East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Den where do I get the gun?’

  ‘From my contact in Rotherhithe. But before I give you the address for the pub, I hope you will give me my introduction fee of sixty pounds. After all, I am a business man.’

  Coffin Head had money all over his person: inside his briefs, around his ankles and hidden in his shoe. He decided to unwrap the money within his right sock. He counted the cash carefully before leaning over the desk and handing £60 to Blue.

  The crime duke banked the cash inside a drawer. He then made a phone call to his contact in Rotherhithe, altering his accent to a New York drawl. ‘Good morning, Blue here. Business doing well I hope … I have a gentle-man with me who requires a forty-five. Do you have it in stock? … Splendid. Four hundred? … Yes, I’ll make sure of that. Yes, he is black … He’ll be coming with another gentleman called Sceptic … One’s wearing a black leather jacket with a burgundy beret, the other’s got a denim jacket on and a white beret … You heard about that? … Hah, hah … You’re right there, Wong won’t be sniffing Charlie like he used to … OK, I’ll send them on their way. See you at the same place next Monday.’

  As Coffin Head looked at the boxes containing hair grease, wigs and shampoo, he wondered who the hell Blue was talking to.

  After putting the phone down, Blue began writing something down on a piece of paper. B.B. King’s ‘Payin’ The Cost To Be The Boss’ twanged from the speakers. Blue quarter-mooned his eyes and began to rock his head, feeling every single lyric and each pluck of the guitar.

  ‘Mr Coffin Head.’ He suddenly opened his eyes again. ‘Here’s your address and name of contact.’ He presented Coffin Head with the slip of paper. ‘Don’t tag anybody along; he knows what you and Sceptic look like and he ain’t expecting any surplus. Do you comprehend?’

  ‘Yeah, t’anks an’ t’ing, yeah. Appreciate it.’ He turned to leave. A relieved Sceptic prepared to follow his spar.

  ‘Blow one away for me, Mr Coffin Head,’ Blue laughed. ‘And for all of us.’ He flicked them out of the room, nodding to Barrabas to show them the door.

  Out on the street, Sceptic snatched the slip of paper from Coffin Head’s grasp. ‘Some pub in Rotherhithe, The Cheeky Bell Toller, what a blowoh. National Front country, believe. I ain’t stepping into no pub down dem sides, nah, man. De place is full up wid Hitler’s brudders. Dem white man down dem sides tek a piss wid der gun hangin’ out, dread. An’ dey ’ave dat Nazi sign tattooed on der willys to rarted. Hey, Coff, you’re on your own on dis one.’

  ‘Char! You liccle mouse! It’s you who set up de Blue t’ing, an’ if you don’t step wid me to Rotherhithe den I’m gonna beat you up like you’re inna beast cell to rarted.’

  ‘Don’t say dat. I still ’ave to smoke a spliff before I go to my bed cos of dat tribulation. An’ besides, didn’t you get your ribs blasted inna beast cell?’

  ‘Whatever, whatever. But you’re coming wid me, an’ if you don’t, I’ll drag your backside to de nearest beast station so you get blast up again, y’hear.’

  ‘Alright, alright. Frig me, I was jus’ ramping wid you, an’ you wanna get militant. What a blowoh, Rotherhithe to rarted. Black man wid sense don’t walk der. An’ I’m gonna step in a pub der. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Wha’s de name of de contact?’ Coffin Head asked.

  Sceptic read the slip of paper. ‘Gonzo. Dat’s clicking somet’ing inna my brain, man. Where ’ave I heard dat name before?’

  ‘De Muppets, innit. One of Kermit’s brethrens. Gonzo looks like some kinda half rat, half bird t’ing wid a bitch of a nose.’

  ‘So dis Gonzo, you reckon he looks like a troll or somet’ing?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe he’s got a big nose or somet’ing, we’ll jus’ ’ave to wait an’ see, innit.’

  ‘How do you get to friggin Rotherhithe?’ Sceptic wondered.

  ‘I’m not too sure, but I know so you ’ave to get to Elephant first, den hol’ a bus from der. An’ you know so dat anyt’ing east from Elephant is Beef’ead country. So beware.’

  ‘You ain’t gonna get your car?’

  Coffin Head pondered the idea. ‘Nah. Say on de way back I get pull by de bull. Nuff tribulation, rasta. When dey find de gun, der gonna lock me up, boot me up inna beast cell, fling de key inna River Thames off Tower Bridge, an’ den forget ’bout my sad backside. My mudder won’t see me again till her head top turn white, to rarted.’

  ‘She won’t see you a damn if you blow away a beastman an’ get ketch. De beast would reintroduce de sparky chair, dread. Your backside will fry like egg.’

  ‘Why you affe get so negative, man. Char. We’re teking bus an’ I don’t wanna ’ear no more worries.’

  Forty-five minutes later they were walking the streets of Rotherhithe. The council blocks were smaller than the Brixton ones, they noted. And although they thought the small terraced housing was similar, they hadn’t yet seen a boarded residence. There was more graffiti sprayed on walls than they were used to; mostly football slogans supporting Millwall. Coffin Head was trying to read the map that Blue had drawn. ‘Hey, Scep. Wha’ street is dis?’

  ‘Albion Street. Dey should call it black-people-don’t-belong street. ’Ave you seen de way de pagans are clocking us?’

  ‘You’re para, man. Char, stop being so sof’. Come, de road we’re looking for is de second right.’

  Cautiously they ambled on, with Sceptic looking behind more than in front of him, Beefheads were on his mind. Fifty yards on, Coffin Head found his road. ‘See it der, no problem, I’m a dread navigator.’

  The Cheeky Bell Toller public house was situated at a T-junction at the end of a row of terraced houses. Its brickwork was painted blue and the pub’s large windows were veiled by long net curtains. A cartoon image of a grinning man pulling the rope to operate a massive bell hung over the brown-panelled, wooden doors. Opposite the watering hole was a brown-bricked junior school. Coffin Head and Sceptic could hear the screams and sounds of pupils enjoying their dinner break.

  They stood for a moment outside the pub before entering, both thinking of the bad scenarios that might confront them once they stepped inside, but neither wanted to lose face in front of the other. ‘Char, let’s mek a move, man. No time fe weak ’eart business.’

  Sceptic followed his pal as he went to open the brown double door. It was locked. ‘Oh well, we’ll ’ave to dust, innit. De place is closed.’

  ‘Hol’ your corner,’ demanded Coffin Head. ‘Blue wouldn’t sen’ us down ’ere for nutten.’ He used his keys to rat-a-tat the door, then stepped back, looking up at the windows to see any movement. Sceptic was five yards behind him.

  Eventually they heard the crunch of someone turning a key in the lock of the front door. The two friends made out a figure through the misted glass, then the door opened to reveal a tall man with a bald head. Sceptic immediately thought of the National Front. The skinhead was wearing a black Crombie overcoat and a collarless white shirt. A three-lioned tattoo was on his neck and a silver ring hung from his right ear. His Doc Marten boots almost laced up to his knees, where blue jeans were rolled up, exposing his white football socks.

  ‘So, you find us then,’ the white man said.

  ‘No worries,’ replied Coffin Head.

  The pub was dimly lit and the wooden tiled flooring had specks of sawdust here and there. Small round tables, each with a plastic, lager-labelled ashtray, were surrounded by sets of wooden stools. A battered dartboard was in the corner, hanging beside a narrow blackboard. Stuck up behind the bar was a large Union Jack, next to a framed photograph of Winston Churchill. In another corner was a jukebox, Harry J’s All Stars ‘Liquidator’ playing from it. Next to this, bolted to the wall, was a cigarette machine.

  The spars were led to a round table surrounded by three chairs. Filling one of the seats, smartly dressed in dark slacks, polo sweater and leather jacket, was a neatly shaved white man, in his mid-thirties, pulling on a roll-up. He owned a nose that a parrot could have perched on, and his eyebrow
s met in the middle of his forehead. He killed the burning tobacco stick in a clean ashtray, then watched Coffin Head and Sceptic take their seats. ‘You got the four ton?’ he asked in a heavy East End accent.

  ‘Yeah, no problem,’ Coffin Head replied.

  ‘Let’s see your credentials,’ he demanded.

  Coffin Head stood up and proceeded to unwrap the money from all parts of his body. Carefully, holding his gaze, he presented the wad of notes to the man. Gonzo nodded to the Beefhead, who disappeared behind the bar. There was a pause in the proceedings.

  Coffin Head lit a cigarette, thinking that the people he was dealing with were big-time villains. He eyed Gonzo with a false confidence. The heavy-booted man returned with a plastic bag containing a Corn Flakes box. Gonzo prepared another roll-up. ‘Now, I don’t give a blind fuck who you blow away on your own turf or what you do with the merchandise. But I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t wanna see your face, or your friend’s face here again. Ever. And if the merchandise is traced back to this place, I might as well give you a spade now to dig your fucking graves. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  The bald-headed man passed the carrier bag and its contents to Coffin Head. Gonzo continued, ‘At the top of the road you’ll find a waste paper bin. In there you’ll find instructions on how to use the merchandise, and your bits of lead.’ He looked at Coffin Head and Sceptic as if they were kids preparing to steal sweets from a shop. ‘Now, fuck off.’

  Sceptic was the first to rise to his feet, accompanied by Desmond Dekker and the Aces ‘Israelites’. He was followed by a cool Coffin Head, clocking the prizefighters on the wall. Sceptic caught sight of another Beefhead coming out of the gents. The two spars quickened their pace as they reached the door, meeting the cold air with visible sighs.

  ‘Fuck me grand paps,’ exclaimed Sceptic. ‘De place is crawling wid Beef’eads. Let’s remove from dis area.’

  ‘Hol’ on,’ Coffin Head ordered. ‘Where’s de bin Gonzo was chatting ’bout?’

  ‘See it der.’ Sceptic pointed, indicating a council bin across the road, adjacent to the school.

  Coffin Head wasted no time in retrieving the plastic carrier bag. Inside was a Weetabix box. And within this was a sheet of instructions enclosed in a polythene bag, along with ammunition. The shells felt like small fish in his hand, running through his fingers. There was a feeling of unreality about the whole thing.

  An hour later, back in Brixton, Coffin Head and Sceptic parted company. Sceptic went in search of Floyd, while Coffin Head made for home. Turning the corner at the junction of Carew Street and Denmark Street, Coffin Head paused, stunned by the sight of a light blue Panda car parked outside his block, with a policeman standing beside it. The policeman saw Coffin Head and smiled. Coffin Head felt his pulse beat inside his neck and through to his throat. His ribs ached more than ever, and sweat dripped from his temples.

  He picked up his pace as he approached the block, his head down, ignoring the policeman who was watching him.

  ‘Afternoon, Everton,’ the policeman greeted. ‘Been shopping?’

  Coffin Head didn’t reply. Instead, he simply nodded.

  ‘Saw your dear mum earlier. Lovely blue coat she’s got.’

  Coffin Head walked past the officer, recognising him as one of the bastards who had assaulted him.

  ‘Just dropping by to let you know that me and my friends expect to see you within the week.’

  The officer grinned, then stepped into the panda. Coffin Head looked behind him until the car pulled away, then diverted his gaze to the bag he was carrying.

  13

  The Teachings of Jah Nelson

  16 February 1981

  David Rodigan, the reggae DJ who had the 10pm slot on Capital Radio, opened his show with the Wailing Soul’s ‘Old Broom’. Denise was listening inside her room, rocking her head in time with the bass, wondering where Nunchaks would take her for their date. Maybe All Nations up Hackney side, she thought. Or the Bouncing Ball in Peckham. Perhaps Cubies up Dalston. Oh well, as long as we don’t go to a club in South London, she decided. I wanna go for a bit of a drive, and to check out Nunchaks’ Cortina Mark Two.

  Denise imagined the red eye stares from other girls as they clocked her getting out of Nunchaks’ car outside a club. The arrival of Biscuit in her room blew the image away.

  ‘Careful wid dat man y’know,’ he stressed. ‘Jus’ go to de club an’ come back an’ don’t forward nowhere else. Believe, Sis, he only wants to sniff somet’ing.’

  ‘Biscuit, stop daddying me. How many times do I affe tell you dis week – I can look after myself.’

  ‘You don’t know him like I do. He’s a terrorist, trickster, a conman. Bwai, everyt’ing dat’s bad under de sun.’

  ‘You work for him.’

  ‘Yeah, but dat’s different. Jus’ promise me you won’t go to de man’s yard.’

  ‘Promise!’ Denise raised her voice. ‘I’m seventeen, a liccle more dan a year younger dan you. An’ you want me fe promise? Go away wid dat, I ain’t into brudders trying to heavy manners me.’

  ‘You’re too damn facety,’ Biscuit yelled. ‘You want two slap in your head.’

  ‘An’ you’re gonna give it?’ dared Denise, pushing her face towards his while grinning snidely.

  Biscuit raised his hand. ‘Char! One of dese days. You’re too friggin ’ard of ’earing.’

  ‘Denise, stop your noise!’ Hortense reprimanded from the kitchen. ‘De mad deaf man who walk ’pon Vassal Road ah night-time mus’ ah ’ear you. Stop your noise!’

  Denise turned up her blaster. Madoo’s ‘Joe Grine’ filled the room. Hortense cussed again, but wasn’t heard. ‘She never say anyt’ing ’bout your shouting, innit,’ Denise remarked. ‘It’s always me. You can never do wrong.’

  Biscuit kissed his teeth and left the room. He collected his suede jacket and his scarf from his bedroom, where Royston was building something with a Meccano set, and bade his mother goodbye. ‘Mek sure you nah walk-pon street inna de early hours,’ she said in place of a farewell.

  ‘I’ll be OK, Mummy,’ Biscuit answered. ‘Jus’ checking a spar.’ He disappeared into the starlit night.

  He headed for Fiveways, where he turned into Lough-borough estate. Walking along the rubber walkways, he looked down from his first-floor vantage point and saw two dealers he knew, plying their trade in a Mark Three Cortina. A white man had just walked away from the vehicle, putting something in his pocket, and although the car was stationary, the driver had the engine running and the radio tuned to Capital radio. ‘Crooks, Louis!’ Biscuit hailed. ‘Wha’ appen.’

  ‘Wha’appen, me bredren’, Crooks answered. ‘You’re forwarding ah I Spy blues tonight?’

  ‘I dunno, but you might see me der … Later perhaps.’

  He ambled on, hearing Rodigan’s selections from many homes, mixed with the sounds of babies crying and dogs barking. In a forecourt, he watched members of the Dread Diamond sound system loading up their van with huge speaker boxes. ‘Lawson,’ Biscuit called, recognising one of the boxboys who was wearing a parka jacket. ‘Where you playing tonight?’

  ‘Tulse Hill estate, the block near de adventure playground,’ came the reply, as another boxboy yelped in pain, suffering from a splinter.

  Biscuit arrived at Jah Nelson’s front door and knocked aggressively, not wanting to wait in the chill for any length of time. Jah Nelson’s one eye shone brightly through the crack of the doorway. ‘I was expecting you yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I had t’ings to do.’

  The dread led Biscuit to the lounge and invited him to sit down. The smoke from the incense stick projecting from a plant pot in the corner of the room spiralled lazily upwards. Burning Spear’s ‘Jordan River’ preached from the blaster. An open book sat on the armchair opposite Biscuit. The ancient map of Africa looked down from the wall. Nelson turned down the volume a notch and moved to the centre of the room. ‘So, my young friend. How is you keeping?�
�

  ‘Can’t complain. Still yamming t’ree meals a day, rent paid an’ t’ing.’

  ‘Good. So, my yout’, you ’ave some nice ’erb fe me?’

  ‘You don’t affe ask, dread. You know so I only deal wid top of de range merchandise.’

  ‘Well, before me purchase my t’ings, I wan’ you fe do somet’ing fe me.’

  ‘Nelson, man. I ain’t got time. I wanna see my woman tonight.’

  ‘It won’t tek long. Patience, man. You mus’ ’ave patience.’

  Biscuit sighed, then decided to wrap a zoot so Nelson could taste his herb.

  ‘You cyan’t wash one ’and widout de other,’ Nelson suddenly exclaimed.

  Biscuit looked up curiously as he halved a cigarette, watching Nelson wrapping one hand into the other and then shaking them. ‘Nelson, man, I ain’t staying a damn if you gonna start chatting foolishness in my ears.’

  He allowed himself a long look at the dread, and tried to guess the man’s age. It was masked behind his heavily bushed face, but his eyes were kind and calm, curious, and forever analysing, trying to read other people’s thoughts. Biscuit delved into the inside pocket of his jacket and his hand emerged with his personal stash of top quality, green Jamaican export.

  ‘Nelson, tell me dread. Where you come from? I’m kinda curious cos you gave my neighbour, Frank, some good advice de uder day.’

  ‘Yes, he was feeling very down. Rasta don’t discriminate … You ’ave time, yout’.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered, man. Wha’s your story?’

  Biscuit presented the spliff to the dread. Nelson studied it, went over to the burning incense stick, and lit his cannabis stick. His lips pulled on it mightily, exhaling the smoke to the ceiling and creating a small fog. He observed the young man.

  ‘I was born inna Old Harbour,’ he began. ‘Ah liccle town, ’bout fifteen miles or so from Spanish Town … People still say dat Old Harbour Bay supplies de bes’ fish in de island.’ He smiled. ‘My mudder an’ fader bot’ worked on a government farm called Bodles. I spent my childhood walking wid cows an’ goats. From me reach sixteen me turn rasta.’