by Alex Wheatle
Despite the feeling that a twenty-stone wrestler had a thick thumb stuck in his neck, Brenton tried to see the funny side. “Well, I couldn’t wear it for more than two weeks anyway. A guy can’t look neat in this thing.”
The doctor and the young nurse smiled, while the older sister, dressed in a navy-blue uniform, simply adjusted the papers on her clipboard, looking very passive. The doctor, a man in his mid-thirties, edged closer to the patient. “We found a medical card in your pocket, so Reception phoned your address and spoke to a Mr Lewis. At the time, you were heavily sedated, so Mr Lewis said he would be along later to see how you are.”
Dismay found a route to Brenton’s face as the doctor concluded, “You will have to stay here for a few days, and in that time it is very important to take your antibiotic tablets. They will help fight off any infection that might develop in your wound.”
Brenton puffed a sigh. The doctor and sister, in conversation, moved away to tend to another patient, while the pretty young nurse stayed at Brenton’s bedside, preparing to take his blood pressure. She admired his well-honed, muscular arm, and wrapped a thick brown cloth-like material around it. “You play sport? You look like a strong lad.”
“Nah, not these days. I did play football and stuff at school.”
The smiling nurse took Brenton’s blood pressure while the patient enjoyed eyeing her curves.
Minutes later, he was bored again, thinking his patience would be shattered if he had to remain in hospital for a few days. With any luck, Floyd would bounce into the ward, carrying his suitcase for his use. However it was not the cocksure figure of Floyd that appeared eventually in the ward, but the worried frame of Mr Lewis. Following the social worker with his eyes without moving his neck, Brenton was amused that Mr Lewis found trouble in locating him.
“Yo! Over here!”
Lewis turned and saw a grinning Brenton sitting up in his bed, sporting his new neck decor. Mr Lewis’s colossal backside sank into Brenton’s bed. “They called me earlier, when you were sedated‚” he fussed. “How are you doing now?”
The patient, feeling at a disadvantage in his plastic hospital gown, replied, “Well, apart from this uncomfortable bed, these stupid pyjamas or whatever they’re called, and a little cut in my neck, I’m all right. Seriously though, I’ve got a bad brain-ache and I’m bored.” He watched Mr Lewis unzip the sports bag he was carrying.
“What have you got in there?”
Mr Lewis brought out a pair of pyjamas and a change of clothes. “Aren’t I good to you? When you’re up and about you’ll be needing these.”
The social worker then opened the bedside cabinet door, which Brenton hadn’t realised was for his use. He was relieved to see the trainers he had bought inside it, but winced as he saw the blood-covered clothes he had been wearing at the time of the assault. “I only bought the trainers this morning. I thought I’d lost ’em.”
Mr Lewis delved further into the bag, emerging with a large bottle of Ribena. “The things I do for you,” he mocked. “One day I might do something really stupid and adopt you. Anyway, let me be serious for a minute. I would like you to tell me what happened – if you are ready.”
Brenton had his eyes on his new trainers as he rubbed his forehead. Mr Lewis spoke in his most diplomatic tones. “I don’t want to rush you, but it seems obvious that someone knifed you. Now, I don’t know if you recognised who did it, but I would strongly advise you to press charges. You could have died. I don’t want you to become another statistic in the South London Press.”
“Nor do I.”
“You know who did this to you, don’t you?”
Brenton didn’t answer.
“So you’re not prepared to tell me all about it – what led up to this.”
Brenton remained silent, his eyes resting on the clock.
“The police are there to protect and seek justice for you as well as anyone else‚” Mr Lewis stressed.
“What are you trying to say?” snapped Brenton. “You want me to go to the beast, innit?”
“Well, yes. For Christ’s sake, you could have died! If you tell them what happened, they would have to investigate.”
“Don’t make me laugh. They don’t help blacks – they just lock ’em up.”
“They are not all bad. I admit that perhaps some of the younger elements in the police are too gung-ho. But there are some good officers who treat everybody fairly.”
Brenton’s laughter was curtailed by his injuries. Mr Lewis shook his head. “Anyway, for the moment, just get better, all right?”
“Yeah, well, thanks for coming and bringing me the drink and my clothes, Mr Lewis, but don’t expect me to wear those pyjamas. They look like something a battyman would wear, know what I mean? I think I’ll keep this overgrown nappy on.”
The man smiled broadly at the joke, then looked gravely at his charge. “I know you’re making light of what happened, but it must have shaken you up a lot.”
Brenton scratched his uncombed hair and thought about it. “Well, of course it’s kind of scary,” he admitted, “but I’m still here. The funny thing is though, I never saw the knife coming. I just felt a pain, a sharp pain. It happened so fast. I turned around and saw them rushing me. Then I felt the pain.”
The social worker listened attentively with a disturbed expression. Why were so many youths fighting and stabbing each other? Then, rising, he prepared to leave, “I was going to see that doctor today – you know, about your mother. But after what happened, I postponed the meeting. Don’t worry now – I’ll be seeing him in the next couple of days.”
The tedious prospect of being holed up in a hospital bed suddenly invaded Brenton’s mind. “If you see Floyd, tell him to bring his ghetto blaster so I can listen to my music.”
“If you’re allowed a tape recorder in here, don’t play it too loud, will you? This is not your home, it’s a hospital.”
“I know that. I can tell the difference, you know.”
Holding his empty bag, and sporting a wry smile, the social worker left the ward.
Next morning, Brenton read every article in the day’s newspapers, keeping a look-out for the pretty nurse who tended him yesterday, but she didn’t seem to be on duty. Thoughts of reprisals entered his head for a short while. “Terry Flynn, you’re gonna know which side blood run on a pumpkin belly,” he said internally. He didn’t know what the phrase meant but had heard Floyd voice it many times when vexed with his spar Biscuit. Maybe he could be the small axe that felled the big tree. Brenton thought it was uncanny how he could use a Gong lyric to suit his circumstances – Flynn could be the dark oak.
The idea of making a statement to the beast disturbed Brenton; he hated the police just as much as he loathed Flynn. Besides, even if the abhorred Flynn was convicted, he guessed he would only get about a year’s oats. And if he behaved himself in prison, Brenton’s adversary would only eat oats for eight months. There was also the possibility of losing the respect of his Brixtonian peers if he got the law involved.
Brenton surveyed his ward, momentarily glaring at a patient who had kept him awake for most of the night. Apparently, the head-bandaged patient, moaning and groaning, felt the need to attract the night nurse’s attention continually. Pouring himself a glass of Ribena, feeling apathetic, he wished the blackcurrant juice would transform itself into a strong lager; at least that would make him sleep easier.
A 45 bus, crawling towards Camberwell via Coldharbour Lane, only had room for standing passengers. A tutting woman, sitting beside Floyd, was slowly dropping into a pit of anger. Her annoyance was caused by Floyd’s suitcase, which took up most of the legroom in the small aisle between the seats, but Floyd was dismissive of the problem as he peered aimlessly through the window.
Floyd had suspected that the ill-famed Terry Flynn would hook up with Brenton sooner or later, and wreak his revenge. He wondered now whether he should have told Brenton in much stronger terms, to keep undercover. He felt sympathy for his hostel-mate, but t
hought maybe Brenton was too much of a ‘lionheart’ for his own good.
From a pool-club banter, it had ended with someone nearly losing their life. Why was there so much ratchet-sketching and blade-jousting going on? Hardly a day passed without some story of So and So, or Whatsisname getting his face etched with a serious piece of Sheffield steel. Brooding, Floyd felt it was the fault of people like Terry Flynn. They had massive egos and would knife someone in order to keep their bad-bwai rep intact.
The hospital was just a minute’s walk from the bus stop and while Floyd made his way there, he recalled what Mr Lewis had told him earlier in the day: “Don’t laugh at Brenton’s neck-brace.” So Floyd allowed himself a little chuckle in the hospital corridor, flushing the humorous scenario out of his system.
One side of his body was anchored down by his suitcase as he entered the ward where his spar was recuperating. He found Brenton reading one of the newspapers most people normally associate with bowler-hatted businessmen. Floyd strutted towards his pal. “Lewis told me you were bored, but this is getting drastic, innit, for you to start reading that. Anyway, how you feeling?”
“That’s a fool-fool question. Why does everyone ask how I am? I thought it was obvious I’m not feeling well, know what I mean? What do you want me to say? ‘Oh, I’m feeling fine thanks, apart from a little itch on my neck’.”
Floyd parked on the bed, unable to take his gaze off the neck-brace. “I see you haven’t changed since you’ve been in here, but you look like you’re wearing a whole ’eap of church collars.”
“Is that why you come here? Just to take the piss?”
“You’re so ungrateful, man. I’ve carried this heavy suitcase all the way from our yard and all you can do is moan. I’ve got some wicked tapes in my pocket as well.”
Floyd proceeded to pull a few cassette tapes out of his brown suede jacket and presented them to his brethren.
“Thanks man,” Brenton sighed. “I seriously needed that. I was going cuckoo with boredom. Now I’ve got my roots music, I’ll get back my sanity. Yeah Floyd man, I owe you a favour. But ain’t it usual for a visitor to come to hospital bringing drink and nuff food for the patient? I’m telling you, a starving hog wouldn’t eat the crap they dish out here. And you couldn’t even buy me a bloody Mars bar.”
Floyd grinned and tried to hide his guilt by showing his palms. “I’m broke‚ man, I’m a pauper. I don’t get my big G till tomorrow.”
Brenton gave Floyd a magistrate’s look. “Your G usually comes a day after I get mine, so you should have got your big G today. You’re lying, innit. I bet you spent most of your corn on herb.”
“What you saying, man? Besides if I did, I would deal with you, innit.”
“Yeah, I suppose you would. But you still could have bought me a bloody Mars bars though.”
“I signed on a day late, like I had t’ings to do on my signing-on day. I was fixing a lock on Sharon’s front door that day. Her paps, for the first time in months, turned up in the middle of the night. He had more alcohol in him than blood and was shouting and t’ing, and then he mashed up the door ’cos Sharon’s mudder wouldn’t let him in. Anyway, she called the beast on him. So you know what I’m saying, I got tied up ’cos Sharon was upset and t’ing. I had to give her some tender care, you know the runnings.”
“Yeah, yeah Floyd, if you say so.”
Floyd stood up and scanned the ward, noticing the beige-painted walls and the metal beds. He thought to himself that if you disposed of all the medical items and replaced them with small toys scattered on the floor, the ward could resemble a council children’s home dormitory he once attended.
Floyd decided to have a nose in the bedside cabinet, where he found something to stir his interest. He picked up Brenton’s new trainers, examining them like a goldrush digger. “Not bad man, not bad. A pity you can’t step down the street in them just yet. How long are you gonna stay in here for?”
“I dunno, a few days.”
Floyd, still studying the trainer shoes, was suitably impressed. “Disappointed I didn’t buy plimsolls, are you?” sniped Brenton.
Feeling bored, Floyd put the footwear back in the cabinet and prepared to make his exit. He spotted the attractive young nurse who had tended to his hostel-mate just a day ago, busy changing the blankets and sheets of one of those uncomfortable-looking beds. “Well, Brenton, at least you’ve got the suitcase to keep you company. I’m heading out now, and if I was you, I’d try and chat up that nurse over there; she’s quite fit for a white girl.”
Floyd indicated with his eyes the nurse he was talking about, and Brenton discreetly glanced across the ward at her; she certainly could arouse many heads to turn. His visitor turned and paced out of the ward, grinning to himself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Catalyst
25 January, 1980
It was a spliff end of a desolate afternoon. A vexed rain took out its fury on South London as Brenton idled on his bed, listening to the tune of the weather.
He fingered the jelly-like wound in his neck, considering how unsightly it must look, but at least he now owned two polo neck sweaters that Mr Lewis had thoughtfully bought for him. Although the neck-brace had been taken off over a week ago, he couldn’t move his head as freely as before the stabbing. Caressing the scar, he glanced up at Mr Dean. “No one stabbed you in the neck. If they did, you would’ve killed the bastard -right, James? Terry Flynn’s gonna suffer for this.”
Brenton had been told by the doctor at the hospital to rest as much as possible, so he spent many reflective hours alone in his room, sometimes talking things over with the omnipresent Mr Dean.
Full of boredom, he was examining his new trainers, when someone slapped on the door. What does Floyd want now? he thought. “Only come in if you got any liquor or herb, otherwise remove ya,” he called out.
The figure of Mr Lewis popped his head around the door.
“Oh shit, it’s you.”
“What do you mean by herb? I hope it’s not what I think it is,” scolded Mr Lewis, who secretly thought his charge’s cannabis smoking was no more harmful than a trip down the pub.
He then produced his trademark frown and it seemed he had untold worries, but didn’t know how to solve them. “Brenton, would you come down to my room? I have something important to tell you -it concerns your mother.”
Brenton sat up, ready to give a reply, only to see Lewis disappear out of his room. Dressed only in jeans and vest, he shadowed the other man down the stairs, wondering what he was about to reveal to him.
He entered Mr Lewis’s room and found him clearing many papers and items of correspondence off his desk, appearing very preoccupied, scarcely aware of Brenton sitting down opposite him. “Oh, er, sorry. I didn’t expect you to come down straight away. I’ll be with you in a minute, Brenton. Just doing a bit of tidying up - my desk’s in a right mess.”
Brenton telescoped the table for evidence of any snouts and spotted a half-full packet, partly concealed by a brown envelope. “Don’t mind if I take one, do you?”
Mr Lewis simply nodded his head and cleared his throat, preparing himself for what he had to say. From a drawer in his desk he pulled out a large file and placed it in front of himself, then he steepled his hands together and looked up at his eager charge.
“Right, my young friend, this is your file and as you can see, it has a lot of material in it. I don’t know if you are aware, but it’s like a kind of logbook. It starts from when you came into care, and chronicles your life until the week you moved in here.”
Acting like a child on the day before his birthday, Brenton nodded in anticipation, to show he understood. “This file contains all the school reports, staff reports, doctors’ and social workers’ reports and even some psychiatric reports on you. It’s quite amazing really. For the life of me, I can’t remember ever seeing a file as thick as this.”
“Yeah, yeah, get on with it.”
“It’s even got details of case reviews and meetin
gs concerning you from when you were a baby.”
The social worker paused to light up a cigarette as Brenton sat uneasily. “I haven’t got all day, you know.”
Mr Lewis secretly thought that someone should have told Brenton about the contents of the file years ago. “I have had this stuff for the past week and you would not believe how much trouble I had getting access to it. These files are like national secrets.”
Brenton slid downwards, indicating to Lewis to get a move on. Mr Lewis darted a glance at the teenager. “Anyway, before I tell you about your mother’s whereabouts, I feel I have to explain the circumstances of when you were born. Is this all right with you? Do you know anything about what happened at the time of your birth?”
“I don’t know much, just that my mother is Jamaican and my paps is a white man. I’ve always reckoned my bitch of a mother gave me up.”
Brenton felt the hot vapour of frustration moistening his eyes. Wanting to hear the full novel, he began to tap his feet. The social worker noted this, but he’d planned this talk for the past few days and was determined to do it in his own way -he would not be rushed, no matter how much impatience Brenton displayed.
“Not even a lion rejects her cubs or even a rat rejects, er, whatever they have. I have to know why she done it.”
Flicking his ash in the ashtray, Mr Lewis set his gaze on Brenton. “It’s not quite as straightforward as that. I wouldn’t call it rejection; maybe another word is appropriate.”
Taking his arm off the desk and sitting upright, Brenton fought for control of his tongue. “Then what would you call it?”
“Look, it says in your file that around the time you were born, your mother was already married to somebody different from your father.”
Mr Lewis thought for a while then decided to give his charge more information.
“It appears your mother was very intelligent, by all accounts. The records say she came over to England in 1961, late in the year. The exact date isn’t given, but I suppose it was November or December.”
