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As if tryin to show us he was as streetwise as those dicks who wear hats to horse races, the stupid idiot fuckin khota fool then wound down his window again an gives it,— Look, mate, I’m not looking for any trouble here. I’m just going about my business.
—Goin bout yo business? Ehh ki hai? Amit goes.— Wat business you got goin? Readin fuckin batty books? Take some advice from me, don’t mess wid us. Cos we b da man round here n you b da gora-lovin bhanchod who can’t even speak his mother tongue, innit. Wat’s wrong wid your own bredren, brown boy? Look at us. We’s b havin a nice car, nice tunes, nuff nice designer gear, nuff bling mobile. But no, you wanna b some gora-lovin, dirrty hippie wid fuckin Radiohead playin in your car. Look at ma man Jas here. Learn some lessons from him.
On green we left the coconut in our dust an Hardjit started laughin, givin it,— Bhanchod show’d us some respect. Nuff muthafuckin respect.
—I remember back in da day when most desis round here were like dat gimp, goes Amit.— Skinny saps pretendin like they were gora so no one treat’d dem like dey’d just got off da boat from Bombay, innit. But all da gora fuck’d wid dem anyway.
—Yeh, bruv, you know it, I cheered from the back,— that in’t being our shit no more.
—U can fuckin talk, Jas. U was da biggest sap in town till we took yo coconut-lovin, faggot ass in.
As we turned off the Great West Road an the coconut disappeared from the rear window I almost felt sorry for him. But I din’t. Not any more, anyway, not these days, not a chance. Coconuts like him deserved to have Hardjit an Amit lay into them. It in’t as if he had to be such a gorafied bhanchod: God had given him brown skin an so he could be a proper desi if he wanted to. He’d made a choice just like I made a choice when I started kickin bout with Hardjit. But the coconut’s choice was the wrong choice. In’t no desi needin to kiss the white man’s butt these days an you definitely don’t need to actually act like a gora. Fuckin bhanchod. Din’t matter what you called them. Coconuts, Bounty bars, Oreo biscuits or any other fuckin food that was white on the inside. Good desi boys who din’t ever cause no trouble. But how many a them’ll still be here in Hounslow in ten years’ time, workin in Heathrow fuckin airport helpin goras catch planes to places so they could turn their own skin brown? No fuckin way I was gonna be hangin round with them saps no more, with those gimpy glasses I used to wear, my drainpipe trousers an my batty books. Fuck that shit. I looked out the car window again to see if I could see any a them saps. See how far I’d come. Weren’t none around though, must’ve all been in lessons. You could play spot the sap in Hounslow these days just like when we went to Southall one time to play spot the gora. As Hardjit once said, any desi round here deciding they din’t wanna be part a the bredren was a bit like some cat barking with the bitches stead a meowing. Complete fuckin pussy, you get me?
We park up behind Davinder’s Johnny Depp on the single yellow line right outside Nando’s. He got out soon as he saw us an started pointing at his Cartier watch.— Kiddaan, pehndus? Where u been? We’s been waitin half an hour 4 yo asses. Wat da fuck is dis? I a busy man, innit.
The we referred to his mate Jaswinder, this tall, fat guy who was built like Hardjit an who was lockin up Davinder’s car. Jaswinder never said much. Probly the only time he’d ever spoke to me was when he told me he was pissed off I’d got the nickname Jas. You can be called Jas too, I’d said. Don’t be stupid, he’d said. It’s bad enough havin so many desis at school with the same names, it’d be stupid havin two people in the same class with the same fuckin nickname. I din’t argue with him, mostly cos Jaswinder at least had an easy surname - Singh. Me, I had one a them extra long surnames that nobody’d ever pronounce proply. All my teachers in all my lessons had always got it wrong when they called out the register an even my mum an dad pronounced it the wrong way. Matter a fact I in’t even gonna tell it to you it’s so fuckin shameful.
—Safe, blud, ma bad we late, Hardjit goes to Davinder,— but we had some business 2 sort on da way, innit. U know wat it’s like, bruv.
—Dat’s safe, but jus call me next time cos if I ain’t mistaken u got some lucrative business here too, innit.
Davinder smiled as he said that. He was easily the most loaded guy for his age we knew, an he knew it too. Stridin around wearin his Swarovski-studded medallion with the letter D on it - the kind that Usher wears, except his is a U an is made a ice. Even when we was all at school, way back before he’d set up his business dealings, Davinder’d got his own business cards printed. Davinder Singh, AKA - Acquirer a Knowledge an Assets.
Amit joined the others as they started walkin towards Nando’s when suddenly Davinder turned round to face the Beemer again, checkin out the engine grille as if he saw faces too.
—Ik minute, I got me one question bout dis ride I been meanin 2 aks u bredrens 4 time now.
—Look, don’t b sayin shit bout ma car, man. Da car in’t slow, Ravi said.— I din’t realise we was in a muthafuckin race.
—Nah, chill, dat shit’s history, Davinder said, pointing at the licence plate.— Wat I want’d 2 aks u is who da fuck is K4V1TA?
—It’s my mum a course, said Ravi.— Da Beemer belongs to her, innit.
3 (#ulink_9c7e4f75-defb-5955-a388-7f646fb23009)
The Beemer’s closed windows couldn’t block the smell a spicy periperi chicken. While the other guys were gettin stuck into stuffin their faces inside Nando’s, I was stuck in the car with the DMX CD an a copy a some tutty Bollywood magazine for company. I couldn’t be around when they did a business deal with Davinder, you see. He’d have problems with it. Problem number one: the cars might get parking tickets if nobody kept watch. Problem number two: the fewer a us that huddled round a rucksack full a Davinder’s merchandise, the less attention we’d attract. Problem number three: motherfuckin me.
Davinder’d got beef with me since before our GCSEs. Since right back when we was in year seven an every time he passed me in the school corridors between lessons he’d, like, punch me in the face. I couldn’t ever see him coming either cos a all the Nike an Adidas rucksacks in my face. Then suddenly one a them rucksacks would turn into a fist. I in’t sure there was any specific reason for his beef with me. It was just all the usual things. The things bout me that Hardjit’d told Amit an Ravi to just allow. Things like I was a ponce, I acted an sounded like a batty, I was a skinny wimp, I was embarrassin to have around if ladies came by, I wore crap clothes, I used to have braces on both my upper an lower teeth, I’d read too many books, I walked like a fool, I had this annoyin habit a sniffin all the time, I couldn’t usually talk proply an even when I did I couldn’t ever say the right thing. Basically I was just generally a khota, like that coconut we’d seen earlier today except I din’t even have my own car. Hardjit’d stuck up for me like he always did. One time I heard him say,— Look, Davinder, if I b sayin Jas is safe then da boy is safe, u get me? In the end, Davinder’d said he din’t mind that I was part a Hardjit’s crew, but if that meant he had to hang around with me too then he’d rather take his merchandise somewhere else. Thing is, if people like Davinder hadn’t laid into me so much all the time, Hardjit’d never have started stickin up for me in the first place. An if he’d never stuck up for me, I’d probly never’ve become part a his crew. At first I figured the only reason he’d started backing me up was so he could act like Shah Rukh Khan in front a all the ladies. The Bollywood hero always takes care a the underdog, you see. Only difference was Hardjit din’t like takin no glory for stickin up for me. He din’t even like it whenever I thanked him for doing so. I reckon he was basically so freaked out by how gimpy I was that he felt he’d got to cure me. Like those people who are so homophobic that stead a beatin gay guys shitless, they actually try an turn em into straight guys.
The first time Hardjit ever backed me up was after I walked into a spare classroom one time. Room 418. We weren’t really allowed in 418 cos it’d been vandalised so much, but that meant I could usually be by myself in there at break times. One time, though, I walk in an I find Davinder sittin inside there with his tongue sittin inside some girl’s throat. She must’ve been from Green School, Brentford School or one a the other girls’ schools round here. I apologised for the interruption (I was really good at apologising in them days) but couldn’t bring myself to leave cos, well, she was fit. An her school blouse was half open. It was one a those plunge bras, with a tiny little bow between the white lace cups, probly underwired an with satin padding along the bottom. Davinder carefully removed his tongue an turned to me.— D’ya wanna watch? Dis is probly da closest a fuckin sap like u’ll ever get 2 kissin a lady, he goes as he put his hands on the lace straps to stop her buttoning up her blouse. —So why not pull up a fuckin chair, my friend.
Davinder’s words had their desired effect by makin him look tough in front a the girl. She rewarded him by crackin up as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the whole wide world an so he continued: — Look, let me explain: u put yo tongue inside her mouth like dis. See? U don’t kiss her on da mouth, u kiss her in da mouth. Da tongue knows wat it’s doin. But in’t no bitch gonna get wid’chyu anyway cos u ugly n u stink.
I wanted to stand up for myself but what do you say to something like that? Do you tell him that actually I in’t that ugly? That, OK, maybe my hair might’ve been too thick to style proply, but ever since I’d got it cut short an started stickin L’Oréal wax in it a couple a people had said I looked a little like Justin Timberlake, only skinnier. Before I could even begin, Davinder’d started rinsin me for staring at the girl’s still-open blouse until finally I turned to leave havin not said a single fuckin word.
—Check da gimpy way he walks away. A sap like dat’ll only ever b kissin himself.
—U gots 2 stick up 4 yo’self, Hardjit said, makin me jump as I shut the classroom door behind me.— Read da situation, man. Davinder’s too busy wid his ho 2 hit’chyu.
At first I was worried I was in for more a the same shit an so I tried to walk down the corridor away from him, like as if I was late for lesson or someshit.
—Yo name’s Jas, innit? U goes 2 da same German n Science lessons as me, but u sit up front wid all dem spods, innit?
I just gave it one a them polite, shit-scared smiles, showin him all the metalwork on my teeth just in case he din’t realise I was smiling. If you don’t smile proply at someone at a time like this, you’ll get accused a blanking them an then smiling won’t even be an option.
—Yeh, man, u da one wid da braces Kavi wired up 2 a six-volt battery, innit? Did dat hurt yo mouth, bruv?
Nobody’d ever called me bruv before cos, well, desis who called people bruv din’t want a pussy for a bruv.
—Jus ignore wat peeps like Kavi n Davinder say 2 u. Dey shud save up their aggro 4 Paki bashers, u get me?
—Y…y.I er y…
Shit, that was my voice. I tried to cough up any gungy spit an that from the back a my throat so that I could go an say whatever it was I was gonna decide I was gonna say. There weren’t nothin there though, an so I just sounded like one a them poncey tossers that go around clearin their throats. Back in them days, the braces on my teeth weren’t the only reason why it was generally a bad idea for me to try an talk. But I was talkin to Hardjit an Hardjit was sorted. You can’t give up tryin to chat proply when you’re chattin to someone sorted, someone like Hardjit. You’ll be thinkin I fancy him now, won’t you? That I really am a batty boy after all? But it in’t like that cos I in’t batty. I just wish I was as sorted as Hardjit is, that’s all.
—Yeh, I think I know what you mean, Davinder an that, like. I yer gey… Well, you know. In’t sure like. Depends what you reckon, I mean, no, depends, sorry.
Hardjit just looked at me, all confused like I was chattin in fuckin Scandinavian or someshit. An I was thinkin, What the fuck is wrong with me? Why say sorry when I weren’t? Why the fuckin fuck did people like me say sorry when we weren’t?
—I mean, maybe it don’t matter, no more. No, forget it, I agree now. Like just before. Sorry, yeh, OK. No, really I do, Hardjit, actually forget it, like I really think you’re right bout them. Sorry.
God. Why’d you make me have to say something if all I can do is talk a pile a shit. Stupid tutty shit at whoever it was I was talkin to. But for some reason I remember Hardjit seemed OK bout me being a dickless khota. He knew what I meant to say was the three words, OK, I agree. In fact, if Hardjit thought I was just some sap beyond help then he’d probly help me, say it for me like how most people do. Stead a that he just carried on tellin me I should stand up to Davinder.
Thing is, right, I din’t really agree with him anyway but decided not to try an explain why cos I probly wouldn’t be able to cos I’m a sap who can’t talk. Cheers, God. No use blaming God, though. S’pose I should really thank Him for givin us a tongue. If it was a proper problem, like a stutter or something like what Dave Gilbert has, or that problem with saying S’s what Spencer (fuckface) has got…
Then Hardjit said,— Laters, bruv, an then headed to the library. I in’t lyin, the library. This may sound like a strange place for someone like Hardjit but there weren’t no librarian no more so it was a safe place to go when you din’t want to go to lessons. Comfy chairs an that. The teachers din’t care. Only the librarian used to give two tosses bout the books an the noise an all the yellow stuffing stuff leaking out the chairs. Even though I din’t agree with all a Hardjit’s mafia rudeboy shit back then, suddenly I wanted to follow him, wanted to carry on talkin to him. Don’t matter that you can’t actually talk cos if you hang around with sorted people then other people’ll think you’re safe yourself. But I din’t go after him. Din’t want to push my luck, you get me?
Every time when it’s important to use this gob a mine I hear my voice, which never normly works proply an so I panic. It’s as if there’s some other voice a mine givin it, Don’t say that, it’ll make u look like a gimp. An so I’ll go, Yeh, maybe so, but…Then I’ll realise that the other person, the one I’m s’posed to be talkin to, can hear me. So I’ll quickly shut my gob, only to hear the other voice go, You fuckin sap. Now you look like you can’t even talk. Which you can’t, you stammerin piece a wasted shit. For fuck’s sake, just speak up.
Fuck off, leave me alone. I’ve just got gunge an shit down my throat.
Speak up, boy.
Obviously this voice must know that actually it can’t speak up, that it can’t talk cos it’s me, innit, it’s my voice. But it keeps tryin anyway. An then another voice, I reckon that makes it three fuckin voices, will go, Boy? In’t no fuckin boy. In’t no girl either but in’t no fuckin boy.
I just slated the way I was thinkin, same way my mind slates the way I speak. I slated it even before I finished thinkin it never mind sayin it, so I ended up soundin like a dick. An it’s like I know in my head an can even tell to you why I talked like a fuckin pehndu. But I couldn’t ever say it. Couldn’t ever explain it to anyone with my mouth. Couldn’t say, No, I in’t thick, I just got thinkin bout how wrong what I was sayin was, an then got thinkin bout how I weren’t totally right to think that way, but by then it was too late to say what I was gonna say anyway, so now I’m just sayin this instead. OK, I suppose it could make sense. I could’ve said it to someone an they might even’ve understood me. But I couldn’t really say it cos I’d mess it all up with loads a erms an sorrys an shit. An anyway, it only just makes sense an seeing as how I’ve probly already made a floppy dick out a myself, then the person I’m chattin to in’t exactly gonna listen to me explain why I sound so crap. It don’t matter none that this time I’d actually be makin sense. An so you just look like a sap an try to make things better by tryin not to give too big a shit. But I in’t a sap. OK? In’t a sap, in’t fuckin thick. I understand me. Fuck it all, fuckin useless tongue. Probly couldn’t even sixty-nine it. An no, I in’t a perve for thinkin that. This is just my mind remembering one time when my stupid tongue made me look a total khota in front a Kavi an Deepak an all the other guys in my Science lessons. I din’t know what sixty-nine meant, you see. I thought they were chattin bout the bus that goes down Chiswick, the one you take if you go down Brentford. I couldn’t even ask for a bloody bus ticket. Obviously I couldn’t. You can’t pull if you can’t fuckin talk, can you? Not unless you’re that Hugh fuckin Grant from that movie bout shaadis an funerals an shit. Always sayin sorry an erm an stuff. He still got his dick sucked, din’t he? It was on the news. Hugh Grant. Ponce.
Daydreamin is good for you. Better than wankin even, or at least that’s what someone told me one time. Actually he weren’t really tellin me, why would he? He was tellin someone else an I overheard him. At least my ears work. Unlike my fuckin tongue, my fuckin Shitesprecher. That in’t even my own word. It’s from a German lesson, I think. Or History. Same thing really, same teacher so you get em mixed up.— You’re trying harder these days, aren’t you, Jas? Carry on like this and I mean it, you’ll deserve at least a C in GCSE History…If you start having all those problems with it again, I’m always here to help. Not just History problems, you understand, any problems. We care about pupils at this school.
Lookin back, he was probly gay.
Or, again, was it German? We did bout Nazis in both lessons. Heil. I wonder if it’d be possible for a guy like me to be a Nazi. I’ll daydream that I’m a Nazi. I know it sounds like I’m being a wanker cos they were scum like suicide bombers, killin all them people an that. But were they all wankers? At least they walked an talked proply. An even if you reckoned they walked or dressed stupid, at least nobody’d take the piss outta them. Fuckin saluted them instead. Maybe I’d not talk such piles a shit if I spoke in German. It’s like, they don’t stammer cos they know what to say. An if they’re Nazis then fuck to all those voices criticising the way they think bout the way they talk an all that bollocks. Anyhow, fuck it. Someone made up the word Shitesprecher, meanin tongue, when we were doing a lesson on Nazis for History or for German. Mr Ashwood laughed with us even though I don’t think he found it funny.
Maybe I should’ve followed Hardjit to the library. I couldn’t go back to Room 418 cos Davinder an that girl were probly still in there an I was so late for lesson I’d get a detention if I showed up now. Should I daydream bout being a Nazi, or doing History bout Nazis when Mr Ashwood was always late himself so never got pissed off if you were? I remember that lesson when he… oh, man, no way. You in’t gonna bunk off lesson just so you can spend your time daydreamin bout some other lesson, you sad, sad, gimpy sap. I’m such a fuckin pehndu that not only can’t I decide what to say but I can’t decide what to daydream bout either. You could choose anything. But I reckon daydreamin is like proper dreamin, when you’re actually sleepin. You can’t sleep less you stop tryin to. Just got to ignore the voices tellin you how tired you are, an those that keep sayin, Get to fuckin sleep or tomorrow you’ll be knackered. Shouldn’t listen to them voices. Shouldn’t think at all. I only got bout twenty minutes left so I shouldn’t think at all.
—Why you being so quiet now, Jas? I tell you, sometimes you’re just like your father. I’m sorry, Bobby, but my son, he’s just like his father.
It’s Uncle Bobby, one a Dad’s best mates from Ilford who always cracks rude jokes whenever he comes round an who somehow makes Mum an Dad stop tryin to sound so fuckin posh all the time. He’s probly come over to see Dad but Dad’s still at the office cos Dad’s always at the fuckin office.
—Don’t worry, let him sulk in the corner, Uncle Bobby goes to Mum.— His salad is tasty today. Nice and meaty. Not like that rabbit’s food last week, thank God. These vegetarian children. Bloody gaylords, all of them.
—Jas’s not vegetarian, Mum goes, grabbin the corner a her turquoise pashmina shawl before it slips off her shoulder.— His grandmother is, and I’m trying to cut down for this new diet I’m trying. But Jas just doesn’t like meat, do you, Jas? That’s why usually he doesn’t put it inside these healthy salad plates of his. He doesn’t even eat my chicken biryani any more, even though I put extra chillies in it just for his sake.
—There’s a word for this kind of behaviour: arrogant. That’s what you are, Uncle Bobby says to me.— You should be grateful for the food your mama cooks for you. I remember I was bloody grateful to my mother when I was a young boy.
—Oh, don’t worry, Bobby, I don’t mind. It means I don’t have to reheat yesterday’s leftovers so I don’t have to feel like a bad mother, she goes, lettin out one a her posh laughs that makes her shawl nearly slip off again. Fuckin pashmina shawls. She’s got eight a them. She even wears one when she’s gardening. She bought them one time when Amit’s mum came back from Bombay an turned their living room into Pashmina Shawls ‘R’ Us or someshit. After she’s finished ‘R’
straightening it again she tries a spoon a my salad.— He’s trying to be a healthy young boy, that’s all, she goes. She makes me feel nauseous. Mum always makes me feel nauseous.
Can you imagine me makin a salad? Fuck that. But sometimes I’d like to, just to be healthy an that, I’d like to like salad. So fuck it, let me have made the salad.
—This, lamb is it? Never had lamb in a salad before but it’s not bad, young man. Then he winks at my mum.— Looks like you’ve got yourself a gaylord chef in the family. It’s a bit too spicy for an old man like me, but it’s not bad, son.
Fuck off, you wanker, an stop callin me a gaylord. I so wish I could say this out loud. You wanker, please fuck off. I request you to fuck off out our house an cease referring to me as a homosexual, you wanker. I in’t your son. I’d rather be your own personal fuckin rent boy than be your fuckin son. Leave my mum alone, she’s only laughin along with you cos she’ll laugh along with anyone when they’re puttin someone down. My tongue may be fucked but my eyes are wide open. I can understand this kind a shit. But I can’t tell that to you, or her.
—It’s lamb, no? Just want to make sure because I don’t eat beef no more, not after all that mad cow business.
Sorry, but I honestly can’t talk to you. Maybe I want to. But I can’t.
—Jas probably doesn’t even know himself, Bobby, he hates meat. Is that why you’re not eating your own salad today, Jas? Oh, just forget it. You just sit and sulk. Bobby, let him sit and sulk. He is always sulking. Just like his father, I tell you.
Suddenly in my mind I can hear all those kids at school. Hardjit, Davinder, Amit. That lot who never spoke to me back then.— Fine, sulk even more, they all go in chorus.— Don’t answer yo mama, don’t chat 2 no one. U jus like yo papa, u jus like yo papa… So jus eat yo fuckin food, u useless khota.
—Oh, come on, Uncle Bobby says, tryin to keep my salad in his mouth,— all this sulking is no good. Jas my boy, tell us what happened, was it girls? That would be a big relief, woman. You don’t want a gaylord son, so be grateful if he’s sulking about girls.
—In’t no chance a dat, go the guys in my head again,— pehndu can’t even chat to blokes proply. Probly couldn’t even kiss a girl. Probly couldn’t even kiss a girl. Take it from da experts, jus open your mouth n da tongue knows wat it’s doin. You don’t kiss her on da mouth, you kiss her in da mouth, u get me? Best try it on yo’self tho, innit, best try n lick your own tongue.
—Jas? Girls? Not yet, Bobby, Jas is too young to have a girlfriend, goes my mum.— Jas doesn’t go around giving kissies to girls, do you, Jas? He probably doesn’t even know how to give kissies.
Before Mum has even finished, Uncle Bobby spits his laughter into his plate an quickly eats it again.— If I didn’t know how to kiss, my wife would never -
Then Mum turns back to me again, this time makin that face she always makes when she decides it’s time for her to stick up for Dad stead a layin into him all the time.— Now you listen to me Bobby, you stop saying bad things about my son.
Uncle Bobby weren’t havin none a it, though, so Mama then turns to me an goes,— Jas, don’t leave this all to me, you’ve got to stand up for yourself and say something. Open your mouth, please? she sighs. —Why can’t you open your mouth?
She is right. I should stand up for myself. I shouldn’t leave it all to her. But she orders Dad around enough, why can’t she just order Uncle Bobby to ease up? An anyway, it’d be pointless for me to tell Uncle Bobby anything cos I can’t talk an I can’t eat an it hurts so much. What’s the point in feelin pain if you can’t even tell your mama bout it? An it don’t even matter that Mama is now on my side. Don’t matter cos it’s started bleedin again. An my cheeks swell up with the blood. Fill em up. Oh, ouch. Ow. Mama, Mama, my mouth hurts. Ouch.
At first it had seemed the blood was violently bellyflopping over my bottom lip, like how it all explodes when you start to puke. Gushin out from where it’d been hardest to scissor it, from the middle bit where my Shitesprecher had been thickest. Then the blood settled once again, just trickling over my lip an painting my chin an neck a sort a blackish kind a red. So wet it was, my blood. I could feel it all mess up with the bits a ugly, stragglin bumfluff on my face cos I was tryin to grow a goatee beard. But I could only feel it on my face when I tried to concentrate on something other than the swirling pain inside my mouth an the sound a ‘Kiss’ by Prince, which is suddenly blastin outta the oven, fridge an microwave. Think bout the world outside your mouth, I tell myself, think bout your mama’s calm, fuckin Forest Moods CD. Think bout the drip-drippin a blood from the end a my shirt collar an into my plate a cucumber, tomato an diced up, lean an tender (but otherwise fuckin useless) Shitesprecher. Think bout Mama mopping up my blood with her pashmina shawl, dancin to Prince. My own head stirring, draggin though the air. Fuck knows whether I’ve suddenly gone bald but my head’s fuckin freezin, slowly fallin forward so that I in’t got no choice but to let my bloody, painted face roll down with it. Down towards my salad. The kitchen table din’t seem so massive before. An all the stains on Mum’s pink frilly tablecloth move further out, makin space for all a my blood.
—Oh…bloody mad boy, bloody fool, Uncle Bobby gives it, desperately spittin out my salad when I finally open my mouth. He jerks up the table, which launches the whole bowl a salad at me, almost as if to help me reach it as my head continues to slump down, slowly dragged by my mama-it’s-so-painful mouth. As I meet the bowl halfway my jaw is still locked wide open an meaty bits a my salad enter, kissin me. A proper kiss. In the mouth.
4 (#ulink_270e2bce-fb10-5538-b449-68f35736eef6)
—Wat da fuck you been doin, you woman, playin wid yourself? Amit shouts at me as he opens the car door.— Can’t you see Davinder’s gettin a parkin ticket?
Shit, he was right. How can I have missed the traffic warden when the fucker’s standin right in front a me, wearin that yellow jacket that glows in the light an that traffic warden’s hat, the kind security guards wear to look like cops. An in case all that in’t enough, there’s a massive afro oozing out from underneath it. People usually cuss me for being deaf or mute, but not blind.
Davinder an Jaswinder were standin in the traffic warden’s face, shoutin him down so loud, people spilled out the newsagent’s next door to see, in their own words, what the fuck was goin on ‘ere then.
—Thirty fuckin seconds, man, dat’s all I wos, goes Davinder. —I got food poisoning, innit. Had 2 vomit in Nando’s toilets. Or wudyu prefer it if I threw up in da street? Oolti out on da pavement here where u cud slip on it?
How gandah is that? The traffic warden was as ready to swallow this excuse as he was the stomachful a vomit Davinder went on to describe. My own stomach felt like it could offer the boy some inspiration, that’s how much I was dreadin the rinsin I’d just let myself in for. I turned back to face Amit to see whether it’d be a super-rinse with spin cycle or whether he’d just lay into me with a light-wash piss-take. I try an head him off either way by sayin,— Shit, Amit, I’m really, really sorry, man.
—Ohw, you’we weally weally sowwy, arwe you?
His Tweety Bird impression again. Bang outta order then, cos I never spoke like that. I never had a problem with my Rs. I never had no stutter an I never even had a lisp, I just had a problem speakin. An I hardly ever have that problem no more anyway. But none a this matters to Amit. I hate the way people bring up your fuck-ups from the past to make your fuck-ups in the present seem even worse. My mum does the exact same shit with my dad. They’ll be all luvvyduvvy n tight but then Dad’ll forget something or fuck up somehow an then it’s thapparh time. She’ll bring up beef she had with him from, like, before I was even born.
—I’m sow weally weally sowwy dat I tawlk n act like a woman tawlkin n actin like a batty boy, goes Amit again.— Wat’s da point in sittin in da car if you jus gonna let someone give Davinder a parkin ticket? Fuck’s sake, Jas, you give us all nuff grief by being such a sap.
Amit carries on layin into me for being dickless an also for being dickless to someone like Davinder, someone who was the opposite a dickless. So I’m sittin there wonderin whether that means Davinder’d got a big dick while Amit brings up things like how safe Davinder’d been to us all these years, how we’d already kept him waitin that afternoon, what a great customer he’d been, how he’d given us nuff business an even what a bling car he’d got.
—Him n Jaswinder bringin all their crew to Hardjit’s fight tomorrow, Amit goes on.— An you pay dem back by bein a sap n lettin em get a fuckin ticket. Fuckin dickless woman. You lucky dat traffic warden in’t got round to givin our own Beemer no ticket yet cos Hardjit’d break yo face. Fuck’s sake, Jas, why da fuck din’t you call us, you sala kutta?
—I, well, I, the traffic warden, I was kind a, I…er, I, you know, er, you know…
—For fuck’s sake, boy, how can anyone argue wid’chyu if you can’t fuckin talk?
—Well…I…I, er…
Remember that Fatboy Slim CD? The one that all the goras liked cos it mixed electric guitars with breakbeats. Remember what it was called? You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby.
—I…I, er, I did call you guys. I was shoutin for you lot to come.
—Wat’s da point in dat? How we meant to hear you holler from da muthafuckin car?
—No, I…I, er foned you, man. I was shoutin on the fone.
Rudeboy Rule #1:
My dad always said that you shouldn’t ever lie cos you’ll have to tell another ten lies to back it up. However, Hardjit’d taught me that if the back-up lies are good enough, then so fuckin what?
How to tell a good lie, though? Especially when sometimes you stammer even when you tellin the truth. Mr Ashwood taught us in History lessons that Hitler thought a good lie was a big lie.— He even had a minister for propaganda, Josef Goebbels. Jas, explain to the rest of the class what propaganda is. However, Hardjit’d taught me that a good lie is a lie with lots a detail in it. That’s why, right now, Davinder an Jaswinder were being even more gandah, listing the ingredients a Davinder’s imaginary vomit. Rice, daal, aaloo ki subjhi mixed in a base a bhindee an bile. If the back-up lies were detailed enough, then so fuckin what?
—I foned Davinder to warn him, innit, I say to Amit as I carefully reached for the Nokia 3510i in my back pocket an dialled Davinder’s number, stealth-style behind my back. Davinder an Jaswinder were frettin so much they probly wouldn’t hear the fone ring anyway. A long way indeed, baby. —Trust me, Amit, I din’t have time to come in an get you guys cos the traffic warden only just showed up. But I swear I foned Davinder though. Check his fone if you think I just be chattin shit. A hundred bucks says it shows a Missed Call.
Amit walks over to Davinder an does that whole Chinese whispers thing in his ear. Sure enough, Davinder’s Sony Ericsson P800 colour display showed a Missed Call from me, prompting Davinder to hold his forehead as if to go, Shit, how could I be such a deaf khota? Amit held his palm out towards me, as if he was givin me blessings, though what he was really going was, Shit, sorry, Jas, my bad. Jaswinder held his own palm out to Davinder, though not in a givin blessings kind a way but stead pretendin like he was gonna give him a thapparh across the face for being deaf. All a them too vexed to check the exact time the Missed Call had been missed. Then there’s Hardjit givin me a proud grin as he gets in the car an silences the drama outside by shuttin his door.— U jus call’d Davinder now, din’t u, bruv? I always knew u could b nuff smart when u proply tryin.
Davinder’s leather rucksack had twenty fones inside it this time. I nearly dropped the thing when Ravi passed it to me, though obviously I din’t look like I nearly dropped it. Most customers usually give us bout two or three at a time but Davinder normly gave us more’n ten. That was why we bought him some Nando’s or kebabs or whatever whenever we did dealings with him. The bredren was our best customer, you see, an if a good desi knows anything, it’s how to look after their best customer.
I don’t even want to know where Davinder’d got all his merchandise from, but it kept us in business an you can’t be a businessman if you in’t in business, innit. Our business is reprogramming mobile fones, which basically means unblocking them or unlocking them so that they can be reconfigured. To unlock a fone, you change its security code so that the handset can be used on a different network from the one it was originally bought on. Most people came to us cos they wanted to swap fones with their dad or mum or sister or whoever but keep their own fone numbers an tariffs an stuff. After all, what’s the point in your dad havin a blinger fone than you when he probly can’t even use the thing proply. So say your dad gets a handset upgrade to some slick Samsung on his Orange network an you want to swap it with your Nokia 6610 that you got on a T-Mobile network. You can’t just stick the SIM chip carryin your fone number an tariff an stuff into your dad’s new handset. It won’t work cos most fones are locked to the network they were originally bought on. To switch networks you gotta unlock the handsets by changin the security code. For some reason, the fone companies din’t allow people to have their fones unlocked in proper fone shops. In business-speak, that meant the fone companies had gone an left a gap in the market.
Rudeboy Rule #2:
Havin the blingest mobile fone in the house is a rudeboy’s birthright. Not just for style, but also cos fones were invented for rudeboys. They free you from your mum an dad while still allowing your parents to keep tabs on you.
So any time anyone round here wanted to enforce Rudeboy Rule #2 by doing one a these family fone swaps while keepin their own fone number, all they had to do was dial our fone number. Easy. Except for one thing: Davinder may’ve had a lot a cousins an uncles an aunts an everything, but he din’t exactly have twenty relatives all wantin to swap their fones round all at the same time like unwanted mithai boxes being recycled at Diwali.
Customers like Davinder were different to our normal family fone swap customers cos there’s more to this business than just switchin fones between different networks. If a fone gets reported missin or stolen or whatever, the fone company blocks it so that it can’t be used no more. They do this by deactivating a 14-17 digit code called the IMEI number. To unblock a fone (stead a just unlocking it) you gotta change the IMEI number. This code also makes it easier for the police to trace the thing, so if you ever find or jack some fones an want to use them you first gotta change the codes or find someone who can change them for you. Davinder an his crew had found us. Every couple a weeks we’d hook up with him an he’d give us this black leather rucksack full a fones. Fuck knows how he got them an how he never got caught gettin them. But he got them. An Amit’d got all the software an hardware for changin the IMEI numbers.
