Heaven's Promise by Paolo Hewitt Page A

indulge on the chemical trip, herb and brew being our favoured method of relaxing.
    â€˜It’s good, man,’ continued Dillon, ‘I had one last night it was great.’ He mixed in the tune and that unmistakeable, basic House beat came thudding through the speakers. The tune being played was obviously a bit of a hit with Dillon because within seconds he was jerking his body and moving his arms in a style that was both weird and unfunky. I had just seen the future and I didn’t know it. With the music up so loud that you could hardly hear yourself parlare, Brother P. and I needed no more encouragement and, with a slight nod of the heads, we made for the exit sign, signalling our departure with sign language.
    â€˜Jesus,’ said Brother P. as we hit the pavement and put some serious space between ourselves and Dillon, ‘did you see his eyes? I don’t think he’s landed since take off last night.’
    â€˜You’re right on that one,’ I replied, ‘although to be honest, I wouldn’t mind checking out that club he was on about. Someone else was on about it last week. You up for it?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ came the reply which was typical of Brother P. for he is a man who never likes to plan too far ahead and rarely decides to visit a club until at least an hour after it has kicked off.
    â€˜Let’s go Portobello,’ he said. ‘There’s a jacket I’ve had put aside and I want to bag it before anyone else,’ and with that mission in mind, we journeyed to West London, an area in which both poor and rich live within breathing space of each other, and such a combination in any town, makes for a fascinating spectacle.
    Portobello Market, as expected, was crammed when we reached and, as ever, it was difficult to negotiate past all the citizens and keep a tab on my companion. There was noise all around us as rap, reggae and funk music came blasting out of ghetto blasters, smashing into each other in mid air to create glorious sonic explosions over our heads.
    Kiddiwinks appeared from nowhere and ran into your legs whilst people either jostled to get past or suddenly stopped right in front of you to examine an item, thus causing you to bump, like a dodgem car, into their backs. The whole area was full of life and colour and a great place to be in the City sunshine for you were often surrounded by cats of your own age or faces you knew from the clubs which you acknowledged with discreet nods of the head, here, there and everywhere.
    On the actual stalls, a colourful collection of bohemians, rastas, hustlers, students, artists, old timers, jack the lads, and the unemployed tried to move their wares, shouting the odds for all to hear, but the Brother P. cut through them like a shark intent on its victim, walking straight and fast towards an old boy who specialised in period clothing. He had only just put up shop but, not having done his homework, underpriced his goodies and Brother P. wanted to get to him before others cottoned onto his mistake or, worse still, picked up on the red and black striped, three button jacket, complete with epaulets, that Brother P. had spotted the day before and, not having the correct cashola on him, persuaded to have put by for him whilst he raised the necessary loot, and no questions asked. Reaching the stall, the old boy revealed that he had not gone back on his promise and produced the item in question.
    â€˜What do you think?’ asked the Brother P. as he examined it and then tried it on.
    â€˜Why, you will be the hit of the ball,’ I replied.
    Pleased with the analysis, Brother P. spent the next three minutes studying the effect of the jacket on him in front of a fading mirror as if he was not really sure of its place in his wardrobe but all the time playing the old boy along with pleasant humour until a deal had been struck and there were smiles all round.
    â€˜Foodage time,’ I suggested as Brother P. proudly