Brixton Rock

by Alex Wheatle

  The girls lounging on the bed were exchanging idle chatter, only interrupted by fits of giggles when they discussed past experiences. The louder one was Angela. She was wearing a headscarf, wrapped partly over her forehead. Brown-skinned, she had an athletic build, which her lithe legs displayed, pressing out her seamed jeans. Her main feature was her unnaturally large-nostrilled nose. Angela had achieved fame in her school by being known as ‘Shotgun’, as represented in the double-barrelled variety. Other people commented cruelly that her nostrils were as big as two holes in a cow - a massive double-speaker box.

  By contrast, Angela’s friend Verna was very eye-catching. Long, relaxed hair graced her shoulders and the whites around her eyes seemed as perfect as an untouched pool of silky milk. Half a shade lighter than Angela’s skin-tone, she too, was sporting seamed jeans. What Verna didn’t notice was Finnley’s roving headlights, scanning and undressing her body.

  Floyd was engrossed in his domino game and, excited by the thought he could notch a game up, slammed down a domino on the dressing table with unnecessary force. “Easy nuh man, you waan mash up the table?”

  “Your double six is dead, man,” Floyd snorted. “It’s as dead as that wort’less sound you used to be in.”

  Angela chuckled. “Finnley, what sound you used to be in?”

  “Silver Chalice.”

  The two females burst into spasms of laughter with Finnley and Floyd looking on mystified. In between giggles, Angela explained, “We went to a Silver Chalice dance last year and their set sort of blew up. There was this big bang and nuff smoke was coming from the amp. My God, that was funny. Everyone was killing themselves skinning their teet’.”

  The girls launched into uncontrollable mirth once more, this time joined by Floyd, who nearly tumbled off his chair. Finnley consoled himself by opening one of the cans of Special Brew that were huddled around his feet. He offered Verna one of these, but she declined, thinking Finnley had an ulterior motive. “So you can’t offer me one?” snapped Angela.

  “Ease up. I was going to, give me a blasted chance.”

  Finnley reached out to give Angela the beer, then proceeded to fish out his Rizlas from his back trouser pocket, wondering how he could deflect the conversation from his ill-fated sound. “Biscuit’s dread. He was trying to sell me some big-up suitcase yesterday. He’s so fool, he knows I’m on government corn.”

  Floyd, holding his domino sticks, gave an impatient scowl. “It’s your play. Is it all right if you make it this week?”

  Finnley kissed his teeth and continued to build his spliff. “Biscuit should keep his runnings quiet - too much undercover squealers about.”

  Then, unaware that Floyd was entertaining guests, Brenton breezed into the room, dressed only in unzipped blue slacks and an Afro-comb dangling from his confused hair. He surveyed the inhabitants of the room and felt a sharp slap of embarrassment. “Wha’ppen, Finnley? Long time no see. You all right, Angela? Verna. How’s t’ings?”

  “T’ings are all right, you know. Can’t complain. We were just chatting about the great, great sounds of Silver Chalice.”

  Everyone smiled at the wit, apart from Finnley, who finished decorating his big-head spliff. Arsoning a match and about to light his joint, Finnley checked the crusty torso of Brenton. “Where’s your shirt, man? Don’t you know it’s winter? And do up your flies. We don’t want to see no ugly sights today, boss.”

  Everyone chuckled, but Angela seemed more interested in Brenton’s physique than the latest joke, licking her lips at the sight of the jutting pectorals. Brenton didn’t realise he was being so closely appreciated. He plonked himself on the edge of the bed, and gestured at the enticing liquor on the floor. “Typical black people, smoking herbs, drinking brew and playing domino. Anyway, give me a Rizla so I can build up. Finnley, I beg you a brew, man.”

  Finnley passed on the liquor, as Floyd dipped into his back trouser pocket, pulling out a scrawled ball of betting slip paper containing the exotic herb. Brenton grabbed the marijuana and Rizla with relish.

  “Thanks and praises, man. Hey, did you hear about Paul McCartney? He was in Japan or one of those ching-chong countries and he get fling in jail for smoking herb. Yeah, seriously, I heard it on the news yesterday.”

  Floyd shook his head slowly. “They’re all smoking the herb, innit. It wouldn’t surprise me if all them group like the Police and Madness smoke the herb. Then again, Madness look like they’re on something more crucial than the sensii. They probably snort the Charlie and yam dem dirty toadstools.”

  “See how them man stay though,” Angela concurred. “They only cuss the Gong for smoking the herb, but they don’t say nutten about them white pop group who take the heroin and that kind of t’ing.”

  Becoming misty-eyed, Finnley joked, “I wanna know what dem punky rocker group are on. They must be on something serious, the way they jump about and do that mad-up head-slapping skank.”

  Everyone laughed as Finnley hoovered mightily on his spliff. Brenton turned his dial on Floyd. “I wanna ask you a favour. I need to borrow that Cecil Gee top you’ve got, ’cos I’m going out tonight.”

  Floyd reluctantly put the domino sticks back in their case. “Yeah, it’s in the wardrobe.”

  Brenton nodded his thanks and started to construct himself a spliff. Meanwhile, Finnley persuaded Verna to take a couple of puffs of his joint. “How do you smoke that stuff?” she coughed.

  “You have to get used to it,” replied Finnley with a sly grin, wondering whether the herb would act as an aphrodisiac.

  “Well, I ain’t getting used to that.”

  Pissed off with Finnley ignoring her, Angela kidnapped Finnley’s spliff and started to inhale the weed. “I was going to give you some,” Finnley admonished. “Where’s your patience? You’re too grabalicious!”

  “Yeah, of course you were. Probably next week.” Eyeing Brenton once more, she exhaled her smoke in his direction. “Where you going tonight, Brenton? Taking a gal out? I’ve never seen you with a comb in your head. I’m surprised they actually make a comb that can go through your head-top.”

  Everyone laughed, but Finnley wasn’t sure whether he was laughing at the jibe or because of the effects of the lager and herbs cocktail.

  Two spliffs and three lagers later, Finnley felt his inhibitions abruptly march away from him.

  “Verna, Verna. My God, you are fit! I don’t care, it has to be said, you’re seriously fit. You’ve got a wicked body and I want to count the hair molecules on your scrumptious thighs.”

  Floyd, astonished, glared at his spar, while Verna, Angela and Brenton collapsed on the bed in a seizure of giggles. “Finnley, stop friggin about, man. Let’s play a next game of domino.”

  “Stuff your dominoes, man. I wanna chat to that masterpiece of fitness called Verna. They say that once you make a woman skin her teet’, you’ve got a serious chance of boning the steak. So Floyd, stick your dominoes up your arse and you will definitely murder the double six. Awwuah! Verna, what are you saying? You t’ink me and you can wine, dine and grind? You don’t have to fret ’bout getting big belly, ’cos I always carry a caterpillar’s raincoat in my wallet - not like Floyd who will ride his filly six furlongs bareback. Can’t you come to my yard now? Believe me, when I’m finished wid you, you’ll wanna marry me.”

  Then the gangly Finnley tried to get up from his chair to where Verna was laughing hysterically, but he tripped over the edge of the bed and landed flat on his right cheek. Now, even the subdued Floyd joined in the laughter. Angela and Verna helped Finnley get up and park on the bed. Floyd shook his head as he clocked his spar tree-bending on the bed. “Finnley, you can’t take your liquor and herbs, man. Look at you, you’re like them white man who come out of the pub on a Friday night.”

  Finnley found himself beside Verna, and couldn’t help but admire her legs with a stupid grin. “God, please forgive all my sins and t’ing, and for what I am about to receive I’ll be seriously grateful.”

  Howls
of laughter filled the small bedroom. Then Finnley called, “Floyd. Hey Floyd!”

  “What?”

  “Floyd!”

  Now with anger in his voice, Floyd said, “Yes - what?” Finnley was on the verge of bursting out laughing as he muttered softly, “Sod off.”

  Everyone crumpled yet again in mirth, and Brenton almost forgot he had a date. So somewhat groggily, he pulled himself up. “Look, I’ll see you lot later, or should I say I might see you but you won’t see me, especially the way you’re carrying on.”

  After collecting Floyd’s brown cardigan top from the wardrobe, nobody seemed all that bothered whether Brenton departed or not, apart from Angela. “Yeah, I’ll see you later. Take care.”

  Before he left, Brenton turned and surveyed the room. He could see Verna trying to edge away from the lecherous-looking Finnley, Floyd attempting to arson the remains of a joint, while Angela was leaning drowsily against the wall, her eyes wondering where her own bed was.

  One and a half hours later, Brenton trod at a brisk pace down his mother’s street - the closer he got, the slower he walked. He still felt a little nervous about seeing his family, but sporting his friend’s cardigan gave him confidence. Why does my sister wanna take me out? he wondered.

  After a slight pause, when he momentarily gazed at his mother’s front door, he knocked on it once.

  Wearing a headscarf, Ms Massey opened the front door. Her son, like before, simply stood there, motionless for a couple of seconds. He analysed his mother’s stark features, concentrating on her tragic eyes. It was as if someone had ripped out the happiness from within her spent body. She could do with a spliff, Brenton thought. The worry lines on her forehead seemed to be as deep as the etchings on a gravestone. He thought his mother must have been through trying times, but he was not going to sympathise with her yet. “Come in, Brenton. Don’t stand up in the cold. Come inside.”

  Brenton stepped into the house, trying to avoid catching his mother’s eye. This time, he was led to the kitchen where Cynthia switched on the electric kettle. “You want a cup of tea?”

  Walking around the kitchen, observing the wallpaper, Brenton nodded.

  “You like it wid cow’s milk or condensed milk?”

  “Ordinary milk, please.”

  Brenton glanced up at the ceiling, while his mother followed her son’s path with her eyes. “Juliet will soon come, she jus’ getting ready. I’m so glad that the two of you are getting on all right.”

  Brenton acted as if he wasn’t listening. Cynthia continued, “Brenton, I’m sorry for the udder night, y’hear? I was very upset and I did not want to say goodbye to you ’cos I t’ought you would cuss me and distress me. Y’understand?”

  “That’s all right.”

  An uneasy silence followed. Neither mother nor son quite knew what to say to each other, and both of them mentally willed Juliet to come down the stairs.

  A click from the kettle and steam protruding out of its nozzle prompted the next exchange. Pouring the boiled water into a plain white mug housing a tea bag, Cynthia admitted, “I know I ’ave been no mother to you at all. But I hope you believe me when I say you ’ave been always ’pon my mind.”

  She paused as she watched her son take a chair at the kitchen table. “Always.”

  Brenton guessed that his mother was looking for some sort of forgiveness, but he wasn’t in a merciful mood. “Are you religious? Do you go to church?”

  Puzzled by the question, Ms Massey hesitated slightly before answering. “Well, er, yes, I suppose I am religious. I attend church now and again.”

  Picking up his cup of tea, Brenton gave his mother such a fierce look that she expected him to explode with a volley of stabbing words. “I wouldn’t call you a very good Christian, leaving your son when he was just a baby. Not a good Christian practice, is it? Not even a good animal practice.”

  Brenton was interrupted by the sound of dainty feet coming down the stairs - a sound that brought relief for the anxious Ms Massey.

  Juliet entered the kitchen, looking stunning in a blue polo-necked sweater with a thick belt around her waist. A matching light-blue pleated skirt made her look as if she belonged in the centre pages of a fashion magazine. “I hope you two are getting to know each other.”

  Switching her gaze towards her brother, she added, “Sorry I’m a bit late, but that’s how us girls are, never ready on time. Anyway, I’ve called a cab, and it’ll be here in a few minutes. I’m just going upstairs to put my shoes on - soon come.”

  Juliet disappeared again, leaving her mother and brother sitting at the kitchen table. Brenton scrutinised the brown tiled floor, while his mother felt uncomfortable once more. She hoped her son wouldn’t say anything else to make her feel guiltier than she already did. She decided to make herself a sandwich while Brenton maintained an intimidating silence.

  Juliet reappeared, wearing black shoes to please her smart black blazer. This was a cue for Brenton to rise up and place his half-full mug of tea in the empty sink. He tried not to notice the sheer beauty of his sister. “You ready now?”

  Juliet wondered why Brenton was so keen to leave the house as she watched her mother bravely smiling at her son, buttering slices of bread. Then Juliet enquired, gazing at her brother, “Did you hear the cab horn? I didn’t.”

  “Er, no. I forgot we were going by cab.”

  Juliet high-heeled along the hallway to see if she could sight a waiting cab from the front-room window, but before she reached there, a car horn barked its arrival.

  “Brenton, the cab.”

  Brenton hurried out of the house, passing his sister on the way as Juliet watched her mother, walking slowly behind her. “Bye, Mum,” she said gently.

  “Enjoy yourselves.”

  Cynthia watched the taxi drive away from the front window, then pulled the net curtain back in place, pondering on how she could convince her son to see her in a more favourable light. At the moment, sensing a North Pole bitterness confronting her in the shape of Brenton, all was hopeless. It was as if the skeleton had jumped out of its cupboard and was now pulling faces at her. She couldn’t help but think her son’s hostility towards her was the price of falling in love with a white man.

  Meanwhile, inside the cab, Brenton was feeling more at ease with himself. “So where are you taking me?” he asked his sister. “Not to the fish and chip shop, I hope. I have enough of that during the week.”

  Juliet smiled radiantly. “West End - get dropped off at Piccadilly Circus and find something to eat. Then we can walk down The Strand and check out the Lyceum.”

  “The Lyceum, that’s a soul place, innit?” Thoughts of black guys with parted hairstyles and wearing baggy trousers, granddad shirts and winkle-pickers made him smirk.

  Even in the siege of winter, Piccadilly Circus was a mass of people, some seeming to be very much in a hurry, and others who aimlessly wandered about, dazzled by the bright lights.

  Brenton and Juliet climbed out of their cab and headed towards a McDonald’s restaurant. Brenton scanned around him, sensing the vitality of the place, looking here and there. He was a little awestruck as this was his virgin night in the West End - but he didn’t want Juliet to know this. He knew Floyd came here often, mostly to check out the Cecil Gee menswear shop, but he’d always thought it was a place for tourists and white people.

  Juliet, with Brenton following, entered McDonald’s. The workers behind the counter were trying frantically to keep up with the ravenous demand.

  “So little brother, what do you want?”

  “Just some fries and a cheeseburger, please.”

  Juliet joined one of the patience-testing queues, while her brother stood and observed the lively streets outside.

  One young man, who had obviously had too much to drink, was being brutally sick opposite the restaurant, while his spar, who was in the same condition, stood by laughing his head off. Further up the road, a young woman sank to her knees, cursing. By her gestures, Brenton guessed someone h
ad just taxed her handbag.

  Approaching the restaurant was a young suited Englishman who, very politely and patiently, was trying to direct a group of foreigners who were hopelessly lost, even though some of them were clutching their Guide to London leaflets in their hands.

  A tap on the shoulder reminded Brenton he was out with his sister. He gratefully accepted the fries and the cheeseburger, and as there were no seats available, the couple stood by the entrance to consume their food. Wolfing down nearly half of his cheeseburger in one bite, Brenton mumbled, “So this soul place. No reggae is played there, is it?”

  “No, just soul. People go there to freak out, you know, get loose. Some just dance until they drop.”

  Sensing that the sting of embarrassment was waiting for him, Brenton quipped, “Well, I’d better tell you now, I can’t dance to save my life. I’m to dancing what a diddy man is to basketball.”

  Juliet almost choked on her fries. Pleased, Brenton joked again: “I’ll be an embarrassment to you. I’m about as co-ordinated as a one-legged cyclist with a serious puncture.” He’d heard that one from Floyd.

  Juliet had to put her fries down on a table as she laughed heartily. Her brother smiled, at last feeling he could just be himself in his sister’s company.

  The pair walked along The Strand, nearing the Lyceum disco night-spot with Brenton feeling like a fish accidentally calling in on a camel commune.

  As they entered the club, Juliet was in her element. She revelled in the flashing lights, dancing bodies and the sheer vigour of the place.

  Weaving his way through the sweating ravers with his sister excitedly following him, Brenton sought out the safe haven of the bar, fingering the loose shekels in his pocket. “Do you wanna drink?”

  “Something soft. I’ll have a Coke.”