Brixton Rock

by Alex Wheatle

  Onstage the DJ seemed intent on playing non-stop dance music until everybody before him collapsed from exhaustion. Around the fringe of the stage, the throng seemed determined to find out how a rice grain feels in a steaming pot. Despite pleas from the DJ, telling the rousing hordes to move back, they paid no heed.

  Brenton noted the cosmopolitan crowd -blacks, whites, Asians and others. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves - apart from one bewildered guy who just reached the bar. Brenton addressed the bartender. “One lager and a Coke, please, squire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  While he waited for his drinks, Brenton turned around to try and catch a glimpse of his sister in the swaying crowd. He sighted her among the mêlée of dancers, looking superbly co-ordinated in her dance routines. After he’d collected the plastic tumblers, he carefully threaded his way back to Juliet, carrying the drinks slightly above his head, so no wayward soul-head could topple them.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you? I hope you don’t expect me to join you,” Brenton said, gazing around at the jiving bodies.

  “No, I don’t. You’ll probably mash up my foot or something. I just love to freak out, know what I mean?”

  For the rest of the evening, Juliet danced, rested a little, then danced again, while her brother smoked, drank and walked around a lot. The DJ did entertain him though, by staging a female wet T-shirt competition. The winner was the girl who displayed the most visible breasts, greeted by cheers from the male revellers. But generally, Brenton was bored. He went through his snouts quicker than he planned. But one thing was evident to him though - the friendly atmosphere. He’d been used to the sometimes menacing atmosphere of reggae raves, especially blues dances, where one false step could lead to a stitched cheek.

  On the way home, Juliet hailed a black taxi to take them south of the river. She plonked her head on her brother’s shoulder, making him feel jittery.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” she said sleepily. “Most guys I know hate soul clubs and they wouldn’t step near the Lyceum. But I like to go there and just shake a leg, you know what I’m saying?”

  Brenton nodded as Juliet resumed, “I’m sorry I left you on your tod for a bit, but I didn’t want to force you to dance.”

  “That’s all right, I ain’t the type to freak out anyway. I suppose the club is all right if you are a soul-head, and it’s all friendly and t’ing, but I must admit I prefer my reggae. If my brethren Biscuit was there, he would have had an asthma attack. Him and soul don’t get on.”

  The time was twenty past two. As the black taxi motored over Vauxhall Bridge, Brenton could see the illuminated lights of Chelsea Bridge in the distance. He didn’t say much on the way home, for his unease was turning into a ringing alarm inside his skull; the more he looked at his sister, the more he was attracted to her. Why am I feeling like this? he asked himself.

  Within a few minutes, the taxi pulled up outside Juliet’s home. She climbed out, then gave a mesmeric gaze into her brother’s eyes. “There’s something about you I don’t quite understand.”

  Before Brenton could ask his sister what she meant, Juliet kissed the tips of her digits and gently touched her brother’s forehead. Dazed, Brenton watched Juliet turn her key into the front door as the taxi did a U-turn. His brain was so spin-dried; he had to pause before being able to direct the taxi driver to his hostel.

  Half an hour later, still taken aback at the night’s events, Brenton lay down on his bed, gazing first at the ceiling, then at his poster. “Why the fuck did she breeze a kiss, James?” He thought maybe it was her way of showing she was concerned about his life. Perhaps Juliet wanted Brenton to feel the closeness of a family.

  Questions went unanswered in his head as he grew tired, and images from his childhood began to march through his mind. These images were getting clearer and clearer, and it was like travelling back in time … One memory was very strong now.

  The child Brenton Brown was seven years of age. He was lying on one of seven metal-framed beds in a large dormitory; the other six were unoccupied. The white-painted walls reached high and felt refrigerated, cocooning the bedroom in an odour of sadness. A few Matchbox toy cars were haphazardly scattered on the uncarpeted floor - giving the only evidence of the room being a boys’ dormitory. The sun, winking in through the large wooden sash windows, informed the young lad that it was still daytime. Then he heard a voice which instilled fear in him.

  “Brenton? Come down these stairs immediately!”

  It was the voice of Miss Hill, otherwise known among the kids in the Home as ‘The Belt’. She was a short, squat white woman with long straggling brown hair. Aged in her mid-forties, she smiled rarely and had a feverish hatred for anyone under the age of eleven.

  The young Brenton Brown was summoned downstairs, dressed only in his striped pyjamas. He knew what his fate was. Although the door was slightly ajar, he knocked on ‘The Belt’s’ study door with trembling knuckles.

  “The door’s open, come in,” she boomed.

  The Belt was seated at her bureau, pen in hand and wearing spectacles that gave her the classic English schoolteacher appearance. “Close that door and come towards me.”

  Brenton slowly shuffled towards the lash-happy Belt. He knew that any sign of disobedience would mean more punishment.

  “Mrs Willis tells me you called her an insulting name. You know I will not tolerate any kids in my charge calling staff names. Well - what have you got to say for yourself?” asked The Belt, knowing any explanation wasn’t worth hearing.

  The young Brenton gazed down at the carpet beneath him as he stuttered a quiet reply. “She, she called me a nigger.”

  “I see. Not only do you call my staff names, but you are a liar as well!”

  Tears began to fall down the cheeks of the young Brenton. The Belt ignored this distressful sight and shot out of her seat to look for her serious strip of leather.

  Hanging from a screw in the wall near the window was a thick brown leather belt. Grabbing it, Miss Hill headlighted Brenton with sadistic glee. “Bend down and touch your toes, you little bastard. I will teach you not to lie and call my staff names if it is the last thing I do.”

  Brenton endured six hard slaps of the leather. He was determined not to make a sound, although the tears were flowing freely.

  Nine years later the teenaged Brenton Brown awoke in a cold sweat. It wasn’t just a bad dream - these events had actually happened. He often had these recurring dreams of reconstructed episodes from his childhood. He felt it was strange, that he always seemed to snap out of the nightmare at the greatest moment of pain.

  Adults are sometimes so unjust to children, he thought, and you don’t know who to trust.

  He still could not sleep with a peaceful mind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Trouble In Store

  Early February, 1980

  It was a Saturday evening cold enough for the down and outs to don balaclavas and mountain-man socks. Brenton was inside his hostel room, ironing out never-ending creases in his jeans and wondering why his sister hadn’t belled him since their trip to the Lyceum a week ago. As it happened, Juliet had phoned him mid-week, but Brenton was out palavering on the street with his spars at the time, and didn’t receive the message she left for him. His mother had also called several times, but Brenton had already instructed Floyd to tell her he was out. He wanted her to sip a small spoonful of rejection, and see how she liked the taste.

  He glanced at Mr Dean. “I don’t know why I’m ironing these for. I ain’t going nowhere.”

  Then as if by fate, Floyd came bounding into the room without slapping the door.

  “So wha’ppen, you can’t knock on the door?”

  Floyd flashed his sweet-bwai smile. “Yeah, it’s true, you might have been playing with yourself again.”

  Three seconds of cackles later, Floyd examined Brenton’s strenuous efforts to erase the creases in his blue jeans. “Stepping out?”

  “Nowhere, man, I’m
doing this ’cos I ain’t got nutten better to do.”

  “You should do what I do, man. Before I go to my bed, I put a pair of jeans under my mattress, and when I get up in the morning, the jeans are as good as ironed. Sweet as sugar inna Milo.”

  Brenton quivered his head from side to side, finding it hard to believe what he’d just heard. Going to throw himself on the bed, Floyd almost tripped over the limb of the ironing board. Noting his pal’s heavy-heart mood, he said sympathetically: “Thinking how you’re gonna deal with your mudder?”

  “Yeah. I dunno whether to go up her yard and strangle her or kiss her.”

  Floyd sat down. “It must be weird for you. I mean, I know my mudder inside out, and I know if I go visit her, she’ll be checking my teet’, ask if I’m eating proper and wondering if I was in bad-bwai company. But you kinda got a mudder overnight. That would jangle up my head.”

  Brenton scratched behind his ear. “Thanks a lot. So you think I’m going cuckoo.”

  “Nah, you ain’t ripe for no fool-fool house yet.”

  “Yet!”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Just take it every day as it comes. Try and be cool with her, see what she has to offer. I know seh you want to cuss her and you did. But in time, you might feel a way about it, and then it’ll be too late.”

  Brenton rubbed his chin, thinking that Floyd was not a bad counsellor when he stopped thinking about gal pum-pum. An uncomfortable silence followed as Floyd braced himself to put his next question. “So how you gonna deal wid Terry Flynn?”

  Brenton’s eyes drilled into the poster of James Dean. “His time will come - when he ain’t expecting it. He thinks he did-der in heaven, but hell is chasing after him.”

  Silence again. The quietness this time made Floyd visualise flashing blades. He wanted to lighten the mood, so with an impish shimmer in his eyes, he proposed, “I’m going late-night Kung Fu pictures tonight. Wanna come?”

  Brenton parked the hot iron in its rack and picked up what amounted to thirty pence of loose change off the dressing table. “What - with this? This is all I’ve got in my budget.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m leaving in half an hour, we’re going to the one down Croydon.”

  “Why Croydon?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  It was nearing eleven o’clock when the 109 bus parked a few skank steps from the cinema. Floyd and Brenton disembarked and immediately noticed the throng of predominantly black males gathering outside McDonald’s. Floyd, who was carrying a holdall in his hand, asked his spar, “Wanna burger?”

  Brenton nodded while clocking the young black faces around him. It was apparent that most of them had just arrived from a big reggae sound-system clash in the area. As Floyd and Brenton entered the restaurant, they were surprised to see so many rootsheads in an outer-city place like Croydon.

  Brenton recognised someone he knew from schooldays; his old friend Andrew. Andrew had dedicated his life to sound systems, hence his attendance at a sound clash this far out of town. Only seventeen, but tall and heavily bearded, Andrew caught sight of him. “Brown! Hey – Brown!”

  Andrew knifed his way through the black jam, looking genuinely pleased to see his boarding-school spar. Brenton noted the changes in the guy he used to play truant with, noticing the beard first. But there was no getting away from Andrew’s hat, which made him look like a black Hovis boy.

  “Brenton Brown, long time I man don’t see you. What are you doing now?”

  “Not much, just bumming about on the dole. I might go to college in September though.”

  Andrew noticed the scar on Brenton’s neck, partly concealed by the anorak he was wearing. Declining to comment about the ratchet sketch, Andrew chose to wax lyrical about the evening’s sound clash.

  “Just followed Deepbass to a dance, man, and it was ram jam, nuff people there. We booted Observer’s batty and made them look like Tony Blackburn was selecting the tune for dem. They haven’t got any good tune and they would have had better luck playing a punky rocker dub plate. All the crowd told dem to sign off their sound. Yeah man, we kill a sound tonight.”

  Just as Brenton was about to question Andrew’s version of the night’s events, Floyd returned with a bagful of cheeseburgers, fries and milkshakes. In his other hand he clutched about twenty straws and an uncountable number of napkins. Brenton looked on amazed. “Why so much straws and napkins, man? Are you buying food for everyone who’s going late night?”

  Floyd crouched down and put the surplus straws and napkins in his holdall. “You never know when you might need them. Look how many times we’ve run out of batty paper in our yard.”

  Andrew looked on bewildered, as Brenton introduced him. “This is Andrew, old school brethren. He’s been telling me how his sound, Deepbass City, clapped Observer’s batty all over the damn place.”

  Floyd smiled while munching his fries. “Is it, is it? In the queue I was chatting to Danny Dread, a sound man of Observer. He tell me say that your sound is pure distortion and hiss noises and t’ing. He reckons that a horse boning a hedgehog sounds better than you lot.”

  “Lie him a tell,” Andrew countered.

  Floyd and Brenton were experienced enough not to believe everything a sound man said.

  Arching his back so he could get a clear view along the High Street, Floyd beckoned to Brenton. “Come man, the queue’s starting to build up.”

  So the two spars made their way out of the restaurant, hastily eating their takeaway food. Andrew bade them farewell by raising his arm in the air, clenching his fist and shouting, “Later!”

  While seating themselves inside the cinema, Brenton found himself hearing the call of his bed. He probably would have fallen asleep if it hadn’t been for the constant roar of the audience whenever someone on screen executed a stylish and fatal kick.

  The stuffy air was invaded by the distinctive smell of marijuana, which didn’t seem to bother anybody. Some guys even had the front to bring suitcases to listen to in the auditorium. A few others took the late-night movie show as an opportunity to strut through the aisles and sell cannabis, wrapped up in betting-shop paper. The management seemed to switch off their headlights to all these bad-bwai customs.

  At around three o’clock in the morning, the two Kung Fu films ended and most of the cinemagoers were streaming towards their motors or cab ranks. It was a polar bear night. Brenton wanted to seek the temporary warmth of a mini-cab office, but Floyd, clutching his holdall, had different ideas, strutting along the High Street in the opposite direction from anyone else.

  Brenton voiced his disapproval. “Why the fuck are we walking this way for? I’m tired, it’s friggin freezing and I want my bed.”

  “’Cos I want a brand new ghetto-blaster. They always display them in the window of Allders in the Whitgift Centre, so I’m going to kuff the window, hol’ the goods and chip to a brethren’s house who’s expecting me. I’ve worked it all out, man; no problem.”

  Brenton stopped walking and kissed his teeth while looking up to the dark heavens. He glared at his spar, but Floyd was oblivious. He kept on walking, leaving Brenton a few paces behind. Brenton quickened into a trot and came alongside Floyd. “And what am I supposed to do while you nick a Brixton suitcase?”

  “Keep a good clock, look out for the beast and give me a shout.”

  “And what do I get for that?”

  “Well, if I get my t’ings, you can have my old suitcase.”

  The two spars tottered along the High Street, trying to look as if they had too much to drink, so the beast, if they passed, wouldn’t suspect them of any wrongdoing. Entering the Whitgift Centre, Brenton noticed instantly the big Allders department store, which seemed to stretch out for the length of a football pitch. There was nobody about. While Brenton constantly checked behind him, Floyd impassively strolled along the shopfront of the big store until he reached a section that displayed different types of hi-fi. Spotting a suitcase, he hissed, “Brenton, Brenton! See it der.”r />
  Brenton was mightily impressed, but feeling a little apprehensive. He took a look around and behind him, noticing the assortment of shops and boutiques. Only the jewellery shop, about thirty yards away, had a protective metal grille placed in front of it. In the middle of the shopping area was a fancy pub, probably the watering hole of outer-city husbands.

  Brenton turned to clock Floyd admiring the many knobs and gadgets on the suitcase. Then Floyd crouched down to unzip his holdall and took out two bricks, placing them in a plastic bag. Brenton suddenly became very animated, checking for any signs of movement in the area. Then: “Go for it!”

  Floyd swung the plastic bag containing the bricks, until he whipped up enough momentum to knock out the thick glass. Then he unleashed the bag and consequently, there was an almighty crash. Protecting his face with his arms, he gaped as he saw that the whole section of window had been demolished. Brenton too looked on in amazement. They both took a second to grasp the reality of the situation, then Floyd climbed through the obliterated window section and grabbed his much sought-after merchandise. He squeezed it into the holdall and burned his soles away from the scene of crime, with his accomplice in his slipstream. Behind them, they left the shattered glass and debris, and an alarm bell that chased them through the brass-monkey air.

  Floyd decided not to make his getaway via the High Street, choosing instead the back entrance of the shopping centre. Following much frantic checking to see whether the police were in pursuit, the two raiders scampered their way from central Croydon to the back streets near East Croydon train station.

  “So how far is it to your brethren’s yard?” gasped Brenton.

  “Not far. Just around the corner and we’re safe, man.”

  “You must have woken up the whole of Croydon. Did you have to fling the bricks like them man who fling hammer in the Olympics?”

  “I don’t give a damn, man. I’ve got my goods and t’ing.”

  The duo now felt safe as they strode leisurely through the quiet streets, gradually moving away from the Dallas-type buildings of central Croydon. After a couple more turns into streets of terraced houses, Floyd and Brenton eventually arrived at their rendezvous. Floyd slapped the letter box rather louder than necessary.