The block was amongst dozens in Coldharbour Ward, a crooked grid of drab eyesores from the 20th century. Kendi Estate wrapped around a central square like a rectangular horseshoe, with haphazard new homes crammed in where possible. Over time these unregulated flats reflected the inhabitants - a menagerie of the desperate, pushing against one another in a mad gasp for air.
To the square’s south lay the ruined blueprint of a playground plundered for scrap. To its north, the muddy war zone of a former communal garden drowned by the yearly floods. A forest of wires webbed overhead, black and dense, tangled beyond rescuing. In the middle of the plaza a circle of rotten benches backed against a concrete plinth. A statue of the estate’s namesake once stood here, but during the fascist wave rioters had pulled it down, breaking it into chunks to be hurled at their minority scapegoats.
Kasia reached the first of the external balconies surrounding each floor. With ground floor homes at the mercy of the Thames no matter how many sandbags the residents stole, Kasia’s first floor position was much the same as her career’s - uncomfortable, but fortunate.
Her neighbour was outside this evening, hanging clothes from the above walkway's ceiling. Imany had already been on the estate when a pregnant Kasia moved in. Territorial and maternal, and a generation older than Kasia, the estate’s unofficial agony aunt was a useful contact to have. As time had shown, she was also a dangerous rival. She paused from her laundry to wag a finger at Kasia.
“Back home on time today? Didn’t fancy shaggin’ your life away in some club again?”
“Aw leave it out! I only went out last night to have a think,” Kasia pulled a peg off the line and pinched Imany’s pointing finger with it, “had any cool adventures at work?”
Imany tutted and rehung the towel Kasia had let fall, “It’s hard being the block’s laundry lady when I’m stuck with one of your shite Riese machines.”
“It pays more than I get telling you we can’t fix it,” Kasia motioned to her door, “and you get to see more of her.”
“I’m happy to keep an eye on her. She even helped fold clothes today, before her phone distracted her.”
“I hope you didn’t give her any money.”
“If I wanna treat my second favourite girl I don’t need a reason!”
Kasia frowned, “learning to rely on handouts won’t help her.”
“Payin’ someone for work ain’t a handout though izzit…”
Kasia dazed into the plaza below to find a counterargument. A cloud of fruity steam billowed in her face, making her splutter. She flapped frantically at the air, “fuck’s sake Imany you know I hate that!”
Imany drew her vape again and blew at Kasia to force her away, “Katarzyna when you’ve had my life you can talk to me about quittin’! Shit!”
“Why can’t you have a normal addiction!? Like clubbing?”
“Too mainstream.”
“Not all of them are…”
“Yeah right you mean those stupid intimacy clubs. You won’t find me in one of them.”
“I dunno… I kinda need a hug now and then.”
“You can have one from me any time you want,” Imany blushed at her, getting an eye roll back.
“I’ll hold you to that one day,” Kasia unlocked her front door with her phone and shook one of the hanging duvets, “I’ll leave you between the sheets for now.”
Kasia’s flat was the standard size: a single room, with one corner walled off for a basin and toilet. Financial strain obligated her to sell the wash corner’s boiler, and her heart bled watching Eva acclimatise to cold washing. Later, Eva started smuggling toilet paper from school so Kasia could ‘save some money and treat herself’, and ever since, they both made a game of pilfering supplies to brighten up each others day.
The flat had a microwave with a stove top and inserts for tea and rice. Beside it a rickety old fridge hummed, and resting on that was a brand new TV. Adjacent to the wash corner rested a springy bunk bed buried in floral duvets. Eva demanded the top bunk, giving Kasia the pleasure of hanging a sheet curtain on the lower one.
On the room’s other side was a table with two foldout metal chairs. Over this, an electric fan stuck out of the wall, which Eva complained only reminded them they had no air conditioning. The walls were mostly pink, painted by Kasia with the one tub she could afford during Eva’s last birthday, and patches of lime green shone through. In a bid to fight freak temperatures and opportunist thieves, the small window by the door was sealed with bricks.
“Make me some tea you damned woman!”
“Make it yourself! Kurwa I’m not your carer,” Eva lowered her phone and drooped her head over the bunk’s side, “Mamusia can you make me one as well?”
“So unfair! You sit up there playing games all day and as soon as I get home I’m on the second shift…” Kasia filled a strainer with oolong leaves and brought two noodle pots out. She filled the kettle insert and let it boil in the microwave.
“How’s school been today? Are you on top of everything?”
“Nah, I got bored and started learnin’ another musical; a super old one called Style…” Eva waved her hands in the air, “by some guy called Frank Sinatra. Have you heard of him?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell; what is he like R&B or something?”
“Yea I reckon so, you wanna hear it?”
“Totally!” Kasia pulled herself onto the kitchen counter. Eva dropped to the floor and flicked her phone at the TV to play a synthesised backing track. She did the routine using a paper plate as a hat and the broken umbrella as a cane. Kasia cheered her on despite her angst bubbling behind her smile. Whatever x-factor she was missing, Eva was about to get. People kept commenting on her looks, and the battle to stop her uploading photos - a frowned upon behaviour in the age of AI captures - was getting harder. Kasia knew the experience, the gushing comments from ‘boys’, the adoration that lead naive girls to tragic ends the girls were blamed for.
The routine ended. Kasia clapped and cheered at her bowing child.
“That’s so cool! I can’t wait to see my little bąbelek performing at the West End!”
Eva's eyes went wide and glinted, “imagine how many subscribers I’d get!”
“As many as you can eat!”
A pause. Eva put the umbrella down and swayed. Kasia held her finger up.
“Nie.”
“But -”
“Nie Evie. I told you you’re too young for it.”
“It’s just dimples! It guarantees a part! Everyone knows this…”
“I don’t care. I am not putting my twelve year old child in plastic surgery and our insurance doesn’t cover dimples,” she poked Eva’s cheeks, making her jump back, “it does cover antidepressants. If the producer doesn’t think you’re fit enough to hire you can take them instead.”
“Can’t I do a charity fundraiser!?”
“With who Evie? The Red Cross?”
“They might ‘ave a doctor who does dimples! And implants.”
“Kurwa mać Evie you’re on about tits now as well?”
“Maybe, yes! If I end up flat chested I'd be lucky to get cast as a prop!”
Kasia folded her arms and pouted, “you could be a washboard…”
“You are not funny,” Eva flourished the umbrella like a sword and thrust at Kasia. Kasia giggled childishly and stabbed back with chopsticks, before dunking them in the noodle pots and sitting at the table. Once their fits of giggles calmed down, Kasia raised her noodles as if toasting.
“For all our problems, none of the women in our family needed implants, and anyway, with a shit body you could still play for a queer audience.”
“Ugh yuck,” Eva wriggled in the chair, “a bitchy minority audience findin’ ways to tear each other down, nah thanks.”
“What about me!?”
“I’m not sure what sexuality you are, the way you keep bangin’ on about that palm tree.”
“Don’t talk about Peter like that… and you shouldn’t rule out us ladies, you know what they say about matching with women.”
“Jack can only fill what Jill can thrill?”
“Quite right. And you can fill it with that umbrella.”
Eva giggled again, “what if it finally opened!?”
“I’d need to call our insurance and see if it’s covered -”
“Don’t even bother…”
* * *
The superintendent was micromanaging. Since Rajesh Tomar had died locally, Brixton had to be combed for lice. Detectives were assigned to the borough’s estates, and to Gemma, this one looked no more worth glancing at than any other.
Night had arrived, and despite the endless roar of London's traffic the area felt still. Gemma knew residents in these blocks liked to keep to themselves indoors. Even the aggressive youths - the ‘roadman’ menace her decrepit parents would natter about - preferred to loiter online. She parked under the canopy of an abandoned petrol station, across the road from the target estate, and logged her aviators online.
“What you thinking then?” Luis, sat in the passenger seat next to her, calibrated his own shades, “could a cabal of vijis sink so low as to live here?”
“Terrorists, and you were more upbeat about this than I was.” Gemma scanned the block. One woman of mid 40’s, stocky with mocha skin and dreadlocked hair, fiddled with laundry on the first floor. The aviators found no online data. A sign of suspicion. She bookmarked her for future reference and moved on.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“If you were a doctor - let’s assume our suspect is - and you assassinated a major political figure, would you hide half an hour down the road, mixing with chavs? Surely you’d just blend into a hospital?”
“Given that’s all we have on this particular terrorist, and they will know we know that, a hospital would be too obvious. Blending in with the plebs, where many support R-B? It’s completely counterintuitive, and therefore plausible,” Luis stretched his shoulders, “well... are we wading in for once?”
“Don’t tease me with such nostalgia,” Gemma cocked her head at him, “all those years wasted on martial arts when I should have studied social media marketing.”
Luis snickered, “And when these 'chavs' start packing heat? The only reason we're still alive is ‘cause China makes our enemies stab at each other. If R-B is coming to London surely they’ll bring firearms.”
“They wouldn’t hand them out to the rabble and even if they did, China would surely lift the amnesty, at least for us.”
“The Metropolitan Police armed with lead?” Luis eyed his sidearm - a taser he had illegally modified to hurt more - as if it was roadkill, “god I wish… I don’t care what it is we’re under attack from - fucking intellectual discourse for all I care - I’m still sick of being up shit creek with a taser for a paddle.”
Someone hammered on the window. Luis yanked at his holster.
“Who you suspectin’ detectives? Nice glasses! Afraid we been outta petrol for the last few decades,” a young man in a track suit covered with symbols hopped over the bonnet and blew Gemma a kiss. Luis laughed and lowered his weapon.
“Bold little cunt,” Gemma focussed on the inside of her aviator lenses. The man’s online profile expanded over them. With her eyes she flicked unimportant parts of his life away. They dropped down the shades like falling tears.
“Go on, go and pin him down,” Luis sneered, “he’s black he’ll be used to it.”
“Luis! We’re nearly in the 90’s white boy! It might be easy for you to joke like that. He's clearly Bantu anyway.”
Luis scoffed and dismissed her. Gemma watched the man cut into the estate and peer over the car with concern. She pulled herself over the drivers seat and zoomed with her glasses, “Oh for gods sake…”
In the distance, in the overgrowth of the Thames bank, a pack of vagrants congregated. Luis tapped the dashboard touchscreen and launched the car’s palm-sized camera drone, piloting it above the petrol station to rest on the canopy. The riverside was thick with cigarette smoke. The vagrants had matching denim jackets, each with a lapel badge, each appearing new. A dangerous sign of unity. Either they were in a gang, or about to form one. Luis focussed on a lapel badge and found a messy squiggle of gold stitches.
“There must be a hundred of the bastards,” he rubbed his forehead, “what’s that logo then?”
“The old arts uni isn’t it? Goldsmiths? Never seen these guys before and there are no big gangs around here, so it’s a merger. Rajesh Tomar’s death clearly isn’t old news yet.”
“If they’re opportunists they’re looking for a quick victory. Two detectives would be quick enough. Let’s bounce.”
Gemma agreed and started the car. The motor hummed online with an electric purr. Luis piloted the drone back, but caught something.
“Wait. Look there.”
Five vagrants were skulking across the road, heading for a flank of the estate block. Luis unholstered his taser but Gemma stopped him.
“We can’t, I’ll call in a Chad; should be enough to scare them off.” She loaded a defence drone from the touchscreen - the kind that saw through walls and kept people awake - and told it to dangle over Kendi Estate for the night.
“You sure they’ll green light it?” said Luis, “this isn’t Chelsea. The cavalry won’t ride for estate citizens.”
Gemma rolled the car out of the forecourt, “we can’t take that many vagrants, and if they think the mayor’s death is the sign of the end times they’ll have less qualms knocking us two off. Don’t worry detective, estate folk always chase the homeless away.”
“That only gets the weed at the flower. Eventually someone has to get their hands dirty and if we don’t, Red or Black will. And there goes another community to the other side,” Luis swatted his glasses off and watched the world outside pass by, “I keep telling you Gemma, policing is dead. We’re halfway between a marketing war and an actual one.”
* * *
The cartoon lobster on Eva’s noodle pot grinned. Kasia took a photo of it to show her friends, commenting that it smugly knew the noodles were meat-free. Her profile reminded her of similar photos she took before - the ones where she drew silly faces on each pot for Eva to play with. They would make personalities for each, throwing them together in a noodle-based reality TV show. Eva then took the pots they ‘voted off’ to the recycling centre for spare cash. Since the council had now axed the trash-for-cash scheme, Kasia vengefully refused to recycle.
Eva scoffed her baklava treat down in one mouthful, returned to her bunk, and plugged into her VR headset. She joined her friends in whatever game was in fashion, and was lost to Kasia for the night. Kasia waved goodbye to the girl who couldn’t see or hear her and waited for her own evening treat: a bitter hot chocolate, boiling in the microwave. She enjoyed her little ritual of watching powdery chunks surface, which she crushed with her prized teaspoon - a gift from Babunia Ewa, a piece of real silver with the Polish Eagle on the handle.
The smell of plasticine berries told her Imany was outside, probably playing on her laptop. Kasia decided to go and bother her.
“Go on then, where should I go next?” Imany drew deeply from her vape, but Kasia didn’t mind when they sat like this on her doorstep. She took Imany’s laptop and clicked on an army, pointing it at a land to conquer. The AI opponent moved to retaliate.
“I dunno why you don’t play with the other ladies.”
“Gossipin’ all day about so-called friends? Wavin’ childish super powers about?” Imany flapped her hands, wafting vapour in front of her, “all those hens do is piss about on MMO’s all day, then whinge on forums about how it ain’t as good as it used to be! Me and Rhys played games that trained our minds. Whatever we could bring to the real fight.”
“Yea but who we gonna fight now?” Kasia tutted before Imany could, “how would it even help?”
“We don’t even deserve the chance. We all heard about the struggles of our grandparents era and everyone said the same thing. ‘I’d never let such a bad thing happen’. We got our chance to fight, and what everyone do? Fuck all - ” Imany paused to stop a daydreaming Kasia ruining her game and made a better move, “and when people like me and Rhys did fight back, everyone got scared and turned on us.”
Kasia wanted to ask about Rhys, why Imany did things to remind her of him, but she didn’t know how to manage a flood of emotions Imany was too open to hide. She stayed on the laptop and continued the game. Imany showed her approval by not interfering, “and now the vijis have done Rajesh Tomar in, the useless old fool.”
“Did you see the video?”
“None of us should be watchin’ that shit lovey; it plays into the Blacks narrative.”
Kasia captured the last enemy and, ignoring Imany’s preference for hostages, clicked the execute option, “well… what did you make of it?”
Imany drew her vape and blew into the sky, “I’ve seen worse.”
“Why’d they go after someone that big you reckon?”
“Why’d they do anything? They think they’re vigilantes izzit? They’ve put their enemies in a shit position, and all the nation’s waitin’ to see what comes next. But I know the answer: it’ll be scandal. There’ll be a massive sex-scandal or somethin’ soon - a minor celebrity or an MP or something - and it’ll distract us. As for the Reds, they’re makin’ a mob outta locals, givin’ them ‘purpose’ - like that Sermon of yours,” Imany tutted again and pulled the laptop from Kasia’s lap.
“He’s only pro-Red 'cause he wants to fix things!” said Kasia, “anyway how’d you find all this out?”
“Picked it up on my radio didn’t I?” Imany’s tin contraption - a discreet device popular with her era’s activist movements - played from her flat. It looked to Kasia like a homemade bomb. A forgettable podcast saying nothing drawled from its single speaker. She frowned at it, “don’t the terrorists listen to those ‘waves’ to find their targets?”
“Most likely,” said Imany, “the terrorists could listen to what you sing in the shower if they wanted to.”
“I don’t have a shower.”
“You’re welcome to use mine ain’t ya!”
“When you let me pay for the water, sure. And when you start charging us for laundry.”
“Charge you? Where you gonna cut costs in return?” Imany grabbed Kasia’s hand and looked at her with both sympathy and authority. She was the only person in Kasia’s life, outside of clubs, who truly made physical contact, and like everyone else Kasia didn’t know how to handle it. She shuffled and looked down, trying to pull her hand away, but Imany’s grip tightened.
“What’re you worried is gonna happen? Gonna get outed online for acceptin’ charity? Lose all your ‘friends’?”
The risks of debt, rejection, and abandonment struck Kasia’s mind. She prised her hand free, “I’m working hard for that promotion, then I’ll think about it. If I get a raise I’ll buy my own shower and one of those radio things.”
“You should listen to one, it might tell you your future.”
“When did you learn to use it? They teach you that back in Iraq?”
“Shit. I’m only 16 years older than you, you chipper.”
Kasia burst into manic giggles. Imany snapped the laptop shut with a huff and pulled herself up.
“Go on, how’d you call it?”
“I believe you’re trying to say Cipa!” Kasia took every chance to mock a botched pronunciation. Being third generation, her otherwise Cockney English had a Polish twang only other English speakers heard. She knew when to hide the twang, and when to play it up, though it doubled down of its own accord whenever she got emotional or excited.
A car sped off nearby. Someone under the balcony whistled, imitating a police siren.
“Watch out ladies, detectives watchin’ the estate! Probably lookin’ for them Blacks.”
Kasia leant over the walkway and stuck her tongue out at the stocky figure below. His sports jacket and panther beret were covered in badges; an attempt at uniform showing his ancestry off via affiliated political groups. A few of these symbols showed daring support for the revolution.
She knew Sermon from high school; two amongst a band of desperate teenagers wanting to be the first to go clubbing, if not match with anyone. Kasia had formed an unspoken partnership with Sermon for two reasons. The first was his easy charm, which got them through security. Secondly, he shared her tastes, giving Kasia someone to strategise with. They let men chase them, and they chased the occasional woman when, as Sermon put it, ‘the blood moon was out’. They enjoyed a term of unrivalled popularity on the playground.
Kasia asked no questions when, months later, Sermon arrived at her doorstep bloodied, beaten, and homeless. He asked no questions the following year, as she wandered onto his estate pregnant, alone, and in need of a flat. Since then they’d lived close, the uncommon friends of the physical world who had seen each others faces, but they otherwise kept apart, with their own social circles and virtual lives.
Sermon heard someone behind Kasia tut. He frowned and pointed past her.
“Imany I can hear you kissin’ your teeth up there; where the bloody ‘ell’s my laundry?”
“Where the bloody 'ell's my 6 mil Berry Blast!?”
“I got it! I got it! ‘Ere it comes look…” he lobbed an ampoule over the balcony and landed it perfectly in the laundry basket, irritating Imany even more. With the bill paid, she dropped his laundry bag over the ledge without checking where it would land. Sermon caught it with a grunt.
“What's the ol' radio sayin’ then? Reds comin’ to London?”
Imany grunted and clicked the ampoule into her vape, “they’re poppin’ up all over the city, little outposts to recruit on the sly. Police can’t do shit, China don’t want to.”
“Good! Moan all you want Imany, they’ll do a better job on the streets than the police ever ‘ave.”
“You gonna join up then Serms?” said Kasia, “you could be in charge of rationing fags.”
Sermon shushed her and swept the surrounding flats for eavesdroppers, “you should join up; better than being stuck in some call centre like a chipper all day.”
Something clattered nearby. He whipped around, “we might ‘ave join up to soon, listen: them pikeys are gettin’ well cosy, gone and done a wardrobe change and all. They’re definitely gonna try it on soon so sleep with one eye open. Give me a shout if you need to, I’ll be up on floor 5, penthouse suite…”
“Tough at the top ain’t it?” Kasia watched him strut away, envious of his top floor flat, but he could only afford it through illicit work, without the stakes of parenthood holding him back. She searched her phone for news of the vagrants across the road.
8 decades of recessions, rising inequality, and fascist conmen had taken its toll. England was suffering a homeless epidemic greater than ever. Sometimes, behind a charismatic enough leader, packs of these aimless wanderers organised. Vagrants fought daily to survive attacks, starvation, disease, and addiction; cooperating helped their chances. Typically, their chances involved work only they would take.
They were not well liked. Kasia had as hostile an opinion of them as anyone. This latest band, getting close to her home, had her trawling for information until derogatory memes lured her away. Sometimes lone vagrants settled in Kendi’s stairways but the residents, with a brief taste for community, formed mobs to chase them off. She never forgot the one who came back armed with a knife. Imany had stormed past the blade's point, strangled the vagrant purple with the playground swing chain, and then snapped his arm backwards. The entire estate respected her ever since.
But what could they do against an organised gang of them? Call the Reds? Call, somehow, the Veda? Both used vagrants to their own ends anyway. Villains wherever she looked - Kasia wasn’t getting involved. She finished her hot chocolate and turned away.
“I’m gonna head in, you need help finishing up here?”
“Nah,” said Imany, “I’m stayin’ outside for a bit anyway. You sleep well.”
“Okay, see ya tomorrow. Goodnight Imany -” but Imany was miles away, tilting her vape, watching Berry Blast nicotine fluid swish around its clear reservoir. Kasia wanted to hug her, but thought better of it.
Eva had fallen asleep with her headset on. Kasia slipped the device off and hung it on the bed post. She spent the last hour of the day chatting to friends. One of them was visiting London soon. She wanted to invite them out, meet them in real life, but thought better of it.
She stood up and looked at her child. Eva had grown up so fast - as life demanded - but when she slept the illusion lifted. Kasia saw the girl who needed protecting, and in these moments she could be motherly without feeling intrusive or shameful.
She wanted to kiss her daughter on the head, but thought better of it.