Shank

A Story by TJ

A London girl takes revenge for the murder of her brother

I have to wipe my face about every thirty seconds it is raining so hard. My sopping wet hair covers my eyes and prevents me from seeing straight. The rain is good though. It means that nobody will see how badly I’m sweating. It also means that nobody will think that having my hood almost completely covering my face is suspicious.

It’s three forty-two in the afternoon and it’s been raining like this for the best part of two days. London has never been famously sunny but this is getting a little bit ridiculous. The sky is a dark and murky grey and the water falls loudly on the street floor and of the roofs of the cars that pack the busy road. The busier the better.

This is a really nice part of town. I’ve never been here before. Hardly anyone I know ever comes into these parts of the city. Only the people who make money through drugs and robbery and come here to spend it on nice clothes and expensive jewellery. Like the man I was here to find today.

I’m standing under the bus shelter, and the rain is still dropping onto me. The shelter remarkably cleaner than mine at home. There are no gang signs tagged across its length. No crudely drawn penises everywhere you look. No hastily scrawled messages detailed what girls are “wastegash”, which girls are “skets” and who “fukd Jamal King wen she waz 13!”

I check my phone every minute or so until the vibrator finally buzzes. I freeze, not wanting to check what the text message says. Take a deep breath, exhale and then remove the mobile phone from my pocket, reading the words on the screen.

“Now fam! White Addis and red cap innit. Hurry blud!”

I had instructed Shanice to tell me as soon as Tyrone and his two henchmen exited Harrods and

begin walking my way, to get the underground home. I put my phone away, slip my hand into my deep pocketed jeans and start trudging down the bustling street, doing my best to remain inconspicuous.

It isn’t hard to spot Tyrone and the two others. All three are broad and well over six foot tall. In a neighbourhood like this everyone tends to steer well clear when they see a group of two or more black people walking their way and this threesome was particularly intimidating.

Tyrone has a smug expression on his face, through which his shiny white teeth contrast with his coal black skin. Shanice was right. On his head he wears a red Obey cap with the “59FIFTY” sticker left on (as is the fashion of the time) and over his legs he wears a pair of loosely fitting white, Addidas tracksuit bottoms. I notice the glisten of a brand new watch on his wrist and grimace.

The money him and his friends are spending today is money they were paid to murder my brother.

My brother was a policeman, as is the tradition of our family. The girls become nurses and the boys become coppers. That’s how it’s been since my great grandparents took their first steps off the boat from Jamaica. In one year I’ll leave school and start my pre-registration nurse training. I was looking forward to it so much, until Tyrone and his crew broke into our house four months ago and put eight stab wounds in my brother’s chest.

My eyes swell up and I have to stop myself thinking about it in order to hold back the tears. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d caught him. If they’d locked Tyrone and his boys up and thrown away the key. But nothing had happened. The evidence was “circumstantial” and so all suspects were released and the case suspended. The system was as fucked as Tyrone was about to be, when I’d sorted this out properly.

He is about ten metres in front of me now. Though I am staring at the gum covered pavement as I walk, I can see his looming figure in my peripheral vision. My left pocket has a hole, a hole into which I’ve hidden the shank. The homemade, razor sharp blade that will finally bring my family justice. Hiding it in the hole will have stopped me from being arrested if I was “stop-and-searched” by the police on the way here, but luckily it didn’t come to that. It most resembles a scalpel, with a short, single-edged head and a long thin plastic handle.

I stay on course, not moving slightly to the side of the three men as everyone else is doing. My vision shakes from nerves. The weapon slides in my sweaty palm and I feel sick. I hear Tyrone telling the others about a girl he had sex with a the toilets of a nightclub. His tone is boastful, as it would have undoubtedly been when he regaled his gang with the tale of how he slashed up my brother.

This gets me mad, the anxiousness transforming into pure rage. I increase my pace, and brace my shoulder to push between Tyrone and one of the others. As I do, I plunge the blade into his lower back, between the ribs on his right side. As expected, the end of the shank snaps off, staying embedded in Tyrone while the handle remains in my hand. This should delay the initial bleed-out long enough for me to get far enough away that I won’t be suspected and apprehended.

“WHAT DA F**K!?”

A voice shouts in my face, as soon as I am past the trio. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He shouldn’t realise he’s been wounded for at least a few seconds. I consider my options. I could run. But the street is thick with people and the two gang members are much likely a lot faster than I am. Also, a review of CCTV footage will pick me out fleeing the scene and I’ll have incriminated myself when I’m not even sure if the words were directed at me.

Without thinking, I turn and face. The man who was standing on Tyrone’s left is staring at me, wide eyed and incredulous. He points down at the floor at his shoes. I look as well. They are shining white and obviously brand new yet have a dirty brown smear across them.

“Sket got dog s**t on my new Nikes man! What da f**k b***h!?”

He complains to his friends, obviously unaware that one of them has just been dealt a fatal blow.

“Nah fam!” I protest, more through instinct than strategy as I am completely terrified, “Wa’nt me man! Didn’t touch you man, swear down!”

“Psssch,” he waves me away, “F****n’ wastegash man” he turns and the three begin to walk, “messin’ up my new treads and ‘ting,”

I am safe. My heart pounds in my chest as I walk away, to where Shanice is concealed and obviously witnessed the whole incident. About half a minute later, I hear shouts from behind me. Then women’s screams. In my head I picture Tyrone, pale faced, falling to his knees. A deep red stain spreads from under his brand new Dolce and Gabbana jacket. His friends support him as he slumps to the ground.

No one will know it was me. The shank was decontaminated time and time again using bleach, fire and a wide assortment of other techniques that my brother had told me criminals use to delete fingerprints. I slip the plastic, washing up gloves from hands and drop them into a nearby cigarette bin. I have no gang affiliation, a clean criminal record and (as the case never went to trial) no motive for murdering Tyrone.

I smile.