by Alex Wheatle
Thinking he had made his point, Jah Nelson stood up and was aware of all eyes on him. He knew he had brought the confrontation to the brink. And he was sure that if he pressed home his advantage, Flynn would be gagging to use his blade. To cause further embarrassment would be folly, especially in front of this audience.
The dread departed, enduring a crazed stare from Flynn.
“Remove ya,” Flynn mocked. “Dirty focking Rasta. REMOVE YA.”
The dealers went back to their business as Flynn rolled a spliff. What were his peers thinking? he wondered. Did they really think that Brown bwai would look for revenge? He should ah made sure he didn’t walk an’ live. He should ah wet him from ear to ear, severing his windpipe. Because now he was scared. What if Brown was looking for him? He recalled the vision of Brown’s eyes. Eyes that were not afraid, eyes that spelt an insane determination. The fear had embedded itself under his skin, and kept him awake at night, dreaming of those mad eyes boring into him, telling him Brown was not afraid of him. Flynn would have to seek him out and extinguish his light. Finish him for good, rip out those eyes.
And if he did kill Brown, no one would say anyt’ing. He’d just be feared even more, that’s all - a good result. Besides, the beast never investigated black on black violence thoroughly. They don’t care if they find another young black body lying in a pool of blood on the front line. It’s jus’ another statistic. An’ it’s expected. Dem usually asking questions for a little while, an’ when they get no response they shrug their shoulders and close the case. A black life is cheaper than a white life. An’ Flynn should know, ’cos he’s killed two black yout’ already.
Flynn made up his mind as he sucked on his cocaine and herb cocktail. Brown will have to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY
One Drop
Three weeks later
Brenton and Floyd strode up Brixton Hill on their way to check Sharon. It was a Saturday night, and Floyd wanted to surprise his girlfriend by turning up unexpectedly at her home.
As the two brethren passed a hi-fi and audio shop, Brenton stopped to peer through the reinforced window. “See that amp over there? That’s what I want. Nuff power, I think it’s about a 100 watt a channel. Yeah, I bet that could drop a few eighteen-inch speakers.”
Floyd spotted a beast van menacingly crawling down the road. “Hey, Brenton - beast. Come away from the shop, man, you know how they stay. They’re probably bored, and wanna jail up a blackhead for the night.”
The brethrens turned into New Park Road, off Brixton Hill. “You sure it will be all right to call for Sharon and she don’t know we’re coming? It’s gonna be well sad if she ain’t in.”
“She’ll be in; she better be.”
Before knocking on Sharon’s door, Floyd clocked the time; 11:45 pm. Fearing the cuss-happy voice of Sharon’s mother, he gave the door a light slap and waited. It opened to reveal a crissly dressed Carol.
“You know, I had a feeling you would turn up here tonight,” she said. “We were just chatting about you two a minute ago.” Glancing at Brenton, she patted her hair coquettishly. “Hi Brenton, why you never come to the party last week?”
Before his spar could answer, Floyd brushed abruptly past her. “Where’re you two going?” he said tersely. “I thought you weren’t raving tonight.”
Carol totally ignored the question, and simply waited for Brenton to answer her. “Well?” she prompted him, crossing her arms.
“I had t’ings to do that day and I had to go work in the morning, so if I went, I would have been all tired and mash up.”
Carol glared at the contrite Brenton. Then they both walked inside the dimly lit hallway, noticing Floyd waving his arms about in the kitchen.
“How comes you are raving tonight and you didn’t tell me?” Floyd questioned Sharon. “You told me yesterday and last week that you’re going to rest up and coch in on Saturday night. So where’re you going?”
“I don’t have to tell you my movements. When you and Brenton go out, I don’t demand for you to tell me where you’re going.”
Carol parked beside Sharon, offering support to her friend. Floyd turned his back on his girlfriend and kissed his teeth. He peered through the cracked window just above the empty sink, then whipped around to face Carol. “Where’re you heading tonight, Carol?”
“Don’t rope-in me on the argument. This is between you two.”
Floyd kissed his teeth again while Sharon calmly combed out her hair. Brenton sat in the remaining empty chair by the table. “Blouse an’ skirt, the course of true love.”
Sharon yanked herself from her wooden chair and marched along the hallway and up the stairs. Floyd quickly pursued her, leaving Carol and Brenton staring at each other, wondering if the argument would commence again. “Is Sharon’s mum here?”
“No, she’s at work. She’s on nights this week.”
“Where are you going tonight?”
“My brother is playing out, innit. It’s sort of a last-minute t’ing, ’cos the sound that was supposed to play couldn’t make it. I think their van broke down or something. As it’s my brother playing, me and Sharon will get freeness, so we thought why not go.”
Brenton smiled. “I think Floyd’s getting possessive.” Just at that moment, a car horn yelled from outside. “Is that for you?”
“Er, yeah. My brother’s friend, he’s picking us up.”
Brenton flicked his eyes towards the ceiling. “This should be interesting.”
An irate Floyd came storming down the stairs and tramped into the kitchen, glaring at Carol. “Who’s that outside in the wheels?”
“Why you getting so rail up? It’s my brother’s friend, Smiley.”
Floyd stormed back into the hallway where he met Sharon coming down the stairs. “What’s Smiley doing outside and where’re you going with him?”
“Look Floyd, calm down, man. Smiley’s just taking us to the dance. Mikey’s playing out innit; Carol’s brother.”
Floyd heard the horn yell once more. “I don’t trust that Smiley, he’s got about sixteen pickney already. All he has to do is pull a girl for a crub and they get pregnant with friggin quads. The man doesn’t yam or drink; he just has sex. That’s what keeps him alive. He should’ve had his seedbag punctured at birth.”
Ignoring her boyfriend’s comments, Sharon looked towards Carol, while Brenton tried to stem his laughter. “You ready then, Carol?”
“Yeah. I’ll just get my purse from upstairs.”
Sharon studied her ego-haemorrhaging man. “Look, Floyd, I’ll be all right. I mean, I was raving without you before we met. You have to give me a little space, man. You can’t expect me to only go out with you all the time.”
Floyd screwed his face into a ball of resentment as Sharon resumed, “Anyway, I can’t leave you and Brenton in the yard on your own. So you’re gonna have to dally.”
“Oh, that’s dread; come all the way here to look for you and all you can do is dash me out on the street and step into a man’s wheels who possesses the most crucial sperm in Brixton. His pickney dem will ram-jam all the nurseries in SW9 inna couple ah years. Yeah, thanks a lot.”
As Carol emerged at the top of the stairs, Floyd became aware of the sniggering Brenton, still parked at the kitchen table. “Why are you skinning your teet’? Come on, let’s chip.”
The quartet met the sticky night air, with Floyd scanning the occupants of the coughing motor by the kerb. He found the driver staring back then averting his gaze to the appealing Sharon, just as she was about to enter the car. “Hey Sharon, hold up.”
Sharon walked towards her man. “What now?”
Floyd glanced at the driver of the car, then deliberately embraced Sharon and kissed her on the forehead. “Behave yourself.”
Sharon joined Carol in the back of the motor, and as the car sped off, Carol looked back at Brenton and waved.
The two spars watched motionless as the motor burned off into the distance. Brenton and Floyd trudged off into the d
irection of Brixton Hill. “I’ve got somet’ing to tell you,” Floyd said. “Should’ve told you the other day.”
“What?”
“You know that party that Sharon and me went to last week? Well, Sharon reckons she saw Flynn outside the dance selling herbs.”
Brenton didn’t say anything in response; instead, he stared straight ahead and quickened his pace. Floyd struggled to keep up with his spar. “Don’t you wanna get him back? I mean, he’s marked you for life.”
“Don’t worry, Floyd. I’ll have my day when he’s least expecting it.”
“Well, I hope you do, ’cos if he’s mashed up then I could move in on his girl.”
“You’re sick.”
“She’s wasted on him, innit.”
“Sharon’s wasted on you.”
“Frig you. I treat her wid nuff respect.”
“Then how comes since you buck up on Flynn’s girl you haven’t stopped chatting about her.”
“She’s fit, man. You wanna clock the breast ’pon her.”
“You’re as bad as Smiley.”
Floyd saw the hypocrisy, and grinned. “If he tries anyt’ing, it’s me and him.”
“Yeah, well, you should treat her nice, ’cos bwai, if you lose her, you’re gonna feel it.”
“I ain’t gonna lose her, man. Me an’ Sharon are well solid.”
“You ain’t gonna be solid if she catches your backside wid dat Rosene.”
“Why you so doom an’ gloom, man? I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not all doom an’ gloom, I’m jus’ sayin’ that when you get somet’ing precious, you should do all you can to keep it; I know I would.”
“What d’you know?” Floyd probed. “You ain’t got no steady gal; not that you’re telling me anyway. Maybe you ’ave a liccle undercover floozie you ain’t telling me ‘bout.”
Brenton didn’t respond.
Twenty minutes later, the two brethren passed the Ace Cinema, where an endless stream of cars were parked and double parked, most of them belonging to the enthusiasts of the late-night Kung Fu show.
They walked on into Brixton High Street, where a rastaman leaped out of a Hillman, dressed in massive dark flares and green safari jacket. He was crowned by a beige cloth cap, which seemed too small to house his locks. The dread pushed a card into Floyd’s hand. “Yuh mus’ reach; dance haf fe ram.”
Brenton snatched the card off his spar and read the wording out aloud.
“‘Late-night blues, the champion sound like Tupper King International will rock you until the morning.’”
Then he stopped and read through the remainder of the flyer.
“It’s tonight, at Stockwell Park Estate,” he told Floyd. “They’re all right, innit, Tupper King?”
“Yeah, they’re not bad, but I’m going to my bed. I haven’t got the vibe to go out now.”
Brenton flung the card over his shoulder, and the friends proceeded to pass Brixton Tube station, where Floyd threw a ten-pence coin at the feet of a tramp.
Unknowingly to the Brixtonians, the occupants of an unmarked beast car were keeping a concentrated eye on any black faces. But the brethrens were oblivious to this as Floyd muttered again, “If Smiley tries anyt’ing with my girl, it’s me and him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Three Meals A Day
11 May‚ 1980
It was Sunday morning‚ about 8:30 am. Floyd, who an hour ago had arrived home from a Crucial Rocker blues, paced quickly along his street, peering into the doorways. Catching sight of what he was after, he scooped up two bottles of milk and burned home.
Moments later, he was enjoying a breakfast of corn flakes when his hostel-mate appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed only in pyjama bottoms. Brenton looked as tired as a dog who’d chased a teasing bird all day. He prised open his eyes and was astonished to see Floyd fully clothed.
“Where’ve you been this time of morning?” he asked, opening the fridge and pouring himself a glass of milk. “You don’t usually know what a Sunday morning looks like.”
“I’ve been getting supplies‚ innit.” Floyd gestured at the bottle.
“If you wanted some milk, I would’ve give you corn for it,” Brenton yawned.
“It’s kinda hard to get out of the habit. The other day I took a loaf of bread; I had some serious toast.”
Brenton shook his head and proceeded to prepare himself a bowlful of cereal. Floyd switched on the kettle. “You see the Cup Final yesterday?”
“Yeah, West Ham won, one nil innit. Brooking scored with a jammy header. Still, I’m glad West Ham won though. I hate Arsenal, they’re so friggin boring.”
Floyd wanted a smoke to go with his hot chocolate. “Got a snout?”
“Yeah, but you have to go upstairs. They’re on my dressing table.”
Floyd raced upstairs, and came back down before the kettle boiled. He then reseated himself at the kitchen table. “You know, I’m sick and tired of being poor, t’iefing milk in the mornings and rolling up butts when you’re not here. It’s pissing me off. I think I’ll start looking for a job. I reckon I could be a dread salesman.”
“Salesman? Don’t you have to do nuff training to do that? Besides, I can’t imagine you trodding street and slapping on people’s door all day. In the winter, you will fart when it gets cold.”
“Look who’s talking. Ain’t you gonna freeze when winter comes? Your seedbag are gonna be like round blocks of ice when the cold smacks your backside.”
Brenton could do nothing but laugh as Floyd poured hot water into a mug. “You going Sharon for your dinner today?” Brenton asked, wondering why Floyd never offered to make him a cup.
“Nah. Her mudder looks at me strange when I go round there on a Sunday, as if I burgled her yard. It’s like she knows I’m partly there because I’m getting something to yam. She’s polite and t’ing, but the way she looks at me, she kinda makes me feel shame that I’m there, know what I mean?” Floyd kissed his teeth. “Anyway, Sharon tells me that her mudder asks her if I got a job and t’ing when I’m not there.”
He kissed his teeth again. “I’m staying in today‚ listen some music and coch. I might check Spinner later on, or maybe Biscuit; he’s got some herb and the new Lone Ranger album.”
“Why don’t you come with me? I’m going to my mum’s yard for dinner, innit. She’s always telling me I must bring a friend or someone around.”
Floyd didn’t know what to make of the offer. “Er, why not? Yeah, be a change, innit. Can your mudder cook good? Her rice an’ peas safe to eat an t’ing? What time you leaving?”
“About two.”
Floyd arose from his chair and strutted his way along the hallway, then glanced behind him. “Yeah, all right.”
Brenton shadowed his spar until he turned up the stairs. “I’m going back to my bed‚” he yawned.
Floyd opened the front door and plonked himself on a dustbin to take the morning air.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman appeared, dressed in her Sunday best, walking along the pavement towards Floyd. He guessed she was on her way to church. When the white woman caught sight of him, she immediately veered over to the other side of the road and quickened her stride. As she glanced back to check whether Floyd was following her, he stood up and prepared to voice his own sermon. “Scared, are you?” he bellowed. “I bet you’re not as scared as my great-great-supergreat-grandad, who was rowing his way to Jamaica to start work as a slave. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna drapes you.”
Didn’t my forefathers slave for this damn country, Floyd thought. Now you look ’pon us with scorn and spend all the friggin corn.
The woman didn’t dare look back as she hurried her way along the street. Floyd kissed his teeth in disgust as he strolled back indoors.
Floyd and Brenton approached Ms Massey’s home in the early afternoon. The brethren were deep in conversation as Floyd noted the affluent houses. “So how are you gonna get Flynn?” he asked.
“Finnley
reckons that every Saturday night, Flynn makes his way from his supplier in Tulse Hill Estate to the front line, where he sells his herb. I check it that I will have a chance to frig him up on the way there. But not on the line, ’cos there’s too much man he knows there. So I have to find a quiet spot, then I will jook him up good.”
Floyd looked at his brethren. “I’ll be with you.”
“You?”
“And Biscuit, he hates him an’ all.”
“Biscuit? What’s he gonna do? Take pictures with that friggin camera he’s been trying to sell for ten years?”
Floyd laughed and thought that some of his wit was influencing Brenton.
The pair ambled towards the front door, and as Brenton rapped on it, he turned to his spar. “Thanks.”
Juliet opened the front door and smiled as she set eyes on her brother, then she suspiciously observed Floyd’s wide-eyed grin. “Hi, come in.”
Brenton stepped inside the house, trailed by Floyd, who immediately examined the hallway wallpaper. “You done all right, innit.”
“Yeah, nice yard innit.”
Juliet resumed preparing the salad as the boys followed her into the kitchen. “Well, what do you do?” she asked Floyd politely.
“A bit of this and that. You know, a bit of hustling. Can’t find myself a decent job yet. I was thinking about taking a job as a trainee manager.”
Brenton parked at the kitchen table. “Where’s Mum?”
Juliet swivelled round abruptly: she had never heard him call their mother ‘Mum’ before. “She’s on the phone upstairs.”
Floyd sat beside his mate, enjoying the scent of boiled chicken. “Why don’t you go inside the front room?” Juliet suggested. “Dinner will be ready soon and it’s more comfortable in there.”
Brenton and Floyd marched into the front room. “This is like the Hilton Hotel compared to my mum’s yard,” Floyd remarked, impressed. “At my mum’s yard, we had to wallpaper the walls wid the fool-fool drawings we done at school to make it look good. Our carpet was so damn thin it made tracing paper look t’ick. Hey, Brenton, why don’t you coch here?”
