Short story: Drug Dealing Will (Not) Be Tolerated.
Let me set the scene for you. It’s a beautifully clear, crisp February afternoon. The Mrs and I grab a table outside the Stingray Café, opposite the Guinness Trust building, on Columbia Road. The idea of enjoying a cold beer and some good food in the warm sunshine was irresistible. I relish the super chilled vibes that our surroundings emit.
Without the impressive mass of bourgeois flower fans that flock to the Sunday market, the street is near deserted. The view down the cobbles towards the city is amazing. The ugliness of the obnoxiously tall structures in the banking sector is less evident from here, hazy in the distance like towers in a fairytale. I make a quick mental comparison; the Guinness Trust building, standing proud for over a century, with the classless skyscrapers, monuments of capitalism that look down upon us all.
I refocus myself on the crowded menu, full of choices, too many choices. The waitress arrives with our drinks and we order. While the Mrs deliberates over her Carbonara, I catch the eye of the guy across the street. He is Asian, thirty something and dressed erratically. He paces back and forth, and then, as though he feels conspicuous, looks in my direction and offers me an apologetic smile. I reciprocate the gesture, shaking my head knowingly as I do so. He says nothing but I hear him, I hear him clucking. He needs to score a fix. The guy disappears.
The Mrs decides that we will share a pasta dish and a pizza. That way, we get the best of worlds, the pasta world and the pizza world. I concur that this is preferable. I loathe the feeling of missing out. If we had both opted for pasta, without doubt an internal longing for Pizza would have surfaced. I place a grateful arm around her shoulders and kiss her cheek. She’s so good, the Mrs.
A big mixed race kid hurtles past purposefully on a pedal bike. He is blacked out from head to toe; black hunter’s hat, black hoodie, black jeans, black boots. Even the pedal bike is black. As he propels himself into the distance I conclude that I know exactly where he is heading, and then silently question myself, disappointed in my cynical nature.
You see, I’ve been here before. Not geographically speaking. I’d yet to frequent the Stingray Café. I’m still making the transition from tourist to full blown resident. Hackney is still relatively alien and unexplored. This experience is exciting and new. What I mean is, I’ve been here before, metaphorically. I’ve been on the periphery, pitch side. I’ve watched the addicts and the dealers do what they do. I don’t judge them for it, I can’t knock the hustle. Each to their own, dog eat dog, survival of the fittest. I’ve had my fair share of scrapes.
The Asian guy from across the street reappears. He heads towards us. Tucked under his arm is a kid’s scooter, chrome and electric blue, well maintained. The scooter contrasts sharply with his dishevelled appearance. As he approaches, I note the look of desperate hunger in his eyes. I know that he isn’t after an overpriced Italian meal though. No. The food he craves isn’t on the menu. He awaits a delivery. The arm placed around the Mrs’ shoulders tenses and transforms from grateful to protective as he passes. He follows the curve of the cobbles and disappears around a corner once again.
The waitress returns with our food; a generously portioned Carbonara and a thin crusted pizza Margherita with extra Prosciutto. We consume eagerly, greedily even. We exchange conversation between mouthfuls, blissfully happy and content, momentarily forgetting the world that surrounds us. I enjoy the escapism. The Mrs is unimpressed with the pizza. The salty Prosciutto ruined it, in her opinion. I casually make a case for the defence.
I spot the big mixed race kid on the horizon. He pedals in our direction at a leisurely pace, now joined by a shuffling companion, a middle aged white man with thinning grey hair and clothes that hang loosely from his skeletal frame. The unlikely pair closes in on our position. The shuffling companion carries a heavy tension about his rounded shoulders, the weight of addiction forcing his head downward, his narrow eyes fixed upon the cobbles. I track the pair attentively as they enter the car park of the Guinness Trust building. My view is briefly obscured by a maintenance shed. Upon their re-emergence, the pair separate. The big mixed race kid pedals away with renewed urgency. Time is money. The tension about the shoulders of the shuffling companion appears lifted; his head held high, he surveys the area carefully and then scuttles out of sight.
The waitress clears our plates. I order an espresso. The Mrs orders a hot chocolate. She reminds me that she has an intense dislike for coffee. She warns me that she won’t be kissing me if I have coffee breath. Despite the threat of a kiss boycott, I savour every mouthful of my espresso. It isn’t the taste of the coffee that leads me to order another; it’s the caffeine that I crave. We all have our vices, I reason.
A non-descript silver hatchback coasts smoothly into view. The boy behind the wheel leans back nonchalantly in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other cupping a burning cigarette out of the open window. His passenger, equally as fresh in the face, scans the screen of his mobile phone. I make eye contact with the boys as the car creeps by. Their expressions are business like, calculating and cool. The eye contact lasts a fraction too long and the passenger’s glare hardens. I don’t look away. He cranes his neck to maintain his stare as the car drifts around the curve of the cobbles. I feel the old reflexes twitch. I’m transported back to my not too distant youth. Anger fizzes in my belly. I want to get up out of my seat and ask the little prick who the fuck he thinks he is dipping out. But I don’t. I lose interest quickly. Maturity gets the better of me. I take another glorious, caffeine laced mouthful of my espresso.
The Asian guy reappears for a final time, minus the well maintained kid’s scooter. I hear the engine of the hatchback roar off and away. I do the necessary equations. I know what kind of exchange has just taken place, the scooter serving as credit, a surprise gift for the dealer’s son perhaps? The look of desperate hunger in his eyes has intensified. He has the food now. It just needs cooking. He moves quickly into the car park of the Guinness Trust building. He looks back over his shoulder several times and then proceeds to launch pebbles at a second floor window. The net curtains twitch and the window opens. A gaunt looking young woman gestures him away hurriedly, towards the park. She leaves the building and follows him. She pauses for a moment. She looks to the sky with her arms outstretched and pirouettes, celebrating the sunshine. Everybody loves a bit of good weather.
Did you see that? I ask the Mrs.
What?
Did you see any of that?
What darling?
Did you see anything unusual this afternoon?
No darling. Should I have done?
No darling.
I cast my eye over the other diners, good looking and well dressed, mooching in the afternoon light. They are all oblivious and untroubled. They are blissfully ignorant in their safe middle class bubbles. All that separates them from the street is a low brick wall, yet they are a million miles apart. I feel like the fabric of space and time has split and two parallel universes are overlapping before me. I feel like I’m the only one who is aware of this. Where I’m from, invisible barriers and glass ceilings keep the well offs and the have nots apart. Not here though, not in this place. I ask myself where I fit in. The waitress hands me our bill. I try not to wince as I reach into my pocket for my wallet.
