It happened at the little paki shop last week man. I was in there right, didn’t have no money obviously. I had a pot to piss but I sold it. Times is hard blud. Hard. But I went in on the blag innit. I was gonna rob some magazines and maybe sell them for a few a quid. Just enough to get a hit. No more than that man. Like I said, times is hard, man.
I frew my hood up as soon as I get in. Pulled ma jeans up and done the belt up one more hole. Laced up my trainers in case I had to run like fuck. I catch maself in that bent mirror they always have the Paki shops. I can see ma lips but not ma eyes. I gave myself a little kiss in the mirror. The bacon sarnie comes out the back room and looks me up and down. I can feel his eyes takin’ it all in. Pickin’ my lips out of a line of boys. I can feel that slash in my pocket, ready to be flicked and waved around, putting that fuckin’ Paki on the floor. I thought, if it comes to that, I ain’t robbin’ no fuckin’ magazines man. I’m goin’ for the pot blud, believe.
“You!” he shouts at me. I know he’s shoutin’ at me. I look around though. Pretend I’m completely innocent man. Cause I am. At dis point the only fing I’m guilty of is intent. Well, that and the blade. “No hood in this shop.”
“You talkin’ to me?” I say back. I’m finkin’, ‘Cool blud! Don’t give him a reason to lose his cool. You’re just in for a magazine man. Men’s Health, FHM, somefin like that. Maybe the till, but we’ll cross that bridge man. In time. In time.’
“Yes, you!” he shouts. He’s holdin’ one of them big French bread stick fings and he’s pointin’ it at me. It’s in a brown a bag. It looks for a minute like he’s robbin’ me. I square up a bit. My hands clench around that blade. I feel the muscles go tight up at the itchy join on my arm. “No hoods up in this shop!”
“I ain’t takin’ off nuffin’” I say, lookin’ back him.
“Then you get the fuck out!” he shouts, not backin’ down, not fuckin’ scared, not fuckin’ knowin’ nuffin’.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere you fuckin’ paki cunt.”
He come stormin’ round to me, past the crisps, past the sweeties. I thumb around for the button on the handle. I pop out the blade. Just as he gets in front of me he looks right into ma eyes. I look at his. His ain’t scared, no way. I don’t have time to look in that little mirror, but I reckon mines was probably shittin’ it man. I could feel the heart poundin’. I knew I was gonna stick him.
I stabbed him. Free times I fink. I remember him hunchin’ over me, grabbin’ at my hood. I was focusin’ on the blade, keepin’ it tight. I could feel it pressin’ against somefin hard. Maybe a rib or somefin. Just as he pulls the hood down I lose it man. He grabs my neck and gets right up in ma face.
“You motherfuck” he says, veins bulgin’ from his head, eyes goin’ well red man.
I pull out the steel and jam it back in him again. Two times. Bang. Bang. I push him back onto the floor. He knocks over a load of postcards as he falls. All dem London Union Jack cards all over the place. Right next to his head is one of them “I heart London” postcards. He’s squimin’ on the floor. I looked down at the blood on my top. It looked well red. I ain’t never seen dat much before. The more there is, the redder it is. That’s what I reckon man. My heart was beatin’ blud. Boom. Boom. Boom. I stood there standin’. Watchin’ him and that blood, all over the floor.