by Alex Wheatle
Coffin Head thought of the strange black guy with the Scottish accent. Char! Fockin’ traitor.
‘The evidence is so overwhelming that it would be laughable for you to deny these allegations,’ his interrogator continued. ‘Before you are charged formally, you can tell me your name and address.’
Coffin Head stared at the wall for a few seconds before co-operating in a quiet but wrathful voice.
‘OK, Mr Beckford, or can I call you Everton?’ the detective asked, playing up to his colleagues and speaking like Regan in The Sweeney. ‘To be honest, my superiors are not really interested in picking up the likes of you and charging you for peddling a few scores of dope. I mean … how can I put this? You’re not worth more than two for a penny. Me and my colleagues won’t get no pats on the back from the superintendent. Do you get my drift?’
Coffin Head nodded slowly, realising his worst case scenario was about to happen. His sweat became a downpour, and the single light-bulb reflected brightly from his dampened face.
‘But if you can help us out, we’ll try and help you,’ the detective offered. ‘Won’t we guys,’ he chuckled, turning around.
‘Yeah guv,’ a burly policeman answered, his colleagues nodding and gesturing in the affirmative.
Coffin Head felt a spike-booted caterpillar crawling down his back. He kept quiet and watched the men pace the cell, closing in around him.
‘All you have to do is answer one question. That’s all, just one.’
‘What?’ Coffin Head asked, more a nervous reaction than a question.
‘Who’s selling heroin and cocaine on the Front Line,’ his inquisitor demanded, his voice suddenly brutal. ‘Name?’
‘I … I dunno.’
‘This is not good, Everton,’ the detective murmured. ‘You’re a popular kinda guy, I reckon. You know a lot of the inhabitants on Railton Road. I reckon you’re a streetwise kinda kid. NOW GIVE ME THE FUCKING NAME WHO’S SELLING?’
‘I dunno, I ain’t got a clue.’ Coffin Head replied in a whimper.
The detective gestured to one of his colleagues, then made for the cell door. ‘Everton, this is not good. I’ve got some business to attend to. By the time I get back let’s all hope you are more helpful.’
The clang of the closing cell door shook Coffin Head’s bones. He looked up, and what he saw was not good. A brawny policeman advanced towards him with serious intent, backed up by three colleagues, leaving a young policeman by the door.
‘Give us a fucking name.’
Coffin Head remained silent, and for a millisecond, considered giving his oppressors a name that didn’t belong to anyone he knew. He blinked, but the name didn’t come to him, as if his brain was on pause.
‘A fucking name, Midnight!’
‘Don’t know one.’
Coffin Head felt the knuckles of a fist detonate against his stomach, knocking him off his slab and propelling him to the floor. He thought he was going to bring up his cornmeal porridge breakfast. He felt himself exhale vigorously and he doubled up in pain. There was a slight pause as the other officers looked at each other before deciding to get in on the action. Coffin Head covered his privates with his right hand and used his left to cover his face. This is it, he thought. Don’t give dem de pleasure of screaming. Don’t. He gnashed his teeth, closed his eyes tight and tensed every muscle that he knew of. Then he felt the severe pain of boots hacking at his torso. He didn’t know which way to roll to escape as he was kicked in from both sides, his back, chest, shoulders and backside. The stench of dead urine rose from the floor and filled his nose, causing him to sneeze violently.
The young policeman by the door winced and turned his face away. ‘I’m going, I don’t want no part of this,’ he muttered, before opening the cell door.
‘Wassa matter with you, Milton?’ one of the assailants mocked. ‘You fucking wuss. Welcome to the real world, pal. This ain’t nut and choc cookies at fucking Hendon.’
Coffin Head thought of Sceptic before momentarily taking his hand away from his face and offering a glance to Milton. The young officer looked into Coffin Head’s eyes and the reality of his new post in the inner cities struck home. He disappeared out into the corridor, closing the cell door behind him, shaking his head in disbelief.
Coffin Head stopped rolling about, realising that it was pointless. He sobbed quietly, closing his eyes again, and felt the shape and form of the boots indenting his upper body and rattling every bone in his frame.
Suddenly, he heard the boots march out of the cell door, some echoing off the concrete more than others. He opened his eyes slowly and found he was alone in the cell. He looked up at the shaft of sunlight coming in from a small misted window. High in the corners, he could just make out spider webs that were flecked by dirt. He dropped his gaze to the concrete floor and noticed the many tread prints formed in the fine dust. It was only now in the quiet of the cell that the nerves in his torso shrieked and a monumental pain cascaded over him. He didn’t know where to rub first.
Three and a half hours later, the detective returned and found Coffin Head laying on his back on the floor, peering aimlessly at the ceiling. The shaft of sunlight had disappeared and the cell was lit by a flickering, naked bulb. His body didn’t stir, he just lay silent, as if he was offering himself as sacrifice. You t’ink you ’ave conquered me, he thought. I’m still ’ere! I can go t’rough dat shit again! Come, I’m ready for you, give me all you’ve got!
‘Get up, Everton,’ the detective commanded.
Coffin Head rose slowly, trying to control his face, refusing to show the man his pain. His eyes met the detective’s fierce glare, and he held the gaze as he returned to his seated position on the concrete slab.
‘Everton,’ the detective addressed, fighting the urge to smile. ‘I’m sorry if my friends were a little impatient in their methods. It’s unfortunate that you can’t be more helpful.’
‘Dat’s cos I don’t know nutten,’ retorted Coffin Head, returning the detective’s stare with interest.
‘Now, Everton, that is no tone of voice with which to talk to an officer. I will get the information sooner or later. You’ve been a good boy, Everton, your name and address checks out. You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Let me enlighten you. My colleagues can arrest you at any time; we can still charge you for your infringement today. But I’m a fair sort. I’ll let you off with a warning. I might as well be honest – my colleagues can’t be bothered with the paperwork. But I expect you to make a friendly call within two weeks. Do you get my drift?’
‘Dat’s friggin’ blackmail.’
‘I’d say helping with inquiries,’ answered the detective. ‘Giving your friendly bobby some information. I want that name, Everton. And you’re going to find it for me.’ The detective scribbled a phone number on his note-pad along with his name and gave the page to Coffin Head. ‘Two weeks, Everton. Otherwise … it won’t be good. If I’m out when you call, then just leave a message. Who knows? You might even get a reward,’ he laughed.
The detective about-turned and departed the cell. Coffin Head was grabbed by rough hands, handcuffed once more, and forced to walk in a stoop. The corridor outside the cell was dark and he could hear the shouts of a drunk in another cell. He noticed names written with chalk on boards beside cell doors and wondered how many sufferers passed through this place daily. Seconds later, he felt the night air cooling his head and heard the clomping of boots on asphalt.
Before he could look around to try and guess where he was, he felt himself being dragged inside the back of another police van. His left shoulder met the floor of the vehicle with a dull thud, his cheek kissing the floor once again. He felt the rubber sole of a boot upon his upper back.
Fifteen minutes later, Coffin Head was launched out of the van and into the air. He grazed his shoulder and cut his left knee as he landed. He groped for the bankroll inside his right sock and exhaled a heavy sigh when he realised his beating wa
sn’t for nothing. He looked across the road and saw the castle-coloured brickwork of the vast Lansdowne council estate, fronted by a long, narrow green. Looking up the street, he could make out the buildings of the South Bank college and knew he was on Wandsworth Road. In a shop doorway, a tramp, more red-faced than white, and wearing a balaclava, peered at him with watering eyes. ‘Look like you need a drink, young man?’ The vagrant gestured at the flask of Pernod in his mittened hand. ‘Dropping you home, were they?’
Coffin Head struggled to his feet, sniffed the air and got a strange aroma of aniseed and urine. Someone might as well piss ’pon me, he said to himself. ‘Tek yourself off de friggin’ street, man, an’ look soap!’ He kissed his teeth and tried to gather his bearings, then limped off, searching for a cab office, as the drunk took a generous swig and cried goodbye.
‘Wandsworth Road,’ Coffin Head muttered to himself. ‘Char, where’s de fockin’ cab station round dese sides?’
He checked his watch. 11.45pm. He remembered there was a cab station near the college, he guessed about fifty yards away, so he set off, cursing the police under his breath. De beast mus’ be after Slim Lamb Harry, he told himself. But he don’t sell cocaine an’ shit ’pon de Line, he reasoned. Friggin’ bloodclaat beast, I’d rader tek beating from dem dan ’ave it known dat I’m a squealer. Harry would put out me living light jus’ like dat, an’ de beast wouldn’t protect me. I wonder if Sceptic went t’rough de same shit. Friggin’ pussy’ole beast dem, he cursed inwardly. I’d love to get one of dem one on one. Not five ’pon one.
He finally found a cab station ten minutes later. He walked inside and saw a cigarette-puffing white woman behind a shoulder-high wooden counter. Sellotaped to the wall behind her, and written in black felt tip, were various fare prices to parts of London and beyond. Coffin Head looked through a doorway that led to a hallway. At the end of the corridor was a smoky room where five men played cards around a battered table.
‘I wanna cab,’ he demanded.
The lady stubbed out her fag in a overspilling ashtray, then walked to the doorway. ‘Number two! That’s you, Clive.’
Clive put down his hand of cards and stepped through the hallway. ‘Denmark Road, off Coldharbour Lane,’ Coffin Head told him.
‘Denmark Road? Then I want paying now, sunshine.’
Coffin Head kissed his teeth as he paid the driver. ‘I’m in no friggin’ state to do a runner. Char, jus’ drive me home, James.’
10
Crisis
7 February 1981
The next morning Coffin Head waited until his father had departed for work before rolling out of bed. His ribs throbbed like a Shaka speaker cone working to the max. Maybe he should have taken his mother’s advice last night and gone to the hospital for an X-ray. But the prospect of sitting on a hard plastic chair in the casualty foyer in the early hours didn’t interest him, especially after suffering batty ache from the concrete slab in the police cell.
Coffin Head’s small bedroom was ordered and clean. Numbered cassette tapes formed a neat pile on the dresser, and behind them was a top-of-the-range Brixton suitcase. Toiletries, a gold-coloured wristwatch, combs and some dry-cleaning tickets scattered the rest of the surface. A mirror about the size of a record album jacket was set above the dresser. Boxing and cricket magazines were piled beside the bedside cabinet, which had a small radio and one polished glass ashtray upon it. A Dennis Brown poster kept watch over his single bed. Four pairs of shoes and three pairs of trainers formed a line against the wall at the foot of the bed.
The events at the police station replayed in his mind, sound-tracked by Black Uhuru’s ‘General Penitentiary’, chomping away at his self-worth. The fockin’ beast thought of him as so insignificant, he fumed, that they couldn’t even be bothered to charge him with anything. All they wanted was to test out their boots on a black youth. Fockin’ devil people dem.
Once dressed and washed, he moved into the kitchen where he found his mother, wearing a head scarf and apron. She had tolerant, chestnut eyes and her unlined forehead made her look younger than her 41 years. The colour of her skin was rusty-brown and her taut cheeks showed a hint of laughter. She was scalping the skin from a tray of chicken legs. She scrutinised her son as only mothers can. ‘Everton, why you nuh tek yourself to Kings College? Dey will gi’ you an X-ray an’ mek sure everyt’ing alright. Char, man, sometime you’re so stubborn.’
‘I’m alright, Mummy. If my ribs are broken, den I would be feeling more pain, innit.’
‘I ’ave ah good mind fe go to dat damn police station an’ gi’ dem one piece of fire from me tongue, me ah tell you. ’Ow can dey jus’ beat up ah somebody an’ nobody say nutten?’
‘I don’t even know wha’ blasted police station dey tek me to.’
‘Wha!’
‘I told you last night. Weren’t you listening? Dey held me down, innit. I didn’t know where me der.’
‘I will mek ah complaint. Yeah, me t’ink I will affe mek appointment wid our MP. He will affe do somet’ing.’
Mrs Beckford hoped that one day, she and her family could escape from Brixton. In her part-time job as a consultant to Lambeth social services she had seen too many family lives ruined by the area. Too many youths walked the streets with nothing to do and no aspirations. Teachers in schools were having to deal with kids who had massive social problems rather than educating a class. She thought the Government should address the root of the problem, rather than just offering sound-bites to middle England, telling them they were going to get ruthless with crime and increase the police presence in the inner cities. Mrs Beckford knew her son had joined the ranks of the underclass. You can only influence your children to a certain extent, she thought, but the environment where that child grows up will have its undeniable effect.
Coffin Head eyed the cereal boxes and the ardough bread on the kitchen table, but hadn’t the stomach for breakfast. ‘No one will listen to you, Mummy. How do you expect politician to believe us when my own paps don’t? Look at dat time last year when I was arrested on sus. He t’ought I really was ’bout to raid a jeweller’s.’ He met his mother’s eyes for half a moment, before retreating to the hallway to pick up his leather jacket which was hanging on a peg.
‘Where you going? You should be resting yourself an’ not walking street.’
‘I’m going Biscuit’s.’
‘Biscuit? Me never hear seh Biscuit turn doctor. ’Im can’t do nutten fe your ribs dem.’
‘Got to chat to him ’bout somet’ing. Soon come.’
Coffin Head disappeared out the front door, leaving his mother worried and regretting that she had not taken him to the hospital. We ’ave to get away from dis area, she promised herself again.
Before setting off for Biscuit’s flat, Coffin Head checked on his car. He kicked the tyres, testing the air pressure, then gave the windscreen a wipe with a chamois cloth. He also made a quick check to see if there were any police about. On his trek over the grassy knolls that stood between Cowley and Myatts Field estates, his anger mushroomed inside him. Why should the beast get away with beating up a black youth? he asked himself. He felt his damaged ribs, and wondered if there was any way to get his own back; maybe he could cut the tyres of a police vehicle, he grinned.
Hortense answered Coffin Head’s impatient knocking. ‘Everton,’ she greeted, reading his face. ‘You going ah funeral today? Why you so glum? You favor dem idiot man who step outta bookie shop who curse dem maaga dog, an’ dem tut an tut till dem mout’ get tired.’
‘Nah, I’m jus’ tired, Mrs Huggins. Had a late night. Lincoln up an’ about?’
‘Come in, man. Come in. You cyan wake him up yourself. Lincoln inna ’im bed drawing some ugly piece ah snore.’
Hortense returned to her chores as Coffin Head made for Biscuit’s bedroom. Once inside he had to dodge and walk over items of clothing, cassette tapes and Royston’s matchbox cars. A wasp and a dragonfly seemed to be having a fight in Biscuit’s nose, and Coffin Head fe
lt sorry for any future wife of his brethren.
‘Char! Get up, man. Wha’ do you?’
Biscuit stirred into life. ‘Carol?’ he mumbled.
‘Wake up you damn fool. You t’ink me ’ave voice like a girl?’
Biscuit rubbed his eyes, shook his head, sat up and set his sight on his long-time friend. ‘At dis time ah morning, I only expect girl in my room. Wha’s de emergency, man?’
Coffin Head parked on the foot of the bed. ‘Char. Don’t mek me laugh. De day I sight Carol in your bed will be de same day I’m drawing serious pension.’ Fully awake now, Biscuit noticed Coffin Head’s grim expression. ‘Wha’s de score, man? Since when ’ave you been round to my gates dis time of morning? We’re in serious shit, innit.’
Coffin Head kicked the bedroom door closed, kissed his teeth and covered his face with the palms of his hands. ‘Beast arrested me, innit. I dunno where de rarse dey tek me. All I know so is dey did boot me up inna cell an’ dey didn’t even charge me, to rarted. After dat, dey fling me in de beast wagon, tek me to Wandswort’ Road, an’ fling me ’pon de kerb like how dem council sweeper fling rubbish bag.’
Biscuit cradled his chin with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Fuck my living days, man. You’re alright t’ough?’
‘Not too bad. My mudder wanted to tek me Kings College last night. But you know wha’ it’s like in der, an’ I was well tired. So I didn’t boder in the end, I jus’ went to my bed.’
‘Can’t believe it, man.’ Biscuit shook his head. ‘First Sceptic, an’ now you. I’m telling you dem beast man are looking war y’know. Der lucky man an’ man ain’t flingin’ no bomb an’ shit in dem station. Nah, man. Dis can’t gwarn. Somet’ing ’ave to be done.’
‘Oh yeah, like wha’, to rarted?’
‘Sen’ a letter to de Commissioner man, innit. Wha’s his blasted name? David Knee or somet’ing.’
‘McNee!’ Coffin Head corrected. ‘Dat’s like asking de fader of a murderer to be de judge of de trial.’