He called me 'Bruv.'
4.28 and South London's streets are buzzing.
It's hot, schools out: I'm starving, I ain't got coins for a cheese burger, my acne's switching from mild to moderate, and I've got a sweat on – not painting a pretty picture eh?
"Bruv, come ere," he shouts from over the road. Bruv? He's old enough to be my Dad; if I had a Dad.
Ignore him.
Destination humble abode; jerk chicken beckons – beaut.
"Come on Bruv, I need a private chat," he says, crossing the road. Or man, leave alone, I got nothing to give – I say to my self.
He's tall: skinny, face sunken, eyes yellow and bulging, but his smile's big and white. I check his garms – decent, don't look like he's a mental from The Maudsley Hospital. "Come on Bruv, listen up, here me out." We're outside Maccy Ds, it's crowded. I don't feel threatened; I've lived these mean streets all my life – wise.
The preacher woman's chatting Bible – loud.
"Over ere, can't hear me self tink Bruv." I follow him into the shopping centre, away from the preacher screecher.
Mums with babies in buggies race into shops – reduced items their prize.
He gives me that big smile again, "So Bruv, you wanna earn some big cash, and massive respect?"
I knew it, as if? "Nah, not interested geyser," I reply.
He produces a brown envelope, the type Mum dreds getting in the post; holds it in front of me, "Just want you to deliver this for me Bruv, nuffink wrong in that. Big money in it for you Bruv, I'm talking serious wonga," he says.
"Go on, take it Bruv, check the address – richville – ya know what I'm sayin?" he says, with a wink.
The address's hand written – decent hand writing:
Him
66 Jubilee Terrace
London SE22 92y
The postcode's rich side of South London – Dulwich
He's smiling at me, "Yeah, you recognise the side. It's for Him."
"Who's Him?"
He produces a key, presses it into my hand, "Him I have a pact with – I'm giving you the way in." His tone turns serious, "Enter and deliver the envelope to Him. Make sure you give it to Him. Make sure he opens it in front a ya." He smiles, and walks away.
I watch him cross the road, think – what the fuck!
The roar of rubber on road and hand on horn forces a crowd to stop and stare. He's stalled in the middle of the road, cars missing him by millimeters – bumper to bumper.
He sprints back, "Bruv, I forget; this important, listen up." His face darkens, "Deliver at night. Him don't do daytime dealings – you get me?" he says, with a smile and nod.
This is too random.
......
I hold my nose in the lift to my home; alcoholics use it as a toilet. I live on the 18th floor – high-rise.
Weird. Ella, my sister's usually on it like a car bonnet soon as she hears my key in the door.
"Ella – Mum!"
Empty flat.
Probably at Poundland, purchasing girls stuff.
Strip. Shift to shower. Into shorts and t-shirt – fresh.
