by Alex Wheatle
Ten minutes later, he was inside the shop Cutty had described. A young black woman, pushing a buggy with a gurgling baby inside, entered the shop. She was wearing a light-blue anorak and baggy track-suit bottoms and her hair was in corn-row plaits. She bought a meat pattie for herself and she smiled at the assistant, obviously knowing him. Once the food was served, she turned around and saw Biscuit. ‘Lincoln?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
From the baby’s buggy she took out a small parcel, crudely covered in birthday wrapping paper. She gave this to Biscuit, and was gone without saying another word.
I s’pose dat meks sense, he told himself. Not even beastman would frisk a baby’s buggy.
Walking east on Acre Lane, on his way home from Floyd’s place, Biscuit heard the Town Hall clock chime 9.45pm. He was satisfied that the day’s trading had gone well. He reached home twenty-five minutes later and his first port of call was Denise’s bedroom. She wasn’t home. Where she der-ya? he asked himself. Massa God, please don’t mek her be wid Nunchaks. He went to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water and decided to look in on his mother. She was sleeping, snoring a little with her mouth slightly ajar. He crept over to her and placed two browns underneath her pillow. Then he returned to the kitchen, drank from his glass and gazed helplessly at Denise’s bedroom door.
19
The Shitstem
5 March 1981
Biscuit sniffed the favourable aroma of a burning Thai incense stick. A painting of the Sphinx, hanging over the gas heater, seemed to be watching him. To Biscuit’s right stood a teak varnished table, about twice the size of a chess board. Propped on top of this were beautifully carved photo frames, elegantly painted in red, gold and green, housing grainy, creased black and white photographs. In one picture, a woman dressed all in white was standing rigid in front of a hut with a corrugated roof. In another photo, barefoot children posed under a jackfruit tree, dressed in long shorts and T-shirts. The children looked like they had just seen a ghost.
The youth shifted his gaze to Jah Nelson, who was at work, smoothing a chair leg with a wooden block of sandpaper. Nelson studied his work as if he was preparing a gift to his God, Biscuit thought.
He returned his attention to the photos. ‘Dey your family?’ he asked.
Jah Nelson paused, as if a memory disturbed him. ‘Yes. De woman in de white dress an’ ’at is me mudder. She was teking de long t’ree mile walk to church dat day. De minister’s sister, by some means I don’t know, acquired a camera an’ tek de pictures dem.’
‘Do you keep in touch?’
‘Fe ah long time, no. But de last few years me start back writing an’ sen’ ah liccle money to her.’
‘Who are de kids? Your brudders an’ sisters?’
‘Yeah, man,’ Nelson answered proudly. ‘T’ree sister an’ five brudder me ’ave.’ He put down his tool upon the uncovered floor, then set his one good eye upon the teenager, attempting to read the youngster’s thoughts. ‘Trouble at ’ome?’
‘You could say dat. My sister’s going on like a rebel. I might bring her come ’ere so to mek you chat to her. See if you can chat sense inna her ’ead.’
‘Yes, me coulda do dat. But you affe tell me de root of de fuss.’
Biscuit thought about it, not wanting to disclose family tensions to the sage, even though he thought he could trust him. ‘Maybe at a later date,’ he answered.
‘As you wish. But me ears dem are always trained ’pon de young dem. I affe play my part cos de future will be yours.’
‘Some future.’
‘You waan fe free yourself from your negativity. Let me tell you dis, if a flat-footed goat find ’imself ’pon ah mountainous land, generations later, de goat offspring will develop a hoof fe ’elp ’im climb de mountain slope. Jah blesses all creatures dat way. An’ dat’s ’ow you mus’ look ’pon it. Mek education your friend, an’ like de goat, you will develop ah hoof fe climb your particular mountain slope. Jah know!’
‘It’s alright fe you to say,’ Biscuit argued. ‘You’ve got your trade an’ t’ing. Most of us ain’t got a friggin chance. Der’s nutten der for us, except husling.’
Nelson collected a wooden chair from the corner of the room and placed it in front of the youth before sitting himself down. Biscuit noticed the thin lines of grey hair that streaked the dread’s locks, giving him an almost stately aura. The teenager wondered what he had looked like as a young man.
‘Now, listen to me proper, Lincoln. I waan fe tell you ’bout de system. Der is nuff talk of ism, schism an’ racism. An’ me nah defend ’gainst de charge of racism in dis country. But de main t’ing you affe worry yourself is wid de classism in dis country.’
Biscuit nodded, then delved into his pocket for his rizlas and bag of herb; he had already sold twenty pounds worth to the dread. The rasta stood up and went over to the stereo in the corner of the room. He pressed the play button and returned to his chair. In a low volume, the Congos’ ‘Children Are Crying’ sang out from the set.
‘When de children of Africa were dragged to de West,’ Nelson continued, ‘it was because of money. Cheap labour fe work ’pon de plantations dem. An’ it benefited de upper class de most, lining dem pockets. De upper class are doing de same t’ing today, but more subtle.’
Biscuit spliced a cancer stick, holding the gaze of his mentor.
‘Tek schooling fe example,’ Nelson said. ‘Inna de inner city you find de most student teacher an’ teacher dem who cyan’t do dem job too righteous. Seen. Dis is part of ah plan. Cos dis way, wid poor educational ’elp you nah find too many pupils attaining de heights an’ forward to university. But dat’s de way de system waant it. Y’understand? Consider dis. If every pupil inna de land get top marks, who would waan fe empty dustbin? Who would waan fe sweep road? Who would waan fe mend road? De system relies ’pon someone doing dis work, noble it may be. But de system would collapse if every pupil was qualified to be ah brain surgeon. Y’understand? Dat’s why de system will mek sure dat de poor pupil dem inna inner city will nah mek too much progress. Yes, some poor children mek it t’rough. But jus’ ah few.’
‘Nelson, man. Hol’ up, dread. You’re going too fast fe me.’
‘It’s important to tek dis in. An’ dat’s why me always keep on education. Dat is de key. Don’t rely ’pon de wort’less teacher dem who der-ya inna school an’ college. Supplement wha’ dem teach by teaching yourself. Jah know!’
‘Bwai, sometimes you get all heavy ’pon me, dread.’
Nelson laughed as he rose from the chair and went back to his work.
‘So dis is wha’ you an’ dem dread chat ’bout at Twelve Tribes?’ enquired Biscuit.
‘I used to. But dem kick me out, or me should say me walk out.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos I man cause ah fuss an’ ah bangarang when I insisted dat Rastafari start from de civilisation of Egypt, wid Osiris an’ de Gods before ’im. I also upset dem cos me question de Bible. Dat cause nuff debate an’ argument.’
‘Why?’
‘Now, how can me put dis? You see de film King Kong when it come out ah few years back?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, it is a version of de old King Kong film dat come out in de 1930s. An’ when you analyse de Bible, you find de same t’ing – ah nex’ version.’
‘Whadya mean?’
‘Tek de story of Noah. Everyone know how Noah buil’ ’im ark an’ escape de flood waters wid ’im wife, family an’ two animals of every kind. Now, listen me proper, Lincoln. All de biblical scholars say dat Moses did write de Genesis part of de Bible, an’ dis include de deeds of Noah. But nuh too many people know dat de flood story was written by someone else long before Moses was born. Ah people called Sumerians did ah live near present day Iraq an’ Iran, an’ it’s written an’ documented dat dey told de story of dis great flood. De only difference dem ’ave is de names dey used. Ziusudra teks de place of Noah an’ so fort’. If you check out de British Museum you can see fo
r yourself, cah dem still ’ave de Sumerian cuneiform writings dat tell de tale. In time I ’ave learned dat der are flood stories, documented an’ written from all over de world, saying de same t’ing. It cyan’t be all coincidence, so alt’ough me really believe in de flood, I question Moses’ version. De important t’ing to realise is dat Moses, if him did write Genesis, was simply copying ah much older script. Jah know!’
‘So is all de Bible like dat?’ Biscuit asked, wondering what his Aunt Jenny would make of it all.
‘Could be. Me still finding out. All me know is dat me cyan’t tek de Bible word fe word. Yes, me live by it, but nobody cyan be too sure of whoever wrote it an’ wha’ stories are jus’ copies of even older stories. You could say it’s been my life’s work to solve de mystery.’
‘Well, don’t go into dat, dread. You mangle up my ’ead wid your stars an’ t’ing last time I reach ’ere.’
Nelson laughed again, picking up his smoothing tool and concentrating his eye on the work at hand. Biscuit studied the older man’s skilled hands and speculated on whether they had ever caressed a woman. ‘You ever been married, Nelson? Or somet’ing like dat? You ’ave any pickney? Joseph Dread who lives in my estate has ’bout twelve wha’ he knows ’bout.’
Nelson chuckled. ‘Joseph ah fruitful bough! But you find me Achilles heel. Alt’ough me in good company, cah even Solomon, t’ough ’im wise, never know de secret of ah woman. To answer your question, no. Me never tek ah wife an’ never even get close. Girlfriends came but quickly gone. Dem could nah tek me ignoring dem when me der-ya inna me book an’ meditation. As me reach ah good age, sometime me body ’unger fe ah woman’s warmth an’ company, y’understand. Me been alone too long in dis life.’
He glanced up to the ceiling, thinking of past memories and his childhood in Jamaica, reminiscing about his teenage sweetheart, the daughter of one of his mother’s best friends. They had had to part because her family disapproved of his growing locks. He sighed heavily. I’ll ’ave to forward back-a-yard an’ visit me mudder, he thought. See her before she passes away to Jah Kingdom. After all, next year she reaches the glorious age of eighty. I could bless my eyes on the rest of the family, and all the untold nephews and nieces that I haven’t seen in the flesh. ‘You ’ave ah sweetheart?’ he asked Biscuit.
‘Sort of. I told you ’bout Carol, innit. She don’t like de life I’m leading.’
Nelson noticed how Biscuit’s eyes had grown keen. ‘It’s not fe me to counsel you on womanly t’ings. But if you do develop a relationship wid de girl of your choice, den cherish her an’ never let her go. Cah you don’t know when Jah will bless you again wid love, y’understand?’
Biscuit nodded. ‘Sometimes I think she’d be better off wid someone wid a good job an’ t’ing. I can’t offer her nutten.’ He wrapped his spliff and toked gently, blowing smoke above Nelson’s head, giving the rastaman a misshapen halo. ‘You’re dreaming, dread. Tek a look outside your window an’ wha’ do you see? Nuff yout’ ’bout my age wid nutten to do an’ nowhere to go. Ain’t nutten in de future for us, except dole office an’ inside a beast cell.’
Nelson closed his eyes momentarily in controlled frustration. Then he fingered his matted beard while turning his head to look out the window. He could see seven youths shooting the breeze in the forecourt. ‘On your journey, me ’ave planted a sign-post before you, an’ you mus’ look ’pon de message. Me ’ope is dat you will forward down my route, den uders will follow.’
Biscuit pulled on his spliff once more, exhaling through his nose. He considered on how Denise would respond to a session of reasoning with the dread. Although concurring with Nelson’s philosophy, he still harboured itching doubts. ‘You say you ’ave sign-posted a route for me. But ain’t you giving me corn an’ buying my herb? Don’t dat mek you a hypocrite?’
Nelson nodded, his mane stirring like a waking lion. ‘Good question. But me door is open to you widout de ’erb, y’understand. An’ ’erb should be ah free medicine available to all, widout governments meking de people dem criminals if dey use it. It’s jus’ unfortunate dat you affe do dis hustling t’ing to mek ah liccle money. But I accept your charge. Me ah hypocrite, yes. But my intention towards to you is righteous. Jah know!’
Biscuit offered him his spliff. The dread inhaled deeply and blew his smoke upwards. For a minute they both studied each other silently, with an unspoken respect.
Nelson sensed there was something in the teenager’s face that was troubling him. He thought that Biscuit’s eyes betrayed a terrible burden and wondered what was at the root of this unease. ‘You sure you nah waan talk ’bout dis worry of yours?’
‘No, dread. Not ready for dat yet. Maybe nex’ time.’
Nelson read his watch; the time was nearing 3.30pm. Biscuit read the time also and rose to his feet. ‘Got to go an’ pick up my liccle brudder Royston from school. Must dally. Sight you nex’ week.’
Nelson watched as Biscuit left the room, not even looking behind. ‘Good ’eart ’im ’ave,’ he smiled. ‘Ah good ’eart.’
Closing Jah Nelson’s front door, Biscuit saw a familiar figure stepping stylishly towards him: Yardman Irie, the stepping poet. He was dressed in an army-green camouflage jacket, green corduroys and topped by a black cloth beret with the symbol of the Lion of Judah stitched upon it. ‘Me walk ’pon Acre Lane inna de freezing rain, watch out behind you,’ watch out behind you, He pointed dramatically at Biscuit and the teenager’s face eased into a wide smile. ‘Nuff man inna de bookie shop looking to gain, watch out behind you, watch out behind you, me sight two beastman I swear dem was insane, watch out behind you, watch out behind you … Yo! Me bredren. Dem tek out der truncheon an’ start gi’ me pain, watch out behind you. Watch … Wha’appen Biscuit, ’ows runnings?’
‘Could be ah liccle better, y’know.’
‘Well, life not an easy road.’
‘Wha’ you doing round dese sides anyway? You ’ave a girl in dis estate?’
‘No, dread. Come to check Jah Nelson,’ Yardman stated with conviction.
Biscuit’s eyebrows soared. ‘Jah Nelson?’
‘Yes, dread. De teacher.’
Yardman Irie went to Nelson’s front door and knocked eagerly as Biscuit looked on. If Yardman Irie reasons wid Nelson, he pondered, the dread must be chatting some sense. ‘You seen my sister ’bout?’
‘Yeah, I was wondering wha’ she was doing wid Nunchaks at a Front Line blues las’ Saturday. I was chatting ’pon de mic when I sight her wid Nunchaks an’ some uder girl dem. Me nearly choke ’pon me words. Believe … She don’t know he’s ah terrorist?’ Yardman looked accusingly at Biscuit.
‘Oh, frig my living days,’ Biscuit replied, wide-eyed and crestfallen.
Yardman Irie paused and sensed the gravity of the situation. He looked upon his old school-friend with a worried frown before entering Jah Nelson’s flat. ‘Anyt’ing me can do?’ he enquired.
‘Yeah, if you sight her again try and chat some sense into her ’ead ’bout de dangers of walking an’ talking wid a bad man.’
‘Seen. An’ if I don’t sight her, I’ll put de word ’pon de street. Ah serious t’ing dis.’
‘Seen.’
Biscuit almost gagged as his heartbeat raced. If only I’d listened to her more, he told himself. I should’ve sat Denise an’ Mummy down an’ settled der arguments. Damn! I knew what was going on but I let t’ings drift. If I got dem to chat, Denise would ’ave never lef’ de yard. I was too friggin’ busy selling herb ’pon street. It’s cos of me she’s ’pon de street, cos of me, he tormented himself. Wha’ am I gonna do? Please, Massa God. He looked up to the heavens and considered going back to Jah Nelson’s. He dropped his head to the level of the concrete jungle. ‘Oh, fuck. Tribulation gonna mad me,’ he muttered.
Coffin Head was clocking the flow of traffic upon Brixton Hill. Parking on a waist-high wall near the junction of New Park Road, he followed the trajectory of a 133 bus, gathering momentum as it sped by the church near Elm Park Road
. Thirty yards away to the left, a black man reeled along the pavement, stepping more sideways than forward, like a crab with a toe missing, and topped by a chewed Trilby hat and a sorrowful face. He pined vocally for his lost love, some beautiful woman named Almira. No one took any notice.
To Coffin Head’s right sat Sceptic, telescoping the streets for any sign or mark of the Metropolitan Police. ‘Don’t like coching ’ere so,’ he complained. ‘Beastman are always up an’ down looking black yout’ to trouble. Why can’t we jus’ forward into de pub an’ play some pool?’
‘Cos I’m checking on somet’ing,’ Coffin Head replied. ‘I wanna see if de beast ’ave a one- or two-man patrol ’pon dis road.’
‘Wha’ you chatting ’bout? You talking a trodding beastman?’
‘Frig me! You worked dat one out quick, Scep.’
‘Blowoh! You’re serious ’bout dis t’ing, innit.’
‘D’you t’ink I bought de waster fe puppy show?’
‘Dem beastman don’t trod up dese sides. Dey trod down de Line now an’ again an’ in Mayall road, round dem sides.’
‘Yeah, but round der is too hot. Char! No chance of blowing away a beastman up der to rarted.’ Coffin Head spat the words out, tasting the anger he had inside. ‘I wanna see how a beastman’s face might look when he’s staring down my gun ’ole to rarted. I’m gonna pause jus’ for dat, den shoot ’im in his nosebridge. Bloodclaat beastman, dey t’ink dey can get ’way wid anyt’ing.’
Sceptic examined his brethren and saw a pair of eyes with the gaze of the predator. He’s really gonna sen’ a beastman to de cemetery, he thought. What a blowoh. He’ll be one big-time hero, like Yul Brynner in The Magnificent Seven. Yardman Irie would mek lyrics ’bout it. But de beast would go fucking cuckoo’s nest. Dey would arres’ every yout’ in Brixton till dey found de murderer, an’ in de process nuff yout’ would get brutalise inna cell. What a blowoh. Beast would patrol de Brixton streets wid M16s in der ’and, firing an’ asking questions later. Nuff black yout’ would ram up Streatham cemetery along wid de dead policeman. They’d be all curfew an’ t’ing. No more blues dances an’ no more town hall sound clashes.