Brenton Brown

by Alex Wheatle

  Reaching for his spliff, Brenton relit it. He sucked on it hard and exhaled through his nose. He hummed along to Barrington Levy’s Too Poor. Christmas, he thought. Fuck! I’ve had some bad ones, man. Fuck me I have. Christmas? What is that all about? People going into the red buying presents for people they don’t even like. Mums taking their spoilt kids to see Father fucking Christmas in a store and sit on his lap. What the fuck is that about? On a normal day they wouldn’t take their kids to see some old stranger dressed up in mad red garms and putting them on his lap. Are we telling our kids don’t trust strangers but it’s OK to sit on an old white guy’s knee with a paedo beard and wearing crazy red garms? It’s all fuckery. When Clayton dressed up as Father Christmas when Breanna was six, I should’ve just hit him. It’s just wrong, man. It looks too weird for black men to dress up as a fucking Santa. Birthdays? Hate them too. Just fucked-up reminders of me getting fuck all when I was a kid. Never got a damn t’ing! Fuck birthdays and all Christmases!

  He took another toke of the dying spliff and stubbed it out. He exhaled slowly and watched his smoke disappear into the ceiling. He felt a pang of hunger but didn’t have the energy to get something to eat. He couldn’t be bothered to get ready for bed. He closed his eyes. ‘Jeez and crime,’ he whispered. ‘Floyd gave me a good draw of weed. It’s making me seriously drowsy. It’s the only t’ing I can rely on in this damn world.’

  He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He could feel sleep claiming him.

  Pinewood Hills Children’s Home, Christmas Eve, 1970

  Don’t go to sleep, the seven-year-old Brenton willed himself. He opened his eyes. The dormitory was dark. All was quiet. No, he thought. He could hear Ian Nuttall’s snoring in the corner of the room. Can’t he put some cotton wool or something up his nose? Brenton thought. Maybe his ginger hair makes him snore? I’ll cut off his hair one night.

  He sat up in his bed slowly. He looked around but couldn’t make out too much. Only dark shapes in beds and that spooky framed picture of a clown that hung over the bed next to his. I’m gonna take that down and throw it on a bonfire one day, he promised himself. That clown has to die and I wanna hear it scream to make sure it’s dying.

  He felt a draught of cold around his neck. He secured the top button of his pyjama top. He could smell urine. At least it’s not me, he thought. Must be Stephen Kelleher. He’s older than me and he pisses the bed? Ten years old! What’s wrong with him? Ever since his stupid auntie stopped visiting him he’s been pissing the bed. She might not check his bed on Christmas Day but if she does he’ll get the belt. If he does get it then good! Her arm might be too tired to give me the belt later on for something I might do. And she should stuff the wet sheet into his mouth like she does with me. Yeah, stuff it down far so his throat goes all funny and his eyes go crazy and he starts coughing.

  Brenton could hear a distant buzzing sound. Is that the electric, he guessed. No, maybe it’s the fridge. No, can’t be the fridge, it’s not as loud as that. Maybe she’s still up doing something? Maybe she’s making a cake or something with that mixer thing? Please, Saint Mary, let her be in her bed. Let her never wake up. Make her go down to hell where the devil will whip her and stand on her head with his hooves. Yeah, blood coming out of her nose and eyes. Does the devil have hooves? Yeah, he does. I saw it in a book at Sunday school. Hope they’re really really big hooves with football studs. And I hope that all the fires and fireworks down there will melt her head and her arms so she can’t hit anybody ever again.

  He reached down to the floor where he picked up one of his slippers; he disturbed a matchbox car that raced towards the foot of his bed. Within the slipper was Ian Nuttall’s watch that Brenton had borrowed. The numbers on the watch were luminous green. For a short second he marvelled at the pretty sight before he whispered the time. ‘Quarter to three.’

  She has to be in her bed, he wanted to believe. I’m gonna go for it.

  He slipped out of his bed. Ian Nuttall was still snoring. He put his slippers on. He made out the dark shape of the chest of drawers. He tiptoed over to it. On the dressing table were combs, brushes, a tub of Vaseline, a Beano comic with its front page missing, a set of playing cards, an armless Action Man doll, a soiled tissue and a bicycle headlight. He picked up the headlight and made for the door. The stench of urine coming from Stephen Kelleher’s bed almost made him sneeze. He reached the door and gently squeezed the handle. He opened it just enough to poke his head around the door. He looked along the corridor to his left. There were no lights on. The girls’ dormitory was at the end of the hallway and her room was in the middle to the right. He daren’t switch on his light but as far as he could make out, her door was closed. Opposite her door was Georgie’s bedroom. His door seemed to be closed too. Good! Brenton thought. He should burn in hell too. Yeah, tie him up with no clothes and burn his willy off! And he should keep his stupid Pinkie Floydie music to himself. Don’t wanna go to his room and listen to any of his old, stupid music. Why does he keep asking me to come?

  He looked towards the stairs. Dark. He couldn’t quite make out the banister. The buzzing sound is coming from down there, he guessed. It must be the fridge. Not her making her stupid cakes.

  He checked behind him. Ian was still snoring. Time to go, he told himself.

  He took a step out into the hallway. He grimaced as he closed the door behind him as softly as he could. He was grateful for the carpet that cushioned his feet. He crept to the top of the stairs. He reached out for the banister. It felt cold and smooth. He walked down the first flight of stairs. The middle step creaked. He stopped and checked behind. A painting of a crying child hung above his head. They’re still asleep, he thought. He stepped down that bit quicker. He reached the downstairs hallway landing. He turned right and paused. He switched on the headlight. He panicked when he realised he had nearly knocked over a vase that was standing on the table. He shone the light at the ceiling. Balloons and paper chain decorations covered the upper walls and below this were cut-outs of snowmen, angels, reindeers and elves. Must walk softly, he kept telling himself. It took him ten paces to reach the lounge door. He looked behind again. Then he squeezed the door handle. He let go. Maybe she’s in there in the dark? he feared. Waiting for me. Maybe I should just go to the larder and see where the chocolate flake cakes are?

  Brenton paused. He pressed his ear against the door. He didn’t hear anything. He squeezed the door handle again. He switched off his light. The door opened. He put his head around it. Darkness. He counted to five then turned on his light again. The angel on top of the Christmas tree was almost kissing the ceiling. Fixed to the other corner of the room with tacks and masking tape was a thin naked branch. Skinnier twigs forked off the main bough. Sellotaped to the branch were dozens and dozens of Christmas cards. Not one of them belonged to Brenton. He shone his light at the foot of the tree. Presents of different sizes were expertly wrapped and neatly placed under the tree and in front of it. They had little cards slotted under pretty red ribbons. Brenton walked over to the gifts and shone his light at the labels on them.

  ‘To Ian from his loving Uncle Pedraig,’ he whispered. ‘Weird name. To Stephen from his loving aunt. To Christine, to Rita, to Ian again. To Hayley from Granma May. Granma May was a funny one. Wonder what’s wrong with her? Last time she came to visit she couldn’t walk properly and her breath stank of something. She kept on wanting to play with my hair. Stupid cow! She got really angry with her … to Paul, to Edward from Auntie Violet; she was another funny one. Kept on nodding, she did, when she was drinking her tea and eating her biscuits; why do visitors always get the chocolate and custard cream biscuits and we only get the boring ones? Then after she finished her tea she started to jab her own head. Funny lady. Dunno why it was only me who got the belt for laughing at her; Neil was laughing too.’

  Placing presents behind him, Brenton grabbed some more and read the labels. ‘To Ian again, to Yvonne, to Neil, to Paul again. Nothing for me? Not even one? To Maria, to Linda, to Rob
ert, to Paulette, to Lloyd. Another one for Rita. Another one for Hayley, stupid cow! She don’t deserve two! She didn’t eat all her rhubarb crumble yesterday. How comes she didn’t have to sit there all night like I had to?’

  Brenton shone his light on every label of every gift. None were for him. Tears ran down his cheeks. Not even one from Father Holman? he sighed. He said he’d forgiven me. Like how Jesus forgives everybody. He said if I behave then I’d get baby Jesus’ blessing. But I ain’t got nothing and everybody got something. Ian wet his bed last week and he got four presents. Rita tried to run away and she still got two. Robert got caught nicking Coca-Cola out of the fridge and he’s got a present. Paulette ran out of the house when her mum turned up and she still got a present. It’s because of her. She probably told Father Holman not to get me anything. Hate her! Hate her! Don’t care if Jesus gets angry with me. I just hate her! Why can’t the Romans and Poncy Pilot put her on a cross, bang those metal things in her hands and feet and kill her? Yeah, and put an even bigger metal thing in her fat face and get the long broom from the outhouse to whack her with. Yeah, a broom with spikes.

  He shone the light at the presents again and grabbed the biggest one. The label read To Ian with lots of love. In a fit of temper, Brenton ripped it open. The torn Christmas wrapping paper revealed a Subbuteo table football game; the World Cup edition, Brenton noted.

  He took out the contents of the box. There was a green cloth with a football pitch marked on it. There were advertising hoardings that surrounded the pitch. He picked out two tiny white goals that had white netting. He collected the four corner flags. There was even a scoreboard and two mini footballs. He took out the inch-high plastic players from their polystyrene casing. One team was coloured in blue and the other red. Anger surged through him. He snapped all the blue players in half from the waist down. ‘Hate Chelsea,’ he whispered.

  Throwing the broken players into a corner of the room he then decapitated the heads of the red team. ‘And I hate Man United!’

  He then broke the legs of the goalkeepers, cracked the scoreboard and was about to rip the green cloth when the lounge room light was switched on. Brenton sat motionless. There she was. Her hair was in rollers. She was wearing a peach-coloured dressing gown and beige slippers. Her arms were crossed. Her eyes were unblinking. Brenton knew that was a prelude to a beating. He backed away against the Christmas tree.

  Miss Hills looked at the torn wrapping paper and then the mutilated plastic football players. Brenton covered his face.

  ‘You animal!’ Miss Hills shrieked. ‘You animal!’

  She rushed towards Brenton flailing her arms, punching and slapping him with all her might. He tried to defend himself with his arms but it was useless.

  ‘You’re nothing but an animal! A bloody animal!’

  Brenton’s left eye was already closing. He sustained a gash to his right eyebrow. His nose was bleeding.

  When Georgie came rushing into the lounge, he found Brenton cornered against a bending Christmas tree. Baubles and tinsel were falling to the floor. Presents were scattered. The angel, losing its wings, fell off the top of the Christmas tree and landed on her head.

  ‘Get him out of here!’ Miss Hills screamed. ‘Get that animal out of here!’

  She backed off. Brenton curled up into a ball on the floor. He covered his face. His nose was still bleeding. His blood spotted the carpet and a few presents.

  ‘Get him out of here!’ Miss Hills demanded. ‘Just look what he’s done! Look what he’s done!’

  Georgie tried to pull Brenton to his feet but he refused to move. He wanted to remain on the floor, curled up as tightly as he could manage.

  ‘He won’t move,’ said Georgie.

  ‘Get him out of my front room before I kill him!’ screamed Miss Hills.

  Brenton felt a punch behind his right ear. As he moved his hands to rub his head, he felt himself being lifted. His waist was almost crushed in Georgie’s hold. He took him out of the house through the back door. The cold air stroked Brenton’s feet and hands and then he felt it on his chest. His eyes began to water. He was dizzy

  ‘Put him in the outhouse,’ ordered Miss Hills. ‘I just can’t believe what that animal has done! Broke the game! He broke the Subbuteo game!’

  Deciding not to struggle in Georgie’s grip, Brenton could only think why he went downstairs without his dressing gown. He could now feel the cold on his nose and lips. His toes were feeling funny. His head felt heavy, like someone had poured something warm and horrible into the top of his brain.

  As Georgie opened the outhouse door, Brenton wondered if he’d ever be allowed out again.

  ‘Let him stay there till breakfast,’ said Miss Hills. ‘He’s gone too far this time. Smashing other kids’ presents. Too bloody far! If he wants to behave like an animal then we’ll treat him like an animal. Make sure you lock it, Georgie.’

  Shoving Brenton inside, Georgie secured the lock.

  ‘That’ll teach him,’ said Miss Hills. ‘Come on, Georgie, I’ll make us a pot of tea. I need it. We’ll have a couple of mince pies too. It’s Christmas Day now. I don’t know what we’re going to do about the Subbuteo game? I’ll have to buy another one to replace it. By the saints! That child will be the ruin of me! I have a good mind to take it out of his clothing allowance. Animal he is. An animal!’

  ‘Shall I get his dressing gown?’ Georgie asked. ‘It’s a bit nippy tonight.’

  ‘No!’ Miss Hills snapped. ‘Let the cold air bite the little black bastard. It might put some sense into him. Honestly, Georgie! What are we going to do with him? He fouled the Father’s front door with his own poo and now this. Disgusting he is. Bloody disgusting. When the Christmas holiday is over I’ll have to talk to the senior social worker at Blue Star House. I’m not putting up with this behaviour. I’m not having it, I tell you, Georgie.’

  Brenton heard Miss Hills and Georgie walk away. He heard the opening of the back door and the closing of it. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. He could feel a swelling. He looked at the palm of his right hand and was relieved to find he wasn’t bleeding. He stood up and switched on the light: cobwebs in high corners; the old lounge sofa upside down in the middle of the room; a baby’s high chair on its side; rusting bike parts and broken prams; biscuit tins full of nuts, screws, bolts and spanners; a chipped rounders bat on a window ledge. He could smell oil and something else that he couldn’t quite place. He placed a hand on the wall. It was damp. He took his hand off the wall and his palm was caked in dust. Resting against the same wall was a blackboard. It was detached from its easel. Someone had played noughts and crosses on the blackboard and Brenton rubbed it off with the palm of his right hand. He found a small bit of white chalk on the floor. He picked it up and started to draw something. He sang a song. ‘Tie a yellow ribbon around the old oak tree …’ He couldn’t remember the rest of the words so he thought of another song. ‘We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine …’

  He paused as he looked at what he had sketched. It was a woman with big eyes and a big smile. She had an Afro that was much too large for her head. Underneath the drawing he wrote Mum. He smiled.

  Chapter 18

  Too Pretty

  STRUGGLING TO KEEP THE SHUTTLECOCK in play, Tessa lunged and slipped on the badminton court in the sports hall. She slowly got to her feet, rubbed her knees and swept her hair out of her eyes. Tessa looked around to see if anyone had seen her fall. A young Indian boy, walking by in his white vest and shorts, covered his mouth with his hands, trying to stifle his laughter. Tessa, mockingly, bared her teeth at him and raised a fist.

  ‘14–4,’ said Juliet, walking to pick up the shuttlecock.

  Tessa readied herself to receive Juliet’s serve. The subsequent rally lasted seven shots with Juliet winning the point with an overhead smash. ‘15–4,’ she proclaimed.

  Breathing heavily, Tessa offered Juliet a long glare before walking off court to find her bottle of
water. She threw her racquet on the floor and sat against a wall beside a folded-up trampoline swigging her drink. Her sports top and baggy tracksuit bottoms were stained with sweat. She poured a little water over her head before drinking again from her bottle.

  ‘You’re not going to play the next set?’ asked Juliet.

  ‘Lay off, Jules,’ Tessa answered. ‘I’m knackered. You might have to carry me into the changing rooms. I think I’m gonna be sick. Either that or I’m dying.’

  Joining Tessa by the wall, Juliet sat down beside her and took out a pink towel from her bag. She swabbed the sweat off her face and draped it around her shoulders. Her red sports top was not as wet as Tessa’s and her tight black leggings had drawn glances from every man she passed. She took an energy drink from her bag, took a sip and sighed. She could hear the thwack of racquets, the groans and the pounding of feet from the other badminton court. At the other end of the hall, four Chinese men were playing a serious game of table tennis doubles.