Brenton Brown

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Is that you?’ Brenton called from the kitchen. ‘I’m just washing up a few t’ings. Sit down in the front room, man. I’ll be with you in a sec.’

  Sitting down at the dinner table in the lounge, Sean slowly took in his surroundings. He looked at a framed photo of a sixteen-year-old Breanna that was staring out from the glass cabinet. So innocent, he thought. Little did she know back then that her future man would be shot down by a bullet meant for me. Oh fuck.

  He could hear the sound of running water and the chink and clatter of cutlery being thrown onto a draining board. He could feel his T-shirt sticking to his chest and back. His sweaty boxers felt uncomfortable against his crotch and his backside. He felt for his knife again.

  Drying his hands with a tea towel, Brenton sat opposite Sean. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ he said. ‘You want somet’ing to drink? I’ve got a brew in the fridge.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ replied Sean. His right hand was still inside his jacket.

  ‘Do you wanna take your jacket off?’

  ‘Nah, nah. I’m good. I can’t stay too long.’

  ‘You wanna towel to dry off the rain?’

  ‘I’ll be alright,’ said Sean.

  ‘OK,’ said Brenton. He looked Sean over for a long second. ‘My sister Juliet tells me you’re hunting work.’

  ‘Yeah, I am,’ answered Sean. ‘Malakai, may he rest in peace, always said I shouldn’t stop looking and asking. Trust. So I’m asking you.’

  ‘You have any kinda experience? Like you ever fixed on a lock into a door or even hung a door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You ever helped putting down wooden flooring or somet’ing like that?’

  ‘Er, no. But I can learn, innit?’

  Brenton took a long hard look at Sean. He’s obviously nervous, he observed. Why’s he sweating? Ain’t that hot in here. Must want a job bad. Good! He should want a job bad. Seems like he wants to turn his life around. What will Breanna say if I give him a little somet’ing? I wonder if she still isn’t chatting to him? Hope it’ll be alright with her.

  ‘I can’t give you anyt’ing full-time, you understand?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean nodded.

  ‘But maybe I can give you like, sixteen, maybe twenty hours a week. Some overtime when it’s needed. I’ve got nuff work coming up but I need someone reliable.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean nodded again. ‘Course you do. Trust!’

  ‘I want someone on serious time, someone who doesn’t ding me at the last minute and say they can’t make it. That ain’t no fucking good to me, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, bredren.’

  ‘You ain’t my bredren,’ rebuked Brenton. ‘Call me by my name. Brenton or Mr Brown. I ain’t your friend on street. I’m your employer. Remember that.’

  ‘Yeah, I will.’

  ‘And if you’re gonna work with me I don’t wanna see you chatting on your mobile all day,’ stressed Brenton. ‘Them t’ings really fuck me off. If your mum’s on the way to hospital then yeah, I can allow that but if a friend is dinging you about some fit girl he saw in Tesco’s then I’m not allowing that, y’understand?’

  ‘Yeah I hear you,’ said Sean. ‘Man s’posed to be working, innit. It’s a big disrespect if man’s chatting on his mobile all day. I know that. For real.’

  ‘Whatever I do at work I’ll show you how to do it,’ explained Brenton. ‘Use your initiative, watch and learn closely.’

  ‘That’s a given, man … er, I mean, Brenton.’

  ‘On most of my jobs I work with a painter and decorator,’ informed Brenton. ‘His name is Daniel. White guy. Sometimes you might have to give him a hand.’

  ‘That’s all sweet,’ nodded Sean.

  ‘I have to tell you one t’ing though,’ said Brenton. ‘Be honest with you and t’ing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m leaving this country by the end of the year,’ revealed Brenton. ‘So that gives you what? Six months and a bit working for me, if you like. I’d well understand if some other job came up though and you wanted to step to it.’

  Sean nodded. ‘Yeah, I hear that. But man out there don’t wanna give a job to someone like me who done bird. So I don’t think I’ll be getting too many offers. Trust!’

  ‘But in the time we’ve got,’ added Brenton, ‘I’ll try and teach you everyt’ing I know. It’s up to you after that.’

  ‘I’m on that,’ nodded Sean again.

  ‘Most of the time I’m working on people’s property,’ explained Brenton. ‘And when you’re working inside people’s property you have to respect that. Seriously. So if the owner’s there and you wanna piss then you ask permission to use his or her piss pot, you understand? If you wanna use a mug and make a cup of coffee then you ask permission to pick up that mug, you understand? If it’s one bitch of a hot day and you find a Cornetto ice cream in someone’s fridge, don’t trouble it, you understand? You get my drift? If there’s a mat outside the door then use it and always be polite. Use Mr this and Mrs that or Miss whatever.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m on that.’

  ‘Good!’

  Brenton smiled. He slapped Sean on his right shoulder in a gesture of welcome. Sean felt his knife jump and move an inch before it settled down. He palmed away the sweat on his forehead once more and then pulled up his anorak zip close to his throat.

  ‘I’ve got some chicken patties in the fridge,’ said Brenton standing up. ‘I was gonna put two in the microwave for myself. You want one?’

  ‘Er, chicken pattie? Yeah. Why not. Kinda hungry.’

  Brenton went to the kitchen. Sean closed his eyes and then reopened them again. He took in a deep breath. He pulled down his jacket zip a few inches. He felt for the handle of the bread knife. His hand was clammy. He exhaled. He heard Brenton clattering about in his freezer. He wiped the sweat of his palms onto his jeans. He stood up and looked into the kitchen. He saw Brenton kneeling down, looking for the frozen chicken patties. He took two paces towards him. He stopped. He groped for his knife. His right thumb and forefinger rested on top of the handle. He walked the rest of the way to the kitchen. Brenton was still searching for the patties. With his left hand Sean swabbed away the sweat from his face. He could feel perspiration dripping from his armpits onto his ribs.

  Coward, Sean thought to himself. Breanna called me a coward. She said I was nothing. I won’t be nothing if I merk him. No one can call me a pussy if I shank him. But he’s offering me a job. Giving me a chance. No one’s given me a proper chance before. Except Malakai. He always thought I could do something. Rest in peace, bredren.

  Turning around, Brenton was alarmed to see Sean so close. ‘Found them!’ Brenton said, smiling big. ‘Gotta sort out that fridge, man. It’s a mess. Did you want somet’ing?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Sean, bringing his hands down to his sides. ‘I do wanna drink. Not a brew though, water will do. Cold water. Ice if you got it. I’m feeling kinda hot.’

  ‘Yeah I can see that,’ laughed Brenton. ‘Water is all I’ve got. Ain’t got no soft drinks, juice or anyt’ing. Sit down and rest up, man. I’ll get it.’

  Brenton went to fetch a glass of water. Sean watched him bang the ice cubes out of their tray. He placed five cubes in Sean’s glass. He offered the drink to Sean.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sean. He took it and returned to the dinner table. He drank half of it in one go.

  Two minutes later the microwave beeped and Brenton served Sean with a hot chicken pattie. ‘Thanks,’ said Sean once again.

  ‘I’m just going to the piss pot,’ said Brenton. ‘Soon come.’

  Brenton disappeared into the hallway. Sean took a sip of cold water. He nibbled on his chicken pattie and took another sip of water. He felt for his knife. He grabbed the handle. He took it out from his jacket. He studied the blade. He ran his finger over the cutting edge. He imagined blood running down its length. He visualised the knife sticking out of Brenton’s chest. The man fucked up Mum’s life, thought Sean. Fucked up my life too. Ev
en if I do bird again no one can call me a pussy. And bird ain’t too bad. At least I can do my weights there, play b-ball and play five a side on the AstroTurf. Food ain’t bad either. Three meals a day. If I do go down then I hope they don’t send me too far away. I hope they send me to a place that Mum can reach. If I shank him no one can call me a coward. Not if I shank a proper Brixton badman. He’s old school but he’s still a bonafide badman. Nuff old peeps still chat about him. The steppin’ volcano. My paps was a G and people were scared of him. They’ll be scared of me if I shank him. Yeah, at least I’ll get some respect … but he offered me work. Ain’t no one out there who’s offered me shit.

  The sound of a toilet flushing and a latch being pulled prompted Sean to hurriedly put the knife back inside his jacket. He took a generous gulp of water and then bit off a sizable chunk of chicken pattie. Brenton emerged just as the microwave beeped again. He went to the kitchen and took out his two chicken patties. He took a bottled beer from the fridge and joined Sean at the dinner table.

  Sean continued eating. He took another sip of water. He looked up and saw Brenton staring at him. ‘I’ve got to tell you something,’ Sean said.

  ‘Tell me what?’ asked Brenton. ‘Oh, by the way. When you start, make sure you remember to give me your national insurance number. You alright to start next Monday? Oh, give me your shoe size too. So I can get you a pair of safety boots. You wouldn’t believe the tribulation I would get if you stepped on a raas piece of nail in your trainers on your first day. I need to get you some safety glasses for when you drill and t’ing. I’ve got a spare helmet. It should fit ’cos you ain’t got a ’fro. It’s all about the safety these days, believe me.’

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ repeated Sean. He was now fiddling with his thumbs and looking at the table.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Brenton wanted to know. He was watching Sean’s hands.

  ‘You, er …’

  ‘I what?’

  ‘You knew my paps.’

  ‘Yeah? What was his name?’

  Sean pressed his palms together and interlocked his fingers. He sensed sweat dripping down his chin. He felt his heart pump faster. He glanced at Brenton. He quickly looked away.

  ‘Chat to me, man,’ urged Brenton. ‘What’s troubling you?’

  ‘Er, Terry … Terry Flynn … you killed him.’

  Not moving in his chair, Brenton just stared at Sean. He studied his forehead and his eyes. His mind rewound back to 1980. The images and sounds were at first blurry but they were becoming clear. Brixton tube station. The hum of the escalator. The fight with Flynn on the platform. Flynn biting into his shoulder. Flynn spitting out a mouthful of skin and flesh. The agonising pain. The blood. The crackle of the live rail. The gust of wind. The headlights of the tube train. Flynn trying to reach his knife. Flynn’s scream. Flynn’s body being dragged by the train. Flynn’s arm tearing off. The shrieks. The fainting woman. The silence from Flynn after his wailing. His still body. The blood. The mess. The mangled arm. The stench. People running. People staring. A lone voice shouting. His adrenaline racing. Trying to catch his breath.

  Standing up, Brenton turned his back on Sean and walked towards the glass cabinet where he paused. ‘He tried to kill me, Sean,’ he finally said. ‘We tried to kill each other. I was the one who got lucky.’

  ‘Mum tries to give me the story that Paps was alright,’ said Sean. ‘You know, a man trying to do his best. But some old-school Bricky man tell me he was a proper G. A lineman. I heard he jacked and shanked nuff nigg … er, I mean brothers.’

  Brenton nodded. He was now staring at a framed photo of Juliet in his glass cabinet.

  ‘Mum always blamed you,’ continued Sean. ‘She reckons that if he lived Paps and her woulda made a go of t’ings.’

  ‘Maybe they would have,’ admitted Brenton. He turned around and faced Sean. ‘Those were mad days. Me and your paps had this beef …’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Sean. ‘They called you the steppin’ volcano right?’

  Brenton nodded.

  Sean took another two bites from his chicken pattie and finished his water. Brenton watched him but in his mind he saw something quite different. He was back in 1980. Outside Brixton tube station. In excruciating pain he jumped on a Routemaster bus. He had to see Juliet. Passengers moved out of his way. He couldn’t stop his own bleeding. He felt dizzy. Had to see Juliet, he remembered. Just had to see her. Blood was spotting the floor of the top deck on the bus. For some reason he tried to stamp it out with his feet. What was he thinking? What a fucked-up day that was, he recalled. Almost dead and found out Juliet was pregnant. Seems like yesterday …

  ‘Mr Brown!’ called Sean. ‘Mr Brown. You alright?’

  ‘What? Yes, sorry. Give me a sec.’

  Brenton returned to the kitchen. He filled a glass with cold water and drank it in one go. He stared into the sink. He felt his face getting warm so he sprinkled water on the top of his head. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and exhaled. Son of Terror Flynn! He thought. Badman Terror Flynn. He terrorised nuff people, jacked a trailerload of man back in the day. Floyd ain’t gonna believe this. Jesus on a fucking moped! Christ on a raas claat bike! Life sometimes funny. What do I do? I can’t take away the job I’ve just given him. That would be fucked-up and bad-mind. Son of Terror Flynn? Boy! What a palaver. He ain’t looking for revenge, is he? He might wanna kill my backside.

  Taking in one more deep breath, Brenton returned to the lounge. Sean watched him all the way. Brenton slowly sat down. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said. ‘Yeah, we were going to war on each other. We had this mad blood feud going on. But the tube train killed him.’

  Sean studied Brenton’s face as if he had to write an essay about it. He said nothing for the next few minutes. Brenton started eating his patties again. He drank his beer. Only when he finished did Sean speak again. ‘One of my paps old-time bredrens said you was a proper warrior, not scared of nothing.’

  ‘Not scared of nothing?’ repeated Brenton. ‘That ain’t true.’

  ‘But you weren’t scared of my paps rep or anybody else.’

  ‘I was scared of everyt’ing,’ said Brenton. ‘Your paps scared the living backside outta me. I knew he was after me. I couldn’t sleep at night. Could hardly walk on street without looking over my shoulder.’

  ‘But you still went to war with him,’ interrupted Sean. ‘Why?’

  Brenton thought about it. ‘I’m not sure. I think I was a bit cuckoo, you know, crazy. I was reckless. I didn’t have nothing to lose. But I was still scared. I think I couldn’t stand the fact that he was looking for me. It seriously stressed me out so I thought what the fuck? I might as well look for him.’

  Sean leaned forward in his chair. He searched Brenton’s eyes. ‘What? What makes you brave? What makes a man brave? What makes them stand up and fight when a next man is thinking of running away?’

  Brenton scratched behind his right ear. He was about to say something but paused. He gazed at Sean. ‘Depends on what you think is brave,’ he finally said. ‘It’s not all about going to war with a man. Some people are not cut out for that shit. Some are. But whether you are or not it don’t mean that you’re all brave. Sometimes being brave is about doing something positive when your own bredrens are laughing at you. That’s brave.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sean.

  ‘I used to know a rapper,’ Brenton answered. ‘In my day we used to call them toasters. He wanted to be the best so everywhere he went he took his notepad with him, seriously. He would write his lyrics down and nuff yout’s did laugh at him. Back in my day no rapper trod street with a pencil and paper, y’understand? Anyway, this rapper used to have this small dictionary, you know, one of them pocket-sized t’ings. He used to go to the library and read nuff books, you understand? Man and man would laugh at him, take the piss outta him, kick all his books outta his hands. But he left Brixton to go Jamaica and become massive.’

  ‘What was his name?’ Sean aske
d.

  ‘Ranking T-saurus,’ replied Brenton. ‘He could chat lyrics all night. He got a recording contract with some American label and now he’s living in style in Atlanta. Believe me! But my point is when man and man was laughing at him, it was seriously brave to keep doing what he did, y’understand?’

  Sean nodded.

  ‘I’ve got a brother-in-law,’ continued Brenton. ‘Clayton. To tell you the trut’ I’ve never got on with him. Clash of personality and t’ing. Trust me. Me and him can never agree. He goes on all superior and t’ing. He gets on my damn nerves with all that shit. But I respect him though ’cos he went to uni where there was whole heap of white people; I think he was the only black brother in his class. Yeah, Juliet told me all about the shit he had to deal with. I think he was the only brother in the whole damn uni. Anyway, he took all their fuckery, all their fucked-up whispers, all their racism and t’ing and got what he wanted, y’understand. That’s brave.’

  ‘I hear that,’ nodded Sean.

  ‘So even you,’ resumed Brenton, ‘coming to my yard today. Juliet told me a little about your life, how you got involved with a madness, went prison and t’ing. But you stepped to my yard. You wanna change. Respect due! That’s brave. With Malakai passing away and t’ing you coulda gone to war with them other yout’s, y’understand? There might’ve been pressure dropping on your head from the street to get your revenge, you know. Malakai was your best friend and t’ing. But nah, you stepped to my yard looking work. Respect due for that. That’s brave. Y’understand what I’m trying to say?’

  ‘Yeah. I see what you mean.’

  Brenton nodded. ‘I’m sorry for what happened with your daddy but it was a long time ago. It was a me-and-him situation, a last-man-standing kinda fucked-up t’ing. I could understand if you didn’t wanna work with me but the offer’s still there.’

  Sean looked at the table then glanced at Brenton. ‘Yeah, it was a long time. Man wants to move on now. I wanna make something outta my life. Malakai thought I could. So I owe him at least a try. Trust!’