East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘It’s alright for you t’ough, innit,’ she whispered through pursed lips. ‘Doing wha’ you like cos Mummy t’inks dat liccle halos an’ expensive perfumes comes out of your batty. You can’t do nutten wrong in her eyes. It mek me sick when she says Lincoln dis an’ Lincoln dat, describing you as some liccle Jesus. Maybe she would treat me de same if we ’ad de same daddy.’

  Biscuit fidgeted uneasily. His tongue wanted to answer the charges with venom, but his common sense decided otherwise. ‘I’m going to my room, can’t tek your shit, man. Sometimes you’re so red eye you’re coming like devil pickney, to rarted.’ He kissed his teeth, got to his feet and cut his eye at his sister.

  Denise laughed. ‘Like mudder like son, innit. She tells me nuff times I come from de devil.’

  ‘She mus’ be right wid de mout’ you got.’

  ‘Yeah? Why don’t you all jus’ call me Jezebel.’

  Biscuit departed the lounge.

  7

  Sons of SW9

  Biscuit had just eaten his dinner of stewed mutton, yams and green banana. His mother had cooked the meat and vegetables in one pot, making a delicious broth, and served it with boiled brown rice. After telling Royston to tidy up his bedroom, Biscuit bear-hugged his brother goodnight. As he was leaving the flat he found his mother leaning over the balcony, looking out over the concrete landscape. The lights were coming on in the streets below.

  ‘You alright, Mummy?’ he asked, noticing a sadness in his mother’s eyes.

  ‘Course I am,’ she smiled. ‘You t’ink de troubles of life cyan overcome me?’

  ‘No, Mummy. Nutten can get de better of you.’

  Hortense stood up straight as she saw her son hiding his worry with a smile. She grabbed the zip of his bomber jacket and pulled it up to his throat. ‘Now, you be safe, don’t mek your mudder worry over you, especially in dis cold.’

  He set off into the blackness of the estate, on his way to Coffin Head’s place. On route, he saw two boys trying to gain entry into a car that was parked in Calais Street. Bwai, dey start early dese days, he thought. They’re barely old enough to be in secondary school.

  A car horn interrupted his thoughts and he saw Coffin Head’s battered Dolomite brake sharply. Biscuit wasted no time in filling the passenger seat. ‘Put de heater on, Coff, its friggin’ cold.’

  ‘Char, you know so it don’t work. Somet’ing wrong wid my electrics.’

  ‘Der’s always somet’ing wrong wid your car, innit,’ Biscuit remarked. ‘Can’t you fix it up? I t’ought you was a scientist when it comes to mechanics.’

  ‘Shut up, man. You should be glad you ain’t trodding to Floyd’s yard.’

  Coffin Head turned left into the shadow of Kennington Boys School, an institution that bred many bad men. Biscuit looked at the school and wondered if the pupils would turn out just like him. Coffin Head’s eyes stayed on the road, driving past the tall, white council blocks on Loughborough Road before turning towards central Brixton. In the distance he saw the dark outline of a still windmill as he turned into the estate where his friend lived. Floyd’s block was only two storeys high, but it was a three-minute walk to get from one end to the other.

  ‘You bag up de herb in ten-pound draws?’ asked Biscuit.

  ‘Yeah, four draws I bagged up. One for Floyd, Sceptic an’ Brenton, an’ one extra in case any brethren turns up.’

  Floyd lived on the second floor, and two minutes later they reached his front door. Biscuit knocked as Coffin Head checked to see if he had parked in a well-lit spot. ‘If joy rider trouble my car I’m gonna gi’ dem two lick an’ sen’ dem hospital,’ he threatened under his breath.

  ‘Backside!’ greeted Floyd. ‘De herbmen cometh.’

  ‘Char, let us in, man. You don’t know it’s col’ outside?’ complained Coffin Head.

  The flat was in a state of redecoration. Pots of white paint were huddled in a corner of the half-painted hallway, next to a soiled black bucket. The visitors admired the posters of Jacob Miller and Dennis Brown; the rest of the wall in the passage was filled with flyers of raves and blues gone by. Floyd led the way to his uncarpeted lounge. Three bean bags sat in the middle of the room. A hazy-looking black and white television set, placed in the corner, had just finished a news broadcast and a Brixton suitcase thumped out Horace Andy’s ‘Natty Dread Ah Weh She Want’, the fragile vocals riding over a sensuous rhythm.

  On one of the bean bags sprawled a slim black guy with a goatee beard and high cheekbones. Sporting a wide green beret and a gold-toothed grin, his black polo-neck sweater was falling off his meagre torso. ‘Wha’appen Coff, Biscuit,’ he said. ‘You got de herb?’

  ‘Sceptic,’ Biscuit replied, ‘you t’ink me’s a dud salesman to rarted?’

  Coffin Head and Biscuit crashed on a bean bag each. Floyd disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a wooden chair in one hand and two ashtrays in the other. He joined his friends in front of the television set. The latest episode of Dallas was showing silently, with JR blackmailing a rival by placing drugs at the victim’s home and calling the police.

  ‘Gwarn, JR, you’re bad,’ hailed Sceptic. ‘Anyone who troubles ’im always end up inna cell.’

  ‘You shouldn’t praise ’im too much, Sceptic,’ remarked Biscuit. ‘It’s man like dose dat are working for JR who fucked you up inna cell.’

  ‘Tek out your corn, man,’ Coffin Head dictated, ignoring the TV show. ‘No squeeze or freeness fe anybody. I get frigged off wid friend an’ friend looking for credit.’

  ‘An’ a rarse good evening to you,’ laughed Floyd. ‘You should be blasted lucky we’re buying from you. Don’t forget before I bought off you, my herbman was Chemist, an’ he ain’t too contented wid you teking his business. He was all complaining an’ shit when I sight ’im up inna Crucial Rocker blues.’

  ‘Fock Chemist,’ said Biscuit. ‘He always sold me short anyway.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sceptic concurred. ‘I never did trus’ him. One time I went to his yard an’ he searched me up like he’s a beastman, to blowoh. Somet’ing funny ’bout him.’

  Coffin Head took out three bags of Jamaican bush. ‘Where’s Brenton?’

  ‘Gone to Shaka dance wid Finnley an’ Lizard,’ answered Floyd. ‘He told me to control his bag for him.’

  ‘Where’s Shaka playing tonight?’ asked Biscuit.

  ‘Acton Town Hall,’ replied Sceptic. ‘I would of gone but I don’t trust dem West London bwai. Dey kinda go on funny an’ always look ’pon you like der looking fight.’

  ‘You don’t even trus’ Brixton man,’ said Coffin Head.

  ‘I don’t trus’ anybody I don’t know too good,’ affirmed Sceptic. ‘Too much informer der ’bout an’ trickster an’ ginall. ’Pon de Front Line der is pure undercover beastman, to blowoh. An’ you can’t tell de coconuts from de pure chocolate, man.’

  Floyd took out a tenner as Coffin Head gave him his weed. ‘Shut de fock up, Sceptic, man. You’re too suspicious of anybody to rarted. You’re so fucked up wid dat police beating you get, you probably t’ink your mudder is an informer.’

  Sceptic paid Coffin Head for his herb and snatched the rizlas off Floyd. ‘Don’t chat ’bout me mudder. You know I don’t like dem t’ings der.’

  ‘Char!’ Coffin Head rebuked. ‘De man’s only ramping wid you.’

  ‘Don’t like anyone ramping wid my mudder’s name,’ snapped Sceptic.

  ‘Stop your sulking,’ Biscuit said. ‘Jus’ wrap your lips round a spliff an’ cool.’

  ‘Alright fe you to say,’ moaned Sceptic. ‘If it was your mudder he was meking joke ’bout, you’d be de first one to ketch a rage.’

  ‘For fuck sake!’ cried Floyd. ‘I’m sorry, yeah. Double sorry, plead guilty an’ t’ing. Whip me if you t’ink dat is nuff punishment.’

  ‘Anybody got any liquor?’ asked Coffin Head, building a spliff for himself.

  ‘We drank it,’ replied Floyd. ‘Bought some Tennants dis afternoon. But it’s so friggin’ cold we never wen
t outside my gates again. So we kinda drunk it off while we were slapping down domino.’

  ‘Char,’ Coffin Head complained. ‘Could of done wid a liccle liquor.’

  ‘We can toss a coin to send someone off-licence,’ suggested Sceptic.

  ‘Fock dat shit,’ scolded Biscuit. ‘Every time we ’ave toss up, I lose.’

  ‘Talking of being a loser,’ said Floyd, ‘you get to first base wid Carol?’

  ‘Don’t ask me no question I won’t tell you no lie,’ replied Biscuit.

  ‘Don’t get all evasive on me!’ snapped Floyd. ‘Wha’s de score, man? I know so you’ve been going round to her gates, an’ you mus’ be determined cos I know her paps don’t like you a damn.’

  ‘Carol’s paps goes on weird, man,’ butted in Sceptic. ‘He don’t wan’ ’im daughter to go out wid any yout’. He’s funny, man.’

  ‘An’ how you know Carol’s paps don’t like me?’ queried Biscuit.

  ‘Sharon told me,’ retorted Floyd. ‘He t’inks you’re some kinda hustler. He don’t trus’ you a damn, an’ he would rather buy Enoch Powell a drink than let Carol marry you.’

  ‘Who said anyt’ing ’bout marrying?’ asked Biscuit.

  ‘Everybody knows you love Carol off, to blowoh,’ said Sceptic. ‘You t’ink we forget wha’ you bought for her birt’day dis year?’

  Biscuit had bought Carol a gold rope chain last September. He had asked her to keep the gift quiet, but she couldn’t help herself and told her friend, Sharon. Floyd got the secret off Sharon, and since then it was common knowledge.

  Biscuit pastried his spliff and lit it, not caring too much that his friends knew of his love for Carol. In a strange way, he felt relief. Carol knew of his feelings for her, and anything his friends said about the matter meant nothing to him. ‘Wha’ me an’ Carol do or don’t do is none of your friggin’ business,’ he affirmed. ‘I don’t ’ave to tell you nutten.’

  Sceptic pulled on his spliff. ‘You know so dat Carol used to love off Brenton … She might still do.’

  Biscuit became serious. ‘Sceptic, if you keep on wid dis subject, den I will quiet your beak like how de beast did quiet your beak.’

  ‘Touchy touchy,’ retorted Sceptic, trying to laugh off Biscuit’s anger.

  ‘Char, leave de man alone,’ appealed Coffin Head, noticing the vexed breathing of his friend. ‘Besides, everyone knows dat Brenton weren’t interested in Carol. If Biscuit wants to go to her yard, dat’s his business. An’ if he can’t get to bone it, well, dat’s his business as well. Anyway, I t’ought we don’t get involved inna brethren’s love life.’

  Floyd nodded as Coffin Head glared at Sceptic, indicating he’d better leave the subject alone or there’d be trouble.

  Biscuit looked at the telly, telling himself that he must master his feelings whenever Carol’s name cropped up in conversation.

  ‘Talking of Brenton,’ remarked Floyd, wanting to change the subject, ‘where’s his draw? You know so he gets mad-up if he’s left out of de herb runnings.’

  ‘Here, man,’ answered Coffin Head. ‘Brenton will like dis draw. Makes your mout’ dry but gives you a nice slow creeping buzz. Still, could do wid a liccle liquor t’ough.’

  Each of the quartet had a spliff in hand, and the smoke billowed lazily above their heads. As more cannabis was smoked, they became more horizontal. They watched each other, wondering what the next topic of conversation would be. The herb ate away at their inhibitions and taboo subjects were discussed. Michael Prophet’s ‘Warn Them’ blared out from the ghetto-blaster as JR closed a shady deal in Dallas.

  ‘Hey, Sceptic,’ Floyd called out. ‘You gonna deal wid dat Bajee girl?’

  ‘Are you sick?’ Sceptic spat with scorn. ‘I ain’t going out wid no Bajee girl. Dey yam monkey an’ gibbon an’ t’ing. No brethren, don’t trus’ dem Barbadian people dem. I might go round to de girl’s yard an’ who de fock knows wha’ I’m eating. An’ if I stay de night I might be yamming lizard ’pon toast. Wha’ a blowoh.’

  ‘She fit t’ough,’ offered Coffin Head. ‘I wouldn’t say no. I would jook dat proper an’ lock her in my bedroom for furder use, man. You’re too damn picky, Sceptic.’

  ‘I don’t like dem small island girl,’ insisted Sceptic. ‘Wherever dey blasted come from, whether it’s St Kitts, St Lucia or any uder small island dat ain’t big enough to hol’ cricket match. An’ I bet dat girl’s parents hate Jamaicans.’

  ‘Char, man,’ Coffin Head rebuked. ‘Der’s too much man like you inna Brixton, wid your ism an’ schism ’bout girl from different island. An’ you t’ink cos you ’ave Jamaican parents you’re superior. Well, fuck dat. If dat was me I wouldn’t partial ’bout where she come from. I would deal wid it proper an’ give it a good examination.’

  ‘Wha’ you know ’bout examining a girl,’ joked Biscuit. ‘De only t’ing you know ’bout examination is de ones you failed in school.’

  ‘Fock you, man.’

  ‘I mus’ admit, man,’ Floyd said, ‘when I see you rub down de girl in dat blues, me get red eye to rarted. She’s fit badly. Her leg-back is jus’ demanding a stroke … You never tek down her digits?’

  ‘Look, right,’ Sceptic responded. ‘When I hear say de girl is a Bajee, I tell her, later, goodbye an’ ’ave a nice life. No, man. Gi’ me a brown-skin Jamaican girl every time. I don’t deal wid no monkey yamming girl dem.’

  ‘Dat’s low, man,’ said Biscuit. ‘So you don’t want no small island girl an’ you don’t want no dark skin girl. Looking ’pon your face, if I was you I’d accept anyt’ing coming, dread.’

  Everyone laughed.

  Sceptic tugged on his spliff as he prepared his response. ‘I don’t business, man. I know de kinda girl I wanna move wid, an’ she’s brown-skin an’ got Jamaican parents, man. An’ she ’ave nice hair an’ a fit batty an’ a serious pair of toned leg-backs. An’ she would smoke herb an’ be able to cook a wicked curry goat. An’ she be quiet an’ shy an’ respect my mudder. She would affe like D. Brown an’ Linval Thompson. An’ in de bedroom, she would affe gwarn like dat Emmanuelle in dem sex film. An’ when I gi’ it to her strong she ’ave to bawl out like her crotches ketch ah fire. An’ liccle after me sex her, she affe shower me. Wha’ a blowoh!’

  Hoots of laughter filled the room once more. As they subsided, Coffin Head started to build his second spliff. He turned to Sceptic. ‘You’re a hypocrite, man. Char. You say you don’t like dark skin girl an’ dat you love your browning. But ain’t your mudder dark?’

  ‘Dis ain’t got nutten to do wid my mudder. An’ I t’ought I told you not to bring my mudder into any conversation? Bring her name up again an’ see if me an’ you don’t rumble!’

  Biscuit and Floyd chuckled, thinking Sceptic’s skinny body was no match for Coffin Head’s tall, muscular build.

  ‘I don’t partial wha’ you say, anyway,’ Sceptic asserted. ‘I jus’ prefer dem lighter skin girl dem, widout any apology.’

  ‘You’re fucked up, man,’ scolded Floyd.

  ‘Well, at least I don’t run around town boning anyt’ing dat wears a blouse an’ skirt, an’ den telling everyone dat if Sharon lef’ you, you’d go cuckoo. An’ people call me a hypocrite.’

  Floyd concerned himself with his rizla papers. Coffin Head chuckled as Biscuit shook his head. His friends had had many similar run-ins in the past, he thought, but this one was up there with the best of them.

  ‘As Brenton always says,’ added Sceptic. ‘Sharon’s wasted on you, man.’

  ‘Fock you.’

  ‘An’ fock you, too.’

  ‘You don’t say fock you to Brenton, do you?’

  ‘Dat’s cos he ain’t a fockin’ idiot.’

  ‘Who you calling idiot you big lip fool. See your lips are big like Hovercraft bumper,’ responded Sceptic.

  ‘Fock you, your lips are two times the size of mine. I’m surprised de tyre people don’t give you a contract, nuff tread in your lips, dread. Dey could use de tread an’ bounce in your lips for
car to go on rally round Russia to rarted. You don’t need no umbrella when rain is falling, you can jus’ pull your lips dem over your ’ead.’

  Coffin Head and Biscuit were rolling about on the floor. Sceptic didn’t have the wit to reply. Instead, he drew on his spliff and exhaled the smoke in the direction of the TV.

  Satisfied, Floyd got up and went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water; the herb had made his throat dry. He returned with a triumphant grin on his face. ‘You t’ink you can test me? Don’t even try, Sceptic, cos you ain’t my match.’

  ‘Fock you, man. You carry on, an’ see I don’t tell Sharon dat you’re palaving wid uder girls.’

  ‘An’ if you do, I’ll cut out your lips an’ mek imitation sausages to rarted. Whatever ’appened in not getting involved inna brethren’s love life?’

  ‘Char!’ Coffin Head rebuked. ‘Shut de fuck up, man. It seem like you two been seeing too much of each uder.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Biscuit agreed. ‘You see more of each uder dan man seeing his girl.’

  ‘Least I got girl to see,’ snapped Floyd. ‘When’s de last time you examined a girl?’

  ‘Oh, so you wan’ start ’pon me again now?’ confronted Biscuit. ‘Don’t mek I tell everybody how you drop inna dance when you had too much herb an’ dat girl slapped you in de face cos you was crubbing wid a serious erection. An’ don’t you mek me tell everyone ’bout dat girl Rosene who tell her friend dat she sack cos you come quicker dan Concorde. An’ how anoder girl say your armpit reek like cabbage water an’ your toe nails are clog up like ghetto sewage drain. An’ how you went Bali Hai an’ you pull some girl to dance an’ she say she don’t dance wid no man who hasn’t yet discovered deodorant. Den der was dat girl in Cubies who gave you her supposed telephone number an’ de nex’ day you dialled de number for Streatham Cemetery to rarted. Don’t even start ’pon me, Floyd. Cos I know so many t’ings about you, if I was to reveal dem, you’d affe walk street wid Tesco bag over your head an’ some serious ear muffs, cos de laughter you might hear would drown out Shaka speaker boxes.’