by Alex Wheatle
‘What’s up, sis?’ Breanna greeted. She kissed Jazz on her left cheek and gave her a hug.
‘What’s up, girl?’ Jazz returned. ‘So where is he?’
Breanna sat down. She picked up a menu. ‘He’ll be here any minute,’ she said. ‘He better be here.’
‘What you having?’ asked Jazz.
‘The usual. Rice, leg of chicken and roasted corn.’
‘And let me guess,’ continued Jazz. ‘A cheesecake to take home.’
‘You know me too good.’
‘You know it, girl.’
‘Have you ordered?’ asked Breanna.
‘Just my drink.’
‘Then let’s order.’
The two girls made their way to the kitchen counter. Just as they were giving their orders to the waitress, Malakai and a friend arrived. Breanna turned round, spotted Malakai and smiled as wide as a Joker in a Batman film. She hugged him tight and kissed him on his left cheek. His jeans were barely covering his backside and Breanna spotted he was wearing dark blue boxers.
‘This is Sean,’ Malakai introduced. ‘He asked if he could come and link us. He’s well hungry.’
‘No problem,’ said Breanna. ‘This is Jazz. One of my best friends.’
Sean’s eyes lingered on Jazz’s heart-shaped, caramel-coloured face. Then his gaze dropped a little to her chest. ‘My bredren’s girlfriend has pretty friends,’ he charmed.
Jazz blushed.
‘You know it,’ continued Sean. He turned to Breanna. ‘And I’m sorry about losing your gran.’
‘That’s alright … So you’re going around the place calling me your girlfriend?’ Breanna laughed turning to Malakai. ‘I better be the only one. I know how you guys stay. You have links here, there and everywhere.’
Guilt struck Breanna again. Should she be laughing a day after Gran got buried? she asked herself. Gran would have wanted me to carry on, she convinced herself. To live my life.
‘How many times do I have to say I’m not into that?’ pleaded Malakai.
Ten minutes later they all settled down to eating various portions of chicken, fries, rice and roasted corn. Napkins littered their table. Breanna sipped wine and the others drank lemonade and cola. Breanna noticed that Jazz was quieter than usual.
‘So, Malakai,’ said Sean. ‘Breanna already invite you round to her gates. Bredren, seems like t’ings are getting serious. You only linked a few weeks ago.’
‘Not that serious,’ replied Malakai.
Breanna gave Malakai a playful punch.
‘It was at the reception after the funeral,’ continued Malakai. ‘Breanna asked me to reach and pay my respects. I met her family. Her Uncle Brenton and everybody.’
‘Uncle Brenton?’ repeated Sean.
Jazz and Breanna paused their eating. ‘You know my uncle?’ asked Breanna.
‘His name rings a bell,’ said Sean. ‘Can’t be that many Brentons around. Not with a name like that. Think my mum might know him.’
‘Oh lordy Lord,’ laughed Jazz. ‘Your mum didn’t go out with my girl’s uncle, did she?’
Everyone laughed except Sean. He smiled politely. Breanna guessed there was some kind of connection or hidden history behind that smile.
‘No, it was nothing like that,’ Sean finally answered. ‘I think they just knew each other back in the day. Friends maybe? It ain’t no biggie.’
‘Lordy Lord!’ exclaimed Jazz. ‘That’s a relief.’
‘What do you mean that’s a relief?’ challenged Breanna. ‘What’s wrong with going out with my uncle?’
‘He is a bit … scary,’ answered Jazz. ‘With those eyes of his. Whenever I see him he always looks like he’s planning to eat somebody ’cos someone put shit in his best Nikes or something. And that scar on his neck. Ugh!’
Sean stilled as if suddenly frozen.
‘He’s just quiet and shy,’ countered Breanna. ‘When you get to know him he can be really funny. Wasn’t you there, Jazz, when he told us when he was a yout’ he used to go out on street looking for cigarette butts. And he used to t’ief milk and bread from a milk float.’
‘He sounds crazy to me,’ said Jazz. ‘But I s’pose everyone’s got a mad relative somewhere.’
‘He’s not crazy,’ argued Breanna. ‘He had a hard-knock life.’
‘Maybe he got too many knocks on his head?’ laughed Jazz.
‘Them old-school days were rough though,’ added Malakai. ‘My mum told me her older brother had to get the paraffin bottle before he went to school. When he reached school he stank out the classroom with his paraffin fumes all on his uniform. Brothers would chase him down in the playground with boxes of matches. Old-school times weren’t easy. Believe.’
From a small name-brand rucksack that was draped over his chair, Malakai took out a gift-wrapped box. He placed it on the table and grinned widely. ‘I dunno if Brenton searched the streets of Bricky for cigarette butts but I thought he was cool,’ he said. ‘He was about the only one out of the older ones who took time chatting to me at the wake. Anyway, Bree. This is for your birthday. Hope you like it.’
Cleaning her fingers with a napkin, Breanna wasted no time unwrapping the box.
‘Ain’t you supposed to wait until the day of your birthday,’ protested Jazz. ‘You’re so fast, girl.’
The box contained a bottle of perfume. ‘Is it the real t’ing?’ asked Breanna, checking the labels. ‘Not a fake from Nine Elms market or East Street?’
‘What you take me for?’ protested Malakai. ‘Course it’s the real t’ing. When I come buying presents for my girl I come proper. You understand.’
Leaning over the table, Breanna cradled Malakai’s cheeks with her hands and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Thanks, choc.’
‘I told you she’d like that,’ said Sean. ‘Man can’t go wrong when he buys his girl a proper perfume. Chicks love that.’
‘You two better behave yourself,’ warned Jazz. ‘I ain’t getting fling out ’cos of you two getting it on. I still wanna get my cheesecake.’
‘What’s with the choc?’ Sean wanted to know.
‘That’s my nickname for Malakai,’ explained Breanna. ‘Don’t you think his complexion is like milk chocolate?’
Jazz picked up the bottle of perfume and she inspected it like a Z-list celeb studying an article about themselves in a tabloid. ‘Mind my girl don’t lick your complexion off,’ she joked.
After everyone bought a cheesecake to take away, Sean walked with Jazz and Malakai stepped with Breanna. He had his right arm around her shoulders and they soon lagged twenty yards or so behind the others.
‘So your dad is not your real dad?’ Malakai said.
‘No,’ answered Breanna. ‘Him and Mum got together when I was about two years old or something.
‘Do you know your real dad?’
‘No. Mum said it was one of those t’ings. You know. A one-night stand kinda t’ing.’
‘Your mum? A one-night stand? She seems so …? What you call it? Don’t be offended but a little bit … stush.’
‘Yeah, so everyone says,’ said Breanna.
‘She must have an idea who your dad is. Haven’t you ever asked her about it?’
‘Yeah I did. Nuff times. But I gave up after a while. She’s sticking to her story.’
‘What story?’
‘Back in the day she went to some party. Someone made some hash cakes. The chronic was burning. Everyone had a proper buzz on, drinks were flowing and Mum ended up in a bedroom with some guy. She was so out of it she doesn’t remember who she was with or what happened. Two months or so later she found out she was pregnant with me.’
‘And you believe that?’
They were passing under the bridge in Brixton High Street. A train rattled overhead. A sudden gust disturbed debris alongside the kerb. Breanna secured the top button of her body-warmer. She paused and looked at Malakai. ‘No. I never believed it,’ she finally answered. ‘But if Mum wants me to believe her story then I will. I don�
��t want to dig deeper ’cos the truth might be something a lot worse. I think she was raped.’
‘Raped!’
‘It’s a mad guess but it would explain a lot,’ reasoned Breanna. ‘You should see photos of Mum when she was young. She was beautiful. Still is. Even now I see men much younger than her step up to her. I wish I got all of her looks.’
‘You’re beautiful too,’ said Malakai.
‘Sometimes Mum’s so sad,’ resumed Breanna, ignoring Malakai’s compliment. ‘So was Gran. You know when someone’s smiling but you can still see their pain? Them two were like that. Mum’s still like that. It’s like they knew something but they won’t tell me ’cos they know it would hurt me.’
‘Their generation went through a lot,’ said Malakai. ‘My mum’s kinda sad too. She split up from Dad when I was about five. She’s had about four boyfriends since then but all of them let her down. She’s always cussing about black men and when she does I feel kinda bad. I’m a grown-up black man now. I’m twenty-three. Makes me wonder if one day I’ll make a good dad.’
‘Do you still see your dad?’
‘Now and again. He lives in Crystal Palace with some white girl. Younger than him. They got a six-year-old daughter. Precious is her name. My baby sister. Mum don’t like me calling Precious my sister. So I don’t tell Mum when I visit her.’
‘It’s good that you see her though.’
Stopping at the bus stop outside Brixton market, they caught up with Jazz and Sean. The cold air couldn’t quite quench the smell of rotting vegetables, spoilt fruit and stale fish. No one was paying any attention to the ranter with a microphone outside Brixton tube station. Close to him was a tall rasta selling incense sticks; he wasn’t getting much trade.
‘I think you should ask your mum about your real dad,’ said Malakai. ‘You’re a big woman now. Twenty-one tomorrow. What she told you about your real dad don’t sound right. Ask her again but be polite about it. Be understanding. Ask in a mature way.’
‘I will,’ replied Breanna.
‘We’ll wait until your bus comes,’ offered Malakai.
Breanna kissed Malakai again and she snuggled up to him while waiting for her bus. Jazz was exchanging phone numbers with Sean and by the time they had finished their bus had arrived.
‘Don’t be late tomorrow!’ said Breanna.
‘I won’t,’ replied Malakai. ‘Get on the bus!’
Malakai and Sean watched them step up to the top deck. They both waved as the bus pulled away.
‘Man! You work fast,’ said Malakai. ‘Did you get her number?’
‘She asked for my number first, bredren,’ Sean replied.
‘Do you really know Breanna’s Uncle Brenton?’
‘I don’t know him. My mum does. Did you see the scar on his neck?’
‘Yeah. Looks ugly, man. It’s like brown jelly or somet’ing. Wouldn’t like to touch it.’
‘Then it’s him,’ Sean confirmed. ‘My mum definitely knows him.’
Half an hour later Sean reached his fourth-floor flat in the
Lilford estate off Coldharbour Lane. There was scaffolding surrounding the blocks to help the construction workers replace old windows. Eek-A-Mouse’s Virgin Girl singjayed out from a second-floor flat. Sean heard two dogs barking as he climbed the stairs. Entering the flat he glanced at the yellowing paintwork in the hallway. He wiped his feet on the tatty mat on the imitation wood-panelled floor. He found his mother in the cramped kitchen washing up mugs and dishes. She was listening to a radio phone-in programme; a caller wanted to know what to do after discovering that her boyfriend had made seventeen calls to a girl she didn’t know on his mobile in the last two days. Sean sat down at the small kitchen table. Without turning around his mother said, ‘There is chicken in the oven for you. Wash up after yourself. I’m tired of getting up in the morning and seeing the sink full up. And if you have any friends around tonight tell them to keep it quiet … Fling him out, you damn idiot! What’s wrong wid you? He’s fucking another bitch! Lord Jesus! You get pure foolish woman ’pon de radio.’
‘Already eaten, Mum,’ answered Sean. ‘Went Nando’s with Malakai.’
‘Why you never tell me? That food better not waste! You can have it for your lunch tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, Mum. I will.’
‘And you’d better be careful out there on street. You shouldn’t be going to a place like Nando’s. I don’t want no damn phone call telling me somet’ing happen to you.’
‘Mum! What do you expect me to do? Sit in the flat all day? You keep telling me I get on your nerves.’
‘Those bad breed boys might be still looking for you.’
‘Most of them are inside. And the rest of the crew who aren’t doing time are pussies …’
‘Don’t use that language in my yard!’
‘They won’t do me nothing, Mum. It’s been over two years now.’
‘There’s still nuff bad feeling around. Maybe we shoulda take up the police offer to relocate?’
‘What? Be driven out of our ends by those puss …’
‘Don’t use that word in my yard!’
‘Look, Mum. I’m not involved in that life anymore. I’m trying my best to walk good as you say. I’m ignoring all the crap that’s on road.’
‘Where have you been today anyway? You’d better be looking for work. I can’t run this place by myself. I need help.’
‘I was this afternoon. Then I bump into Malakai and I followed him Nando’s. You’d never guess who his girlfriend’s uncle is?’
‘Eddie Murphy? Stevie Wonder? Bob Marley? The raas claat Cream Puff Man in Ghostbusters? What kinda stupid blasted question is that? How am I supposed to know?’
‘Brenton Brown.’
Sean’s mother, Venetia, stopped washing the dishes. She stilled for two seconds before turning around to face her son. ‘Brenton Brown?’
‘Yeah. The same Brenton Brown who you’ve been telling me all my days that mash up your life.’
‘That was the past,’ said Venetia. ‘A long time ago. I don’t want you doing anything stupid.’
‘Don’t do nothing stupid? You’re the one who kept saying everything was his fault. You know, with my paps.’
‘Stay away from him, Sean,’ Venetia warned, pointing a finger. ‘He’s a dangerous man. Crazy, so some people say.’
‘I ain’t gonna be afraid of him. I just wanna meet him. See what all the fuss is about mad Brenton Brown.’
‘I’m warning you, Sean. Stay away from him.’
Rising to his feet, Sean offered his mother a contemptuous glare before disappearing into the lounge. He switched on his Playstation. He turned up the volume. His thumbs and fingers were a blur as he played a violent game where he had to kill as many characters as possible before reaching the next level.
‘Don’t think you’re playing that damn somet’ing all night!’ Venetia yelled. ‘I want to watch my news in fifteen minutes. And turn it down! What you take this for? You think you inna disco?’
Sean kissed his teeth and kept on killing characters on the screen. Venetia returned to her washing-up. ‘Brenton Brown,’ she whispered. ‘You fucker. You wreck my life.’
Chapter 8
Renewal
TAKING OFF HIS HARD HAT, Brenton walked into the kitchen of the house he was renovating. Dustsheets were on the floor and the smell of paint attacked his nostrils. A white guy with a measuring tape and a pencil was marking something on the kitchen wall. Brenton watched him for a few seconds before admiring once again the new kitchen cupboards he had fitted. A naked bulb illuminated the undercoat on the ceiling. A bruised, dusty radio with a coat hanger acting as an aerial was playing Spandau Ballet’s Gold. ‘Daniel, try and finish up by tomorrow morning, yeah,’ pressed Brenton.
‘Should do so, Bren.’
‘The lady of the place been on my case all day,’ revealed Brenton. ‘Wanted to turn off my mobile. I told her ages ago that we should finish her flat by the end of this week. But nah. He
r parents are coming down from wherever tomorrow afternoon and she wants to show off her new flat all decorated and t’ing.’
‘Just got to put the second coat on and tidy up the corner of the ceiling then I’m done.’
‘Good,’ said Brenton, examining the paintwork of the ceiling. ‘I’m stepping now ’cos it’s my niece’s birthday today. You’re alright to lock up, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, no probs.’
‘And remember to put the lids back on the paint cans and sweep up when you finish. That fussy bitch might decide to come round later on and have a look at what we’ve done today. I don’t want her loading off to me in the morning.’
‘Alright, Bren. I get it. You told me five times today already.’
‘OK, Daniel. Sorry about the grief I’ve given you today but that woman really gets on my tits.’
‘Tomorrow, Bren.’
‘Try and make it for seven in the morning, Daniel. Let’s finish this job and get the fuck out of here. I’ve got a job in Barnes I want to start.’
‘Barnes? Where’s Barnes?’
‘The other side of Putney,’ Brenton answered. ‘We got another conversion to do, making three flats out of a three-storey house. Should keep us going till Easter. The man who asked me for a quote drives one of them new Jags so I’m gonna jack up my price.’
‘Overtime?’
‘Yes, Daniel, they’ll be overtime if you want it.’
Taking off his overalls before stepping out of the building, Brenton wondered if he should’ve made more of an effort to buy Breanna a present. He had been busy with work but was that a reasonable excuse? Dunno what to buy her anyway, he shrugged. She’s got the latest mobile, iPod and all that fuckery. And no way am I gonna dare buy her clothes. Fuck that. Hope she’s happy with two hundred pounds. Was it too much for an uncle to give to his niece? Nah. She’s twenty-one. It’s a milestone. And I’m the only uncle or aunt she’s got. Maybe I should give her more? Make it a round figure. Five hundred pounds. Maybe not. Don’t want to give Breanna more money than what Juliet and Clayton might spend on her. Fuck Clayton. Maybe I should give Juliet a call to find out what they’re buying her? Haven’t spoken to her since the funeral. It’ll be nice to put that argument behind us.
