by Alex Wheatle
‘Course I ain’t friggin’ ramping. He told me dis as he was jus’ ’bout to fling me over de balcony of some dirty tower block. I t’ought my forehead was gonna kiss de friggin’ concrete. We’ve got to get de t’ings back.’
Coffin Head shook his head in dismay ‘I always said don’t deal wid dat man, I always said. But oh no, you jus’ wouldn’t listen. It’ll be cool, you said. Well, fuck my days. I’m fucked, we’re fucked. You jus’ don’t wanna listen to reason, man. Didn’t I say Chaks is into all sorts of shit. Pimping, money-lending, protection racket, drugs, cheque book. He even owns a Rottweiler dat fights uder dogs in Brockwell Park, to rarted. De man’s well versatile.’
‘Look, Coff, we can chat to Smiley an’ he might give us de t’ings back. We jus’ got to give ’im back his corn.’
‘Did you tell Chaks we sold de t’ings to Smiley?’
‘Are you cuckoo? Course I never! If I did you t’ink I’d be here now?’
Coffin Head turned the ignition key and pulled away. Barrington Levy’s ‘Bounty Hunter’ came on the car stereo, the lyrics backed by a hot-stepping rhythm that was full of menace. The song filled the two teenagers with dread.
‘Wha’ we gonna do, man?’ Coffin Head asked, turning into Brixton Road.
‘Check Smiley tomorrow.’
2
Homestead
The council estate that housed Biscuit’s family and countless others, stretched between two bus stops along Brixton Road, and was three blocks deep. Biscuit made his way to his home slab and climbed four flights of concrete stairs, eyeing the graffiti that seemed to have been written when the block was built. The sight of the dark brown brickwork brought a powerful relief that not even the filthy syringes that were breeding in dark corners could repel. He winced as he observed the panoramic view of the tower block where Nunchaks had threatened his life. The sky was a malevolent grey, and to the east, beyond Kennington, he saw the hint of a threatening sunrise creeping over the tower blocks of Elephant and Castle. ‘A new day,’ Biscuit thought to himself and smiled. It was a phrase his mother had taught him when he was young. ‘A new day is full of hope.’
As a child, Biscuit had witnessed at first hand the eroding of his mother’s dignity, set in motion by the death of his father from pneumonia in 1963 after one of the worse winters the country had ever suffered. Biscuit could not remember his father at all, but his mother had described the details of his death. Working outdoors to service telephone lines, Mr Huggins had battled with the ferocious winter that chilled the country for nearly six months. In April of that year, flu claimed him first.
Pneumonia paid him a visit soon after, sending him to his grave in Streatham cemetery in early May. Biscuit’s mother had hated the sight of snow ever since, and she still swept it away, cursing under her breath, whenever it made an appearance by her front door. Immediately following her husband’s death she also vowed never to enter a church again, citing that God had made her suffer too much. During his childhood, Biscuit was sometimes awakened by his mother’s rantings against the Most High. He would creep along the hallway and spy her holding her head between her hands in the front room, crying.
Biscuit turned the key and entered the flat.
‘Lincoln! Is dat you? Wha’ kinda party gwarn till de lark dem sing inna tree top? Ah seven ah clock ah marnin y’know. You know me caan’t sleep when you out der ’pon street ah night-time.’
‘I keep telling you don’t wait up for me, Mummy. Didn’t I say I wouldn’t be back till morning?’
He took off his leather jacket and hung it on a peg in the hallway, which was lit by a naked bulb. Last summer, he had bought and put up the cheap white wallpaper and glossed the skirting in an attempt to brighten up the corridor. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to pull up the wild-patterned, multi-coloured carpet while he was decorating, and it still bore the white paint and paste stains.
The bedroom that he shared with his brother, Royston, was nearest to the front door with the entrance to the right of the hallway. On the left-hand side, two paces further up, was Denise’s room, which was next door to his mother’s chamber. Moving on, the bathroom was situated on the right. Beyond this and to the right was the lounge.
The centrepiece of this room, sitting on a mantelpiece above the gas heater, was a large framed, black and white photo of Mr and Mr Huggins on their wedding day. Other photos, propped on the black and white television set or peering out of an old wooden china cabinet and sitting on a window ledge, were mostly of a young Biscuit. The wallpaper in this room was a more stylish pink and white pattern, disturbed only by a Jamaican tourist poster, boasting a golden beach and turquoise sea. To the rear of the room was the kitchen door, where a calendar, published by a Jamaican rum company, was hanging from a nail.
‘You waan some breakfast?’ Biscuit’s mother called from the lounge. ‘I’m gonna cook up some cornmeal porridge after me done de washing up.’
‘Nah, t’anks. I jus’ wanna get some sleep, Mummy.’
‘Den tek off your clothes dem. Me gone ah bagwash when it open. Me nah like to reach too late, cah de place cork up come de afternoon.’
Biscuit sat on the bed and smiled as he witnessed his brother Royston trying to pretend he was asleep. He looked upon his round-headed, dimple-cheeked sibling as he peeled off his crocodile skin shoes, then ambled into the kitchen where his mother was busy rinsing pots and dishes.
Biscuit kissed his mother on her left cheek and offered her a home-coming smile. Her hair was braided into short plaits, all pointing in different directions. The hue of her black skin was dark and rich, but her eyes sparkled whenever she looked upon Lincoln, her first born and only child from her beloved husband.
‘Here, Mummy, control dis,’ he offered, presenting his mother with a five-pound note. ‘For de bagwash.’
‘But you jus’ gi’ me ah ten pound yesterday fe do ah liccle shopping.’
‘Jus’ tek it, Mummy.’
She took the note and placed it on top of the fridge, her face curving into the kind of smile that mothers only reserved for their children. Biscuit acknowledged her silent thanks. ‘I’m gonna ketch some sleep.’ He turned and made for his bedroom.
The room was dominated by the double bed he shared with his nine-year-old brother. A single wardrobe housed Biscuit’s garments and Royston’s school uniform. A simple blue mat was the racing ground for Royston’s matchbox cars, and a small chest of drawers had both siblings’ underwear fighting for breath. On one side of the room, above Biscuit’s side of the bed, spawning from the join of ceiling and wall was a damp stain in the shape of South America.
‘Royston, I know you’re awake,’ Biscuit said.
‘No I’m not.’
‘Den how comes you answer me?’
‘You waked me up.’
‘You was awake from time.’
‘No I wasn’t, you waked me up.’
‘Go on! Admit it. You were waiting up for me.’
‘So … It’s horrible when I wake up in the middle of the night and you ain’t der.’
‘Come ’ere you little brat.’ Royston leaped up and viced his brother’s neck with his chubby arms. ‘Well, you ain’t got no excuse now. Go back to sleep.’
Biscuit undressed down to his Y-fronts and slipped under the covers. Royston was still sitting up, and watched as his brother’s head hit the pillow. He tried to think of something with which to restart the conversation.
‘Did you get any rub-a-dub at the party?’ he asked, wondering how his brother would react to the latest addition to his vocabulary.
‘Stop using word if you don’t know wha’ dey mean. Quiet yout’ an’ go back to sleep.’
‘I do know what it means.’
‘Good fe you. But you don’t ask dem kinda question to big man. Know your size.’
‘You ain’t a big man.’
‘I’m a lot bigger dan you.’
‘But you ain’t a man yet. A man goes out to work. You don’t work.’
‘Royston, quiet your beak. Why is it every weekend I come back from somewhere, you wanna keep me up?’
‘Not my fault your bedtime’s when everyone else is getting up.’
‘Look, Royston, I’m tired, an’ der’s a lot of t’ings ’pon my mind. I’ll talk to you later on. Oh, one last t’ing, I want you to help Mummy at de bagwash.’
‘I ain’t going. Last time I went my friend saw me and made fun out of me at school.’
‘You’re going.’
‘No I ain’t.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No I ain’t. Mummy’s always cussing me cos I drop the clothes on the floor.’
‘Den be more careful.’
‘Why can’t Denise go?’
‘Cos she ’as to help wid de cooking.’
‘Don’t wanna go.’
‘Look, if you go, I’ll buy you some sweets.’
‘I wanna Mars Bar and a Kit-Kat.’
‘You liccle blackmailer,’ Biscuit sighed. ‘Alright den, but make sure you go.’
Several hours later, Biscuit’s mother was ironing Royston’s school uniform in the lounge, watching The Waltons on the black and white telly. She draped the pressed clothes over a worn armchair and kissed her teeth as Royston played around her feet, jumping on her nerves.
Denise was sprawled on the sofa, thinking of what her friends, Hilary and Jackie, would wear to a forthcoming party. Perhaps those new split skirts with a small, gold-coloured chain at the front which were catching on fast. Or maybe them fashionable waffle slacks.
The owner of an Olympic swimmer’s physique, Denise had a complexion that looked like dark honey. Her Siamese cat-like eyes, framed by perfectly arched eyebrows, were seductively attractive, making her a just challenge for a top-notch sweet-bwai. Her cheeks were not blessed with flesh but her lips were generous and sexy. Her pitch-black hair was beautifully styled in corn-row plaits, lending her an appearance of innocence. Dressed in seamed jeans and an oversized pullover, Denise wondered if Hilary and her boyfriend had patched things up after their argument.
‘Mummy, can I have some money to buy a dress dis week,’ she asked. ‘I’ve been invited to a party Saturday.’
‘You ’ave plenty dress inna your wardrobe – wha’ is wrong wid dem?’
‘Nutten. But I’ve ’ad dem from time an’ I wanna wear somet’ing different for once.’
‘Waan dis, waan dat. You always waan somet’ing. Electric bill affe pay nex’ week but you nuh worry ’bout dat.’
‘I haven’t asked you money for clothes for long time. Anybody t’ink me ask you every week.’
‘Why don’t you find ah nice gentleman fe buy dem t’ings der.’
‘Cah men don’t give somet’ing fe nutten.’
‘You say dat cos you mixed inna de wrong crowd. Pure rude bwai you ah deal wid.’
‘What d’you expect! Dis is SW9 not SW1. No gentlemen ’round dese sides.’
‘You would meet some nice gentlemen if you gwarn ah church wid Auntie Jenny.’
‘Dem man who go Auntie Jenny’s church – most of dem go raving on a Saturday night. Besides, why should I go to Auntie Jenny’s church when you never go?’
Hortense rested her ironing arm for a while, sat on the limb of a chair and tried to look meaningfully at her daughter. ‘Me nuh see why you ’ave problem getting ah nice man fe court wid,’ she said, ignoring her daughter’s last remark. ‘You pretty in your own way an’ not fatty or maaga. Y’know me caan’t feed two big people inna de yard.’
Denise shook her head. ‘But you’ll always feed Lincoln, innit.’
‘Me nuh say dat.’
‘You might as well.’
‘Stop putting word inna me mout’.’
Biscuit entered the lounge, rubbing his eyes, not at all embarrassed at wearing only his Y-fronts. ‘Bwai, every Sunday you two ketch up inna argument. What’s de beef now?’ he asked.
‘Mummy wants to marry me off quick time,’ Denise blurted out, getting in first.
‘Me tell you before, stop putting words inna me mout’.’
‘It might not be de exact words, but I get de drift.’
‘You’re so damn facety!’ Hortense barked, getting back to her ironing. ‘You’re jus’ looking argument.’
‘It tek two to ’ave one.’
‘Quiet your mout’, girl! Me ’ave nutten more fe say to you.’
Denise cut her eyes at her mother and then turned her fierce gaze to the TV.
Royston, who was rolling about underneath the ironing board, playing with a matchbox car, sprung up on sight of his brother. ‘Where’s my Mars Bar and Kit-Kat?’
‘What’s wrong wid you? I jus’ get up, an’ stop ramping under de ironing board.’
‘You waan ah cup ah tea, Lincoln? Mebbe some toast?’
‘Please, Mummy. But I have to dally soon and link up wid Coffin Head.’
‘Never mek me a cup of tea when I get up,’ Denise snapped.
‘An’ you never mek me one!’ Hortense retaliated.
Biscuit ate his breakfast of cornmeal porridge standing up in the kitchen, his worries interrupted by the stop-start bickering of his mother and sister. He knew it all came down to money; that was the bottom line. He wouldn’t have to wake up to family debates so often if there was more of it around. Maybe he could give Denise the money for the dress if he sold a decent amount of herb in the next few days. That would get her off her mother’s back. Perhaps he could even buy Royston his much-needed new shoes for school if things went alright. Biscuit’s mother had mentioned to him a few days before how she had had to box the young bwai for kicking stones. He knew it was a hint he couldn’t ignore. How much is dat? he asked himself. A pair of new shoes might cost a tenner – and a new dress? Maybe twenty notes for a decent one. Might be cheaper if Denise could be persuaded to shop at the market.
He weighed up his financial position as he took Royston to the sweet shop. If Coffin Head and himself sold their herb on the Front Line in Brixton, they could clear £400, especially if he bagged the weed sparingly. I’ve got a few loyal customers around this area, he thought, but no serious herb man would rely for his corn in and about Cowley estate.
When they got to Vassal Road, Biscuit grabbed his brother’s hand so they could cross together. At that moment he saw Wilson Walker, an old school brethren who now lived in Stockwell Park, depart the off-licence.
‘Walker! Walker! Yo!’
Wilson crossed the road, brew in his hand, looking like he had two years of sleep to catch up on. Biscuit and Wilson had been firm friends at school but their paths split when Wilson won an apprenticeship at British Aerospace. Now Biscuit only checked Wilson when he had herb to sell.
‘Wha’appen Walker. Where you rave last night?’
‘Diamonds blues near Fiveways. Cork me ah tell you. Checked a leg-back fe de morning. Said to her I’m going shop but I’m dallying home. I got my delights so I t’ought, why ’ang around? She lives in your estate … wasser-name? Katrina Conley – used to go Stockwell Manor.’
‘Yeah, I know her. Ain’t seen her for a while t’ough. She got her own yard?’ Biscuit queried.
‘Yeah, well, she ’ave pickney now. Eight months old.’
‘Who pumped the seed?’ Biscuit asked, keeping an eye on his impatient brother.
‘Some Filthy Rocker sound bwai, don’t know which one but I feel so it could be Liccle Axe.’
‘Bwai! She’s playing wid fire.’
‘Yeah, well. She got a flat out of it.’
‘Man! De t’ings girl do to get flat.’
‘I could do wid my own yard. Maybe I would do the same t’ing if I was a girl!’
Biscuit laughed as Royston tugged his arm. Wilson offered his brethren a cigarette as his face turned serious.
‘Katrina knows one of de people who dead in de fire last week.’
‘Dat t’ing at Deptford?’
‘Yeah, friend of friend business. Everyone was chatting ’bout it at de dance last night. Ma
ybe dey were t’inking dat some National Front bwai would fling petrol bomb inna de dance. It’s like all an’ all so vex y’know. Me sight a white yout’ get bus’ up down Acre Lane de uder day. De poor sap only went to buy a pattie, but when he came out, some man who were in de bookie jump on ’im an’ mash up his claat. People are vex me ah tell you.’
‘So how many are dead now?’ Biscuit asked solemnly.
‘Ten. T’irty are injured or inna hospital. De beast ain’t made no arres’ yet an dat’s why people are so vex. Der’s talk of some kinda march if de beast don’t do nutten. An’ de nex’ National Front march der’s going to be nuff trouble.’
‘So nobody sight who did it?’
‘Nah. It was dark an’ t’ing an’ one minute everybody’s wining an’ dining, de nex’ minute de yard ketch a fire. Some jus’ escape. A serious business.’
‘So if it was de beef’eads, you t’ink dey will try de same t’ing?’
‘Nobody knows. I can’t see dem trying it in Brixton. If dey do it will be pure almshouse business. Some beef’ead mus’ ah dead, believe.’
‘Yeah, it’s dat. But somet’ing gonna snap, man. So many yout’ get bus’ up inna cell dese days. Y’hear wha’ ’appen to Sceptic? Beastman arres’ ’im outside Kentucky inna Brixton, tek ’im to cell an’ bruk up ’im nose an’ boot up his rib-cage. An’ now, fockin’ beef’ead might ’ave fling petrol bomb inna one of our dance. Man an’ man waan life fe life. Dat’s wha’ dem Brixton panther man say, innit.’
‘Seen. Somet’ings gonna blow up … Listen, man. You dealing?’
‘Yeah, man. Jus’ get me batch last night.’
‘I wanna check you for an eighth later on, yeah.’
‘Seen. You know where to check me, innit.’
‘Yeah, man. But don’t gi’ me a draw wid too much seed in it. Laters.’
Biscuit and Royston watched Wilson cross the road before they entered the sweet shop. Royston had listened attentively to the conversation, as he did when his brother’s friends turned up at home. He was scared for his brother but didn’t know what to say. He had heard how Biscuit’s friends were beat up by the beast, locked up in jail, or stabbed by some bad man. He knew the tale of Brenton Brown and Terry Flynn, which went down in the annals of Brixtonian folklore as one of the most violent confrontations anyone had ever heard of. Whenever Brenton visited the Huggins’ home, Royston’s eyes could not be deflected from the scar upon the man’s neck as he listened attentively to every word the ‘Stepping Volcano’ uttered. A real life Brixtonian bad man in my house, he told himself. He repeated the description of Brenton to his classmates, and would go into detail on how his hero walked.