Kemp - Ganglands

PENGUIN BOOKS

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First published 2009

Text copyright Ross Kemp, 2009

Map copyright Tom Sanderson, 2009

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-0-14-192434-2

PENGUIN BOOKS

Born in Essex in 1964, Ross Kemp is best known for his portrayal of Grant Mitchell in EastEnders. His father was a senior detective with the Metropolitan Police force and as a result crime has always fascinated Kemp. In 2007 Ross Kemp on Gangs won a BAFTA for Best Factual Series.

A storm was coming.

Dark clouds rolled in towards Rio de Janeiro, looming above the luxury highrise apartments and the hillside shanty towns alike. The atmosphere was taut with the threat of rain. On top of Corcovado mountain, the giant statue of Jesus that looked over the city had its arms outstretched, as though helpless in the face of the oncoming storm. Down on the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema, glamorous bathers glanced up at the darkening sky and began pulling on Tshirts over their bikinis and swimming trunks. Raucous games of beach football came to a ragged end as players ran for shelter.

As the first spots of rain began to fall, Vitor Nene Barbosa boarded a bus down by the beachfront, a basketball nestling under his arm. He was dressed in a tracksuit and his cropped black hair was still damp from his posttraining shower. As he moved along the aisle towards the back of the bus, the driver called out a cheery greeting. Even though Nene had only just turned sixteen, everybody in Rio knew him a basketball prodigy, he was destined for great things.

His nickname meant Baby a joke, seeing as how Nene had towered over his friends since he was a child. Now more than two metres tall, he was still growing. Nene played centre for Flamengo Petrobras, Rios basketball team. The pivotal position on court, centres operated in and around the basket, where the roughandtumble demanded a muscular, athletic presence. You didnt normally play there at sixteen. But then normal rules didnt apply to Nene.

It wasnt only his height that made him special. The first time Nene had walked out on to the basketball court, his trainers squeaking on the hardwood surface, it felt as though he had come home. Things just made sense to him there. While his opponents tried to barge and muscle their way to the basket, Nene glided, snatching rebounds and sinking fadeaways as though the opposition wasnt even there. From the tipoff to the final buzzer, to him games felt like long, beautiful dreams.

Thirty points against Flamengos rivals Brasilia in the last game when Nene had been almost unplayable had increased the hype surrounding him to fever pitch. Now there was talk of a callup to the national team, even rumours that American scouts from the NBA were going to travel all the way down to Brazil to watch him. Nene had spent years gazing at the basketball posters that plastered his bedroom walls, dreaming of becoming the next Kobe Bryant. The thought that he might one day play on the same court as him made Nene dizzy with excitement.

It was about more than sporting glory, though. Everyone knew that there was serious money to be made in America, milliondollar contracts up for grabs. To Nene, who lived with his mother and two brothers in a small house in Rocinha the largest favela, or shanty town, in Rio such riches seemed unimaginable. Money was tight at the best of times, but recently Nenes mother had been laid up ill in bed, and the money Nene received for playing basketball and working in a supermarket was barely putting food on the table. If he could only impress an NBA scout, Nene told himself, then none of his family would have to worry about money ever again.

The bus driver honked his horn angrily, interrupting Nenes train of thought. There was a squeal of brakes and the bus came to an abrupt halt.

It was raining heavily now, large drops drumming against the windows. Peering outside, Nene saw that they had stopped at a quiet intersection on the edge of the Zona Sul, Rios affluent tourist district. A group of teenagers had fanned out across the middle of the road, blocking the buss path. They were dressed identically, in allblack Tshirts and kneelength shorts. His heart sinking, Nene saw that they were carrying guns: a deadly combination of pistols and semiautomatic rifles. The bus was being hijacked.

Perhaps he should have been more surprised but then, gangs were a part of Rios life as much as the beaches and the Carnaval. Made up predominantly of teenage boys, they maintained their own distinct identities and colours, marking out their territories in the favelas with lurid graffiti. Most of the time the gangs stayed on their own turf, concentrating on drug dealing and warring with their rivals. On the rare occasions that they ventured out en masse into downtown Rio, chaos ensued: robberies, rioting, even shootouts with the police.

Growing up in Rocinha, Nene knew all about infamous Rio gangs such as the Compadres and Quarto Comando. But the Compadres colours were red and Quarto Comandos green; they wouldnt dress in all black like these guys. He forced himself to stay calm. Sports stars were cherished in Rio even among the favela gangs. They werent about to shoot holes into a carioca, a local boy, who had made good. He just had to keep quiet and do as he was told.

A dark-skinned boy in orange-tinted Ray-Bans stepped to the head of the gang and gestured at the bus driver to open the door. Then they strutted aboard the bus, their confidence bolstered by the firearms at their sides.

Were the Comando Negro, the boy with the sunglasses called out confidently. Get your money out now. Any trouble and well start firing.

Immediately the passengers began rooting through their pockets and handbags, removing watches and jewellery in their eagerness to cooperate. Nene pulled out his wallet, careful not to make any sudden movements. He had never heard of the Comando Negro before and new gangs always spelled trouble with everything to prove, and reputations to build, they tended to have twitchy trigger fingers.

The gang moved down the aisle, shouting at the passengers to throw their valuables into sports bags. One boy remained at the door of the bus, scanning the road for signs of the police. Whoever these guys were, Nene thought to himself, they looked pretty professional for a new outfit.