Brenton Brown

by Alex Wheatle

  Offering his right hand to shake, Brenton looked into Sean’s eyes. Sean studied Brenton’s hand. He then swapped glances with Brenton and shook his hand.

  ‘Next Monday morning,’ said Brenton. ‘Reach my yard at seven thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m up for that,’ said Sean.

  Five hours later, Brenton was naked staring at himself in his bathroom mirror. Johnny Clarke’s Jah Love Is With I was playing from his bedroom. He studied the scars on his neck, his shoulder, his chest and on his legs. ‘You’re lucky to still be here,’ said Brenton to himself. ‘Damn fucking lucky.’

  He picked up a jar of moisturising cream and started to rub it on. His landline phone rang. Brenton went to answer it in the lounge.

  ‘Hello,’ he greeted.

  ‘Hi, it’s Juliet.’

  ‘Bit late, innit?’

  ‘I just wanted to find out how your meeting with Sean went?’

  ‘Went alright,’ answered Brenton.

  ‘Just alright? Did you offer him something?’

  ‘Yeah, a part-time kinda t’ing. He’s starting with me next Monday.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Brenton!’

  ‘No worries, just trying to set a man back on the road, y’understand?’

  ‘Thanks for doing this, Brenton.’

  ‘You sure it’ll be alright with Breanna?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘She’s still vex about him.’

  ‘That’ll pass,’ said Brenton.

  ‘She might need counselling, Brenton. She’s still very upset. She never leaves her room. Always crying …’

  ‘What do you expect, Juliet? She just lost her man. Course she’s gonna still be upset.’

  ‘But she’s saying she wants to quit her job and do some voluntary youth work.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Brenton.

  ‘She’s throwing away her career.’

  ‘She might not like her so-called career,’ argued Brenton.

  ‘I told her not to do anything drastic,’ said Juliet. ‘She’s still grieving. I told her to give herself time.’

  ‘She’s old enough to make her own decisions, Juliet.’

  ‘But she’s not thinking straight. She swore at Clayton tonight and all he was trying to do was to tell her to take time out and think things over. She’s been feisty like any other young girl at her parents but, Brenton, I’ve never heard her swear at one of us before.’

  ‘Juliet, what do you expect? She saw her man get gunned down on the street for fuck’s sake …’

  ‘And I’m trying to see her through it …’

  ‘No, Juliet. Breanna needs to go through it in her own way. Let her do what she wants to do. What’s so wrong with doing youth work anyway? You and Clayton should let her do it if that’s what she wants to do.’

  ‘Brenton, she needs help,’ said Juliet. ‘Maybe I should arrange for her to see a counsellor or someone?’

  ‘Did she ask to see a fucking counsellor?’ asked Brenton. ‘Leave it alone until she wants to see one of them people.’

  ‘I’m worried for her, Brenton. Really worried.’

  ‘She’ll come through, man. It’s only been what? A month or so? Give her time, man. The shock is still in her.’

  ‘Brenton, with all that’s going on …’

  ‘With all what’s going on?’

  ‘I just think,’ stuttered Juliet, ‘I just think that we should all be there for her, you know.’

  ‘We are all there for her,’ said Brenton. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your plans.’

  ‘What plans?’ asked Brenton.

  ‘Your plans to leave.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Don’t you think you should put them on hold?’ said Juliet. ‘Breanna needs all of us right now …’

  ‘I’m not leaving tomorrow, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Yes, but how do we know if Breanna’s going to pull through all this? We don’t know. She needs you here.’

  ‘Juliet, I’m not going nowhere for months. Not at least till November. Breanna will be alright by then, believe it.’

  ‘Say she’s not?’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Juliet! Think positive. Look, I’m not changing my plans. The paperwork’s gone through already. What happened with Malakai was a tragedy and t’ing. Breanna will get back her life.’

  ‘Why you so sure?’

  ‘Wherever I am in six months’ time she’s free to visit. The same goes for you.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Would you come and visit, Juliet?’

  ‘I … I just think you shouldn’t go when Breanna is going through all this stress.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question, Juliet?’

  ‘I … I don’t know,’ answered Juliet. ‘All I can think of now is Breanna.’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ said Brenton. ‘She’ll be alright. As I said just give her time.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Juliet. ‘Sorry to call you so late. I was just, you know, so worried about her.’

  ‘That’s alright. You don’t have to apologise and t’ing.’

  ‘Sorry, I just feel a bit … helpless. Do you realise that when you go to America you have to have health insurance and all that? If you haven’t got it they can turn you away from the hospital. Did you know that?’

  ‘Stop fretting, Juliet,’ said Brenton. ‘I’ve looked into all that. I’m on the case. My eyes are wide open. Believe me … is there anything else?’

  ‘No … sorry again for calling so late.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘OK, Brenton. Good … goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Juliet … tell Breanna I’m thinking of her.’

  ‘I will.’

  Chapter 22

  Exile

  Six months later – December 2002

  ‘WHERE YOU GONNA SMOKE a spliff in Miami?’ asked Floyd, draining a glass of beer. ‘Police in the States don’t ramp, you know, especially in Florida. Dat’s George Bush’s brother state. Major worries! They’ll fuck you up without no apology. You know that their truncheons are about three-foot long. The redneck police have spikes on their truncheons and it has this homing t’ing on it that beeps when it’s close to a black man. It might be best to step where the crocodiles coch so you can burn a zoot in peace, dread.’

  ‘Serious t’ing,’ laughed Coffin Head.

  Coffin Head was standing up, glancing through the large windows at Brixton Town Hall from his vantage point three floors up in the Ritzy bar. Christmas lights lit the lone tree in Windrush Square and festive illuminations were threaded through the branches on the trees that surrounded St Matthew’s Church. Within the grounds of the church, despite the snarling wind and biting cold, idlers, the homeless and the confused drank their drinks straight from the bottle and hunted for cigarette butts to make roll-ups. They watched a lone dog snout for a late supper in an overflowing bin. Coffin Head looked to his right towards the High Street and he saw a 159 bus brake sharply to avoid a reeling woman. Young black men congregated outside the Kentucky takeaway as outside the restaurant a black-cab taxi driver refused the custom of a dreadlocked, shoeless white guy. Dance-hall music was earth-quaking out of a jeep that had stopped at the traffic lights beside the Ritzy cinema. Coffin Head looked to his left where next door to the Town Hall bouncers from the Fridge nightclub were storm-trooping a cursing raver out onto the street and apparently starting to kick him. Just below the Ritzy a well-dressed teenage girl was sitting on the kerb with her head in her hands. She was sobbing as a police siren rang out in the distance. Coffin Head shook his head and muttered, ‘Different people may come and go but nutten change inna Brixton.’

  Inside the Ritzy bar, Luciano’s It’s Me Again Jah was sounding out from the stereo system. The clientele included moviegoers who had come up from the Ritzy cinema downstairs. The walls were covered in classic film posters. The coffee machine at the bar seemed to be forever buzzing and crammed in
to a corner members of a black book group were having a heated debate about Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice.

  Brenton’s party included Floyd, Coffin Head and Biscuit. Their table was covered with empty and half-full glasses of beer and cocktails.

  ‘You’re not gonna take one last look, Brenton?’ said Coffin Head. ‘Brixton in all its fucked-up glory! Some yout’s call it the Dirty South. What did we call it back in the day? The ghetto, I think. What age did you come to Brixton?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ answered Floyd. ‘And when I first saw him I said to myself who the blouse and skirt is this idiot with the mad grey Afro and white people clothes!’

  Brenton chuckled. ‘To be honest,’ he said. ‘I could hardly understand a word you were saying, dread.’

  ‘I never met a yout’ like that before,’ said Floyd. ‘His accent! There was some kinda BBC, Surrey fuckery going on with his accent. I thought he went to some posh school where they wear dem black square t’ings on their head-tops and dem vampire garms.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Biscuit shaking his head. ‘I could tolerate his accent. Didn’t bother me. What freaked me out was his walk. When I sight Brenton for the first time I just couldn’t stop laughing at his walk. I mean, where the fuck did you get that walk from? That was some farmer, cow-nibbling, sore-bunion, straw-yamming, country-bumpkin kinda walk, dread. Man! I laughed!’

  ‘I had to teach him to walk like a Brixtonian,’ said Floyd. ‘You know how stressful that was? You see dem programme about a greyback granny learning to drive? You see how stressed out the instructor gets when the greyback can’t even remember how to start the car? Well quadruple that shit and you might get near to how Brenton stressed me out with me teaching him how to walk street like a black man. He had no riddim, man. No bounce.’

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘And then I tried to teach him how to crub with a girl,’ continued Floyd.

  ‘Yeah, I remember that,’ said Coffin Head. ‘Serious t’ing. That girl in Clouds.’

  ‘What girl in Clouds?’ Biscuit asked. ‘Was I there?’

  ‘No you weren’t there,’ recalled Brenton. ‘Your mum wouldn’t let you go.’

  ‘That’s cold, Brenton,’ chuckled Biscuit. ‘Did you have to remind me of that? Can someone tell me the runnings of what happened with Brenton and this girl at Clouds?’

  Floyd began laughing. Coffin Head joined in and Brenton wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Stop the skinning the teet’ man,’ complained Biscuit. ‘Tell me the story nuh!’

  Composing himself for a couple of seconds, Floyd burst out laughing yet again.

  ‘For Jesus in a fucking jeep!’ moaned Brenton. ‘Can we move on from this fuckery?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Floyd. ‘I’ll tell the story.’

  ‘Go on then!’ urged Biscuit. ‘And stop fucking about.’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ said Floyd catching his breath. ‘Here’s the SP. For one long bitching week I was trying to teach Brenton how to crub with girl, y’understand? Man! It was like teaching Prince Charles how to roll a five-paper spliff.’

  ‘What?’ queried Coffin Head. ‘You was crubbing with Brenton? Fuck my living days, dread! I always wondered what you two got up to in that hostel. That is just fucked-up nastiness, dread. Two man crubbing? Did the both of you get a Thunderbird One erection? All juices are go? Full blast and t’ing?’

  ‘Coffin Head,’ called Floyd. ‘Will you keep your beak quiet while I tell my tale.’

  ‘Tell your tale then but I don’t wanna hear no battyman runnings. My earlobes don’t like dem t’ing there.’

  ‘Anyway,’ resumed Floyd, offering Coffin Head a mean eye pass. ‘I was showing him the movements, you know, one step, two step, figure eight, double dip, rookumbind, bruise pussy and all the rest. He seemed to get the hang of it when he was dancing by himself …’

  ‘I’m getting a fucked-up image of Brenton doing this figure eight on his own,’ laughed Coffin Head.

  ‘Coffin Head!’ called Floyd again. ‘Can you please staple, superglue and double-lock your beak, man. I’m trying to tell the story! Fuck my rasta lying flat on a fucking road ramp!’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Coffin Head. ‘Carry on and t’ing. I won’t interrupt.’

  Floyd offered Coffin Head another brutal eye pass. Brenton rolled his eyes and Biscuit kissed his teeth.

  ‘So after the training,’ Floyd resumed. ‘I took my man to Clouds. I had to lend him some of my garms and tell him to fix up himself ’cos I wasn’t stepping into Clouds with Brenton dressed in his white country-bumpkin clothes and his fucked-up Afro. Lord Jesus! Brenton’s hair was dry! I should’ve sent him to one of dem Arab countries to dip his head in an oil well! The Afro was a fire hazard, nuff danger and t’ing! Anyway, he also had his fucked-up side-burned farmer trod and his plastic shoes. When he put those t’ings on his feet I called him the PVC Kid. Man! You could hear the squeak of his shoes from the bins behind Cowley estate, dread! He didn’t know nutten about fashion. He was lucky there wasn’t a heat wave going on ’cos his feet woulda come like a whole heap of chocolate button on a firing barbecue, serious.’

  ‘Get on with it, man,’ said Brenton.

  ‘Nuff girl was there,’ continued Floyd. ‘Nuff Vauxhall Manor School girls there, Dick Shepherd, Priory Park, St Martin’s, basically a whole heap of girl. Brenton was kinda nervous and he was sweating like an old man with nuff heart worries inna whorehouse. I pulled this girl. Brenton watched. When I finished crubbing her I told Brenton to pull her friend.’

  ‘Her friend was a trog, man!’ protested Brenton.

  ‘Yeah, she was a bit serious train accident disaster and t’ing but man have to start somewhere, right?’ said Floyd. ‘Anyway, at first Brenton wouldn’t pull the girl. I was getting pure frustration ’cos of the amount of time of training I put in. I told Brenton that if he don’t pull the trog I’m stepping home.’

  ‘No,’ argued Brenton again. ‘You wanted to step home ’cos that girl you was crubbing with didn’t give you her digits.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Floyd went on. ‘Brenton pulled the trog. They started crubbing. Lord on a fucking lilo! I don’t know what the fuck Brenton was doing.’

  Everyone laughed again, even Brenton.

  ‘I think Brenton was trying to do the two-step,’ Floyd resumed. ‘But he was going waaaay too fast, bredren. You know like how white men with no riddim do that old-school locomotion dance? Brenton was looking down at his feet and the trog started to get vex, and man, she looked even more ugly when she got vex. The next t’ing I know, they both drop.’

  ‘Right in the middle of the dance floor?’ asked Biscuit.

  ‘Yep,’ Floyd answered. ‘Slap bang, golden bolt, Crafty Cockney bullseye and t’ing. Everyone stopped crubbing and looked at Brenton and the trog. It was embarrassing. The trog started cussing Brenton. Brenton just kinda stood there. He had to take all her Brixton fishwife, ghetto-drain cussing. He didn’t know what the fuck to do or say. It was embarrassing, dread. I had to step away. I could hardly look and t’ing.’

  Everyone collapsed into giggles and Brenton could only shake his head and join the laughter.

  Ten minutes later, Coffin Head was composed enough to ask, ‘Why you really going, Brenton? Florida’s a long way, bredren. You ain’t gonna miss us?’

  Brenton thought about it. ‘I want what you have,’ he finally answered. ‘All of you got your families and t’ing. Got kids and t’ing. I haven’t got that yet. Believe it! I’ve tried but it’s never worked out with anyone.’

  ‘What happened to Lesley?’ asked Biscuit. ‘She looked alright. Fit for her age and t’ing. Good mum, well educated. She had her own hair. And her cooking weren’t too bad.’

  Brenton shook his head. ‘T’ings just didn’t, you know, work out.’

  ‘So you think it might work out with some American girl?’ asked Coffin Head.

  ‘You never know,’ replied Brenton. ‘I just wanna change, dread. Been in Brixton for how long? Twenty-five years or ther
eabouts. Wanna coch in another corner of the world.’

  ‘Yeah and when you settle we’re gonna come over,’ laughed Biscuit. ‘We’re gonna piss in your pool, shit in the sea, jack Mickey Mouse, rape Barney Rubble’s wife, burn a fat spliff in the magical kingdom, drug up Coffin Head and push him in alligator pond.’

  ‘Rape Barney Rubble’s wife!’ repeated Coffin Head, disgusted. ‘Biscuit, dread, you’ve got issues with your female characters in toons, dread. Serious t’ing. You’re fucked up. You’re seriously fucked up.’

  ‘What’s a matter with you, Coff?’ asked Biscuit. ‘Brenton knows I’m joking. How the living fuck am I gonna rape a cartoon character? Christ in a crackhouse! I’m just saying that we’ll all visit him and t’ing when he’s settled.’

  ‘That’ll be sweet, dread,’ said Brenton. ‘And I’m gonna try and come over here at least once a year … by the way, who’s gonna put me up?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Floyd. ‘You poop too much. I remember his poops from the time I lived with him in the hostel. Brenton’s poops are seriously dangerous, weapon of mass destruction and t’ing. You ain’t stinkin’ out my yard, you know how Sharon stays about that kinda t’ing.’

  ‘See how your best bredren treats you though,’ said Coffin Head. ‘You can stay with me and Denise. We got a spare room and t’ing.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that, Coffin Head,’ said Brenton.

  ‘No worries, dread,’ replied Coffin Head. ‘Just let us know in advance so we got nuff time to buy some serious air freshener, incense sticks and t’ing.’

  Everybody laughed again. Brenton finished his drink and as he did so he took a long look at his friends and wondered how his life would have been different if he hadn’t met them.

  ‘Gotta step now,’ Brenton said. ‘Gotta be at the airport by half seven but before I hit my bed I have to drop something off at Juliet’s yard.’

  ‘Alright then,’ said Floyd. ‘Coff, how much liquor you had tonight?’

  ‘Just the one, man!’ Coffin Head replied. ‘What do you take me for?’