East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Get your backside down from der before I conk you wid de Dutch pot.’

  Looking guilty, Royston jumped down, landing awkwardly on the thin tiled floor. ‘Mummy put my cars up there.’

  ‘Yeah, an’ Fred Flintstone’s smoking inna de front room. Where’s Mummy?’

  ‘She went bagwash.’

  ‘Ain’t you s’posed to go wid her, you lazy wretch. How can she cope wid all dose clothes?’

  ‘She put them in the shopping basket.’ Royston scampered away, thinking he may yet be forced to go to the dreaded launderette.

  Biscuit enjoyed a late breakfast of toasted ardough bread and a glass of fruit juice as he listened to the radio. 15, 16, 17s ‘Only Sixteen’ made him think of Carol and the conversation they had had. He wondered how his interrupted dream would have finished; maybe it was a sign that he was gonna get physical with her soon. A clattering from the front door interrupted his musings. Royston was quick to answer the knocking, and he opened the door to reveal Frank smoking a roll-up. ‘Afternoon Smoking Joe. Give me a high five.’ Royston jumped up and slapped Frank’s mighty hand. ‘Where’s your brother? Is he home?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s yamming his breakfast.’ The youngster led Frank to his bedroom where Biscuit was sucking toast crumbs off his fingers.

  ‘Wha’appen, Frank. How’s t’ings? Stella an’ de pickney alright an’ t’ing.’

  ‘Not too bad. I had a couple of days of work last week; a bit of labouring up Catford way.’

  ‘Dat’s sweet. Any chance of somet’ing permanent?’

  ‘Dunno, manager says he’ll give me a bell. You never know.’

  ‘Does this mean that you and Stella won’t argue no more,’ Royston remarked.

  Frank didn’t answer. Biscuit shook his head, half-grinning.

  ‘You’re good, Frank, man. I can’t tek forwarding to de blasted job centre for mont’ after mont’ an’ all dey gi’ you after all dat time is ah two day labouring t’ing.’

  ‘Well, you know I’ve got a criminal record,’ Frank reminded him. ‘If I as so much nick a packet of biscuits I’ll be going down below.’

  ‘Yeah, ah true dat,’ Biscuit concurred. ‘De beast don’t appreciate your Irish backside eider.’

  ‘Yeah, you can say that. Since the Birmingham pub bombing they haven’t left my family alone, even though they sent down six. Especially as my brother was living in Wolverhampton at the time. Questioned him seven times they did. Bastards. Smashed down his door and ripped up all his floorboards; his wife was in a right state. Then they came down to London to question me.’

  ‘Believe me, Frank, I’ve been der. But not as much as Coffin Head and Sceptic. Dey get brutalise inna cell, innit. Coffin Head get it so bad he’s given up de juggling.’

  ‘Nothing surprises me any more. They done the same thing to my brother, but Sean’s a tough bastard. He wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to hear. They just think that cos he’s Irish, he must be a member of the IRA.’

  ‘I remember you telling me ’bout it. I mus’ ah been ’bout twelve, innit. Wha’ was de year? 1974 wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Sean came down for a while to escape all that was going on up there. They wouldn’t even serve him in his local.’

  Biscuit laughed. ‘Ain’t Stella English?’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s so eccentric. Just this morning she decides to get up early and scrub the landing outside the front door. Half past six it was. She’s still in a cleaning mood now. That’s why I hopped it.’

  Biscuit found a pair of jeans in his wardrobe and put them on. ‘Don’t you ever t’ink ’bout being a bouncer, Frank? You ’ave untold detail an’ t’ick vein in de arm section, an’ a neck t’ick like Nelson’s column, to rarted. If I didn’t know you I wouldn’t flex my temper inna your direction, man. You an’ Brenton would mek ah good boxing match.’

  Frank smiled, exposing his crooked teeth. ‘I’d get too bored,’ he replied. ‘Can’t see me standing outside a club all night tending to drunks. And as for Brenton, I don’t think he would hear the bell; he ain’t the type to play by rules.’

  ‘Stella used to tell my mudder ’bout you fighting all comers in de pubs,’ Biscuit said in a low voice, looking into Frank’s eyes.

  Frank paused for a moment and glanced at his right hand. He dropped his sight to the carpet. ‘It wasn’t that often, but people who’ve heard of me would like to offer me out, usually after a few pints when their courage was up. Most of them were just wankers.’

  Biscuit chuckled, not totally convinced by Frank’s response. He reached to the top of his wardrobe where he found his herb bag and rizlas. ‘Do you wanna spliff before you go?’

  ‘Nah, the last spliff you gave me made me all sleepy. Don’t wanna drop off in the park, do I?’

  Biscuit laughed, most of the sound coming from his nose. ‘One day you’ll get used to it.’

  Two hours later, Biscuit took a bus up to Floyd’s estate, which was within throwing distance of Brixton Prison.

  Floyd, topped by a furry black beret and wearing a suede trimmed cardigan and brown waffle slacks, led his friend into his flat. ‘Wha’ ah gwarn, me bredren? T’ings irie?’

  ‘Dis an’ dat, you know how it go.’ He followed Floyd into the kitchen where he was offered a can of lager. ‘Nah, man,’ he declined. ‘Can’t drink liquor so early in de day.’

  ‘You shoulda stayed at de blues till de end, dread,’ said Floyd, opening a Special Brew for himself before leading Biscuit to the front room. ‘People were reaching up to seven o’clock. Yardman Irie was moshing it up ’pon de mic, an’ dat Prester John is a serious poet.’

  ‘Carol wanted to forward home, innit. She was all tired up.’

  ‘More time, maybe it was kinda wise to dally early. Cos der was nuff radication der ’bout. I see dem harass de Dorset Road posse. Der car get searched an’ t’ing. Bwai, good t’ing me an’ Sharon only ’ad a short trod to my yard. You jus’ miss Sharon, she ’ad to forward ’ome to cook dinner fe her mudder.’

  ‘Radication an’ badness everywhere,’ Biscuit said, throwing up his arms and shaking his head. ‘I heard some yout’ get bore up by Fiveways last night. When ’im lick de ground he weren’t moving, to rarted.’

  ‘Yardman Irie was telling me ’bout de Flaxman Road posse,’ informed Floyd, switching on his suitcase in the corner of the room. ‘Some Lineman, I t’ink it was Roundhead, wet up Elfego Barker from de Flaxman road crew.’ Floyd drew a finger across his chest. ‘Word ’pon de street is Barker’s fighting fe ’im life.’

  Biscuit agreed, nodding his head. ‘Elfego went Kennington boys, innit? He ’ad ah t’ing wid Mary Bad Mout’. But I dunno if de pickney she ’ave is for Barker.’

  Johnny Osbourne’s ‘Too Sexy’ bassed out of the blaster; it was one of Biscuit’s favourite recent tunes. Enjoying the moment, he decided to build a joint as Floyd fingered his infant beard. ‘Bwai, ah man mus’ be desperate to clinch up wid Mary Bad Mout’. She ’as some cuckoo brudders, believe.’

  The letterbox rattled and Floyd went to see who was rapping so hard. Coffin Head stood in the doorway.

  ‘Wha’appen Coff,’ greeted Floyd. ‘Bwai, don’t tell me. You get boot up by radication again?’

  ‘Char! Let me in, man.’

  Coffin Head was ushered into the front room where he saw Biscuit hoovering a spliff. ‘Wha’appen, Biscuit. Called round your yard jus’ a while ago. Your mudder told me you was round Floyd’s. She also asked if you’ll be ’ome fe dinner.’

  Biscuit passed on the joint to Floyd, who was eyeing Coffin Head’s bag. ‘Wha’s wid de bag?’ he asked, gesturing with his free hand. ‘Dallying from ’ome?’

  ‘Could say dat,’ replied Coffin Head, his mood not improving. ‘I’m staying ’ere so fe a few days.’

  Floyd sucked mightily on the weed and viewed Coffin Head from the corner of his eyes. ‘An’ do I ’ave ah say in dis?’

  ‘Stop your complaining!’ Coffin Head raised his voice, dismissing Floyd with a swish of hi
s right hand. ‘Char! After all de favours I done you. Drive you ’ere an’ der like I’m your blasted chauffeur, to rarted. You owe me nuff.’

  ‘Ease up, dread,’ cooled Floyd, surprised by Coffin Head’s over-reaction. ‘Wha’s de rush business?’

  ‘Beast keep blocking outside my yard, innit,’ he replied, dropping his angry tone. ‘I’m sick an’ tired of der good morning’s an’ shit. Char. An’ my mudder’s getting para an’ my fader’s clocking me like I jus’ rob de crown jewels, to rarted. So I t’ought it wise to leave dem no scent.’

  ‘Dat’s wha’ dey done to Sceptic,’ remarked Floyd. ‘Like dey wanted ’im to be ah grass.’

  Coffin Head seated himself on a bean bag, not letting go of his holdall which was gripped tightly inside his fist. ‘Char! Ain’t no blasted way I’m gonna be a reporter.’ He eyed the spliff Biscuit was sucking. ‘Fling me de rizlas an’ herb. I could do wid a liccle mellowing.’

  Biscuit passed on the green wonder with the cigarette papers. Coffin Head finally let go of his bag, but viced it between his feet. Biscuit eyed the holdall and offered Floyd a curious glance. General Echo’s ‘Bathroom Sex’ soft-porned out of the suitcase.

  ‘I’m kinda glad you two reach my yard today,’ announced Floyd.

  ‘Why? You run outta herb?’ asked Biscuit.

  ‘Well, yeah, an’ dat. But fe anoder reason as well.’

  ‘Char, I ain’t got no money fe lend you.’

  ‘Nah, nah. I’ve got a corn mission, innit.’

  ‘Forget it dread,’ rejected Coffin Head. ‘Your corn missions are too dodgy, man. I gotta keep outta jailhouse mission.’

  ‘At least ’ear me out.’

  ‘Alright den,’ allowed Biscuit. ‘But if it’s for Spinner, tell ’im to find another sap to do his t’iefing.’

  ‘Nah, nah. Dis is bona-fide. For us dread, nutten in-between an’ when you ’ear de plan you’re gonna kiss me foot-bottom an’ gi’ me some free herb cos it’s so easy.’

  ‘Char! Tell us de friggin’ plan,’ Coffin Head urged impatiently, gesturing with his right hand.

  ‘Loudspeaker warehouse, dread. By T’ornton Heat’ sides. Doors are padlocked an’ t’ing but de building ain’t so high. We can go t’rough de sky-light, innit.’

  ‘You mean you are going t’rough de sky-light,’ grinned Biscuit, finally getting a smile from Coffin Head.

  ‘Whatever. I’m de fittest an’ most agile from our crew anyway.’

  ‘Only cos you’ve been chased by de beast de most times,’ returned Biscuit, pumping his arms as if he was running. Coffin Head stopped himself laughing out loud.

  ‘An’ how you gonna carry dese loudspeakers to your yard?’ interrogated Coffin Head, fearful of the answer.

  ‘Your sweet Dolomite, innit,’ smiled Floyd. ‘I’ll gi’ you petrol money dis time … Do you t’ink your wheels can mek it to T’ornton Heat’?’

  ‘Char! An’ you say I should keep a low profile?’

  ‘Stop fret, man. T’ink ’bout de money we’ll get from dem sound bwai. Winston from Crucial Rocker is well interested.’

  ‘Fuck you, man,’ rejected Coffin Head, forming his face into a picture of mock anger. ‘I’m t’inking ’bout de serious stretch I might get.’

  ‘Bwai, you two going sof’ ’pon me,’ mocked Floyd.

  ‘How much corn you gonna sell dese speakers for?’ asked Coffin Head.

  ‘T’ree browns each. So even if we only get six speakers, dat’s sixty notes each.’

  Biscuit thought about it. He knew Coffin Head was short of money now he’d stopped juggling. So maybe Coffin Head’s vexness towards Floyd was just a cover. I’ll do the job, he decided. Put some corn in Coffin Head’s pocket.

  Two minutes later, Coffin Head picked up his bag and went to Floyd’s bedroom. ‘I’m hanging up my garments in your wardrobe,’ he called too loudly from the hallway. ‘You know I ’ate my garments to get creased up.’

  Making sure he wasn’t followed, Coffin Head unzipped a small compartment in his carrier and felt for his gun, wrapped up in kitchen foil. It felt cold, but every time he touched it he sensed a surge of confidence. ‘Beastman gonna dead soon,’ he whispered. He resealed the holdall with the gun inside.

  16

  Bounty Hunting

  2am, 22 February 1981

  Coffin Head parked his wheezing Dolomite on a quiet road in Thornton Heath. Floyd pulled on his gloves as Biscuit wound down a window and threw out a chocolate wrapper, then put on his balaclava. Coffin Head lit a cigarette.

  At the end of the street, the terraced houses gave way to a small industrial estate of a few warehouses and office buildings. A placard on a wire meshed perimeter fence of about ten feet high projected a warning to any intruders: GUARD DOG PATROL.

  Floyd was sitting in the passenger seat, clad in a night blue woollen hat, donkey jacket and black leather gloves. He looked up to the star-lit canopy, noting the frost on the roof tops. Biscuit flexed his fingers. Floyd looked up and down the street. Coffin Head, fretting about his overcooking engine, turned off the ignition before addressing his brethren. ‘Well, my car made it, but I don’t like de sight of dat dog patrol sign. Dis could be a waste of time. If we do mek de corn from dis mission, I’m gonna spend it ’pon a service for my damn car.’

  ‘Don’t worry, man,’ Floyd said, eyeing the fence. ‘Der ain’t no rarse dog. Dey jus’ put up de sign to scare man an’ man away, innit. Nuff of dem warehouse try de same skank.’

  ‘Well, if I get seriously nibbled by a rarse mad up dog,’ Biscuit remarked, ‘I’m suing your backside.’

  ‘Der ain’t no friggin’ dog, man,’ Floyd insisted. ‘If der is, den I’ll yam Pedigree Chum tomorrow. You lot are shapers, to rarted. Come, let’s get dis over wid. Coff, lif’ up your boot, dread.’

  The trio climbed out of the car and Coffin Head opened the boot. Floyd grabbed the two lengths of rope and placed them over his head like a fireman. Biscuit collected a glass-cutter, a selection of screwdrivers and a mini-size crow-bar and placed the tools inside his pockets. Coffin Head looked on, shaking his beret-topped head. Floyd scanned the street once more, then made for the fence. ‘Eighteen-inch speakers are coching in my yard in de morning,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Coff, don’t fall asleep,’ instructed Biscuit. ‘If beast come an’ you don’t gi’ de shout, I’m saying you’re de brains ’pon dis planned mission.’

  ‘Char. Jus’ ’urry up, man.’

  Floyd was the first to clutch the triangular mesh of the fence. ‘Gi’ me a leg up, man.’

  Biscuit interlocked his fingers into a cradle. He sank low, cupping Floyd’s right foot, and hoisted his body up straight. Floyd was up and clambered over the other side of the fence. Biscuit took more care, climbing slowly and deliberately. Coffin Head retreated to the car, looking up at the drawn curtains in the terrace. Expecting to hear the bark of a guard dog at any moment, he glanced behind him.

  Biscuit and Floyd crouched by the fence and held their breath, trying to catch any sound of nearby movement. All they could detect was the distant whoosh of nighttime cars cutting through the frost-infected air.

  ‘Told you der’s no blasted dog,’ whispered Floyd. ‘Dese people mus’ t’ink we’re stupid.’

  He led the approach to the warehouse wall and looked up at a black, scaly drainpipe. Biscuit tried to peer through the misted windows. Floyd shook the drainpipe, trying to guess if it would take his weight. He began to climb, gripping the corrugated roofing with one hand and pulling himself up. Crouching on top of the wall, he pressed his left foot on the corrugated roofing. Satisfied, he composed himself. Then he unhooked the thick rope from his shoulder and secured one end to a stone chimney which was jutting out about three foot away from the guttering. Kneeling down, trying to spread his weight evenly, he waved at Biscuit to join him. Biscuit made it up in two minutes, then crouched unsteadily upon the roof. He rubbed his hands free of grit and gave Floyd a thumbs up.

  ‘Don’t stand on your feet, dr
ead,’ Floyd advised. ‘Use your knees to get mobile. Bwai, don’t wanna see you dropping t’rough, bredren.’ He bound the other length of rope to the chimney before turning back to his accomplice. ‘One is fe me to get down, an’ de uder is fe de speakers dem. Comprehendo?’

  ‘My ’ead ain’t dense, dread. I know de plan.’

  A sky-light was on a sloped incline about two metres above them. Biscuit told himself this was the last time he’d be doing any raid. Too friggin’ dangerous. Can’t keep on putting myself at risk just for friends. He crawled to the sky-light as Floyd carried the ropes behind him. As Biscuit waited, he took in the panoramic view. He could see the oblong, dark shapes of tall buildings in central Croydon and the nearby railway station of Selhurst. The yellow glow of the street lights reflected off bedroom windows in the terraced housing. He looked below and saw Coffin Head nodding his head to a reggae beat inside his car.

  He felt the cold in his nostrils and upon his fingertips as he scrimmaged for the assorted tools in his pockets.

  ‘So, wha’ ah gwarn?’ asked Floyd, inspecting the skylight. ‘Can you get de t’ing open?’

  ‘Yeah, should be no major worries.’

  He inserted three screwdrivers under the window frame and, using his crow-bar, prised open the window to a one-inch gap. Something broke inside the frame and dropped to the blackness of the warehouse floor. He felt a rush of adrenaline flow through his body. ‘I should start t’iefing jewels to rarted,’ he boasted.

  Floyd pulled the window frame open and unleashed the rope down inside the warehouse. ‘Fuck me, it’s dark in der. When I climb down, mek sure the window don’t close up. If it does I’m fucked.’ He tested the strength of the rope and, once satisfied, coiled it around his right arm and gradually eased himself into the blackness, his own weight forcing him to swing gently.

  As he descended, Floyd could make out the outlines of cardboard boxes and a fork-lift truck. He saw a tiny red light in an office. His body was warming with adrenaline as his feet searched for stable ground. He landed in the middle of a gangway, looked up and raised his thumb to Biscuit. He then searched for his matchbox in his trouser pocket and stroked a light, revealing sealed cardboard boxes stacked in shelves of ten feet high. He turned around and saw a long table on which a range of speakers were ready to be packaged.