz. I reach the crossroads where the two estates meet. They’re like twins. If you didn’t live round here you’d never know the difference. It doesn’t matter, it’s all going to be demolished anyway. I wonder what they’ll put here instead. Another shopping centre, maybe, with a multi-whorey car park. I don’t fucking care. I ain’t coming back. I reach my courtyard. I’m knackered and I’ve got six floors to climb. Bollocks. I hope we get a lift in the new place. It takes me ages to get to my floor. I can’t breathe in properly because my ribs kill every time I try. It’s like being an asthma kid. I always wanted one of them ventilators, but I had a go on one and it didn’t do jack. Must be a real pain in the arse if you have to suck on it every time you want to do something. Just imagine it on the knob. I splutter out a laugh and have to lean on the walkway wall to hold in the pain. I look up and see the Eldon night view. Not much to write home about. Like them all black postcards that say ‘Cumstain-On-Sea by Night’ or whatever. It’s funny the first time. I look at Ghalia’s block and then over at Madu’s block. I think of Madu all junkied up and bleeding. I cough and hunk up a huge gob. I spit it out into the courtyard and watch it disappear into the darkness. I always wanted to have a slash from up here. Me and Madu even planned it once. We never did it though. I’ve not really done much. I just shut up and let it all wash over me. But I can feel it. There’s Madu and Ghalia and my kids and Georgina and the black kid who got killed whose name I can’t remember. It’s all there inside me, bubbling and stewing. I try and hide it, try and forget it. Just exist, put up with all the shit and sod the rest. But it ain’t true. It’s really all here. He was called Dwayne Campbell. I just wanted to forget, but I always knew it. I was just a kid. I’m sorry. I always thought it, and then after Madu…It was the same knife. And he’s in here too. Phil Harris. I never did anything. Just kept my head down and shut my mouth. Well I don’t have to. I can do something. I need to do something. And I know what it is. I open the front door and Georgina rushes out from the living room to me. She squeezes me tight. It hurts like a bitch, but I don’t care. I want her close. I kiss her hair. I whisper.‘I love you.’ It’s the first time I ever said it to her. And I really fucking mean it. The day came for them to move. A friend of Georgina’s Mum had offered to take their stuff in his van for twenty quid. Dean asked to drive around Eldon just once. They passed the waste ground, where he’d seen a fox and kissed Ghalia for the first time. Then they headed up to the prick, where the driver took ten minutes to do a tight twenty three point turn. The blocks at this end of the estate had already been cleared and the windows were blackened chipboard. Dean looked across the tatty triangle of scrubland from the passenger window. It seemed so long ago, but he could feel everything. His tongue in her mouth, the streetlight waves on the tarmac, the dizzy lightness of his steps. He was there, a kid, hiding behind a brick corner, watching murder. Dean turned his face to the dashboard and flipped the glove compartment open and closed. The day after the riots, Dean had gone to Addington police station. The Dwayne Campbell case had been re-opened and Phillip Harris had been called in. The media had sniffed around for a while, but lost interest when Dean had refused to talk to any of the papers or television channels. The riots themselves died down and were quickly forgotten. It was senseless, meaningless, criminal behaviour. The politicians and press felt no need for analysis or investigation into the causes. It was obvious, the people who did it were the problem. Dean’s cracked ribs had recovered much slower. Surprisingly to him, Georgina hadn’t got angry about his involvement. In fact, she nursed him so well that Dean thought she must have gone soft in the head. As he’d predicted, Georgina had refused to use the video camera for about a fortnight. After that she gave her old one to the boys and recorded Eldon life with even more vigour. Dean still didn’t get it. He watched some of the footage with her, but it never really touched him. Just once. Georgina had recorded two minutes of kids playing one touch against the garages. Dean had to pinch his leg hard both times he’d watched it. The van man reversed into the shell of an abandoned car for the umpteenth time and growled a fucking hell through his open window. Dean shut the glove box. There were no gloves in it, just a singed jazz mag. He looked over his shoulder at Georgina and the boys in the backseat. A small plastic square in the panel behind them allowed Dean to see through to the rear of the truck. They’d managed to pack everything in one go. Dean wondered if it all amounted to that, a small van of worthless crap. He didn’t know. He didn’t really care. Of course, he wanted stuff, but it wasn’t going to change anything. He had his kids and Georgina, Ghalia and Madu, and even Gary. He never remembered things, just people and words and emotions and actions. It made him happy. He wanted to feel everything again. To embrace it. It was going to be difficult, he knew. Harry and Matthew had to start new schools. Georgina’s two bus commute was going to be getting on two hours each way. The old estate folks were getting dispersed all across London so Dean’s shopping runs were over. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was certain he’d suss something out. Surely there’d be a job for him, even a real one would be okay. He’d made up his mind on a plan, already put a little money away. They’d save enough and then go on a proper holiday. Ideally he wanted to go somewhere abroad like Corfu or Tenerife, but they’d probably end up in Devon. But that was fine. It was more than fine. It would be great. They’d play Newmarket for one and two pees and light the tent with a strip bulb and car battery. A real family holiday, with his own family. It still snuck up on him sometimes, that he was a father, all grown up. He liked that feeling. He was proud of it. After all, he hadn’t fucked up too badly yet. He loved his boys, Georgina, his Mum. He loved Ghalia. He loved Madu. He even loved Georgina’s Mum and that wasn’t easy. And they all loved him. He knew it. It was enough. When the van was packed, Dean had gone back up to the flat to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d checked the empty square rooms. They looked so small. They were all the same across Eldon and Addington. He guessed all the same across the country. Stacks of boxes to put people in. That was life. He’d walked around the rooms with his cock out and pissed all over the floors. He hadn’t had enough to do upstairs and decided against taking a dump because he didn’t have any bog roll. The driver finally got them pointing in the right direction by bumping the front wheel up over the pavement. The van dropped hard on the suspension and the engine cut out. Dean muttered a for fuck sake and rolled his eyes towards the prick. He thought about the plaque in memory of Dwayne Campbell. He wondered what would happen to it? Would the people in the new houses care? He imagined they’d just build over it. Sweep it under the concrete and forget. Wasn’t that what they always did? He snorted as the driver fought with the ignition. That was what pissed him off. They were being shoved this way and that and no one gave a shit. But what could he do? The van shuddered forward, finally smoothing out as they drove back along the main access road. What could someone like Dean really do to make things different? He thought about it, really strained his brain to come up with something, but it was blank. He wasn’t smart like Georgina or Ghalia, and even they didn’t know. He just knew it wasn’t right. Something was wrong about the way people like him and Ghalia and Madu had to live, the choices they had, about what people thought of them. But really, what could he do? Nothing. They were all fucked. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t equal and that was fucking that. The van reached the access road and turned off Eldon and onto the A48. They drove along with Addington on one side and the New Eldon Brickworks on the other. He wanted to understand, but he just didn’t get it. Why was the world like this? Did it need to be? And was a bigger telly and a designer toaster really going to make things better? He didn’t have a fucking clue. IntroductionIn 2014 the Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission published a report examining the backgrounds of the people who are in charge of the most powerful institutions and public bodies in the United Kingdom. It highlighted ‘a dramatic over-representation of those educated at independent schools…across the institutions that have…a profound influence on what happens in our country’ (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b, p.2; See also Kirby, 2016). The study covered all aspects of public life in the UK, but focused specifically on politics, media and business. The report’s conclusion suggested that ‘Britain is deeply elitist’ (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b, p.2). These findings reaffirmed comments made by former Prime Minister John Major one year earlier: ‘In every single sphere of British influence, the upper echelons of power in 2013 are held overwhelmingly by the privately educated or the affluent middle class’ (Major, cited in Hope, 2013).This imbalance is starkly apparent in the statistics. Only 7 percent of the UK’s working age population attended independent schools, yet they make up a disproportionately high percentage of top jobs in both media and politics. For example, Members of Parliament – 33%, Top 100 Media Professionals – 54%, Newspaper Columnists – 43% (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b). These figures raise questions about the inclusivity of institutions that purport to be socially representative within a democratic society. As Gottfried argues in his chapter on political inequality, if such institutions and public bodies derive their authority from their ability to accurately, fairly and equally reflect the population they represent, then the data clearly signifies they are failing (Gottfried, 2014). Institutions recruiting the majority of their workforce from such a limited resource pool can easily lose track of issues that affect the majority population and instead concentrate on ones that are relevant only to the minority. A disproportionate amount of independently educated people running these institutions and public bodies can lead to the institutions becoming disconnected from the challenges facing those who went through state education (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b). Again, the statistics above confirm the cycle of division between those with power and those without. Furthermore, when such a small minority group dominate positions of power so overwhelmingly the rest of society can become distanced from public life, which can result in declining levels of engagement and trust with both leading institutions and public bodies. As a result, political elites may focus on groups more likely to vote, potentially ignoring disengaged groups, who in response may turn to more extremist factions that purport to listen to their concerns (Dancygier, 2010; Eatwell and Goodwin, 2010; Ford and Goodwin, 2014; Open Societies Foundation, 2014). It is these negative ramifications for community and social cohesion that this thesis, in part, attempts to highlight and put forward to wider public debate. The process described above not only reflects a fractured social system, but also questions the ways in which the dominant group choose how the wider population is presented, and represented, in public life. In particular, within media and politics, two areas that deal with representation, forming and reinforcing attitudes, opinions and policy, it is imperative to ask what effect this lack of diversity has. From the perspective of media and political leaders, at the very least it risks ‘a lack of understanding of those with different backgrounds’ (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b, p.16). Which in turn, as Kirby notes in her report for the Sutton Trust, increases the probability of leading public and media bodies recruiting from talent pools with which they, consciously and unconsciously, identify with, thus maintaining limited access to positions of power for people from other groups (Kirby, 2016). This thesis does not argue that this is a conscious conspiracy, but rather a system of recurring privilege through identification, where discrimination against other groups is mostly a consequence rather than a goal. Regardless of whether this is an outcome of conscious or unconscious groupthink identification, a group with greater access to systems of representation may and, this thesis argues, does misrepresent social groups with limited access to these resources. How the dominant group depict others can therefore be misinformed, unconsciously biased or purposefully misleading. Access to these institutions and public bodies enables the minority dominant group to form a socio-cultural norm, modelled on their own experience, from which other groups in society can be measured and judged. In this way, the elite, privately educated white males, can and, as the statistics show, ultimately do, maintain economic and political power. This thesis will, in part, focus on how the elite use access to channels of representation, and presentation, to marginalise other social groups, increase intergroup conflict and to maintain hierarchical dominance in the UK. Specifically, this study will look at urban white working-class groups living in multicultural areas. It will investigate non-narrative representation, particularly in the media, and narrative representation through contemporary literature, in both cases relating the focus to the temporal and geographic location of the creative component. The label ‘white working class’ is unique in its combined use of both colour and class as a socio-cultural marker, especially given how little media, political or academic attention is given to the white middle class or the white upper class. It appears that whiteness as a social-cultural marker is limited only to discussions of low-income groups, thereby conflating ethnicity and economic status. This construction of the white working class as an ethnic rather than class group not only masks class-based socio-economic inequalities, it also lies at the heart of how the white working class are represented. The white working class as a separate socio-cultural group narrative is made of three key, yet contradictory, strands. Firstly, the white working-class lose out when it comes to immigration, multiculturalism and race-relations. Secondly, the white working class are the main drivers of racism in England and are the cause of far-right political party success. Thirdly, the white working class are to blame for their lack of social mobility and financial poverty because of their self-imposed cultural poverty and degenerate behaviour (Sveinsson, 2009). Noticeable is the absence of the role of class, especially in terms of financial and socio-political inequality. The white working class are constructed in ethnic terms and can therefore be used as a weapon against multiculturalism, yet never as an argument for greater equality (Rogaly and Taylor, 2014). As such the white working class as a social group are constructed by those with access to channels of representation and power in order to confirm their own cultural superiority and financial and political privilege, to construct their own normal and desirable identity in terms of what they are not, and to disavow their whiteness as a means to mask systematic racism and assuage their post-colonial guilt of assumed racial superiority. As Hesse argues in his study on multiculturalism, the race-relations narrative ‘incorporates yet disavows its indebtedness to a racist discourse, structured discursively around a racially unmarked (i.e. white) British perception of the problem of national identity induced by post-1945 non-white immigration from the New Commonwealth’ (Hesse, 2000, p11). Essentially, it ‘implicitly and systematically questions the coherence and legitimacy of ‘non-white’ Britishness as well as the pervasiveness of white British racism’ (Hesse, 2000, p12). Multiculturalism can be understood in terms of its importance to Britain’s post-war drive towards modernisation, and the production of modern citizens able to fulfil the roles created by ‘the cultural economy of late capitalism’ (Haylett, 2001, p354). Therefore, the racialisation and segregation of the white working class can be understood as the process of othering those that are judged not able to fit into the elite’s imagined construction of the British identity. As Haylett observes:Historically, the white people who have not achieved whiteness, who have been deemed undeserving of that marking, who have struggled to claim and maintain its privileges, and who have also been marked as excessively white, offensively and embarrassingly white, are the white working class (Haylett, 2001, p355). Thus, creating a socio-cultural and economic underclass whose identities are systematically constructed and re-constructed by those with access to channels of representation in order to maintain socio-cultural, financial and political, as well as ethnic, hegemony. The general exclusion of the white working class from jobs in media and politics can lead to inaccurate depictions of this group, especially as those in privileged positions select the spokespeople to represent them. For example, rather than democratically elected representatives from working-class communities, the media often give most coverage to controversial leaders of extremist groups such as the English Defence League as they are more profitable in terms of audience/reader numbers. Yet, as numerous studies have shown, the EDL are not representative of the white working class (Rogaly, 2011; Griffith and Glennie, 2014; Open Society Foundations, 2014). The process of media selected spokespeople from the extremes of the white working class can be seen in cultural and lifestyle choices, as well as in politics. Often this results in the perception that the working class deserve their own poverty, which ‘impacts on public policy because decisions are made based on the idea that people’s circumstances are the result of their own poor choices (of diet, or financial management, for example)’ (Open Society Foundations, 2014, p.62). This process of upholding and exaggerating stereotypical representations creates further socio-cultural marginalisation and greater segregation from avenues to media, economic and political representation. White working-class stereotypes are disseminated through media and circulated back in both narrative work and government policy. This inequality in accurate and proportional representation was the genesis for the creative component of the thesis. As this thesis will discuss, contemporary literature generally reduces white working-class characters to stereotypes, whereas Another London draws explicit attention to this process of misrepresentation and attempts to give voice within an elitist medium to an underrepresented group. Although this thesis is focused on the white working class, all underrepresented groups are affected in similar ways by the elite’s dominance of leading institutions and public bodies. As such, this thesis attempts to undermine misunderstandings that have occurred through misrepresentation and in doing so expose the power structures that allow a privileged minority to maintain socio-cultural and politico-economic dominance in a what is purported to be a democratically equal country. The novel focuses on the life of a white working-class male living on the fictional council estates of Eldon and Addington in East London. It follows the protagonist, Dean, from childhood through to adulthood over a twenty-year period between 1991 and 2011. The novel traces his socio-cultural and psychological development whilst he lives through fictional parallels of major events that predominantly affected lower income areas of inner city London, such as the murders of Stephen Lawrence in 1993 and Richard Everitt in 1994, the London terrorist attacks of 2007, and the London riots of 2011. The novel draws on several socio-cultural case studies that share the same geographic location and include research findings that cover the majority of the novel’s timeframe (Hewitt, 2005; Dench et al, 2006; Dancygier, 2010; Eatwell and Goodwin, 2010). As explained above, both the creative and critical components of the thesis are specifically focused on London, as opposed to England or the UK in general. However, given that restricted democratic access to representation is not limited to London, the research and the novel could be applied as a framework for investigations into other English urban centres. Given the contentious nature of using a white working-class subject in an era of multiculturalism, marginalisation and intergroup conflict, it is necessary to address the debate on how to come towards an understanding of who the white working class in Britain are. In doing so, this thesis accepts, and argues, that the white working class are not a homogenous group and any definition will be tenuous at best, not least because it won’t have been derived from within the target group, but rather by a privileged academic elite who, in doing the defining, potentially reinforce the marginalising power structures that this thesis attempts to expose and undermine (Haylett, 2001; Feldman and Gidley, 2014). The term ‘white working class’ is a difficult, and controversial, concept to pin down and has been approached from various angles ranging from using eligibility for free school meals (House of Commons Education Committee, 2014), occupational markers based on the UK’s official National Statistics Socio-economic Classification scheme (Office of National Statistics, 2010), geographic location, particularly estates (Rogaly and Taylor, 2011) and even in terms of how the white working class are defined by their relationship to immigration and the narrative of being excluded in favour of non-native groups (Ford and Goodwin, 2014). However, all of these approaches have been criticised as being too simplistic, out of date, too specific or of lacking general consensus (Griffith and Glennie, 2014). This inability to agree on who the white working class are clearly suggests they are not a homogenous group and thus any definition will be tenuous at best. Therefore, from a pragmatic standpoint, this thesis will use a ‘fuzzy set’ definition based on one used by the Open Society Foundations in their 2014 European wide report focusing on white working-class communities. They suggest that the term ‘white working class’ should be defined as ‘members of the “majority” population living in neighbourhoods and districts with high indicators of social, economic and political marginalisation’ (Open Society Foundations, 2014, p.9). ‘Majority’ within this thesis refers to the population of England and Wales, where 80% self-identify as White British (Office of National Statistics, 2012). However, this thesis accepts that this definition is not fully comprehensive and a flexible approach should be taken with regards to inclusion and exceptions. Defining the elite is as complicated as defining the white working class. There are no set boundaries or criteria as such, but what is clear is that the elite are made up of individuals and groups that have disproportionate access to financial wealth and/or political power, and who continually ‘“manage” democracy, to make sure that it does not threaten their own interests’ (Jones, 2014). Central to maintaining their position in the social hierarchy is their control of systems of social and cultural capital. Social capital being the resources that result from group membership, relationships, networks of influence and support. Cultural capital being forms of knowledge, skill, education and any advantages that achieves a higher social status (For further discussion see Bourdieu, 1986; Kerswill, 2007). As the social commentator Henry Fairlie observed in 1955 when discussing the concept of the establishment, hegemonic systems of power are maintained through ‘the whole matrix of official and social relations within which power is…exercised socially…[through] subtle social relationships’ (Fairlie cited in Jones, 2014). As mentioned above, and discussed in more detail below, leading public bodies and institutions are disproportionately run by people who attended the same independent schools and universities, clearly highlighting the social relationships that work to maintain political influence and social status. Throughout this thesis, the term elite will be used to talk about the seven percent of independently educated people who have disproportionate access to, and control of, leading public bodies and institutions, and channels of representation (For further information see Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b). Social status is also influenced by cultural hierarchy, where members of a dominant group work to construct their lifestyle choices as normal and desirable, thus conferring social capital on adherents to this lifestyle and excluding those who do not conform. Wendy Bottero, in her chapter on class in the twenty first century, claims that inequality in material and social status becomes dependent on the relative chances of success, in turn predicated by access to socio-cultural capital (Bottero, 2009). Low-income groups are instantly put at a disadvantage in terms of social mobility, not least because of inadequate schooling in disadvantaged areas where 60 percent of pupils achieve less than half the number of good GCSEs than their middle-class counterparts from more affluent areas (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b). In addition, low-income children have disproportionately lower access to extra-curricular clubs and activities compared to their middle- and upper-class counterparts (Sutton et al, 2007). This continues through to adolescence and adulthood where many people from working-class groups lack the resources to support themselves, or be supported by family, through the unpaid internships that are now a common pre-requisite to successful access to a career in media or politics. In principle, social mobility depends on the effort an individual puts in rather than being tied to their family background. Yet in the UK, ‘those from high income backgrounds are far more likely to have high income as adults’ (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b, p5, See also Kirby, 2016). In modern society, ‘normal’ and ‘desirable’ lifestyle choices are based on cultural consumption patterns, where individuals can recognise each other as belonging to the same group, creating hierarchal class boundaries between the included ‘us’ and the excluded ‘them’ (Haywood and Yar, 2006). Low-income groups are marked by their ‘inability to participate in the sphere of market-mediated consumption…[and] are excluded from social membership since they lack the economic resources necessary to fulfil a meaningful role as consumer-citizens’ (Haywood and Yar, 2006, p14). The marginalisation of those in poverty is not only constructed by the elite, but also by those with access to socio-cultural capital, i.e. the, predominantly, white middle and upper classes. It is also important to note that where there is potential and actual crossover between financial, political and media elites, and those from the middle and upper classes, there is a distinct lack when compared to those from low-income groups. This thesis does not conflate the elite with middle- and upper-class groups, but acknowledges both their contributions to the exclusion of the white working class, and by association other immigrant and minority ethnic groups. During the period covered by this thesis, outspoken disdain for the white working class appears to have become socially acceptable and presented without serious repercussions (Hartigan, 2003; Skeggs, 2009; Sveinsson, 2009; Owen, 2011). In Britain, this can be articulated in the use of the word ‘chav’ which ‘has become a ubiquitous term of abuse for white working-class subjects’ (Tyler, 2008, p.17). Consciously used as a term of ridicule and scorn, particularly in the media, the chav figure can be seen as part of a wider re-marking of class identities in which middle- and upper-class whites attempt to distinguish themselves from the white poor (Tyler, 2008; Webster, 2008; Rogaly and Taylor, 2009). The construction of the chav derives much of its potency from the concept of an underclass, put forward by Charles Murray in 1989, where ‘the ‘underclass’ does not refer to a degree of poverty, but to a type of poverty’ (Murray, 1989, p.23). Murray’s usage of the term underclass could be seen as an extension of the euphemistic way in which the term ‘lower’ has been replaced by ‘working’ in discussions of class divisions and poverty. In some ways, this distinction has been made to separate the so-called ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor, or as some recent political parties have rhetorically labelled them, the ‘strivers’ and ‘skivers’. Yet, as will be discussed in more detail below, these categories of poverty are superficial at best and become interchangeable at the convenience of those with access to political and media power. As Rogaly and Taylor note, the term ‘white working class’ is frequently employed to describe both the cultural poverty and xenophobia of the chav and, at the same time, the hardworking victims of multicultural policies and the onslaught of immigration (Rogaly and Taylor, 2014). However, the conflated and rhetorically expedient definitions used to describe those living in poverty were developed and are used by academic, political and media elites. The chav figure becomes symbolic of all white poor when utilised by the white middle and upper classes to differentiate their ‘acceptable’ whiteness, in terms of classed and cultural identities, from that of the white working class (Tyler, 2008). As a consequence, attention is deflected away from the more concrete reality that Elaine Kempson highlighted when discussing Murray’s paper, that ‘people who live on low incomes are not an ‘underclass’. They have aspirations just like others in society; they want a job; a decent home; and an income that is enough to pay the bills with a little to spare’ (Kempson, 1996 cited in Lister, 1996, p.8). Even so, it is Murray’s approach to the poor, dating from the start period of this thesis, which frames much of the following discussion on how the white working class are represented in both non-narrative and narrative media. This thesis argues that the way in which poverty is discussed and how the white working-class subject is presented maintains privileged structures of power by constructing the white working-class identity in ethno-cultural terms to hide the underlying socio-economic inequality of a classed and hierarchical society where access to media and political representation preserves socio-political dominance for the elite. Sveinsson highlights ‘the paradoxical and hypocritical ways in which the ruling classes speak for the white working class on the one hand, and how they speak about them on the other’ (Sveinsson, 2009, p.5, original italics), defending the group against the supposed negative impacts of multiculturalism whilst criticising them for their self-created cycle of cultural and economic poverty, all the while ignoring the growing socio-economic polarisation of the past thirty years (Dorling et al cited in Tyler, 2008; Sveinsson, 2009; Rogaly and Taylor, 2014). Through the creative component this thesis attempts to expose privileged access to narrative representation and give voice to a group who are both talked for and about by those in power, yet who do not have any direct say in how this is done. It could be argued that an ‘authentic’ representation of the white working class is impossible as there has never been democratic access to mediums of representation and therefore white working-class identity is a combination, to some extent, of a construction of those with access to power, and the feedback loops and counter narratives that are born from it. However, this thesis strives to analyse the relationship between the white working-class identity at the individual level and that of its collective group representation in narrative and non-narrative media. In doing so, it intends to expose these representations as dominant constructions of the white working-class experience by the elite. This thesis argues that the only way to work towards a more genuine depiction of the white working class is to open up channels of representation, open up positions of power within media and politics, and fully democratise access to leading institutions and public bodies. As such it will draw attention to the concerns that Tyler puts forward:It is within the context of deepening economic inequality that we need to view much vaunted claims of the democratisation of popular media. The minimal opportunities for economically marginalised groups to communicate their experiences and identities within mainstream forums suggests there has been little if any shift in the alliance between elite media industries and traditional social institutions and hierarchies: class allegiances reproduce social inclusion and exclusion in a seemingly unbreakable cycle of class privilege. Certainly within the representational regimes which dominate within contemporary Britain, social class is only visible in highly stereotyped and often antagonistic forms (Tyler, 2008, p.31-32).The above quote highlights that socio-economic inequality is the major issue facing representation in Britain without referencing any specific ethnic group. Class privilege is the central contributor to the lack of democratic access to mainstream forms of representation for underrepresented groups. However, given this analysis, Gavron, in the foreword to the Runnymede Trust report Who Cares About the White Working Class?, suggests that there is still a consistent focus in the media on the struggle for scarce resources that pits white working-class communities against other ethnic and immigrant groups (Gavron, 2009). The report goes on to suggest that, ‘feigning white working class disadvantage as an ethnic disadvantage rather than as class disadvantage is exactly what rhetorically places this group in direct competition with minority ethnic groups.’ (Sveinsson, 2009, p.6). Shifting focus away from class and onto race detracts attention from the common problems that poor white communities share with other disadvantaged minority ethnic and immigrant groups, that of increasing separation from middle and upper classes, who as a result avoid moving down the social hierarchy (Gavron, 2009; Levine-Rasky, 2013). By depicting the white working class in terms of their ethnicity, especially in representations where they are in opposition to other ethnic and immigrant groups, those in power risk divisive outcomes for society as a whole (Rogaly, 2011). Firstly, it can lead to a ‘cultural reading of inequality, focusing on the distinctive cultural values of disadvantaged groups, rather than looking at the bigger picture of how systematic inequality generates disadvantage’ (Bottero, 2009, p.7, original italics). Secondly, it can result, as Tyler (2008) highlights in her analysis, in stereotypical representations as well as inter-ethnic conflict. Representing white working-class identity in news and media along ethnic lines, where they are repeatedly shown to be in competition with other ethnic and immigrant groups and where their media representatives are selected from a small pool of far-right political parties, ignores the fact that fears about migration occur across all classes and increasingly amongst different ethnic groups (Griffith and Glennie, 2014; Kaufman and Harris, 2014). However, it is important to remember that the group most often affected by immigration has been, historically, the white working class (Griffith, 2014). Therefore, the construction of the white working class as inherently racist, or at least constructing them as the racist section of the white majority in comparison to their non-inherently racist white middle- and upper-class counterparts, is both misleading and detrimental to community cohesion. Studies by the Open Society Foundations and the Institute for Public Policy Research have shown that ‘white working-class attitudes to race are as nuanced as those of other socio-economic groups’ (Griffith and Glennie, 2014, p.4; For further discussion see Griffith, 2014; Open Society Foundations, 2014). The conscious choice by media and political elites to disregard this exposes a hierarchal system that maintains dominance through ignoring socio-economic inequality and by upholding systematic racism. The projection of racism, as espoused by minority far-right political parties, onto the white working class distances the ruling classes from an investigation into the structures of their own socio-ethnic dominance. Yet the white working class, with their limited and disproportionately low levels of access to positions of power, are the group least able to change the political landscape. It is the white middle and upper classes, those with access to privileged channels of power and representation who could increase community cohesion and reduce conflict by fully democratising access to channels of representation and by tackling the rising socio-economic inequality.This thesis aims to address these issues by exposing privileged power structures and undermining the way in which the ‘dysfunctional’ white working class is represented as an ‘ethnic’ issue. Another London uses its narrative structure to expose the classist construction of the white working-class identity. It aims to give voice to a group who have been lambasted and blamed for many of the ills of society whilst at the same time being accused of creating their own deprivation. ‘When a class fraction or the residents of a particular locality are categorised as ‘deprived’ or even ‘deviant’ or ‘dangerous’ or of low intelligence, what influence does that have on how they see themselves in relation to others, and on how they live their lives?’ (Rogaly and Taylor, 2009, p.36). As Dench et al explain whilst introducing their study of violent and racially motivated conflict between white working-class and Bangladeshi residents in London’s East End, ‘most local researchers…simply put everything down to racism. We felt that dismissing white behaviour as merely irrational constituted a failure of analysis’ (Dench et al, 2006, p.2; see also House of Commons Community Cohesion and Migration, 2008). As Dancygier suggests in her study of ‘immigrant-native’ conflict in the London borough of Tower Hamlets, ‘violent acts do not occur in a vacuum but are embedded in specific political contexts, economic conditions, and social environments’ (Dancygier 2010, p49). The restricted approach of academic and governmental studies that Dench et al refer to, those which fail to address Dancygier’s assertion, have left a gap in the literature which has been filled with negative cultural stereotypes that position the white working class as an ethnic, rather than a class, group, where in reality only a small minority adhere to the normative white working-class image (Beider, 2011).The creative component aims to expose systems of recycled stereotypes and inaccurate constructions of white working-class identities, therefore attempting to refocus the wider discussion of social inequality back onto class divisions rather than ethnic and cultural conflict. By exposing the hidden power structures that allow for and create misrepresentative constructions of the white working-class identity, the novel will also question the same elites’ construction of other working-class ethnic and immigrant groups’ identities. Thus, reaffirming that the ‘poor white working class share many more problems with the poor from minority ethnic communities than some of them recognize. All the most disadvantaged groups must be helped to improve their joint lot. Competition between them, real or imagined, is just a distraction’ (Gavron, 2009, p.2; Feldman and Gidley, 2014). As discussed earlier, defining the white working class can be a contentious issue. This is especially true when trying to place this collective group within the framework of British multiculturalism. Principally, one area of difficulty within this field is the study of ‘whiteness’ as a racialised concept. It is a subject that goes beyond the scope of this paper, yet it’s important to briefly discuss how it is being used within the context of both the critical and creative components of this thesis (For further discussions on the study of ‘whiteness’ and identity see Dyer, 1997; Frankenberg, 1997; Doane and Silva, 2003; Ahmed, 2004; Byrne, 2006; Garner, 2007; Karner, 2007; Sveinsson, 2009). Firstly, it should be noted that discrimination towards the white working class is not based on their whiteness, but rather on their perceived cultural inferiority and their lifestyle choices (Hartigan, 2003; Sveinsson, 2009). As such, the concept of white privilege based on the presumption of a universal ‘white’ identity needs to be revised, making it ‘apparent that the privilege accrued is actually masking far more harmful inequalities affecting the vast majority of white people, through the disproportionate control of resources by tiny minorities’ (Garner, 2007, p.7). The socio-cultural construction of ‘white’ identity can only be seen through the prism of class and behavioural expectations. The ‘normative privileged identity’ (Garner, 2007, p.5) of ‘whites’, upheld by its invisibility, is continuously threatened ‘by the words, actions, bodies, and lifestyles of various strata of whites who reveal the tenuous and artificial nature of…social conventions by their inability to conform to the decorums of whiteness’ (Hartigan, 2003, p.96-97). The unmasking of hidden ‘white’ privilege through this process forces the elite to either admit being the recipients of white dominance or to find other ways in which to maintain ‘invisible’ white hegemony (Doane, 2003). The construction of the white working-class identity in terms of ethno-cultural conflict, and the rise and acceptance of the use of pejorative terms and descriptions such as ‘chav’ to describe the white working class in the media, are ways the elite have continued to preserve unequal, and uncontested, access to power. Firstly, negative epithets to describe the white working class are used to ‘distinguish an order of whites definable strictly by transgressions of the social expectations that maintain the unmarked status of whiteness and facilitate its claim to power and privilege’ (Hartigan, 2003, p.105; See also Haylett, 2001). Secondly, the construction of the white working-class identity in terms of its intolerance to other ethnic and immigrant groups serves to present the dominant white elite agenda as antiracist. However, this action actually ‘others’ the white working class, an act of discrimination in itself, and attempts to sustain elite whites’ moral and cultural superiority. As Sara Ahmed explains ‘the discourse of tolerance involves a presumption that racism is caused by ignorance, and that anti-racism will come about through more knowledge. We must contest the classism of the assumption that racism is caused by ignorance – which allows racism to be seen as what the working classes (or other less literate others) do’ (Ahmed, 2004, p14). After all, it is only those with access to power and channels of representation that can either put in place, or change, systemic discrimination. The white working class are essentially powerless when it comes to creating a system where everyone, regardless of background, has equal access to socio-economic and political power. Yet still, as Hartigan notes in his chapter in White out: the continuing significance of racism, the media focus disproportionately on the white working class in their representations of racism (Hartigan, 2003). Working-class racism is primarily represented as masculine with little attention given to the role of women. This, however, ignores white working-class women’s participation in racially motivated violence and their involvement in the propagation of racist attitudes (Byrne, 2006). The lack of attention given to women in studies of working-class racism highlights a wider concern about research into the white working-class experience, that of gender (For further discussion see Skeggs, 2005; Byrne, 2006; Tyler, 2008). As such, it is important to understand how it is being used and addressed within the limited scope of the creative and critical components. In academic literature, political and media representations, gendered readings of the white working-class experience tend to either ignore the role of women, conflate it with that of white working-class men, or stigmatise women as the extreme of cultural poverty and the major problem facing society. This was epitomised by Charles Murray’s condemnation of the single mother in his essays for The Sunday Times in 1989. As Tyler notes, ‘young unwed working-class mothers have always been a target of social stigma, hatred, and anxiety…The fetishisation of the chav mum within popular culture has a contemporary specificity and marks a new outpouring of sexist class disgust’ (Tyler, 2008, p.26). In an article for The Guardian, even famed feminist Germaine Greer used derogatory stereotypes to caricature white working-class mothers from Essex: ‘Essex girls usually come in twos, both behind pushchairs…The Essex girl is tough, loud, vulgar...She is not ashamed to admit that what she puts behind her ears to make her more attractive is her ankles’ (Greer, 2001). The white working-class subject has become an object of disgust and ridicule, but more explicitly the white working-class female. The chav mother has been constructed as immoral, unhealthy and a clearly identifiable problem for society (Skeggs, 2005).The creative component attempts to address the issues raised above through the development of the central female characters in the novel. Their stories do not revolve around the male protagonist, but rather exist independently. They face their own challenges and make, as best they can, their own solutions. They also witness racism, marginalisation and violence from their own perspectives. They do not become a plot device for the male protagonist to bounce off, but rather rounded characters, non-dependent entities, that exist and move about in the same diegetic world of the novel. In creating fully developed female characters that play a central, independent role in the story, the creative component attempts to address the working-class experience without ignoring women or stereotypically stigmatising them. At the same time, the novel’s intention is to avoid the conflation of the female and male working-class experience, whilst recognising that they share many of the same concerns as a result of wider socio-economic inequality and limited access to positions of power within leading institutions and public bodies.Another London offers an alternative to the role that the white working class (and, by association, other ethnic and immigrant groups) have been cast in by those with access to the channels of representation. It is an attempt to refocus the public debate onto Britain’s growing levels of socio-economic inequality and away from the current ‘blame’ narratives of self-imposed cycles of cultural and monetary deficits of the white working class, as well as accusations of ignorant working-class racism as the cause of ethnic conflict. The chapters of the critical component provide social and creative context and theory, and are interlinked to the creative component throughout. Focusing on the study period (1991-2011) and location (inner East London), chapter one charts the major events paralleled in the creative component and how the white working-class response was represented in non-narrative media. Using existing case studies that cover the target period and location of the thesis, it argues that media representation played a major role in the creation of the perceived white working-class identity as self-perpetuating, culturally impoverished and racist, thus feeding into continuous cycles of marginalisation. In response, counter-narratives are produced within the white working class that constitute a ‘blaming’ of visible other ethnic and immigrant groups, resulting in a rise in the success of far-right political groups and ethnic conflict. It concludes by arguing that restricting access to channels of representation allows the privileged elite to create ‘imagined’ identities of marginalised groups, which feeds back into the rise of counter narratives, extremism and conflict, thus deflecting investigation into socio-economic inequality and systemic racism.Chapter Two takes the social context laid out in Chapter One and analyses how it is depicted in narrative literature, a form of representation that is also dominated, in terms of production, distribution and consumption, by a privileged elite. Using Fredric Jameson’s ideologeme theory of narrative construction, the chapter briefly traces recurring representations of the working class in literary texts from Charles Dickens through to a closer analysis of white working-class representations in prose fiction covering the study period and location. By highlighting the repeated absence of representations of white working-class characters outside stereotypical imagined identities, the chapter argues that literature has failed, and continues to fail, to confront privileged access to the creation of a group’s identity through narrative. Thereby conforming to the social context outlined above, where perceived self-imposed cultural-economic poverty leads to anti-social behaviour and racism, rather than it being a result of politico-economic dominance. The chapter concludes by arguing that the creative component undermines misrepresentations of the white working class in literature and exposes prejudiced assumptions about their lives amongst the producers, distributors and consumers of prose fiction. Chapter Three analyses the narrative structure of Another London and how it succeeds in exposing the elite’s marginalisation of the white working class through the construction of typified white working-class identities that maintain middle and upper-class dominance. It goes on to argue that the reality created through first person narration exposes the constructed omniscient reality created through the third person narration, thus forcing the reader to re-evaluate their assumptions about the perspective of the third person narrator. The argument presented in chapter three is that the tension created through the use of first and third-person narration exposes the dominant forms of white working-class representation in prose fiction. The creative component of this thesis fills a gap left by prose fiction, that of white working-class representation. Working with the critical component, the novel exposes power structures that are upheld by access to channels of narrative and non-narrative representation. Breaking the feedback loops of white working-class identity portrayals and analysing the production of counter narratives within this group, the thesis aims to expose the marginalisation of the white working class by a privileged elite and undermine the commonly held assumptions that the white working class are the cause of their own socio-economic poverty. Thus, opening a wider debate on privileged positions of representation and the marginalisation of the white working class and, by association, all under-represented groups.Chapter 1 - The construction of (white) working-class identity in mainstream media and politics. The inclusion of a distinct set of white working-class characters in the creative component is central to underscoring the fact that, although the white working class may share some characteristics, they are not a homogenous group and cannot be pigeon-holed into a single other whiteness by the ruling elite. As such, the novel contains a host of central, secondary and tertiary white working-class characters who each have their own history, opinions, systems of belief, fears, loves and hates. The lives of white working-class people follow independent trajectories, which are mostly limited by their lack of access to elitist public bodies and institutions (Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission, 2014b), rather than the perceived self-imposed cycles of cultural and economic poverty. The creative component therefore consciously works against prevailing stereotypes of white working-class patterns of behaviour. Constructing the white working class as a single group also homogenises the way they are represented and presented by those with access to channels of representation. Non-narrative representation – television shows, news articles, political speeches and reports, comedy routines and sketches, etc. – of the white working class feeds into narrative representation and creates caricatures of the white working class in literature rather than fully developed and rounded characters. Chapter Two continues this argument in much greater detail, but it is important to note here that the non-narrative representation of the white working class discussed in this chapter directly and indirectly influences the narrative representation of the white working class in contemporary literature.This chapter focuses on the geo-temporal setting of the creative component of the thesis; inner East London between 1991 and 2011. It draws on a number of socio-cultural case studies, outlined below, that cover or cross the timeframe and location of the novel. Roger Hewitt’s White Backlash and the Politics of Multiculturalism (2005) draws on extensive ethnographic research to investigate the link between the racially motivated murder of black teenager Stephen Lawrence in 1993 in Eltham, East London - as well as the resulting UK-wide review of institutional racism - and that of the perceived local white working-class communities’ backlash against multiculturalism. He also discusses the role of multiculturalist policies in local schools and their effect on white working-class children’s formation of identity and perception of race. Throughout he examines how both of these contributed to the development of counter-narratives within white working-class communities. The New East End: Kinship, Race and Conflict, written by Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron and Michael Young and published in 2006, traces the post-war changes in demographics, housing and local government policy in London’s East End. They investigate how these factors, along with media and political representations of local white working-class communities, have contributed to a perceived increase in competition for scarce state-controlled resources and conflict between the ‘traditional’ white working-class inhabitants and the newly arrived influx of Bangladeshi immigrants.In 2010, Rafaela Dancygier’s Immigration and Conflict in Europe was published. In the sections about the UK, her study predominantly focuses on immigrant-native conflict in Tower Hamlets, East London. She argues that it is political and economic factors that determine levels of conflict, rather than perceived ethnic and cultural ones.2010’s The New Extremism in 21st Century Britain, edited by Roger Eatwell and Matthew Goodwin, examines the rise of both Islamic fundamentalism and far-right political parties and protest groups. It charts the success of the British National Party and prevalence of the English Defence League and attempts to understand how this has come about in the wake of the London terrorist attacks of 2005. The study suggests that socio-cultural, political and financial exclusion all contribute to extremism on both sides of the perceived divide (See also Ford and Goodwin, 2014; Kaufman and Harris, 2014). Ferdinand Sutterlüty’s 2014 article The Hidden Morale of the 2005 French and 2011 English Riots asserts that the 2011 riots in Britain did not fit into the prevailing analyses that described them as either ‘race riots’, ‘issueless riots’ or ‘riots of defective consumers’. Instead, he argues that the rioters’ previous experiences of the urban school system and state police contributed to an anger that was then directed against what they saw as the symbols of a financial and political class who had failed in their promise of creating an equal society. He concludes that the state’s undermining of the right to equality amongst its citizens was the best explanation for the riots. To best analyse contemporary constructions and representations of the white working class in relation to how they inform the creative component, the next section looks at each of the novel’s chapters and identifies where they interact with the socio-cultural context, especially the central case studies. Part 1 – Education, Multiculturalism and Poverty Part 1 of the novel is set in 1991 when Dean is 9 years old.In recent years, more and more media and political concern has been raised about the low level of educational achievement by white working-class children, especially boys. Below are three typical media article headlines:Why do white working class pupils fail in school? (Sean Coughlan for the BBC, 2014)Exclusive: Poor white pupils need extra help with English (The Independent, 2014) White working class boys among worst achievers (Polly Curtis for The Guardian, 2008)The titles alone to these stories are illustrative examples of the increasing anxiety being expressed about white working-class educational failure. The continued coverage of this issue has led to the government commissioning reports at both national and local level (For examples see Department for Education, 2014; Demie, 2014). On the surface these articles and reports appear to be addressing an educational issue facing a particular group. However, a closer reading of these articles and reports show three recurrent stands, each carrying an implicit message, conscious or unconscious, that works to maintain socio-cultural hegemony amongst the white ruling elite. Firstly, they convey the idea that white working-class children are losing out as a result of their whiteness. In other words, they are positioned as being in direct competition with minority ethnic and immigrant groups, and coming second. White working-class children are shown to be suffering as a direct result of immigration and multiculturalism, which feeds back into the conflation of ethnicity and class that constructs the white working class as the white group who are opposed to, and in opposition to, minority ethnic and immigrant groups. This thesis, of course, does not claim that the achievements of white working-class pupils are any more important than children’s success from other groups, rather it suggests that ‘the media’s construction of…white working class boys…as the new race victims is both factually inaccurate and socially divisive’ (Gillborn, 2009, p22). The newspapers and politicians, and those with access to channels of representation, appear to be constructing the white working class as failing due to ethnicity rather than as a result of their socio-economic status. However, as ‘official statistics reveal…most groups in poverty achieve relatively poor results regardless of ethnic background’ (Gillborn, 2009, p18, original italics). Therefore, it can be argued it is not ethnicity that predominantly determines educational achievement, but rather socio-cultural and economic status. Yet the overwhelming focus in the media and mainstream politics is that of ethnicity, rather than lack of resources. This leads to second strand of the underlying message in the articles and reports; the construction of the white working class as being culturally inferior to their middle- and upper-class counterparts. Educational achievement is seen as the path to social mobility and status, hence the disproportionate number of independently educated members of leading public bodies and institutions. Yet, educational regimes are developed by those in power and are skewed towards individualised success through competition. They are influenced by the assumption that middle- and upper-class educational systems, and the resulting careers and lifestyles, are normal and desirable and, therefore, the position from which all achievement should be judged. As such, working-class pupils must assimilate to be able to succeed, something that their middle-class counterparts do not need to do (See Lawler, 2005; Reay, 2007; Reay, 2009; Levine-Rasky, 2013). This instantly puts them at a disadvantage because historical constructions of the working class as an uneducated other, as opposed to the educated middle and upper classes, feeds back into contemporary constructions that portray them as ‘unmotivated, unambitious and underachieving’ (Reay, 2009, p24). Thus, the construction of middle- and upper-class identities in terms of what they are not begins in school and is embedded by the time middle- and upper-class pupils become adults and take positions in leading public bodies and institutions. It is an extension of the construction of the white working class as being the cause of their own self-imposed economic and cultural poverty: white working-class children do not succeed in school because they are not hardworking enough, not because their route to success is more difficult than that of the middle and upper classes. This claim is echoed by the Conservative Minister of State for Schools, Nick Gibb, where he shifts blame for working-class pupils’ low academic achievement away from the educational systems to the culture and lifestyles of the communities the pupils come from: ‘It is deeply worrying that the gap between disadvantaged and better off boys just keeps growing. A culture of low expectations and a lack of rigour are holding these pupils back’ (Gibb quoted in Curtis, 2008). The third point develops out of both strands discussed above, that of the diversion of blame away from hegemonic educational structures that favour the financially dominant white elite. This is most pronounced in the geography of inner-city education. In such a multi-ethnic city as London, and despite the anti-racist, pro-multiculturalism and diversity rhetoric of the media and political classes, the middle class still tend to group together in ‘essentially white settlements’ (Butler and Robson, 2003, p2). This geographic division is primarily an economic division, but it also becomes an ethnic divide because minority ethnic and immigrant groups are predominantly low income. This again highlights the fact that white working-class areas have absorbed immigration flows at far higher proportions that that of the white middle- and upper-class areas. State-funded universal education was one of the post-war gains that, on the whole, benefited those in poverty the most, which is why white working-class groups may perceive - justified or unjustified - minority ethnic and immigrant groups as being in competition for this scarce resource. Inner-city schools become microcosms of inner-city areas and are frequently labelled as problematic or failing by the media and the state, resulting in them being labelled as flashpoints for ‘polarisation and blame’ (Reay, 2007, p1198). The manner in which inner-city schools are represented by those with access to channels of representation reinforce stereotypes of cultural inferiority, racial violence and extremism. As Reay suggests in 'Unruly Places': Inner-city Comprehensives, they ‘are represented within middle-class and wider social imaginaries as demonised repositories for social waste’ (Reay, 2007, p1195; also see Webster, 2008). Yet the fundamental cause of low educational achievement for all low-income groups is the socio-economic and geographic divide created and maintained by middle- and upper-class whites. Blame for low levels of educational achievement for white working-class children is pointed at ethnicity and a lack of hard work. Politicians and media commentators rarely question the impact of privately-funded independent schools or ‘the “gifted and talented” scheme that receives millions of pounds of extra funding and is dominated by middle class students’ (Gillborn, 2009, p18). Inner-city schools generally lack the resources necessary to provide adequate educational success. This is coupled with the fact that working-class parents do not usually have the financial ability to pay for extra tuition or the social, cultural and extra-curricular activities that middle-class parents are able to invest in for their children (Reay, 2009). As can be seen, working-class and white working-class failure in achievement is predominantly caused by socio-economic hegemony as opposed to inter-ethnic competition or lack of ability. Rather than label inner-city schools, and by association inner-city areas, as the problem, it is the failure of political elites and the majority of the middle-class to remove the historical class prejudice that causes unequal and unjustly low levels of educational attainment for children from low-income families (Reay, 2009). Against this divisive backdrop the focus of this section will shift to inner-city schools in low-income areas, specifically East London with regards to Hewitt’s case study. Part one of the creative component focuses on ethnic conflict in inner-city schools as well as the misinterpreted multicultural policies that are made by political elites, who, as shown above, have little experience of low-income ethnic diversity within an educational environment. Firstly, it is important to address the assumption of white privilege when the concept is applied to the white working class. Hewitt describes an interview with a youth worker discussing how academics discuss white people as having power. The youth worker responded by claiming ‘the young people I work with haven’t. They don’t see they’ve got any power at all. I don’t work with young people that have any power or their families have any power’ (Hewitt, 2005, p124). In an age of multiculturalism, privilege afforded to whites tends to be felt only by those who are less affected, i.e. the middle and upper classes. The ruling elite, who produce school policy with regards to the promotion of diversity, take white privilege for granted. As a result, whiteness becomes unimportant within the multicultural spectrum of education, which leaves some white working-class pupils, as noted by Ayak, feeling they were at a disadvantage to their non-white peers (Ayak, 2009). Hewitt elaborates on this when discussing ‘celebration of diversity’ approaches that have been adopted by many inner-city East London schools. In his research he came across many cases where white working-class children found that these celebrations of different cultures never seemed to include their own. Not surprisingly ‘white children – especially young people from working-class homes – experienced themselves as having an invisible culture, of being even cultureless’ (Hewitt, 2005, p126). This complex feeds back into the narrative of the white working class being at an ethnic disadvantage to immigrant and minority ethnic groups. This can manifest in white working-class pupils’ perception of non-white pupils as receiving preferential treatment, which in turn builds resentment towards the visible beneficiaries of the state-controlled multicultural policies. One such example, highlighted by both Ayak and Hewitt, is that of school teachers’ and governing bodies’ over-sensitive responses to racial harassment. Many white pupils have expressed concerns over what they see as teachers ignoring racially-charged name-calling from non-white pupils, yet punishing white students for using racist language, which contributes to their feelings of ‘white defensiveness’ (Ayak, 2009, p33; See also Hewitt, 2005). Given the feelings of exclusion and cultural inferiority that white working-class pupils can experience, it’s difficult to determine how true these stories are. However, what is important is that ‘amongst some white adolescents a deep sense of grievance had been engendered by youth workers and teachers disbelieving their accounts of occasions on which they had been [unfairly] treated by the education system on the basis of race’ (Hewitt, 2005, p77). Subsequently the positive influence these teachers and youth workers could have provided is lost and, therefore, white working-class children can become further disengaged from the education system and society as a whole. Part one of the creative component was developed in response to this socio-cultural context. As a nine-year-old boy, Dean cannot see the hegemonic educational structures in place that create the backdrop for what he perceives as unequal treatment based on visible ethnic difference. For Dean, who at the start of the book is friends with both a black boy and a south Asian girl, Madu’s racially-charged name calling of Ghalia is no different to his own racially-charged name calling of Madu. The following two extracts from Another London highlight Dean’s predicament. The first is taken from a scene in the classroom when the teacher, Mrs Prosser, reprimands Madu for pulling his jumper up over his head to imitate Ghalia’s headscarf. Dean initially finds the joke fun, but his position shifts in defence of Ghalia when, firstly, he recognises Madu’s teasing is aimed at the religious and cultural symbol of the headscarf, and, secondly, when he sees the negative impact it has on Ghalia:Madu has pulled his jumper over his head and is pretending to be a girl. It’s really funny, but Mrs Tosser shouts again. ‘Madu. Take that off immediately.’…‘What about Ghalia?’ Madu is such a dick. It’s not even funny. He doesn’t have to pick on her…It’s not her fault she has to wear the scarf. And even if she wants to wear it, she can. … Madu looks around the class but everyone is quiet with their heads down at the desks…He slowly takes his jumper down off his head…Madu throws his textbook at Ghalia.‘Fucking Paki.’… The classroom has gone Loopy Lou…It’s well funny. I kick Ghalia.‘Did you see that? Mrs Tosser went mental with Madu?’ Ghalia doesn’t laugh. Her smile has gone away. She’s crying. (Crewe, 2016, p20-22) The second extract is from later the same day. In the playground, Madu recounts the earlier scene with Mrs Prosser and Ghalia, continuing to use racially-charged language to insult Ghalia. Dean, in a commitment to fairness, defends Ghalia and counter attacks using comparable language:‘Dean loves Ghalia. Your girlfriend is a Paki bitch who wears a headscarf. She should cover her face ‘cos she’s well ugly too.’ I hate Madu. Why does he pick on Ghalia just ‘cos she’s a Paki. No one picks on him ‘cos he’s black. How would he like it if everyone calls him a stupid nigger? He’d go crazy and everyone says it’s well bad to say that, even worse that fuck off and shithead, but Madu always says Paki and bitch to Ghalia and it’s not even her fault and she’s not even a bitch. She’s nice and Madu is a stupid fucking nigger. …Everyone turns where Madu points. Ghalia is standing on her own by the main door. Madu shouts at her. ‘Ghalia. Ghalia, over here.’ Ghalia looks up and sees us…She smiles at me. Madu shouts again. ‘Dean says you’re a stupid rag head Arab Paki bitch Muslim and you smell like curry and shit.’ Ghalia stops smiling and she goes all limp…Madu pushes me and smiles at me with his stupid fucking grin. I hate him. I really fucking hate him…I run at Madu and hit him as hard as I can. ‘Stupid fucking nigger.’ I shout at him as I hit him in the head. ‘Stupid fucking nigger.’ (Crewe, 2016, p29-30) Dean is aware that words such as ‘paki’ and ‘nigger’ are offensive, but doesn’t understand the wider cultural implications of their use. Dean’s Mum reiterates the point, claiming that too much is being read into what is essentially playground banter. However, the Deputy Headmaster’s well-intentioned, and overly sensitive, interpretation of the school’s race-relations policy results in different punishments for what Dean sees as the same offence. Regardless of the underlying motives, this constitutes a visible unfairness to whites on the part of Dean, thus placing him at the centre of the wider white working-class narrative. Not only is he positioned as a victim of ethnic diversity, his treatment has distanced him from the educational system, resulting in low educational achievement and the loss of any chance of social mobility as determined by middle- and upper-class measurements of success. Part 2 – Inter-Ethnic Conflict and Counter-NarrativesPart 2 of the novel is set in 1993 when Dean is 11 years old.In Part One of the creative component, Dean becomes disengaged with the education system as a result of what he perceives as unfairness to whites, ethnicity becoming the marker that separates his treatment from that of Madu’s. The inclusion, and potential misinterpretation, of race-relations policies into hegemonic educational systems, actually reinforce racial segregation. The predominantly white and privately educated political classes, who maintained geographical ethnic segregation whilst espousing multiculturalism and tolerance, had failed to recognise the threat felt by white working-class groups as a result of race-relations policy (Hewitt, 2005). This was largely because the middle and upper classes’ access to wealth was not threatened by immigration flows. As such, multiculturalist policies written and implemented by the political elite, and that were integrated into the educational systems of inner-city schools, had the unwanted effect of disengaging white working-class pupils, accentuating ethnic difference through visible competition and perceived preferential treatment of non-whites, and contributing to low levels of educational achievement, the last of which is often used as predictor for criminality (Webster, 2008). Part Two of the creative component includes the murder of black teenager Dwayne Campbell, a fictional parallel with that of the murder of black teenager Stephen Lawrence in South East London in 1993 (For more information see Macpherson, 1999). Hewitt’s research into race-related murders in South East London, which included Stephen Lawrence’s, highlighted the fact that the ‘murders were perpetrated by adolescent males who would have gone through the local system and would have been on the receiving end of whatever form of anti-racist and multiculturalist education had been delivered in their schools’ (Hewitt, 2005, p121). In their study of ethnic conflict between working-class whites and the Bangladeshi community in Tower Hamlets, Dench et al suggested that policies which promoted community cohesion by attacking racism may actually misrepresent what is being said by the white working class and, as a result, make this group feel further isolated from mainstream opinion. Fearing a loss of political voice if they openly criticise what they see as preferential treatment of non-whites, they may turn to violence as an outlet to express their discontent (Dench et al, 2006). As such, not all incidents of racially aggravated violence can be attributed to the irrational fears and innate xenophobia of white working-class groups. Dancygier puts it most succinctly: Violent acts do not occur in a vacuum but are embedded in specific political contexts, economic conditions, and social environments. In the case of violence targeted against ethnic minorities, criminologists, sociologists, and anthropologists have demonstrated that such attacks are part of a larger process of victimisation and proliferate when the attacks enjoy the tacit or explicit support of a wider cross-section of the “perpetrator community” whose racist resentment…is in turn a function of the local political economy (Dancygier, 2010, p49).Racially aggravated violence can only be understood if it is viewed within the socio-cultural and economic context in which it occurs. The perception of preferential treatment of non-whites in inner-city schools can be seen as a microcosm of the wider multi-ethnic geo-political landscape. In low-income inner-city areas the white population regarded the middle classes and the political elite as favouring immigrants and minority ethnic groups, especially in terms of access to scarce public resources. The local white community’s seeming indifference to the rise of racist attacks in these areas in the 1990s can be seen as part of a wider disengagement from the socio-economic and political system of the UK (Dench et al, 2006). It should also be viewed in the light of race-relations policies that highlighted ethnic difference rather than embracing cultural similarity, as well as a multiculturalism that failed to include white British (Farrell, 1997 cited in Collins, 2004). Dancygier’s study of ‘immigrant-native’ conflict covers areas in East London, mapping racially aggravated violence with the shifting economic and political landscape. She uses Tower Hamlets as an example of an area that suffered from an escalation of violent racism during the 1980s and 90s, periods of severe economic deprivation including high unemployment, widespread poverty, and a severe housing shortage (Dancygier, 2010). Finding positive correlations between economic deprivation and higher incidents of racially motivated assaults, she claims that young white males living in areas suffering most from economic downturns will use racist abuse and violence to defend their ‘turf’, thus racially motivated violence is predicated on economic conditions and perceived competition from immigrants, rather than as a commitment to a xenophobic ideology (Dancygier, 2010). Of course, this thesis does not claim that all violent racism is a function of socio-economics, but it does argue that the socio-economic context should be taken into account when trying to determine the causes of racially motivated crime. The murder of Stephen Lawrence is one such case, especially given the political fall out and the way in which it was covered in the media. Instead of a full inquiry into the underlying socio-economic motivations of racist violence in deprived multi-ethnic inner-city areas, the subsequent reports and inquiries tended to concentrate on institutional racism (of the police force), or racism (of the perpetrators) per se. Collins suggests that the anti-racist policies put in place as a result of the MacPherson report target only the white working class, essentially labelling every white working-class male adolescent as potentially violent and racist (Collins, 2004; Hewitt 2005). These policies, then, a product of the political elite, reinforce stereotypes of the white working class that feedback into the foundations of white middle- and upper-class socio-cultural dominance. It works to propagate the idea that the white working class are culturally inferior and the drivers of racism and racist policy in Britain, whilst avoiding economic inequalities and class-based segregation. The media followed suit and reports of racism on ‘predominantly white working-class housing estates became a favourite occupation of journalists in search of saleable copy in the late 1990s, and took place against a general demonistaion of estate inhabitants and the culture of social decay’ (Hewitt, 2005, p53). The naming and shaming of ‘sink estates’ focused on predominantly white inner-city estates that had become segregated zones of urban decay inhabited by the criminal white underclass, who had freely chosen to live there and, therefore, were the drivers of self-segregation (Webster, 2008). Spatial marginalisation of the white working class was a way in which political and media elites were able to reaffirm the different levels of acceptable whiteness, clearly marking the whiteness of the low-income estates as undesirable and their own as desirable. In the aftermath of the Stephen Lawrence inquiry, white East London estate residents were implicated as socially responsible for the murder because it was borne out of their own criminal and inferior culture. Added to this were accusations of racism when they voiced concern about perceived preferential treatment given to immigrant and minority ethnic groups in their local community, specifically in times of economic downturn. With mainstream media confirming accounts of endemic white working-class racism and violence, white working-class communities saw themselves under-, or mis-, represented by political and cultural institutions, feeling voiceless in an ‘ideological market place [with] a multicultural discourse that validates the very groups that appear to threaten them’ (Hewitt, 2005, p69). With political and media groups in effect silencing white working-class groups’ concerns, resentment of the lack of accurate mainstream representation built up amongst white East London estate residents, especially in response to the ‘media’s reporting of racial incidents, about equal opportunities in local government, about anti-racism and multiculturalism in schools and about police fears of being called racist’ (Hewitt, 2005, p2). These resentments were manifested in the development of counter-narratives in the white working-class communities. Below, Hewitt discusses oral counter-narratives, A characteristic of oral counter-narratives is their being pitched against a putatively more powerful and influential pre-existing narrative or dominant discourse. The counter-narrative strives to tell a story that will capture succinctly a countervailing view. They have a very ambiguous relationship to material truth because their function is often to convey some known truth which their content merely exemplifies (Hewitt, 2005, p58, original italics).Hewitt’s study focused on the counter-narratives that began in response to the Greenwich murders, including that of Stephen Lawrence, and the fallout from the subsequent MacPherson report. He describes one such counter-narrative where an apparent witness had seen three black boys at the scene of Stephen Lawrence’s murder. The story was not an accusation of black on black violence, but rather an indictment of the way the police had dismissed the witness’s statement. Hewitt traces the route the story took from the original witness to the interviewee (first speaker) telling Hewitt: speaker - speaker’s friend – speaker’s friend’s mother – speaker’s friend’s mother’s husband - speaker’s friend’s mother’s husband’s mate – ‘they’ (1) (particular policeman/men) who reported on how ‘they’ (2) (the police as an institution) were treating the murder of Stephen Lawrence (Hewitt, 2005, p65).The counter-narrative moves through a community, feeding on the resentment felt and becomes a channel through which members of the white working-class feel they can speak. As mentioned above, this does not necessarily correlate to actual truths, but more to convey an ‘understood’ or ‘known’ truth. There is no truth in the ‘three black boys’ narrative, but the ‘known’ truth is the perceived negative treatment of the white working class by public bodies and institutions. The flow of the counter-narrative through the white community works to invoke a sense of community of ‘like-minded people whose presence ratifies the truth of what the narrative asserts’ (Hewitt, 2005, pp64-65). Part One of the novel investigates the perceived negative, or unfair, treatment of white working-class children in inner-city schools by teachers and authority figures. Part Two develops this theme and explores how this perceived unfair treatment could feed into the counter-narratives developed by the wider white working-class community, especially when confronted with media and political blame narratives that represent them as culturally degenerate, violent and racist. This process can lead to further-reaching race-relations and multicultural policies that are, in turn, perceived to favour immigrant and minority ethnic groups at the expense of the white working class, thus creating a negative cycle of political disengagement, socio-cultural and economic marginalisation, and media and political representational narratives that position the white working class as self-segregating, culturally inferior, violent and racist. This representational cycle, driven by those with access to channels of representation and political power, contributes to perceived increases in levels of competition for scarce public resources between whites and non-whites, thus fuelling higher levels of racially motivated violence and abuse in ethnically diverse inner-city areas. In Part Two, the gang from Addington’s racially motivated aggression can be seen, to some extent, as being products of these feedback loops. It’s important to note here that this thesis does not dismiss intrinsic feelings of racial hatred amongst some individuals (of all ethnicities). In fact, the leader of the gang from Addington, Philip Harris, is depicted in precisely this way. Yet, the research suggests that the reasons for higher rates of racially motivated crime amongst white working-class groups are because cycles of negative representation accentuate ethnic difference and perceived increases in levels of competition. As products, living outcomes, of the educational and representational systems dominated by the political and media elite, the gang from Addington’s propensity to commit the racially aggravated murder of Dwayne Campbell had been increased. Working alongside this is the development of counter-narratives amongst the white working-class community that, to some extent, gives the impression of tacit consent to the perpetrators. Part Two of the creative component explores the development of the ‘black perpetrators’ counter-narrative. As an eleven year old child growing up on a multi-ethnic East London estate, Dean is subject to both the hegemonic educational and representational systems, the perceived preferential treatment of non-whites, and the white working-class communities’ counter-narrative development. As a result, his memory of the attack is subjected to external factors, which have the unconscious effect of accentuating his perception of ethnic difference and, therefore, his attachment to the group in which he is told he belongs. The media and political elite’s blaming of the white working-class community as ‘social accessories’ to the murder implicates Dean and his family. Another London highlights this in the following extract:The press flooded Eldon and Addington and the papers ran story after story…That white filth brought shame on the country…That was Eldon. That was who they were, every last one…The murder may have been committed by five local thugs, but they were all to blame (Crewe, 2016, p86).Dean witnesses his mother getting upset in response to the press coverage, angry that she is publically associated with the gang from Addington. Dean’s unconscious reaction is to assert his, and the group he is associated with’s, innocence through the blaming of others outside his group. In this case, the white working-class community’s ‘black perpetrators’ counter-narrative provides the other group for Dean to accuse, as articulated in the extract from the creative component below:According to Gary’s Mum, it was a gang thing, after all, that’s what happens nowadays. It was all about these drugs and turf. Her sister lived on Addington and she’d seen them scuffling on more than one occasion…And a friend of Gary’s Mum’s sister’s from another block swore she’d seen Dwayne buying whacky backy off some black teenagers. It was always the blacks who were selling, that’s what she’d heard anyway…[Georgina had] overheard her Mum talking to some of her friends and they all agreed too. The gangs were the problem. Especially the black ones. They were always stabbing each other and fighting over things. The papers never said about it, but that was the real problem in the borough. That black kid who was killed was almost certainly involved in drugs…In fact, that Dwayne boy had a criminal record for dealing, although they never mentioned that on the telly (Crewe, 2016, p87).The counter-narratives spreading though the white communities of Eldon and Addington are a response to the blame narratives of the mainstream media that labels all white estate residents as social accessories to the murder of Dwayne Campbell. The counter-narratives that arise in the aftermath of Dwayne Cambell’s murder add veracity to Dean’s own direct experience of being the victim of Tyrone and Darren’s pseudo racially-motivated attack from which he was saved by the gang from Addington. All of which culminate in Dean’s testimony of black on black violence, a counter-narrative itself, which ultimately exonerates the gang from Addington.Part 3 – Media Representation, Poverty and Racially-Motivated CrimePart 3 of the novel is set in 2000 when Dean is 18 years old.In Parts One and Two of the creative component, Dean’s experience of being ‘unfairly’ treated compared to Madu feeds into his engagement with the white working-class community’s counter-narratives of ‘unfair’ treatment of whites by those in authority. Hewitt argues that these counter-narratives can be seen as a form of expression used by groups or individuals that perceive themselves to be treated unfairly by those in power. In fact, his study of the local white community in Greenwich found that there was a general feeling of exclusion from media and politics amongst the white working class (Hewitt, 2005). The fallout from the murder of Stephen Lawrence is one such example where members of the local white working-class community expressed resentment for being portrayed as ‘social accessories’ to the murder through their production of counter-narratives, especially in response to the way in which they felt that immigrant and minority ethnic groups’ causes appeared to be supported by political and media agencies. The conflation of white working-class concerns over access to scarce public resources and that of violent racial hatred, as portrayed in the mainstream media, effectively placed the white working class into a single group whose complaints over housing and immigration policies were seen as proof of their inherent violent racism. Hewitt’s 2005 study highlights the divide between a small group of violent racists and bigots and the wider local community who voiced concern over what they perceived as preferential treatment given to immigrant and minority ethnic groups. ‘The fact that there was an overlap in what this wider circle expressed about equalities policies and what the core of racists believed did not mean that they were both the same’ (Hewitt, 2005, p55). The way racist violence was reported in the media contributed to a large part of the resentment felt by white working-class communities. The media implicated the wider local white community in the murder of Stephen Lawrence, accusing them of complicity in racism and racist violence. However, when Richard Everitt, a white teenager from Somers Town, central London, was murdered in August 1994 by Bangladeshi adolescents, instead of declaring the wider Bangladeshi community ‘social accessories’ and inherently racist, the media response was to portray the whole area as fragmented and plagued by violent racial intolerance, driven by white working-class animosity towards immigrants (Beider, 2011). As such the white working-class community were again implicated as partly ‘socially responsible’ for the attacks. The media’s response to both the Greenwich and Somers Town murders fed back into the white working-class perception of unfair treatment, in preference of immigrant and minority ethnic groups, by those with access to channels of representation. Mainstream media’s perceived bias in how racially aggravated incidents were reported was compounded by the rise in the number of racial incidents where the victims were white and the perpetrators were from immigrant or minority ethnic groups (Dench et al, 2006). In their study of Tower Hamlets, Dench et al show how young Bangladeshi adolescents formed gangs in response to white violence, and, as their community numbers grew, took control of the streets, including the drugs trade, as well as the thefts and robberies that supported it (Dench et al, 2006). However, ‘the fact that forming gangs clearly had a part to play in protecting the wider Bangladeshi community gave them a legitimacy which they might not have had in different circumstances’ (Dench et al, 2006, p61). To some extent, the anti-racism policies that were implemented after the Macpherson report did not take this into account and fed into the prevailing depiction of the white working class as the drivers of racism in England. Phil Woolas, the MP for Oldham East in 2003, ‘warned that politicians from all parties were failing to openly condemn violent racist attacks against whites as forcibly as those against blacks or Asians’ (Collins, 2004, p247). His views were echoed by similar reports at the time, for example this quotation from Yasmin Alibhai-Brown discussing Black and Asian perpetrators of racism: ‘Our entire struggle against racism, its moral and ethical foundation, stands to be discredited because we are not paying enough attention to white victims of black and Asian hatred’ (Alibhai-Brown, 2003). Both mainstream political and media elites are ignoring, or actively promoting, misrepresentation of the white working class, and, as a result, use these portrayals as justification for not addressing the legitimate concerns of the white working class with regards to access to scarce public resources. Continuous negative media portrayals of the white working class provide legitimacy to the political elites’ implementation of race-relations policies and their ethnically-charged stereotyping of the white working class as a self-segregating, culturally inferior group, and the proponents of racism in England. These representations of the white working class have been used to justify austerity measures, cuts to services and benefits that disproportionally affect those in poverty (McKenzie, 2015). Thus, maintaining low levels of social mobility and potential access to political power and channels of representation. The socio-economic divide is maintained and the white middle and upper classes retain political and financial hegemony. McKendrick et al’s study of media representation of poverty concluded that reports about the poor were, on the whole, negative, where ‘notions of individual responsibility and connections between poverty and anti-social behaviour are never far from the centre of debate’ (McKendrick et al, 2008, p41). Thus, impacting on the general public’s attitude towards low-income groups and anti-poverty legislation. Even more telling is the way in which the mainstream media report poverty:Although one-half of reports mentioning poverty in the UK are accompanied by an image (51 per cent), in three-quarters of these reports the image that accompanies the report is not an image of poverty (74 per cent). It is more likely that it will be a headshot of an authoritative expert voice such as a politician or a journalist. Images of poverty are evident in only 13 per cent of poverty reports in the UK (McKendrick et al, 2008, p21).As can be seen, low-income groups are not representing themselves. Their image is being created and disseminated by the vast majority of media and political elites, and, as demonstrated by the McKendrick study, this image is overwhelmingly negative. In recent years, this can be epitomised by the portrayal of the ‘chav’ whose identity is constructed around aggression, excessive drug and alcohol consumption, obesity and unhealthy lifestyle choices, as well as racism (Adams and Raisborough, 2011). It is clear evidence that those with access to channels of representation, the white middle and upper classes, are using their access to power to define who they are by marginalising who they are not. The white working class become objects of disgust and are targeted as the causes of Britain’s ills, including racial intolerance and the socio-economic crisis resulting from the 2007-08 financial crisis (McKenzie, 2015). Misrepresentations of the white working class are not a new phenomenon and were identified in 2001 as a major issue by the then Chair of the Commission for Racial Equality, Gurbux Singh; ‘Tackling the perceptions and poverty levels of poor white communities is almost as important as tackling ethnic deprivation’ (Singh, 2001 cited in Collins, 2004, p248). Yet still, feedback loops of negative portrayals of the white working class permeate the public sphere. A sphere that is created and maintained by those with access to channels of representation, one that is increasingly difficult for low-income groups to influence or change. These homogenised representations of the white working class are a major contributor to the socio-cultural, economic and political marginalisation of this group. This feeds back into the ‘unfair treatment by national and local authorities’ counter-narratives, thus confirming the ‘known’ truths of the white working class and enforcing a continuing cycle of political segregation. A group who feel they are losing out financially, and whose concerns are ignored or derided by mainstream media and politicians, are likely to view the political system as having failed them and therefore unrepresentative and undemocratic, working against their interests rather than for them, leading them to disengage with the political process or to seek alternatives (Ford and Goodwin, 2014; Gottfried, 2014). This separation from mainstream politics can have negative knock-on effects for both the white working class and society as a whole in terms of community cohesion. In 2014, the Institute for Public Policy Research published a report based on their analysis of the UK Government’s 2010 spending review. They concluded that non-voters in the general election faced cuts to their household income that equated to roughly 8 per cent more than those who did vote, with the young and the poor most affected. It suggests that policymakers will consider non-voting blocs’ interests less, thus leading to further disengagement with the mainstream political process (IPPR, 2014). Social housing is commonly cited by members of the white working class as an issue where they perceive themselves as losing out to immigrant and minority ethnic groups, and in which their concerns are ignored by local and national mainstream politicians. As discussed earlier in the chapter, one reason for this can be attributed to the geographic segregation of the white middle and upper classes from the majority of immigrant and minority ethnic groups. In addition, the political elites who make decisions about social housing allocation tend to be pooled from the independently educated members of society, who are not directly affected by immigration in the same way as the white working class (Dench et al, 2006; Ford and Goodwin, 2014). Another underlying cause appears to be the desire by mainstream political parties to win the minority ethnic vote. Labour’s policies in the 2000s included freer immigration, tougher anti-discrimination laws and the fielding of more minority ethnic political candidates (Ford and Goodwin, 2014). In his study of Somers Town, Beider notes that the white working-class community felt their needs were not being addressed by the increasing number of minority ethnic political representatives, believing them to be favouring minority interests, especially in social housing allocation policy (Beider, 2011). A major contributor to this counter-narrative was the shift in policy for social housing allocation that occurred during the 1980s. Before the change in policy, local or family connections were prioritised, whereas priority is currently given on a needs-based points system (Garner, 2009). Dancygier’s study of Tower Hamlets demonstrates that this change in policy benefitted the Bangladeshi residents more than the white population (Dancygier, 2010). What is more significant is the connection she draws between the minority ethnic voting bloc, local authorities and social housing policy changes. As the Tower Hamlets Bangladeshi population became aware of its political power in terms of voter mobilisation, local mainstream parties could not afford to alienate them or assume their support. She goes on to claim that Labour councillors relying on the Bangladeshi vote ‘implemented allocation procedures that would benefit immigrant households in the provision of economic resources, specifically public housing’ (Dancygier, 2010, p157). When an immigrant or minority ethnic group secure political power in areas of socio-economic deprivation, they are more likely to feel resentment towards them amongst the local white working-class population, which can manifest through racist violence or far-right party success (Dancygier, 2010). The xenophobic British National Party (BNP) uses the issue of social housing to exploit tensions within local communities and to feed off ‘unfairness to whites’ counter-narratives (Garner, 2009; Grillo, 2010). Far-right party success is rooted in the white working-class perception that the mainstream political elite are ignoring their concerns and failing to represent them equally. Parties such as the BNP exploit these feelings of exclusion by promising to voice white concerns in the public sphere (Hewitt, 2005). Each success of a far-right party candidate draws condemnation from the media and political elite who blame white working-class racism as the sole cause. Thus, feeding back into the negative cycle of white working-class marginalisation. Dancygier’s study highlights a damning conclusion for community cohesion as a result of these processes;As BNP performance improves (measured in terms of the number of votes and the vote share received), the recorded racist incident rate rises as well. Synthesizing this information, we can conclude that there is indeed a positive association between the presence and success of the xenophobic British National Party and the rate of racist incidents at the local level (Dancygier, 2010, p113).Part Three of the creative component draws on the development of white working-class counter-narratives, particularly in relation to how white working-class communities are portrayed by media and political elites, as well as ‘unfairness to whites’ narratives with regard to social housing allocation. In the extract below, Dean listens to Georgina’s Mum, a key figure in local gossip, articulate the feelings of the white community in relation to mass immigration and the effect on local social housing allocation:‘They shove them all here. Sweep them under the carpet and let us deal with them. But we’re the ones who suffer, not those bastards in the Government. They just let us get on with it. Ruining our neighbourhoods and then blaming us like we’re the reason all the foreigners came here in the first place. And when we get angry and do something about it they tell us we’re in the wrong and they’re in the right and we all have to live side by side and like it or lump it. And we’re not even allowed to complain when a family with a new born baby are told they have to live with their parents because all the houses have been given to coloured people who’ve just got off the boat. It’s just not bloody fair’ (Crewe, 2016, p131). Dean connects the impact of the processes Georgina’s Mum describes with that of his own situation, especially the effect it has on Georgina:This house thing has knocked the last of it out of her. I guess she’s losing everything. No college, no hanging out with her mates and getting pissed, living with my Mum and now she’s told that Pakis are more important. She must feel worthless…I don’t even care about Pakis, but Georgina’s Mum’s right. What about us? (Crewe, 2016, p130).As an exemplar of a white working-class subject living on a multi-ethnic inner-city estate, Dean highlights the way in which counter-narrative production is a direct, and indirect, result of political and media elites’ perceived negative construction, and marginalisation, of the white working class. He disengages with a political structure that he sees as inaccessible and exclusory, and, as a result, his discontent is open to exploitation by far-right political parties. The counter-narratives put forward by Georgina’s Mum are exploited by far-right parties and conflated with their own rhetoric. For Dean, directly experiencing the impact of social housing shortages, this leads to anger and resentment, as highlighted in the extract below:The Pakis get everything done for them and we’re left behind. It makes me mad…I’ve lived here all my life. So’s Georgina. Why do we have less rights than foreigners in our own country?...I imagine the Pakis moving into our flat…I bet they don’t even speak a word of English and they’ll get given so many benefits that they won’t even need to get a job. They’ll sponge off hardworking people like my Mum who’s had to work every bloody day of her life.… I’m ready for a war. I’m ready to take back what’s mine. What’s ours. I drag my trackie sleeve over my face to soak up all the flob…No one will know I’ve been crying, but they’ll know I’m fucking angry (Crewe, 2016, p131-133). Part Three highlights the combination of multiple factors that lead Dean to work for the gang from Addington - the difference in media and political attention given to the murder of Gareth Etherington in comparison to Dwaye Campbell, the shortage of social housing and the perceived preference given to non-white families, the exploitation of the resulting counter-narratives by far-right parties – all of which positively correlate with escalations in racial tension and violence. In Another London, this comes to its climax when Dean agrees to stab a rival black dealer only to find it’s Madu. Dean tries to warn him of the impending attack, but Madu dismisses Dean’s intentions and in doing so exposes the underlying structures that create difference between ethnic groups:‘What the fuck do you care?’… ‘Everyone knows you sell for those cunts.’…‘You know what they think about people like me. And Pakis and chinks.’…‘I’m just another nigger to you.’ ‘You’re my friend.’ …‘Get out of here, Madu. Go.’ He snaps and pushes his chest out at me.‘Where the fuck am I going to go?’ … I stare at him. I stare right into his blood red eyes…Madu’s right. Where can we go? I can’t do nothing. I can’t change nothing. Neither of us can. We’re fucked. We were born fucked (Crewe, 2016, p146-148). This confrontation is a key moment in Dean’s development. He starts to acknowledge that those living in poverty, regardless of ethnicity, share far more similarities than differences, especially in terms of barriers to social mobility and life chances. Dean is not racist and does not share Phillip Harris’s xenophobic ideology, yet the representations of the white working class provided by media and political elites, combined with the counter-narratives that they stimulate, leads Dean to be caught up in far-right party rhetoric to the point that he would have perpetrated a potential, although partly financially-motivated, hate crime. Part 4 – Homogenisation and Division: Muslims and the White Working ClassPart 4 of the novel is set in 2005 when Dean is 23 years old.Since the terrorist attacks in New York on 11th September 2001, British Muslims have come under scrutiny, especially from the right-wing media who have continuously accused them of ‘fostering extremist intolerance and [being] more loyal to Muslims abroad than their compatriots in Britain’ (Ford, 2010, p152). This blame narrative, instituted by those of the right-wing political and media elite, was given more mainstream credence as a result of the 7th July 2005 terrorist attacks in London. Just one week after the attacks, journalist Melanie Phillips wrote: Muslims have been presented not as the community which must take responsibility for this horror, but as the principal victims. This moral inversion is the result of the cultural brainwashing that has been going on in Britain for years in the pursuit of the disastrous doctrine of multiculturalism. This has refused to teach Muslims – along with other minorities – the core of British culture and values. Instead, it has promoted a lethally divisive culture of separateness, in which minority cultures are held to be equal if not superior to the values and traditions of the indigenous majority (Melanie Phillips for the Daily Mail, 2005).The blame narrative is articulated in two ways. Firstly, it homogenises Muslims into one single group, thus implicating all Muslims as ‘socially responsible’ for the terrorist attacks. A parallel can be drawn with the white working-class communities who were implicated as ‘socially responsible’ in the wake of the Stephen Lawrence murder. Secondly, Phillips, in her negative analysis of multiculturalism, implies that minority cultures should not be held equal to that of the white majority. Implicit is the accusation of a socio-cultural deficit, violence in the form of terrorism, and self-imposed segregation from, what she calls, core British values. Again, there is a clear parallel in the way the white working class are represented and presented by media and political elites. Phillips’ article can be seen as a mainstream articulation of existing representations of immigrant and minority ethnic groups, in particular Muslims. In 2001, Dutch columnist Paul Cliteur suggested that ‘it is nonsensical to state that all cultures are equal since some cultures are evil, some cultures suppress women and some cultures excessively punish misdemeanours’ (Vertovec and Wessendorf, 2010, p10). In Britain, assertions such as these can be seen feeding back into far-right political parties. Nick Griffin, then leader of the British National Party, stated in his party’s European Election Broadcast 2004:You can have Muslim fundamentalism or democracy. You can have Muslim fundamentalism or women’s rights. You can have Muslim fundamentalism or peace. But you can’t have both (Griffin, 2004 cited in Eatwell and Goodwin, 2010, p10, original italics).Griffin is clearly conflating Islam as a religion and Islam as violent political extremism. The BNP’s portrayal of Muslims, similar to that of Cliteur and Phillips’, is of a violent, culturally backwards group, who reject core British values of democracy and equality. The increased marginalisation of British Muslims can be traced through the feedback loops detailed above, a Dutch columnist, a far-right party spokesperson, a right of centre mainstream journalist, and onto the then British Prime Minister, David Cameron, whose 2011 speech on radicalisation and Islamic extremism echoes the sentiments expressed by the above, giving credence and mainstream approval to these blame narratives. When…unacceptable views or practices come from someone who isn’t white, we’ve been too cautious frankly - frankly, even fearful - to stand up to them.? The failure, for instance, of some to confront the horrors of forced marriage, the practice where some young girls are bullied and sometimes taken abroad to marry someone when they don’t want to, is a case in point.? This hands-off tolerance has only served to reinforce the sense that not enough is shared.? And this all leaves some young Muslims feeling rootless.? And the search for something to belong to and something to believe in can lead them to this extremist ideology.? Now for sure, they don’t turn into terrorists overnight, but what we see - and what we see in so many European countries - is a process of radicalisation.We should properly judge these [Muslim] organisations: do they believe in universal human rights - including for women and people of other faiths?? Do they believe in equality of all before the law?? Do they believe in democracy and the right of people to elect their own government?? Do they encourage integration or separation?? These are the sorts of questions we need to ask.? Fail these tests and the presumption should be not to engage with organisations (Cameron, 2011).The marginalisation of Muslims over the ten-year period described above highlights the way in which feedback loops of representations can filter through a society when propagated by the media and politicians. David Cameron’s speech, highly reminiscent of Nick Griffin’s seven years earlier, continues the blame narrative by making it clear that those groups who do not share his vision of core British values are, by association, the causes and perpetrators of radicalisation and terrorism. The ethnicity and assumed cultural backwardness of Muslims is being used as a tool to marginalise them as a homogenised group, blaming them for Islamic terrorism rather than attempting an analysis of the wider socio-economic hegemonic structures in Britain. As such, a parallel can be drawn between the processes by which the white working class are marginalised to uphold structures of white middle- and upper-class socio-economic dominance, and that of how young British Muslims are being radicalised as a result of socio-economic exclusion (Sobolewska, 2010). The media and political response to the London terrorist attacks had negative impacts on the lives of British Muslims, who felt that misrepresentation by media and political elites resulted in their being put more in danger of verbal and physical assaults (Threadgold, 2009; Eatwell and Goodwin, 2010). The Terrorism Act 2006, brought in by the Labour Government, built on the previous Anti-Terrorism, Crime and Security Act 2001 and the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2005. As McGhee highlights, the provisions of these acts are ‘so vague yet so clearly targeted at Muslim communities’ (McGhee, 2008, p43) that they don’t only target the Muslims suspected of terrorist activities or incitement of hatred, but also have ‘the potential for being extended to include all members of Muslim communities in Britain’ (McGhee, 2008, pp29-30). McGhee cites a report by Alvaro Gil-Robles, then Council of Europe Commissioner for Human Rights, which was written on his visit to the United Kingdom. It claims that the implementation of the 2001 and 2005 anti-terrorism acts has produced negative perceptions of Muslims in the rest of the UK population, as well as disengagement from mainstream politics by the Muslim population (McGhee, 2008). The Terrorism Act 2006, as well as subsequent anti-terrorism litigation, has compounded this even further, seemingly legitimising fear of Muslim communities. The BNP’s portrayal of Muslims as ‘alien and backward’ feeds off the anti-terrorism policy and bolsters far-right party support amongst voters who want more action taken ‘against Muslims “who want to destroy this country”’ (Eatwell and Goodwin, 2010, p6). Feedback loops of negative representations of Muslims are disseminated by those with access to channels of representation, which in turn affects government policy, by which fears are legitimised and Muslim communities are socio-economically excluded. The resultant disengagement from the hegemonic political systems can damage community cohesion and contribute to radicalisation, especially in low-income, multi-ethnic, inner-city areas. Parekh suggests that when media and political elites talk about extremists they make ‘no attempt to understand the agents and the wider context of their actions, and all too easily dismiss them as inhuman monsters’ (Parekh, 2002, p271). Instead there is a preference to dismiss agency and use binary representations of good and evil to discuss Islamic terrorists. Yet, as shown above, Islamic extremism is conflated with the Muslim community as a whole, marking all Muslims as potential terrorists. Thus feeding back into far-right party rhetoric, providing extra support for the socio-political grievances of the white working-class communities they purport to represent (Sobolewska, 2010). As discussed above, the success of far-right parties tends to correlate with an upsurge in racially motivated attacks on non-whites, which can be read as an indirect result of media and political representation of Muslims. An increase of racially motivated crime perpetrated by whites against immigrant and minority ethnic groups results in negative feedback loops of media and political portrayals. This works to homogenise the white working-class community, labelling it as ‘socially responsible’ for racist violence.The marginalisation of Muslims by media and political elites works in a similar way to that of the white working class. In both cases they are portrayed as being self-segregating, culturally deficient and violent, in terms of racist or terrorist activities. In both cases the dissemination of homogenised representations by those with access to channels of representation are used to justify government policy, such as spending cuts that disproportionately affect low-income groups, or anti-terrorist legislation that restricts civil liberties. Fundamentally, however, the marginalisation of both the white working class and Muslims by those with access to channels of representation is to divert attention away from the fact that the poorest twenty percent of the population, regardless of ethnicity, are becoming ‘increasingly separated from the more prosperous majority by inequalities of income, housing and education’ (Gavron, 2009, p2).In Part Four of the creative component, both Dean and Ghalia utilise media and political blame narratives to accuse each other of the problems faced by their respective communities. The Islamic terrorist attacks portrayed in the novel result in a rise in support for the fictional far-right British Front Party (BFP) on both the Eldon and Addington estates. The gang from Addington, feeding off far-right party rhetoric and negative portrayals of Muslims, vilify the Muslim community on the estates, all against the backdrop of ‘unfairness to whites’ counter-narratives. Ghalia blames Dean for his tacit acceptance of the negative treatment of Muslims, using the ‘chav as the driver of racism in England’ narrative, as shown in the extract below:‘You used to sell drugs for the same people who threw shit at my family. You’re one of them, you know. You’re all the bloody same.’…‘You told me you loved me, Dean. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything? You’re just like the rest of them.’…‘All the other white chav scum’ (Crewe, 2016, p178). She continues to attack Dean’s, and by association the white working-class community’s, ignorance, accusing them both directly and indirectly of being the drivers of racism in Britain. Ghalia’s reiteration of the blame narratives that posit the white working class as the causes of racism and segregation feed into pre-existing counter-narratives, reinforcing the ‘us’ and ‘them’ dichotomy of media and political elite’s representations of both the white working class and Muslim communities. As such, Dean’s response works in defence of these accusations, identifying Ghalia as belonging to a homogenised Muslim group: It makes me mad that she says we’re all to blame. Me and Georgina and my family never done anything to hurt her. None of the old bids either. What right does she have to criticise us in our own fucking country?...She’s not Ghalia anymore. She’s one of them (Crewe, 2016, p179). Dean blames immigrants and minority ethnic groups for taking all the social housing and accuses all Muslims of being potential terrorists. They both allow the individual to be absorbed into their perceived group, each homogenising the other through blame narratives. Ghalia’s parting sentence and Dean’s response demonstrates the way in which this process can end in division:She spits on the ground…‘You Dean, are just a racist, scrounging, piece of shit, scum.’ …She blames me for everything. I am her enemy…But I don’t care. I don’t feel anything. I don’t feel anything at all (Crewe, 2016, p181).Dean and Ghalia become representative of how inner-city estate residents use blame narratives, created by media and political elites, to accuse other’s perceived group of causing their grievances. Yet Hewitt, in his study of Greenwich, claims that what he actually found was ‘difference’ created by local authority policy and media representations. It was a construction that set communities against one another, essentially ‘’racialised’ through an act of conceptual engineering’ (Hewitt, 2005, p99). Part 5 – The Rise of the Far-Right and the Construction of the ‘Chav’Part 5 of the novel is set in 2010 when Dean is twenty eight years old.In the 2009 European Parliament Elections, the far-right BNP and the anti-immigration United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP) secured roughly twenty-two percent of the vote between them, signalling what some media and academic commentators described as a shift to the right, away from the mainstream political establishment (Ford and Goodwin, 2014). The shift to the right, especially the increasing support for UKIP, should be seen as a continuation of the process of working-class disengagement from mainstream political parties, rather than just a simple expression of their position on immigration and minority ethnic groups (Gottfried, 2014). Since the advent of New Labour in 1994 there has been a significant shift in the voting groups that the two main political parties have targeted. Both the Conservative and Labour Parties have attempted to appeal to the aspirational middle-class population, who they see as more likely to deliver a victory at the ballot box (Griffith and Glennie, 2014). Working-class voters, who would have previously been pivotal to any political party’s electoral success, have now ‘become spectators in electoral battles for the educated middle-class vote’ (Ford and Goodwin, 2014, p117). Political disengagement of working-class communities can be seen as a direct result of economic and political systems that are perceived to benefit the elite as opposed to the wider population (Gottfried, 2014). This was compounded in the aftermath of the 2007-2008 global financial crisis, where low-income groups suffered the largest loss in relative income. The lack of mainstream political concern, or at least a lack of communicated mainstream concern, further entrenched the perceived distance between the working class and the political elite, as well as the feeling that mainstream politicians neglected working-class issues and concerns (Ford and Goodwin, 2014), leaving little doubt that relative poverty has been a contributing factor to the success of far-right parties (Eatwell, 2010). As mainstream political parties have concentrated on courting the middle classes, far-right parties have exploited the fact that mainstream politicians are far less visible in working-class communities (Griffith and Glennie, 2014). By having a visible, and physical, presence in white working-class communities, far-right parties are able to exploit the disillusionment with mainstream political parties felt by low-income whites. Parties such as the BNP and UKIP can attract ‘voters who do not endorse extreme-right ideology, but who do want to express profound discontent with the status quo’ (Ford, 2010, p159). Extreme-right groups such as the English Defence League (EDL) tap into white working-class marginalisation in much the same way. Without a voice representing white working-class concerns in Westminster, a role previously undertaken by the pre-1994 Labour Party, many in this group feel politically isolated. The EDL exploit this by giving members a sense of empowerment through protest (Ramalingam, 2014). The xenophobic overtones of EDL’s central argument are clear, but they can be found rooted in the white working-class concerns that have been discussed above; ‘unfair’ treatment of whites, preferential treatment of immigrants and minority ethnic groups by those in authority, fears over social housing allocations and the rapid demographic changes occurring in traditionally white working-class areas as a result. Far-right parties gain inroads in white working-class communities by claiming to voice these concerns in the public sphere. As stated above, far-right party success in white working-class areas is often interpreted by media and political elites as a sign that the white working class share far-right parties’ xenophobic stance. Rather than analyse the underlying drivers of far-right party success, the media tends to concentrate on perceived white working-class racism, feeding off claims such as the EDL’s insistence that they are the voice of the English working class (Rogaly, 2011). In fact, it’s hard to ignore the influence the media’s propagation of negative stereotypes has had on the success of far-right parties and that success has become inter-connected the construction of white working-class identity (Eatwell, 2010).One of the dominant concerns that is consistently accredited to the white working class is that of immigration. A 2013 survey carried out by the Royal Statistical Society and King's College London showed that respondents, 1,015 people aged 16 to 75, thought that immigrants made up 31 percent of the UK population, whereas the actual figure is closer to 13 percent (Paige, 2013). The fact that many local authorities don’t have accurate migration flow figures also contributes to people’s overestimation of the size of the immigrant and minority ethnic population (Griffith, 2014). This startling gap between perception and reality can be traced back to the way in which the media shapes public opinion. A clear example of this can be seen in the way the public perceive immigration in terms of a local or national issue. Ford cites a 2008 poll where 58% of the respondents claimed that parts of the country don’t feel like Britain anymore, but only 25% said this was true of their part of Britain (Ford, 2010). These statistics are echoed even more starkly in an Ispos Mori poll cited by Page, where 76% saw immigration as a national problem, whereas only 18% regarded it as a local problem (Page, 2009). It is clear from these studies that attitudes towards immigration are not generally based on direct experience, but rather on the media’s sensationalisation of the issue. Not least because ‘people don’t come into contact with “immigration”, they come into contact with people’ (Transatlantic Council on Migration, 2009, p361. Original in italics). The media frame the debate by homogenising immigrant and minority ethnic groups and ignoring the individual narratives, influencing public opinion, which in turn has an impact on government policy (Papademetiou and Heuser, 2009). Poll findings that indicate a large percentage of the British public exhibiting fears about immigration, frequently appear to influence more restrictive immigration policies, which in turn reinforces the public’s negative perception of immigration, causing a vicious cycle catalysed by media coverage (Saran, 2009). Or, as Ford puts it, ‘the successful communication of negative narratives about the dangerous consequences posed by immigrants, and the promotion of drastic solutions as the only way to protect from these dangers, may inflame public hostility and encourage support for radical parties’ (Ford, 2010, p155). There is disproportionate focus on illegal immigrants, asylum seekers and refugees in the media, where they are all conflated with potential criminal and terrorist activities (Buchanan and Grillo, 2004; Threadgold, 2009; Papademetriou and Heuser, 2009). This is exacerbated in times of crisis when the media overwhelmingly represents the most extreme positions, thus further polarizing public opinion and disregarding the human rights of the most vulnerable immigrants (Buchanan and Grillo, 2004; Papademetriou and Heuser, 2009). It is these extremes the media focus feedbacks into far-right party success through the homogenising of the white working-class community. Spokespeople from the BNP, EDL and UKIP, in media representations, become the voice of the white working class. As discussed above, support for a far-right party is most likely a manifestation of disengagement from mainstream politics rather than a committed belief to far-right policy, yet the media construct the white working class as the core supporters of the far-right movement and therefore the drivers of racism. However, concerns about immigration are not exclusive to the white working class. Citizenship Surveys between 2007-2011 showed a rise in minority ethnic groups’ support for lower levels of immigration, from 43 percent to 53 percent (Kaufman and Harris, 2014). A poll carried out for the IPPR concluded that, even though 60 percent of white working-class respondents preferred lower levels of immigration, even if it had a detrimental effect on the economy, it was not vastly different from that of middle-class respondents, where 47 percent also shared this view, with an average of 51 percent for all respondents (Griffith and Glennie, 2014). A positive slant on these statistics can be seen in the findings from a Populus poll commissioned by the BBC that found 71 per cent of white working-class respondents felt that immigrants fitted in if given enough time, compared to 76 per cent of white middle-class respondents (Gillborn, 2009). Even UKIP’s success is mostly predicated on white, employed homeowners who have little direct contact with poverty (Kaufman and Harris, 2014). As shown, the media’s attention on constructing the white working class as ‘social accessories’ and drivers of xenophobic far-right party policy is misleading at best. At worst if feeds back into the construction of blame narratives that position the white working class in direct conflict with immigrants and minority ethnic groups.As discussed in the Introduction to this thesis, the construction of inter-ethnic competition as being the root cause of white working-class disadvantage diverts discussion away from the classist foundation of socio-economic inequality (Sveinsson, 2009). In fact, it could be argued that ‘the question of racism can fade in significance when the broader context of class marginalization is taken into account…[whereby] the class divisions among whites are more critical than their collective whiteness in theorizing their social relations to other groups’ (Levine-Rasky, 2013, p112). Those in poverty are often presented in relation to their ethnicity, rather than their shared socio-economic inequality. Focusing on the ‘whiteness’ of the white working class allows the class inequality experienced by immigrant and minority ethnic groups to be ignored, thus focusing on white and non-white competition for scarce public resources rather than investigating why there is a lack of public resources and how it came about (Bottero, 2009). As discussed above with regards to Muslims and the white working class, those with access to channels of representation construct and maintain socio-economic class privilege through a process of marginalisation. In relation to the white working class, this discriminatory practice, although emphasising ‘whiteness’, does not actually use ‘whiteness’ as a marker of inferiority. Rather the focus is on labelling behaviour and lifestyle choices as culturally inferior (Sveinsson, 2009; See also Introduction). Using privileged access to channels of representation, the middle and upper classes control how mass media influences public opinion, insomuch as creating consensus on desirable, and normal, lifestyle and consumer choices, and by doing so, mark behaviour and lifestyle choices that are different as abnormal, inferior and, as some commentators argue, disgusting (Levine-Rasky, 2013; see also Lawler, 2005; Skeggs, 2005; Haywood and Yar, 2006; Tyler, 2008; Webster, 2008; Adams and Raisborough, 2011). Development of the stereotyped image of the white working-class subject as an object of ridicule and contempt works to support middle-class identities, setting distinct boundaries between respectable middle- and upper-class whites and the white poor (Skeggs, 2005; Tyler, 2008; Webster, 2008). The figure of the ‘chav’ has emerged as one such designation that attempts to capture the essences of white working-class degeneracy. Appearing first on the internet, the label was quickly taken up by those with access to channels of representation and used to both entertain and reinforce middle-class identities through ironic and comic depictions of the ‘chav’ figure (Tyler, 2008). In an era where racist and sexist language have become taboo within public discourse, classist language has flourished (Webster, 2008). This influence feeds back into generational loops of class-based identity construction, most obviously in the way in which middle- and upper-class parents instruct their children. Whereas parents may teach their children to avoid racist or sexist language use, derogatory terms for the white working-class, such as ‘chav’, are tacitly condoned (Hartigan, 2003). In their 2007 study on children’s views of social difference, Sutton et al found that ‘‘chav’ was used specifically by…private schoolchildren to refer to children who lived on estates and who had parents who were unemployed, with poor parenting skills’ (Sutton et al, 2007, p13). The same children went on to blame estate parents for the bad behaviour of ‘chav’ kids, explaining how their own parents had warned them to avoid estate children, as they were violent and anti-social, effectively instilling a fear of the ‘chav’ into the private schoolchildren’s systems of class identity recognition (Sutton et al, 2007). Class-based labelling and judgements made and reinforced during childhood by middle- and upper-class parents, is continued through until adulthood. These same independent school students graduate to the talent pools that, as discussed in the Introduction, are used for recruitment into leading public bodies and institutions, bringing with them tacit acknowledgement and acceptance of class-based identities and boundaries.Media representations of the chav are generally very similar, regardless of the outlet (Adams and Raisborough, 2011). These tend to show the chav figure as irrational, aggressive, lazy and immoral, partaking in excessive consumption of alcohol, drugs and unhealthy food, all contributing to the general depiction of a flawed consumer unable or unwilling to make the ‘correct’ lifestyle and cultural choices (Haywood and Yar, 2006; Adams and Raisborough, 2011) . Through these representations, media elites make value judgements upon the white working class, as represented by the chav figure, ‘to assert distinction, recognition and distribute privilege, which in turn reproduces economic privilege’ (Raisbrough and Adams, 2008, p2.2). Consumer patterns become markers of class and uphold middle- and upper-class lifestyle and cultural choices as both normal and desirable, thus feeding back into blame narratives of low-income whites consciously choosing their perceived cultural deficiencies and their own self-induced cycles of poverty. Low-income groups are further marginalised from mainstream society as they are perceived to be unable to function as ‘meaningful…consumer-citizens’ (Haywood and Yar, 2006, p14). Clothing becomes a visible marker of class in the public sphere. The chav’s ‘vulgar’ choices of attire become signifiers of inferiority, immorality and separation from the mainstream. Clothing and consumption patterns become ways in which individuals are recognised by those of other groups and as a result become determinants of exclusion or inclusion, acceptance or contempt (Haywood and Yar, 2006). Middle- and upper-class consumers not only use working-class cultural choices (e.g. clothing brands, supermarket chains, etc) to reinforce their own socio-cultural hegemony, they attribute judgements and value to working-class cultural and consumer choices to stigmatise them ‘as immoral, repellent, abject, worthless, disgusting, even disposable’ (Skeggs, 2005, p977). In Part 5 of the novel, Phil Harris splits from the BFP and forms the extreme-right National Defence League (NDL). The group’s marches around Eldon and Addington attract media attention and Phil becomes the tacit spokesperson of the local white working-class community. Regardless of the low turnout for the NDL marches, the sensationalised media images become a symbol of the white estate residents, who, by association, are seen as supporters and drivers of the NDL’s xenophobic message. Georgina openly rejects the NDL and the fact that she should be seen to be represented by them in the public sphere. Yet with little or no access to the channels of representation, she, and all the other estates residents who reject the NDL, have no power to address mainstream perceptions of the white working-class community on Eldon and Addington, as racists and supporters of extreme-right groups. As such, Georgina and all the estate residents become homogenised into one single group, who are seen to be represented by Phil Harris and the NDL. When Dean avoids an NDL protest, he is confronted by both a lone Muslim woman and a People Against Fascism (PAF) march. Although not part of the NDL march or in any way sharing the NDL’s ideology, Dean is recognised as being associated with racism and far-right support. The Police Officer, the PAF and the Muslim woman all identify Dean through the visible signifiers of ‘inferior’ consumer choices with regards to clothing and general appearance. The chav figure becomes emblematic of aggression, racism, degeneracy and inferior cultural choices. As such Dean is a symbol of fear for the lone Muslim woman and a symbol of disgust for the members of the PAF, one of which exhibits class contempt by spitting at Dean’s feet. Dean is recognised by his appearance and categorised instantaneously into the dangerous, deviant and inferior white working class. When seeing his image in the silvered mirror, Dean identifies the markers that determine his perceived socio-cultural value. He recognises the group that he is consciously and unconsciously associated with and rejects the idea that it represents him:I’m so fucking white. Blotchy pink and white. Look at that crew cut hair. I scrape my hand over my head. It feels good, tight and cushioned. But it looks…I don’t know. I do know. It looks like all them other ones who hang out in the third courtyard in from the Prickworks. I’ve even got the same polo shirt and grey trackie bottoms. Even me white trainers ain’t different. I can’t move. The reflection holds me. It’s the face…The eyes are slant and the cheeks are puffed and pointy at the same time. And the mouth. I see my lips curl up to one side like an Elvis quiff. I’m sneering. Like I hate everything around me. Everyone around me. Like I hate myself. The face stares back at me and I know who it is. It’s Phil Harris. It’s all those fuckers in the NDL. It’s the BMX kids on Eldon and Addington. I’m them. I look like them and everyone in the whole fucking world sees me like it too…But I’m not like them. I’m not fucking like them…He isn’t me (Crewe, 2016, p226). Both feared and loathed, by association to far-right groups and by adherence to media disseminated images and ridicule of the white working-class chav, Dean is marginalised through a process of racialization, where culture has been tied to his visible identity ‘in a hierarchical way’ (Garner, 2009, p48; See also Webster, 2008).Part 6 – The England Riots and De-Racialisation Part 6 of the novel is set in 2011 when Dean is 29 years old.The marginalisation of the white working class, through the use of constructed blame narratives disseminated by media and political elites, is a continuing process whose roots can be found in the industrial revolution and the development of modern capitalism. Writing in 1821, just two years after the Peterloo Massacre, William Hazlitt summed up the plight of the working class in relation to how they were represented by the media and political elites of the time: When we see the lower classes of English people uniformly singled out as marks for the malice or servility of a certain description of writers – when we see them studiously separated like a degraded caste, from the rest of the community, with scarcely the attributes or the faculties of the species allowed them, - nay, when they are thrust lower in the scale of humanity than the same classes of any other nation in Europe…when we see the redundant population (as it is fashionably called) selected as the butt for every effusion of paltry spite, and as the last resort of vindictive penal statutes, - when we see every existing evil derived from this unfortunate race, and every possible vice ascribed to them – when we are accustomed to hear the poor, the uninformed, the friendless, put, by tacit consent, out of the pale of society – when their faults and wretchedness are exaggerated with eager impatience, and still greater impatience is shown at every expression of a wish to amend them – when they are familiarly spoken of as a sort of vermin only fit to be hunted down, and exterminated at the discretion of their betters: - we know pretty well what to think, both of the disinterestedness of the motives which give currency to this jargon, and of the wisdom of the policy which should either sanction, or suffer itself to be influenced by its suggestions (Hazlitt, 1821 cited in Byrne, 2005, p20, original italics).As discussed above, those with access to channels of representation have continued in the same vein with regards to their depiction of the white working class, essentially upholding a socio-cultural system that works to construct the white working class as worthless (Lawler, 2005). The media’s depiction of low-income groups tends to focus on poverty as a result of lifestyle choices, which hinders a wider public understanding of the inequalities that cause poverty, and thus makes it more difficult to gather public and political support for anti-poverty policies (McKendrick et al, 2008). As discussed in the Introduction, economic inequality in Britain has increased consistently over the past twenty years. The 2014 State of the Nation report highlighted this using the example of child poverty where there has been an increase between 2009 to 2014 of 600,000 children in working-class families living in absolute poverty (Milburn and Shephard, 2014). The white working class are both culturally and economically marginalised from mainstream society, whilst at the same time portrayed as choosing their exclusion and blamed for many of society’s problems, such as racism, violence, criminality etc. ‘They have not been simply “excluded from society”, but…discarded by advanced capitalism’s global economic system and shorn of unifying political symbolism and the type of grounded political representation that understands their lifeworld’ (Treadwell et al, 2012, p14). Systematic marginalisation of a group in the political and economic sphere, combined with a lack of access to scarce resources, can have the effect of turning that group against the state (Dancygier, 2010). The 2011 England riots, as well as many other historical protests and riots, can be seen as an indirect, and to some extent direct, result of this process of marginalization and blame, which has led to the poorest low-income groups being politically and economically segregated from mainstream society, by media, political and financial elites. It is a process that can be heard echoed in the words of black leaders Malcom X and Martin Luther King Jr:A riot is the language of the unheard (King cited in Rothman, 2015).It could make me a very vicious and dangerous person…because of a society’s failure, hypocrisy, greed, and lack of mercy and compassion. Hence I have no mercy or compassion in me for a society that will crush people, and then penalise them for not being able to stand up under the weight (Malcolm X cited in Charlesworth, 2000, p177).In his 1995 study on youth violence in Britain, psychologist Oliver James suggested that the current ‘winner – loser’ culture, where those in poverty are presented as socially deviant, is an indirect cause of violence amongst young people (James cited in Sutterlüty, 2014). Leading up to the England riots, the emergence of the chav as a figure of ridicule and disgust, especially in terms of their poor consumer and lifestyle choices, is similar to James’ observations two decades earlier (Sutterlüty, 2014). Continual disengagement with mainstream politics, continual homogenised and stigmatising representations in mainstream media, added to growing economic disparity, culminated in working-class outpourings of anger at the causes of socio-economic and political exclusion in the form of protests and riots (Treadwell et al, 2012; see also Sutterlüty, 2014). The riots took the form of direct and indirect demands for low-income working-class groups to be recognised, respected and treated as equal citizens (Sutterlüty, 2014).Entrenched working-class disengagement from mainstream politics, a result of mainstream political parties targeting middle-class voters, was one of the key drivers behind the violence of the riots, where political demands failed to be articulated or had been previously ignored (Sutterlüty, 2014). Rather than analyse the underlying causes of the riots, mainstream media and politicians chose to pursue their usual representational regimes by degrading the rioters and, by association, the working-class groups they came from, thus continuing a process of stigmatisation that labels the working class as aggressive, violent and criminal (Sutterlüty, 2014; McKenzie, 2015). In the aftermath of the riots, mainstream media and politicians repeatedly used terms such as ‘morally bankrupt’, ‘feral’, ‘scum’ and ‘scum class’, recycling negative ‘cultures of poverty’ epithets to homogenise low-income groups, and using the riots as proof of degeneracy to legitimise further marginalisation of the working class and provide just cause for austerity measures that disproportionately target low-income groups (McKenzie, 2015). It is clear that leading politicians have avoided any attempt to understand the motivations of the rioters, and British Prime Minister David Cameron’s dismissal of the insurgents as simply criminals in need of punishment, is an unsatisfactory analysis (Sutterlüty, 2014). The way in which media and political elites have talked about the rioters follows an historical pattern of dismissing genuine working-class concerns expressed through conflict. One such example is then British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher’s statement about the 1981 England riots that occurred in multi-ethnic inner city locations including Brixton in London, Handsworth in Birmingham, Toxteth in Liverpool and Chapeltown in Leeds; ‘What perhaps aggravated the 1981 riots into a virtual saturnalia…was the impression given by television that…rioters could enjoy a fiesta of crime, looting and rioting in the guise of social protest’ (Thatcher cited in Dancygier, 2010, p89). In Part 6 of the creative component, Dean takes part in one of the riots that have spread to Addington High Street. As part of his unconscious desire to be an active citizen-consumer in order to obtain equality in the eyes of the middle and upper classes, he targets the consumer products that he is unable to purchase due to his economic exclusion from mainstream consumption patterns. However, when he witnesses the attack on Ghalia’s uncle’s shop, he realises how misguided destruction shaped the outpouring of anger at economic inequality. Both Dean and Ghalia come to understand the underlying causes of the riots, that of socio-cultural, economic and political exclusion of all working-class groups regardless of ethnicity. This is embodied in the scene directly after Ghalia leaves in the ambulance and Dean is interviewed by a reporter. She uses the same rhetorical structures as politicians when describing the rioters, but on this occasion Dean is able to confront her about the hypocrisy of her word use and the actions of the media in general:Who the fuck does she think she is interrogating me? She’s only about twelve and probably comes from Surrey. What does she know about round here? And she’s trying to tell me what to think…‘[You] wouldn’t be down here talking to me if this was a peaceful protest, would you?’ … That’s all they show, the bad stuff. Gang killings or those NDL cunts or Islams burning flags. They ain’t interested in real people. What life’s really like here. Just extremes. Never the middle…I stare her in the eye and then turn to face the camera. ‘Fuck you’ (Crewe, 2016, p256). Hegemonic systems of control utilised by the media and political elites uphold structures of inequality, which are the hidden drivers of violence and racially motivated conflict. Something that was significantly overlooked during the 2011 England riots was the fact that, ‘there is no indication whatsoever that ethnic categories were of any real significance in terms of the composition of rioting groups or the choice of targets…rioters exhibited such a diverse ethnic composition that they were linked with a process of deracialisation’ (Sutterlüty, 2014, p44). Clear evidence that the elite’s attempt to use inter-ethnic competition to account for the many concerns facing the white working class and, by association, all immigrant and minority ethnic groups, is misleading and an indirect, and to some extent direct, attempt to divert attention away from hierarchical structures that maintain economic and political hegemony centred in the white middle and upper classes. The socio-cultural research discussed in this chapter forms the genesis of the plot and characters in the creative component. Tracing Dean’s trajectory from childhood through to adulthood allows the reader to follow his exposure to the development of counter-narratives amongst the white working-class community on Eldon and Addington. In Part One Dean experiences what he perceives as unfair treatment compared to that of Madu. As a result, he becomes disengaged with school and authority figures in general, feeding into the ‘unfairness to whites’ counter-narratives already present on the estates. In Part Two, these same counter-narratives, compounded with the mainstream media representations of estate whites as ‘social accessories’ to the murder, form the backdrop to his re-imagining of the murder he witnesses. Dean unconsciously tries to defend against the blame narratives that are being constructed by media and political elites, by providing a counter-narrative of black on black violence. In Parts Three and Four, the rise of the far-right party, BFP, on the estates coincides with increased ethnic tension and violence. The BFP’s prominence feeds into the counter-narratives of ‘preferential treatment for immigrant and minority ethnic groups’ and the mainstream blame narratives targeting Muslims. Dean becomes entangled in both, blaming Ghalia and, by association, all Muslims for barring his family’s access to social housing. The concerns Dean airs are constructed by both mainstream media and politicians, as well as far-right parties, as being caused by ethnicity, rather than as a result of poverty. Ghalia’s adherence to the construction of the homogenised white working-class chav, effectively affirms the ethnically charged blame narratives that sets up low-income groups as being in competition with each other. The racialisation of the white working-class subject through the construction of the chav figure is highlighted in Part Five when Dean is associated with the extreme-right NDL group because of the way he looks. The anti-fascist protest group’s members recognise Dean, which in their eyes justifies their outpourings of disgust for him. He is a chav, therefore racist. Part Six comes from the evidence that the 2011 England riots were not motivated by ethnicity, but by socio-economic exclusion. Poverty was the main cause of the riots and, to some extent, united low-income groups, regardless of ethnicity. The riots exposed hegemonic systems of white middle- and upper-class dominance, albeit limited and contained by the reiteration of simplistic blame narratives disseminated by media and political elites that posited the rioters as nothing but criminals, therefore avoiding any further analysis into the underlying causes of what can clearly be seen as political protest. It is important to recognise that the novel does not claim omniscient insight or even the authority to accurately represent a white working-class community. However, by using opposing first and third person perspectives (discussed further in Chapter 3) it attempts to undermine and expose dominant groups’ representations of the white working class by juxtaposing expectations of homogenised white working-class lifestyles, with that of an individual actually living one. Thus the novel attempts to expose media and political elites’ construction of the white working-class subject as conveyed through the chav figure, therefore undermining the homogenising process that repetitive and narrow representations work to achieve. The novel, therefore, can be seen as a counter-narrative in its own right. It is not claiming to be representative of the working class, but rather a narrative that rejects the mainstream construction of a marginalised group and instead offers an alternative voice in the public arena. Rather than construction of the white working class being done by those at the top of the hierarchy, the novel attempts to look up the chain of power from the bottom, therefore exposing the foundations on which hegemonic structures stand. The creative component works with and against dominant forms of representation to expose their constructed nature and force a re-analysis of typified portrayals of marginalised groups as propagated by those with access to, and control of, channels of representation, leading public bodies and institutions. As such the novel attempts to refocus academic, political and public attention on the main underlying causes of political disengagement and far-right success, that of socio-economic exclusion; that all groups living in poverty share many similar concerns and the blame narratives constructed by those in power, do nothing but divert attention from the drivers of exclusion and racism. The novel tries to undermine the construction of the chav figure and reclaim individuality, respect and equality for members of the white working class, and, by association, all immigrant and minority ethnic groups living in poverty. Chapter 2 - The construction of (white) working-class identity in narrative literary textsWhen it comes to its distribution, a literary fiction novel will have passed through a number of barriers to access the market. Writers will usually require an agent to represent them to publishing houses, who in turn will market, advertise, print and distribute the book. As discussed in the previous chapter, these institutions are disproportionately controlled by independently educated middle- and upper-class elites. As such, the writers and novels selected for publication are, consciously or unconsciously, drawn from similar socio-cultural background as agents, publishers and, potentially, reviewers, who recognise and relate to the representational codes employed in the novels. In this way, the traditional route to mainstream representation in prose fiction literary novels can systemically exclude those from marginalised groups, a process similar to the way leading public bodies and institutions recruit senior employees. In addition, the few writers from marginalised groups who do gain access to mainstream markets through traditional routes have not been selected by their community, but by the middle- and upper-class elites who control the majority of the publishing industry. Therefore, mainstream literary representations of marginalised groups tend to be filtered through a middle- and upper-class prism rather than being generated directly, and democratically, from within the group itself.For the reasons stated above, this thesis focuses on commercially successful authors whose novels have been distributed by mainstream publishers. Their selection for publication, marketing budget and large potential network for distribution are controlled by the middle and upper classes. As such, the typified representations of (white) working-class characters that mainstream authors conform to are disseminated across the established networks and readerships of the major publishing houses, ultimately feeding back into political and media representations of the (white) working class. It’s important to note, this thesis does not suggest that non-mainstream or alternative authors and publishers are not part of this process, but acknowledges their ability to influence mainstream representational codes is marginal compared to that of the major publishing houses and mainstream writers. However, non-mainstream publishers are more likely to provide their authors a space to challenge mainstream representation and can therefore offer alternatives to middle- and upper-class controlled depictions of ‘other’ groups. One example, discussed later, is Courttia Newland’s Society Within which works to undermine mainstream representations of poor black communities. This thesis, however, is predominantly concerned with writers that have the potential to impact mainstream representation beyond literature, hence the focus on authors distributed by a mainstream publisher. This chapter argues that literature, as opposed to some other forms of narrative representation, has been, and still is, complicit in the marginalisation of the white working class through typified portrayals of white working-class characters and lifestyles, thus feeding back into the cycles of representation and the socio-cultural, financial and political exclusion summarised above and discussed in the previous chapter. Tracing examples of typified depictions of working-class characters from Charles Dickens up to the white working-class characters of more recent writers such as Martin Amis, this chapter will then look at a selection of contemporary novels set in London during the study period and demonstrate how the same tropes of working-class socio-cultural identity, and more specifically white working-class identity, are still used in the construction of working-class and white working-class characters, and how Another London responds and engages with them. This chapter continues by arguing that there is a lack of rounded and developed white working-class characters in British fiction and that contemporary authors continue to rely on typified representations rather than interrogate them, therefore remaining complicit in feedback loops that work to marginalise the white working class, which contributes to the maintenance of the existing socio-economic and political hierarchy. To conclude this chapter, an argument is put forward in support of the creative component. The novel works with and against prevailing representations of the white working class in literature in order to expose the dominant politico-cultural class assumptions about the lifestyles of the white poor, and, to some extent, all groups living in poverty. In doing this, the creative component, it is argued, opens up space in the public arena for both imagined and real individual voices from marginalised groups to be heard. Thus providing more direct access to channels of representation and an interrogation of the blame narratives that are used to maintain these groups’ socio-economic exclusion. In essence, shifting the focus from the excluded to who is doing the excluding with the intention of exposing hidden structures that maintain white middle- and upper-class privilege (Mount, 2004). Whereas the modern realist novel’s origins date back as far as the eighteenth century, both film and popular music are predominantly post-war phenomena. They each gained mainstream popularity in the decade that followed parliamentary acts in education and welfare, as well as the formation of the National Health Service, which delivered working-class families greater access to education, longer life expectancy, shorter working weeks and disposable incomes. As such, the working-class population became mass consumers of film and popular music in a way that they had not been consumers of the literary novel a century earlier. Film and popular music became potential outlets for working-class voices, seen in groups like The Beatles or in movements like the British New Wave, and continued through to contemporary musicians such as Plan B and The Streets and directors such as Ken Loach, Andrea Arnold and Shane Meadows, who all interrogate mainstream representations of the white working class in ways that their literary counterparts do not. As Tew argues, ‘authors may explore a sense of localised community in an increasingly disjointed world, but mostly through a middle-class prism, often with undercurrent hankerings for Bloomsbury’ (Tew, 2007, p89). However, it’s important to note that visual media and popular music are still in the majority control of the elite. This can be seen in current mainstream representations of the ‘chav’ as ‘irrational and/or mindless,…inarticulate or confused’ (Adams and Raisborough, 2011, p84). Television and media programmers ‘dumb down’ their output and then shift the blame to the working-class consumers, criticising who it was made for rather than who made it, using this as a tacit excuse to further restrict working-class access to, and control of, media production (Mount, 2004). What makes film and popular music different to literature is the fact that a large proportion of the market for these products is made up of working-class consumers. This stake in the production/consumption cycle gives rise to indirect influence and the potential for working-class voices to filter through, such as the examples given above. Literature, on the other hand, has remained essentially a middle- and upper-class market, where ‘the centre of the naturalist narrative paradigm is the perspective of the bourgeoisie and its vision of the other (lower) classes’ (Jameson, 2013, p149; See also Jameson, 1988; Carey, 1992; Tew, 2007). As such, access to publication and distribution through traditional channels is restricted for socially excluded groups. Marginalised sections of society, such as the white working class, minority ethnic and immigrant groups, and to some extent women, are underrepresented. Thus, as in mainstream media and politics, representations of excluded groups in literature generally fall within the accepted and typified portrayals expected by the middle- and, to an extent, upper-class dominated readership.It could be argued, given the relatively small proportion of products and consumers that literature contributes to the narrative-based industries, that literature’s power to construct socio-cultural identities and to maintain financial and political hierarchies, is limited. However, this thesis argues that literature’s status as a middle- and upper-class cultural product of the educated allows it to disseminate and recirculate ideological representational structures to the elite, those with access to leading public bodies and institutions, therefore influencing government policy, and mainstream media and political representations of excluded groups. Thus contributing disproportionately, in relation to its market share in narrative-based industries, to feedback loops of representation. By exposing these connections, this thesis aims to highlight, and put forward for scrutiny, the ‘middle-class method of repressing reality…of leaving out, of strategic omissions, lapses, a kind of careful preliminary preparation of the raw material such that certain questions will never arise in the first place’ (Jameson, 1988, pp118-119). In literature’s case, how the construction of character within a novel can feed back into class identity politics, socio-cultural status, financial and political hierarchies. As Adams and Raisborough put it in their study of representations of the ‘chav’ figure in mainstream media, how typified portrayals of white working-class characters are used to hold ‘them in place (physical, imagined, and symbolic) and at a safe distance, whilst simultaneously establishing the morality and social standing of the valorized in group’ (Adams and Raisborough, 2011, p91), i.e. the white middle- and upper-class elite.Fredric Jameson claims that central to this paradigm is the elite’s, conscious and unconscious, fear of losing their socio-cultural status and the economic and political privileges associated with it. This anxiety of decline manifests itself in depictions of working-class lifestyles and the misery that accompanies them (Webster, 2008; Jameson, 2013). These portrayals of working-class characters and environments are more specifically reflections of a continuing identity crisis in the author’s own class. By adhering to mainstream media and political representations of the white working class as being violent, racist and culturally inferior, middle- and upper-class writers assume the opposite position of their own class existence, as nonviolent, anti-racist and culturally superior (Tew, 2007). In The Political Unconscious, Jameson posits what could either be seen as the root cause or logical conclusion of this phenomenon: Whoever is different constitutes a threat and is therefore evil, yet ‘the essential point to be made is not so much that [they are] feared because [they are] evil; rather [they are] evil because [they are] Other, alien, different, strange, unclean, and unfamiliar’ (Jameson, 2010, p101, original italics). By highlighting the underlying motivations for an author’s narrative choices when representing other, oppositional groups, Jameson suggests that any given literary text cannot be viewed as independent and autonomous in itself, but rather as being ‘rewritten’ as part of a set of traditional interpretative functions during the process of its reading (Jameson, 2010). As suggested above, literature is primarily a cultural output of the white middle- and upper-class educated elite and is predominantly consumed by those who share the same socio-cultural identity. Therefore, as it is the same group that writes and rewrites through interpretation, literature becomes a process of reasserting the primacy of one hegemonic class. As Jameson puts it, ‘the aesthetic act is itself ideological, and the production of aesthetic or narrative form is to be seen as an ideological act in its own right’ (Jameson, 2010, p64). In this way, literature can be seen as complicit in upholding hierarchical socio-cultural structures that maintain financial and political privilege for the middle and upper classes, justified by the apparent degeneracy of the working class who cannot be trusted with power due to their socio-cultural and intellectual inadequacies. As discussed above, literature has a disproportionate influence on the way in which the elite make assumptions and judgments about working-class lifestyles. A further reason for this is the concept of literary realism, which claims that representation is achievable though mimesis. This assertion, perpetuated by the producers and consumers of narrative prose fiction, works to construct the sense of a shared system of belief or common-sense (Jameson, 1988). In the case of this thesis, that shared system of belief includes the premise that it is morally justified to exclude the white working class from positions in leading public bodies and institutions because of their immoral and culturally deficient lifestyle choices. However, as Jameson argues, realism is nothing more than a set of traditional and pervasive codes that work to mask the underlying hegemonic class structures that permeate literature (Wood, 2009). Therefore, claims of accurate or authentic representation can be viewed as artifice rather than real or true. This conclusion forces a re-evaluation of the act of narration in the realist novel, specifically free indirect discourse. The writer claims, consciously or unconsciously, to have access to the thoughts of the character, the ‘truth’ of their essence. When this character is a member of a marginalised ‘other’ group, such as the white working class, the claims of realism as representative feeds into the writing and rewriting through interpretation process, whereby the middle- and upper-class producers and consumers of literature, consciously or unconsciously, reaffirm their shared sense of belief in their own lifestyle choices as being normal and desirable by projecting the opposite and inferior cultural behaviour patterns onto the character in question. By assuming the writer possesses objective knowledge of the subject when accessing the ‘truth’ of their white working-class characters, white middle- and upper-class readers reaffirm their own class identity through comparison, which confirms their shared knowledge of the cultural inferiority of the white working class. Which ultimately reinforces their underlying, if not apparent, belief in socio-economic inequality. It is this process that writer and director Pier Paolo Pasolini criticised as being essentially class-based when developing his own theory of free indirect discourse. The most odious and intolerable thing, even in the most innocent bourgeois, is that of not knowing how to recognize life experiences other than his own: and of bringing all other life experiences back to a substantial analogy with his own. It is a real offense that he gives to other men in different social and historical conditions. Even a noble, elevated bourgeois writer, who doesn’t know how to recognize the extreme characteristics of psychological diversity of a man whose life experiences differ from his, and who, on the contrary, believes that he can make them his by seeking subtle analogies – almost as if experiences other than his own weren’t conceivable – performs an act that is the first step toward certain manifestations of the defense of his privileges and even towards racism (Pasolini cited in Jameson, 2013, p178).Not only is this process of ventriloquising an ideological action that reinforces the author’s own class’s socio-cultural status by implicitly denigrating characters and lifestyle choices from the ‘other’, lower classes, it also works to deny those other classes a voice in the public arena, the right to reply, or even the ability to speak. In this way, literature works to create and maintain what Gayatri Spivak (and Morris, 2010) calls the subaltern; those subordinate groups that are excluded from access to representation in areas of public discourse, including literature, which limits their ability to express themselves in the public arena (Bentley, 2008). As such, literature is complicit in its contribution to the feedback loops that maintain hegemonic socio-cultural, economic and political structures that privilege the white middle- and upper-class elites. It should be noted here that the creative component of this thesis uses both first person and free indirect discourse in conjunction with distant third person techniques in an attempt to expose and interrogate the process highlighted by Pasolini above. There will be further discussion on this narrative technique in Chapter Three. As argued above, realist literature has deployed a number of signifiers, such as violence, racism and cultural inferiority, in the creation of working-class characters, lifestyles and environments. The contemporary white working-class cultural identity, as discussed above and in the previous chapter, is constructed in mainstream media and politics through the same set of signifiers, which Webster claims are often associated with specific locations such as inner-city urban areas and estates (Webster, 2008). Both historically and, up to and including, the study period, novelists have reproduced these signifiers, as well as using free indirect discourse, to suggest ‘true’ working-class voices, in order to construct blame narratives that posit marginalised groups, such as the white working class, as the cause of their socio-economic and political exclusion. One possible way to trace examples of this process in British fiction is to identify recurring ideologemes, what Fredric Jameson describes as ‘the smallest intelligible unit of the essentially antagonistic collective discourses of social classes’ (Jameson, 2010, p61). Ideologemes work as both a conceptual construction and as a narrative sign, a duality that incorporates concepts such as beliefs and opinions as well as minimal units of socially symbolic narrative acts (Jameson, 2010). As such, they can be seen as the inherited units of representation upon which the process of writing and rewriting through interpretation bases its narrative construction. As Jameson puts it, ‘by their respective positions in the whole complex sequence of the modes of production, both the individual text and its ideologemes know a final transformation, and must be read in terms of…the ideology of form, that is, the symbolic messages transmitted…by the coexistence of various sign systems which are themselves traces or anticipations of modes of production’ (Jameson, 2010, p61).By identifying recurring ideologemes, the marginalisation of the lower classes in literature through conscious or unconscious typifications of character, lifestyle and environment can be traced from the present day back through to at least the nineteenth century (Mount, 2004). This chapter continues by selecting some key examples of recurring ideologemes of lower-class representation, starting with Charles Dickens (1812-1870) as one of the most prominent London based novelists to construct, interpret and portray working-class identities.In a similar way to the stigmatisation of the white working class now, the Victorian working class that had emerged from the industrial revolution, were viewed as barriers to modernisation as a result of their physical and cultural degeneracy, attributes that were often associated with lower-income districts or slums (Webster, 2008; See also Chapter One). Many of Dickens’ novels contain descriptions of fictional lower-income districts such as this one taken from A Christmas Carol:The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; and people half naked, drunken, slipshod and ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, and filth, and misery (Dickens, 1858, p77). Dickens embeds the lower-class population’s behaviours and lifestyles into the imagined squalor of their surroundings, intertwining the dilapidation of the slum with the culture and morality of its inhabitants, without any interrogation of how or why this group of people came to be living in such conditions. Instead of examining the socio-economic inequalities that could have contributed to these scenes, Dickens assumes the inevitability of working-class cultural and moral inadequacy, something self-fulfilling and self-perpetuating, essentially characterised as beyond redemption or help, rather than as a result of the socio-cultural and economic exclusion that was done to them by the ruling elites of the period (Orwell, 1968; Webster, 2008). This extract above, as with many other of Dicken’s descriptions of lower-class slums and characters, feeds back into the middle- and upper-classes’ fear of loss of hegemony, the fear of slipping into poverty and the rise of the working-class (Jameson, 2013). George Orwell’s analysis of David Copperfield emphasises just this; whereas the gifted, culturally and morally superior protagonist is able to escape his fate as a child labourer, the other lower-class boys are condemned to it. Of which, Orwell suggests Dickens has no qualms about: ‘Dickens is right in saying that a gifted child ought not to work ten hours a day pasting labels on bottles, but what he does not say is that no child ought to be condemned to such a fate, and there is no reason for inferring that he thinks it’ (Orwell, 1968, p419). The underlying assertion being that the majority ‘ordinary’ poor cannot and should not be redeemed. In other words, they should stay in their place as they do not have the moral, cultural or intellectual capacity to rise into the ranks of the middle classes. This ideologeme can be traced through to another later Victorian novelist, George Gissing (1857-1903), who oscillates ‘between an implacable denunciation of the reformist-philanthropists and an equally single-minded indictment of the "poor" who cannot…be rescued or elevated’ (Jameson, 2010, p180). John Carey, in The Intellectual and the Masses, summarises Gissing’s approach as condemning the working-class for their lack of imagination and intellect, but at the same time arguing that they could not, or should not be given the opportunity to, elevate themselves through education, even though he was committed to the idea that literature and poetry were capable of doing just that (Carey, 1992). Specifically, it is the concept of unassailable vulgarity that Gissing repeatedly includes in his working-class characters and environments. Like Dickens, there are many such examples in his novels, one of the most obvious coming from the description of the slum market and its inhabitants in the opening chapter of Workers in the Dawn published in 1880. What marks this section out is that Gissing is describing a real place, Whitecross Street in East London. Unlike Dickens’s imagined locations, Gissing firmly places the assumed middle- and upper-class reader in a real context, purposely working to confirm the educated elite’s expectations of slum-life as well as cementing the connection between his imagined characters and the real-life inhabitants of low-income districts such as Whitecross Street. In each of the extracts from Workers in the Dawn below we see repeated and expanded the very same ideologemes present in the extract from A Christmas Carol (all excerpts from Gissing, 1880): The fronts of the houses…have a decayed, filthy, often an evil, look (p2).Here, the dilapidation of the environment is set up as a mirror to be interwoven with the moral and cultural inferiority of the inhabitants and their lifestyle choices, as reinforced by the extract below.See how the foolish artisan's wife…lays down a little heap of shillings in return for a lump, half gristle, half bone, of questionable meat -- ignorant that with half the money she might buy four times the quantity of far more healthy and sustaining food (p3).The artisan’s wife symbolises the irresponsible consumption habits of the poor. Whereas in the following extract, Gissing goes on to include dialect and ways of speaking as a signifier of poverty.A vender of second-hand umbrellas…yells out a stream of talk amazing in its mixture of rude wit, coarse humour, and voluble impudence. "Here's a humbereller!" he cries, "Look at this 'ere; now do! Fit for the Jewk o' York, the Jewk of Cork, or any other member of the no--bility. As fo my own grace, I hassure yer, I never uses any other! Come, who says 'alf-a-crownd for this? -- No? --Why, then, two bob -- one an'-a-tanner -- a bob! Gone, and damned cheap too!" (pp4-5).The vendor attempts at ‘proper’ diction leave him a figure of ridicule for Gissing and his educated readers.[In the gin-palaces]…there are half-a-dozen young men and women, all half drunk, mauling each other with vile caresses; and all the time, from the lips of the youngest and the oldest, foams forth such a torrent of inanity, abomination, and horrible blasphemy which bespeaks the very depth of human -- aye, or of bestial – degradation (p6).The alcoholic, sexually promiscuous, irreligious and, by implication, immoral customers of the gin-palace are all signifiers of cultural degeneracy and fecklessness. It must be confessed that the majority do not seem unhappy; they jest with each other amid their squalor…And the very fact that they are unconscious of their degradation afflicts one with all the keener pity. We suffer them to become brutes in our midst, and inhabit dens which clean animals would shun, to derive their joys from sources from which a cultivated mind shrinks as from a pestilential vapour (pp8-9).All of which, as the final extract demonstrates, are portrayed by Gissing as being inevitably part of their social-cultural environment; not only do they choose to be here, they like it. The cultural degeneracy of the working poor is therefore constructed by Gissing as self-imposed and self-perpetuating. There is no hope of redemption in Gissing’s eyes, and neither should there be any attempt to help them achieve it. Thus, the lower classes are identified as being ‘other’, or, as another of Gissing’s characters, Richard Mutimer in Demos, notes, ‘The rich and the poor are two different races’ (Gissing, 1892, p97). For Gissing, as for Dickens, the classes are arranged according to a naturally occurring hierarchy (Vlitos, 2011), whereby the ruling class’s cultural identity is reaffirmed as normal, desirable and superior. Therefore, reinforcing the underlying belief that economic and political inequalities are justified.Gissing’s fear of poverty and disdain for the working class is echoed in many of the modernist writers who followed him in the early twentieth century, specifically the belief that education could not redeem the poor or raise them out of their vulgar lower-class patterns of behaviour and lifestyles (For further discussion and examples see Carey, 1992; Mount, 2004). One key example from this period can be found in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway (1925) in the way she describes Mrs Dalloway’s daughter’s tutor, Doris Kilman. Despite her working-class background and poverty, Kilman has managed to pass a degree and remain independent. Indeed, given the time the book is set, Doris Kilman seems much less a barrier to modernisation, than a driver of feminine modernity. Yet, Woolf depicts her as ‘a monster of spite, envy and unfulfilled desire,…plain’ (Carey, 1992, p19), criticising ‘how she dressed…so insensitive was she, dressed in a green mackintosh coat. Year in year out she wore that coat; she perspired’ (Woolf, 2008). Woolf implicitly ridicules her socio-cultural background, lifestyle choices and, more importantly, her aspirations to improve herself through education. Woolf makes it clear that all Kilman’s attempts to raise herself out of the slums have been fruitless. She has learnt to play the violin, but it always sounds awful. She has education, but lacks the intellectual capacity to question religion. Woolf feeds back into the recurring ideologemes of Dickens and Gissing by separating her own class and that of Doris Kilman’s, placing them in opposition (Carey, 1992). Woolf reaffirms that both she and Mrs Dalloway are everything someone from Kilman’s low socio-cultural status can never be. Thus reinforcing the idea that socio-cultural status is part of the natural order, which feeds back into the underlying belief in economic and political inequality between the classes. Philip Tew argues that even in purportedly socialist writers of the mid-twentieth century there can also be seen a conscious or unconscious embedding of working-class stereotypes, as described in the ideologemes discussed above. In the major post-war novels, socio-cultural identities of characters are overwhelmingly constructed from a middle-class perspective, where ‘human personality…seems too often simply a series of middle-class co-ordinates’ (Tew, 2007, p54). This implies a normal and desirable central position from which all other identities can be judged and repressed, creating the impression that only one ‘correct’ cultural pattern of behaviour and lifestyles exists (Jameson, 2010). For example, Tew highlights Iris Murdoch as a writer unable to interrogate the assumption of a natural class hierarchy. She ‘is stuck in a world projecting a sense of contemporary crisis, but one where the intellectual and political class remain secure in their superior vision of the world’ (Tew, 2007, p55). Her exclusion of working-class culture from her writing works to exclude lower-income groups from society as a whole, almost to the extent that she refutes their very right to existence, in order to reaffirm socio-cultural and economic hegemony and middle- and upper-class privilege (Tew, 2007).As with Murdoch, the sense of contemporary crisis, a cultural decline into degradation and banality, assumed by many twentieth century writers, is suffused with blame narratives that posit the lower-classes and their flawed patterns of mass consumption as cause and effect of this phenomenon, whilst, through the ideological act of narrative production, holding their own classed existence up as the potential solution (Tew, 2007; Jameson, 2010). As discussed above, where the Victorian ruling classes accused the working class of being barriers to modernisation, towards the end of the twentieth century these blame narratives shifted to the white working class as drivers of cultural decline (See Chapter One for further discussion). As it was for Victorian writers and elites, this is articulated in a ‘“chain of signifiers”: familial disorder and dysfunction, dangerous masculinities,…antisocial behaviour, moral decay and quick to resort to criminality’ as well as ‘backwardness, degeneracy, over-fecundity, fecklessness’ (Webster, 2008, p307; p302). As seen in realism, modernism and the post-war writers, this trend, and the ideologemes associated with it, continued through into the work of more recent writers. One key example would be the white working-class character, Keith Talent, from Martin Amis’s London Fields, who embodies all the signifiers mentioned above. This is how Nick Bentley describes Keith Talent in his book Contemporary British Fiction: ‘Keith is of limited intelligence and his cultural pursuits revolve around darts, football, pornography and TV. He is a violent petty criminal who preys on the weak and the vulnerable, mainly because he ‘failed’ to be ruthless enough to get into serious violent crime. He is a racist and abuses women’ (Bentley, 2008, p38). Taking examples from London Fields it is possible to trace direct parallels between Amis’s working-class characterisation and that of Gissing’s discussed above (All excerpts taken from Amis, 1989):We parked under the shadow of the craning block — which sparked and flickered like ten thousand TV sets stacked up into the night. Keith hurried. He summoned the elevator but to his silent agony the elevator was dead or elsewhere. We climbed the eleven floors, passing a litter of sick junkies sprawled out on the stairs in grumbling sleep (p102).The dilapidated environment in the first extract is interwoven with Keith’s character and appearance, highlighted again in the extract immediately below. Then [Nicola] swivelled and inspected him, from arid crown to Cuban heels, as he cast his scavenging blue eyes around the room: Keith, stripped of all charisma from pub and street. It wasn't the posture, the scrawniness of the shanks and backside, the unpleasant body scent (he smelled as if he had just eaten a mustard-coated camel), the drunken scoop of his gaze - unappealing though these features certainly were. Just that Nicola saw at once with a shock (I knew it all along, she said to herself) that the capacity for love was extinct in him. It was never there (p72).It’s also worth noting here that both the descriptions above are from the perspective of middle-class characters, Samson Young and Nicola Six, an awareness shared by the upper-class Guy Flinch, but never with the white working-class Keith. Keith is never privy to self-awareness in the way the other middle- and upper-class characters are, a point to be discussed in more detail later. I wish to Christ I could do Keith's voice. The t's are viciously stressed. A brief guttural pop, like the first nanosecond of a cough or a hawk, accompanies the hard k. When he says chaotic, and he says it frequently, it sounds like a death rattle. 'Month' comes out as mumf. He sometimes says, 'Im feory . . .' when he speaks theoretically. 'There' sounds like dare or lair. You could often run away with the impression that Keith Talent is eighteen months old (p26).As with the vendor in the Gissing extracts, Keith is ridiculed for his diction and inability to speak ‘properly’. Amis expands this mockery of ‘improper’ speech by ridiculing Keith’s lack of education, demonstrated in the extract below where Keith’s inability to spell or construct ‘correct’ sentences is ridiculed, by both Amis and the educated middle-class character of Samson. The Keith Talent Story [was where] Keith logged his intimate thoughts, most (but not all) of them darts-related. For example: You cuold have a house so big you could have sevral dart board areas in it, not just won. With a little light on top. Or: Got to practice the finishing, got to. Go round the baord religiously. You can have all the power in the world but its no good if you can not finish. Or: Tedn Tendnen Keep drifting to the left on the third dart, all them fuckign treble fives (p177).Amis follows the patterns set by Dickens and Gissing, never interrogating the reasons why Keith is like he is or ever suggesting that he could, or should, be given the opportunity, through education or any other means, to raise himself out of his socio-cultural status.His lunch consisted of Chicken Pilaff and four Bramley Apple Pies. His tabloid consisted of kiss and tell, and then more kiss and tell, and then more kiss and more tell. Aliens Stole My Boobs. Marilyn Monroe And Jack Kennedy Still Share Nights of Passion: In Atlantis. My Love Muscles Tightened From Beyond The Grave (p104). In Workers in the Dawn the artisan’s wife is shown to be irresponsible in her consumption patterns. As demonstrated in the extract above, Amis does the same with Keith Talent’s food choices, but expands this into the world of mindless mass media consumption. The blame for this contemporary crisis of banality rests solely on Keith the consumer. Amis never once analyses the role of the producer in the consumption/production cycle of mass media, which as demonstrated in the previous two chapters, is in the majority control of the white middle- and upper-classes, not in the hands of low-income groups.The peculiar difficulty with girls experienced by…Keith was [he] raped them. Or [he] used to. The main reason [he] didn't do it any longer was that rape, in judicial terms (and in Keith's words), was no fucking joke: you just couldn't ever come out a winner, not with this DNA nonsense. The great days were gone…Of course, Keith's rapes were to be viewed quite distinctly from those numerous occasions when, in his youth, he had been obliged to slap into line various cockteasers and icebergs (and lesbians and godbotherers). Rape was different. Rape was much more like all the other occasions…when he had candidly used main force to achieve intercourse (p168).Finally, we have the construction of Keith as dangerously, and uncontrollably, sexually promiscuous, as opposed to Nicola’s empowering, and controlled, sexuality. Whereas Keith’s libido is interwoven with violence and aggression, Nicola’s is interconnected with liberation, empowerment and pleasure. The implication being that Nicola understands and uses sex, where Keith blindly consumes it. Keith’s sexual immorality is clearly highlighted by his propensity to rape women, shown in the extract above. Amis takes this to its furthest extreme in depicting Keith’s sexual exploitation of an underage girl, demonstrated in the extract below. And Debbee? Little Debbee? Well, Debbee was special. Dark, rounded, pouting, everything circular, ovoid, Debbee was 'special'. Debbee was special because Keith had been sleeping with her since she was twelve years old (p51).As can be seen, the underlying ideologemes in Gissing and the novels of Charles Dickens have gone on to be embedded, and expanded, in the work of Amis. The charges of ‘typification’ and stereotyping levelled at Amis are usually countered with the claim that he is using irony to expose and question such stereotypes across society as a whole. One such argument is put forward by Nick Bentley: ‘All of Keith’s negative attributes can be identified in society (and more significantly within what is constructed as working-class culture by certain sections of the middle classes), however, Amis is…alerting the reader to the implications of uncritically accepting these stereotypes’ (Bentley, 2008, p39). However, if we take Jameson’s argument from The Political Unconscious as detailed above, then the reading of Amis’s work must go further than Bentley’s use of irony as a defence. Instead the analysis must consider the ideologemes that are embedded into his novels and how they function in the process of writing and rewriting through interpretation, how London Fields as narrative production is a socially symbolic act (Jameson, 2010). As mentioned above, Keith is never self-aware, never conscious of his failings or the low socio-cultural status he embodies, which is in direct contrast to the three other major characters, Samson, Nicola and Guy. Each of these are well educated and drawn from the middle and upper classes. They have their own failings and they each attempt to manipulate the other characters for their own ends, yet they are all given a level of self-awareness and perception that Amis denies the only major working-class character. Nicola, Samson and Guy are all conscious of their socio-cultural status and thus distinctly aware that Keith’s is lower. Underpinning all this is Amis’s suggestion that only those with education and self-awareness have the ability for self-expression, a vital component, implied by Amis, for being able to truly experience life. This concept parallels closely with Gissing’s own assertion that only through education, specifically knowledge of literature and poetry, can one feel the profundity of life (Carey, 1992). Insinuated by both Gissing and Amis is the idea that those without adequate education, most often found in the poorest groups in society, cannot understand or appreciate life. They stop just short of the logical next step; that these people do not deserve life.Underlying Dickens, Gissing and Amis is the suggestion that the lower classes are unaware of their degradation, of their vulgar behaviours and lifestyles, but more importantly is that they have no desire to live any differently. They are the self-perpetuating cause of their socio-cultural status and economic and political exclusion. Amis, consciously or unconsciously, constructs the middle and upper classes as the only classes that can recognise, understand and interpret the contemporary crisis of society. In effect, the class of the writer and implicitly the assumed class of the reader. As Tew succinctly puts it: Authors may explore a sense of localised community in an increasingly disjointed world, but mostly through a middle-class prism…Nevertheless, rather than being subsumed by the crisis of an increasingly complex culture, the characters and narrators in a range of contemporary writers…very specifically interrogate the crises of identity of their own class, its enculturation and the species of peculiarity liminal urban ontological existence that they at least imagine that they particularly have to endure (Tew, 2007, p89). The typified construction of working-class characters - their vulgar patterns of behaviour and speech, their irresponsible consumption choices, their immorality and violence, their lack of intellect, their complacency about living in dilapidated environments, their lack of self-awareness, their self-perpetuating cultural degeneracy – are clearly present in the repeated ideologemes that have been identified from Dickens through to Amis. Feedback loops of representation have created stereotyped working-class literary content that has recurred from as early as the Victorian era to the present day. The cause of which, it could be argued, is derived ‘from a psycho-emotional imperative to fix other bodies into social and moral hierarchies; [to hold] them in place (physical, imagined, and symbolic) and at a safe distance, whilst simultaneously establishing the morality and social standing of the valorized ingroup’ (Adams and Raisborough, 2011, p91). In doing so, reinforcing the underlying belief that socio-cultural status as defined by class is a naturally ordained hierarchy, which feeds into the justification for limiting access to economic and political power for working-class groups.Turning to contemporary British fiction, particularly work published and set during the study period, on the surface there seems to be a shift away from novels that deal with class identity. Instead, the politics of race, gender and sexual identity have become more prominent subjects (Bentley, 2007; Jameson, 2012; Lott, 2015). When class is addressed it appears, as discussed in the previous chapter, to be conflated with that of ethnicity, where working class is often seen to mean white working class (Lott, 2015). The urban, inner-city, estate-dwelling, white working-class subject has become, at least in part, racially constructed (Byrne, 2006). The key point being that the whiteness in question is connected only to socially excluded, poor and deprived whites, whereas the white middle and upper classes maintain an invisible or implicit whiteness (Webster, 2008; Rogaly, 2011; See Chapter 1 for further discussion). As such, the ideologemes of lower-class representation traced through the examples above have also been conflated with that of ethnicity. White working-class characters are still created in terms of their geographic connection to spatialised poverty, most often inner-city estates, where their inferior and immoral lifestyles are interwoven with urban decay, and are constructed as the self-generated and perpetuated cause and effect of their socio-economic exclusion (Webster, 2008). Yet, now the white working-class are also portrayed as the main proponents of racism (Webster, 2008; Lott, 2015). To see this process in action, below is a selection of key examples from contemporary writers that include either the ideologemes of Dickens et al or the conflation of these with the added ideologeme of the inherently racist, lower-class, urban white. The housing estates looked like makeshift prison camps; dogs ran around; rubbish blew about; there was graffiti…The shops sold only inadequate and badly made clothes. Everything looked cheap and shabby (From The Buddha of Suburbia, Kureishi, 2009, pp223-224). As she steps from the bus the estate unfolds before her like a dark shadow, a vast landscape of council flats, barking dogs and worn-out grass. Filth is strewn everywhere, and a group of kids are playing what seems to be an organised game of football using a tin can instead of a ball. She walks past Bojangles, which she can see is a former Catholic church that has now become the estate disco, and then she passes the cracked and peeling outdoor swimming pool, which looks as though it has never seen water. Pretoria Drive leads to Pretoria Mansions, and she climbs the stinking urine-stained circular staircase to the third floor (From A Distant Shore, Phillips, 2004, pp264-265).In these first two extracts we can identify the same ideologemes that work to interweave spatialised poverty with the lower classes. The urban and moral decay of the working-class districts reflects that of the slums from earlier Victorian writers. They are dirty, uncared for by the residents, who, as a signifier of out-of-control bodies, even use the buildings as toilets. The motif of the feral dog highlights a lack of order or control. The closed church a signifier of an irreligious, and potentially immoral, local population. Poor consumption patterns are emphasised in the description of the unsuitable local shops, and more acutely in the implication of wasted money on alcohol and gambling, whilst poor diet choices are conflated with inadequate parenting skills. Each extract carries the signifiers of working-class patterns of behaviour and lifestyles and exhibit, embedded within them, the ideologemes identified in the previous section. In each of the novels the extracts are taken from, the writer has omitted any interrogation of the housing and environmental conditions of lower-income groups. There is no discussion on how or why the inhabitants live there, what economic or political factors that could have contributed to the assumed urban decay, or even if these estates are representative of all inner-city estates. As such, each extract carries the assumption that they are providing an accurate and normative representation of lower-income districts and their inhabitants. This supports the underlying assumption of a natural socio-cultural hierarchy and the implicit justification of economic and political exclusion. Another London responds by first allowing the reader to observe the condition of the Eldon estate and accepting the dilapidated nature of low-income districts, as seen in this extract from the opening of the novel: His eyes followed the tarmac access roads that ran right angles between the rectangular concrete buildings and found the barren grass patch next to the overflowing bins. It was littered in takeaway wrappers, empty cans and bottles, and rolled up cigarette butts…Holding his breath past the damp corners, he raced down through the building three steps at a time (Crewe, 2016, p1-2).In contrast to Phillips and Kureishi, the opening chapter of the novel continues to describe the estate through Dean’s eyes, where he unconsciously acknowledges the external factors – lack of investment and neglected duties by local government – that have contributed to the condition of the area, thereby recognising that the low-standards of living in low-income districts are not the sole choice or responsibility of their residents. This is demonstrated in the two extracts from the creative component below: Everyone leaves their boxes and black bags on the floor. They try and put them in the bin, but there isn’t any space so they just put it next to it (Crewe, 2016, p5).I climb through the U shape crack in the wall…There aren’t any lights and it’s pitch black. Mum said there used to be a park here, but they knocked it down to build another block. But there isn’t one. It’s just piles of rubbish and bricks and metal (Crewe, 2016, p55).Another London uses typified descriptions of low-income areas, but undermines the blame narratives that position the working-class inhabitants as solely responsible. Instead it works to expose how politicians, those with the authority and power to change things at local and national levels, are also partly the cause of the problems associated with low-income areas. In the extracts below, the typified portrayals of the working class are conflated with that of ethnicity in the construction of a white working class and white working-class characters. The first extract is taken from Monica Ali’s Brick Lane, first published in 2003. The book tells the story of a Bangladeshi woman’s life in London after coming to England to live with her husband. This extract is taken from the protagonist, Nazneem’s, early experiences of living on an east London council estate:The tattoo lady had no curtains at all. Morning and afternoon she sat with her big thighs spilling over the sides of her chair, tipping forward to drop ash in a bowl, tipping back to slug from her can. She drank now, and tossed the can out of the window…She scratched her arms, her shoulders, the accessible portions of her buttocks. She yawned and lit a cigarette. At least two thirds of the flesh on show was covered in ink…The [designs] were ugly and made the tattoo lady more ugly than necessary, but the tattoo lady clearly did not care. Every time Nazneem saw her she wore the same look of boredom and detachment (From Brick Lane, Ali, 2007, p17-18).Ali’s tattoo lady embodies the signifiers of lower-class lifestyles; poor consumption habits, excessive alcohol and nicotine abuse, overweight, badly dressed, ugly, lazy, and indifferent to it all. What sets this passage apart from the earlier extracts is the very visible contrast between the tattoo lady and the protagonist from Brick Lane, Nazneem; the attractive, curious, appearance-conscious, Bangladeshi immigrant, whose own henna tattoos are portrayed as an enhancement of her beauty. Implicit in this juxtaposition is the encoding of ethnicity onto white working-class patterns of behaviour and lifestyles. This early scene foregrounds the conflict between the Bangladeshi community’s ‘Bengal Tigers’ and the white working-class ‘Lion Hearts’ that appears later in the book. The latter are set up as demanding their right to use the community centre for pornography, drinking and gambling, whereas the former are purely in opposition to this, making more reasonable demands; no pornography, no drinking and no gambling. The white working-class community is represented through the ideologemes identified above, yet this time constructed as being in opposition to minority ethnic and immigrant groups, implicitly embedding racism in their cultural identity. This conflation of working-class identities with white working-class racism can be seen in many other examples taken from contemporary British fiction. The first of these returns to A Distant Shore,Feroza was aware that her husband could no longer stomach the disrespectful confusion of running a restaurant. The sight of fat-bellied Englishmen and their slatterns rolling into The Khyber Pass after the pubs had closed, calling him Ranjit or Baboo or Swamp Boy, and using poppadoms as Frisbees, and demanding lager, and vomiting in his sinks, and threatening him with his own knives and their beery breath, and bellowing for mini-cabs and food that they were too drunk to see had already arrived on the table in front of them, was causing Mahmood to turn prematurely grey (From A Distant Shore, Phillips, 2004, p202).In the extract above, racism is interwoven with poor consumption habits and excessive alcohol consumption, combined with violence and aggression. The extracts below further cement the inclusion of racism into the ideologemes that construct white working-class characters and culture:The area in which Jamila lived was closer to London than our suburbs, and far poorer. It was full of neo-fascist groups. Thugs who had their own pubs and clubs and shops. On Saturdays they’d be out in the High Street selling their newspapers and pamphlets. They also operated outside the schools and colleges and football grounds, like Milwall and Crystal Palace. At night they roamed the streets, beating Asians and shoving shit and burning rags through their letter-boxes. Frequently the mean, white, hating faces had public meetings and the Union Jacks were paraded through the streets…The lives of Anwar and Jeeta and Jamila were pervaded by fear of violence. I’m sure it was something they thought about every day. Jeeta kept buckets of water around her bed in case the shop was fire-bombed in the night. Many of Jamila’s attitudes were inspired by the possibility that a white group might kill one of us one day (From The Buddha of Suburbia, Kureishi, 2009, p56).The extract above combines the Dickens et al ideologeme of intertwining low-income locations with their inhabitants’ cultural inferiority, violence and immorality, with the notion of the intrinsic and organised racism of the white working class. Kureishi constructs violent racism as a symptom of cultural inferiority and conflates it with both poverty and white ethnicity. In response to the above, Another London uses the gang from Addington, in particular its leader Phillip Harris, as an example of the intrinsic racism that can be present in white working-class communities. A clear illustration for this is the scene where Dean asks Phillip Harris for a job:‘Fucking shit hole, innit?’ …I follow his eyes and see the courtyard. It looks the same as mine. They all look the same to me… ‘Why’d anyone wanna live here? It’s full of scum. Pakis and fucking niggers everywhere.’…‘If I could, I’d skin every black fucker alive and set ‘em alight.’…‘I’d blow their arms and legs off and tell ‘em to swim back where they came from.’… ‘Dean.’…‘Don’t forget you’re white.’ Fucking hell, I get it. He’s scared (Crewe, 2016, p100-101).Whereas the extracts from Ali et al above indicate an intrinsic, irrational racism presented with little-to-no investigation as to why these opinions are held, Another London attempts to engage with the causes, whether justified or not, for the attitudes of characters such as Phillip Harris. The following extract taken from later in novel highlights the complex interplay between racism, social protest, legitimate concerns and perceived unfair treatment from those in power. During a chance encounter with Dean, Phillip Harris, the founder of the NDL, explains his position:‘It don’t surprise me. When was the last time you heard of a white family getting a house round here?’…‘Everything’s going to the Muslims. Every last flat. Even the blacks are getting squeezed nowadays.’…‘You want to know why? ‘Cos the blokes at the top don’t really want them, do they?’…‘The rich people at the top let Muslims in because they want to pretend they’re sorry for all the stuff they did hundreds of years ago. But they don’t have to deal with them. They shove all the immigrants here and it’s honest white people like us who lose our rights as a result.’…‘And that’s it. They’re left here and forgotten by the Government. They all bunch together and don’t even try to join in with British culture. They don’t bother learning English, they just speak in paki to each other. You hear it on the bus and in the shops. It’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel like you’re in England anymore.’…‘But what gets me most is this Sharia law they want. It’s barbaric. All eye for an eye.’…‘For example. If they catch you stealing something, they’ll cut off your hand. Or if you blaspheme, they’ll rip out your tongue.’…‘If a woman gets raped, guess what, they blame her and stone her to death. You understand what I’m saying? You can rape up a woman and she’ll be the one who gets punished. You know what I’m saying? They’ll smash her to death with rocks with their own bare hands.’…‘Where’s the justice in that. It’s not a law. It’s evil. There ain’t a place in Britain for that’ (Crewe, 2016, p200-202).The hypocrisy of middle- and upper-class blame narratives of innate racism amongst the white working class is exposed by Phillip Harris in this nuanced instruction to Dean about selling drugs to the white middle- and upper-class residents of the gentrified Brickworks: He shouldn’t worry about the posh cunts from the Brickworks,…they were scared shitless of people from the estates…What’s more, they’d keep coming back, begging to buy more drugs from us, because what they were really, really terrified of doing, was going to the blacks for them (Crewe, 2016, p104-105).Another London works to use and expose the ideologemes that conflate white poverty with that of innate, irrational racism and in doing so undermine the blame narratives that work to construct the white working class as the drivers of racism in Britain. This is clearly illustrated by the motif of white working-class characters, such as Dean and Georgina, recognising the contradictory arguments put forward by mainstream political and media elites when it comes to dealing with poverty, multiculturalism and racism. And the talking heads on telly were no better. In one sentence they’d say we’re all equal, slag off the BFP and demand that we must respect everyone’s culture and religion. Then in the next breath, they’d go on about how headscarves should be banned and we should stop letting anyone with a different opinion in the country. No wonder the Muslim fuckers got it bad (Crewe, 2016, p168).It made her sick to be deemed scum by the likes of the tabloid press, who’d chastise the white estate folks for concerns over Muslims and then run an article on the terrorist cell threat developing in every mosque in Britain (Crewe, 2016, p184).Not only does Another London respond to contemporary literary portrayals of the white working class by exposing the embedded ideologemes in mainstream prose fiction, it also attempts to undermine the media and political blame narratives that work to uphold the elite’s assumed anti-racism – as well as their assumed ‘normal’ and ‘desirable’ lifestyles – by representing the white working class as being the drivers of racism and racist policies. The construction of the white working-class identity as a set of signifiers can be seen in this extract from Caryl Phillips’ A Distant Shore: Up ahead I see a group of four boys walking towards me. For a moment I consider turning about-face, but I do not wish to turn my back on them for I know they do not desire to use me well. It is better that I can see them. After all, I recognise them. They are strangely almost hairless, with egg-shaped heads and blue tattoos on their bare arms. They all wear polished boots, which suggests a uniform of some kind, but the rest of their clothes are ill-matched (Solomon/Gabriel describing his murderers in A Distant Shore, Phillips, 2004, p282).In the above example, the signifiers of the white working-class subject are explicitly conflated with intrinsic violent racism, culminating in the racially motivated murder of Gabriel/Solomon, a refugee from Africa. Not only does Gabriel/Solomon ‘recognise them’, Phillips expects the assumed reader to as well. In Another London, recognition of type plays a central role in exposing the ideologemes that contemporary literary and media texts use to construct the white working-class identity. Dean’s first- and close third-person narration allows the implied middle- and upper-class reader to observe how members of a group they are likely to associate themselves with, recognise Dean as white working class and how they respond to the associated negative characteristics they assume him to have. The following extracts from the novel highlight three different moments that Dean is profiled as white working class by his appearance and therefore deviant, dangerous and racist. In the first extract, a group of women from the New Eldon Brickworks recognise Dean:He heard some chatter from inside the Eldon Brickworks gate and watched as a group of three girls came out onto the main road. They were dressed down in jeans and T-shirts, their blonde hair let loose across their backs. They were playful and giggling, bouncing along the road arm in arm…One of the girls caught his gaze and pulled the rest in line. They threw him silent cautious glances and then hurried off along the street with their heads down (Crewe, 2016, p110).In the second, it is a police officer who assumes Dean is with the NDL march:‘Are you with them?’ The policewoman who was on the walkie talkie has come up behind us. I turn my head to follow her finger. She’s pointing at the bundle of people on Addington High Street (Crewe, 2016, p218).In the final extract, the members of the anti-fascist PAF make the same assumption, prejudicing against Dean based on nothing more than his appearance. He is marginalised based on his socially constructed group identity, rather than judged as an individual:More and more people are staring at me as they walk past…The ones on the other side of the alley are still shouting stuff I can’t make out, but all the others are giving me the proper evil eye…In the middle of the group a tall skinny young one slows down and he’s giving me a proper eyeballing…The skinny bloke pushes his way through towards me and some of the others are egging him on and whispering shit to him…Matey has got proper close now and is looking right down his nose at me…He snorts his nose, bends forward and spits on the ground in front of me (Crewe, 2016, p223-224).Another London consciously exposes the ideologemes used in literary fiction as a means to undermine their assumed authenticity. This is in stark contrast to the literary extracts above which firmly embed racism into the lower-class ideologemes of Dickens et al, the feedback loops of which can clearly be seen in the representations of white working-class characters, communities and lifestyles. The mainstream media and political representations of the white working class as being violent, culturally inferior and the drivers of racism in England can be found throughout contemporary literature, confirming the argument that literature is complicit in the feedback loops of representation that work to exclude the white working class. Most notable about the writers of the contemporary period is that although they are consciously interrogating racialised constructions of minority ethnic and immigrant characters and lifestyles, their, conscious or unconscious, embedding and conflation of racist and working-class ideologemes actually work to racialise the white working class. As such, contemporary writers feed back into the white middle- and upper-class hegemonic structures that keep narrative literature intrinsically linked to the socio-cultural construction of classed identities. The ideologemes that permeate contemporary literature work to construct the white working class as violent, culturally inferior and the main drivers of racism, are the same ideologemes that work to reaffirm the writer’s and assumed reader’s class as ‘other’ to the white working class, nonviolent, culturally superior and anti-racist. Therefore, justifying the restricted access to channels of literary representation for marginalised groups, such as the white working class. The creative component of the novel attempts to address this paucity of a white working-class literary voice, specifically a voice from the study period and location. The novel consciously works with and against prevailing typifications of white working-class characters and lifestyles in order to interrogate the writing and rewriting through interpretation process as a socially symbolic act, confronting the prevailing assumptions of the dominant politico-cultural class about the lives and voices of the white working class. Thus, exposing the literary ideologemes that feedback into mainstream media and political representation of the white working class, and at the same time opening a space in the public arena for that excluded group to speak. Another London’s aims are similar to those of Monica Ali in Brick Lane, where the novel works to ‘provide a textual space in which the subaltern can speak,…an alternative form and medium through which that voice might be heard. [Where the writer] can produce a representative voice by adopting the marginalised position of the subaltern’ (Bentley, 2008, p85). A recent example that consciously interrogates the identity construction and politics of working-class inner-city life is Courttia Newland’s Society Within. Newland creates individual voices, each character with their own concerns and identity, where the ‘individual narratives build to show a discrete subcultural community that has its own lifestyles, concerns and ethical and moral frameworks’ (Bentley, 2008, p75; See also Chapter Three). As with Ali’s Brick Lane, Newland’s Society Within works to expose the hidden voices that exist in culturally rich and developed working-class urban communities. They both purposely interrogate typified representations of these low-income spaces and communities in order to open debate in the public arena for these hidden voices to be heard. However, neither novel investigates the role of the white working-class residents beyond that of the ideologemes examined above. Essentially, the creative component of this thesis attempts the same feat as Brick Lane and Society Within, but from the perspective of the white working-class subject and community. Another London aims to open up the space left by this gap in contemporary British fiction originating from the study period and location by exposing the hidden potential of the white working-class voice, which is as nuanced and complex as any other, and cannot and should not be reduced to a derogative stereotype. As Dean highlights in Part Six whilst talking to Ghalia after the fire:I look at her hand in mine. It looks black against my pink mitt. But it’s the same shape. It’s got four fingers and a thumb. It’s what’s around us that makes the difference. Under her Paki dress she’s got a pussy and tits just like Georgina. She shits and pisses and has the painters in every month. We all do…Paki dresses and headscarves and suits and doors and rules and underwear and stupid cunts spouting off rubbish makes the differences…We hide the fact that we’re all the same and all equal. People like Phil Harris. Cunts like Al Queerdo who blew up the twin towers and the tube. I fucking hate them. I want to tell Ghalia. I want her to know that we’re not that. That I know she’s not that. ‘The NDL ain’t England. Don’t let it change you. It ain’t us. It ain’t like what it says on the telly. That’s not me’ (Crewe, 2016, p252). Chapter 3 – The use of first- and third-person narration in Another LondonAs discussed in the previous chapter, the creative component attempts to rectify the lack of white working-class voices in contemporary literature, specifically from the study period and location. By interrogating typified representations of white working-class characters through the use and exposure of the ideologemes identified in Chapter Two, the novel seeks to challenge prevailing assumptions about white working-class lifestyles and behaviour that are commonly held by the dominant politico-cultural class.Before a more detailed discussion can be provided, it is important to acknowledge a potential criticism that could be levied against the creative component, that of its authorship from within the British university system. It could be argued that there is an inherent contradiction for an author writing about a social group who have limited access to channels of self-representation whilst the author himself is working from a privileged position within the dominant politico-literary hierarchy, a process which could be seen as an ideological ‘instrument to stabilize the political balance and to reproduce social inequality’ (Hakemulder, 2004, p196; see also van Dijk, 1993). In response, this thesis argues that the intention of the creative component is not to claim omniscient insight or authority to represent the white working class, but rather to expose the dominant narrative ideologemes within British literary fiction that work to homogenise white working-class groups. As such, the novel attempts to individualise members of a marginalised group in a similar way to Monica Ali in Brick Lane (2003), Courttia Newland in Society Within (1999) and Caryl Phillips in A Distant Shore (2003), by providing ‘a textual space…[where the writer] can produce a representative voice by adopting the marginalised position’ (Bentley, 2008, p85). By exposing and interrogating dominant forms of white working-class representation, and by presenting individuated portrayals of white working-class characters, this thesis attempts to force a re-evaluation of the blame narratives and class disgust that are used to justify socio-cultural and financial inequality. Thus the creative component’s aim, in common with organisations such as The Sutton Trust and Joseph Rowntree Foundation, is to open up public debate on access to, and control of, channels of representation, with the ultimate goal of developing greater democratic participation in modes of self-representation for members of the white working class, and, as a result, other marginalised groups.In The Political Unconscious, Fredric Jameson argues that ‘the production of aesthetic or narrative form is to be seen as an ideological act in its own right, with the function of inventing imaginary or formal "solutions" to unresolvable social contradictions’ (Jameson, 2010, p64). As such, the process of writing the creative component can be analysed in terms of it being a socially symbolic act, whereby the inclusion and usage of ideologemes can be exposed and interrogated alongside the author’s interpretation of the socio-political order. The process by which the author approached the writing of the novel consciously acknowledged Jameson’s proposition. Before constructing the narrative or developing any characters, the author did extensive research into the socio-cultural and politico-economic background of white working-class groups over the study period and location, which culminated in Chapter One of the critical component of this thesis. From this vantage point, the author wrote the creative component, allowing storylines and characters to develop out of the research and to evolve through the writing process itself, in terms of plot and narrative technique, creating meaning through the relationship between the real world of the research and that of the fictional world of the novel. Narrative texts are not individual entities, but exist within the wider body of the literary canon, reflecting the social order in which they were written (Jameson, 2010). As such, it is possible to trace and identify recurrent ideologemes that have permeated literary texts through to contemporary authors. Analysing the creative component using the same technique allows this thesis to identify, expose and interrogate recurrent ideologemes within the creative component, whilst at the same time locating the text within the contemporary canon. A parallel example of this process can be seen in Courttia Newland’s Society Within. In the first chapter, a gang of black boys who live on an estate are described when the female protagonist, Elisha, first encounters them: She peered to her left and saw a group of boys loafing, their hands in their pockets, cracking jokes, smoking and sipping from bottles of Dragon Stout…The youths began to call.‘What’m baybi! Baybi!’‘Hello! Hello!’‘Ay – ay, don’t go on like dat! Yuh lookin’ nice y’nuh star! Me only waan chat t’yuh, wha’ gwaan?’Ignoring their cries, Elisha walked on…, but as she was a newcomer their hormones would be screaming at them to ‘try a ting’ (Newland, 2000, pp7-8). The gang are initially constructed in terms of typified lower-class black characters; unemployed, lazy, sexually promiscuous, with poor consumption habits demonstrated through their alcohol and tobacco use, all intensified through the juxtaposition of the stereotypical lower-class black ‘street’ dialect and the ‘correct’ use of English in the descriptive prose. Yet, throughout the rest of the book, Newland works to undermine these signifiers by differentiating the boys, individuating their narratives to reveal a unique ‘subcultural community that has its own lifestyles, concerns and ethical and moral frameworks’ (Bentley, 2008, p75). Through the identification of the ideologemes that construct working-class characters, Newland is able to interrogate typified representations and force a re-evaluation of assumptions about the lifestyles of poor black communities living on inner-city estates. The creative component of this thesis attempts the same feat for white working-class communities living in comparable conditions. As with the characters depicted in Society Within, the creative component works to individuate the white working-class characters, most specifically Dean, the protagonist, in order to force a re-evaluation of the hegemonic social order that posits the white working class as a culturally inferior group, whose socio-economic exclusion is a lifestyle choice, rather than a result of systemic inequality. Given the construction in media, politics and literature of white working-class lifestyles and behaviours as culturally inferior (see Chapters One and Two), the creative component consciously acknowledges, and works to counter, assumptions about white working-class characters held by the imagined middle-class reader. As Wayne Booth claims in The Rhetoric of Fiction: ‘If an author wants intense sympathy for characters who do not have strong virtues to recommend them, then the psychic vividness of prolonged and deep inside views will help’ (Booth, 1983, pp377-378, original italics). In other words, the individualisation of a marginalised voice moves the character beyond the sociological and into the psychological, the point where representational meaning can occur in narrative, in the sense that ‘the psychological impulse tends toward the presentation of highly individualised figures who resist abstraction and generalisation, and whose motivation is not susceptible to rigid ethical interpretation’ (Scholes et al, 2006, p101; see also Currie, 2010 and Jameson, 2010). The novel’s conscious attempt to shift perceptions from a typified reading of white working-class characters to a de-homogenised, individuated reading, works to exploit Jameson’s concept of rewriting texts through the interpretation process (See Jameson, 2010 and Chapter Two), where the reader’s ‘real-life’ assumptions about the lifestyles and behaviours of white working-class groups are exposed and challenged through their own interpretation of the characters’ lifestyles, behaviour and choices within the ‘fictional-world’ of the text. Howard Sklar, in The Art of Sympathy in Fiction: Forms of Ethical and Emotional Persuasion, claims that emotions, in particular sympathy and compassion, felt by a reader in response to a fictional character can have ‘ethical implications beyond the experience of reading itself…[Although] directed towards imaginary individuals, they may lay a foundation for emotional and ethical sensitivity in real life’ (Sklar, 2013, p9; See also Hakemulder, 2004 and Kuiken et al, 2004). This process allows the reader to recognise the emotional and psychological experience of a character, providing a route to identification and re-evaluation of pre-existing assumptions about a person/character from a particular excluded/’other’ group. Although readers will possess existing ‘interpretive frames and experiences to the reading of a given text, the narrative itself provides its own counterweight to personal presumptions by “persuading” readers to feel and to evaluate characters in particular ways’ (Sklar, 2013, p59). According to Gregory Currie (2010) in Narratives and Narrators: A Philosophy of Stories, this re-framing of the reader’s interpretive perspective will not only involve a re-evaluation of a character’s behaviour and lifestyle choices, but also a re-evaluation of the reader’s systems of belief in relation to the character’s social group. As with Booth and Sklar, Currie argues that ‘sustained imaginative engagement with a vividly expressed and highly individuated mental economy through a long and detailed narrative can…be expected to have…finely-tuned imitative consequences, with correspondingly powerful results in terms of framing’ (Currie, 2010, p104). Narratologists have regularly pointed to focalisation, ‘seeing’ from a character’s perspective, as a technique to achieve this re-framing effect, inducing the reader to view the narrative from a perspective that is not their own (Sklar, 2013; See also Bal, 2009 and Fludernik, 2009). Sklar suggests that this re-framing effect is similar to the process of defamiliarisation, where readers are forced to reassess their ‘familiar’ assumptions about the fictional/real world as a result of shifts in perspective of the narrative’s focalisor, which ‘may challenge readers to re-construct their representations of that character’s feelings or attitudes’ (Sklar, 2013, p69). Kuiken et al (2004) discuss a set of phenomenological studies they undertook to investigate how defamiliarisation can lead to what they call ‘self-modifying feelings’ in the readers of literary texts (See also Miall and Kuiken, 1999):At times, readers of literary texts find themselves participating in an unconventional flow of feelings through which they realize something that they have not previously experienced—or at least that they have not experienced in the form provided by the text. When this occurs, the imagined world of the text can become unsettling. What is realized (recognized) also may become realized (made real) and carried forward as a changed understanding of the reader’s own life-world (Kuiken et al, 2004, pp268-269). The novel uses stylistic techniques to complement and augment this effect, in particular the shift in perspective from third-person to first-person narration. Firstly, as discussed above, the prolonged access to first-person, psychologically-motivated internal narration gives the impression that the character has a more highly developed sense of self-determination, distancing them from the external perspective, in the sense of them being the product of an author (Currie, 2010). Secondly, the changes in perspective act as a stylistic technique to induce defamiliarisation from the reader’s real-world experience and expectations, forcing them to re-evaluate their pre-existing notions of the character. This is achieved through the formalistic shift in point of view, but also as a result of the shift in focalisation from the ‘dual-voice’ narrator of the third-person perspective to the individualised voice of the first-person character-narrator. An example of this process can be seen in Caryl Phillips’ novel A Distant Shore where the story of Solomon/Gabriel, an African refugee, is narrated in both the first and third-person. The formalistic shift augments the defamiliarisation that is induced by the sympathy and compassion that Phillips’ elicits from the reader by shifting their perspective/assumptions about refugees’ lifestyles, morality and choices from the external to the internal, thus forcing the reader to re-evaluate their pre-existing notions about real-life asylum seekers. Through first-person narration, Phillips allows a distanced reader to experience the trauma of war through the eyes of Solomon/Gabriel and therefore to understand why he wants to escape. He is shown to be hardworking and conscientious rather than the perceived notion of an asylum seeker who gets ‘something for nothing’. Phillips, through first-person narration, manages to elicit sympathy, compassion and understanding from the reader by allowing them to feel the discrimination Solomon/Gabriel faces from his point of view. Thus, Phillips potentially shifts the reader’s opinion of refugees and their plight. The creative component of this thesis attempts the same process for white working-class individuals through the internalised first-person narration of the protagonist, Dean. A clear example of this can be seen in Part Five of the novel where Dean and his sons get caught between the opposing rallies of the National Defence League (NDL) and People Against Fascism (PAF). As the PAF march passes Dean, one of their members spits at his feet, insinuating that he is part of the NDL and therefore racist. This accusation is made based on Dean’s physical appearance and dress, thereby profiling Dean as sharing, or at least complicit in, the NDL’s belief system. As discussed in Chapter One, the majority of media and political representations of the white working class repeatedly position that group as the cause and perpetrators of white racism in Britain, as opposed to the non-racist white elites of the middle- and upper-classes. These typified representations form the pre-existing consensus and assumption of middle-class lifestyles, behaviours and cultures as being normal and desirable. As discussed in Chapter Two, the imagined reader of this thesis, as positioned by the creative component, is from the socio-politically dominant middle- and upper-classes, meaning that their interpretive framework for reading literary texts is formed by the dominant, normalised and desirable, socio-cultural behaviours and lifestyles which they see themselves as, and the white working class as not, adhering to. By narrating this scene from Dean’s internalised first-person perspective, the creative component works to force a re-evaluation of the pre-existing assumptions about the white working class that the reader may hold. Firstly, as it does throughout the book, the narration shifts from third to first person. This stylistic technique provides a technical augmentation of the defamiliarisation that the scene, as narrated from Dean’s perspective, creates in the reader. The implied middle-class reader associates themselves with an anti-racist stance (See Chapter One), which in the context of the fictional world is in line with that of the PAF members. By narrating from Dean’s ‘outsider’ point of view, the reader is positioned outside of their familiar ‘real-world’ perspective and distanced from the group they assume to share, in part, a belief system with. This shift from the third-person ‘dual-voice’ to the first-person character narration also works to distance the reader from their implicit identification with the third-person narrator/author, who is seen to occupy a similar position to the reader in the socio-cultural hierarchy. This process alters the way the reader interacts with the narrative, from spectating the third-person narration to identification with the character in first-person narration (Oatley, 1999; See also van Peer and Pander Maat, 1996). Identification with an individuated character can elicit emotions of sympathy and compassion from the reader, enforcing them to re-evaluate their judgements of the character within the fictionalised world. As discussed above, these self-modifying feelings can instigate changes in the reader’s attitudes to parallel/comparable real-life situations. In the case of the creative component, the reader’s assumptions about white working-class communities, as depicted in the typified representations of the white working class by those with access to channels of representation, are exposed and challenged, forcing the reader to re-evaluate their pre-existing beliefs and assumptions about the lifestyles of the white working class, and, as a result, interrogate the systems that maintain socio-cultural, political and economic inequality. Being able to ‘see’ and ‘feel’ the scene unfold from Dean’s point of view provides the reader with an alternative, defamiliarised perspective of the situation as ‘seen’ and ‘felt’ by a member of a marginalised group. As opposed to typified representations of white working-class characters such as Keith Talent from London Fields, the character of Dean is self-aware with a nuanced interiority that allows him to question his own behaviour, his position in society and the world around him. He is neither feckless or lazy, but rather a hardworking, responsible father who exists as best he can within the socio-economic landscape that he is born into, rather than the assumed ‘normal’ and ‘desirable’ socio-economic world of the middle and upper classes from which he is restricted access to. Thus the white working class are de-homogenised, Dean becomes an individual, distanced from stereotypical generalisations, and the reader re-evaluates their previously held assumptions about people from white working-class communities. As discussed above, the creative component’s shifting perspective between third- and first-person narration is a stylistic technique that augments the defamiliarisation process. It has also been argued that first-person narration creates stronger identification between the reader and the character as opposed to when a character’s thoughts and ‘feelings are reported by someone else (usually an invisible narrator) who implicitly claims to have access to the character’s inner world’ (van Peer and Pander Maat, 1996, p144). The second of these points also contains a further reason for the creative component’s use of both third- (more specifically, free indirect discourse) and first-person narration, that of the author/narrator’s implied claim to intimate knowledge of the character’s thoughts and feelings. As mentioned in Chapter Two, it has been argued by a number of critics that free indirect discourse is misleading in its proclaimed objective omniscience, and that it reifies, unavoidably, the existing hegemonic social order (Jameson, 2013; For further examples see Richardson, 2006, particularly his discussion of Phillipe Sollers’ novel Drame (1965)). Another criticism of free indirect discourse, centred around the assumption that the third-person narrator is able to know and imitate a character’s voice, thoughts and feelings in order to create identification and emotional response in the reader, is made by Gregory Currie who argues that the author/narrator’s implicit claim that character-orientated narration in free indirect discourse has a direct emphatic effect is potentially false: ‘it is not universally true that character-oriented narration raises to salience the point of view of that character; it may have the effect of raising to salience the perspective of the other character, the one we empathize with’ (Currie, 2010, p145) . Following the discussion above, that a reader’s emotional interaction and response to a literary text can have implications beyond the fictional world of the narrative, Currie’s argument could also be extended in the same way. The author/narrator’s ability to shift the emphatic effect onto another character whilst seemingly appearing to imitate/have intimate knowledge of the protagonist’s voice, thoughts and feelings can have the effect of reinforcing an opposing point of view to that of the main character. This becomes important when the protagonist is a member of a marginalised group and the shifting emphatic effect may end up reproducing and reinforcing ‘familiar’ and ‘normalised’ feelings towards that character, and by extension their (‘fictional’ and equivalent ‘real’) social group, which in turn works towards the ‘maintenance and legitimation of dominant power and ideologies’ (van Dijk, 1993, p125). It could be argued that even if ideological stances are a part of free indirect discourse, they may not inherently favour any particular socio-cultural or political bias (Richardson, 2006). However, as this thesis argues in Chapter Two (and indirectly in Chapter One), British literary fiction is disproportionately dominated (written, distributed and consumed) by the middle and, to a lesser extent, upper classes. Therefore, the use of free indirect discourse when depicting characters from a marginalised group will disproportionately result in the (conscious and unconscious) reproduction of ideologemes that reinforce the existing socio-cultural and politico-economic hegemonic order. As such, the creative component’s combined use of third- and first-person narration works to undermine this process by exposing the class-based ideologemes found in free indirect discourse through the foregrounding of stylistic techniques that induce a defamiliarisation process in the reader. The creative component exploits the nature of realist fiction by portraying aspects of a world familiar to the reader that are ‘perceived as part of a conceptual frame and ultimately integrated into the world the readers know’ (Fludernik, 2009, p55). Its narrative meaning is established though the relationship between a reader’s response, the author’s conscious and unconscious intentions, and the stylistic construction of the literary text itself (Nunning, 2008). In this way the novel works to create a connection between its fictional world and the real world of the reader, predominantly by eliciting emotional responses through first-person narration and defamiliarisation techniques (Sklar, 2013). That the creative component is a prose fiction literary text is central to this thesis in the sense that literature is a unique medium, compared to other narrative forms such as film or theatre, in its ability to portray thoughts and feelings from directly within the character through techniques such as first-person narration, which create identification with a marginalised, ‘outsider’ character, forcing a re-evaluation of a reader’s beliefs and assumptions about that character, and, as result, the fictional and real socio-cultural group to which the character belongs. As Miall and Kuiken (1999) conclude from the results of a number of empirical studies they undertook: ‘during literary reading, the perspectives that we have, perhaps unthinkingly, acquired from our culture are especially likely to be questioned…This points to the adaptive value of literature in reshaping our perspectives and providing us with greater flexibility, especially by impelling us to reconsider our system of convictions and values’ (Miall and Kuiken, 1999, p127). Through the de-homogenising of an marginalised group and the individuating of characters from that group, the novel aims to reshape assumptions and to force a re-evaluation of how that group fits into the socio-cultural and politico-economic hierarchy of a democratic country. ConclusionIn 2015, novelist Tim Lott, the son of a West London greengrocer, wrote an article for the Guardian criticising the lack of white working-class writers and novels from London and the South of England in general: ‘It is as if the working class south of Manchester does not exist in literary terms, despite London and the south-east containing some of the worst areas of deprivation in Europe’ (Lott, 2015). In 1999, his novel White City Blue was published, a critical and commercial success that went on to win the Whitbread Award for Best First Novel. The book tells the story of Francis Blue who, similar to Lott, is a white working-class man who grew up in inner West London. The protagonist, the son of a coal man, has managed to gain a university degree and is a successful and affluent estate agent. His three friends, whose relationships with Francis are the focus of the novel, are all from the white working class; Nodge - a taxi driver, Tony - a hairdresser, and Colin - a low-level I.T. worker. It might be expected that a writer from a white working-class background, who grew up in inner London and has recently been openly critical of the restrictions white working-class writers and stories face from the publishing industry, would be conscious to avoid clichéd or stereotypical representations of white working-class communities and individuals. Yet, the ideologemes identified in Chapters One and Two of this thesis can be found embedded in White City Blue. One such example from the book comes when Francis describes the White City Estate when he visits Colin who lives there: the smell of chips and junk-fed babies, small cascades of ripped and discarded lottery tickets, rattling beer cans sucked dry by collapsing scumbags (Lott, 2000, p89).Similar to the descriptions of working-class districts seen in the work of writers from Charles Dickens through to Caryl Phillips, the estate reflects the culturally inferior lifestyles of the residents. Lott constructs them as disgusting with the use of the derogatory term ‘scumbag’, poor consumers with the reference to chips, alcohol and ‘junk’, petty gamblers and bad parents. His prose, similar to Amis, caricaturises the estate residents, going beyond pure visual description and thus invoking vivid judgemental assumptions through embedded ‘known’, rather than ‘seen’, tropes. Lott continues the theme with Francis worrying that the children on the estate are going to attack him, damage his BMW or steal his computer, adding criminality to the list of identifiers of estate inhabitants. He describes his potential assailant as a ‘white Reeboked, stone-washed, malnourished welfare burden’ (Lott, 2000, p89). In this description Lott adds the signifiers of dress and appearance to the list of deficiencies that are ascribed to the poor. Finally, by calling the estate residents ‘welfare burden’, he includes feckless, lazy and unemployed to characteristics that complete the novel’s representation of working-class estate residents. Most apparent is the anticipation of the ‘strivers’ and ‘skivers’ narrative, the modern equivalent to the deserving and undeserving poor, which has been used by the elite from at least the time of the industrial revolution through to the modern era. Lott’s usage of these ideologemes re-affirms that cultural assimilation, the acceptance of middle- and upper-class lifestyles as ‘normal’ and ‘desirable’, is the only way to improve oneself and escape, what is defined by the ideologemes as, an inferior class. Francis’s financial success and assumption of middle-class consumer habits and behaviours is constructed in the novel as positive and desirable. The residents of the estate, the class Francis has left behind, are constructed as negative, deviant and inferior. Thus re-enforcing the socio-cultural, and as a result the politico-economic, hierarchy. The creative component of this thesis consciously works to confront and expose ideologemes such as those found in White City Blue. Dean, the protagonist, grows up on the inner city Eldon estate which in many ways conforms to the identifiers found in other literary texts. It is uncared-for, messy and dilapidated, but in Another London the description of the estate, caused by lack of local authority investment rather than inhabitants desiring their neighbourhood to be in poor condition, is not used to reflect the residents’ behaviour and lifestyle choices. Instead, the novel works to represent an alternative culture that exists within its means and the systemic restrictions placed upon it by the elite. For example, Dean for the most part of the book is unemployed in the conventional sense, yet he is far from feckless. He rejects unfair and discriminatory ‘zero-hour’ contracts that target those in poverty (yet are accepted by the UK government) and instead displays his entrepreneurial, and to an extent community-minded, temperament by doing shopping runs for the elderly estate residents to earn his living. When he works for the gang from Addington as a drug dealer, he doesn’t do so because he has a commitment to their ideology or because he purposely wants to break the law, rather it is because he has little opportunity to earn a living through legitimate means. It also shows Dean’s industrious nature, he works long and unsociable hours in order to earn money to contribute to supporting his family. From a middle- and upper-class perspective, Dean is an unemployed criminal, but viewed from the perspective of those living in poverty with few opportunities for social mobility, Dean is a hardworking and responsible father. As with any piece of research, there are limitations to the scope of the critical component of this thesis. Although discussing them in the Introduction, the concept of white ethnicity, class and gender and their representation in media, politics and contemporary literature would be an area that could be investigated further (See Byrne, 2006). Another such area is that of class and language use. This thesis discusses how portrayals of improper, non-standard English use have been exploited by authors such as Gissing and Amis to ridicule the working class, within the context of a collection of ideologemes that permeate literary texts, as well as media and political representations of the (white) working class. The role of language use and dialect as a barrier to social mobility has been the subject of a number of papers (For examples see Charlesworth, 2000; Milroy, 2007), yet it would be worthwhile investigating how this manifests itself in contemporary literature from the study period and location. In a similar way to how Courttia Newland in Society Within explores the non-standard language use of working-class black teenagers living on an inner-city London estate, the characters and voices of the creative component were influenced by the critical research into both (white) working-class communities and voices, and how they have been ridiculed by authors such as Gissing and Amis. However, a full survey of contemporary (white) working-class dialects and their representation in contemporary literature sits outside the scope of this thesis. Therefore, further research on how the voices of the London-based white working class are represented in literature would be a natural extension to this thesis, both in terms of creative and critical output. Like Francis Blue, I grew up in a white working-class family. My father was a farmhand and subsequently a school caretaker, my mother was a part-time cleaner and full-time housewife. The main difference between myself and Francis Blue is that I grew up in rural Dorset, rather than urban inner London. Rural poverty and urban poverty are experienced in very different ways, something I recognised when living for three years on a predominantly white working-class council estate in inner North London. I have lived in white working-class communities for the majority of my life and have seen the way this group is represented in media and politics, especially when these portrayals appear to caricature and ridicule people that I know personally, family members and friends, people who I recognise as having very little opportunity to represent themselves in the public arena, or even the right to reply to media and political elite’s typified representations. It is for these reasons that I wanted to write this thesis, to open up wider public debate about the right to democratic access to channels of self-representation for members of the white working class, and by extension every marginalised group.While writing the creative component, I had two major considerations. The first was the recognition of the complex and fluid nature of my own social status. Through the UK’s university system, I’ve managed to gain academic qualifications, culminating in this PhD thesis, which have given me the potential for a successful career, social mobility and the ability to move out of the working class. I’m currently employed as a University Lecturer, a far more middle-class profession than traditional working-class jobs. This transition in my socio-cultural and economic status is similar to that of Tim Lott’s who, although having written two London-based novels set amongst the working class, now describes himself as ‘no longer working class… [with] little idea what life in the poorer parts of England is like any more’ (Lott, 2015). This recognition of class shift suggests that both myself and Tim Lott must re-evaluate whether we consider ourselves to be working- or middle-class writers. However, I would argue that these two positions do not reflect the state of flux writers such as myself or Tim Lott find ourselves in. Lott described this situation in an article for The Guardian: ‘In leaving the working class, I have always been living somewhat on the outside of the middle – no longer of the milieu in which I grew up, yet never quite fitting in to the social level to which I was "rising"’ (Lott, 2014). Yet, rather than ‘not fitting’ in either social class, I see myself as a writer - and Another London as a novel - bridging the gap between the two. Having grown up in a working-class family and environment, my experiences of working-class lifestyles and behaviours are first hand and, although the working-class characters of Another London are presented in a middle- and upper-class medium, they are not written from a middle-class perspective. I cannot claim to be the voice of the working class, but I can claim to be a voice from the working class, who is communicating within an elitist form. Although my social-cultural status has shifted and will continue to shift further, and my work as a writer and the subjects I explore are likely to reflect that change, the experiences and memories of growing up amongst the working class cannot be altered. As such, they will always offer a genuine and authentic working class voice, even if my social class is both fluid and complex. The second major consideration I had, was the fact that I cannot claim authority to represent a particular group, even though I was born into, what would be categorised, as that group. One reason is that no group, such as the white working class, is homogenous. The concept of consigning people to a group is contentious at best and should be viewed with caution, hence the ‘fuzzy set’ definition of the white working class used by this thesis. As individuals we do not experience interactions with a group, we experience interactions with other individuals. It is this concept that I’ve attempted to address with the novel, to de-homogenise the concept of the white working class, to individuate members of this group and to show thsat as individuals they are not so different than any other individual from any other ethnicity, gender or class, particularly when it comes to non-monetary concerns such as hopes, fears, aspirations and internal conflicts. Typified representations obscure this and work to create difference between groups, resulting in demonisation, exclusion and the acceptance of inequality by those with the power to change the situation. Ultimately it enforces cultural assimilation as the only route to social mobility, rather than finding cultural similarities with which to work towards integration and a more democratic society.Through the process of de-homogenisation, we re-humanise and individuate others. People who were previously seen as nothing more than an identikit member of a particular group, possessing only the characteristics assumed of that group, become individuals. And it is far harder to discriminate against an individual than it is a group who have been constructed as degenerate, undeserving, feckless, racist, criminal, culturally inferior and even disgusting. As such, this thesis works to question the exclusion of groups such as the white working class and to work towards removing the barriers to socio-cultural and politico-economic equality. It is important to note that this thesis does not argue that middle- and upper-class lifestyles and behaviours are wrong, rather that the lifestyles, behaviours and cultures of working-class groups are not inferior to them. The purpose of the creative component has been to open up this debate in the mind of the individual reader, to have them question their assumptions about the behaviours and lifestyles of the white working class, and to re-evaluate the socio-economic hierarchy that is re-enforced through negative, typified representations of those living in poverty.BibliographyADAMS, M. and RAISBOROUGH, J., 2011. The self-control ethos and the ‘chav’: Unpacking cultural representations of the white working class. Culture & Psychology, 17(1), pp. 81-97. AHMED, S., 2004. 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