Brenton Brown

by Alex Wheatle

  Malakai took his time in answering and took a generous sip of his rum before he did so. ‘Yeah … you could say that. He had a lot of … shit at home to deal with, blatantly. It’s just him and his mum. I don’t know who his paps is.’

  ‘What kinda shit?’ Breanna wanted to know, ignoring her drink.

  ‘You know … the same old road t’ing, walking with brothers man ain’t s’posed to walk with. That kinda t’ing. Doing t’ings you ain’t s’posed to do. Terrorising peeps and shit.’

  ‘Like who or what?’ Breanna pressed.

  Malakai gave Breanna a cautious glance before he continued. ‘This is between me and you, right.’

  ‘Course.’

  Placing his glass down by his feet, Malakai turned to face Breanna. ‘While we were in Year Nine Sean had some issues with his mum. He left his yard. For a while he slept on my couch but my mum didn’t like him burning spliff late at night and stinking up her front room. To say sorry Sean even bought some incense sticks for her but she weren’t listening. She fling him out.’

  ‘If that was my dad he would’ve probably dragged him to the police station,’ Breanna chuckled.

  Malakai didn’t laugh. He continued. ‘He left my yard and started to walk with the P.I.K.’

  ‘P.I.K? What does that stand for? Who are they?’

  ‘Poverty Inspired Kids. A crew that started from Angel Town estate.’

  ‘Wait a sec,’ thought Breanna. ‘I’ve heard Mum talk about them once. Weren’t they involved with that …’

  ‘Yep. The murder of that thirteen-year-old boy in Flaxman Sports Centre.’

  Breanna leant back into the sofa. She stared straight ahead. ‘Shit!’

  Malakai took another gulp. ‘Sean got messed up in all that.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I ain’t joking, Bree. He didn’t do the shanking though. He thought they were just gonna rough him up, slap him up and shit. It was all over some girl this boy was s’posed to have dissed. Sean didn’t expect the yout’ to get shanked, blatantly.’

  Breanna nodded, her expression serious.

  ‘It was all over the news and shit,’ continued Malakai.

  ‘I know,’ said Breanna. ‘I remember now, Mum sent the boy’s mum her condolences. She asked if she could do anything to help. Mum’s like that. She’s always getting involved with other people’s business but she ignores what’s going on in her own home.’

  ‘Sean was going on all weird and messed up.’

  ‘What happened?’ Breanna pressed.

  ‘We saw some news conference with the boy’s older sister. She was all crying and shit, begging anyone with information to step forward. We were watching it at my yard and Sean left my room to take a piss. He took some long time so I got up to find out what happened to him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘… he was sitting on my stairs, just staring into space. Something was messed up. I asked him if he knew who shanked the boy. For the longest time he didn’t answer and then he nodded.’

  ‘What did you do? Go to the police?’

  ‘We had this argument,’ Malakai admitted. ‘I was saying to him that he’s gotta say somet’ing. Even if it was an anonymous phone call. Sean was saying he wasn’t no snitch and if he did say somet’ing he would get shanked. We were firing off on each other, we almost bruk out in a fight. I left his yard cursing him. I ran back up to him and started to chant Buju’s Murderer in his face. You know the tune, right? Murderer, blood upon ya shoulder, kill I today you cannot kill I …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know the tune,’ nodded Breanna. ‘Uncle Brenton is a big Buju fan …what happened after that?’

  ‘Can’t this wait for another time?’ protested Malakai. ‘I kinda come here for another reason. You know. And you asked me to reach.’

  ‘Just finish off, man. What happened after you chanted Murderer in his face?’

  Malakai shook his head. ‘Sean t’umped me! Blatantly! Then ran back inside his yard. He wouldn’t come out so I had to walk home. But I was switching. Mad. I felt like going to the police station myself. When I got home I was gonna tell my mum.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘To be honest, Bree, I was kinda afraid. Blatantly! I have to admit that. I was thinking that the P.I.K. crew would come looking for me. I was thinking about what might happen to my mum, my sis and my older brother. While all this was going on I could hardly look into my mum’s face … she thought I was sick.’

  Leaning in closer to Malakai, she kissed him on the cheek and gave him a hug. He responded by kissing her on her neck. His left hand slipped under her beige crewneck sweater. Kicking off his trainers, he placed his right leg over her left thigh.

  ‘Hold on, man!’ Breanna protested, pulling herself away. ‘Hold on … what went down after your mum thought you were sick?’

  Malakai continued to kiss Breanna on her forehead down to her cheeks and finally on her mouth. His left hand was trying to unclip her bra.

  ‘Malakai!’

  ‘Alright! Man! You invite me around here and now you’re changing your mind.’

  ‘I’m not changing my mind … tell me what happened with the Sean, P.I.K. crew situation. Did Sean confess to his mum?’

  ‘No … But after he t’ump me I was trying to call him. I was leaving messages on his voicemail saying I was gonna bruk him up when I see him. He didn’t answer for a week. Then he came around my yard. He was all quiet and shit, not his usual self.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me what happened. It was over stupidness. The boy was only running up his mout’ and boasting at school that he was going out with this girl. He was even saying that he fucked her and shit. The girl get upset now, she tells her man who happens to be Nasher, one of the P.I.K. crew. So the boy was set up. He was only s’posed to be beaten up, you know, as a warning t’ing. But Nasher took out his blade and shank the boy. It turned out that sometime before the shanking the P.I.K. crew was jacking somebody and Nasher froze. The rest of the crew was all taking the piss outta him. They were calling him a pussy and chicken and t’ing. Peer pressure, blatantly!’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘After Sean told me what happened he made an anonymous call to the police. Nasher, Sean and everyone else messed up in the whole shit was arrested in a dawn raid the next day. ’Cos Sean helped the police he got time taken off his sentence. He went to some secret prison for three years. Most of the others got life. Some went to Feltham, some started their sentences in Ashfield, some country place near Bristol.’

  Breanna drew in a long breath.

  ‘You can’t spill this, Bree, blatantly.’

  ‘I won’t Malakai. What do you take me for?’

  ‘Anyway, Sean and his mum were offered a new life, new names, everyt’ing. They offered to set them up somewhere far.’

  ‘And they turned it down?’

  ‘Yep,’ answered Malakai, taking another sip of rum. ‘Sean wanted to go. He was fucked off with Bricky and south London. He wanted to go to America but they weren’t gonna pay for that shit. They offered places only in the UK. But his mum didn’t wanna go anywhere. She said she ain’t going nowhere where white people look at you weird, where only one bus comes once an hour and where the people chat some strange fucked-up accent.’

  ‘But the guys who did it are all still inside, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but they know Sean snitched.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Breanna finally took a sip of her Baileys. When she gulped it down, Malakai took the glass from her, placed it on the floor and started to kiss her on the forehead, her cheeks and then her neck.

  ‘Malakai!’

  ‘Yes, Bree.’

  ‘Not here … stop it! You got a condom, right?’

  ‘Course. Man is prepared.’

  Malakai’s right hand slipped beneath the front of Breanna’s jeans. Breanna closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of it all.

  ‘Not here!’ she prot
ested as Malakai fumbled with the zip of her jeans. ‘Get off, you maniac!’

  Breanna shoved Malakai off her and ran laughing out of the room and up the stairs. Malakai regained his footing and set off in pursuit, knocking over Breanna’s glass of Baileys on his way. He reached Breanna’s bedroom door but it was locked.

  ‘Stop fucking about, Bree, let me in.’

  ‘Not until you control that boner I just felt,’ chuckled Breanna.

  ‘What do you expect? At least your man’s in working order, innit.’

  ‘You kissed my forehead and I felt it.’

  ‘Take it as a compliment, Bree.’

  ‘I’m not letting you in.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Bree! This was your idea. You know what, stay in your room! I’m going downstairs and I’m gonna trouble your mum’s wine before I step home, blatantly!’

  The door opened. Breanna yanked Malakai’s right arm and pulled him inside. Before he knew what was going on Breanna kissed him. She then pulled away and locked the door. Malakai looked at the leopard-print blanket covering the double bed. There was a menagerie of cuddly tiger cubs, leopard cubs and cheetah cubs resting on the bed. Malakai couldn’t count the number of beauty products on the dressing table. Stuck with Blu-Tack to the walls were posters of Omar Epps, Tupac Shakur and Tyrese. He pulled Breanna to him and kissed her. They fell onto the bed.

  ‘Careful,’ Breanna said softly. ‘I want this to mean something … you got a condom, right?’

  ‘Course, Bree … man prepared.’

  ‘Is this your first time?’

  ‘Er, not really.’

  ‘So who was she? For your first time?’

  ‘Bree!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They resumed kissing and Malakai began to take off Breanna’s clothes. She sprung up in just her bra and knickers and pulled the curtains closed. She then dived under her bed covers, her fingers gripping the duvet. Malakai joined her and caressed her forehead and cheeks. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’re gonna be doing this for untold years.’

  Chapter 13

  The Half That’s Never Been Told

  OPENING A COLD BOTTLE of mineral water, Brenton drank half of it in one gulp. He looked towards the changing rooms of the leisure centre once again but still no sign of Floyd. A boy sitting in the corner was examining the contents of his nose on his right index finger as his tracksuit-wearing mother was ordering tea and chocolate muffins. Her hair was still wet from showering. Brenton thought her tracksuit bottoms were too tight for her generous backside. An old man still dressed in his blue shorts and grey vest was resting on another table with his sweat-soiled towel draped over his shoulders. He was very still and his eyes were staring longingly at the drinks display. Brenton wondered if he would make it to the counter to order a drink. The smell of chlorine from the swimming pool was hard to ignore and the hum of the air conditioning was irritating him.

  Should they be selling crisps and cakes in a sports centre? Brenton thought. I s’pose they gotta make their money … where the fuck is Floyd? He took another gulp from his drink.

  Floyd arrived with a victorious smile as Brenton was midway through his second bottle of water.

  ‘You’re like a woman, man,’ Brenton griped. ‘Taking so damn long to get a shower and put your clothes on.’

  Dropping his sports bag and his squash racket by Brenton’s table, Floyd went to buy two blackcurrant-flavoured energy drinks. A minute later he sat down opposite Brenton, took a generous swig from one of his bottles and smiled again. Brenton kissed his teeth.

  ‘You’re a bad loser, man,’ Floyd said.

  ‘I’ve been sick, you know.’

  ‘Sick, my back foot,’ Floyd countered. ‘You went work Thursday and Friday, didn’t you? And you agreed to play. When I lose I don’t give no excuses.’

  ‘That’s ’cos you don’t have excuses … I’m a better player.’

  ‘You weren’t the better player today. Jah know dat!’

  Inhaling slowly to control his irritation, Brenton said, ‘I agreed to play with you ’cos I wanted to sweat out what’s left of my flu. My energy levels were seriously low today. Believe dat!’

  ‘Fuckery, Brenton. You lost fair, square and rectangle and t’ing.’

  ‘Next week it’ll be back to normal. Believe it!’

  ‘Whatever, man. Whatever … Are you gonna go off and sulk and erupt over your teddy bear or you coming around my yard for your dinner?’

  ‘I dunno,’ replied Brenton, still wounded by his defeat. ‘What’s Sharon cooking?’

  ‘Somet’ing better than whatever sad microwave dinner you got in your fridge.’

  ‘Can’t you answer a straight question instead of taking the piss?’

  ‘Man! The stepping volcano’s inna temper,’ laughed Floyd. ‘You wanna take your ash cloud away from my direction! I should beat your raas more often and stop letting you win to make you feel sweet. Jah know dat!’

  ‘I’ll ask again,’ said Brenton, finishing his mineral water. ‘What’s Sharon cooking?’

  ‘Mutton, rice and peas.’

  Brenton was unable to suppress his smile.

  ‘I know you can’t resist dat!’ chuckled Floyd. ‘So stop your damn sulking, deal wid your loss like a man and admit I’m the better player.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Brenton, man!’ Floyd rebuked. ‘Mind your ghetto language. There’re kids around.’

  They both looked at the boy who had been picking his nose. He was now enjoying a Kit Kat bar and melted chocolate covered his fingers.

  Half an hour later, Brenton was following Floyd’s black Peugeot 206 to his home in Streatham. He could hear Floyd’s boosted-up car stereo boom out Black Uhuru’s Plastic Smile. As he drove up Wellfield Road he reminisced about the days in his youth when they would walk home late at night from the Bali Hai club on Streatham High Road back to their hostel in Cam-berwell. Man! Brenton recalled. We didn’t give a fuck how long we had to trod home. Kids today? They have to get in a damn car to get to the end of the friggin’ road!

  Brenton parked behind Floyd. ‘My tools are at work so I can’t do anyt’ing for Sharon today,’ he said as he climbed out of his car.

  ‘Stop worrying, man,’ Floyd assured. ‘Sharon’s not gonna ask you to do nutten.’

  ‘Ain’t she?’

  Floyd opened his front door and Brenton entered behind him. The wooden-tiled hallway had framed cartoonish images of African women pouring water from flower-patterned vases hanging from the walls. Always makes me wanna piss, thought Brenton. The aroma of rice and peas and mutton smacked him in the face and he licked his lips. Man! he said to himself. Good job I did come here ’cos I ain’t got a damn t’ing in my fridge. I should’ve bought them a bottle or somet’ing. Sharon likes her brandy.

  The double-roomed lounge was on the left but Floyd led Brenton to the end of the hallway that led to the kitchen. There was a Daffy Duck clock above the fridge and on the pine kitchen table sat a small television set that was silently broadcasting a political interview. Also on the table were Lambeth council papers and files. Brenton thought of all the social workers he had met. Wankers! he yelled in his mind. Apart from Sharon of course … and Mr Lewis.

  Sharon was wearing a Bob Marley headscarf and a Tweety Pie apron. A few rogue strands of grey hair grew defiantly on her fringe. She stirred the mutton pan and then checked the rice and peas pot before turning around to greet Brenton.

  ‘Alright, Bren,’ she greeted. ‘Did you win again? Nice of you to reach. If you’ve got time I want you to look at our bathroom later on.’ She turned to Floyd. ‘What was the score today?’

  ‘I won!’ proclaimed Floyd. ‘Oh ye of lickle faith and t’ing!’

  ‘Seriously?’ Sharon asked, disbelief on her face. ‘You won?’

  ‘You see how she stay though,’ said Floyd, gesturing with his hands. ‘My own wife has no belief in me.’

  ‘You shit though,’ laughed Brenton. ‘And when Sharon came to wa
tch us that day I murdered your backside.’

  ‘Brenton, man!’ protested Floyd. ‘Don’t use dem phrase, man. You murdered my backside? Makes me feel uncomfortable! Rejig your lingo, dread.’

  Everybody laughed and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Can I get you a drink, Brenton?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘Yes, please. Cold water. Nuff ice.’

  ‘You’re not gonna ask me?’ complained Floyd.

  ‘No. You know where the fridge is.’

  Rising from his seat, Floyd moaned, ‘You see what I have to live with?’

  ‘So where’s Gregory and Linvall?’ Brenton asked.

  ‘Linvall’s playing football in the park and Gregory’s in his room,’ Sharon answered.

  ‘He never comes out of it,’ said Floyd. ‘Playing games, downloading music or films or on that damn phone of his. When the internet police come and fine him for downloading every film in Hollywood history he’s on his own. Believe dat! He needs to step out of his room and do different t’ings.’

  ‘Leave Gregory alone,’ snapped Sharon. ‘Does he trouble anybody? No! Is he polite? Yes! So what if he’s a bit shy? Trust me, Bren, he’s a nice yout’. Not like dem sour mout’ boys I see on street. They ain’t got no respect for anybody.’

  ‘I didn’t say he wasn’t nice,’ cut in Floyd.

  ‘I’ll get your water, Bren,’ said Sharon.

  While Sharon was pouring Brenton water, Floyd was serving himself a cocktail of Southern Comfort, Coca-Cola, lime juice, lemon juice and four cubes of ice. He mixed it furiously with a teaspoon, gave it a shake and took a sip before adding another drop of Southern Comfort. He then licked his lips and grinned with satisfaction. Brenton watched him and shook his head.

  ‘I want to re-tile the bathroom, Bren,’ said Sharon. ‘And put a new bath panel on and put in some shelves. I want your advice … maybe you’ll give us a hand when you got time?’

  Brenton rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll have a look.’

  Sharon served Brenton his water. She sat down at the table and looked at Floyd. ‘Your mum called again,’ she said. ‘I’m sick and tired of being in the middle so why don’t you just go and check on her and see what she wants?’