Radical Read Free Page A

not in a red bandana it stands up in a box-cut, with a mad design trimmed up the back. My crew all wear the same clothes, blast the same tunes. Like E.P.M.D., we look the Business.
    I’m fifteen years old, and I live in Southend in Essex, Southeast England. This summer, like every summer, the fair is here, in the park across the way from my house. When I was young, I used to go to the fair with my folks. Back in those days it was all about the rides: the dodgems, the Egg-Roller, the Carpet Roll. These days I go with my boys, and at night, not during the day. Now I go to chill and check out the skins on show, the local female talent.
    As Ice Cube once rapped, “it was a good day”—or at least it had been. The sky is full of blurred lights against the blackness: there’s a backdrop of girls’ screams and thumping tracks from the rides; that sweet and sour fairground smell of candy floss and fried onions. We’re bowling around, on the prowl, when out of the crowd comes a face I recognize. It’s my friend Chill—real name, Tsiluwa. Chill and I are tight. Born in Zimbabwe, he came to Britain a few years ago. He’s pelting towards us, crisscrossing through all the people, and I can see straight away that he’s relieved he’s found us.
    â€œYo, Chill. Whassup, bro?”
    â€œWe’ve got beef, boys,” he says.
    Chill turns around and I follow his gaze to where, and whom, he’s been running from. Barging through the crowd is a group of white boys in green bomber jackets, and they’re stepping to us big time. When they see Chill has friends, they stop in their tracks. The crowd between us starts to thin, and I can feel my heart racing. The leader, a well-known local thug called Mickey, scopes us as he raises his right hand in a fascist salute. Then his friends are all at it, swearing and giving Nazi salutes, calling us “niggers” and “Pakis” and telling us to “fuck off back to where we came from.”
    It’s good to know that in situations like this my boys’ve got my back. Mickey’s threats are clear. I’ve been here before, but it’s not something I’m about to get used to. Especially when it’s more than all mouth: I know from experience that they’ll be packing knives. If we get caught, we’ll get sliced to pieces. The longer our stand-off lasts, the more the crowd melts away, and the hustle and bustle of the fair gives way to an ominous ring of space. No one wants to know.
    We split. I’m running between the stalls, weaving in and out of people, running so hard I can hear my breath thumping against the screams from the rides. I know the park well, know where to go. That means I can give these skinheads the slip, and I realize with relief that the shouts of “Paki!” are drifting further and further away as I make my way to the gate. Then I’m over the road, heading for home. Straight in and up the stairs, up to my room and under the bed where I keep it: my favorite hunting knife. Taking three stairs at a time, bish-bash-bosh, I’m down and back out of the door before my parents can ask what’s going on.
    Now’s not the time to cower and hope the shit blows over. Now’s the time to stand with my boys, to back them up. No racist is gonna run us off our own streets.
    The group reassembles at one of our prearranged meeting points when we get split up like this. It takes awhile, but once we’re sure it’s safe, we gather on the corner of Chalkwell Avenue and London Road. We’re not looking for trouble, but we sure as hell aren’t backing down either. We’re not gonna be run down by Mickey and his goons.
    As we walk back up London Road, a white van suddenly pulls up behind us. Back doors open, and out climb a group of nasty-looking skinheads.
    Shit, here we go.
    I’ve heard stories of “Paki-bashing” before. Tales of groups of men driving around