My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by

Ben Trebilcook

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To the hundreds of students I have worked with over the years

whose traumatic and brave stories often go unheard.

Thank you

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First book, so a lot of thanks to be passed out. To Dad, the last action hero, for always being the inspiration; a real life John McClane, who told me thrilling adventure stories of his own. To my Mum for laughing and raising me brilliantly. My brother, Steven, for being proud of me. To my dad's former colleague and friend, Andy Day, for the expert forensic science help. To Ann Davies, an educational dream, true creative and for simply being the best boss.  To Tom Cruise for a launch-pad. Cheers to my fellow writer pals and peers Jake Adelstein, Rex Picket, Sarah Pinborough, Doug Richardson, Ed Neumeier, Polly Courtney, Jaq Burns, Jeff Norton, John Fusco, Steven E. deSouza, Matt Hamby, Louis Leterrier, Amy Goldberg, Zachary Leeman, Grant Fieldgrove and Sean Hood for the encouraging flag waving. My good mate, designer Ant Gardner, for the cover, my super editor, Stephanie Dagg - and to my Jen for the love, motivation and continued belief in me.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1. Sinatra Umbundo

2. Historical Gangs / Hysterical Greenwich

3. A Kiddified United Nations

4. Songbird

5. Brief

6. The Undercover

7. What On Earth Happened to Nasif Farah?

8. Australian Wine and Neighbours

9. The Booklet

10. Thursday Night

11. Prague

12. Born To Be Wild (Part One)

13. Resourceful

14. The Bubble

15. Luxor Street

16. The Big Chiz

17. The List

18. Born To Be Wild (Part Two)

"I will fockin' rape you, blud!" The deep voice of a teenage male echoed down the alley way, becoming one with the wind and night. Veins pulsated between the knuckles of brown fists, clenched tightly by the hips of low-slung jeans, which exposed boxer-short-covered buttocks. In one hand, a Versace belt, complete with a mean-looking metal buckle. "Get back here, man!" the shout continued. "If I find you, I will rape you, man. I will rape you. You understand?"

Rape was not solely for the purpose of committing a violent act of sexual intercourse, but was also used as a weapon. It had become the weapon of choice amongst gangs. Police couldn't arrest you for possession of a penis. They could with a knife.

Further down the alley, in the cover of night, a heart pumped super-fast; a chest inflated and deflated like it belonged to a scared animal. The eyes stared blankly and remembered a not-too-distant past.

A dark blue Ford F-150 truck churned up the rust-coloured dusty road of Cuando Cubango, in the south-eastern province of deepest Angola.

Sinatra thought the dust looked like orange smoke as it floated up around the truck's wheels.

The chrome glistened in the smouldering heat. A sticker of the red and black flag of Angola was pasted upon the rear of the truck. Sinatra believed the red represented the blood that had been spilt by the thousands of Angolans in their many conflicts. The black depicted the continent of Africa, while in the middle of the flag was a golden cog wheel, crossed with a machete. The cog signified the workers of industry and the machete was for the peasantry. There was a lone gold star fixed above the two symbols. Sinatra convinced himself the cog embodied the never-ending cycle of violence and the machete merely one of the weapons of choice.

A dirty, cream tarpaulin flapped in the wind as the truck sped along the road. The material opened out to reveal a ten-year-old Angolan boy, who tightly grasped onto it. Whether he shielded himself from the dust and stones or was simply hiding was anyone's guess, though from the traumatized, trance-like expression upon his face, that guess would probably favour the latter. An old Arsenal Football Club shirt, half tucked into his bloodstained, pale blue jeans. Bare ankles above his oversized Nike trainers. His eyes were wide and his lower lip quivered, moistened by the drool which escaped his mouth. They revealed a frightened, fearful boy. In his recent past, the boy had been fishing near the Luvuei River, in the Province of Moxico. A place he shouldn't have been fishing at all as an army offensive was in full swing.

The offensive, "Kissonde", was known also as "Bissonde". It meant ants: giant, violent ants that attacked chickens, dogs, springbok, zebra with devastating results. Sinatra knew they were all the same to the kissonde. They were all prey, the enemy.

Operation "Violent Ant" took place; a horrendous fire-fight between Angolan government troops with a handful of South African mercenaries and Jonas Judas Savimbi, the sixty-seven-year-old Angolan rebel leader.

Bullets tore up the ground and pierced and punctured everything in sight, creating one hell of a thunderous noise.

The boy cupped his ears as he crouched on the wet earth. He tried his hardest to close his eyes as tight as he could. He seemed to be completely invisible as soldiers passed him by, gripping their weapons with clenched hands.

They pulled the triggers of their guns and caused utter destruction with every tiny squeeze of their fingers. The sound was similar to a pneumatic drill as they peppered everything in sight.

The boy turned his scrunched-up, fearful face this way and that as he saw Jonas Savimbi's bodyguards riddled with bullets all around him.

Men, who resembled Israeli Special Forces, took notice of the boy. One hardened his face as he locked eyes with him, giving him a disappointed look. He pushed him down further, lower into the reeds and out of sight. The Israeli suddenly jolted, as he received a bullet to his right arm. It spun him round and down to the boy's level. The soldier held his finger up to the boy's face as he quickly knelt beside him and screwed in a suppressor that muffled the sound of gunfire. He let loose a spray of silent bullets which drilled into half a dozen men.

The cheap, green fabric that made up the rebels' uniforms was shredded by bullets, which pierced their flesh and ripped them apart. The green cotton clothing and grassland turned red with blood; blood of all shades of red.

Sinatra knew that blood came in these many different shades and it all depended on its type and whether it was oxygenated, deoxygenated or even cancerous. This would vary from person to person. Like a pre-school kid squeezing a paint bottle, a bright red spurt of blood jetted out of a rebel's neck as an artery, his jugular, was speared by a nine millimetre round.

His brown flesh flapped open like an inside out jean pocket. A shade of scarlet suddenly spread across the chest of another rebel as a bullet entered one of his lungs. A deeper maroon appeared, along with a brownish-black from a shot-up kidney.

Bullets zigzagged around Sinatra. He lowered himself and pressed one hand to steady himself upon the wet, blood-drenched soil. He stared at his hand, moistened by the gritty, grainy mess upon it. Then he looked up; dazed. Widening his eyes further he saw the rebel leader shot in the throat.

Blood spurted from his neck like a water sprinkler. The back and sides of Savimbi's head suddenly forced outwards as he was shot twice by government bullets. His lifeless body dropped to the ground, shot several more times, including in the arms and legs, which folded on him like lengthy tubes of jelly. His body tumbled to the ground like a felled mighty oak.

Sinatra heard Jonas Savimbi was buried under a tree near to where he died. Many told him that Operation Kissonde was a success.

Many told him it wasn't.

The boy in the truck remembered the horrific event. Was it the one he was currently escaping from in his mind or the fact that his village had recently been attacked by rogue rebels with no code or loyalty to anyone but themselves? The boy had a scarred mind. Sinatra wondered if it could be repaired, especially having just witnessed barbaric rebels tearing open the bellies of pregnant women with machetes and hunting knives, whilst betting on whether they were carrying a son or a daughter. The boy had seen deranged, murderous men chopping off the hands and heads of fathers, including his own. He had been forced to smoke crack cocaine and even been injected with heroin. The boy had gripped tightly and fired an AK47 Assault Rifle and had killed men he respected.

The boy was Sinatra Umbundo and he was leaving in the back of the Ford F-150 truck.

Michael Thompson, a thirty-three-year-old white man from south-east London. A spectacle-wearing, loveable geek, though by no means an IT geek or even a bookworm, train-spotting geek. He was a geek with charm. A ladies' man geek, but not in any shape or form a player. He couldn't have played the field if he tried. Not with women and certainly not in sport. He was a patient, kind-hearted, creative man, who knew random facts. He hoped one day they'd be used to full effect; more often than not on his hardworking girlfriend, Rebecca, with whom he lived.

Michael had just driven out of Luxor Street and shortly after entering the main road, he joined the many other motorists in the all too familiar traffic jam that occurred around that time every weekday morning. Sitting in his beaten-up silver, X-registration Volkswagen Golf at the traffic lights in Cold Harbour Lane, which met Denmark Hill, Michael changed out of gear and shifted into neutral. As he raised the handbrake and sighed, he stared at the red lights and the red bus that blocked the road from two sides of traffic. Seeing red had never been so uncannily apt before. He was flustered and disliked traffic intensely, but hated being late more so. He just didn't like to let people down. Michael was a never-say-no kind of guy.

Michael drove his Volkswagen into the almost deserted Greenwich Park and headed up the hill. It was a terrific view, with the luscious green grass and trees either side of the road. The morning sunshine beamed through the leaves on the crisp, mid-March day.

Greenwich Park, the oldest Royal Park in London. Reverted to the people from the Crown in 1427 and its two hundred acres, almost perfectly rectangular, were landscaped in the seventeenth century by André Le Nôtre.

A grey squirrel darted across the road twenty feet ahead, which made Michael smile warmly. He had a fondness for squirrels and every time he saw one, for some peculiar reason he thought of his late grandmother, with warm affection. He wondered why, convincing himself that perhaps she had been reincarnated as a squirrel. Not that she had resembled this tree-rat-vermin in any way whatsoever. She certainly did not. She had been the definition of kindness. Michael viewed squirrels as permanently smiling creatures. That made him happy.

The hill captured some of the most spectacular views of London. Canary Wharf and the two levels of parkland could be seen, along with the National Maritime Museum, the Queen's House, The Royal Observatory and Greenwich Hospital.

"This is going to be a good day," Michael said to himself as he drove the car out of the park and made his way to Charlton.

Charlton House, in Charlton, south-east London, a Jacobean mansion, was built in 1607 for Sir Adam Durham. He'd been a tutor for Prince Henry, the brother of Charles the First. The estate passed to his son, Sir Henry Newton, but during the English Civil War of 1642 to 1651 between the Parliamentarians and the Royalists, Sir Henry had to leave Charlton. In 1647 Sir William Ducie purchased it and later sold it on to Sir William Langhorne. Langhorne was a hugely wealthy East India merchant. For many years the house remained empty. Its last private owner was Sir Spencer Maryon-Wilson, a former officer in the British Army turned MP. During the First World War the house became a hospital for Army officers and was bought by the Metropolitan Borough of Greenwich in 1925. The house was used as a community centre. However, to the residents of Greenwich, the grounds and especially the postcode had become home to one of the most dangerous gangs in London.

The gang gathered from flats upon the Cherry Orchard Estate, from where they gained their name: Cherry. The Cherry Boys were predominantly West African males, hailing from Sierra Leone, Liberia, Angola and Democratic Republic of the Congo. Many had been boy soldiers in their own native country. Their ages ranged dramatically from a startling eight years old to a pathetic twenty-eight.

The Cherry Boys' colour was red and with slight variations. To join The Cherry Boys, their initiation process couldn't have been simpler, yet no less barbaric. Would-be members were bundled into the back of a van, where they encountered several older male members who kicked, punched, slapped, jabbed, elbowed, head-butted and kneed the young wannabe into a state of utter distress, in order to create an uncontrollable rage deep within. It caused the youth to react. How they reacted differed every time. They cried and broke, cut and bled, became defenceless or defensive in ways unimaginably raw that only The Incredible Hulk, a caveman, a passionate parent fighting for their child or a woman fending off an attacking bastard rapist could ever know about. Once they had experienced their pummelling inside the van, then they had gained themselves gang member status. They ended up leaving that van a Cherry Boy. The gang needed new members; new blood to recruit and control.

There was a hierarchy within street gang culture. The older, more experienced members were known as Olders. They were usually in their later teen years. Then there were your Youngers. They averaged around fourteen years. Below the Youngers were Tinies and, although rare, there were Tiny Tinies. Ironically, one didn't have to be too old to be an Older. It was all in what you did to gain notoriety or some form of respect among your peers. Burgled a house. Robbed a shop. Dealt drugs. Used drugs. Stole a car. Hired a Bugatti. Robbed someone's phone. Carried a knife. Threatened someone using a knife. Beat a rival gang member to a pulp. Put someone in a comatose state. Bottled someone. Had a number of girlfriends. Pimped your girlfriends out to fellow gang members. Raped someone. Stabbed someone. Carried a gun. Shot a gun. Shot someone. Killed someone. Killed again. Killed some more.

Everywhere in the world had an area in its cities and outskirts and suburbs considered to be dodgy. Who would have ever thought a quaint looking place like Charlton Village, in the Royal Borough of Greenwich, had an unpleasant, often no-go zone for even the Metropolitan Police at night? This, of course, wasn't night. Eight-thirty in the morning. Gang members tended not to be early risers.

Michael drove past the Cherry Orchard Estate and indicated right. He passed Charlton House as a young black boy, eating fried chicken from a greasy box, crossed the street.

The youth was the Angolan, Sinatra Umbundo, and he looked highly Westernised in his jeans, Nikes and hooded top, completed with an intense scowl. His jeans slung low. His belt tightened around his thighs and caused him to walk not just slowly, but practically waddle. Sinatra glanced up and locked eyes with Michael. He kissed his teeth as he watched the vehicle pass him by.

"Fockin look at me, man," Sinatra said to himself, with a mouthful of oily chicken.

The lollipop lady at the end of the street stopped an approaching car to the right, which enabled a group of primary school children and their mothers to cross the street.

Michael had the opportunity to continue without slowing. He turned left and made his journey towards Woolwich. 

Woolwich was home to the Royal Arsenal, historical Woolwich Dockyard, the Royal Horse Artillery and the Royal Military Academy. Even Arsenal Football Club originally hailed from here in 1886, before moving to the Arsenal Stadium in Highbury in 1913. Woolwich was still very much an army base, however it wasn't at all Royal. It was also home to The Woolwich Boys.

The Woolwich Boys, an extremely dangerous, physically and emotionally fearless and reckless gang, was made up of youths from Somalia, Eritrea and Ethiopia. They weren't just a gang, they were an outfit, an organised crime unit. Their gang colour:  blue. More often than not, members would wear tops and t-shirts with the Warner Bros insignia, because the symbol was simply WB. Into their guns, drugs and knives as much as the next gang, however this group of people would even rob the shoes from someone's feet in broad daylight. The Woolwich Boys lived on the Woolwich Common Estate.

Michael had just passed Nightingale Vale, one of The Woolwich Boys' surrounding streets. His car headed towards Plumstead Common.

In 960AD King Edgar gave away four plough lands to St Augustine's Abbey near Canterbury in Kent, which was collectively known as Plumstede. It wasn't long before the lands were taken away from the monastery, by an Earl called Godwin, who gave the area to one of his sons.

William the Conqueror, after the 1066 Battle of Hastings, gave an area known as Plumfted to his half-brother Odo. Odo was also known as the Earl of Kent, John Baynard.

Another John Baynard was the son of a man who worked upon a farm. During the eighteen hundreds, Baynard became a drunk. His wife eventually gave him no alternative than to attend local services at a Methodist chapel run by a Wesleyan sect. Baynard became a regular attendee and soon became a preacher himself. However, in Plumstead, the Wesleyan people were also known as the Peculiar People.

Michael believed not much had changed in hundreds of years. He neared Abbey Wood, which was also covered by the area of Greenwich.

In the year 1178 foundations were laid at the site of the Abbey of St Mary and St Thomas the Martyr at Lesnes. Lesnes Abbey was in Abbey Wood. The site and the surrounding area was home to T-Block, aka Blok Gang, a notorious group of males made up of young Nigerian-born youths, whose criminal activity included drugs, firearms and knife-related incidents. They lived in nearby Thamesmead. Their colour was green and their main rivals were The Cherry Boys.

One day, boxes of green bandanas were deposited outside the homes of young black youths. This was their instant recruitment drive and it worked, whether through fear or a thirst for excitement.

Michael turned into the car park of a former primary school which, although it housed school pupils on a daily basis, they were not your average students.

The building was in the middle of a triangle. At one point of the triangle was the Blok Gang. At another were The Woolwich Boys and at the third point, The Cherry Boys. All housed in Greenwich. The London Borough of Greenwich, where Michael worked.

Michael's job was a mixed bag. His title was Seclusion Manager, but he often worked as a Media Tutor, showing films to and then discussing them with a variety of pupils who would not normally choose to see them. His main role within the school was that of a Learning Mentor: a qualified counsellor to children aged between eleven and sixteen.

The students were predominantly permanently-excluded children from mainstream school. There were also EAL (English as a second language) students. Asylum seekers. Refugees. Looked After Children (LAC/fostered). Abused and on the Child Protection Register. Those who had moved into the UK from other EU countries or elsewhere in the world, or even elsewhere in the UK, and required a new school. They lived in homes in Plumstead, Eltham, Charlton, Greenwich, Kidbrooke, Woolwich, Abbeywood and Thamesmead.

They were residents of the Royal London Borough of Greenwich.