The Missiles of Suburbia.

Based on a true story…

The Lexington housing estate, main building, East London, mid-July twenty-twelve.

Kwami stood at the urinal and felt the release of pressure. Man, there was nothing better than taking a piss when you really needed it. He shot a glance across to his left at the uniformed soldier who was feeling much the same emotion next to him. Catching each other’s eye they both looked down at the same time and focused on the task in hand. Kwami studied his length as he stretched out the last drops.

About forty feet above them on the wet roof, the Rapier missiles gleamed in the rain, black and sleek. They sat there perched like sullen crows watching out over the Olympic stadium tonight lit with an ethereal blue light in advance of the opening ceremony as yet still over a week away. All four missiles pointed up to the sky as if expecting an alien invasion from the stars. Ergonomics and art in one long black metal cylinder, beauty and devastation amongst the steel casing. A raindrop hung from the almost needle sharp tip of the missile.

One floor beneath and breaking all urinal etiquette Kwami twisted his head to the left so as his ear almost rested on the shoulder of his silk shirt and spoke to the soldier. Knowing himself to be on home turf and with at least five homeboys down the corridor in his flat he felt he could allow himself a certain swagger. Whoever this soldier was, he didn’t care, but his uniform represented authority. And authority always had to be questioned, in Kwami’s book.

‘You been at it since early this morning, hey, I could hear y’all scratching round up there like pigeons in my roof’.

The soldier rolled his eyes, ‘Tell me about it, we been on the roof since five a.m. and what time it now?’ Without thinking he let go of his manhood and checked his watch, the continuing spray of urine arcing wildly against the stainless steel dangerously close to Kwami.

‘Hey man, don’t cross the streams’ said Kwami part in jest part warning, ‘It’s got to be round half-three, I guess. I just got up. Big night, bruv.’

Both men zipped up at the same time but only the soldier moved across to the wash basins.

‘I guess we’re having different days then?’

‘Guess so’, nodded Kwami, one hand on the door. ‘Good luck with putting those missiles on the roof. Olympic bullshit ain’t it?’

‘The soldier warmed his hands under the drier, moving his arms under the hot air.

‘I’m just doing my job…’

‘Yep, I hear that. I’m just doing mine’. Kwami patted his pocket and felt the angular edges of the Crystal Meth.

‘We’re just dealing the deck and playing the cards we been given, you sitting up there in the rain and I’m rolling in bitches back in my crib.’

The soldier wiped the remaining moisture off his hands by wiping them down his army fatigues.

‘…For Queen and Country pal, Queen and country.’

Kwami was half way out the door but held it open with the back of his heel.

‘Hey, don’t suppose you got a spare one of them rockets up there I could have?’

The soldier cracked a smile, but seeing an intent in Kwami’s eyes he quickly resumed his role.

‘Afraid not, sir, they’re all spoken for.’

Kwami kissed his teeth and let the door slam behind him. In the time it took him to walk across the hallway to his flat an idea had formed in his mind. Damn if he wasn’t going to steal one of those missiles and put it in his flat, pride of place, a show of his power and warning to anyone who came round to buy meth off him that he was not a man to be fucked with.

He slammed his front door shut a man on a mission, convinced of the genius of his plan. In the front room the smell of skunk weed hung heavier than the oxygen. Two lava lamps were the only lighting and the two girls on the floor busy packing up crystals from a tray into small plastic bags barely noticed his entrance above the music and TV blaring news in the corner by the window.

‘Listen up. Daddy got a great idea.’

The taller of the two girls groaned and waved him away.

‘Get lost Kwami we’ll lost the count.’

The second girl dropped the small plastic bag she was holding and let out a snort of frustration.

‘Aw, for fuck sake Kwami, now I lost it…’

Kwami came out fighting. ‘What you chatting about, you got the TV on, the tunes… how can you concentrate anyway?’

Sandra spinned round on her buttocks like a crab. ‘This Barclays bank shit. They’re the ones who just reposessed my nan’s house. Now there’s something about them lying and doing fraud…’

‘So?’ Kwami reached into his pocket for his rolling tobacco and papers.

‘So…’ continued Sandra,  ‘So. … Scumbags. They take away Nana’s flat all high and mighty, but they’re low and dirty… Ah, just fucking Barclays bank… What you want Kwami, you’re getting all up in my head.’

Nichelle, arms folded, spun round too, joining her sister in indignant questioning: ‘Yeah Kwami, what you want..?’

Kwami kicked up the carpet with the heel of his trainer. ‘I had an idea… great idea, put us up on top of things, yeah.’

Nichelle gave a knowing look to Sandra like they’d heard it all a thousand failed times before.

‘Kwami had an idea, huh? Well don’t get so uptight you can’t pull it out your arse.’

Both girls laughed. Nichelle couldn’t help herself, she had to twist the knife. ‘Yeah, last idea you had didn’t work out so good, hey? How much meth can a cat eat before it doesn’t land on its feet when you drop it.’

Kwami shook his head and sat down in the arm chair facing them.

‘Nah, I’m over that. I’m thinking bigger these days, you get me? You won’t be laughing when I got that big fat black rocket on my shoulder.’

This time the laughter came from deep within them, a belly laugh. The second girl pointed at him in the chair and between breaths of laughter called him out.

‘Let me get this straight boo, you gonna climb up on the roof and jack a missile, just breeze on past the soldiers up there?’

Kwami had no idea how to do it. Certainly he couldn’t overpower them, but he was sneaky, maybe some sort of a distraction? He waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, no, no. There’s only two of them up their tonight, I been watching. And I just met one of them in the bog…’

Nichelle broke out in uncontrollable laughter for a third time, ‘Ooh Kwami, something ’bout a man in uniform huh?’

Kwami leapt out of the armchair, he could take anything from these girls except a direct assault on his masculinity.

‘Fucking bitches. Listen up. I’m gonna get that rocket. Ya hear me? Sure, I met soldier boy in the toilet and he’s about twelve year old. Tall skinny streak of piss too. Olympics haven’t even started yet, they just got ghost patrol up there, you get me?’

Seeing he was serious, Sandra put down the bag of meth crystals and leaned in towards him. ‘And…?’

Kwami could feel her interest and he liked it. ‘…And… We gonna distract them…’

Nichelle too had become drawn in by his enthusiasm. ‘How? How you gonna distract them, Kwami?’

‘Nichelle, go flash ’em your great tits.’ He licked his lips with an exaggerated motion. ‘Two young soldier boys like that see a princess like you and they gonna get missiles of their own, for truth. They’d follow you into hell.’

Nichelle pushed out her chest with a sense of pride. ‘You better believe… ‘

Sandra didn’t seem so convinced. ‘Get over yourself girlfriend, these ain’t scrubs hanging out of their ride, these are soldiers, trained. T-R-A-I-N-I-N-G’ ,she tapped the side of her head with her finger. ‘No, I got it. What we do is start a fire. Damsel in distress and all that shit, soldiers can’t resist that shit. Kwami starts a fire in the cleaning closet by the lift, Nichelle, you scream out and freak. Down soldier boys come, creaming their pants at the chance to be a hero. Meanwhile I’ll sneak up and grab you your rocket, babe.’

Nichelle shook her head: ‘you two’s smoked to much of your own product. You talking stupid. Anyhow, you can’t just take it off though, it’s like fixed isn’t it, took them long enough to set up, didn’t it?’

Kwami gave another dismissive gesture with his hand, ‘I don’t know, Google it. How to dismantle a rocket or some such shit…’

‘Well it ain’t just a rocket is it you thick bear.’ Sandra turned to the other girl. It was on BBC news wasn’t it, remember when your mum phoned and said it’d been on the news about the Olympic missiles on our building. Check out the story, find out what sort of missile they are, then Google about how it works and shit.’

Kwami had to admit he felt impressed with Sandra’s cold logic. But that was why he was desperately in love with her, no, he reminded himself, not love, I just want to have her. I’m the kingpin, I’m the big daddy.

‘Alright then Kwami boo,’ said Sandra, ‘leave it us then, we’ll get you your little rocket honey, I mean after all, jeez,  it’s the only way I’m gonna get my hands on a long black rocket tonight, hey? she turned to Nichelle and winked.

‘Yeah’ she replied, ‘you just sit there on your throne Kwami boo, all soft-cock. We’ll do it. You’ll just fuck it all up  anyway. You just start the fire. Even you can’t fuck that up. Just sit there getting high, then round midnight drop your blunt like you usually do.’

Both girls fell about laughing, Kwami tried to rub an invisible stain of the arm of the sofa.

___

The fire had been small, but Nichelle’s screams huge and sure enough down the two soldier’s came for Queen, Country and a free look at the best boobs in town.  The rain had stopped by the time Sandra opened the access hatch. A weight of water rolled off and slipped through the gap wetting her shoulder. She shivered off the droplets and hauled herself onto the inspection platform.

She looked up and felt the breath come out of her. There they were. Black death from the skies. So sleek, so elegant, long and shiny reflecting the moon off their casing. Standing up, Sandra ran her hand along the length of the black shaft, catching the raindrops that remained and feeling the water run down her elbow and into her armpit.

Finding the release catch for the main housing it took both hands but she managed to prize it open. Then, reaching into her back pocket to check the folded paper, scrawled with Google instructions, she moved towards the front of the missile support and found the small green release button. She pressed to disengage the clamps and as simple as that the missile clicked forward on its bed a little and was free.

Sandra stood up on the guard rail, leaning in, pressing her toned stomach against the metal for support and took the Rapier missile in her arms as delicately as if it were her baby. She held it to her chest and carefully stepped backwards. Resting the surprisingly light rocket against the wall she stood either side of it and felt it between her legs, allowing herself a moments self-congratulation. She pointed the missile out over the rooftops towards Canary Wharf, skyscrapers rising up above the masses, the red aircraft warning lights twinkling triumphantly from their tops. She aimed it at the tallest skyscraper and sat down on the shaft of the rocket, waving her beeny hat over her head like a cowboy on the bucking bronco imagining she was coming back to save her Nan’s apartment. She slapped her hat against the cold tip of the missile and let it hang there. What a crazy fucked-up world we live in, she mused, patting the glistening rocket, this baby cost more than she was ever likely to earn in her whole career, just this one little rocket could put thirty of her friends’ kids through private school and university.

Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the sound of the soldiers returning back up the ladder. The shock made kick back against the missile. She was trapped, short of jumping off the small observation platform thirty storeys to her death, she certainly couldn’t go back the way she came. The sound of heavy boots on the ladder told her that there was less than fifteen seconds before she was at eye-level with the soldiers.

Trying to stand up too quickly she tripped on the guidance system for the missile, a small black box attached to one of the four tailfins. Feeling the vibration of action beneath her, Sandra studied her crumpled sheet of paper panicking. Almost immediately she felt a burning sensation on her ankle, seconds later she heard the noise. With a bright light that made the soldiers involuntarily cover their eyes the missile launched, taking flight like a raven enraged leaving its rookery. Sandra fell to the ground in the heat and power of the thrust. In the twelve seconds it took for the soldiers to grab Sandra by the arms, the missile had acquired and slammed into the Barclay’s building Canary Wharf like a massive candle being lit by a flame-thrower.

On the floor below Kwami was looking out of the window as the missile struck the skyscraper, his methpipe hanging in the gap between his front teeth as his mouth fell wide open. Immediately closing his lips around the pipe he quickly lit the bowl and inhaled deeply. The firework display lit up his dilated pupils as he stared out at the collapsing building. On his exhale he swore he could smell burning money. The smell carried across above  the exhaust fumes and rat stink that spanned the distance between him and the now decapitated Barclays skyscraper. Moments later, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance, getting closer, added a melody to the drum and bass blasting round his small flat. Kwami turned up the volume and prepared his bowl for another hit. He looked out the window shaking his head.

‘Bitchin…’

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Comments
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