Brixton Rock

by Alex Wheatle

  Brenton half-glimpsed James Dean, almost expecting him to say something about the matter. Mr Lewis got to his feet. “I’m glad for you Brenton, you deserve a break. I hope this is the start of something good for you, and maybe now you will begin to value yourself.”

  At that, the social worker departed the room. With any luck, now Brenton had found his family, he might just start to think about a career. The social worker’s hopes were not penny-in-well thinking, for even now Brenton was preparing himself to take a look at the local institutions of further education.

  Half an hour later, Mr Lewis emerged from his room to find Brenton stepping down the stairs, ready to leave the hostel.

  “Where are you off to? It’s not like you to be up and about so early.”

  “Down to Vauxhall College,” Brenton replied casually, taking perverse pleasure at the social worker’s surprise.

  Mr Lewis produced a self-satisfied smile, but before he could add some encouragement, Brenton disappeared through the front door.

  With his hands set in his trouser pockets, he breezed towards the bus stop, feeling a new sense of purpose. Once aboard a number 36, he began to recall the lyrics of his sister Juliet the night before, and wondered if he could get a course and a grant just like that.

  After a change of buses at Vauxhall BR station, he finally reached the modern-looking college on the Wandsworth Road. The college had a large paved area at the front and side of the building. Brenton decided to nose around the perimeter of it before entering the main entrance. He then set course for the reception area, walking past two smartly dressed white guys whose eyes betrayed their suspicion. A middle-aged woman, perched on a stool, was busily typing a letter, which provoked reminders for Brenton of Borough police station.

  He approached the counter and waited patiently for her to notice him. “’Scuse me, I wonder if you could help me out? I wanna go on a carpentry course.”

  The receptionist swivelled round and arose from her stool. “I’m afraid that our carpentry and joinery courses don’t start until September. These courses lead to a City and Guilds examination. Are you an apprentice for a building firm or local council?”

  “No.”

  “Most of the building-trade students are sent on the college courses by their employers. Usually they are day release, and the fees are met by their employers as well.”

  Not quite understanding what the lady said, Brenton studied the many leaflets on display. “Oh, right. Uh, what about a grant?”

  Bending down slightly, the woman collected a couple of leaflets off the table. “This is a form for students requiring a grant, and the other one tells you about the range of craft courses we do here. But do try and join a building firm who will offer an apprenticeship.”

  Brenton grabbed the information and thanked the receptionist, then paced towards the exit door. He scanned his surroundings and whispered to himself, “Fuck my days - me at college?”

  Once outside the building, he chose to walk through the gaps in the high-rise tower blocks, taking the shortest route to Stockwell. He wondered how he would feel living at the top of one of these concrete-boxed homes of squalor. Perhaps at night he would peer out the window after smoking a mellow spliff, and invite the high yellow moon out to play.

  When Brenton reached Brixton, he sauntered along Atlantic Road, where he came across a small assembly of people watching someone skanking in the street. Brenton took a closer look and found the object of attention was a white dreadlocked man. Dressed up in crude attire, he skanked with no rhythm at all to the thumping bass of a market record stall. Why do all these man who have gone cuckoo, come to Brixton and skank in the street? Brenton questioned himself.

  Just as he was about to move on, he heard his name being called. “Brown! Brown!”

  He spun round to see the grinning dial of his spar Biscuit, who was wearing a leather cap with the peak nearly covering his eyes. “Say wha’ppen Brown, long time no see. Where’s that joker-smoking Floyd?” asked Biscuit, while performing an extravagant strut that would have put a peacock to shame.

  “He’s probably in his bed.”

  “What are you gonna do about Flynn?”

  Brenton’s eyebrows angled. “I will deal with him in my own time. So what are you selling now?”

  Biscuit neighed, a horrible-sounding laugh that was more nose than mouth. “Well, everyt’ing. You know me. Floyd was interested in a crucial camera I showed him last night, but he hasn’t checked me today so I don’t know what he’s dealing wid. More time, if you’re interested, it’s a bad camera - A-1 class, I’m telling you. I saw the Queen the other day in a magazine and she was posing with a camera just like the one I’m selling. Nah man, it’s a serious camera. I’ve also got a chops and some crocodile boot to sell, but that’s seriously out of your budget range.”

  The brethrens started to walk towards Coldharbour Lane. “I ain’t got the corn to buy a friggin camera. What am I gonna take pictures of - the yards on Coldharbour Lane?”

  “All right then, maybe it’s not within your budget. I can understand that, nuff man in a hard-time style and living on ghetto menu of dry bread and polo mint. But you have to listen to your music‚ seen? I’ve also got this wicked Brixton suitcase, brand spanking, crisp biscuit and officially new. Japanese and t’ing. I weren’t gonna sell it ’cos it sounds so sweet, nuff bass-line. But you and Floyd are my spars so I’ll be open to a serious negotiation. It’s got a whole ’eap of gadgets, and you wanna see the size of the instruction book. It’s t’ick, man. You can only get this suitcase up the West End in dem royal appointment shops, and Brenton, as you’re a brethren, I sell the goods to you for sixty notes, nutten less and nutten more. And if you offer me somet’ing less, me an’ you ain’t no brethren. And believe me, man, nuff man will get red eye when you carry the tape recorder in the park and just let off the bass-line. I was gonna ask man an’ man for eighty sheets. But as you’re a brethren, I give you twenty pound squeeze.”

  Brenton couldn’t help but smile at the hard sell. “Biscuit, man, what the fuck is wrong with you? I can just about scrape up the corn to buy myself a patty. Me and Floyd had to do some serious butt building at Christmas. You’re chatting to the wrong man. I mean, you crack me up. Why don’t you ask them soundman if they will buy the t’ing? They start taping dances now, innit?”

  The duo ambled into a West Indian bread shop and came out with two meat-filled patties, wrapped in serviettes. As they walked and talked, Biscuit’s eyes were magneted to a fit gal sporting tight jeans. His mind tremored on wondering how she managed to squeeze her solid, vibrating batty inside the denims. “Hey, Brenton, check the legback on that steak over der so.”

  Brenton was more interested in the hot patty.

  The sight of the well-honed steak spouted out any thoughts in Biscuit’s mind to make a sell. He changed the subject.

  “So where you raving this weekend, Brenton?”

  “I dunno. There’s a big dance up Norwood Hall where Shaka is playing, I know nuff man will go to that. But like I said, my budget is low, so I might just coch at my yard with a big head of herb and feel merry. So where are you raving. Biscuit?”

  “We’re gonna check out Cubies, up Dalston Junction. Nuff steaks go der, and any man in there is guaranteed a crub if he ain’t too ugly an’ if he gets his head trim. Finnley did check some piece of beef up dem sides two weeks ago. He reckons he’s boning it regular now. Yeah man, it’s about time I was dealing with them fit steaks from north side, you know what I mean?”

  Brenton nodded, thinking Biscuit’s idea of heaven was an inch away from a fit gal’s rocking batty.

  The brethrens stood on Coldharbour Lane, both clocking a beastman questioning a dread. “Look, Biscuit, I sight you later and I’ll tell Floyd about the camera, but I don’t know where he will get the corn from. I have to dally now, so laters.”

  “Yeah, more time Brenton, man.”

  The couple proceeded on their separate ways. Brenton trundled towards
home, while Biscuit strutted to the high-decibelled record shop - maybe he could hatch a deal in there. Brenton pondered on whether he should check out Brixton College, but he felt too lazy and quickened his pace home.

  As Brenton turned his front-door key he was confronted by a wall of cussing in the shape of Floyd and Sharon in the hallway. “She’s just a friend, man. I did know her from school, she used to go out with my spar.”

  Brenton dodged around the quarrelling couple as Sharon insisted, “You too lie. Friends don’t climb over each other at a party all night.”

  “I only danced with her for two records,” Floyd argued.

  Brenton opted to park halfway up the stairs to ear the amusing argument. Meanwhile, Sharon was pointing her fore-digit right in Floyd’s face, nearly jabbing him in the eye. “What do you mean, two dances? My friend told me you danced with the blue-foot all friggin night.”

  Glancing up at Brenton and desperately seeking back-up in his tiff, Floyd pleaded, “Hey Brown, tell Sharon Sylvia is just an old school friend and I’m not dealing wid her.”

  The warring couple looked on Brenton at the same time. Brenton loathed being caught in the middle of one of Floyd’s gal tiffs, but he felt obliged to support his hostel-mate, “No, well, I haven’t seen Sylvia round here anyway.”

  Brenton was lying through his teeth and Sharon appeared far from convinced, fixing hot accusing eyes on her man. “There’s still no excuse for you to rub her down like you’re trying to start a fire with her dress and your briefs. Carol did sight you, Floyd, she didder. She told me that you and that leggobeast were so tight, you had a print of her knickers on your Farah’s.”

  “You know how Carol exaggerates.”

  “Well, if me hear that you’re palavering with any gal again, I will sack you so quick, you won’t have time to think of some trickster explanation.”

  “She did rush me, innit. I didn’t want to shame her in front of her spars if I said no to a dance.”

  “Lie you a tell.”

  “Sticksman honour. She did rush me.”

  Sharon kissed her teeth.

  Finding it hard to keep a straight face, Brenton stood up and made his way up to his room, assured that Floyd would chirp his way out of his ‘caught black-handed’ situation.

  Later on in the evening, at six-thirty, Juliet arrived home from a trying day at work. The crowded trains and buses made her feel agitated - especially as she found herself in the smokers’ carriage, standing all the way home.

  In the morning, she had felt the need to repel the advances of a white male work colleague. This guy wondered what it would be like to sleep with a black girl. Juliet told him that if he was all the male sex could offer, she would gladly turn gay.

  Juliet remembered that she’d promised to bell her new-found brother, but she needed to rest up and grab a bite to eat first. She walked along the hallway. “Mum! Mum!”

  Trudging into the kitchen, she hoped to find steaming pots of welcoming food, but all she saw was a spotless kitchen, with all the pots and pans hanging in their places from wooden pegs on the wall. Giving a sigh of frustration, she sighted a note on the kitchen table: Sorry, no time to cook, had to go out.

  She didn’t fancy the notion of braving the weather again to buy a takeaway meal, so she switched the electric kettle on and satisfied her hunger with a mug of tea and a two-storey cheese sandwich. With mug and plate in her hands, she went back through the hallway where she noticed another scribbled message, by the phone this time: Phone Garnet when you reach home.

  Juliet smiled to herself as she placed her mug and plateful of sandwiches on the bottom stair, then dialled Garnet’s number. “Hello, could I speak to Garnet, please?”

  She heard the phone being dumped down as a young voice shouted, “Garnet, phone for you!”

  Silence for a few seconds, then the clattering sound of somebody picking up the phone.

  “Hello, Juliet, that you?”

  “Yeah, I got a message to call you. How’s life treating you?”

  “Life would treat me a lot better if you would rave with me.”

  Juliet chuckled. Garnet could always bring a smile to her day.

  “Hey, Juliet, how about coming to a party with me on Saturday night? If you say no I will stalk you wherever you go.”

  Juliet skinned her teeth again. “Garnet, I would love to come, but I promised my mum I would go to East Street Market with her early Sunday morning. So if I go out Saturday night, I’ll be too tired, innit?”

  Disappointment traceable in his voice, Garnet accepted the excuse. “Well, er, maybe next time then.”

  “Yeah, all right. Look, um, I’m busy getting myself something to eat. Call me another time, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I’ll bell you tomorrow. Later.”

  Juliet put the phone down, feeling a touch guilty. Although she was fond of Garnet, she perceived he wanted to dominate her most of the time.

  Her thoughts drifted towards her brother, so after a gulp of tea and a generous chomp of sandwich, she dug out a slip of notepaper underneath the phone book. Feeding herself another mouthful, she studied the telephone for a few seconds, apprehensive of what her brother’s response might be. Eventually, bracing herself for the worst, she dialled his number.

  “Hello, could I speak to Brenton Brown, please?”

  It was Mr Lewis who picked up the phone, and he was surprised that a female caller didn’t ask for Floyd. “Yes, he’s in. Who should I say is calling?”

  “His sister Juliet.”

  Mr Lewis, who was sitting behind the desk in his room, became animated all of a sudden. “Yes, he has told me about you and your mum. I think he’s very excited about it, and I hope it all works out. I’ll just go and get him.”

  The noise of the phone being placed down on the table was so loud that Juliet thought the social worker had dropped the receiver.

  Mr Lewis dashed into the hallway. “Brenton!”

  At the top of the stairs, a trod-weary Brenton appeared. The social worker newsflashed him. “Your sister is on the phone for you.”

  The revelation seemed to act as a stimulant to Brenton and he bounded down the stairs and into Mr Lewis’s room. The counsellor tactfully lumbered through to the kitchen to prepare himself a cup of tea. Brenton eagerly picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hello, little brother. So how’s your day been?”

  “Not too bad. Went down to Vauxhall College and got some advice about courses. They gave me some forms and leaflets, but I was told it would be easier if I found a firm to work for, ’cos the workplace would then pay my college fees, you know what I mean? Anyway, the course I want starts in September, so I’m gonna apply to Lambeth Council for an apprentice job.”

  “That’s all right then, innit? It’s a start and least you are showing an interest. I just hope you can get some sort of job doing what you want.”

  “Is my mother there?”

  “No, I think she went back to work. She’s a Sister at Guy’s Hospital, Hey, Brenton, all she talked about last night was you. She feels very guilty and a sort of shame about you. I know it was probably wrong for her to go upstairs when she did, but when you left, I found her crying. So be easy with her, won’t you? I mean, after all, she is my mum too and she has treated me all right.”

  Despite what his sister said, Brenton still felt a venomous grievance towards his mother. “Look, I owe my mother nutten and she owes me everything. She’s the one who left me when I was a baby, remember?”

  Juliet pondered and understood his anger. After a slight pause, she considered it might be tactful to change the topic. “Hey, Brenton, what are you doing Saturday evening?”

  “Well, apart from smoking single snouts and losing at domino to my brethren Floyd, I ain’t doing nish.”

  Juliet chuckled. “Would you mind if I took you out somewhere, buy you a drink and maybe something to eat?”

  Surprised by his sister’s offer, Brenton became tongue-tied. “Where?” he managed.
<
br />   “I’m sure I’ll find somewhere. I’ll even buy you a pack of cancer sticks to make sure you turn up.”

  Brenton smiled - there was no way he was going to turn down an offer like that. “So do I come up to your yard or what? Where shall we meet?”

  Juliet paused for a moment, thoughtfully rubbing her chin with her thumb and fore-digit. “Be at my place about nine, then we’ll go out from there, all right? Oh, by the way, I will get Mum to bell you before that.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be all right. I’ll see you then, bye.”

  Before Brenton could put down the phone, his sister added, “Why are you so eager to cut me off? Anyway, it doesn’t matter; I’m feeling peckish and have to get something to eat. So I will see you Saturday, then. Bye.”

  Juliet placed down the phone, heartened by the way her relationship with her brother was developing. Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, Brenton wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all. He scanned around the room and whispered to himself: “The only girl to offer to take me out and she’s my sister. This ain’t happening.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Freak Out

  The following Saturday evening, Floyd’s room at the hostel was a suitcase of noise. Everyone rocked their heads in unison to the incessant bass-and-drum-powered rhythms of the Revolutionaries, the baddest session band in Jamaica.

  Floyd was entertaining three of his friends -one skinny male, and two Brixtonian females. He cleared the dressing table so a domino game could be played.

  Gazing at his palm of dominoes‚ Floyd poached a glance at his opponent to see if he had a confident look about him. His challenger was nicknamed ‘Finnley’ -no one had ever bothered to ask him what his real name was. Finnley was christened with many monikers at school, but the one he hated most was ‘Dreadlock’. It was a well-known yarn, that after a games lesson, the scrawny Finnley would take a shower and would have to skank about to get wet. Another joke that did the rounds was Finnley’s apparent similarity to a black biro refill. He possessed an almost angelic face, topped off with a neat Afro hairstyle. Although he fended off many jokes about his scrawny build, Finnley possessed a charming ability to laugh at himself.