A Way Of Life - An Introduction - Part 4

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.


Diane - Two Days Before – 1997


Applying the last touches of red lipstick, Diane examined herself in the bathroom mirror. She was ready. Eleven forty five. Floyd would be here any minute, possibly. More than likely Floyd would be late as he always was and god knows he would have some excuse. The trains were late, his bank card was giving him shit or his mate had let him down in some way. Whatever! She had time to kill and made sure she had everything covered. She mentally checked off the culinary requirements for lunch as she skipped down a wooden flight of stairs toward the kitchen. Lunch smelled good! Salt Fish had already been rinsed in warm water, brought to the boil, drained, rinsed again and then fried off for about five minutes. After being fried and cut into chunks, assorted vegetables and the Ackee were added, along with a touch of oil, garlic, chilli powder, ginger, thyme, scrunch of black pepper, a touch of salt and ten minutes of simmering and the Ackee, vegetables and the Salt Fish looked and smelled divine. All the while, Sarsaparilla had chilled in the fridge. Once the dumplings had been drained and soaked on paper (so they didn’t end up soggy) all was good. Kitchen duties were definitely in-hand. Diane hoped he was going to different this time.

Seven months had already passed by. Summer had been followed by autumn and winter sharpened its claws. It was about three months into the relationship before things went awry. It was stupid really. She had been to the corner shop on errand to get breakfast essentials. Ten minutes later she happily spilled numerous contents onto the dining room table. Floyd had noticed the lack of his expected pack of king size red Rizlas. ‘Where are the skins babe?’ kicking herself, she knew had forgotten something! ‘Sorry babe, I forgot! We can get some later, let’s have breakfast and I will go and get some’ Smiling she placed a frying pan, gathered butter, pepper, soft bread and asked ‘How do like your eggs in the morning, big boy…’ ‘Never mind that shit, where are the fucking skins?’ Not sure if he was joking or not ‘Hey grumpy boy, what’s up babe?’ Not missing a beat, Floyd answered ‘I’ll tell you what’s fucking up! Where’s the fucking skins, I told you to get skins didn’t I?’ - Huh? – Diane could not believe her ears. ‘Calm down babe, I’ll get some after we... – Cutting her off in mid-flow ‘Calm fucking down? I wanted skins’ Punching and leaving a three knuckled dent in the side of her two story fridge, Floyd stormed out of the kitchen and seethed somewhere out of earshot. Back in the kitchen, Diane deluded herself that she shouldn’t have been so careless and had forgotten to purchase the Rizla papers. His outburst had frightened her. A side of him up until moments before had been hidden. Grabbing her keys she quietly left Floyd and his mood, closed the front door and sought one large pack of red Rizlas quickly. Once Floyd had put to work his precious Rizlas the rest of the afternoon and early evening was spent making up, music and smooching, an underlying vibe also spent the afternoon. No man or person for that matter had spoken to her like that before. Diane was infatuated and opinions and instinct were turned upside down. She convinced herself Floyd was tired, stressed or something else. Kissing him in the hallway as she wished him goodnight and after feeling his body against hers, the benefit of the doubt had been given. That was a few months’ memories ago. He had painted his dark true colours too many times since.

The doorbell snapped her into gear and as per usual he was late. She forgot about the past and panicked on the future. A quarter past twelve the doorbell had rung. Diane’s heart skipped a few beats. He was here! Opening the front door she let him in. ‘Smells good baby’. The meal had been given many hours of attention ‘I know, I’ve been slaving away all morning’ She promised herself that she would not be hostile but after last time and his abuse, niceties were a thing of the past and it was difficult to be civil. ‘Don’t be like that baby, thought we were gonna talk?’ She had promised. ‘We will. Go in the front room put some tunes on, I need to sort a few things in the kitchen’. Lying, she disappeared into the kitchen. Floyd made himself comfy in the living room heading straight for Diane’s record collection and flicking through the various records he cheekily cued up the sounds of ‘Feeling Lucky Lately’ by High Fashion. Skinning up a big weed joint, Floyd bopped to the music. The tracks bass reverberated into the kitchen. Inspecting her dishes, Diane decided it was time. The food was more than ready. Miming to the track she served lunch onto big white plates. As she finished plating up there was a lull in the music, moments later her favourite song of all time filled the small space of her one bedroom flat. ‘Let Love Shine’ by ‘Skyy’ made her head and body move to the rhythms. Fucking Floyd! He knew how to push her squishy buttons. Let Love Shine!! With a big smile, lunch was served. The dumplings were perfect! Too many weed joints and glasses of cheap red wine later, silver blinds were drawn and several Marvin Gaye tracks played softly in the background as the two entwined and made sweet slow love in the dim afternoon rays.

It was nearly three when she woke from a gentle snooze. Careful not to wake Floyd, she gingerly slid back the crumpled bed sheets and moved his arm from her waist. Their frenetic lovemaking had finished up in the bedroom. The sofa had not been too kind to her knees! A head throbbing from copious weed and wine, Diane headed to the bathroom for habitual urination. Red lipstick smudged her perfect full lips; annoyed at having slept with Floyd (Another thing she had promised herself not to do!) she scowled at herself in the mirror, she was so weak and Floyd was so cute! A sliver of a grin made her scowl at her dishevelled self even more. A strong cup of coffee was needed real bad. Leaving the bathroom, the kettle eventually steamed into action. Three generous sugars followed by a dab of blue top milk and she cupped the aromatic concoction with both hands. Reflecting on the days events, a wry smile curled across her face. Maybe things could work out with Mr Floyd Williams after all. Deciding to celebrate with some tunes and a big joint she ransacked her music collection, after deep deliberation of her mood she settled on ‘C.O.D’s’ 12” vocal version of ‘In The Bottle’. Fuck the neighbours; she was happy and slightly stoned.

Two joints and two cups of coffee had been consumed before Floyd surfaced. Looking like the cat that had got much of the cream he selfishly stole the remnants of Diane’s second joint and sucked deeply on the goodness. ‘Hey big boy how you doing?’ Looking at the cut of Floyd’s six pack, her juices stirred. Curling her toes between his chiselled stomach and the waistband of his boxer shorts, gravity forced him toward her. The music stopped and interrupted the moment. ‘Put some tunes on baby’ Pausing just above her lips, Floyd looked deep into Diane’s eyes. His weed smelling breath inquiring ‘Where were you last Friday?’ Seduction crashed liked a plane. Releasing her toes she pushed him aside and headed to the kitchen. Switching the kettle on for a third cup of coffee, she lit a shaky fag. ‘What are you talking about, please don’t start Floyd’ Following her through to the kitchen, Floyd pressed ‘What do you mean, don’t start? Who were you with?’ It was always going to be good to be true.

Thinking back to three days ago when she had struggled with the decision of whether to have lunch with this man had ever been a good idea. Ever the optimist, she had agreed. Human faith had let her down once again. Trying to break the tension she offered a coffee ‘I don’t want your stinking fucking coffee, who were you with hey?’ Nervous hands prepared two cups of coffee. It was happening yet again. The tone of his voice suggested this was not a game. Her worst fear was being realised. Another visit and precursor to the violence he had subjected her to over the last few months. She thought he had changed. ‘Answer me! Where were you?’ Tears welled and dropped ‘Please Floyd, don’t’ The first contact of his fist hit her just above the left eye, splitting the thin lines of her eyebrow. The second contact of his bony fist to petite bone dislodged her slender jaw. A smashing mug, coffee, darkness and blood were all she remembered. It could have been days later when the chimes of the hallway clock woke her from the throbbing pain. Dried blood pulled on her matted hair as she reached for support from the ovens grill handle. Wincing, she sat upright and steadied herself. Listening intently, hoping she was alone, the only thing audible was the repeated snaps and crackle of the stuck record and a nauseous ringing. After vomiting blood and chunks over the black and white kitchen floor lino, Diane passed out.


Floyd - 1997


‘Floyd, wake up son!’ Motioning to the second man the third man nodded the approval of a back handed slap. A blur later, one smashed across the right side of Floyd’s bloodied and sweaty face. In his subconscious he had heard the command of ‘Wake up son’ the slap was overkill. His cheekbone ringing ‘Yes mate, I can hear you mate, what the fuck man?’ Taking an adverse reaction to such a comment ‘I’m not your fucking man you little prick.’ Immediately Floyd saw the errors of his way and started to grovel. ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t mean, I mean, I didn’t mean it in that way. You know what I mean? It wasn’t meant that way, what do you want me to say man? Shit sorry..!’ Too late, the steel kitchen knife found its way through the muscle of his right bicep. Agonizing screams were muffled as the seconds mans forearm gripped Floyd’s mouth and face cutting off his oxygen and stifled his gritted moans. ‘Let’s get one thing straight Floydy my boy, you better start having some fucking manners mate. I’m not your fucking man, where do you think you are?’ Waving away any intention of a rebuke, the third man continued his torrent. ‘Diane was a pretty girl wasn’t she Floyd? Look at the fucking picture you slag. Tell me why you felt the need to beat the shit out her. Made you feel like a big fucking man did it? Little cunts like you should be fucking banished from the earth. You’re a fucking waste of space!’ The second man released his grip and a second backhanded slap connected with the left hand side of Floyds face. Disgusted the third man left the room.

Pacing, the third man dialled luminescent numbers on his new slim-line Sony Ericsson mobile telephone and waited for connection. Several pips later. ‘Errol? Yes mate, everything is cool. Okey doeky will do. How’s Di? Alright mate no probs. Talk to you later’. His eardrums straining, Floyd could have sworn he had heard the name Errol. A fresh wave of sweat rolled down the contours of his face. Beckoning, the third man nodded his head suggesting a group discussion was in order. Floyd was left bleeding, sobbing and alone in the dank room. Tensing the one leg that had not been subjected to too much trauma and flexing his good arm he fought against the digging steel cuffs; apart from making welts, Floyd achieved nothing but more pain. Was he going to die? Nah, course not! He had only bashed up some silly bird. It may have been Errol’s youngest daughter and surely a few digs were to be expected of course, but nothing else. When he had heard the BMW skid up beside him a few hours earlier the thought of ‘RUN!!’ had flashed slowly through his stoned mind, by the time the electricity had connected millions of neurons and they had found their way to the relevant parts of his brain it was far too late. Reflection brought his memory back to the moment when he had struck Diane’s pert nose with his third punch. The soft cartilage giving way to his hard middle knuckle. As far as he was concerned she had taken a fucking liberty. One of his pals Mark had seen Diane out on the town the week before getting a bit close with another man. His mate had said that many moments were spent that shouldn’t have been spent ‘If you know what I mean Floyd?’ This was all the ammunition he had needed. Fact was a commodity not worth the effort. As that punch had squarely connected and she hit the floor unconscious he had stolen her cigarettes and her last few joints off the dining table, checked himself in the hallway mirror and exited the flat out into the Saturday herds of Kentish Town market as it was closing down for another days trading. Another blended dull citizen, melting into the background. That was three days ago. After the first sleepless night he had pretty much forgotten about his savage assault. In his world life always moved along regardless, unfortunately life moved in haphazard ways. Sometimes you got away with things in this world, sometimes you didn’t. Seeing shadows moving he stopped his lame attempt at escape.

His pleading began as soon as the three men re-entered the small pokey room. ‘Listen mate, I know that was Errol on the phone…’ Floyd had now decided if he gave a smidgen of truth his fate would possibly be reduced. Working with stacked odds, he would close his case. Swallowing a mouthful of congealed iron and directing his comments wholly to the third man '…What did Errol say? Tell him I’m sorry, really fucking sorry! I only gave her a little slap, honest! It was only a little back hander!’ As the words flowed, Floyd heard himself unfortunately so had the three men. His eyes squinted and he waited for the injuries. They never came. Hearing the third man inquire - ‘Go on. So you gave her a little slap. What else?’ - and amazed at his fortune, Floyd quickly responded ‘Nothing much mate honest. I think she might have fell on the cooker and banged her head. I don’t know mate! It happened so fast’. Just as fast, a knuckle dusted fist smashed into the right side of his ribcage. A wheeze later and it was possible one rib had shattered and jagged bits had entered his right lung. ‘You’re a fucking liar Floyd. Errol sends his regards’. Two 9mm bullets disappeared into Floyds face. One shattered his right cheek bone; the second pushed his frontal lobe inward ever so slightly. Before his body slumped, he was already dead. Making the decision to wipe this piece of shit out had not been taken lightly. Giving someone a good beating or handing out a few slaps with blunt instruments was on a completely different level to taking another person’s life. Mindless killers we were not. Unfortunately for Floyd that decision had been made in his absence two days ago. If he was alive, Floyd would have had this sobering thought. The second day after he had bashed Diane, he had pretty much concluded that he had gotten away with that bashing and had begun to relax. In fact, he had only been eluding the inevitable. Several tooled up geezers inside several motors had been hunting him for the past two days and he had somehow managed to escape his death sentence for those two days, blissfully unaware of his fate. No doubt that irony would have probably also escaped him. Looking at the first and second man for any response, the third man noted the business faces staring back at him. There was work to do. ‘I’ll phone Roxy. Bern, Tricxy, do the honours’.



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