East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Yeah, de place was cork. We weren’t de only ones getting squeeze dat night.’

  ‘I affe chat to de Steppin’ Volcano ’bout it. See wha’ uder courses dem ’ave. Cos you know so I ain’t no Michael Angelo wid my ‘ands dem. In woodwork man an’ man use to bus’ nuff laugh at my efforts.’

  Carol chuckled. ‘Yeah, you do dat. Chat to Brenton ’bout it.’

  ‘Talking of Brenton, where’s he forwarding tonight?’

  ‘Him an’ Lizard gone up north east sides to dat club dat Shaka play at. Noreik club I think it’s called. Boof, bang bing business. Dem two love up der steppers music.’

  ‘It’s true. An’ I ’ear so dem two always ’tand up by Shaka bass-pin box to get de full impact. I’m surprised dey got any ear-piece lef’.’

  ‘You wanna drink?’

  ‘Yeah, gi’ me ah liccle portion of your fader’s whisky an’ drop ah liccle orange wid it.’

  Carol chuckled once more, a hint of laughter lines showing at the corners of her eyes. ‘You know so I can’t gi’ you any of dat … Oh, wha’ de hell, we ain’t got no orange but I’ll mix it wid some sarsaparilla in de fridge.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll control dat. Your fader mean like roughneck doorman outside de Bali-Hai club.’

  Carol covered her mouth with her hand as she departed, not wanting her father to hear her laugh. She returned with a half-full tumbler and a plate supporting a cheese sandwich. Carefully, she poured a measure of whisky into the glass and presented the refreshments to a grateful Biscuit. ‘Remember dat time in de park?’ she recalled. ‘When we was all about thirteen, after school one day.’

  Biscuit indulged in a generous bite before answering. ‘Der were nuff times we met up after school. You didn’t wanna know me dem time. Yeah, you used to ignore me an’ chat to Finnley an’ Coffin Head.’

  ‘But der was a time when we did chat ’bout wha’ we wanna be when we grow up. Sharon was der, also Coffin Head an’ Sceptic, an’ dat guy, wassisname, Mooker, MookerVohn. He was always going to watch StarWars an’ telling everybody dat he’s got de force. Looks like de force got him; he’s doing time now for armed robbery.’

  ‘Oh yeah, de damn fool, how can man go to rob bank an’ queue up to rarted in de middle of de summer wearing his trench coat. ’im get ketch before de blasted fool could mek his demand. He used to go clear ’bout Star Wars innit. One time at de park we were chatting ’bout films an’ he’s going all Yoda ’pon me, telling me not to join de dark side.’

  Carol sat beside him. ‘He did wanna be an astronaut, innit. Where he is now, he can’t even see de blasted sky.’

  Biscuit washed down his snack. ‘It’s dat, innit. Yeah, I remember dat day. Sceptic wanted to be a hat designer, innit. Wha’ kinda blasted job is dat? Ain’t no corn in it, cos he can’t buy a yard wid a garden or his t’ree point five litre car an’ a piece of gold bracelet chops. I can’t t’ink of anyt’ing as boring as making blasted hats.’

  ‘An’ Floyd wanted to be a footballer. He was always telling us ’bout Clyde Best who played for West Ham, innit.’ Carol grinned deliciously as a pleasant memory hit the spot. ‘An’ you wanted to be a doctor, Biscuit. Wha’ was dat programme you used to tell us ’bout … Marcus Welby MD or somet’ing, ’bout dat greyback doctor.’

  Biscuit’s mind rewound to those days at school. He had been good at Biology and Physics, and always told the teachers he wanted to be a doctor. But in the last year of school a career advisor told him that becoming a doctor was unrealistic, and that he didn’t think Biscuit could make it through his O and A levels, let alone university. He was told that he should get himself a trade. But at the time he had been more worried about making sure he collected the calor gas twice a week to heat the family home, and how to get a one on one conversation with the girl who was now sitting next to him. ‘Wha’ did you wanna be?’ he asked.

  ‘A newsreader, innit. Or present Blue Peter. Sharon wanted to be a politician, reckoning she could run de country better dan any man.’

  ‘She could run it better dan de Ironheart lady. Can’t do no blasted worse.’

  The couple paused, looking at each other and sensing they both shared the same thoughts. Biscuit recalled Jah Nelson’s words earlier on in the evening, when he had said that black people have a proud history that should be recognised by all, and that anything is possible. ‘You know Jah Nelson, innit?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, de rastaman, innit. He kinda gives me de creaks, man. My mudder one time sight him when we were doing shopping, an’ she told me Nelson’s a duppy.’

  ‘Nelson ain’t no ghost!’ Biscuit rejected. ‘If you gi’ ’im a chance, he’s kinda wise. He tol’ me some t’ings I never knew before.’

  ‘He’s jus’ like dem bible t’umping man who chant outside Terry’s Waterloo inna all weders.’

  Biscuit shook his head. ‘Nah, if you get to know ’im, he chats sense. You can’t compare ’im to dem labba labba doom-mongers outside Brixton Tube Station.’

  Carol couldn’t hide her disagreement. ‘Anyway, ’bout tonight. You’re gonna ’ave to dally ’ome, sweet-lick your armpits, slap on some clothes an’ meet me at de blues.’

  ‘But I dunno where de blues is. I tell you what, you wait here an’ I’ll come look for you inna cab an’ we forward to de blues from here. You can ding Sharon an’ tell her so we’ll sight her at the blues.’

  ‘Alright, but don’t tek too long. You know so I don’t like to reach to blues when it’s cork.’

  Seventy minutes later, Biscuit, dressed in blue corduroys and a blue suede jacket, escorted Carol to a housing estate just off New Park Road. He didn’t need the address as a heavy bass-line pierced the Brixton air, reaching and hovering over the South Circular Road. The street lamps were tall, and behind a row of shops that consisted of two off-licences, a newsagent and a grocery store, they could see the top balconies, lit by naked bulbs, of a brown concrete jungle.

  As they reached the forecourt of the estate, Carol recoiled at the sight of an overturned council bin. Forgotten cars with smashed windscreens and tyreless wheels stood on one side of the parking area. On the other side, vehicles were double and treble parked, some of them with young black men inside, preparing spliffs. In others, black girls used rear-view mirrors to apply late touches of make-up. Blair Peach Was Murdered By Babylon protested red-painted graffiti on an outside wall. Weary-looking brown bricks were stacked eight storeys high, and some residents looked over their balconies in their dressing gowns, smoking cigarettes and sipping hot drinks. Pablo Gad’s ‘Hard Times’ sang out a unified despair as a Parka-wearing ragamuffin sat on a concrete stairwell rolling cigarette butts that he found on the floor.

  Biscuit paid his and Carol’s door tax of two pounds, peering into the blue-lit hallway for any signs of Floyd and Sharon. In the passage, Biscuit recognised a rasta, dressed in ankle-swinging slacks and a track-suit top. Biscuit offered him a nod, hoping the dread wouldn’t bother him for herb on this night; he didn’t like to sell while with Carol.

  Squinting his eyes so he could see through the cannabis and cigarette smoke, Biscuit looked at the cables that were taped to the ceiling. Passing the kitchen, where a girl was selling cans of lager, wearing a flimsy black dress that barely covered her knickers, Biscuit and Carol forced their way through the crowd, heading for the room in which the sound boys had set up their control tower. Carol latched on to Biscuit’s jacket as he led her into the road-blocked room, passing a man in the doorway who was selling herb. He was dressed in an open mac and a knitted red, gold and green hat. Using the lights that lit the control tower and record deck, he saw Floyd and Sharon beside a neck-high speaker box, chatting to the toaster, Yardman Irie.

  Hatted by a green beaver, not quite housing his wild, infant dreads, the ghetto-rapper was covered in green army garb and booted in trodders. He had a goatee beard and a permanent smile that made him approachable. Ravers were patting him on the back and offering him fist-clenched salutes as he scanned the crowd, waiting for hi
s moment.

  Satisfied that the vibes were right and downing the last drop from his Coke can, Yardman advised the selector of what tune to play as he grabbed the microphone. The anticipation of the crowd grew. The selector spun the legendary ‘Ml6’ instrumental by the Revolutionaries.

  ‘Crowd ah people,’ Yardman began. ‘Listen to me keenly. Respect to de Tulse Hill Crew an’ de Stockwell posse, an’ special dedication to me bredren Remington Moses … Dem say life is not ah easy road, but ghetto yout’ affe persevere. Jah know! Yardman Irie nah bow, an’ everybody know, me nah yam no sow. So ’ear dis ghetto yout’.’

  Dem beat I inna cell an’ me look straight into hell

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  Dem give me bitch licks and der corrupt politricks

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  I cyan’t pay me rent so me pitch up me tent

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman.

  Dem always harass me call me public enemy

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  Dem gi’ me ah false mentality an’ tell me wrong history

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  I still feel de chains an poverty jus’ rains

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  Since me was born me live ’pon Government corn

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  My mudder cyan’t tek de col’an’ me fader ’pon de dole

  But dem cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  Oh no, me say dey cyan’t conquer de Yardman

  You never cyan conquer Yardman Irie.

  An’ if you love wha’ me say bawl forward.

  ‘FORWARD!’

  Fists and cigarette lighters were raised in salute of Yardman’s lyrics. Brixtonian girls dressed in denim skirts and crew-neck sweaters hollered for more. Young men, topped by all kinds of head-wear and wrapped in puffy anoraks and jeans, yelled their approval. ‘GWARN, YARDIE, GWARN!’ Battered speaker boxes were slapped in appreciation as wise dreads nodded, inhaling fiercely on four-inch spliffs. The selector’s torch-light exposed the collie smoke, like a veil suspended from the ceiling.

  ‘Before me carry on wid de Brixtonian news,’ Yardman announced, ‘I wan’ fe introduce to you de ghetto dub-poet call Prester John. Forward to de microphone, Prester John, an’ chant out your prayer to de Brixtonian people.’

  Emerging from behind the control tower, a tall bearded man wearing a white turban, a red, gold and green scarf and a red tunic with the Star of David stitched upon the chest surveyed the crowd and stepped up to the ghetto-rapper. Prester John then embraced Yardman Irie, congratulating him on his lyrics.

  ‘Forward, Prester John,’ someone shouted. The crowd surged forward and Biscuit and his crew felt themselves being squeezed on all sides. Expectant arms went up in the air. Someone gained a vantage point by climbing up and sitting on a speaker box. There was a jam at the doorway. All eyes were on the poet. Drinkers stilled their cans of lager. Yardman Irie gave Prester John the microphone and the dub-poet grabbed it, holding his head high as if no one in the world could belittle him.

  ‘Greetings to each an’ everyone,’ Prester John began. He signalled to the selector and seconds later the Revolutionaries instrumental ‘Drum Song’ cranked out of the speakers. The intro was full of Nyabinghi hand drumming, then a pulsating bass took hold, along with the riff of what seemed a distant organ. ‘Dis one call Fear Not. Dedicated to all freedom fighter all over de world, an’ especially to de children of de dispossessed.’

  Fear not, my brethren, for we shall gather the sweet

  fruits of our fathers’ toils

  And the wails of our mothers shall transform into

  joyous smiles of emancipation

  Brood not, for the pain of the heavy heart shall beat in

  the oppressor’s chest

  Weep not, for our sore wounds shall heal, and only the

  scars shall remain of our mighty struggles.

  Whistles were blown. Speaker boxes were thumped. Small, oval flames filled the room, giving it a yellow glow. ‘FORWARD!’ the crowd yelled as one, wanting to hear the next verse. The selector turned up the bass and the whole room shook.

  Concentrate your ears, for the hymn of our mother

  land is now heard among us

  Be of sure foot, for we shall be led to the blessed

  greenland by the righteous

  songwriters who play the golden harps of deliverance

  Their footprints shall be employed by the gifted

  musicians and the spirit dancers

  Unchain your doubts, for our sufferation shall be no

  more

  Sing out loud, for glorious things have been written of

  our triumphant redemption

  Yield not, for the oppressor shall not find haven from

  the tablets of judgement

  Stride proudly, for our path has been sign-posted by

  the martyrs of equal rights

  The end of our perilous journey is near, and I can see

  the ark of our homeland, glitter in the distance

  Fear not, my breathren, for we shall soon be free.

  Prester John gave the microphone back to Yardman amid roars of acclaim all around him. He looked at the crowd and offered them an open-palmed salute. The selector offered Prester a spliff as a rasta in the corner shouted, ‘JAH!’

  In unison, the ravers responded, ‘RASTAFARI!’

  Moments later the crowd settled while the selector played the Heptones’ ‘Crystal Blue Persuasion’. Yardman Irie returned the microphone to the selector and turned to Floyd. ‘Ah reality we ah deal wid, y’know.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Floyd. ‘But you’re lucky I ain’t in de mood, cos oderwise de crowd will be chanting my name.’

  ‘Seal your beak,’ censured Biscuit, arriving at the control tower with Carol in tow. ‘Andy Pandy ’as better lyrics dan you.’

  Sharon and Carol paired off to swap gossip as Biscuit and Floyd enmeshed themselves into an argument on who was the better toaster. Yardman Irie looked on impatiently. ‘Biscuit, man. Stop your noise an’ deal wid me.’

  ‘Not so loud, man. You want my woman to ’ear?’

  Biscuit found a dark corner and sold ten pounds worth of herb to Yardman. ‘Floyd said you was gonna reach, an’ Chemist was bugging me ’bout his draw. But I’d rader buy off man I know, y’understand?’

  ‘Yeah, safe, man. Nice draw dis, get ah creepin’ buzz.’

  ‘So, Biscuit. T’ings cool?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, not really. I’ve got nuff boderation ’pon my mind.’

  ‘You wanna chat ’bout it?’ Yardman asked softly, putting one hand on Biscuit’s shoulder.

  ‘Not now. Not ’ere in dis place,’ Biscuit replied, looking around him.

  ‘Den we affe link up,’ Yardman insisted. ‘Long time since me an’ you chat. I haven’t seen you too much since we lef’ school.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s dat … Yardie, why don’t you write a lyric ’bout de Deptford fire?’

  ‘I am. I’m gonna bus’ de lyrics maybe nex’ week inna Crucial Rocker blues.’

  ‘Seen. Anyway, I’ll hook up wid you later, yeah. Carol don’t like me leaving her too long inna blues dance; too many crub-hungry yout’s around.’

  ‘Seen,’Yardman laughed.

  Biscuit returned to his crew. He and Floyd shared three spliffs before settling down to a crub with their girls. Janet Kay’s ‘Rock The Rhythm’ boomed from the speakers as Biscuit wrapped an arm around Carol’s waist. He pulled her towards him, placed his other hand around her neck and gently touched her cheek with his.

  ‘I dunno why you try hide it, Biscuit. I sight you selling to Yardman.’

  ‘He’s a brethren, innit. Know ’im from school days, he was in my class.’

  ‘I don’t like you dealin’ when you’re wid me. Can’t we ever ’ave a night together when you’re not juggling?’

  ‘I’m gonna stop soon anyway
. I’m coming out of de juggling business. Believe.’

  ‘I’ve ’eard dat before somewhere.’

  ‘Jus’ gi’ me ah liccle time, man,’ he replied curtly, not knowing how much time he would need.

  He escorted Carol home as the first hint of daybreak threatened. It was at these times that both of them thought that Brixton was not a bad place. There were hardly any motorists on the road and the birdsong in the trees that lined Brixton Hill was audible. The council blocks to the east, caught by the orange glow of the sunrise, appeared less harsh, and the clouds above were parting to reveal a purple sky. Biscuit, walking with his right arm around Carol’s shoulders, was free of worry and lost in Carol’s beauty. He stopped walking and kissed her on the forehead, caressing her hair. Their eyes met and Carol wondered how long she could resist making love to him.

  On reaching Carol’s front door, Biscuit stood on the doorstep shuffling his feet, hopeful of something.

  ‘Soon, man,’ Carol soothed. ‘Soon. I’m jus’ not ready yet. Besides, my mudder get up well early.’

  15

  Babylon Pressure

  Biscuit, dressed only in his briefs, was lying on Carol’s bed, watching her unbutton her blouse … Then the Lone Ranger’s ‘Rosemarie’ blared out from nowhere, and he found himself waking up from his dream. He checked his watch and saw the time was nudging past 1.00pm. ‘Char! Why does Denise ’ave to tune into Tony Williams show at dis time of day?’

  He got out of bed to tell his sister to turn down the music. Now almost fully awake, he wondered where Nunchaks had taken Denise last night. With only a pair of football shorts on, he carefully prised his sister’s door open, hoping the hinges wouldn’t squeak as they usually did.

  ‘Come out of de room, man,’ Denise objected, lying on her bed in her dressing gown with her feet against the wall. ‘So, wha’appen? You can’t remember where your blasted bedroom is?’

  ‘Mask your mout’, girl. I’m jus’ checking dat you reach ’ome safe.’

  ‘Well I’m sleeping! So remove.’

  ‘Facety wretch.’

  He closed the door, feeling nervous for his sister, then headed for the kitchen where he saw Royston climbing on the table, trying to reach the biscuit tin on top of a cupboard.