by Alex Wheatle
‘Alright, alright,’ said Floyd. ‘No need to burst no blood vessel and t’ing. Just checking.’
‘Come on, man,’ said Biscuit. ‘Let’s step to Coff’s BMW. You know what? This is the first time I’ve been in his BM and he’s had it for what? Seven months now?’
‘It’s gonna be the only time,’ insisted Coffin Head. ‘There’s custard cream crumbs all over the passenger seat, man. Serious t’ing! And you ain’t cleaning it up.’
‘Oh for fucking Buddha on a bouncy castle!’ Biscuit said. ‘Stop bitching, Coff!’
As Brenton heard the banter of his friends, he realised how much he would miss just listening to them. It was a joy to hear their jesting and he reckoned he had no need to fork out and watch a play for entertainment like Juliet had always encouraged him to do. But would he be able to make new friends in Florida? he wondered. Probably not. And if I did they’d be nowhere near as good or funny as Floyd, Biscuit and Coffin Head. Maybe it’s easier for me to discover and live in another place? My roots are not in south London. Not like it is with them. They belong here. This place has defined the way they walk, talk and carry themselves. They’re at ease here. If I was honest with myself I’m not at ease here. Not at all. Serious. Maybe I’m not at ease anywhere. But I’ll be alright. Been on my own before.
The image of the outhouse where Brenton was locked in for so many hours as a child grew large in his mind.
Coffin Head led Brenton and the others to his BMW. When Brenton climbed inside he could smell a strong mint air freshener. The interior was pristine clean and Brenton found no crumbs on the front passenger seat. He spotted a small battery-operated hoover on the shelf behind the rear seats. Coffin Head started the car, the Chantells’ Waiting in the Park harmonised from the stereo and Brenton smiled as Coffin Head drove around the one-way system and up Tulse Hill.
Pulling up outside Juliet’s house, Coffin Head shook Brenton’s hand. ‘Keep in touch, man,’ he said. ‘And let me know when me and Denise can reach.’
‘Same goes for me and Carol,’ said Biscuit. ‘Don’t take too long, you know! Have a safe flight and t’ing and don’t burn no herb on the plane.’
Picking up a plastic bag from the glove compartment, Brenton turned to Floyd. ‘Make sure you get to my yard on time, you know.’
‘Stop fretting, dread,’ Floyd replied. ‘Six a.m. on the black dot and t’ing. You just make sure you’re ready when I ding you.’
Brenton climbed out of the car. He took one last look at his friends before Coffin Head found first gear and pulled away. He tooted his horn twice. Brenton watched them disappear into the next left-hand turning. He checked his watch. Ten forty-five p.m. He walked up to Juliet’s front door and pressed the doorbell.
He shuffled his feet nervously and rubbed his hands together. He scratched behind his right ear. Juliet opened the door. She was wearing black slacks, a T-shirt and a black cardigan. She smiled as she greeted her brother. ‘I was surprised to get your call that you’re coming this evening.’
‘Yeah, er, sorry I’m a bit late,’ said Brenton. ‘We was in the Ritzy, you know, saying goodbye and t’ing.’
Juliet led Brenton to the lounge. Brenton sat in an armchair. He unbuttoned his leather jacket.
‘Do … do you want a coffee?’ Juliet asked.
‘No, no,’ answered Brenton. ‘Trying to keep off coffee and t’ing till I fly off. It makes me wanna piss quick time and I hate using plane toilets, man.’
‘You want anything to eat?’
‘Nah, nah. Had something earlier. We went to that place on Acre Lane, the Jamaican restaurant. Bam … something. Biscuit chose the place.’
‘Bamboula,’ corrected Juliet. ‘Food there is alright I s’pose but they make their rice and peas too sweet.’
‘I … I just come to drop off the photos and t’ing,’ said Brenton. ‘You remembered?’
‘Yeah, no worries. I went to that photo shop place and some of the old ones, me as a toddler and t’ing, they cleaned up, made it look better.’
‘Thanks, Brenton.’
‘No worries, man.’
‘Am I still driving you to the airport?’
‘Er, no. Floyd said he’ll take me. He got a little vex that I didn’t ask him first. Well, not a little vex. He got big-time vex. You know how he stays.’
‘I understand,’ said Juliet.
‘No Clayton? No Breanna?’
‘Breanna is out clubbing with her mates,’ said Juliet. ‘Clayton’s on his way back from Paris. His train gets in about now.’
‘Can … can you drop me home then?’ asked Brenton.
‘Course … now?’
‘Yeah, I wanna put in a good night’s sleep before I leave.’
‘Alright, let me get my coat.’
Waiting in the hallway, Brenton wondered if he’d ever stand in it again. He recalled the first time he set eyes on his sister at his mother’s house. Mum had a similar hallway, he remembered. The white Jesus pic, the velvet scroll of Jamaican icons and a painting of a Jamaican bus. Jamaican buses! Man! They should be a ride in Alton Towers. That’ll scare the kids.
‘Come on then,’ said Juliet, placing a woolly hat on her head.
Brenton followed her to her car. She unlocked the doors with a mechanism on her key ring. Brenton climbed into the front passenger seat. This smells even better than Coffin Head’s car, he thought.
Juliet climbed in beside him. She switched on the ignition and cranked the heating up. Brenton gazed at Juliet. She held his gaze for more than a few seconds. She then indicated right and switched her attention to the road. Neither of them spoke.
Brenton broke the silence. ‘So how’s Breanna doing at the youth club?’
‘She’s loving it,’ said Juliet. ‘She’s going on a residential at the end of February during half term. Wales, I think. They’re going on this obstacle course, doing a bit of canoeing and rafting. A bit of climbing and abseiling. She’s always talking about the kids she works with.’
‘That’s good, man,’ Brenton nodded.
‘She wanted to come with me to drop you off at the airport in the morning.’
‘Oh, sorry about that.’
‘It’s alright.’
‘Will Sean be alright?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, he started work two weeks ago for another firm,’ Brenton answered. ‘I gave him a reference. I’m kinda proud of him. He never missed a day’s work when I wanted him and he learned a lot. Daniel’s now setting himself up on his own. He’ll do good.’
‘You’re proud of him,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m proud of you, taking him on when nobody else would.’
‘I know what it’s like to be in his position, Juliet. At one time everybody wrote me off. No one wanted to give me a chance.’
‘I did,’ said Juliet. ‘First time I saw you I knew you had a softer side, a vulnerable side. You weren’t this crazy street boy who wanted to fight everybody. You just wanted to be … liked.’
Brenton thought about it and nodded. He had a flashback of sitting in a police interview room. He was sixteen. A police sergeant was leaning towards him. His sleeves were rolled up. He had a bad moustache. He stank of cigarettes and a sweaty shirt. ‘Are you a fucking psycho, Brown?’ he shouted into his face.
Brenton remembered how frightened he was. How he thought he might get beaten up at any minute. But he still replied, ‘Fuck you and your mum, you dirty cunt!’
‘So this is it!’ Juliet said, jolting Brenton out of his memories. ‘Are you going to write me? E-mail me?’
‘Are you gonna visit me?’
Brother and sister gazed into each other’s eyes again.
‘I really don’t know when I’ll be able to,’ replied Juliet. ‘Breanna wants to visit you though, as soon as you’re up and running. She’s probably bought her beach stuff already.’
Brenton laughed. Juliet leant in towards Brenton and kissed him on his cheek. Her lips lingered on his skin. She pulled away two inches and then kissed him on the o
ther cheek. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she said. ‘Stay in touch.’
Brenton returned the kiss on Juliet’s cheek. He then kissed her on her chin. He pulled away. He looked into her eyes and kissed her again just below her mouth. Juliet found her right hand riding up Brenton’s left shoulder. She pulled away, adjusted her coat and looked through the windscreen. ‘Bye, Brenton. Call me or text me when you land. Let me know you’re safe.’
‘Yeah … yeah, course.’
‘Don’t forget.’
‘I won’t.’
Brenton climbed out of the car. Juliet gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead. She was reluctant to pull away until Brenton went inside but he stood there, watching her.
Finally, Juliet found first gear, indicated right and pulled away. As soon as she turned into the next corner she pulled up again. She applied the handbrake and dropped her head into her hands. Juliet sat herself up. She wiped the tears off her face and stared vacantly through the windscreen. Ten hours later, Clayton was running down the stairs adjusting his cufflinks. He went to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of apple juice. He downed it in three takes, and poured himself a little more. He searched his trouser pockets for a chewing mint and popped it into his mouth. He then checked his appearance in a hallway mirror before going into the front room. He was about to pick up a newspaper that he had asked Juliet to buy for him the day before but something else caught his eye. On the coffee table was Brenton’s photo shop bag. Clayton picked it up and looked inside. He took out the photographs of a young Brenton and placed them on the coffee table.
He concentrated on the images where Brenton was very young. He picked one photo up and brought it closer to his eyes. He squinted. ‘I knew it,’ he whispered. ‘Just fucking knew it.’ He switched on the light and studied the photo again. He then bull-frogged upstairs and into his bedroom. He opened Juliet’s wardrobe. On her top shelf, where she kept her hats, were the photo albums. He took five of them down and dropped them on the bed. He locked the bedroom door and returned to the photo albums. He placed the picture of a very young Brenton on the bed and began to leaf through photographs of a young Breanna. He stopped when he found a portrait picture of Breanna when she was four years old. He placed Brenton’s photograph beside it. He opened his mouth and then covered it with his left hand. ‘Shit!’ he uttered. ‘Oh my God! So alike! That’s it! Always knew it! Should I go to her about it? No! She’ll deny it. Anyway the dumb prick is leaving this morning. About fucking time.’
He carefully replaced the photo albums in Juliet’s wardrobe and then unlocked the bedroom door. He checked the hallway before going back downstairs with Brenton’s photo. Before he put the photograph back in the bag he took a last look at it. ‘Him, Juliet?’ he whispered to himself. ‘Of all the people in the world why the fuck him!’
Chapter 23
Heathrow to Streatham
Three years later, April 2005
LIFTING BREANNA’S SUITCASE into her car boot, Juliet said, ‘Are you sure you didn’t have to pay extra for your baggage weight? It’s twice as bloody heavy from when you left.’
‘What do you expect, Mum,’ said Breanna, placing her travel bag and her duty-free shopping on the back seat. ‘I bought a lot of clothes and three of my friends wanted some perfume; it’s proper cheap over there and I’ve got some rum, vodka and Baileys.’
‘You didn’t have to buy the drink, Breanna,’ said Juliet slamming the boot closed.
‘It’s cheaper in duty free,’ said Breanna throwing up her arms. ‘Besides, waiting in the departure lounge is boring. You might as well spend some dollars while you’re waiting for your plane.’
Breanna climbed into the front passenger seat. She crossed her arms, let out a sigh and closed her eyes. Juliet started the car, reversed out of her parking bay and headed out of the airport complex. The traffic was slow towards London and Juliet tuned the radio to Choice FM. It wasn’t until she was on the A4 driving towards west London that Juliet spoke again. Her eyes remained fixed on the road ahead as she asked. ‘How is he?’
Breanna opened her eyes. She squinted at the brightness of the sun. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself, Mum? When’s the last time you called him?’
‘I called him two and a half weeks ago on the day you left.’
‘So you should know how he is then, innit.’
‘Breanna! I just asked you an everyday question. Call it polite conversation. Why you have to be so damn awkward? Does he look OK? Is his job working out? Do you think he’s happy?’
‘Uncle Brenton’s safe,’ Breanna answered. She felt the cold breeze against her face so she wound up her window. ‘He’s got used to Miami. Work is going alright for him. There’s all these new places being built on the way to the Keys and he’s working there.’
‘Was that so hard?’ Juliet asked.
‘You should go and see him yourself.’
‘Breanna, you know I’ve been so busy with the election campaign and trying to get other things done. I can’t just drop everything and fly off to Miami.’
‘Why not? You could’ve gone last year … and the year before that. He’s been out there for three years and you haven’t seen him once. Why, Mum? What did he ever do to you? You’re always going on about how he had a messed-up life when he was a kid and how unlucky he was. You always used to say how he grew up alone. But you can’t even be bothered to see him. I don’t care. That’s blatantly bad-mind!’
‘Breanna! Sometimes you’re so much like your …’
‘So much like what, Mum? Let me answer your question fully. Yeah, Uncle Brenton is alright. He’s got a nice place. His standard of living has gone up; he’s earning some decent dollars. But he hasn’t got many friends out there. There’s some Cuban guy he works with and who comes round to his place now and again, but he don’t speak good English. There’s also some Guatemalan guy too and he don’t speak English too good either. That girl he was seeing last year, he broke up with her. Saw a picture of her on Uncle Brenton’s computer. Real pretty Nicaraguan girl. I think she was in her mid-twenties. Shame they broke up … I think she was his only girlfriend since he’s been out there. He’s a bit lonely now.’
‘I didn’t force him to leave, Breanna,’ Juliet raised her voice. ‘I didn’t push him on a plane …’
‘You know what, Mum?’ interrupted Breanna. ‘Most days he goes to work. He comes back and only ’cos I was there he would cook something. He goes to his garden, eats his dinner. He watches the BBC World News and then he listens to one of the reggae radio stations. Then he goes to bed.’
‘Most people do that in this world, Breanna. I do the same. I wish I had time to socialise when I come home from work but I haven’t got the time or I’m tired. Brenton’s probably the same.’
‘No he’s not,’ argued Breanna. ‘You’re being flippant! He’s lonely. When he gets home he can’t just call up a friend because his best friends are over here.’
Juliet turned off the A4 and headed towards Kew Gardens. She checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror and now wished she had asked Clayton to pick Breanna up from the airport.
‘At least his friends made the effort to see him,’ continued Breanna. ‘Or call him. Floyd calls him every other Sunday. Everton and Denise went over last November. Lincoln and Carol saw him last summer. Floyd and Sharon have been over twice. But you! You’re s’posed to be his sister, for fuck’s sake! That’s a joke.’
‘Breanna! Ever since …’
‘Ever since what? Every since Malakai died I speak my mind? And I don’t care who I’m speaking to? Deal with it, Mum. Sorry for swearing, but it’s true. I’ve heard you arguing with Dad. Especially that time after Gran died. Uncle Brenton never had anybody you were saying. Uncle Brenton deserves everything that Gran left because he never had her love growing up. You had all of Mum’s attention and Uncle Brenton was left to rot. I remember you saying all that. But now? Don’t you fucking care anymore, Mum? Or you�
�re too busy wanting to be an MP? Are you too fucking ambitious? Going to see Uncle Brenton is too much of an inconvenience for you. You know, over the years I’ve always respected the way you treated Uncle Brenton. But these last few years? It’s like he’s dead to you.’
Juliet offered Breanna a cold glare. She then concentrated on the road ahead but her angled eyebrows and her protruding lip betrayed her fury. ‘You might be twenty-four but don’t you think you’re not old enough for me to stop this car and give you a box! You’re not talking to me like that!’
‘And what?’
‘Sometimes, Breanna, you are so immature.’
‘I’m immature! Me? You’re the one who won’t see your brother! Makes me laugh! All the newspapers think you’re so good. Juliet Hylton says that despite campaigning to be the first black MP representing the Brixton area, her family is the most important thing to her. Did you really say that, Mum?’
Juliet nodded. ‘And I meant every word,’ she insisted.
‘You know what, Mum?’
‘What, Breanna? You’ve come up with a new way of insulting me? That’s all you do to me these days, isn’t it.’
‘Don’t expect me at your election count,’ Breanna snapped. ‘I’m sick and tired of playing happy families. Fuck it! I won’t be there. I’m not going be a hypocrite, pretending everything is all rosy … and don’t even think about getting your election manager or whatever he calls himself to change my mind. I can’t believe you gave that idiot my mobile number! If he calls I’m going tell him to fuck himself.’
‘Maybe I should tell him to call you to teach you good language!’
‘You’re so funny, Mum.’
Twenty minutes later, Juliet reached the South Circular Road. Breanna’s eyes were flickering but she opened them fully when Juliet drove over a road ramp in Putney.
‘It might be a bit late to ask but did you enjoy yourself?’ asked Juliet.
Breanna sat up a bit in her seat and thought of a holiday memory. ‘Yeah, I did,’ she answered calmly. ‘Uncle Brenton took me everywhere I asked him to. Took me one Sunday to see the alligators even though he hates them. He was proper jumpy even with the baby ones at the alligator farm. He didn’t want me spending my own money. As you know, he drove me up to Orlando. We went to Disneyworld for three days. Went to Universal Studios and … what’s it called? The, er … Epcot Center. I think that’s what it’s called. He drove me down to the Keys. The way he goes on about the Keys and the little beaches there I think that’s his favourite place. But you wouldn’t know that, Mum. Would you? It’s a long drive though. He said it’s near Cuba.’
