by Alex Wheatle
‘Is that the wine talking to me?’
‘No, it’s not!’ said Clayton, framing Juliet’s head with his hands. ‘You make Halle Berry look like, er, like average. I’m not saying Halle Berry is ugly or anything ’cos she ain’t but if you and her stood side by side then everyone would be staring at you … even BNP male voters would look at you … I think they all secretly fancy black women anyway.’
‘Not here, Clayton. Let me check if Breanna’s home.’
Juliet brushed away Clayton’s hands and went upstairs to see if Breanna was there. She returned a minute later. Clayton was sitting at the kitchen table pouring himself a whisky and Coke. ‘She’s not home,’ said Juliet. ‘I hope she’s still not vexed with me.’
Downing half his glass in one gulp, Clayton said, ‘Get used to my world. Breanna’s always vexed with me.’
‘Stop being dramatic.’
‘It’s true! Doesn’t matter what I do we’ve never been close.’
‘She appreciates you. Just doesn’t know how to show it.’
‘Don’t have to patronise me, Jules.’
‘I’m not!’
Clayton finished the contents of his glass and he poured more whisky into it. He added Coke and shook it gently. ‘Her argument with you,’ he said. ‘She’s got a point.’
‘What do you mean she’s got a point?’
‘You went to a party and you don’t know who you had sex with?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake! You as well?’
‘It don’t sound right, Jules. Don’t sound like you. I’ve never quite thought that was … that was, you know, the full story.’
‘Are you calling me a fucking liar!’
‘No, Jules. I’m just saying it doesn’t quite compute that you would do something like that.’
‘You are, aren’t you? You’re calling me a fucking liar! So what do you think? You think a girl with a face like mine can’t get stoned? Can’t have a good time? Can’t be fucked by a stranger? Have I ever claimed to be the fucking Virgin Mary? Why does everyone think because I have this face that I’m some kind of goodie goodie, perfect person? I screw up like everybody else. This face doesn’t make me immune.’
Clayton took a sip from his glass and he spilled a few drops on the kitchen table. ‘You’re getting very defensive, Jules.’
‘I’m not getting defensive … I don’t like being called a liar.’
‘I’m not calling you a liar! Just, maybe, what do they call it? Economical with the truth.’
‘That’s the same as lying.’
‘Come on, Jules. You went to a party, got high on weed, went upstairs with some guy that you can’t remember and had full sex? Come on. It does sound a bit way out.’
‘It sounds way out because you put me on this … this fucking pedestal. I’m not the dream-perfect girl you always said I was. I have fucked up just like so many girls today fuck up. I made bad choices. I was a single mother. Deal with it! You knew all that. Why do you always want to build me up as some kind of angel or Madonna?’
‘I’m not building you up as a Madonna, Jules. I’m just saying your story … your story is a bit … is a bit out there. It just doesn’t seem likely. I mean, if you were raped or something at this party I’d understand.’
‘I wasn’t raped!’
‘If you were so out of it then how do you know you weren’t raped?’
‘What the fuck are you thinking, Clayton? Jesus Christ! I can’t believe you said that. I don’t know why you and Breanna are bringing this up now. What’s got into you two? The fact of the matter is I don’t know who Breanna’s father is and I don’t like to be called a liar. Now can you just drop it? I don’t want to talk about this again, right!’
Placing his glass down, Clayton held his forehead with both hands. ‘Sorry, Jules. Didn’t mean to upset you.’
Arms folded, Juliet glared at Clayton. She breathed heavily and closed her eyes every now and again to regain her composure.
I hate lying to him, she thought. But what choice do I have?
Her expression softened after a few minutes. She then walked behind him and placed her arms around his neck. ‘Why are we arguing about something that happened more than twenty years ago?’ She said. ‘Makes no sense. Let’s go to bed.’
She kissed Clayton on the neck and pulled him to his feet. They went upstairs together and as soon as they reached their bedroom, Clayton tugged at her clothes. Juliet closed her eyes and allowed Clayton to do what he wanted with her body. He kissed her on her neck and her throat and roughly squeezed and pawed at her breasts. He almost ripped off her underwear and placed his right hand against her crotch. She could feel the nails in his other hand dig into her backside.
‘At least when he’s half drunk he’s more passionate,’ Juliet thought.
They made love with Juliet facing the mattress and Clayton on top of her. When he had finished he rolled off her, panting heavily and Juliet lay on her side, facing away from Clayton. He sided up to her and started to finger her ear lobe and play with her hair. She felt his breath on her neck. She closed her eyes and thought of Brenton.
Chapter 15
Dreams and Aspirations
THERE WAS NO WAY the characters on screen would have survived the beatings they inflicted on each other if they had been human. Malakai and Sean’s thumbs and fingers were a blur as they attempted to get the upper hand on one another. They contorted their arms and bodies at strange angles as if more pressure on the hand-held consoles would give an extra powerful kick or punch.
They were sitting in the living room of Sean’s mother’s flat. The burgundy carpet was worn by the door and the beige paint that covered the walls looked tired. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling. Celebrity and TV magazines were piled on a small coffee table and the desktop computer sitting in a corner of the room had disconnected coloured wires hanging out of the exposed hard drive, waiting to be repaired. Schoolboy photographs of Sean grinned out from a mantlepiece and a boom box was sitting in another corner surrounded by naked CDs with black handwriting on them. Beside the sofa was a glass ashtray containing the remains of four skunk spliffs. The aroma of potent cannabis blended with the smell of leftover chicken bones from two Kentucky Fried chicken cartons beside Sean’s feet.
‘You’re dead!’ Sean exclaimed. ‘About you wanna come here and test me! You can’t test nothing.’
‘You get lucky, bredren,’ said Malakai.
‘Lucky what? I paralysed you, bredren.’
Malakai flung his console on the sofa. ‘We always play the game that you wanna play. Next time I’ll bring my urban warrior t’ing and mash you up. Blatantly.’
‘Stop hyping yourself up, Malakai! Bring all your games, I don’t care. Just bring it.’
‘I will.’
Standing up, Malakai prepared to leave.
‘So where you going?’ asked Sean, unplugging the Playstation wires from the TV.
‘Bree’s yard.’
‘At this time? It’s gone half ten. Her mum lets you stay the night?’
‘No,’ Malakai answered. ‘I just wanna see her.’
‘Make sure you tell her about my birthday drink-up at the White House in three weeks’ time.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Malakai paused, zipping up his jacket. ‘The White House is well high profile. Brothers go there from all ends.’
‘So what you saying?’ challenged Sean. ‘I can’t ever have a drink-up anywhere in the Dirty South? Besides, the White House is near Clapham Common, near Sainsbury’s. It’s not like I’m having it in the ends. Stop fretting, Malakai. I ain’t gonna hot up myself.’
‘You told your mum you’re having a drink-up?’
Sean took a while to answer. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘She will just be giving me grief about it. But don’t I have to live my life? I’ve been under a low profile for too long, bredren. I can’t function like that, Malakai. Seriously. For weeks and weeks I’ve been sitting in this damn flat listening to my mum go on and
on. I get up in the morning and watch Lorraine Kelly! After that I dunno what to do with myself. I’ve started to read one of Mum’s books; some writer called Andrea Smith. That’s how bored and sad I’ve got, bredren. I need to get out more.’
‘You do go out,’ said Malakai.
‘What? Going job centre and going once to Nando’s? I mean proper out. Go bars and t’ing. Listen to some music. See some chicks. Get their numbers.’
‘But your mum don’t want you to step out at night.’
‘So what do you want me to do? Spend all my time in here with my Playstation getting cuss by Mum if I leave two plates in the sink and spliff butts in the ashtray? Nah, man. I love my mum but I can’t take her sometimes. It’s not too different from doing bird.’
‘Where is she anyway?’
‘She does one late shift a week at Subway. She’s s’posed to be bringing home the cheese deluxe t’ing for me.’
‘So … a drink-up at the White House? You ain’t fretting about that?’
‘Stop going on like a pussy, Malakai. Nothing’s gonna happen. Trust. It’s not like I’m gonna broadcast it all over the place. I’ll keep it on the low. I’ve already asked Jazz to come. She’s eager, bredren. Trying to find a way to slip her in my yard so I can wok that good. I’m dying for a wok that you won’t believe, bredren! But you know the way my mum goes on with me bringing chicks to my yard. I mean, it’s not like I complained when she had a man and he stayed over.’
‘As far as I remember, Sean, the last time your mum had a boyfriend was when we were about nine. Blatantly!’
‘Don’t matter, I didn’t complain.’
‘Anyway, Jazz. She’s Bree’s friend, you know. Treat her proper ’cos if you don’t it’s not gonna look good on me. Blatantly.’
‘And? She asked for my number. Remember that. I’m gonna wok that like caveman discovered pussy for the first time. Trust! She’s taking me to the cinema next week, bredren. When I lock her down I’m gonna ask her to buy me some new trainers and shit. Trust.’
Malakai sat back down on the sofa. ‘Seems like you’re in there. She’s well onto you.’
‘You know it,’ grinned Sean. ‘But I need some folds to fat-up my wallet.’
‘How’s the job hunt going?’ asked Malakai.’
Sean offered Malakai a glare of contempt. He held his expression for more than five seconds to ensure it fully registered. ‘No one wants to give me a fucking job, bredren. Seriously. I’m an ex-con. A fucking jailbird. When employers asked why is there a hole in my CV and I explain to them about me doing bird they just switch off, bredren. I might as well be a paedo asking them if I can wok their ten-year-old daughters, bredren. They ain’t loving me. Ain’t loving me at all. Seriously.’
‘Not all of them will treat you like that,’ said Malakai.
‘What the fuck you talking about, Malakai? It’s bad enough that I’m black! Furthermore, it’s bad enough that I’m the blacker shade of black. Trust! I couldn’t even get a job at my mum’s place. It’s fucked up. They couldn’t even trust me to fling some piece of Italian bread into some fucking oven and then fill a roll with cheese, chicken slice and shit. You know how humiliating that is? Do you? For your own mum to try and get you a job making rolls and you get turned down for that shit because some pussy don’t trust you? What do they think I’m gonna do? Run off with the mother-fucking onions and salad? T’ief the takings from two fucking salami rolls? And you know what? At my mum’s place they employed this Yardie girl who has a weave you can see from Tower Bridge, make-up put on by a Stevie Wonder plasterer and an accent that only tough-toe man from Jamaica can understand! I’m telling you, Malakai, I’m gonna set myself up doing some kinda hustling. I’m gonna shot some weed soon. Fuck it. I’m tired of begging for work!’
‘Then you might end up doing bird again,’ warned Malakai.
‘You know what?’ chuckled Sean. ‘When you’re doing bird you get three meals a day, you get a free gym, get to play ball and if your behaviour is all good you even get to play some games, bredren. I even improved my English and you know what I was like in English classes at school. Fuck it! You even get to do some music and shit. Yeah, hustling’s a risk. But society don’t wanna rehab me. They keep saying they do but they don’t mean it. I’m fucked off with my probation officer telling me if I try hard enough and shit I’ll get something. No one’s gonna give me some fucking job in a bank or anything like that. Trust! It ain’t gonna happen no matter what the pussyhole probation officer says. They just want me to behave like a nice little yout’ and be all happy-clappy and shit when I finally get my job of flinging cheese in Italian rolls. Fuck that!’
‘So what?’ said Malakai. ‘You gonna play the badman?’
‘Badman?’ repeated Sean. ‘Don’t have to be a badman to shot weed.’
‘You have to look after yourself,’ said Malakai. ‘Nuff shottas get jacked on these ends so they have to carry something to protect themselves or get one of them Oliver Twist dogs with the big head and short legs.’
‘I’ll be careful, innit.’
‘Sean, you ain’t no shotta, it ain’t you … you ain’t no badman.’
‘And how the fuck do you know? Were you doing bird with me? Did you see me tested in prison? I had to look after myself, bredren. Trust! You think I can’t front up to a man who brings it to me? You think that? You’re wrong, bredren! I’ve grown up a lot. Trust!’
‘Why you shouting?’
‘’Cos you’re fucking me off, bredren. You’re chatting like you’ve been with me for the last two years or so.’
‘Sean, I ain’t dissing you. I just … I just know you.’
‘I’ve changed, bredren. If I can deal with doing bird I can deal with shotting in the ends.’
Malakai shook his head. ‘Look, hold it down, yeah, I’m gonna see Bree.’
Pausing before he made his way out of the room, Malakai said, ‘Look after yourself, yeah.’
‘Yes, bredren … by the way, have you seen Bree’s uncle again?’
‘Bree’s uncle? Uncle Brenton?’
‘Yeah,’ Sean replied.
‘No, haven’t seen him. He doesn’t live at Bree’s yard. Why?’
‘Just wondered,’ answered Sean. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Brixton Hill ends, I think.’
‘Oh, ok. Say hi to Bree, yeah.’
‘Yeah, man. Laters.’
As Malakai made his way out of the flat, Sean plugged in his Playstation and set up another game. Malakai took a 35 bus to Brixton, texted Breanna on the way and then changed for a bus that took him to West Norwood. He arrived at Breanna’s house at eleven fifteen p.m.
He rang the bell and Clayton answered it. He looked Malakai up and down. ‘Is, er, is Breanna there?’ Malakai asked, putting on his best speaking voice.
Clayton checked his watch and studied Malakai once again. ‘Yes, she’s …’
Before Clayton could finish his sentence, Breanna arrived at the front door. ‘It’s alright, Dad,’ she said.
Clayton went back to reading his papers in the lounge. Breanna led Malakai up the stairs and to her parents’ bedroom. She knocked on the door. ‘Come in,’ said Juliet.
Juliet was typing a letter on her computer. She took her reading glasses off. ‘Malakai’s just come to say hello,’ said Breanna.
‘Good evening, Mrs Hylton.’
‘Good evening, Malakai.’
Breanna then led Malakai to her room. She closed the door behind her and let out a sigh of relief. ‘My parents always want me to introduce any visitors to them. They’re funny about that.’
‘Blatantly! Your mum was alright but did you see the look your paps gave me?’
‘He’s alright. Just doesn’t realise I’m twenty-one.’
Malakai took off his jacket and sat on the bed. After Breanna cleared two black beauty magazines off the bed, she joined him.
‘So,’ Breanna smiled. ‘Why did you wanna see me tonight?’
Malakai kisse
d her on the forehead and both cheeks before finding her mouth. Breanna enjoyed the kiss but pulled away after five seconds. ‘Mum’s next door,’ she whispered. ‘Behave yourself, Malakai.’
‘This is your room, ain’t it? You can do what you like … you’re twenty-one.’
He went to kiss her. Breanna stood up abruptly. ‘Malakai! Behave!’
She inserted Aaliyah’s Try Again into her mini-stereo. She lay down on her back on the bed staring at the ceiling. Malakai lay next to her. ‘How’s t’ings at home?’ she asked.
‘Nothing change,’ Malakai answered. ‘Mum still cussing every day about this and that. She wants more rent money from me.’
‘It’s tough for her though,’ said Breanna. ‘She’s still got your younger brother and sister going school.’
‘Yeah, I hear that, Bree. But she could do something for herself instead of cussing me and Dad for more money. She’s never worked. Even Sean’s mum does a little something. She works in Subway’s in Bricky.’
‘It wasn’t her fault your dad walked out for another woman.’
‘I hear that too, Bree. But what’s she gonna do? Moan and cuss about it for the rest of her days or move on, get a life for herself and rely on herself.’
‘Dads should pay for the families they leave behind,’ said Breanna.
‘Yeah, they should. That should happen in an ideal world. Blatantly. But this ain’t an ideal world. It’s messed up. This might sound cold but my mum made a choice to stay at home and not work. She just nags everybody and blames everybody but herself for her situation. My dad should be blamed for shit; he’s got a lot to answer for. But the present situation isn’t helping my little brother and sister, isn’t helping her pay the bills. Blatantly. I can’t tell you how many repossession letters we get and shit.’
‘She must be stressed out.’
‘She is,’ said Malakai. ‘The only way out of it is for her to at least do some kinda part-time work. Blatantly.’
‘Have you seen Precious lately?’
‘No, I haven’t, you know. I’m gonna reach up to Crystal Palace one of these Sundays … wanna come with me? Meet my paps and t’ing? Listen to him go on about how he used to wear mad safari jackets and a beaver hat back in the day?’