by Alex Wheatle
Biscuit got out of bed, grabbed his denims and slipped them on. ‘You must ah get ketch by SPG to rarted. You know so dey ’ave der own rules an’ play dat game – to truncheon butt a sufferer. You know how it is, dey pick up a black yout’, brutalise dem inna cell, an’ dey expect crime to drop.’
‘Biscuit, man. Don’t mek joke ’bout it, y’hear me. I was in dat rarted cell for some long hours before dey come in an’ cramp an’ paralyse me. Dey wanted to know who’s selling charlie ’pon de Line. I weren’t saying nutten, so dey decide to gi’ me some bitch lick wid der government boot. Char! I thought I was gonna dead, to rarted.’
Biscuit switched on his blaster. ‘Maybe you shoulda listen to your mudder an’ gone ah Kings College. You might ’ave some bruk up ribs an’ t’ing. How you gonna crub girl at de wedding if your ribs dem are mash up?’
‘Fuck crubbing girl at wedding! Char! Dat don’t even pass my mind. I don’t even know if I’m going to de damn wedding.’
‘Wha’ you saying, man? Everybody’s reaching. Jus’ come, dread. It will tek our minds off business an’ mek us relax for once widout worries of juggling de herb.’
Coffin Head thought of Nunchaks and the rest of the jugglers on the Line, and wondered if they’d received similar beatings from the police. He knew the dangers of selling herb, and although it provided him with money to buy clothes, a beating was a high price to pay. In his mind, he suddenly made a decision. ‘Speak for yourself, brethren, cos from dis day I ain’t juggling no more, I’m finished wid dem t’ings. It’s giving me too much grief.’ He hid his face with his hands. ‘Almshouse business is wha’ I’m dealing wid now. I will never forget dem faces, man. Never. An’ when I sight dem faces again, there’ll be yamming lead an’ clocking de inside of a burns unit, to rarted. Babylon affe burn!’
Biscuit watched his friend with dismay. He had never seen him so troubled, and he tried to find words of comfort. He reached up to the top of his wardrobe, grabbed his bag of herb and rizlas and threw them to his spar. ‘I’m jus’ gonna dash ’way my BO. An’ I affe say I don’t like to ’ear wha’s coming out of your mout’, dread. Buil’ up an’ we’ll chat ’bout dis inna minute. De herb will calm you down.’
He plucked his towel from the wardrobe door and disappeared. Burning Spear’s ‘Jah A Go Raid’ played from the blaster, and Coffin Head couldn’t help but concentrate his ears on the haunting lyrics. He rewound the cassette to the start of the tune.
Biscuit returned five minutes later. ‘Listen to me, Coff. Don’t boder do nutten stupid, y’know. I don’t wanna hear dat you beat up some beastman an’ doing time, y’hear? Touch de herb an’ dat will mek you cool down.’ Coffin Head began to construct a seven-paper spliff. Biscuit found his Vaseline jar and buttered his torso. ‘So de beast dem tek your corn an’ herb?’
‘Nah. I sold all the herb, an’ you know I always put the corn in my sock.’
‘I can kinda understand why you don’t wanna juggle no more, but you know so we affe clear it wid Nunchaks first. You know how he stay, he don’t like man an’ man working fe him an’ den stopping cos der feeling a liccle heat. An’ den after dat dey start work for a nex’ dealer.’
Coffin Head set fire to his roach, inhaling deeply. ‘Right about now, I don’t give a fuck wha’ Nunchaks might do or say. It’s you who ’ad de idea of working for dat lighter-clicking madman, not me.’
Biscuit shook his head, then snatched the rizlas off his brethren. ‘You forget wha’ appened to Rough Neck Rasputin?’
‘Who de rarse is he? An’ what kind of rarse name is dat?’
‘He used to be in dat sound, wassit called … Marxist Hi-Fi. Dey used to play in dat shubeen on Landor Road on a Friday night. Nuff leggo beast an’ blue foot were always der, you know, dem whores who operate from Bedford Hill, in der mini-skirt, tight blouse, suspender an’ t’ing. Greybacks would reach an’ crub dem ’gainst de wall … Anyway, ’ear de blow by blow. De sound did bruk up cos one of de sound man t’ief de takings one night from de shubeen. Nuff palaver an’ contention did ah gwarn an’ two sound man get ratchet sketch. Sir Lenin, de owner fe de sound, kick out Rasputin.’
‘Gi’ me de score, man,’ Coffin Head rebuked. ‘You love make a novel of everyt’ing.’
‘Anyway,’ Biscuit continued, disliking his flow interrupted, ‘Rasputin checked out Nunchaks to do a liccle juggling. Two weeks later, Rasputin was offered more corn to juggle an’ look out for Herbman Blue. Nunchaks ’eard ’bout it an’ set him up neatly. Rasputin went to check Nunchaks at his brothel to collect his collie. Muttley and Ratmout’ t’ump up Rasputin inna serious manner. Fat up his lip, bruk him nose, blast his cheekbone, an’ mash up his eye-corner. Dey dragged him to Nunchaks and Nunchaks went all Bruce Lee on him wid his Enter the Dragon weapon. Den Nunchaks tol’ him, ‘Your days as a salesman are over, yout’ ’. Bwai, Rasputin still concuss till dis day to rarted.’
Coffin Head chuckled and admired the way Biscuit told a story. ‘He had it coming, man. Idiot bwai.’
Biscuit opened his wardrobe door, pulled out one of his many Gabbicci tops and covered his trunk with it. The zip-up cardigan was light blue with wide lapels and dark blue suede trimming on the cuffs and around the collar. ‘Wha’ did your parents say, man?’
‘I told my mudder ’bout it. T’ough I didn’t tell her why I was arrested. I didn’t tell de old man, you know how he stays. When she did hear ’bout de beating she did wanna complain. But y’know, who’s gonna listen to her? Beastman only understand force, not complaints.’
Biscuit torched his roach, and realised that Coffin Head was talking more and more like Sceptic. Just the other day, Sceptic told him he would like to kidnap a policeman and give him some serious Japanese torture, just like he’d seen in a war film. Biscuit hoped Coffin Head would not develop this train of thought. ‘Listen up, Coff, yeah,’ Biscuit said softly. ‘We’ll jus’ chill out till de wedding an’ review de situation after dat, seen. Jus’ don’t boder do anyt’ing stupid an’ don’t do nutten widout telling me, seen.’
‘Char! You sound like my mudder to rarted. If you affe know, I’m going to check Sceptic dis morning.’
‘Wha’ for?’
‘Cos I wanna know the full SP of his tribulation inna beast cell. He’s never told me de full story.’
Biscuit went to the bottom of his wardrobe where his selection of hats was resting. He picked out his weatherman hat, a black cloth cap with a peak and a red, gold and green star of David sewn on the top. He put the hat on, and although tilting it to almost cover his right eye, it still looked three sizes too big. ‘I’ll sight you later den. Don’t let Sceptic talk you into anyt’ing stupid. You know how he’s bragga bragga from time, whole ’eap of talk but no action.’
‘Char,’ Coffin Head scolded, ‘I told you stop chatting like my mudder.’ He kissed his teeth as he headed out the door.
Denise was in the passage, wearing a two-tone skirt and a light brown cardigan. ‘Alright, Coff,’ she greeted. ‘Wha’ brings you round at dese times?’
‘Ask no question, I’ll tell you no lie,’ came back the reply.
‘Bwai, you can’t answer simple question?’
After an admiring glance at Denise’s backside, Coffin Head departed the flat. She looks nice today, he thought.
Back in Biscuit’s room, Denise sat down on the bed. ‘Wha’s troubling ’im?’ she asked.
‘Dis an’ dat. In uder words, none of your business.’
‘Only asked!’
‘Wha’ do you want, anyway?’
Denise twiddled her hair, appearing a touch embarrassed. ‘Jus’ wanna say t’anks for de corn for de dress. I do appreciate it, y’know.’
‘T’ings irie. No problem ’bout dat. Jus’ keep off Mummy’s back, yeah.’ Biscuit peered into his broken mirror to style his hat. ‘Will you stop de red eye business? Sometimes Mummy don’t let on what she really feels. Believe it, Denise, she feels for you jus’ as much as she feels for Royston or me.’
Denise
sprawled along the bed, immersing her face in the covers. ‘Sometimes I feel so unwanted, y’know. Like Mummy don’t want me around.’
Biscuit turned from the cracked mirror, regarding his sister with suspicion, as if she had broken an unspoken family rule. ‘Nah, Sis. Don’t grudge Mummy for dat. You ain’t seen dose photos of Mummy when she was young. She was pretty like any beauty queen. But now you can say de years ’ave taken its toll. An’ she look ’pon you jus’ growing to be a young lady. So don’t tell her I said so, but she getting a liccle red eye. Auntie Jenny always say dat you an’ Mummy are spitting image.’
Denise stood up and approached her brother. She offered him a motherly look before adjusting his hat for him. ‘Der, dat look better. You ’ad it like any uder man ’as it. Got to be different, innit.’
Biscuit smiled. ‘You’re gonna look criss in dat dress at de wedding, Sis. You’re gonna look even crisser dan Maxine … But not Carol.’
Denise punched her brother on the shoulder. ‘You feisty wretch. An’ speaking of Carol, you an’ her an item yet?’
‘None of your damn business.’
‘I s’pose I’ll find out at de wedding, innit,’ Denise grinned.
11
The Wedding
9 February 1981
Hortense stood on her balcony, picking strands of hair from her shoulders. She was wearing her favourite yellow sleeveless dress that reached down below her knees. Her legs were covered in dark tights. A silver oval-shaped brooch sparkled above her left breast and her head was crowned by a white bonnet that was pinned into her hair. She was trying to decide whether she should wear her old mac to protect her from the cold, which she knew would surely invite dismissive stares from her peers, or to just go as she was. Around her right wrist was a gold-coloured watch her husband had bought her for their first wedding anniversary. She read the time. 5.45pm. She went back inside her flat, deciding against the coat. ‘Lincoln, wha’appen to your square head friend? ’Im s’pose to be ’ere fifteen minutes ago. You t’ink ’im bruk down car bruk down fe de last time?’
‘He’s on his way. Stop fret, he jus’ dinged me.’
She found Royston in the front room. Wearing a navy-blue blazer, white shirt and black slacks, he was buffing his black shoes, hoping his mother wouldn’t thrash him for his giggling behaviour during the church service.
‘If you as so much breathe at de reception,’ Hortense warned, ‘I will gi’ your backside so much grief dat to si’ down will be an agony. Y’hear me?’
‘Yes, Mummy. Is der going to be chocolate cake at de reception?’
‘If der is, nuh boder mek yourself sick. You know wha’ will ’appen if you dutty up your pretty clothes dem.’
Hortense then went to Denise’s bedroom and kissed her teeth as she watched her daughter reapply her makeup. ‘Come, Denise. Everton soon come wid his bruk down car. Lord me God, wha’ an uncomfortable ride. Me backside ah still pain me after ’im drop us off from de church.’
Coffin Head’s car whinged and wailed to a halt on Brixton Road. He slapped his horn and Biscuit, boasting a fresh hair trim and wearing a double-breasted white jacket and sharply pressed black slacks, was the first to appear on the balcony. Five minutes later, they were in the car and ready to depart.
‘Wha’ tek you so long, Everton?’ Hortense enquired.
‘I changed my shirt, innit. After checking it, de colour didn’t quite match my blue slacks.’
‘Bwai, you go on like a woman,’ Denise mocked.
‘Do you wanna trod?’
The wedding reception was at a church hall somewhere near Streatham Vale. At six-thirty, Hortense’s party entered the hall. They found it bedecked with balloons and glitter. Middle-aged black men wearing dark suits and skinny ties stood in huddles talking about cricket and their retirement plans. Their wives and girlfriends, wearing bright-coloured dresses, different styled hats and plenty of pearls, sat on wooden chairs, looking as ladylike as possible with their legs crossed. Young children ran across the hall playing tag, while others asked their parents for soft drinks. Tables skirted three sides of wall, dressed in white tablecloths and fancy doilies, and held the polished cutlery, bunches of flowers, champagne glasses and commemorative napkins. The bride and bridegroom’s table had the added luxury of extra flowers, a bowl of fruit, a huge loaf of duckbread and two champagne bottles, submerged up to their necks in a silver bucket of chilled water. On its own stand beside the bridal table was a three-tiered, square wedding cake, decorated with a light blue ribbon. At the opposite side of the room was a table laden with gift-wrapped wedding presents, cards and envelopes containing money.
The sound system, Tupper King, had their control tower wired up in a corner, well away from the bridal table. The sound boys, sifting through their music collection and checking wiring, were playing Nat King Cole’s ‘Unforgettable’. They were clad in jeans, weatherman hats, donkey jackets and trodder boots.
Young men, who all seemed to have paid a visit to their favourite hair trimmer, displayed their violently ironed Farah slacks, flower shirts, double-breasted jackets and snake and crocodile skin shoes. A few of them were wearing gold bracelets and gold sovereign rings. Others wore tailor-cut suits with gold rope chains draped over their fat ties. Those not so affluent looked uneasy in their bright safari suits and Hawaiian shirts.
The young ladies all seemed to be wearing pleated skirts, frilly blouses and blazer-type jackets in cream and burgundy. Some wore light-coloured suits and wide-lapelled blouses, showing off their gold belcher chains. Most of them walked in suede, high-heeled, gold-buckled shoes. Tights were the order of the day due to the snarling weather, and it seemed a battalion of curling tongs had styled endless black waves of hair. Light brown and cherry-coloured lipstick added a touch of glamour, and smiles would sometimes expose a gold tooth.
The aroma of heavily spiced jerk chicken and curried goat blended with the tasty smell of Jamaican patties being gently warmed in the oven. The bar, situated on tables outside the kitchen door, offered strong beers and soft drinks. Pink Lady, Thunderbird and Canei bottles were also in evidence, along with the smaller bottles of Snowballs and Cherry Bs. Surrounding all this were columns of paper cups. The hosts were clever enough to have hidden the Jamaican overproof rum and other spirits. The Guinness punch bowl was guarded by the father of the bride, looking natty in a black three-piece suit, sipping from a tumbler, posing as he’d never posed before and greeting guests with more enthusiasm than was necessary.
Biscuit, who thought that Denise looked seriously stunning, saw his posse members lounging near the sound system. He made his way over, followed by Coffin Head, an eager Royston and a self-conscious Denise. Hortense found a friend of hers and proceeded to complain about the organisation and the seasonal timing of the wedding.
Biscuit and Coffin Head greeted their crew. Biscuit was immediately struck by Carol’s natural beauty. She was wearing a sky blue suit with a white frilly blouse that complemented her dark complexion perfectly. Her wavy, permed hair graced her shoulders and he noticed a gold cross, hanging from a gold link chain, resting teasingly on her cleavage.
‘Wha’appen Floyd, Shaz, Scep, Finn, Carol,’ he hailed. Then he turned to Brenton. ‘An’ not forgetting the stepping volcano.’
Everyone nodded their greetings, including Royston, who gave all his elders a high five. Denise prised Sharon away from Floyd, and along with Carol proceeded to gossip swap. The guys, especially Coffin Head, all looked at Denise, thinking she had finally grown into a very attractive lady. Meanwhile, Hortense, who had to admit her daughter looked beautiful on this night, stole a glance at Carol, trying to guess how close she was to her son. You’ll ’ave to meet my approval before you ketch my son, she thought.
After the meal and all the speeches, the best man sat down and the music rose to a rumbling pitch. Biscuit and his crew scouted for dark corners where they could build their after-dinner spliffs. He feared that wherever they went his mother would find him and give him
more than a red look, so with Floyd, Coffin Head, Brenton and Sceptic in tow, he ventured outside, leaving Finnley at the bar.
As the February chill greeted the posse, they saw a figure coming from the car park. The man, fiddling about with a lighter, was dressed in a cashmere coat and sharp slacks, sucking a thumb-thick Havana, and bearing the countenance of a black Clint Eastwood. They all recognised him and looked at each other in alarm.
‘Nunchaks,’ Biscuit greeted, his voice cloaked in surprise. ‘Didn’t t’ink you go to dese sort of t’ings?’
‘Maurice ah my cousin y’know,’ Nunchaks replied, eyeing Biscuit’s spars with contempt. ‘Me jus’ come to wish ’im luck an’ t’ing.’
‘Sout’ London a small place, innit,’ laughed Biscuit. ‘Laters.’
‘Hol’ on yout’. Before you chip, now I ’ave touched down, we can talk ah liccle business. So tell your spar dem to run an’ go’long.’
Biscuit turned to his crew and told them he would meet them outside to smoke his zoot. ‘Wrap de spliff good, man. Don’t wanna smoke paper.’The posse kissed their teeth and headed for Coffin Head’s car.
Nunchaks played with his lighter. ‘When are you checking me for your nex’ batch ah collie?’
‘Monday.’
‘Don’t check me in Soferno B’s shop. I hear so beastman got some undercover squealers der ’bout. Check me in Desmond’s Hip City. Y’hear me yout’?’
‘Yeah, wha’ time?’
‘Mek it ’bout two. An’ if I don’t reach on time, wait for me, yout’. Y’hear?’
‘Yeah, man. I’ll reach.’
Nunchaks relit his cigar, eyed his lighter with contempt, and entered the hall like a bounty hunter stepping inside a saloon bar. He surveyed the scene, went to the bar where he grabbed a can of Special Brew, and then his eyes rested on a pretty young lady who strutted across the room like only Brixtonian girls could. Wearing a red velvet, figure-hugging dress and white high-heeled shoes, she carried her head high with the knowledge that she looked good. John Holt’s ‘Queen Of The Ghetto’ pounded from the crusty speaker boxes, and Nunchaks felt the song was made for her. He caught her eye, his smile revealing the golden dentistry in his mouth and a money-making opportunity in his eyes. The girl smiled back, thinking now here’s a chilled out sticksman … I wonder how he makes his corn? He might ’ave a Jag.