Brixton Rock

by Alex Wheatle

  “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  Brenton nodded his head unconvincingly. Juliet made a tearful departure, with her brother listening to her footsteps clumping down the stairs. He thought of the beast station cell door as he heard the front door clang.

  For the rest of that night, Brenton did not venture outside his room. He tried to make sense of the day’s proceedings, but failed. Why had everything sweet to him in life exploded in his face? Should he have pleaded with Juliet to carry on with their relationship? Or would that be selfish? He’d never felt so hurt before and he didn’t know how to handle it. Maybe it was Fate. He was not supposed to be happy as far as Fate was concerned. His life was destined to be an endless struggle against the odds. With that thought in his mind, he pondered on taking his own life and ending his tribulation.

  If was as if Brenton was driving along a main highway. Many vehicles of all shapes and sizes roared past him and tried to knock him down. Looking out for the most persistent offender, he gazed through the murky windscreen and saw his own reflection. Could he himself be the most reckless driver?

  In the surreal chasm between sleep and insomnia, his mind recalled an incident in the past.

  He was eight years old, hurrying home from school so he could have his pre-dinner banter with Mr Brown.

  Mr Brown was the name of his adopted scarecrow, which he had found in a ditch - his most treasured possession. Over the past few weeks, Brenton had been nursing Mr Brown back to his former glory. A pumpkin, discarded after Halloween night, was the scarecrow’s new head. Brenton had pen-knifed out his eyes and mouth, and employed a black crayon to sketch his eyebrows and ears. He glued on half an empty toilet roll for his nose, and his limbs were made out of old, forgotten broomsticks. Mr Brown’s torso was a torn-down oak branch, stripped free of its bark. Uncle Georgie, the housefather from next door, had helped Brenton to assemble all the bodily parts that made up Mr Brown, using nails and screws and his carpentry knowledge, but even Georgie didn’t known the scarecrow’s name. No one did apart from Brenton.

  Mr Brown’s weather-beaten black mac was decorated with assorted badges, most of them coming from Brenton’s good deeds with the Cubs; his Akela had scolded him for not getting the badges sewn onto his Cub pullover. Mr Brown also sported a snazzy pair of strapless sandals, reclaimed from a dusty neglected trunk found up in the attic. Brenton gouged out holes in these sandals so Mr Brown’s legs could comfortably fit into them. The scarecrow’s headwear was a chequered flat cap, covered in more badges, and his neck was decorated with a daisy flower garland, which Miss Hills had spent a whole Sunday afternoon helping him to create. The Belt adored colourful flowers and she thought it was encouraging that Brenton displayed an interest in constructing something, even though she thought the reassembling of a scarecrow was bizarre to say the least.

  Together, Brenton and Georgie had stood the spruced-up Mr Brown in the corner, looming over the damp outhouse like a hellish sentinel.

  Today, Brenton reached the outhouse, ready to tell Mr Brown how school had gone that day. But he found Mr Brown’s snapped legs on the doorstep, amongst splinters of wood. He stooped down to pick up the fragmented leg and ran a finger over its length. It felt smooth to the touch until he fingered the point of breakage, where it was rough and spiky, almost pricking his thumb.

  Brenton inhaled through his nose and smelt the oil, which mingled with the damp aroma that clung to the brick walls. He swivelled round and saw Mr Brown’s hideously split head, which gaped from his right eyebrow to his right cheek. The head was precariously balanced on a dusty, paint-cracked windowsill, beside a neglected darts-board. His mac was torn into pieces, scattered like confetti all over the outhouse, and his body was hacked into three parts, which rolled near the biscuit-tin tool-box, lying in the powdery dirt of the concrete floor.

  The eight year old screamed a scream to end all horror flicks, and in the apple and pear orchard a hundred yards away, young hide-and-seekers stopped their game and listened, thinking the bogey man was feasting on another victim. Housemothers and housefathers raced to the scene, believing a child had fallen off a drainpipe and cracked its skull. His belly-mangling shrieks only subsided after half an hour or so, when even The Belt’s heart was boxed by the wanton brutality of the killing of Mr Brown. The display of Brenton’s hysterical emotions moved Georgie himself to tears. Never in his life did he witness such a heart-battering scenario.

  Georgie carried Brenton inside his home, as the little boy sobbed his heart out, wondering why somebody had killed his best friend. He never spoke a word for six weeks … and he never frequented the outhouse again. The remains of Mr Brown were placed in a corner of it, in a cardboard box, with Georgie keeping an eye on the corpse. To his knowledge, no one ever went near it again.

  Social workers, psychiatrists, child experts all tried to unravel the mystery of Brenton’s traumatised mind regarding his love for Mr Brown, telling him gently that the scarecrow was nothing but bits of wood and old clothes. But no one ever understood.

  At half-past eight the next morning, Brenton had already been up for an hour; his body had become accustomed to rising at about seven. The only problem was, he had no work to go to.

  His mind in turmoil from the events of the previous day, he decided to tidy up his room, putting clothes away in drawers, sweeping the small carpeted area and generally making his room ‘Mr Sheened’ as never before. Sitting on the bed, his face rippled with a Doomsday pain as he stared at Mr Dean, Brenton found he couldn’t look at the poster any more. He had to get out.

  So, taking off his work clothes, he donned an old white T-shirt and jeans, and for some strange reason, squeezed on his old tatty trainer shoes.

  Not sure of where he was going, he ventured outside. The sun was trying to break through the clouds, making the atmosphere hazy. Instinct told Brenton to head for the park. He thrust his hands in his jeans pockets and discovered some forgotten small change so he stopped off at the newsagents and bought a paper. The owner of the shop, a young Indian man, recognised Brenton and politely asked him if he’d seen the cricket on telly last night. Apparently, Brenton didn’t hear him and refused even to glance at the shopkeeper as he handed over the loose change.

  The park seemed so peaceful; Brenton only wished its tranquillity could transfer itself to his mind. He rested on his adopted bench and tried to read the sports page of the newspaper, but his tormented thoughts somehow stopped his eyes from focusing clearly. Frustrated, he angrily threw the newspaper over and behind his head.

  After a few moments, the slight breeze separated some of the pages, scattering them over the park. He looked at the newspaper and compared his life to it. He wanted to scream out, or even cry. No tears came, and no sound. Who killed Mr Brown? he wondered.

  Very disturbed, Brenton marched out of the park, and decided to trod to Brixton. Walking down Dulwich Road, he was totally oblivious to what was happening around him. A motorist angrily yelled at him as he strode across the road with head bowed, not bothering to look for the dangers of burning wheels.

  An elderly white lady, walking her poodle, studied Brenton and wondered what sort of deep-rooted pain he felt. Brenton didn’t even notice her, or her dog, which barked extravagantly.

  Turning right into Effra Parade, Brenton hot-stepped his way to Railton Road, the so-called ‘front line’. The herb-hustlers and evil-doers watched him suspiciously as the stepping volcano passed them, ignoring the bartering of street drug dealers.

  Brixton was vibrant on this summer day. The markets were packed with shoppers who couldn’t afford the prices of department stores. Reggae music blared out from the many record shops. Youths were looking in the menswear stores, discussing what clothes would suit them best. Kids who should have been at school were running through the streets, playing tag.

  The men’s hairdressers were awash with young black men, who all seemed to be talking at the same time. A lone black, dreadlocked skanker, enjoyed himself beside one of the
market record stalls. Bopping up and down, adorned only in a white string vest and three-quarter flares, he didn’t appear to have a care in the world. The smell of West Indian cuisine mingled with the air, along with the aroma of fresh fruit and vegetables.

  Brenton marched to the Tube, where Socialist Worker Party activists were selling their newspapers, and a religious nut condemned all to hell. But Brenton’s eye was captured by a white vagrant. The stepping volcano approached him. The tramp’s greasy long brown hair matched his complexion.

  “Got ten-pence for a cup of tea, mate?”

  Brenton ignored him and bounded down the steps. The thought of buying himself a ticket never entered his head. He easily leaped over the ticket barrier and stepped down the escalator. The ticket man watched Brenton disappear and carried on with his job without voicing any objection.

  The waiting train had its automatic doors open and Brenton paced into one of the carriages. Choosing not to sit down, he read the many advertisements around him. A white-faced clock could be seen at the end of the platform. Twenty to ten, Brenton noticed.

  Various people rushed onto the train, thinking it would depart within seconds, only to feel silly when the train remained stationary. Eventually, the red light at the end of the platform changed to a fading green. Picking up speed quickly, the train accelerated into the blackness.

  Brenton remained standing up and attempted to read the advertisements as they flashed by. Then, in a couple of seconds, he stared into the darkness, wondering if death was a similar scenario. Within a minute, the Tube reached Stockwell Station. He jumped out when the doors opened and followed the signs to the Northern Line …

  On the concourse, a guitarist played a Gong classic, which Brenton instantly recognised. The strains of No Woman No Cry echoed along the filthy corridors. He walked by the busker, but halted in his tracks to look into his battered guitar case. He then studied the busker.

  Long, straggly ginger hair rested on his shoulders, which were covered by a stained red T-shirt. His legs were clad in dirty army greens, and his feet below it were blistered and blemished.

  Brenton fished into his pocket to gather all the remaining shekels he had. He then threw the coins into the musician’s guitar case. Not noticing the busker’s raised hand in a gesture of thanks, Brenton ambled towards the platform of the Northern Line.

  Positioning himself at the end of the platform where the train would appear, Brenton waited patiently. Then after a few moments, he heard the rattling sound echoing from the live rail. He leaned forward and saw two bright lights coming towards him. To Brenton, the train seemed to take an eternity to reach the platform. Just as it was about to enter the station, he steeled himself to fling his body in front of it. As he toked a wailing breath and prepared to leap, the strains of the Gong’s classic penetrated his mind. He almost keeled over as he teetered and nearly lost his balance. He felt the rush of wind sheath around him as the train almost ripped off his face. He then backed away from the edge of the platform, sensing his heart accelerate within his chest. Visions of his tormented life flashed through his mind. Who killed Mr Brown? he asked himself again.

  A woman who had witnessed Brenton’s attempted suicide, gaped in horror of what could have been. Brenton stood still with eyes shut. He remembered his time in the beast cell at the end of last year - all had seemed hopeless then. In those days he hovered at the mouth of desolation, dangling from a well-worn rope. Yet he had managed to climb the thinning rope before it snapped. He decided to do the same now. He would not give up on his life yet.

  Brenton felt the urge to seek out his sister; confident that Juliet loved him. Maybe he could persuade her not to break off their relationship. Maybe they could elope and leave London. He guessed that if he was persistent, Juliet’s steeple of guilt could be climbed. Love can slap down anything.

  He would visit her at work. Seeking out a map of the Underground network on the curved wall behind him, he planned his route to the City Tube stop. With renewed optimism, Brenton awaited the train to take him to his destination.

  At the same moment as Brenton set off to Juliet’s place of work, she was waiting patiently at her doctor’s surgery. Feeling sick and groggy after her confrontation with Brenton, she had decided to go ahead with a day off, and had made an appointment to see her GP for a routine check-up, hoping he could give her a tonic to buck her up. Her period was really late, too. Maybe that was why she’d been feeling so low.

  But it didn’t turn out that way. After a long series of questions, followed by a thorough external examination, she was given an internal by her doctor and had then been told to wait outside. Her face frozen in a panic-stricken dread, Juliet sat fretting in the waiting room, observing the receptionist take calls and write down appointments for patients. What bad news did the doctor have?

  Looking back to last night, she felt she’d been cruel to Brenton, and hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid. Maybe she could have spent more time with him after inflicting her blow instead of running off, running away from his pain and her own. Was it selfish of her simply to consider her own guilt? Brenton had been so happy, and she likewise. She fondly visualised his smile and thought of him as a vulnerable man-child who only craved love. Juliet wondered if she had the right to rip away that love. Could she live with her guilt? Maybe she could. Maybe Brenton and she could elope to somewhere far away. With her qualifications, she could always get a job; probably earn enough to keep them both until her brother found a job and learned to stand on his own feet.

  A door swung slowly open and a bespectacled man of about fifty years old stuck his head outside. “Juliet Massey, will you please come in?”

  Juliet hauled herself up and trudged into the doctor’s surgery. She sat down in a chair facing him across a large desk, remembering how kind he had been to her when she suffered from tonsillitis in her childhood. She noticed that the examination couch had a fresh sheet of paper on it now. When she was a youngster, she would jump up and down on that bed, much to the annoyance of her mother. Then, shaking off memories of childhood, she faced up to the present.

  In a low, soothing and fatherly tone, the doctor informed her: “My dear, you are pregnant.”

  Brenton finally arrived at Juliet’s place of work, only to be told that his sister had called in sick. He made his way via the Tube to Brixton, planning to go straight to her home and plead with her.

  Once he reached Brixton, he bullfrogged up the escalator, feeling he must see Juliet as soon as possible. Halfway up, glancing casually at the downward escalator opposite, he saw someone among the passengers who made his guts tighten. Terry Flynn.

  Intoxicated with the toke of revenge, Brenton ran hard, back down the uprising escalator, brushing past astonished commuters. “You bastard!” he roared.

  Flynn was just getting off at the bottom; he turned around in alarm. He went for his flick-knife in his back pocket, but before he could reach it, Brenton pounced on him.

  “A wha the rass,” stammered Flynn.

  “You’re a dead man!” screamed Brenton.

  Springing forward, he wrestled his Nemesis to the ground, his eyes wild, revenge etched in his face. Snarling, he rained in punches. Terry Flynn’s flick-knife escaped onto the platform as startled passengers looked on. Flynn managed to evade Brenton’s clutches and made for his knife. Brenton rugby-tackled him, causing Flynn’s forehead to make an audible scraping sound on the unforgiving platform. With a desperate effort, Flynn sprang up, booting Brenton in the face, smashing his nose and disfiguring his mouth, causing a splattering of blood to spot the ground. Again, Flynn made for the elusive blade. The Gong’s Heathen suddenly came into Brenton’s mind.

  Undeterred, Brenton leapt on his prey again, only to be met by an elbow detonating against his jaw. But Brenton managed to grip an ear and almost tore it off, creating a gristly breach at the side of Flynn’s head. At that Flynn went absolutely nuts and kneed Brenton in the face, resulting in a pair of teeth skittling along the platform.
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  The two of them rolled dangerously close to the platform edge, punching and kicking each other. Brenton could smell lager on Flynn’s breath, mixed with his BO. The onlookers stood frozen, watching in horror; paralysed by the sight of blood.

  Brenton viced Flynn’s neck within his hands and squeezed as hard as his strength allowed. Flynn opened his mouth as wide as he could and guillotined his teeth, ripping flesh off his opponent’s shoulder, causing a rush of blood to rapidly swarm over his T-shirt. Flynn spat out something grotesque onto the platform, but Brenton refused to relax his grip, despite experiencing intense pain. The live rail started to crackle. Flynn saw his knife about a foot away from his hand. Blood was pouring from Brenton’s nose, cascading onto his gashed lips. And his heartbeat was racing almost fatally. Flynn’s head and neck turned crimson, as his ear sagged horribly, dripping a torrent of warm blood. “You’re a dead man!” Brenton screamed.

  Flynn, panic-stricken, finally heaved his assailant off him and went for the knife again. Brenton saw his enemy’s plan and dived onto his back, causing Flynn’s right arm to break with a thud on the concrete. The knife skittered over to the platform edge. Brenton had cracked his knees badly on the fall, and now blood drenched his jeans. Suffering excruciating pain, he was forced to relax his grip, and it was then Flynn saw his chance. He lunged for the knife just as a Tube train came hurtling into the station, severing his hand and mutilating his arm. A crystal shattering scream echoed around the station as spectators turned their faces away in shock. Two women fainted.

  Brenton sensed he had to get away. Bathed in blood - his own and Flynn’s - he struggled to the escalator, using only his adrenaline to keep himself upright, leaving his Nemesis writhing in agony.