East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Don’t give up,’ encouraged Ruth. ‘You’ll find something if you keep looking.’

  ‘Find somet’ing? I’ll find a millionaire to love me before I find a job. Dat’s what mummy would like anyway.’

  ‘So you don’t find your sweetheart yet?’ Ruth laughed, pouring water into a steaming pot filled with red kidney beans.

  ‘Sweetheart? Don’t give me joke. All de bwai dem who ask me out ain’t got nutten to offer. Wha’s de point of going out wid a bwai if he’s on giro money. Wha’ we’re gonna do? Stay at my yard ’pon Saturday night an’ listen to Rodigan ’pon Capital Radio while my mudder der inna armchair sewing socks wid her screw up face? Dem bwai can’t tek me anywhere. Dem don’t even ’ave money for a blasted Kentucky, an’ dey can’t afford to go barber saloon an’ get dem head trim. I ain’t moving wid no cruff.’

  ‘You wanna be more open-minded,’ Ruth suggested, turning her attention to the onions. ‘Start going to different places and meet all kinds of people.’

  ‘Whadya mean different places?’ replied Denise. ‘Don’t expect me to go to dem soul clubs where dem white bwai try to act black an’ dem black bwai skin up dem teet’ checking dem white girl an’ try to act white. An’ when de stupid black bwai gets his piece of pork dey say dat black girl are too facety an’ unapproachable.’

  ‘Denise! That is racist!’

  ‘Well, it’s true. Dem idiot soul ’ead black bwai jus’ wanna dilute, man.’

  ‘That is no excuse for referring to white people as pork.’

  ‘Alright, sorry fe dat. But it mek me sick when I see dem banner-check black fool wid a smiling white bitch ’pon der arm. Dey don’t know dat dey could of got lynched for dat in Marcus Garvey time.’

  Ruth fell silent, wondering if her mother’s charge that reggae music was corrupting the ghetto youths was true. Why else would Denise mention a rabble-rousing black power-monger like Marcus Garvey? Ruth wondered whether her cousin smoked herb as well.

  ‘Can you do the gravy?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Course, dat’s why I’m here for, innit,’ grinned Denise.

  Half an hour later, Biscuit arrived. He said a quick hi to his aunt, not wanting her to question him on what he was doing with his life. He went to the kitchen next, greeting Ruth by slapping her backside. On seeing Denise he kissed his teeth. ‘You let her in de kitchen?’ He turned back to Ruth. ‘Bwai, family’s gonna dead tonight.’

  Denise picked up an onion and threw it at her brother’s head.

  ‘Behave!’ scolded Ruth. ‘Mum will go mad.’

  Biscuit found Royston sitting halfway up the stairs, and on closer inspection saw that his brother’s hands were caked in chocolate. ‘Go wash your hands, man. You can’t eat at Aunty Jenny’s table like dat.’

  Biscuit tested out his cousin’s new stereo for an hour or so until Ruth and Denise brought out the dinner of boiled chicken legs, rice and peas, stuffing, roast potatoes, hot corn cobs, Yorkshire pudding, spicy gravy and a wide variety of salad. The family ate around an oval-shaped table in the dining room. Biscuit ignored the salad but filled his plate with rice and peas while Royston looked upon his generous dinner with trepidation. Denise shied away from the roast potatoes, saying they made her put on weight, as Hortense glared at her youngest, trying to mentally force-feed him. Royston started on his chicken, but a little later received more cussing from his mother for not eating his vegetables. Then he complained of a funny stomach but was promptly banned from eating chocolate for a week although not before Jenny gave him some ice-cream. Biscuit drank his after-dinner wine like it was lemonade, and when he finished that, went to the off licence to buy a proper drink. Denise, drinking from a lager can her brother bought her, moaned to Ruth about her stagnant wardrobe, and Hortense whinged about the price of mutton and chicken legs while downing a glass of Aunt Jenny’s Guinness punch, made with her own special ingredient. Jenny sat at the dinner table, observing and listening, wondering when her husband would return home. She enjoyed the monthly ritual of sharing dinner with her extended family, although Hortense used her as a sponge to absorb her bitterness. She realised that luck had long deserted her younger sister and, looking at Lincoln and Denise, she felt that God had many trials for her yet. Prompted by Denise’s Brixtonian dialect and her unladylike manner, she feared that the girl was already sexually active. As for Lincoln, she wondered how he always had money on him when he didn’t have a job. But she adored Royston. Jenny thought he would have a better chance in life if she looked after him and sent him to a decent school in Norbury or somewhere similar. His intelligence would be doomed if he went to a school in the ghetto. But how would she persuade her sister to think likewise? she pondered, watching Hortense fill her glass again.

  The Huggins clan returned to their block just before nine o’clock. Royston, who sprinted up the stairs ahead of everyone else, saw Frank first, smoking a cigarette and peering over the balcony. He was a tall, well-built man topped by long, ginger hair. His square chin was covered with shaving spots and his squashed nose betrayed his amateur boxing days. The freckles on his face were too numerous to count and his sea-green eyes seemed to display many hardships. Royston ran towards him, leaped up and gave him a high five.

  ‘Hi ya, Smokin’ Joe,’ hailed Frank. ‘Been out for the day?’

  Before Royston could answer, his mother appeared on the balcony. ‘So you fin’ your way ’ome,’ spat Hortense. ‘You realise de amount ah distress you cause Stella by your disappearing act. Do you know your pickney ah walk around like duppy, all confused an’ bawling cos dem t’ink you might ah get run over by truck. Do you –’

  Frank interrupted, speaking in a quiet, defeated tone. ‘I ’ad to sort out my head, Hortense. Honest. Things just got on top of me and I sorta just flipped.’

  Biscuit ambled lazily along the balcony, and saw his mother eyeballing the tall man. Denise looked at Frank, offered him a polite smile, then walked by and opened the front door, not prepared to stand out in the cold for anyone.

  ‘Easy on him, Mummy,’ said Biscuit.

  ‘Easy ’pon ’im? Stella should beat him till his ginger hair drop out.’ Hortense kissed her teeth as she went inside, leaving Frank and Biscuit leaning over the balcony, observing the traffic on Brixton Road.

  ‘Your old girl’s not happy, is she?’ said Frank, swatting away strands of hair from in front of his face.

  ‘Why you walk out, man?’ interrogated Biscuit. ‘Mummy’s right, y’know. I thought Stella was gonna go completely cuckoo.’

  ‘Like I said, I just ’ad enough. It just kinda got to me. The other day I was even turned down for a labouring job. Geezer said he wants people to ’ave a little know-how of bricklaying. I told him I’ve done a bit but I ain’t got no level or tools or anything.’

  ‘Der’s more dan one building site in South London, y’know,’ Biscuit encouraged, touching his fist on Frank’s shoulder.

  ‘Sometimes I think I might take my chances doing a hustle,’ commented Frank.

  ‘Nah,’ replied Biscuit. ‘You’ve got kids, innit. You don’t want to end up like Snowman – you know ’im, used to live in de block behind.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s doing seven years’ bird after de beast catch ’im in dat container wid all dat charlie at Dover. Karen was four months pregnant when he went inside. An’ as for his t’ree uder kids, it can’t be no joy to visit der paps in Wandswort’ jailhouse.’

  Frank smiled wistfully. ‘We went to school together, me and Snowman. Back then he was plain old Simon. Who would ’ave thought it, eh? Simon, who used to skive off games lessons, and now he’s doing time for bringing in charlie. Mind you, Snowman was the guy who thought of the decoy raid.’

  ‘Wha’s dat again?’ Biscuit asked.

  ‘You know, that shoplifting thing where three black guys walk in a store. All the attention is on them wherever they go. But they don’t see the white accomplice who’s tea-leafing all sorts of stuff. Snowman and his crew used to work Oxford Stree
t every Saturday.’

  ‘Dat Snowman was kinda smart,’ Biscuit laughed. ‘But he should a kept to de decoy runnings instead of running wid coke.’

  ‘Yeah. But I bet when he comes out he will do the same again.’

  Two floors up, someone had turned their stereo on. An unseen woman sang along to UB40’s ‘One In Ten’. One floor down, a drunk joined in the chorus but failed to keep up with the rhythm. Frank and Biscuit laughed.

  ‘They got it about right, innit,’ commented Frank. ‘One in ten are unemployed. How much is that in the whole country?’

  ‘’Bout five million,’ answered Biscuit. ‘An’ you can add on all de sad saps on Yops schemes. An’ you can also add on all de hustlers who mek so much dey don’t ’ave to worry ’bout signing on.’

  ‘I saw that weird dread in Ruskin park yesterday,’ said Frank. ‘You know, the one with one eye?’

  ‘Yeah, Jah Nelson.’

  ‘Well, I was just sitting there, feeling really pissed off, and he came up to me. He told me he sometimes sees me in the park with my kids.’

  ‘Yeah, wha’ did he say to you? Start chatting rubbish, did he?’

  ‘Nah, he made sense in a funny way.’

  ‘About wha’?’

  ‘I was telling him of my situation, totally fucked off with everything. And he told me about the fucking potato famine in Ireland years back. Then he told me about how loads of Irishmen slaved away building all the tracks for the trains in England. After that he really went into one, telling me about St Patrick, Pope Celestine and some bishop called Palladius … How the fuck did he know all that?’

  ‘He’s a walking library.’

  ‘He then said that while those Irish workers were toiling away for little money, they hoped their children would do something better, ’ave a better life, and I owe it to them to make something of my life and not give up.’

  ‘Well, frig my days,’ commented Biscuit. ‘So wha’ he said made you go ’ome?’

  ‘Yeah. But fucking hell, what is the world coming to when it takes a one-eyed dread to make me see reason.’

  Frank and Biscuit laughed before they disappeared into their respective flats.

  9

  Six Babylon

  6 February 1981

  Coffin Head, working his pitch on the Front Line, had sold £120 worth of herb in two and a half hours. Apart from a safari-jacketed black guy with a Scottish accent, who asked for ‘some good dope’, and a wildly optimistic ghetto youth, who promised to pay for his ‘weed’ when his giro turned up, there had been no cause for alarm. What had troubled him most was the horizontal rain, which forced him to squint under his beret and take extra care when handling his merchandise; customers didn’t like smoking damp cannabis. During his sales shift, however, the heavens turned to a promising white hue, with the rain relenting to an irritating patter. But none of this deterred the illegal entrepreneurs who fast-talked the herb buyers while they ate Jamaican meat patties.

  The scar-faced Chemist was there, leaning against a lamp-post, crowned by a Sherlock Holmes-style hat and wearing a puffy black anorak. He offered Coffin Head a respectful nod. The huge Cutlass Blake, wearing a parka jacket with the hood up, was sitting on the kerb counting notes. Coffin Head decided not to dwell on Blake’s massive figure for too long.

  An hour later, with the time approaching 3pm, Coffin Head decided that his stint on the Front Line was over. Relieved, he made for home via Shakespeare Road, his wad of money safely tucked inside his right sock. As he walked, he pondered on what outfit he should buy for the wedding this coming Saturday. Maybe blue slacks and a silk cream shirt, he thought. Or perhaps a new Slazenger polo-neck and beige waffle trousers. He liked the look of those new green crocs in the shoe shop on Atlantic Road. Coming from the ‘prison’ estate, Sugar Minott’s ‘Mr DC’ blared out from a second-floor flat, causing Coffin Head to glance upwards. A mischievous gust of wind caught his beret, dislodging it from his head. The purple cloth fluttered and landed neatly next to a pile of sodden dog shit. ‘Fockin’ breeze, man.’ He stooped down to pick it up, grimaced at the wet stain and dusted it down. Then he heard synchronised shouts all around him.

  Still bending down cleaning his hat, he raised his sights and saw six dark uniforms converging on him and heard the dull echo of the polished black boots walking across the concrete. ‘Wha’ de fuck ah gwarn?’

  ‘Put your fucking hands up and don’t go near your pockets. Now!’

  Coffin Head rose slowly, adopted a rebel pose and cut his eyes, feeling confident as he had no more herb on his person. The beast will let me go in a few minutes, he thought. Just a sus stop.

  One policeman handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Another went through his pockets, revealing a bunch of keys, some loose change, a box of matches, a stick of Lipsyl and a steel-toothed afro comb.

  ‘So,’ smiled the senior policeman, studying the comb. ‘That’s two charges already – selling drugs and carrying an offensive weapon.’

  Coffin Head stilled his tongue, but his eyes betrayed his fear.

  One of the policemen picked up the beret, which had fallen to the kerb during the handcuffing, then dropped it theatrically on the dog shit. ‘Oh, clumsy me.’

  ‘You’re nicked,’ said the sergeant.

  Coffin Head was roughly escorted to a waiting police van on Mayall Road. Sensing many hands around his torso, he found himself being hurled into the back of the vehicle and cried out as his stomach thudded on to the metallic floor. Five seconds later, he felt two boots pressing upon his spine. He sensed his right cheek flattening against the cold floor and smelt the stench of a thousand arrests. He tried to look up but all he saw were legs; there were no windows at the side of the van, and he could not see out the front.

  He had no idea where he was being taken; they can’t be going to Brixton police station, he thought, they were taking too long. The cuffs were tight around his wrists and he cursed inwardly. He hoped the beast wouldn’t locate the wad of notes inside his right sock. He moved his head to give his neck relief, and realised that grit had smothered his right cheek and his brown suede jacket; he wondered at the cost of the dry cleaning if any blood was spilled. How long were they gonna keep him? Would he be able to go to the wedding? Was it a case of mistaken identity? What would his parents think of it all? And Denise – what would she think? Linvall Thompson’s ‘Six Babylon’ sang inside his head: Jus’ ah lock dem up cos der smoking a spliff, Babylon, cool down your temper, sa. He tried to rid himself of the image of Sceptic’s story of woe inside a police cell, and concentrate his ears on what was being said by the chuckling uniforms around him.

  ‘Can’t believe the judge let Bailey out on bail,’ one officer moaned.

  ‘He’ll go down, just a matter of time,’ another assured.

  ‘But he ain’t got no stable address,’ someone answered. ‘He’s bound to do a runner.’

  ‘If I know Bailey, he’ll be on the line soon enough,’ the sergeant said. ‘That’s the only way he makes his dosh – he can’t resist it.’

  ‘He’s got himself a good brief, though.’

  ‘That won’t save him this time. For fuck’s sake, we found five thousand pounds worth of cannabis under his bedroom floorboards. If he don’t get about five years I’ll eat my fucking helmet.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the driver concurred. ‘There ain’t no judge who disputes a policeman’s word.’

  The van came to a halt. Coffin Head felt two arms around his neck, lifting him up. He suffered a kick on his backside. As the doors at the back of the van opened he tried to look around for any clues as to where he was, perhaps a road sign or the name of the police station. All he saw were the wheels of police vehicles. He felt himself being bundled out on to a police station’s parking lot. This ain’t de friggin’ entrance, he told himself.

  Coffin Head felt more pressure around his neck, forcing his head to bow and his back to bend. The handcuffs were cutting into his wrists and he wondered if he was bleeding. His shoulder
s were taut from the pressure of the cuffs pulling in an unnatural direction. He wondered what idiot had designed the handcuffs. A skinny man mus’ ’ave tried on de prototype, he thought. He smelt the cocktail of exhaust fumes and spitting rain.

  ‘Keep his head down,’ the sergeant instructed.

  Coffin Head was led through a back door and into the station. Two right turns later, he found himself face down inside a cell. The cuffs were unclipped and he was left alone. He rubbed his wrists, wondering why he hadn’t been presented to the charging officer. His watch read 3.45pm. He still felt that he might get out soon, once the police realised their mistake. He would still be able to check out his new clothes.

  All the men’s fashion shops had closed before Coffin Head saw his cell door opening again. A bearded, plainclothes detective with eyebrows that joined led five uniformed officers into the cell. The door shut with a fort-like clang behind them. From his seat, on a jutting slab of cold concrete, Coffin Head pushed his knees against his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, expecting a beating. He felt the cell shrink as the officers appeared, and turned his head away, closing his eyes.

  ‘No need to be alarmed, my friend,’ the detective said quietly. ‘If you co-operate you’ll be out of here before you know it. Do you want a fag? Something to eat?’

  Coffin Head shook his head, wondering what his mother would be cooking for the family evening meal.

  ‘Maybe something to drink?’ the detective offered. ‘Cuppa tea?’

  Coffin Head didn’t reply.

  ‘You sure you don’t want nothing?’ the detective asked, showing his palms to Coffin Head, faking hospitality. ‘I’m sorry you had to wait for me for so long, but as you might realise, we are very busy people.’ He turned around and smiled at his fellow officers.

  Coffin Head wasn’t sure what to make of the apology, but allowed himself a forlorn hope that he wouldn’t be harmed.

  ‘Now, my young friend,’ the detective said in a neighbourly tone. ‘Let’s not be vague. Your situation is not good. You have been seen by my colleagues, and many other witnesses, selling a banned substance on the Railton Road.’