East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  All of a sudden, he saw something indistinct moving; a shadow near the offices about waist high. It moved rapidly. A fierce barking cut through the night as the rhythm of four paws drummed on the wooden floor. ‘Friggin’ dog!’ Floyd cried.

  ‘Jump up! Jump up!’ echoed Biscuit.

  Floyd leapt up, grasping the rope for dear life. His left calf felt the smooth coat of the Alsatian sentry as Biscuit peered downwards. Floyd climbed frantically, raising his feet to the height of his waist as the dog bounded hungrily below him.

  He reached out a hand and grabbed the edge of the window frame. Biscuit gripped his other hand and pulled him up. ‘Fockin’ rarse ’ole dog,’ Floyd spat, the palms of his hands stinging due to the quick ascent. ‘I’m gonna come a next time an’ club your rarse wid a Viv Richards cricket bat, to rarted.’

  Biscuit surveyed the street and saw Coffin Head get out of his car. Floyd sat down, palming his forehead as Biscuit hastily unlatched the ropes.

  ‘Bloodfire!’ heavy-breathed Floyd. ‘Fuck my living days! De dog’s ah fockin’ man-eater. I t’ought my days were over an’ out, dread. Bwai, de somet’ing tried to yam my leg to rarted! Fockin’ dog, man. We should ah come wid nuff bonio an’ rare steak an’ t’ing to keep de blasted dog ’appy.’

  Biscuit couldn’t hide the smile on his face, although he realised they could still be in danger. ‘Backside, if dat rarse dog did ketch you, I dunno wha’ you would ’ave expected me fe do.’

  ‘Come down an’ help, innit,’ Floyd replied, his tone serious. ‘Lace de friggin’ dog on his ’ead top wid your big screwdriver, innit … Dat dog ’as los’ me nuff corn.’ He stamped his right foot on the roof in frustration.

  ‘Mek no sense de two of we get yam,’ said Biscuit, shaking his head.

  ‘Bwai, let’s remove from dis place, man,’ said a sweaty-faced Floyd, looking down the street.

  On reaching ground level, they saw a tense-looking Coffin Head on the other side of the fence. ‘Blouse an’ skirt! Get in de car, man,’ he gestured around him with his hand. ‘Someone mus’ ’ave ’eard.’

  Biscuit and Floyd scrambled over the fence as Coffin Head ran to his car and started the engine. A bedroom curtain moved in the house at the end of the terrace and a shadowy face looked down on them. Biscuit and Floyd slammed the car doors and Coffin Head hit first gear. He U-turned over the pavement and floored the accelerator.

  Fifteen minutes later, the motor was huffing and puffing through the streets of Streatham. In the passenger seat, Floyd slouched, deflated. In the back, Biscuit contented himself with a Twix chocolate bar. The pavements were mostly deserted. Coffin Head drove slowly and attentively, looking out for SPG vans and police cars. ‘I shoulda gone by Knights Hill way,’ he said. ‘Not so many beast are on dat route.’

  He drove past the Cats Whiskers club and Brixton bus garage on Streatham Hill, checking his rear-view mirror continually.

  ‘Drop me off at Brenton’s,’ asked Floyd. He chucks his keys over to Coffin Head. ‘Let me in when I get back.’

  Coffin Head nodded as Biscuit closed his tired eyes.

  Three minutes later, the Dolomite spluttered to a halt outside Brenton’s ground-floor flat. Situated in a new two-storey block, Brenton had put in the hard-wood front door himself. Plain net curtains covered the windows, and Brenton had recently varnished his front gate. Untamed grass grew in his tiny garden.

  Floyd emerged from the car. ‘Wha’s a matter wid you two? Brenton don’t bite, y’know.’

  Two minutes later, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes, a yawning Brenton, dressed in track-suit bottoms and a thick, stringed vest, opened the door. ‘Don’t you friggin’ sleep? You’re like a friggin’ vampire, man. Not seen during the blasted day but stressing people during the night.’

  ‘Just cool, man,’ Floyd replied, not waiting to be invited in. ‘Coffin Head jus’ drop me off. Jus tried to t’ief some speakers from T’ornton Heat’ sides. We ’ad to chip cos of a friggin’ mad dog. An’ you can’t complain anyway. I ain’t been to your gates fe over a week.’

  Brenton sighed. ‘Bwai, you’re still doing dat t’iefing madness.’

  ‘You got anyt’ing to yam in de fridge?’ asked Floyd, stepping towards the small kitchen.

  ‘Nah. An’ you still owe me for that Ploughman’s Lunch I bought you a while back.’

  Floyd made his way to the front room, admiring the new wallpaper in the hallway. He plonked himself on a bean bag on the uncovered floor and greeted the Bruce Lee poster which overlooked Brenton’s black and white television. A small teak table in the middle of the room held a framed picture of a baby, and next to it a glass ashtray. In one corner of the room was a large DIY book that was sitting next to a paint-specked ghetto-blaster.

  Brenton went over to the mantelpiece, which framed a gas heater. He picked up his herb bag and rizlas and threw them over to his spar. ‘You buil’ up, man. You always wrapped a better zoot than me.’

  ‘You know dat.’

  Floyd began to construct the spliff scientifically. Brenton looked on in envy. ‘So wha’ is Biscuit and Coff up to these days?’ he asked, walking to the suitcase. ‘Do they still juggle for Nunchaks?’

  ‘Nah. Coff decide not to juggle again. I t’ink de rarse beating ’im get inna cell discourage ’im a liccle. An’ as for Biscuit, he ain’t buying his t’ings off Nunchaks again. Cos Nunchaks is moving in on Denise. Serious t’ing. Biscuit can’t chat her out of de situation.’

  ‘Backside!’ Brenton raised his voice while pushing the play button. ‘She’s living dangerous, innit.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s dat. But you know Denise, she’s too headstrong an’ ’ard of listening to advise an’ t’ing. I was t’inking of putting Sharon ’pon her case. She might listen to her. As for Biscuit, worry an’ stress is jus’ licking ’im.’

  Dennis Brown’s ‘Cassandra’ played softly in the background. Brenton scratched behind his ear, wondering if he could do anything about the problem. ‘Maybe I can chat to Nunchaks, tell him not to do anyt’ing to her.’

  ‘Bwai, you’re bold, dread. But believe, Denise won’t t’ank you for it. Mind you, she listens to you more dan anyone else. You might get t’rough to her … I ’ave a feeling you tickle her fancy.’

  ‘Nah. We jus’ get on good. Anyway, if I sight her I’ll drop a word in her lug.’

  Brenton watched his brethren spark the joint. Floyd toked hard as a thick smoke rose like the spirit of a dead man.

  17

  Sister Love

  1 March 1981

  ‘Mummy said you’ve got my pocket money,’ exclaimed Royston, holding out a keen hand.

  ‘Did you go bagwash wid Mummy?’ asked Biscuit, sitting up in bed and opening his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, an’ I hoovered the bedroom.’

  Biscuit inspected the brown carpet. Mus’ ah been tired, he thought, to sleep t’rough a hoovering. ‘You should do it every day, not when you’re jus’ looking money.’

  ‘So I can ’ave my pocket money den?’

  ‘You liccle ginall. Der’s a pound note in my slacks.’

  Royston wasted no time in grabbing the crumpled trousers and rifled through the pockets.

  ‘Wha’s de time saying,’ asked Biscuit.

  ‘Quarter past one.’

  Biscuit pulled on a pair of jeans before venturing into the hallway. The scent of generously-seasoned chicken legs wafted throughout the flat. He made for the front room as he picked the sleep out of his eyes.

  Hortense, her dome hidden by a black tie-head, was ironing a flower-patterned dress as she hummed a gospel song she favoured. Denise, wearing her favourite seamed jeans and a black polo-neck sweater, was sitting in an armchair, pleasing her eyes on the new garments she had just bought from Petticoat Lane market. On her lap was a new black skirt that was split to just above the knee. Beside her on the floor, inside a brown paper bag, were two pairs of slacks and next to this was a pair of suede, high-heeled shoes in their box.

  ‘You get in so lat
e dese days,’ snapped Hortense, collaring Biscuit with her eyes, ‘dat you might as well go ah church when you come from party.’

  ‘Sir Lloyd were playing out, innit. Der blues is always ram.’ His eyes were attracted by the clothes and shoes surrounding his sister. ‘Where d’you get de corn from to buy dem t’ings?’ he interrogated.

  ‘Ask no question, me tell you no lie.’

  ‘It’s Nunchaks, innit.’

  ‘Who’s Nunchaks?’ queried Hortense. ‘An’ wha’ kinda foolish name is dat? It sound like ah demon name.’

  ‘You could say dat,’ said Biscuit.

  ‘It might be ’im, it might not,’ Denise teased her brother, pushing her nose up.

  ‘Don’t frig me ’bout, Denise.’ He raised his voice, pointing a finger at his sister. ‘I told you already not to deal wid ’im. You carry on an’ see dat pure tribulation don’t lick your behind.’

  ‘An’ since when you become my daddy?’ Denise replied, pushing her head forward and placing her hands on her hips.

  ‘Since you start walk an’ talk wid dat terrorist.’

  ‘Stop your noise! De two ah you.’ Hortense battled in.

  ‘Well, tell your precious son to stop trying to manners me.’

  ‘Dis ain’t ’bout manners, dis is ’bout your foolishness.’

  ‘So wha’ is it?’ Denise half-grinned. ‘Can’t tek it dat I don’t haffe rely ’pon you for my garments?’

  ‘No!’ Biscuit shouted, his face turning very serious. ‘De man your dealing wid is dangerous, believe!’

  Denise kissed her teeth as Hortense shook her head. ‘Why me two elder pickney wan’ jus’ cuss ’pon each uder? You’re coming like Cain an’ Abel.’

  ‘Cos he’s trying to play daddy. An’ as far as I know, Daddy dead.’

  ‘Denise!’ Hortense screamed, shocked to hear her daughter speak in this way. ‘Hol’ your tongue before me cut it off.’

  ‘Yeah, go ahead, blame me,’ she taunted her mother.

  ‘Denise!’ Hortense slammed the iron into its rack and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Don’t t’ink you are so big dat me cyan’t box you, y’hear me chile?’

  Royston appeared in the doorway, matchbox cars in hand, and wondering if the never-ending arguments between his mother and sister would come to a conclusion.

  ‘She’s too damn facety,’ announced Biscuit, dismissing Denise with a swipe of his hand. ‘She don’t listen to reason.’

  ‘You jus’ don’t like me, innit,’ Denise said, lowering her voice. Tears began to well in her eyes. ‘I can’t do nutten to please you.’ She glared at her mother. ‘Ain’t my fault my fader was wort’less, so you keep telling me.’ She raised her voice again. ‘It’s like you don’t want me ’ere so! Remind you of ’im, do I?’

  Biscuit glanced at his mother, realising the argument was getting out of control. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Denise, sit down an’ calm yourself, girl,’ ordered Hortense, ignoring her daughter’s crying.

  ‘No! I’ve ’ad nuff of dese shegarries!’ Denise’s voice became volcanic and her eyes narrowed to slits of bitterness.

  His eyes east-westing rapidly, looking at his mother and sister, Biscuit still didn’t know how to calm the situation.

  ‘Denise dis an’ Denise dat,’ his sister yelled. ‘Denise do dis an’ Denise don’t do dat. You two are fuckeries, man! It’s like I ain’t related in my own yard. Can’t do nutten right! I mus’ be de blackest rarse sheep ever! Even so I cook, an mind Royston an’ t’ing, but oh no. You always find somet’ing dat I’m doing wrong.’ She glared at her mother with such passion that Hortense had to look away. Biscuit raised his palms, thinking for a moment he might have to separate them. Denise continued to print her gaze underneath Hortense’s skin. ‘Well, I ain’t teking dis fuckery any more! I’m shifting.’

  Hortense’s mouth was primed to say something but her voice was drowned in shock. Denise had never used rude gal language in the presence of her mother before. The intensity of her daughter’s argument left one half of her mind in disarray and the other in guilt. At that moment, she would have done anything to get away from her daughter’s glare.

  ‘Hol’ your backside still!’ yelled Biscuit, holding his right palm towards his sister’s face.

  Denise shot out of the chair, brushed past a startled Royston and marched to her bedroom. Hortense said nothing, peering vacantly at the armchair Denise had just left. She then closed her eyes and held her forehead in her palm.

  ‘She ain’t going nowhere!’ insisted Biscuit, leaving the room. ‘Fucking nowhere!’ He ran into the hallway and stood outside Denise’s bedroom door.

  ‘You ain’t going nowhere, y’hear me?’

  ‘You ain’t my friggin’ paps.’

  ‘Jus’ calm yourself an’ we can chat.’

  ‘Chat ’bout wha’? Mum wants me out an’ you t’ink I’m some kinda leggo beast.’

  ‘No I don’t. It’s jus’ a liccle warning I’m giving you. Nunchaks is ah bad man.’

  ‘Yeah he is. Jus’ like you, innit. Maybe I should tell Mummy ’bout your dealings wid ’im. Den she might not t’ink dat de sun rises from your backside.’

  ‘Don’t mek me bus’ down dis door, y’know.’

  ‘Bus’ it down, like I’m scared of you.’

  ‘Lincoln, let her be, man,’ Hortense instructed. ‘Mek her gwarn an’ cool off. She’ll soon come back when she realise she der-ya ’pon her own.’

  ‘T’anks for dat, Mum! You get your wish, innit. I’m outta your miserable face. If I go you won’t ’ave to t’ink ’bout my daddy’s face spoiling your day.’

  Biscuit thumped a fist on Denise’s bedroom door for a full minute. Then, abruptly, it opened, with Biscuit almost falling against the wardrobe. Denise was wrapped in her beige trench coat. She held on tightly to a bulging holdall. Royston stood still in the hallway, not quite believing his tearful eyes. He clutched his toy cars to him.

  For a long second, Biscuit gaped in shock. ‘Denise, man. Jus’ cool. You know Mummy loves you an’ t’ing, an’ me too. You know so Royston will feel it as well. Jus’ cool an’ we can chat ’bout dis.’

  Denise searched her brother’s eyes and knew his plea was genuine. But she wanted to cause a little emotional distress for her mother. Mum can’t cope without me, she thought. Who’s gonna do de cooking four times a week while mum’s at work? She held on grimly to her brother’s apprehensive gaze. ‘You’d better step aside cos der’s gonna be one big rarse fight between de two ah we if you don’t remove!’

  Her tears had reached the corners of her mouth, creeping over her lips. She pushed out her jaw in determination as she fish-eyed her older brother, wondering if she would have to fight to reach the front door. ‘Mek her gwarn an’ cool off,’ a voice maintained from the lounge, and Denise’s heart plummeted.

  ‘Don’t do dis, Sis,’ Biscuit said quietly in a defeated tone. He looked at his sister and for a short moment they acknowledged each other’s love. Then Denise looked beyond her brother and saw no sign of her mother. Her bitterness returned.

  She palmed Biscuit aside, and three seconds later was walking along the balcony, inhaling deeply on the chilled March air, wondering who would put her up for the night. Somewhere below, a rootsman was playing the Crown Prince’s ‘Milk And Honey’. She hoped that Frank or Stella would see her and ask what was happening. But all she saw was the white kid three doors away trundling on his scooter.

  Back inside the flat, Royston was inconsolable, his eyes clenched tight, not wanting to open them again.

  ‘Maybe Pastor Thomas could talk some sense into her,’ Jenny suggested.

  ‘No, man. Dat will mek t’ings worse,’ Hortense replied. She was sitting in Jenny’s front room sipping a cup of nutmeg tea. ‘After ah day or two, Denise will come back when she woulda cool off. Her temper too rapid, man, jus’ like her wort’less fader. An’ she too damn renk. Dis is de first time she swear after me! Me shoulda gi’ her two box.’ She looked up at th
e picture of Martin Luther King and wished it was all that simple.

  ‘Dat won’t solve anyt’ing, Hortense. Why you nah try an’ talk wid her, woman to woman. Get to find out wha’ is troubling her, talk wid her like you talk to me.’

  Hortense tutted, then sipped her tea, unable to mask her disbelief. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a conversation with her daughter that didn’t end in an argument. ‘Royston! ’Ow many times me affe to tell you to stop run up an’ down inna Jenny hallway? You carry on an’ see I don’t cane your foot-bottom wid cheese grater.’ She paused, her mind returning to Denise. ‘As fe me daughter, ’ow cyan me talk wid her when her mout’ so cantankerous?’

  ‘Jus’ sit her down an’ talk calmly. Hortense, you too much like de old Jamaican women dem who say raise de girls an’ love de boys.’

  Hortense ignored her sister’s remark. ‘Royston! Don’t mek me come out der.’ She wanted to change the subject.

  Jenny smiled. ‘Let ’im be. It kinda nice to ’ave ah young chile run ’bout de place. I wish mine were at dat age.’

  ‘Royston wan’ fe learn some manners,’ Hortense riposted.

  ‘So, you t’ink ’bout Royston staying wid me for weekends?’

  ‘Hhhmmm. Wha’ you ’ave planned fe ’im? Don’t bring ’im ah no blasted church an’ mek parson man turn ’im fool. Dem parson or pastor man or whatever you wan’ call dem are ginall. Dem always carry on ’bout de poor but dem pocket jingle up wid nuff money. An’ I know ah few ah dem ’ave pickney ’ere an’ der.’

  ‘You too damn cynical, Hortense!’

  ‘An’ you too naïve.’

  ‘So is dat ah yes? Cos me can never be sure wha’ you mean. God give you some stubbornness, my Lord.’

  ‘Hhhmmm.’

  ‘’Member dat time back ’ome when you was staying by Uncle Malcolm? Papa say you needed some work to let go of your talk-back-to-elder-ways.’