Part 3 – Autumn 2000 90 Part 4 – Summer 2005 152 Part 5 – Spring 2010 183 Part 6 – Summer 2011 234 Critical Component 264 – 429 Introduction 264 Chapter 1 – The construction of (white) working-class identity in mainstream media and politics 290 Chapter 2 – The construction of (white) working-class identity in narrative literary texts 352 Chapter 3 – The use of first- and third-person narration in Another London 396 Conclusion 410 Bibliography 418
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.
‘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
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.’
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
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
‘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
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 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.
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
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
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
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.’
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
He hung around for hours, watching the door for 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
Spring 2010 Death 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
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
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.
‘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?’
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?’
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