A Way Of Life - An Introduction - Part 2

Floyd – 1997


Floyd Williams sat tied to a rusty metal chair in the middle of a spartan room painfully secured by three sets of handcuffs, two wrapped his ankles to the chairs tubular legs and the third set firmly securing his hands behind the back of the chair. Apart from bundles of rotting newspapers, opened tins of beans, used tins of spaghetti, old crisp excrement, dried pools of urine, used syringes and assorted paraphernalia the room was empty. A single central light bulb illuminated the space. Plywood boards covered the broken paint flaking wood-framed windows. Allowing for relative privacy in the dingy room, Floyd surveyed the environment. It did not look good. Three white men in their thirties, who by the way he had never seen before in his life, surrounded him. His main concern apart from being strapped to a chair in some empty smashed up skag-head drum somewhere in South London was the man standing to his left holding a claw hammer. He had the stark realisation it may be time to talk – ‘Listen mate, I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to have done but you’ve got the wrong fella!’ Waiting for a response which failed to materialise he continued his plight ‘I’m telling you, I ain't done fuck all mate! What’s going on…?’ Without warning the man to Floyds left interrupted his speech as he brought the hammer crashing down onto his right kneecap. A sickening crack echoed around the empty flat followed swiftly by a high pitched scream deep from within his throat. The second man to his right grabbed him around the neck and roughly encased his head with a Travis Perkins rubble sack. With his knee throbbing, his face squashed against the plastic and the grave situation in was his in, breathing quickly became a problem. Floyd panicked. Puffing for air, condensation quickly filled the makeshift hood. His terrified expression distorted behind dripping lines of beaded water. After ten seconds he began to hyper-ventilate. Mumbling protests and gasping for what little air remained he tried to wrack his body free from the numerous restraints. ‘Stop fucking moving’ - The command came from the third man. Floyd stopped moving his oxygen starved body instantly. ‘Good, take his hat off’ – The third man motioned to the man standing to Floyd’s right. Peeling back the rubble sack Floyd’s sweaty black face came into view. Without a beat, he began to express his major ‘fucking concern’ at the night’s proceedings. With a curtly raised hand the third man cut him off ‘Shut your fucking mouth and listen to me you little cunt’ Floyd’s nodding head agreed with such a proposal.

Now that all three men had the complete attention of their captive the third man produced a packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes from the inside pocket of his black leather jacket, a cream polo neck jumper contrasting well in the dirty forty watt light. After offering the pack to both the first man (who declined) and the second man who accepted and kindly lit the first mans cigarette and then his own, offered one to Floyd. As the whites of his dark brown eyes darted left then right, Floyd searched for a possible trick - ‘Do you want one or not?’ - ascertaining that the chances of a trick crack with the hammer or a right hook was minimal; Floyd graciously acknowledged the offer, accepting the cigarette as it was placed between his dry lips and lit. Allowing Floyd a few puffs the first man produced an 8 x 6 colour photograph of an attractive twenty something black female posing in the sun, her white teeth more dazzlingly than the silver paint job of the shiny Renault 5 Gordini Turbo she leaned against. Taking the cigarette from Floyd’s cracked lips the first man raised the picture so that Floyd had a good vantage point for inspection. ‘Floyd, listen to me very carefully – would you say she was a pretty girl? I think she’s pretty. What do you reckon?’ Floyd began to protest ‘Listen mate…’ Again cutting him off in mid flow, his excuses were shot down ‘I told you to listen very carefully didn’t I Floyd’ with a slight nod in the direction of the second man it was silently agreed that Floyd was not complying as requested and this disobedience required a lesson resulting in another hammer blow this time to his left kneecap. Once again filling the small space with Floyd’s sobs and moans. ‘Are you gona listen to me and stop crying like a little girl?’ Through the snot dripping from his nose and through clenched teeth, Floyd agreed that he would do what had been asked. ‘See that wasn’t too hard was it? Answer my fucking question shithead. She’s a pretty girl ain’t she Floyd? Look at the fucking photo!’ Floyd’s eyes met the photograph ‘Very’ was all he could muster. Swapping the original photograph with a second Polaroid, it once again showed the same girl as before this time however she was not leaning proudly against a vehicle. This time, her finely chiselled cheek bones had been smashed in as had her left eye socket. The bridge of her petite nose and her severely bruised jaw, shone purple. ‘Not so fucking pretty now is she Floydy my boy?’

As soon as he had seen the first photo Floyd knew instantly why he had been kidnapped off the streets early that evening. He had been roughly bundled into the back seat of a Black BMW 325i, propped up in-between two burly white geezers and then driven at high speed to this desolate location. Up to that point in the night’s proceedings he had been completely confused. His first thought was that he had been chored by bent old bill who had decided in their infinite wisdom that he had taken one too many liberties and were now nicking him and were going to teach him a little lesson for one of the many petty crimes he had committed in the not too distant past. It wasn’t until he had seen the claw hammer that it dawned on him that these were not some dodgy Gavvers and what was to possibly come was going to be much worse than being banged-up in a magnolia paint speckled police cell, charged with some fan-pot crime that he may or may not have committed. At this moment in time, that would have been like paradise. The silver Renault 5 in the photograph still belonged to him and the pretty twenty something in the Polaroid was Diane. A young lady he had vigorously flirted with until he had won her smile, heart and a dinner date about a year previously. They had dated for about eight months but due Floyd’s constant womanising, lies and lately several violent domestic assaults Diane had broken off the turbulent one-sided relationship. He had not taken the news well and had subsequently done certain things that now found him staring at a photograph of his handy work in front of three men who were not shall we say amused at how he had handled the situation and the ensuing brutal assault he had administered, as the square plastic photograph so blatantly illustrated.


Diane - Two Days Before – 1997


A stainless steel double bath tap gurgled, splurted and eventually gained the required energy to force water up a lime scale covered shower hose and out the end of an encrusted shower head, (50 holes, only 20 worked!) cascading a weak spattering of luke warm water down onto the head of a sleep deprived Diane, every time she tried to evade the spray and yet somehow she got caught every time. It had just gone nine in the morning; by her calculations this meant she had only been asleep for about four hours, settling on the fact she must have finally fell asleep about half past four in the morning. She had tossed and turned all night, Floyd, her estranged boyfriend was due to arrive at twelve in time for a lunch rendezvous they had both agreed on a few days previously. She was dreading it, in her mind there was little that they had to talk about. But Floyd’s usual charm had swayed her doubts.

As the mirror began to fog she peered deeply into her big hazelnut eyes checking for black lines, there were none. After brushing her perfectly straight white teeth she scanned her forehead for spots, after much scrutiny she silently acknowledged that even only after four lousy hours of sleep it could not be disputed that her twenty seven year old skin, body and looks had certainly been generously given. This life had gifted her pocket aces. One of the lucky beautiful ones! Diane heard that and many more similar expressions all the time from her friends and family but more often than not those observations came from badgering men of all ages, colours and sizes who usually acted like rabid dogs trying to ‘chirps’ her at every possible opportunity. Being a ‘fit’ (another term she heard frequently) black sort in her predominately black world could be a real fucking drag sometimes. Floyd had been different, at first anyway. With that thought and the knowledge of Floyd’s imminent arrival, she urinated and jumped in the steaming shower.

Diane’s first encounter with Mr Floyd Williams had been one Saturday about three months before she had succumbed to his charms and they had begun dating. Diane had been on a night out with her girlfriends. It was a celebration for her best friend, Terri. Six others, Terri and Diane had decided to drink to Terri’s newly acquired job as the general manager of one of the new chain of ‘JD Sports’ shops situated in Kentish Town, not quite at Bill Gates’ level but what it did mean was free or heavily discounted trainers and clobber for all of her most immediate friends. Summer was coming and a good drink up was in order. They had all taken a vote earlier on in the evening as to which one of the numerous London venues would eventually be graced by the six jubilant and slightly tipsy young ladies. The youngest of the group Sam, had suggested The Venue night club in New Cross. The general discontent that followed this naive suggestion at having to travel all the way over to South London and then get back home - probably pissed - in the small hours put that idea straight to bed. Terri wanted to go up-town to the Astoria in Charing Cross. It was Back To The 80’s night so this meant plenty of Soul Tunes, Rare Grooves and a chilled evening. A cab was called - ‘Make sure it’s a people carrier Tel!’ was Andrea’s instruction as Terri spoke to the cab office. Several shades of make-up were re-touched, shots were guzzled and bladders were emptied. Twenty five minutes later and with shining lip gloss, the girls alighted at the Astoria night club.

After several cocktails, Diane had spotted Floyd, strutting his stuff in one of the dark corners. Strobe lights and a tipsy eye accentuating his moves. Cautiously, eyes met then averted. Floyd (at last!) took the bait and after introducing himself, strained conversation followed and flowed. The sounds of ‘Central Lines – Walking Into Sunshine’ made their ears and mouths work extra hard. It was the first of many tunes throughout the evening when they had finally allowed barriers to drop and fully relaxed with each other. Through the alcohol and surging dopamine, inhibitions dropped completely and they writhed to the track. Two hours later and their dreamy evening was gate crashed by Terri tugging drunkenly on Diane’s bare arm. Diane’s snug white tank top glowed in the dark and her bare arm had been wrapped around Floyd’s shoulder. ‘Come on Di, let’s go hunny! Sorry mate, she’s gotta leave now! Come on Di!’ After swapping saliva and phone numbers, Diane begrudgingly said farewell to Mr Floyd Williams and joined the rest of her swaying girlfriends as they headed out of the night clubs entrance and into the heaving throng of Saturday night revellers. A minicab was eventually hailed. The girl’s unified, instructed ‘Kentish Town mate!’ The cab driver timidly acknowledged and headed north of the river.

It was a week before Diane had heard anything from the charming, athletic and bloody flash git Floyd. A bloody week he had made her wait! Everyday the phone had rung, if it wasn’t her mum or dad it was her friends enquiring about her health or if ‘that bloke’ had called. No he sodding had not. The following Saturday as she sat watching an episode of Jerry Springer, he did. Her smile would have lit up The Royal Albert Hall. Floyd wanted to meet up and take her for dinner at a Caribbean restaurant of her choice. She declined his offer and made a better suggestion, how about she showed off her culinary skills and cooked a meal for him. Agreeing, Floyd rose to the challenge and a dinner date was set. She put the phone receiver down and coyly smiled. He had only bloody called her! She got straight back on the phone and called her bestest friend in the whole wide world, Terri. Little did Terri know how her ears and that of many others would be vigorously bent on the stories and antics of the ‘wonderful and sexy as fuck’ Mr Floyd Williams in time to come. Hopefully many more dates were to follow over the coming months and she would be in Floyd heaven. If someone laughed in a bar ‘It sounded like Floyd’ or if Aramis aftershave passed her nostrils ‘That’s what Floyd wears’ Love was in the air for sure. After finishing telling Terri of her news, Diane dialled the many numbers of Sam, Andrea, Suzanne, Steph and whoever else wanted to hear of tales of her future beau to be. Two hours later she was exhausted. A candlelit bath, one joint and some Radox finished her off. She fell asleep crisp and nude on clean sheets. It was laundry day! Rose tinted thoughts fell into blackness.



Floyd – 1997


‘You better answer my fucking question cunt!’ Floyd’s brain raced. What could he say? He was bang to rights. Yes he had smashed in the face of a very beautiful Diane and whatever he had to say would be pointless. Forever the hustler he chanced his arm anyway. ‘Listen mate I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about’ This time the hammer found the back of Floyd’s head. Stars and prickles were the last things he saw. A warm trickling sensation carved its way down the back of his head and eventually pooled on the collar of his white Fred Perry T-shirt. The warm stickiness bringing back a sense of consciousness. An upper right molar had been dislodged from the force of the blow, tonguing the jelly void he spat out the iron taste along with the cracked tooth. A red mess of enamel bits and blood splashed just short of the third mans black polished loafers. Floyd had just enough energy to ask one question ‘What the fuck is going on mate?’ Looking down at his shoes the third man checked to see if any of this scumbag’s blood had blemished the black leather of his £100 loafers. Fortunately it had not. ‘If I thought that was on purpose, I would cut your fucking tongue out! However I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt Floyd, but for this…’ Waving the Polaroid of Diane’s smashed face into Floyds, he continued ‘…this, I cannot allow. You don’t have that option I’m afraid, mate’. With each word, Floyd’s heart sunk further.

At that moment he was pretty fucking sure they knew who he was and his connection to Diane but the rules of the street governed his stubborn generic mentality. With blood still oozing he made one last effort to get himself out of this situation. ‘Listen mate, whatever I am supposed to have done, if I need to apologise to anyone, I will! Just say the word and it’s done, I promise!’ Intrigued by this line of defence the third man probed deeper ‘Oh yeah! And why’s that then Floyd? What have you been up to?’ Talking was good! Better than the hammer any day. Seizing the lull of impending violence, Floyd thought he may still have a chance at talking his way out his ensuing nightmare ‘I don’t know mate, nothing. But if I have, I’m fucking sorry right! Whoever asked you to do me, tell them I’m sorry, please mate!’ Floyd’s eyes pleaded; through cigarette smoke the third man met his gaze ‘Too late for that mush. You know what you did, and we know what you did. The fact that you are saying sorry for something you may or may not have done is a fucking clear indication that even if, which in this case is not remotely true, but lets say, even if you had not kicked the shit out of this not so now fucking beautiful woman you are expecting some sort of aggro for whatever actions you may or may not of performed. Lets face it you’ve got something coming ain’t ya? So let’s cut the shit shall we?’ Floyd’s heart hit the sea bed in a cloud of sand. Excuses were spent, blood congealed and an intense throbbing began. Trying to buy some time he asked for another cigarette. His wish was granted. Licking away the dry blood from his lips he inhaled deeply, burning brightly the cigarettes tip crackled. His brain racing at 18000 rpm, Floyd now fully understood he was completely and utterly fucked. There would be no amount of spiel that would relieve him from these men, the pain, the hand cuffs, the chair, the hammer and this poxy room. Who the fuck were these geezers? Why would these three men be so interested in Diane and her welfare? Maybe Di’s old man had called in a favour. Floyd had only had the pleasure of Errol’s company a couple of times throughout his relationship with Diane. Old school rumours and Chinese whispers of her father’s reputation had filtered down through the grapevine and had suggested that he had better treat Diane accordingly. Apparently, Errol was slightly connected to a few heavy bods south of the river.

The rumours rumoured that an incident had happened years ago and because of it the old man had deep ties with the naughty said white firm. Floyd didn’t know the full SP, but Errol had apparently been stabbed and almost killed a few years back and had been fortunately saved from deaths door. Since that moment Errol had maintained contact and had participated in various business ventures with his saviours over the years. However that was years ago! He was passed it surely? Nah, it couldn’t be Diane’s old man. His day had already been and gone. If it wasn’t Diane’s old man who the fuck had he upset? Take your pick! He had been a busy boy lately causing havoc and misery for many of London’s citizens. Floyd took a long drag on the bum-sucked bloodied cigarette, which was kindly being driven by the third man. He searched his interrogators blue eyes for any clue of where this evening would eventually terminate. A glint of menace was all he could fathom. His cigarette burned through its B&H logo. Only a few puffs were left before he ran out of time and needed to start answering some fundamental questions. Floyd braced himself; he suspected this night was far from over. The cigarette expended, a black loafer squashed his last hope. One last plume of grey smoke exhaled from his overworked lungs. ‘I don’t know who you are fella’s, but you got the wrong guy’ He knew he was fucked, but self preservation persisted. His attempts were useless. The second man produced a large kitchen knife. A silver glint headed at speed for Floyd’s thigh, almost feeling like a punch the steel sliced through his dark blue 501’s into muscle. The shock of the knife was all he remembered as hot pain turned into fuzzy blackness as consciousness was lost.