by Alex Wheatle
Without daring to look at each other, they undressed themselves. Juliet, not wanting to be seen naked, dived under the bedcovers while Brenton undressed to his briefs. He slowly edged in next to his sister and enclosed his arms around her. For a few seconds they remained gummed in each other’s embrace, until Juliet’s hands began to trespass over a well-developed chest. The kissing resumed … Juliet trailed her fingers along Brenton’s thighs from above the knee to the upper part of his groin. Breathing hard he wondered what he should do with his hands, until she gently guided them to her breasts. Brenton slammed his eyes shut as Juliet took off his briefs. Soon, the couple were making furious love to the sound of Sugar Minott’s Never Too Young.
Tow hours later, Brenton and Juliet were lying still, tired and naked. She coched her head on her brother’s chest as he stared into space, not quite believing what had happened. “Somehow, from the first time I did see you, I had a vibe this would happen,” Juliet whispered sleepily. “You know that time we weren’t talking? I was asking myself: how could I fancy my own brother?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I was asking myself the same t’ing.”
The couple remained in bed for the rest of the afternoon and early evening. They were without a thought for food, drink or anything else. They made love, talked a little and made more love.
Brenton stroked his sister’s hair as he wondered what the hell was going on with his emotions. He kept on thinking to himself, What a way to blast one’s virginity. He didn’t want this day to end, for his night had run away for the present. None of the childhood nightmares and dramas seemed to matter any longer. The revenge he had promised himself to visit on Terry Flynn was a distant thought, tucked away in a drawer in the cellar of his mind. He knew what it was like to experience the bottomless pit of sadness and depression. But now, Brenton Brown learned that because he’d been so desolate in the past, he could truly appreciate these moments of bliss.
Juliet didn’t understand what drove her into the arms of her sibling, but she felt it was something she had to have and savour. My God, I’m actually doing this, she said inwardly.
Her lover looked across to the window and realised he hadn’t even drawn the curtains shut. He grinned to himself and his sister turned her head towards him, smiling radiantly. “What sweet you? You’ve got the smile of a young boy who has just been told he’s won a trip to Disneyland.”
“You sweet me, this don’t seem real, man. Shit, the beast can lock me up for this, innit?”
Brenton gave his sister a tender kiss on the forehead, then decided to rise up and get dressed. Floyd would be returning to the hostel soon, he thought. Juliet followed suit. It was only now that she experienced the first kuffs of guilt, aware that her particular love story was not to be found in her collection of slushy novels. Mum would have a breakdown, she thought. Brenton, however, had no regrets; he wouldn’t give morals the time of day.
A few minutes later, the couple were both dressed. Juliet was busy making sure her ebony-coloured hair looked criss, while Brenton remade his bed. As Juliet finished grooming herself, he warily opened his bedroom door, checking if Floyd was about. Thank God there was no sign of him yet.
Juliet, not entirely happy with her hair, squeezed on her shoes and joined her brother. Together they emerged from the bedroom looking as blameless as if they had spent the day flicking through photo albums.
Brenton escorted his lover back to her home. Once he reached there, his mother made sure he did not leave without a hot dinner nourishing his stomach.
Ms Massey asked her son how they celebrated a child’s birthday in the children’s home. He answered that he would rather forget his childhood birthdays than remember them. His mother tried to reassure him that future birthdays would be more memorable, and then presented him with a twenty-pound note and a birthday card. Brenton thanked her for the gesture, while Juliet remained unusually quiet, finding it hard to come up with a smile.
After Ms Massey conceded defeat in trying to persuade her son to eat any more rice and peas, Brenton prepared himself to brave the elements. He thanked his mother for the dinner and then wondered where his sister had disappeared to.
“Where’s Juliet?”
“Maybe she’s resting up in her room. She looks tired.”
Brenton climbed the stairs, pondering on why Juliet had been withdrawn and not quite herself once she arrived home. He knuckled her door and walked inside. He found his sister rewinding a cassette tape in her stereo. “Something the matter?” he asked.
Brown Sugar shrilled their delicate tones from the machine and it didn’t take Brenton long to recognise his lovers rock tape. “Don’t mind me taking your tape, do you?”
Brenton shook his head. “No, no. Course not.”
Juliet glanced at the stereo, then back at her brother. “I’m gonna cherish this tape … look, I’ll call you, yeah? I’m tired badly and need some rest-eye. I dunno if I’m going to work tomorrow. Anyway, I’ll call you tomorrow night, yeah?”
Brenton stood up. “I’m tired myself. It’s been quite a day, innit? I’ll see you soon, yeah.”
Still a little baffled, Brenton departed the room, leaving Juliet gazing at her stereo, reflecting on the early part of the day. But she couldn’t help feeling sinful, whenever she exchanged glances with her mother in the course of the evening.
Brenton had none of these misgivings. He left the Masseys’ abode feeling that not even a gluttonous cat in an aviary was as happy as he.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Box Clever
The following Wednesday evening
“Wanna make ten sheets tonight?” Floyd proposed to Brenton, gate-crashing his bedroom. “All we have to do is go to that building site down the road, where they’re building dem new yards, and clap out the plywood, chipboard and two by two. What are you saying, man?”
Brenton rolled over onto his back. “Who’s it for?”
“Spinner. He’s in my room. He said he’ll give me twenty notes when he picks up the goods.”
On hearing the name, Brenton stood up and his expression stirred suspiciously. “Spinner? That trickster! I’d rather trust Terry Flynn to give me a decent hair-trim than Spinner. Let me chat to him.”
Floyd was relieved to see that his spar was showing some interest in the job; palavering about in the dead of night nicking bits of wood wasn’t something he fancied doing on his own.
The immaculately dressed Spinner was parking on Floyd’s bed, rolling an impressive-looking spliff. An equally impressive black Stetson crowned his unusually large head. The square glasses he wore gave him a mature appearance, and the glint of gold tooth made his smile broader than a horny pimp’s.
Examining his joint to make sure it was pastried to his pleasure, rather like a jeweller poring over an uncut diamond. Spinner arsoned his spliff with a personal engraved lighter.
“Wha’appen, Brown?” he drawled. “Backside, you ah get big. I can’t frig about with you now, can I?” He glanced at Floyd. “Check his arm section -solid.”
Brenton snarled, “You owe me two pound. I did lif’ box for your bruk-down sound last year. I want my two pound, man.”
Spinner took a deep inhale of the burning weed, then as a gesture of good faith, offered it to his ex-employee. “Here, man, just touch this and cool yourself.”
Floyd looked on suspiciously, wondering how Spinner and Brenton knew each other so well. Meanwhile, the herb-hungry Brenton was making a quick hoover of the spliff, the thought of passing it on to Floyd not occurring to him.
“Give us ten pounds now and ten pounds tomorrow,” Brenton demanded, “yeah, and we’ll get the goods tonight. But Spinner, you’re lazy, man. Why can’t you get the wood yourself?”
Spinner cackled, then delved into the pocket of his suede top, emerging with a neat, brown sheet.
Half past one in the morning -a sodden March night. Only a blue light from the Chinese guy’s yard – situated at the end of the road - illuminated the drab housing.
The Chinaman had been unemployed for seven years, and recently decided to reinvent himself by performing yoga exercises through the night. Floyd often peered through his window on his way home from a rave, wondering if he would take up a mad hobby after seven years of G-cheques.
The humming of the sparse traffic mingled with the pitter-patter of rain as Floyd trudged down the street, feeling the chill despite his two pullovers and bobble hat. “I’m seriously cold, man,” he whined to Brenton. “Makes you wonder why our parents come to this damned land. We should’ve waited for a better night. It’s freezing! My bottom lip feels like someone put that hardening glue on it, ’cos it’s all stiff-like. My bone has shrunk underneath my seedbags, and my nose feels like it’s got a friggin tiny fridge in it, used by dem small insects that scientists can only see tru dem serious microscope … we might have to make two or three trips.”
“Well, if you step it up, we might get it done. So stop complaining and move your backside.”
Workmen had begun building a small housing estate at the end of the road where Floyd and Brenton lived, but as yet, they had only completed the excavations and foundations. On an idle afternoon, Floyd had noted a delivery of plywood and chipboard sheets - ideal materials for any serious sound bwai with ambition. Sensing an opportunity to supplement his Giro, he quickly got the word out to all prospective sound-system builders, and Spinner, being a man who would pay the retail price for clothes, but not for wood, expressed an interest.
The two brethren reached the site, where they were confronted by a wire-meshed fence of about seven-foot high. This presented no serious worries to the raiding pair as they used their agility to leap and somersault over it. Having experience of working on building sites, Brenton had wisely sheathed on his army-like boots. In contrast, Floyd was doing his best to dodge the numerous puddles and muddy areas in a pair of lightweight training shoes.
Floyd sighted a sheet of transparent plastic covering near a hut and slip-slided his way over to it. “Brenton. Yo, Brenton! See it der.”
The two plunderers didn’t waste any time. Within seconds, they carried two eight foot by four foot sheets of board to rest on the fence. Then they went back for more, piling the wood against the whimpering wire-mesh.
Brenton leaped over to the other side of the fence and as Floyd pushed the swagger up, Brenton guided it over onto his side.
Looking back at the huts, Floyd suggested, “Hey, shall we bust open one of them huts? You never know what’s inside. Might find some of dem power tools. Check it out, you could sell dem when you go to work to dem other builder man, innit. Or sell dem to Biscuit. You know so he buys anyt’ing. The udder day he bought a friggin tea-maker,” Floyd sniggered. “Who is gonna buy dat off him? Apart from his mudder.”
“Look, man, I don’t wanna spend more time here than I need to, right? So just dally.”
The damp weather forced the marauders to work quickly. They soon had the first two sheets of wood stacked in the hostel’s back yard, and from then on, only a couple of troublesome motorists impeded their progress, causing them to place the wood flat on the pavement and hide behind parked cars. As for the limb-stretching Oriental, whose silhouette animated grotesquely behind a curtain, they simply ignored him.
They made three trips in all, and by 2:45 am were back in the warmth and safety of their rooms, rewarding themselves for a job well done by hoovering a generous spliff each. Spinner would call in next morning at seven o’clock to pick up the goods and sign the invoices.
Although very tired, Brenton could not sleep, nor even wanted to - Juliet gate-crashed his mind. Looking forward to next Friday evening, when they had arranged to meet, he had exciting visions of embracing her and scissoring her hair … His eyes closed as he tried to recapture the moment when he had kissed Juliet for the first time. He felt a strange loneliness in his bed as he bade laters to Mr Dean and drifted off to sleep, hoping for a sweet dream.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Major Worries
As Brenton lay curled up in bed, fast asleep and dreaming of all things pleasant, Juliet writhed sleepily in her own bed, under attack from morality questions that trampled her conscience. She hated herself for longing to be at Brenton’s side.
Her mind was like a battleground, with one side fighting for rampant desire, and the other for what was right. Passion easily won the day.
Seven o’clock in the morning.
Ms Massey had made a pot of tea. Wrapped in her dressing gown, she slowly climbed the stairs to wake her daughter, tapping on the door twice before entering. Before she could say, “Rise and shine, it’s seven o’clock‚” she saw that Juliet was already sitting in front of the mirror on the dressing table, tending to her hair. “Seh how long since you get up?” Cynthia asked, surprised.
“Oh, about half an hour. Couldn’t sleep last night.”
Cynthia studied her daughter in the way mothers do. “You must be worrying about somet’ing,” she remarked sagely. “Anyway, on your way from work, I want you to buy a few t’ings in Brixton Market. You know, yams an’ green banana an’ breadfruit.”
Juliet decorated her face with make-up. “Yes, Mum.”
“You sure everyt’ing is all right, mi love?”
“Yes, Mum, I’m just a bit tired.”
On the Tube train travelling to work, Juliet aimlessly stared out the window as the crisis about her brother resurfaced from her mind. “There are more questions than answers,” her mother used to sing while cooking the Sunday dinner. If she only knew the truth, Juliet would never hear her cheerful voice again, she thought with a shudder.
Once she arrived at work, she was able to concentrate on her duties, leaving her no time to ponder on her personal problems. She talked on the phone to clients, filled in many forms, made phone calls to find out if potential clients were credit-worthy, and she danced her fingers on a typewriter and video data unit. Beside from her chores she fended off the amorous looks and chat-up lines from a few males who worked in the establishment.
Most of the guys she worked with were harmless, she thought, but one or two made her feel very uncomfortable by undressing her with their eyes. What’s wrong with married men? Ain’t they ever satisfied? she asked herself.
The women at work always seemed to be gossiping about who was allegedly screwing who within the company, and Juliet found that boring, but she got on well with a white girl who lived in the Elephant and Castle. Her name was Tessa, and Juliet found her working class wit very amusing. An attractive brunette with a man-look-over-his-shoulder figure, Tessa could stop the work on many building sites if she sauntered by - especially as she loved to dress in short tight skirts.
This Monday morning, the two colleagues went to a nearby McDonald’s for lunch. Tessa got ready to murder a Big Mac. “Steve’s a perve, I’m telling you,” she said earnestly. “Every time I talk to the bloke, he gawps at my breasts. Anyone would think he’d never seen a pair of boobs before. I mean, what did he suck on when he was a nipper? He can’t keep his bloody eyes off ’em. He gives me the bleedin’ creeps. I’ve got a good mind to tell Baldie my boss. Only thing is, I caught him staring at me an’ all! Christ, they’re all bloody perves at that place. They should be castrated.”
Juliet sniggered, although her friend was trying to be serious, and she nearly choked on her fries when Tessa added, “How old is Baldie, anyway? Only twenty-eight, ain’t he? And he ain’t got no bloody hair. I’ve been here for nearly three years and Baldie’s never had any hair. He looks like one of them far-off planets, the poor bastard. We should call him Pluto.”
Still laughing, Juliet tried to defend Baldie. “He’s all right, though. He treats me OK, and he is fair and can take a joke. He puts up with a lot, with everybody taking the piss out of his head.”
Tessa scoffed her burger, looking towards the counter, where customers were lining up to buy their lunch. “That guy behind the counter, he’s a bit of all right, ain’t he? Wouldn’t mind his eyeing me up. Trouble is, the men you do
n’t want to ogle you, do, and the guys you want to notice you, don’t. I mean, why do I attract all the poxy low-lifes? It’s not bloody fair.”
Juliet could do nothing but giggle. “What happened to that guy, Whatsisname? You introduced him to me after work a few weeks ago. He was all right – not bad-looking for a white guy.”
“Bloody cheek! Malcolm is much better looking than the bloke you was hanging about with before Christmas. What’s his name? Oh yeah. Garnet – Mr Male Model who wears crocodile shoes and a Lee bleedin’ Van Cleef hat. He looks like a cross between John Wayne and Shaft. He was so vain, weren’t he, with that silly John Travolta walk and imitation silk shirts. I’m surprised he didn’t have a vanity case in his pocket. He’s another one I caught staring at my breasts. He was the one who had speaker boxes the size of my nan’s four-poster bed, wasn’t he?”
Juliet found it difficult to locate her mouth as her friend was making her laugh too much.
“Yeah, Malcolm was OK,” Tessa said reminiscently, “but he was an idiot as well though, a bloody moron. I’ll tell you something about Malcolm, shall I? He would rather get up on a cold Sunday morning, leave my bed and pay one pound to play football in some stupid park. And what’s more, he expected me to watch! The guy’s sex-drive is all in his feet. I mean, what’s wrong with me? I used to think I frightened him off because I can be demanding, if you know what I mean. But football, effing football.”
Tessa was good therapy for Juliet. She could always be relied upon to bring a smile to her face. Even so, the lunch-break was only light relief, for Brenton was ever present at the back of her thoughts.
The two work mates high-heeled reluctantly back to the bank, knowing the sexist comments would be a little easier to cope with if they stayed in each other’s company.
It was 3:30 in the afternoon and across London on a building site, saucy remarks were shouted at passing women. Hammers tapped away like lead-filled drops of water falling into a sink. Bricklayers chipped their bricks with the same sound effects as popular late-night Kung Fu movies. Foremen and charge-hands were trying unsuccessfully to make themselves heard over the hum of a busy crane. Now and again, a couple of men dressed in shirt and tie and crowned by yellow safety helmets, went by clutching rolls of sketches and drawings, which seemed too large to analyse.
