Brixton Rock

by Alex Wheatle

  “When’s the last time you was interested in any gal for her cooking?”

  “Well, Sharon’s passed the sex test, now she has to pass the cook test for me to t’ink ’bout settling down wid her.”

  “But can you cook though?”

  “Yeah, man. Don’t I cook corned beef an’ rice when we run out of money for take-away?”

  Floyd’s headlights scanned the room for any signs of a cancer stick, but he couldn’t see any. Brenton decided to sit up, and felt a twinge in his lower back as he erected himself. “I’m surprised you don’t have back trouble,” he quipped, “the amount of boning you do.”

  This brought a proud grin from Floyd, who revelled in his steak-tasting rep, but felt his hostel-mate was missing out on all the juicy flavours. “Hey, Sharon’s friend Carol likes you, why don’t you deal wid her? She needs a service. I’ll set you up, man. You know she’s fit badly. So I reckon if you checked it out, you won’t get no blank, you know what I’m saying?”

  “She’s all right, quite fit and t’ing, but she’s too long. I think the gal is taller then me. Nah, I will feel weird going out with a gal who’s taller than me.”

  “What’s height got to do with it? She ain’t that tall anyway. Think about the seriously shaped legback around your V, man. Biscuit, Finnley, Lizard and Coffin Head are all asking me to set dem up with the gal, but Carol’s only interested in you. You must admit, her body’s gone clear.”

  Brenton remained silent as Floyd glanced up to the ceiling and kissed his teeth. Laying back down on his bed, Brenton changed the topic. “I’m tired, man, and my back is paining me.”

  The would-be matchmaker received the hint and stood up. “Look, if you’re interested, I’m going with Sharon and Carol to Bali Hai tonight. TWJ play their soul session on a Friday night there. So we’re gonna freak out and do what dem weird soulheads do. I’ll be leaving about nine to pick dem up, seen. So be ready by then if you want to go.”

  After checking to see if Brenton’s face was showing any interest in his proposal, Floyd left the room, hoping the next spar he talked to would show more enthusiasm for his steak-tasting last night. Biscuit would get some serious red-eye.

  Despite the nagging twinge in his lower back, Brenton found himself drifting off to sleep. Wondering why Floyd had asked him to go raving when he knew about his bad back. He wanted to listen to his selection of music, but couldn’t be bothered to get up and turn on his suitcase.

  Ten o’clock that night, Brenton had just returned from the fish and chip shop; he noticed that Floyd had already left for his soul rave. Sitting on his bed, he was gulping down the last bit of pie when he heard an impatient knocking on the front door. Thinking it was one of Floyd’s spars; Brenton pushed a few hot chips into his mouth and then struggled down the stairs. He opened the front door and was greeted by the beautiful figure of his sister. Surprised to see her, he counted his untold blessings.

  “Will you let me in then?” she asked. “You want me to stand outside here and catch my death?”

  Brenton ushered his sister inside and appreciatively watched her walk into the hallway and up the stairs. Then he glanced towards the kitchen and Mr Lewis’s door, hoping that no one was about – there wasn’t. So with lusty adrenaline gorging through his veins, he climbed slowly up the stairs to his room, where he found his sister doing her best to make the place tidy. “I was gonna do that before I went to my bed.”

  “Yeah, sure. And I’m going to be believe that Blair Peach was not killed by the beast. Can’t you keep your place tidy? It’s only one room. Won’t take for ever, you know.”

  As she talked, she attempted to find matching socks so she could roll them together. Her brother sat down on his bed, feeling a sting of embarrassment. “I’ve got a bad back, you know,” he muttered. “I can’t bend down too far.”

  Juliet kissed her teeth as she picked up all the cassette tapes off the floor and placed them in a neat pile on the dressing table. “My mum always says that men can’t take pain. Us women can tolerate more pain than men can, you know. That’s why God made us the ones to get pregnant, ’cos men can’t take the pain of giving birth.”

  Brenton looked upon his sister in disbelief. “Rubbish! How can you say that? No, man, that’s fuckries.”

  Juliet gave her brother a shove, which made him lose his balance and nearly drop to the floor. “Don’t say I talk fuckries.”

  Brenton grimaced with pain, clutching his lower back.

  “What did you do that for? I’ve got a bad back and you’re making it worse.”

  “Ahh, does it hurt? I’ll bawl for you. See what I mean about men can’t take pain?”

  Brenton’s expression of pain changed to one of meek enquiry. “Somehow, I get the vibe you’ve come around here tonight to take the piss out of my back.”

  Juliet laughed heartily, causing her brother to raise a smile; it felt good to see his sister in such buoyant mood. Meanwhile, Juliet hung her coat in the wardrobe. She then sat on the bed and noticed her brother staring at Mr Dean, wondering why one simple portrait of a young, good-looking man, clad in leather jacket and white T-shirt, could have so much meaning to someone like Brenton. “He only made three films, innit, then he died in a car crash,” she said softly. “Sad, innit, so young.”

  “Yeah … Ain’t you going out with your friends raving tonight? To a club or something?”

  “No, I just thought I would come up and see how you were. Haven’t got any objections, have you?”

  “No, of course bloody not. I always like to see you, you know the vibe.”

  Juliet reached out to her handbag and took a cassette from it. “I thought I’d bring my own tape ’cos most of yours are pure jumpers music. You’ve only got one decent tape. Anyway, this one’s got Roberta Flack on it.”

  Brenton looked mystified. “Who’s he?”

  Juliet tried hard not to laugh. “Roberta Flack is a she. You haven’t heard of her? Where’ve you been, man?”

  “Her name rings a bell,” he said unconvincingly.

  Juliet laughed and then proceeded to sing the first few lines of Killing Me Softly. Her brother recognised the song and wasted no time telling his sister, “Oh shit, I know that. Yeah. But the way you sing it, you make the record sound bad.”

  Juliet retaliated by picking up one of the pillows and swinging it at him, connecting her brother on the head.

  “You’re too facety.”

  “Hey, watch my back, man. That’s twice now you’ve kuffed me. Bwai, it seem like you want me to friend-up a wheelchair.”

  “You and your bloody back, you’re like an old woman … Hey, I tell you what, lie down on your stomach and I’ll give you a massage.”

  “A what?”

  “A massage. You know, relax the muscles and t’ing.”

  “You ain’t touching my back.”

  One lingering look at Juliet, who was sporting her most sexy smile and Brenton knew he couldn’t resist. So he stretched out along the bed without hesitation, flat on his stomach, then his sister sat astride him, hitching up her skirt, exposing her toned thighs. She gently rubbed his crusty shoulders and cupped her palms around the back of his neck. Then she used her thumbs to penetrate deep into her brother’s upper back, using a downward motion that teased him ferociously. Brenton felt Juliet pulsating in rhythm with her hands, and his cravings went into over-drive at the prospect of what was to come.

  The massage turned into a caress, as Juliet’s digits walked inside her lover’s T-shirt and string vest. I’m gonna make him want me so much, she said to herself. His eyes closed, he savoured every moment of this so-called massage, enjoying the warmth of her soft palms exploring his yielding back. Bone-wakened, he turned around, wanting to kiss and embrace his masseuse, but as soon as he did so, Juliet sprang up. “Wait, the tape!”

  Brenton soon realised that Juliet had planned the evening’s proceedings.

  She inserted her Roberta Flack tape in the suitcase, then spun around to face her impatie
nt-looking brother. “Not complaining about your bad back now, are you?”

  Her hand reached out to switch off the light, and then she felt her way back onto the bed, where Brenton was vulturing to embrace her. He considered kissing her Hollywood-style, but decided instead to yank off her pullover, exposing her firm, round breasts. Juliet knew he wanted her and Brenton couldn’t wait to feel the warm flesh of her body against his naked skin. She hurriedly sought out his heaving chest and sketched around his nipples. His hands tremored as he cupped her breasts, feeling her heartbeat as he proceeded to gently knead them. Juliet moaned, half-closing her eyes, and groped for the zip in his denims. She zipped him half-open and paused. Brenton was trembling like an eighteen-inch bass speaker. This feels so good, he thought breathlessly.

  She pulled the zipper down as quick as a guillotine, then they undressed each other in a frenzy, kissing as they did so, longing to see each other fully naked.

  Two I-love-you’s later, they tangled naked together. During their intense lovemaking, the couple felt comfortable enough to gaze into each other’s eyes longingly, without any embarrassment. Brenton had never felt so much joyous emotion. He prisoned his eyes, thinking it must be a dream, only to free them and set his gaze on Juliet’s glistening body. He marvelled at her nakedness. He couldn’t hold her tightly enough to his body and his partner sensed the power of his arms holding her and the pent-up emotion releasing itself from his perspiring body. She pleasured in his strapping body bearing down upon her, and watched the sweat dripping off his ecstatic face. She orienteered with her hands all over his muscular backside and could feel the cries of her own body, wanting to be stroked all over. Brenton couldn’t wait any longer as he relished the sensation of Juliet’s moist lips pecking his chest.

  As he entered her, their faces ironed against each other. Juliet, wondering if God had designed Brenton just for her pleasure, knotted her lithe legs around his thrusting back, urging him into a frenzied exhilaration. He could feel her polished nails pincering his back as the couple gummed to each other, as if they wanted to make themselves as one.

  Twice more they made love during the night before Brenton, feeling only a slight twinge in his back, fell asleep blissfully happy.

  Juliet noticed her brother’s strange snoring sound and wondered how many times she would listen to it. She gently snuggled up to him, placing her hand on his shoulder and coching her head on his well-constructed chest. She listened to his heartbeat and lay there, open-eyed, tuning into her brother’s breathing pattern. She looked at the scar on his neck, thinking to herself, My hero. Exploring his face, she raised her head and examined the thin hairs above his upper lip, forming an immature moustache. Still not quite a man, she thought.

  Then doubts bombarded her mind. After all, she was lying in bed with her half-brother. Mum would go absolutely spare, she thought. Desires of her flesh had once more triumphed in battle, and only something brave could halt the march of lust and its allies before they destroyed everything.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Midnight Ravers

  The following Saturday night

  On Capital Radio, the ten o’clock news had just reported the concern community leaders in the inner city felt about relations between the police and young blacks, and particularly the suss law. Floyd had heard the vexed rhetoric of the ghetto press, and smelt the aroma of uprising and revolution in the Brixton air. Placing his thoughts at the back of his mind, he prepared to listen to David Rodigan, who was about to introduce his reggae programme.

  It was some sort of ritual on a Saturday night for untold reggae heads to listen to David Rodigan’s selection for a couple of hours, then head out to a party or a club, or in Floyd’s case on this particular night, a blues dance.

  Earlier in the afternoon, Floyd had purchased a small black and white television off Biscuit for twenty notes, negotiating the asking price of thirty notes.

  The volume of the television was turned down as Floyd lay flat on his back, hands clasped behind his head, watching the football while listening to reggae at the same time.

  Dressed only in his black corduroy trousers and black string vest, he was very conscious of the time. For him, it was trodding too slowly. Impatiently, he willed it forward to ten past twelve. By then, he would be on his way to the blues dance where he looked forward to what he thought would be a serious crubbing session. The sound system, I Spy, was spinning the lovers rock, and they boasted a sizeable female following.

  Hanging from the plain brown wardrobe were Floyd’s galhunting clothes, which consisted of a pair of blue slacks and a blue-black-flowered imitation silk shirt. He knew it would be steamy in the blues, so he planned on wearing a cardigan instead of a pullover. He had been going to ask Brenton to trod with him to the blues, but he felt his spar was acting strange of late, so he didn’t bother. Anyway, Brenton wasn’t the best company someone could have at a blues dance. All he did was coch against the wall and inspect the crowd. And as for Biscuit, he and Finnley were on a secret gal-hunting mission up Hackney.

  Floyd pondered on why Brenton shaped away from chatting and crubbing with girls, and why his brethren was not interested in Carol, who with the slightest persuasion would wide out her legbacks for him. She was criss: Floyd pictured her long elegant body and wondered why any man would reject her. Biscuit was forever asking to be set up, and perpetually asked Sharon where Carol lived, but didn’t like the repeated reply of ‘SW9’.

  Match of the Day concluded. Floyd punched through the channels to check if there was anything else worth watching - apparently not. So without further ado, he switched the television off while kissing his teeth, and laid back down on his bed feeling impatient. But Ram Jam Rodigan made the waiting easier to bear, playing selections from Black Uhuru, Eeek-A-Mouse and the upcoming superstar of Jamaica, Johnny Osbourne.

  Fourteen Rodigan selections and a news update later, he strutted to the bus stop, hoping the last bus hadn’t gone earlier than scheduled. His shoes were discomforting him as the rims of his leathers almost crocodiled his ankles. But nothing could dampen his optimism for the night ahead.

  It was mild for the time of year and Floyd could get away with wearing only a thin blue cardigan over his shirt. As he turned into the High Street, he noticed a contrast in cultures. While many white guys and girls were apparently making their way home, perhaps from a pub or restaurant, here was Floyd and hundreds of other reggae heads all over London, just heading out to their Saturday night, Sunday morning entertainment.

  Floyd watched a middle-aged man on the other side of the road, the worse for drink. Pedestrians kept their distance from the colic, as he attempted to place one unsure foot in front of the other.

  A trio of young teenage blacks appeared in the distance, trooping in a hurry, as if they were three expectant fathers-to-be, rushing to the hospital. Dressed in jeans and trainers and all of them sporting black berets, Floyd recognised them as members of the newly founded branch of the Black Panthers, based in Brixton. They seemed to have sprung up after the death of Blair Peach, who was allegedly killed by the police on an anti-Nazi march. They preached in secluded corners of Brixton, telling whoever would listen that black people should use arms to protect themselves from the truncheon-happy pigs. Floyd knew the Black Panthers had a small following, but the influence they spread, mixed with the lyrical content of music winging in from Jamaica, bred a feeling of unease and revolt.

  Floyd hawked the trio. “All right?”

  “Yes boss,” one of the teenagers answered, turning around to cautiously examine Floyd. “Cowley estate, tomorrow,” another teenager announced. “Reach if you can. Brothers coming in from America to talk to the ghetto yout’s. Too muck fockin Babylon man killing our people – so you must reach, and tell your brethrens - Cowley estate, on the green behind the flats.”

  After this brief exchange, the threesome stepped on their way, with their bodies almost forming silhouettes as they disappeared into the deepening night.

  A
number 45 finally arrived, soprano-ing to a halt and surprising for this time of night, full of passengers. Receiving his ticket, Floyd sensed the driver was not at ease working at this hour, probably due to the spate of attacks on bus drivers in the area.

  As there wasn’t much traffic on the road, Floyd reached his destination ten minutes after boarding the bus. He bounded off it and strutted towards the council estate where the blues was being held.

  A Cortina mark 2 sped past him with a black youth’s head protruding out the window, sneering at the stepping Floyd. “Trodder!”

  Floyd glanced up to see the car accelerate into the distance, thinking to himself he would have his own motor one day.

  Minutes later, he entered the council estate where the blues dance was being hosted, locating it by following the faint sounds of reggae music.

  This was a typical inner-city estate. Brand new cars could be found alongside old, crippled cars. Rubbish chutes were overflowing, reminding Floyd of a bigger version of his overfilled ashtray at home, and he checked the familiar sight of plywood sheets blocking up the doorways and windows of vacant flats. Black teenagers often tore down the plywood and used it to build themselves speaker boxes.

  The children’s play area, in the forecourt of the estate, had been well vandalised. Even though pets were banned from most council estates, a pack of stray dogs roamed near the large circular rubbish bins, in search of a meal their owners could not afford.

  Now the music could be heard clearly. Floyd trotted up the steps of one of the blocks only to find, as usual, that the lift was out of order. This wasn’t as frustrating as it might have seemed, because he thought the damn t’ing would reek of piss-water anyway.

  He reached the floor of the blues dance to be greeted by a mass of rave-goers all herding around the front door. The doorman was having an argument with a guy who apparently didn’t want to pay his tax to get inside.

  “I know the girl who is having the dance, man! I ain’t paying no rarse pound! Go call her, man,” roared the vexed punter, trying to gain admission.