by Alex Wheatle
‘Maybe we can size up Tulse Hill, I’ve always sighted beastman trodding by dem sides,’ suggested Sceptic. ‘An’ der is nuff places to get ’way. Cos, bwai, if you do dis t’ing, de whole of de friggin’ police force will tear up de estates looking fe you.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ replied Coffin Head frostily. ‘But we all look de same to dem, innit.’
For the next few minutes the two spars watched the traffic and the passers-by. They recognised one of Carol’s friends getting off a bus and Yo’d her. They watched three white men trying unsuccessfully to push-start a car into New Park Road. A green Jaguar, driven by a black man in a green beaver-skin hat, bombed down Brixton Hill. Sceptic followed its direction. ‘D’you t’ink Biscuit’s sister is wid Nunchaks?’ he asked.
‘Probably.’
‘What a blowoh. I was chatting to Keit’y Dread an’ he knows nuff ’bout ’im.’
‘Yeah, wha’ does he know.’
‘Well, dis is ’ow it go. When Nunchaks was a yout’ ’im get burn up ’pon his leg. ’Is fader lef’ a smoking cancer stick an’ der yard ketch ah fire. Nunchaks was sleeping at de time an’ dey jus’ got ’im out. But his right leg was burn up bad. He grew up ’ating ‘is parents cos of it an’ fe some reason ’im ’ate woman even more. But it’s like fire turn ’im cuckoo. He’s obsessed wid it.’
‘Don’t tell Biscuit dat cos dat will mek ’im stress out even more. Keep your tongue stapled ’bout dat dread. An’ don’t tell Biscuit ’bout Nunchaks’ whorehouse.’
’Im ’ave a whorehouse?’
‘Yes, dread. But I dunno where it der. I jus’ ’ope dat Denise ain’t down der. If she is I’ll cry fe her. An’ I dunno wha’ Biscuit would do if he found out.’
‘What a blowoh!’
‘Den again,’ Coffin Head muttered, watching the road, ‘Biscuit would go after Nunchaks. Believe. ’im don’t go cuckoo too much, but if a man fucks wid his family, he would go nuts cadazy.’
20
Brixtonian Females
10 March 1981
Janet Kay’s ‘Don’t Feel No Way’ mellow-canaried from Carol’s hi-fi. Sitting in front of her dressing table mirror, she saw her reflection of rich dark skin and onyx-coloured eyes. I’m getting a friggin’ worry line in my forehead, she groaned inwardly.
Dusk was preparing for night and the LED lights that peppered the stereo in the corner of the room, pin-pricked into the dark surroundings. Lovers rock records and cassette tapes were piled on the bed, alongside the latest issue of Black Echoes magazine. Looking over the head-rest of the bed was a Teddy Pendergrass poster, and on the opposite wall, above a dirty clothes basket, hung a framed painting of a calypso band. Upon the window-ledge stood a figurine of a black woman, carrying a basket on top of her head. The teak double-wardrobe, standing beside the dressing table, had two suitcases resting on top of it. Propped on the bedside cabinet within a cardboard frame was a Polaroid of Carol’s friends, posing in front of the dodgem cars at Clapham Common fair last summer: Biscuit, Sharon, Brenton, Floyd, Carol, Coffin Head and Sceptic all had their arms draped around each other, displaying teenage exuberance and feisty confidence.
Sharon was standing behind Carol, working her hair into braids, talking as she tweezed. ‘Bwai, your ends always break off, innit,’ she complained. ‘Your hair’s too fine, man. No wonder your plaits don’t stay in. Where d’you get it from? Your mudder?’
‘Nah. Got it from my fader. He has ah liccle coolie ’pon his family side.’
‘Yeah? He don’t look like he has Indian in ’im.’
‘Dat’s cos he’s slowly going a ball ’ead. You wanna see some of his old-time photos dem. His hair straight like anyt’ing. He didn’t affe conk it or relax it like most man in his time.’
Sharon finger-scissored a generous helping of hair, admiring its texture and blackness. She combed through it before parting it into three, wishing she also had fine hair. ‘Biscuit tell you ’bout Denise?’
‘Yeah, I feel for ’im. But wha’s Denise up to, man? How can she jus’ walk out like dat an’ don’t come back. Bwai, she ’ave no sense.’
‘It can’t be as simple as dat,’ Sharon argued, resting her fingers for a moment and shaking her head. ‘Somet’ing mus’ ah gwarn. I ’ear she an’ her mudder ’ad some contention going on from time.’
‘She still fool-fool though,’ Carol insisted, pointing her right index finger to her temple. ‘She don’t t’ink ’bout how she gonna yam an’ keep roof over her head. Biscuit’s going cuckoo wid nuff worries.’
‘Like I say, somet’ing mus’ ah gwarn … Biscuit never told you ’bout any cuss-cuss she an’ her mudder might of ’ad?’
‘Yeah, but it never sounded too serious. It was over a liccle business ’bout Denise getting money from somewhere.’
‘Bwai, family business,’ Sharon shrugged, shaking her head once more. She went back to work on Carol’s hair.
‘Oowww. You affe pull so hard?’ Carol’s face creased up in pain.
‘Stop your complaining, sistren,’ Sharon answered wearily, her fingers aching from an hour’s work. ‘You want me to finish dis?’
‘Yeah, but don’t brutalise my ’ead top, man.’
Sharon kissed her teeth but tried to be more gentle as she continued braiding.
‘So,’ Carol said mischievously, looking into the mirror and catching her friend’s eye, ‘you still fighting off Smiley? He seems well interested.’
‘De only interest he’s gonna get is from my tongue. De man don’t understand no. Bwai, me nah know wha’ school ’im go to, but his English is seriously basic … Can’t even understand N.O.’
‘Does Floyd know ’bout dis?’
‘A liccle. But I won’t tell ’im de full score cos der will be almshouse business. You know so how Floyd gets red-eye when ah nex’ man tries a t’ing.’ She sucked her teeth.
‘It’s dat. Him mek me laugh de way he gwarn some time.’
‘Yeah, mek me laugh too. But at least it shows dat der is some emotion der … Talking of emotion, I can’t understand you an’ Biscuit.’
‘He’s deep,’ replied Carol, gazing at her faultless complexion again, while Biscuit’s image made an appearance in her head. He’s so sweet, she thought. And he treats me like there is no other good-looking girl on earth. ‘I know he seriously likes me, he’s made it clear. I jus’ wish he could do somet’ing positive.’
‘But do you really like ’im?’ Sharon demanded, gesturing with her hands.
Carol paused, not welcoming Sharon’s interrogation. Even though Sharon was her best friend, she felt vulnerable revealing such feelings. Everyone in her posse knew she’d fancied Brenton for a long time, but when Brenton declined the obvious invitation to her heart, she felt humiliated. There was still a flicker of attraction for him, but time had dampened the flames, while her desire for Biscuit was growing like a tree. ‘Sort of,’ she finally answered, lowering her eyelids.
Sharon sensed her friend’s hesitation. ‘You know, Floyd tells me Biscuit don’t even look ’pon any uder girl. He jus’ wants you, sistren. He’s got de love t’ing bad.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Sharon glanced at her friend’s reflection, thinking she was keeping something from her. ‘I’ll tell you wha’. If you an’ Biscuit ever ’ave somet’ing going, you nah ’affe worry ’bout ’im straying.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Wid Floyd, all he has to see is a skirt an’ ah naked calf an’ I start fret. His mudder shoulda call ’im Flirt. Sometimes when we forward to a party or club, I feel like boxing ’im in his head-top. ’Member de last time we went to Nations? I t’ought his eye was gonna drop outta ’im ’ead when he sight dat leggo beast inna de red skimpy frock dat look like some kinda beachwear.’
‘Den why d’you put up wid it?’ asked Carol, turning to face her pal.
‘Good question … I dunno. Maybe I t’ink I can control ’im. Like some kinda challenge. De t’ing is, when de posse ain’t around ’im, believe me, he
can be romantic an’ t’ing. Las’ Valentine’s Day he invite me round his yard an’ he ’ad all candles glowing an’ t’ing.’
‘Floyd lit candles!’
‘Yeah. He stuck dem to some saucers. It made his flat look like a friggin’ monk-house but de t’ought was der. Him also gi’ me ah box of chocolates already opened wid de strawberry ones missing, an’ den gi’ me some table wine from Tesco’s inna coffee mug.’
‘Table wine from Tesco’s! Nah, I can’t believe dat.’
‘Ah true, man. De wine tasted like piss-water but again de t’ought was der. Jah bless ’im.’ She smiled a glorious smile. ‘Him even put in a lovers rock tape an’ ask me fe dance.’Janet Kay’s ‘You Bring The Sun Out’ was bringing back sweet memories of their love-making on Valentine’s night.
Carol’s eyebrows heaved upwards in shock, almost disturbing Sharon’s braiding. ‘I affe see it to believe it,’ she rejected.
Sharon tugged her friend’s hair playfully. ‘I feel so Biscuit would do dem t’ing fe you if you let ’im.’
‘You’re probably right. But I ’ate his hustling runnings. Can’t go a dance widout Biscuit selling his herb.’
Sharon was about to say something but paused, thinking of her own battle to stop Floyd hustling. She guessed that at least eight out of ten black youths were hustling in some form or other. The other two out of ten were doing jobs they hated. Blinking, she tried to get away from her musings. ‘You ’ear ’bout Monica? Her belly get fat.’
‘Yeah, who’s de baby fader?’
‘Dat’s de t’ing. She don’t know a damn.’
‘Wha’ a palaver.’
‘It could be Ironhead from the Doberman posse, or Elfego Barker, dat cruff who’s always following Crucial Rocker sound in his one shirt dat he wears everywhere; Floyd was saying he get wet up de uder day … Den again, it could be Joker Smoker who pumped de seed, dat maaga yout’ who always gets charge up at Sir Lloyd blues. He looks like an’ carries on like Finnley. Bwai, wha’ ah tribulation.’
Carol laughed. ‘Poor Monica. She can pick her men, innit. Ironhead’s a friggin’ nutcase, Elfego Barker’s always getting inna fight, an’ when he ain’t fighting he don’t know ’bout de invention of deodorant, an’ Joker Smoker’s a friggin’ trodding spliff. Man, wha’ ah scandal.’
Sharon laughed out loud and had to place her hands on Carol’s back to stop herself falling on to the dressing table. Carol was pushed forward, and almost kissed the hair-grease jar in front of her. ‘Get off me you mad woman.’
Sharon stood up and held Carol’s head within her palms. ‘Look at de mirror,’ she laughed. Carol saw two-thirds of her hair in plaits and the other third standing up in apparent shock. ‘Who looks like de mad one?’ Sharon giggled. ‘Mebbe I should leave it like dat.’
‘Don’t you friggin dare,’ Carol raised her voice, playfully slapping her friend’s hand.
Sharon, unable to control her chuckling, pulled up a plait from Carol’s hair. ‘I wonder if Biscuit’s as long as dis?’
Trying to restrain herself from laughing, Carol turned around and grabbed hold of Sharon’s neck with both hands, pretending to strangle her. Alton Ellis’s ‘You Make Me Happy’ sweet-voiced from the stereo as the two friends fell on the floor in a mock fight, slapping each other on the backside.
A clap of the letterbox disturbed their mirth. Carol, comb in head, stood up and went downstairs, leaving a giggling Sharon in her bedroom. She opened her front door with a fading laugh on her features. A desolate Denise stood before her.
The girl’s right cheekbone was swollen and dark, like the colour of a red apple. The right side of her bottom lip was inflated and drooped grotesquely over her chin. Her left eye was bloodshot and half closed. Her hair was dry and lack-lustre. She was wrapped in a dirty green trench coat, buttoned up to her neck. Carol was shocked, and for a minute she found words hard to come by as Denise avoided eye contact.
‘I need somet’ing fe my period,’ pleaded Denise in a defeated voice.
‘Wha’s ’appened to you, sistren?’ questioned Carol, arms on her hips, scrutinising the wretch before her. ‘You know so your brudder ’as been looking for you all over Brixton?’
‘Look, me nah ’ave time. Can you gi’ me somet’ing fe my period?’
‘Come in, Denise, man,’ Carol ordered, ushering with her right hand. ‘We ’ave to chat ’bout dis.’
Denise peered into the hallway. ‘Your people nah der-ya? Lincoln ain’t der, is he?’
‘No, my parents ’ave gone out, an’ no, Biscuit ain’t ’ere so. Come in.’
Denise followed Carol warily along the hallway and up the stairs. As Sharon saw them troop into the bedroom, she felt a pumping sensation inside her throat. Somehow, she knew that Denise was on the streets and she couldn’t quite believe it had happened to someone so close to her. Poor girl, she said to herself.
Denise parked herself on the bed, dropping her gaze to the carpet as her eyes welled up with tears. She sensed the balmy smell of coconut oil and realised she hadn’t greased her hair for more than a week. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a cooked meal or had a proper night’s sleep.
‘Wha’s ’appened to you?’ asked Sharon. ‘Who lick you? Why ’aven’t you called ’ome yet? Biscuit’s going cadazy wid worry ’bout you, y’know. Not to mention your mudder.’
‘She don’t care a friggin damn!’ raged Denise. ‘I’m probably up der wid Jesus on who she ’ates de most … Are you gonna gi’ me a liccle money or wha’? I can’t stay long.’
‘Why don’t I call Biscuit an’ he will sort you out,’ offered Carol. ‘Whatever your story, he’ll look after you.’
‘No! Do dat an’ I’m missing, believe. Don’t say I was ’ere … Promise you won’t call ’im.’
Carol looked over at Sharon, silently asking for the next move. Sharon nodded her head and pointed discreetly to the bed. Carol took this as a sign to keep Denise there for as long as possible.
‘OK,’ said Sharon. ‘But can we tek you to de hospital? Get you checked out an’ t’ing. Den we can do your hair.’
‘No! I ’aven’t got de friggin’ time! Jus’ ’elp me out dis one time an’ I’ll be back to check you quick time, wid de money back … I beg you, please don’t tell Lincoln. I will sort myself out.’
Carol glanced over at Sharon again, thinking how Biscuit would react on seeing his sister in this state. Oh my God, he’s gonna go schizo.
‘Denise, man,’ Sharon soothed, ‘jus’ sit down fe ah liccle an’ I swear, wha’ you tell us we won’t repeat to anybody … Or you don’t need to say anyt’ing, maybe you want a bath?’
‘Can’t you ’ear,’ Denise yelled, looking at the bedroom door. ‘I ain’t got de friggin’ time!’ She sounded desperate.
The room was choked by a sudden tension and the dire consequences that it foretold. Denise buried her head into the lapels of her coat as her two friends looked on gravely, both thinking that the sinful hands of Nunchaks had been at work. Sharon moved towards the crying teenager.
‘Can’t you jus’ gi’ me de friggin’ money!’ Denise screamed. ‘Jus’ gi’ me de corn widout de inquest, dats all I’m asking … I’ll pay you back when I can. An’ don’t boder judge me cos I know wha’ you t’inking.’
Carol went to get her purse which was inside her bedside cabinet. Denise glanced through wet fingers at the photo of the posse, training her eyes upon her beloved brother. Carol plucked out a ten-pound note and handed it to the girl, who took it from her but avoided eye contact.
Once the tenner was banked within her inside coat pocket, Denise got to her feet and rapidly made for the door, escaping down the stairs. ‘Please don’t tell Biscuit,’ she sobbed.
Sharon and Carol heard the front door close and studied each other. ‘Frig my teenage days,’ Sharon said quietly. ‘Biscuit’s temper gonna go bionic.’
Carol shook her head in resignation as various nightmare scenarios attacked her brain. ‘I’ll ’ave to tell ’im. If I d
on’t he’ll never forgive me. Besides, she needs ’elp, man. D’you t’ink we should call de police?’
Sharon’s eyes responded in the negative. ‘If de beast weren’t so racist, den yes, we should go to dem. But do you really t’ink dey would do anyt’ing for a black girl who jus’ run ’way? An’ ’pon de street? Dey would jus’ arrest her. Besides, if de police are gonna be called, we should leave it up to Biscuit.’
‘Wha’ did she mean when she said she’s up der ’ated wid Jesus?’
‘I ain’t got a clue.’
Forgetting that her hair was half-braided, Carol pressed the stop button on the stereo. She caught her friend’s gaze and their eyes exchanged fear. ‘Y’know, Biscuit never get in too much fight, not like Brenton, but believe, when he gets to ’ear dat a man bus’ up his sister, he’ll be looking a neck to carve … I know ’im.’
21
Truths and Rights
28 March 1981
A train rattled over the bridge crossing the High Street and sang violently to a halt at Brixton Station. No one got off. An unleafed newspaper was caught in a tail wind and a few pages ended up embracing the asphalt of the main road, flattened by a bus wheel. A wild-haired black man, who only had one and a half arms, leaned against the railings in front of the tube station, his face a picture of regret. Discovering the lingering scent of spoiled fruit, a limping hound snouted for his supper in the deserted market street.
The Town Hall clock had just chimed 11.15pm. Emerging from the Prince of Wales pub was a cool-stepping Brixtonian. Biscuit had just sold half an ounce of herb to an Indian man he knew. As he walked to the bus stop, he promised himself that he would juggle no more.
Fifteen minutes later, he turned the key in his front door. As had been his habit for the past few weeks, he entered Denise’s bedroom, hoping she might be there, playing her favourite lovers rock cassettes while practising her singing. At school, Denise had planned to form her own reggae group, he recalled. Sweet Milo, she had named her singing trio. The dream had come to an abrupt end when Pauline, one of the harmony singers, became pregnant, and the other girl, Panceta, moved to Neasden.