by Alex Wheatle
Half an hour later, Hortense was helping dish out the Jamaican patties. Looking for her eldest son, she found him in the hallway, returning from his after-dinner spliff. ‘Lincoln, go tell dat damn Royston fe stop jumping ’pon de balloons dem or I will jump ’pon ’im.’
As he entered the hall, Biscuit saw couples crubbing against the walls to a slow groove, and mothers sitting down on chairs sipping wine, complaining to each other about their teenagers. Men besieged the bar, asking where was the overproof rum, while children ran here and there, evading their parent’s clutches. Biscuit found Royston gleefully stepping on a balloon with a newly acquired friend. ‘Move your backside to de kitchen an’ when you reach don’t leave Mummy’s side.’
Royston did as he was told. Right, thought Biscuit, where’s Carol? I haven’t had a chance to chat to her tonight. Scanning the crubbing couples, hoping she wasn’t with someone else, he saw Nunchaks, wearing a grin that exposed his gums and crubbing some girl. Biscuit stood transfixed, all sorts of scenarios running through his mind. ‘Oh shit,’ he said to himself. ‘Double shit, serious palaver.’
Before he could drop any further into the pits of despair, Carol tugged his arm. ‘Been avoiding me ’ave you?’
‘Nah, nah.’ Using his head, he pointed to his sister. ‘Check dat out. Der getting kinda entwined, innit. Der doing de figure eight, man.’
‘Cool yourself, Biscuit, man. It’s jus’ a dance. She has a right to enjoy herself. Leave Denise alone.’
‘I’m kinda fretting wha’ might ’appen once de crub is over. Check how she is smiling.’
‘So you wan’ her to dance wid a long face? Leave dem, man. It’s ’bout time you give me some attention.’
‘But I affe warn Denise …’
‘Wha’ do you expect? She’s bound to ketch a man’s eye. She’s looking criss tonight.’
‘Yeah, but it’s ’im. Look how he’s chatting to her in her ear!’
Carol kissed her teeth and led Biscuit by the hand to where the crew were dancing. Finnley, who was now on first-name terms with the barman, was almost pissed. Brenton was hoovering a cigarette, eye-drilling anyone he didn’t know. Sceptic was trying to locate his courage so he could ask a girl for a crub. Floyd and Sharon were performing an elaborate smooch, and Coffin Head was emptying a Special Brew can down his gullet, pinching looks at Denise while feeling a river of emotion flow through his body.
Biscuit, you got to do somet’ing, man, Coffin Head thought, hating the way Nunchaks placed his left hand just above Denise’s backside.
Yet Biscuit could do nothing, for Carol linked her hands around his neck, smiled sweetly, headbutted him gently and settled for a one-step groove, rocking away to 15, 16, 17s, ‘Emotion’. He could only regret giving his sister the cash to buy the red, off-the-shoulder dress that she now sparkled in. He looked across and found her throwing her head back, laughing.
Three hours later, Coffin Head’s car asthma-attacked to a standstill outside Cowley estate. Biscuit picked up a sleeping Royston and slung him over his shoulder, then bade laters to his friend as Hortense and Denise got out the other side.
On reaching home, Biscuit unclothed his brother, wrapped him in his pyjamas and put him to bed. Meanwhile, Hortense had sparked out on the sofa, feeling the effects of the Guinness punch and rum cake. Shit, he thought, I’m gonna ’ave to move her later on to her room. Shit, an’ she’s so grumpy when you wake her from sleep.
Finally, he headed for his sister’s bedroom. He didn’t knock. Denise’s room was the smallest in the house, but she had made the best of it. A single wardrobe, painted creatively in red, gold and green, dominated the room. The petite chest of drawers matched the wardrobe, giving the room a rasta vibe. Overlooking the single bed was a large picture frame, made for Denise by Brenton in appreciation of her helping him with his English studies. He knew that Denise loved photographs. Within the frame was a multitude of photos, flyers and articles about reggae music. The Cool Ruler – Gregory Isaacs – dominated the frame, caked in sweat, wearing a red, gold and green headband and smoking a spliff.
‘Can’t you friggin’ knock? I’m sick an’ tired of you jus’ stepping into my room as if you’s any beastman wid warrant.’
‘Quiet your beak an’ listen to me keenly. I don’t t’ink you know wha’ kind of palaver you might get into.’
‘Wha’ you chatting ’bout. Wha’ palaver?’
‘You an’ Nunchaks at de wedding.’
‘Wha’ ’bout it?’
‘Wha’s de score, man? I hope you haven’t given ’im our phone digits?’
‘An’wha’ if I ’ave?’
‘Den der’s gonna be pure tribulation.’
‘Biscuit, man, wha’s your problem? Yeah, I know so Nunchaks got a bit of a bad rep, but den so ’ave you. He was kinda polite to me, showed me some manners, an’ he’s taking me to a club nex’ week.’
Biscuit closed the door behind him, not wanting to wake his mother. ‘Oh no you ain’t. You ain’t raving wid ’im full stop. It’s not even negotiable, it ain’t gonna ’appen, an’ I will personally stand outside your room to mek sure you ain’t moving wid dat man.’
‘Since when ’ave you been my jailer? I see who I like, when I like. An’ I’m not sure if your maths is fucked up or you ’ave forgotten, but I’m seventeen now, an’ I can do wha’ I please. Who do you t’ink you are putting some kinda curfew ’pon me?’
‘Denise, listen to me, man. Nunchaks is bad news. Believe. He’s a Line man, into all sorts of shit, an’ he juggles nuff crime an’ terrorises nuff innocent people.’
‘Yeah, well, you listen to me good. Friends of mine say de same t’ing ’bout you.’
‘Alright, I admit I juggle, you know dat already. But Nunchaks is a different story. He could be your downfall.’
‘Look, Biscuit. I don’t need for you to look out fe me now. I can look out for myself, I know wha’ I’m doing. An’ as far as I’m concerned, he offered to take me out, to pay for it an’ t’ing, an’ he was polite ’bout it. Ain’t dat wha’ Mummy an’ you want?’
‘Not wid ’im!’
‘Move yourself from my room, man. You jus’ wanna control my life an’ tell me wha’ fe do. An’ by de way, who are you to accuse of badness? I know from a good source dat Carol won’t deal wid you cos you juggle. You wanna deal wid dat before you come ’ere telling me wha’ fe do.’
Biscuit caught a rage and clenched his fists. His eyes narrowed in frustration. She could do with a rarse lick, he thought. He firmed his lips and bared his top row of teeth. Denise backed away, thinking her mouth had gone too far. Biscuit fish-eyed her fiercely before turning around to open the door. He departed, breathing heavily, and the impact of the door against its frame drowned out Denise’s sigh of relief.
She dropped on to her bed, regretting her words. At least her brother showed some concern, she thought. Mummy had sighted her figure of eight crub with Nunchaks but she didn’t say nutten. She don’t give a damn, Denise concluded.
12
Gunman Connection
11 February 1981
Monday morning after the wedding, Sceptic was inside the unemployment exchange, leaning against a white-painted wall and sucking a cigarette. East-westing his eyes while keeping his head still, he looked around him. A bad man once told him he would make a great lookout as he was so alert, and today he was in lookout mode. Dressed in a faded blue denim jacket and black corduroy trousers, and topped by a white leather beret, Sceptic flicked his ash on the thin-carpeted floor.
To kill time, he decided to take a stroll around the job boards in the middle of the room. He noticed the ‘latest vacancy’ board had only eight jobs on it, while the Youth Opportunities board was full. He saw a man take off one of the job cards, place it in his pocket, then walk out. Sceptic kissed his teeth at the jobs that were on offer, before returning to his previous position at the wall. He looked beyond the job boards and watched the unsmiling civil servants sitting behind a long wooden counter, rib-c
age high. In front of them were aluminium cartons, about the size of shoe boxes, which housed the files of the unemployed. A cross section of the Brixtonian public queued up in thirteen rows, clutching their cards, ready to sign on for benefit. On the far side of the room were a few booths separated by shoulder-high partitions. Sceptic knew this was where the job advisors had their desks and interviewed the public. He looked around at the walls again, which were covered in posters about how to claim all sorts of benefits, before resting his gaze on the entrance. He pulled out another cigarette, lit it and checked his watch.
Five minutes later, looking neat in a black leather jacket and blue Farahs, and crowned by a burgundy beret, Coffin Head strolled through the entrance of the exchange.
Sceptic stepped up to his friend. ‘Wha’appen, Coff. Bit late aren’t you? It’s gone past ten, man. An’ I signed on nearly half an hour ago.’
‘Well, sorry fe dat. I kinda got up late an’ like it’s cold outside, I ain’t leaving my yard widout hot Weetabix, dread.’
‘It’s dat, innit. My hat ain’t leaving my head-top, rasta … Let’s step, man.’
The spars left the warmth of the job exchange and ambled into Coldharbour Lane, near the junction of Atlantic Road.
‘So, Scep, man. You set t’ings up.’
‘Yeah, neatly. You know me, nuff contacts. He’s expecting us. ’Ave you got de wad?’
‘Of blasted course, man. Blue ain’t gonna tek me seriously if I turn up widout nutten.’
‘Yeah, seen. Dat would of been a blowoh.’
‘Wha’ d’you know about ’im, anyway? I mean, man an’ man know he’s a bad man, but wha’s his score?’
‘He’s a dangerous man, believe. Man an’ man say he come from yard, an’ some Line man say he come from de States, New York side. Personally, I t’ink he comes from a rarse madhouse, believe! No one ain’t too sure, dread. He’s like Wilkinson Sword, man. Cross him an’ you get wet up like razor ’pon baby flesh. You know so he wet up dat Chinee Jamaican juggler, Clinton Wong.’
‘Yeah, wha’appened?’
‘One of Wong’s crew t’ump up one of Blue’s whores cos she wouldn’t gi’ ’im a free grind. Blue ’eard ’bout it an’ set up Wong neatly. He got some fit girl of his to chat up Wong inna Filthy Rocker blues. Wong, who t’ought he got lucky, was looking forward to gi’ de girl a serious service back at her yard. When Wong reached de yard, de girl ran up de stairs an’ Blue appeared wid Barrabas. Dey t’ump up Wong to de ground an’ Blue tek out his ratchet an’ etched Wong’s face from chin to eyebrow. Den Blue tek out his ’ammer an’ demolished Wong’s elbows. Serious t’ing. Wong’s still inna hospital wid all tube an’ shit running t’rough his face an’ his arms inna plaster. Word ’pon street is dat Wong’s face is looking like underground train map to rarted.’
Coffin Head knew he was taking a risk. He hadn’t slept soundly since the beating, suffering nightmares of being thrown into a gladiatorial arena armed with just his fists, and having to fight a hundred truncheon-wielding policemen. A crowd of politicians would yell their approval as the Home Secretary, sitting on a regal throne, signalled a thumbs down. Coffin Head had awoken every morning since the beating with a burning desire for revenge. The other day, Floyd had given him a book about the Black Panthers in America, and he had read it at night, the story of Eldridge Cleaver and his fellow Panthers adding to his anger. One of those friggin’ beastman gonna suffer, he repeatedly told himself. Cos a violent oppressor only takes notice of violence, not words.
The two friends crossed the road, strolled for another thirty yards or so, passing two drunks on the way, and a crusty dread yanking along a barking Rottweiler. Sceptic turned left into Rushcroft Road. Small terraced houses filled the street, most of them with boards covering the windows and doors. Sceptic feared the mad and bad men who always walked along here. Coffin Head, knowing that even the police were cautious on this road, felt his heart thumping inside his chest.
Sceptic rattled the letterbox of a house with broken windows. Ten seconds later the door was opened by an unshaven black man with baby dreads spouting from his head, like a junior Medusa. ‘Wha’appen, Barrabas,’ hailed Sceptic, using a smile to protect his anxiety. ‘Blowoh, we’re catching a deat’ ’pon street y’know. England friggin’ cold.’
Barrabas said nothing. Instead, he scrutinised Coffin Head from his eyebrows to his trodder boots. He let Sceptic into the hallway. ‘Hol’ on, skipper,’ Barrabas halted Coffin Head. ‘A regulation t’ing, y’understand?’
He frisked Coffin Head’s sleeves and then gave his belly a slap. ‘Nuff detail der ya, boss.’ Coffin Head felt an aching pain, a small reminder of why he was there in the first place. He hid his discomfort as Barrabas went on to check his trouser legs, before spinning him around and palming his back. ‘Alright, skip, you’re safe. Follow me.’
Coffin Head was led through an unlit passage. At the end of the hallway they entered a room which looked like it had once been a kitchen, but which had been converted into a kind of office. Lit by a naked blue bulb and darkened by black curtains, the orange-painted room looked like a good place to take LSD. A framed black and white picture of Robert Johnson, strumming his guitar, hung from the wall to Coffin Head’s right. John Lee Hooker’s ‘One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer’ played from a suitcase in the corner of the room. Lounging behind an impressive teak desk, on which were scattered boxes of black women’s hair products, was a man big enough to be a bouncer at a wrestling party. He was wearing a sky blue three-piece suit and a navy blue fedora. A black felt-tip thin moustache crossed his face like an old scar. Herbman Blue, Coffin Head thought to himself. Sceptic stood silently near the entrance, not wanting to get too close to Blue’s penetrating gaze.
‘So,’ Blue began, in bank manager mode. ‘What can I do for you? Mr … What is it?’
‘Brethrens call me Coffin Head. Coff for short.’
‘Yes, I can see why.’
Coffin Head’s nerves jangled as he felt Barrabas behind him. The sight of Sceptic’s twitching head also did his courage no favours. Barrabas would wet me before I blink, he thought. Maybe there’s another way I can get what I’m looking for.
‘I’ll ask you again – what can I do for you?’
‘I wanna buy a gun.’ As he said it, Coffin Head looked at the two henchmen standing behind their boss who slipped their hands inside their jackets at the same time. Coffin Head allowed himself a long blink while Sceptic inched towards the door.
‘And what do you know about guns, Mr Coffin Head?’
‘Er, not much. Nutten really.’ He felt the confidence seep out of his trodder boots.
Blue laughed. His employees chuckled in unison. Coffin Head felt like he was being inspected for any sign of weakness. He closed his eyes again and saw himself being brutalised by the police for the eighty-seventh time. He felt the courage surge through his body. ‘I was kinda hoping dat you would point me in the right direction cos I wanna blow away a beastman to rarted. Dey done me somet’ing I can’t forget, man. Radication affe get eradicated. Char.’
‘Don’t you work for Nunchaks?’ Blue asked, rising to his feet.
‘Yeah, wha’s dat got to do wid it?’
‘Mr Coffin Head, I ask the questions.’ Blue rounded the table and met Coffin Head square on, glaring at him with scornful intensity. ‘You sure it ain’t Nunchaks who you want to eradicate?’
Coffin Head started to sweat, and he felt Barrabas’s Special Brew breath upon his neck. The word on the street was that no one was quicker with a ratchet blade than Barrabas; some Brixtonians called him Lee Hand Grief. Glancing into the man’s eyes, Coffin Head could well believe it. He took a small sideways step, palming his forehead.
Coffin Head held Blue’s gaze, knowing that to look down would be as good as asking Blue to crush his elbows with a ball hammer – Blue’s trademark. He tried not to blink and to keep his stance upright. ‘Nah, man, I don’t wanna do Nunchaks nutten,’ he finally replied. ‘I’ve stopped juggli
ng for ’im. It’s getting too dangerous to sell ’pon de Line. An’ I didn’t want to do any more burglaries.’
He continued to binocular the man in blue. Satisfied, Blue returned to his chair. ‘What kind of handgun you looking for?’
‘Er, I dunno. Somet’ing easy to use, innit.’
‘Well, Mr Coffin Head, let me enlighten you. There is the single-action revolver which might interest you. This is a gun where you have to pull back that lever thing before firing. My contact can do an American Colt for four hundred pounds.’ He used his hands to demonstrate the action. His fingers pointed towards Coffin Head and he cocked the thumb with his other hand. ‘Click … Then you have the double-action revolver. Now, this gun is like the single-action revolver, except that you don’t have to pull nothing back. The sort of gun Clint Eastwood uses in those spaghetti westerns that ghetto youths love. I could do a Smith and Wesson for six hundred pounds.’
Coffin Head offered a vague nod.
‘Then, lastly in my contacts catalogue is the single-action semi-automatic pistol,’ Blue continued. ‘Man, it gives me a buzz just to say that.’ He laughed, but stopped abruptly as he realised his employees were not laughing with him. ‘Single action semi-automatic pistol,’ he repeated. ‘With this gun you have to pull back some kind of slide, and then, as they say, you can fire at will. We can do a German Luger for six hundred pounds.’
Barrabas giggled, which prompted the men behind Blue to follow suit. Blue spotlit Coffin Head with the whites of his eyes. ‘What’s it gonna be, Mr Coffin Head?’
‘I’ll tek de American Colt.’
Again, laughter filled the room. ‘Mr Coffin Head,’ Blue snorted, ‘we don’t stock the guns here. The local constabulary might take offence. As you can see, the only thing we stock here is black ladies’ hair products. I am not a stupid man, Mr Coffin Head.’
