by Alex Wheatle
‘Guests can look after themselves, they know where the food and drink is. That’s why most of them come anyway.’
‘Always cynical,’ accused Juliet.
‘Always naïve,’ retorted Brenton. ‘You know what? Go back to your fucking guests. I’m gonna stay out here, drink my drink and fuck off home.’
‘You do that!’
Juliet marched off into the kitchen and fake-smiled at the guests who were milling around there. Clayton, sipping a glass of wine, approached his wife. ‘Everything alright?’ he asked. ‘Seems like you and your brother arguing again.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ smiled Juliet.
‘What’s it about?’ Clayton wanted to know.
‘Oh, it’s just that Brenton feels left out of things,’ explained Juliet. ‘He’s complaining that we organised everything and he feels that we should have let him contribute more to the funeral arrangements and all that.’
‘OK,’ nodded Clayton, glancing at Brenton through the window once more. ‘Is he alright out there? It’s freezing.’
‘You know my brother,’ smiled Juliet. ‘He hates crowds. He’ll be back inside in a minute.’
‘Maybe I should go …’
‘No, Clayton. Leave him. He’ll be OK. Let’s get back to the front room, people must be wondering where we are.’
Lighting a cigarette, Brenton pulled on it hard. He felt the adrenaline rushing through him and after his first exhalation he shouted, ‘Fuck it!’ He finished his beer, left the empty can on the trimmed lawn and returned to the house. He ignored guests’ condolences and made his way to the front door. There he saw Breanna with her boyfriend.
‘Going already, uncle?’ Breanna queried.
Brenton looked over Breanna’s boyfriend before answering. He was wearing a black polo jumper and black jeans that were dropping off his waist. His black trainers looked like the bastard offspring of seventies platform shoes and he owned a number one clipper haircut. Brenton didn’t like him.
‘Not feeling too well,’ Brenton finally replied. ‘Gonna step home and rest up.’
‘It’s been a mad day,’ Breanna said. ‘So many people I’ve never met. Don’t think I’ve ever cried so much.’
‘Yeah, it has been a mad day,’ nodded Brenton.
‘Oh, this is Malakai,’ Breanna introduced.
‘What’s gwarnin’?’ Malakai offered his right hand.
Brenton scanned Malakai’s face again before accepting the handshake with a vice-like grip. ‘Good to meet you.’
Not showing the pain he was feeling, Malakai said, ‘Good to meet you too.’
Turning to Breanna, Brenton said, ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
‘OK, uncle.’
Chapter 3
The Ugly Truth
STEPPING TO HIS CAR, Brenton turned around to see if Juliet had come to see him off. She hadn’t. Kissing his teeth, Brenton switched on the ignition and he had to turn it twice before the engine started. He turned up the heating and switched on the windscreen wipers to help clear the frosted glass. Junior Murvin’s Cool Out Son falsettoed from the car stereo. He checked his mobile phone before pulling away and saw that he had three messages from Lesley. He didn’t bother to read them. Instead he called his friend, Floyd.
‘What’s happening, bredren?’ Floyd greeted. ‘Ain’t you at your mum’s funeral?’
‘I was but I’m chipping home early.’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t take the shit anymore.’
‘What shit?’
‘Juliet and her attitude on the Breanna t’ing.’
‘That again?’
‘Yeah. It’s doing my head in. Can you come around?’
‘Sharon’s got me slapping on new paint in the hallway. Been making excuses since Christmas but she went Homebase yesterday and bought some bitch brushes. She left them in the front seat of my car.’
‘Can’t you take a break?’
‘Alright then, but you’re coming back to my yard to help me finish it.’
‘No, I ain’t. Every time I come to your yard Sharon finds me something to do. Last time she got me putting a new lock on the back door.’
‘You haven’t stepped into my yard for over six months.’
Brenton thought about it. ‘OK, deal. Oh, bring some bush with you.’
‘Why do you always assume I’ve got bush?’
‘Have you got bush or haven’t you?’
‘Er, yeah I have but that’s not the point.’
‘Bring the raas bush then!’
‘Alright, no need to go all cuckoo on me. I’ll be around in about an hour. Gotta fling away my BO and paint and t’ing.’
Pulling away, Brenton heard his mobile bleep again. It was another message from Lesley and he kissed his teeth once more.
There was a knock on Brenton’s front door when he was in the middle of eating a microwave casserole. He took the carton with him as he opened the door.
‘Yes, volcano,’ Floyd greeted. ‘How’s t’ings?’
Brenton noticed an oval-shaped spot of paint above Floyd’s left eyebrow. His hair was recently cut and his beard neatly trimmed. He’d only put on a few pounds since he was eighteen and there was still a fresh look in his eyes. ‘As I said,’ Brenton started. ‘Hasn’t been a good day. Or to be more blatant it’s been a fucked-up day.’
‘Funerals ain’t supposed to be good days, unless they’re burying Maggie T’atcher’s bones.’
Taking a seat around the small, varnished teak dinner table in Brenton’s lounge, Floyd searched his pockets and came out with a bag of high-grade weed and cigarette papers. He took out his box of cigarettes and paused to look around the room. He hadn’t been in Brenton’s place for a while. The brown and cream paintwork was applied expertly and it complemented the two black two-seater sofas. There was a smart-looking glass cabinet at one end of the room which housed small framed photographs of Juliet, Breanna, Brenton’s mother and Floyd himself when he was nineteen. There was also Brenton’s carpentry and joinery graduation certificate, wine and whisky glasses that were a Christmas present from Juliet and a large souvenir mug from Amsterdam that Brenton had bought on a boys’ weekend trip. The television in the corner of the room was modest but the carved, oval-shaped rosewood frame that held a portrait of Bob Marley dominated the room. It was made by Brenton’s own hand and he liked the look of guests admiring it. Brenton switched on his mini-stereo and turned down the volume on Jacob Miller’s I’m a Natty. He sat down opposite Floyd.
‘How’s Sharon?’ Brenton began, pushing his carton of food away and picking up the cigarette papers.
‘Oh, you know how she is, man. Always stressed out from her job. You know how social services stay these days. Risk assessment this and risk assessment that. Fill in this form and that and her team of social workers always fucking up t’ings and taking nuff time off sick.’
‘Gregory and Linval?’
‘They’ll be alright if Sharon stops spoiling dem too much. She still cleans and washes up after dem. They have friends around till Lord knows what time and they stink out the yard with their skunk. I keep telling them that man put nuff chemical and t’ing in there, but do they listen? No, they fucking won’t. Sharon says I’m being a hypocrite ’cos that’s what we used to do in our fresh days. But that skunk is fucked-up lab shit. Anyway, they’re only allowed to smoke it in their room now.’
‘Yeah, I hear you,’ nodded Brenton as he began building his spliff. ‘But Sharon’s right. We used to do that shit in the hostel, didn’t have to worry ’bout parents.’
‘Only Mr Lewis.’
‘And I still reckon the man used to take a draw too.’
‘Nah.’
‘Not in front of us,’ said Brenton. ‘On the sneak, like how dem teachers, judges and dem kinda people draw on it. I wonder whatever happened to Mr Lewis?’
‘I bet he ain’t working in Lambeth,’ replied Floyd. ‘He came from the wilderness so he’s probably gone back there. Dem kin
da people always have trouble working in the inner cities. If I was a social worker I wouldn’t work in Lambeth. Fuck that. Don’t know how Sharon tolerates it. Keep telling her she should move but she ain’t listening.’
‘Lewis. Maybe he’s working in Redhill or somewhere?’
‘True t’ing,’ nodded Floyd. ‘But you didn’t ask me to come to your yard to chat ’bout old Mr Lewis and how Gregory and Linval are smoking out my yard like they’re Red Indians sending out nuff message and t’ing.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
‘So what is it, bredren?’
‘Juliet and me had another argument.’
‘In front of everybody at the funeral? Man! You pick your moments.’
‘No, not in front of everybody. What you take me for?’
‘You ain’t called the stepping volcano for nothing. What happened?’
‘I just told her that I think Breanna is old enough to know the truth. That I’m her daddy.’
‘And you decided to bring that up at your mother’s funeral?’
Arsoning his joint, Brenton inhaled on it deeply as he fixed his gaze on his long-time friend. He blew the smoke over Floyd’s head. ‘Breanna’s old enough, man.’
Floyd took a little longer to wrap his spliff. He made sure it was smooth and straight before he put it into his mouth. He lit it with an expensive lighter and took a leisurely toke. He exhaled through his nose. ‘You expect me to give you my opinion on this, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘My feelings on this haven’t changed from the last time. Breanna will never be old enough to hear that you’re her real daddy. It will fuck up her head, make her go cuckoo. I mean, say for instance that Elton John arrives at your yard with a strange smile and he’s saying that he’s your real daddy? How would you feel about that fucked-up situation?’
‘Wouldn’t mind his money. But Elton John is not my fucking uncle.’
‘Try and put yourself in Breanna’s boots,’ reasoned Floyd. ‘She thinks you’re her uncle, right.’
‘But I am her uncle.’
‘Yeah, you are, but you’re her daddy too. It’s a big raas leap to find out that your uncle who came around now and again to do a little carpentry work in your yard, ate out of your pot when he couldn’t be bothered to microwave anyt’ing, and who bought you some nice shit for Christmas and birthdays is your daddy too.’
‘All families are fucked up these days,’ countered Brenton.
‘But yours don’t have to be.’
‘There’s this so-called family who live behind me with this woman who’s got four kids and the man she’s living with ain’t the daddy for none of dem but he’s a daddy for another five with three different woman. I was there on a Sunday once with all the various mothers turning up to drop off their children and the daddies turning up to see their children. I haven’t been so confused since Breanna was showing me how to do invoices on my computer.’
‘Other people and other families are not important,’ stressed Floyd.
‘So it’s not important that Breanna don’t know the truth?’
‘OK, Brenton. Say you have it your way and the whole damn world get to know the truth about you being Breanna’s daddy. Who’s gonna benefit? Juliet won’t, Clayton won’t and Breanna won’t.’
‘Yes she will,’ argued Brenton. ‘We get on really well. She comes around sometimes even when I’m not expecting her. She talks about boyfriend troubles and t’ings with her career.’
‘But she’s coming to see you as an uncle. You don’t know how she’s gonna react if she knows that you’re her daddy.’
‘It’ll be sweet.’
‘No, it won’t be fucking sweet!’ shouted Floyd, losing his patience. ‘It’ll be like some dirty, ghetto-arsed tramp with nuff spots on his tongue spitting in your sweet hot milo. There’ll be serious repercussions.’
‘She’ll be alright with it.’
‘No, she won’t! What’s the blasted point of you asking for my opinion on something and you never listen what I’m telling you?’
‘Why you always on Juliet and Clayton’s side?’ yelled Brenton.
‘What?’ queried Floyd. ‘I ain’t on no one’s side, apart from Breanna’s.’
‘Yes, you fucking are,’ Brenton continued shouting. ‘Every time I talk about this situation you side with that pussyhole Clayton and Juliet.’
‘Brenton, you’re chatting fuckeries.’
‘It’s true!’
‘You’re paranoid,’ accused Floyd.
‘Fuck you!’
‘Oh, that’s sweet. You ask me to come around to your yard, I bring some nice weed and all I get is a fuck-you. What do you say when you invite women over for a booty call? Give them a banana and tell dem to fuck themselves?’
‘For just one minute can you drop your sarcastic chat?’ Brenton began to breathe heavy. ‘Or I’ll drop it for you.’
‘What? And if I don’t you gonna lick me now? Grow up, man.’
In a fit of temper Brenton threw his half-eaten carton of food to the floor. Floyd took a mighty toke of his spliff and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. Rising out of his chair, Brenton kicked the carton before disappearing into the kitchen to get something to clean the mess. Five minutes later he parked himself opposite Floyd, his face stern and his eyes blazing. ‘You can erupt all you like,’ Floyd said. ‘But I ain’t changing my mind about this.’
‘Fucking know all!’ Brenton fired. ‘I don’t know why I asked you to come around. You never support me anymore. Not like you used to.’
‘Oh, so now you’re trying to lick me with emotional blackmail. And you think ’cos I’m a bredren I have to agree with anyt’ing you do and say? Fuck that! So if you’re gonna have a tantrum ’bout it then drop it somewhere out of my eyesight.’
Relighting his spliff, Floyd returned Brenton’s intense stare. Brenton hoovered his joint and only when he had finished it did he speak again. ‘Every time I see her and him it just pains me, you know. Makes me vex.’
‘But you must have got used to it by now. It’s been a long time since Clayton and Juliet first got together.’
‘Time don’t ease nothing,’ said Brenton.
Floyd studied Brenton’s eyes. ‘You sure this is all about Breanna?’
‘What you mean?’
‘What you said. Seeing them together makes you erupt. You still jealous of Clayton?’
‘Why would I be jealous of that pussyhole?’
Floyd tipped his ash in the ashtray. He took another pull from his spliff, his eyes fixed on Brenton. ‘Why? ’Cos he’s with Juliet and you’re not. You never got over it.’
‘That’s fuckery,’ Brenton countered.
‘Brenton? Who you think you’re chatting to? I ain’t no dumb social worker from the seventies. I ain’t no mate who you work with. I’ve heard how many times you get vex after you’ve seen or visited Clayton and Juliet. You rant about something else, complaining that Breanna should know who her real daddy is and t’ing. But the t’ing that makes your lava spew is seeing Clayton and Juliet together. Am I right or am I right?’
Watching Brenton get to his feet, Floyd thought his friend’s eyes had some kind of gas rings behind them because they were so intense. He took another drag and tried not to appear intimidated. Brenton went to the kitchen and Floyd heard him getting something from the fridge. He returned with two cans of soft drinks. ‘Don’t drink lager too tough these days,’ Brenton said.
‘Nor do I,’ replied Floyd.
Downing half of his drink in one gulp, Brenton slammed his can on the table and gazed at Floyd once again. Floyd felt he was being penetrated by lasers. ‘You’re right,’ Brenton finally admitted. ‘Don’t know how to stop.’
‘Stop what?’ Floyd asked, his tone softer. ‘Stop losing that bitch temper of yours?’
‘No!’
‘Then stop what?’
‘Wanting her. Don’t know how to stop wanting her.’
Brenton dipped his head. He took
out one of the cigarette papers and crushed it into a small ball. He then rolled it between his right thumb and forefinger. ‘Feeling won’t go away,’ Brenton admitted, now examining the tiny paper ball. ‘Don’t know what to do about it.’
Opening his can, Floyd took a short gulp. He then stood up, re-lit his spliff and walked towards the mini-stereo. He turned up the bass a notch. Yellowman’s Morning Ride toasted from the speakers. ‘My Uncle Herbie told me once that we can’t choose who we love,’ said Floyd. ‘He had this gay cousin.’
‘You’re comparing me to your uncle’s gay cousin?’
‘No, it ain’t like that. It’s just that he can’t help who he loves and wants and nor can you. That’s the way it is.’
‘But what do I do?’ asked Brenton again.
Floyd thought about it. He returned to his chair and took in another leisurely toke. ‘I think you two are living too close,’ he said. ‘Must be kinda hard you seeing Juliet all the time. Bumping into her in the supermarket, seeing her in a traffic jam and t’ing. You even did her fucking flooring. You need to get away from her. Ain’t good for your mental health, bredren. Seriously.’
‘What? Move out of south London?’
‘Not just move out of south London. Move out of London full stop. Even move out of the country. Start somewhere else fresh. Get Juliet out of your head for once and for all.’
‘Ain’t that too drastic?’
‘No. Brenton, you been pining for her for over twenty years.’
‘It’s been that long?’
‘Breanna’s gonna be twenty-one soon, innit. Can’t you count? Where the fuck did you learn maths?’
‘Fuck you!’
‘What about Lesley?’ Floyd asked. ‘Ain’t t’ings going good with her? I thought she looked alright. She’s quite serviceable and t’ing for a girl of her age. And she ain’t no damn fool. She’s working and t’ing and me and Sharon were thinking that she might be the one for you.’
