by Alex Wheatle
He found his sister’s bedroom dark and empty, just like every other night. ‘Denise, man,’ he whispered, then to himself, ‘Wha’ de rarse you playing at?’
He moved on into the lounge where he found his mother nestling in the sofa, listening to a debate on the radio. The politicians and crime experts were discussing the Yorkshire Ripper murders and the performance of the police in the investigations. ‘Me don’t know why me boder cook if you gwarn come ’ome late every blasted night,’ Hortense moaned. ‘Me jus’ see you get up, go out, an’ come back when telly sign off.’
He nibbled his bottom lip, thinking his mother should be worrying about something else.
‘Royston gone ah Aunt Jenny,’ she informed him. ‘It seem like ‘im t’ink Aunt Jenny ’im mama now. ’im nuh like stay at ’ome since Denise gone ’bout her business.’
‘You should worry yourself ’bout where Denise der-ya.’
‘Worry? Me nah kick her out!’ Hortense raised her voice, dodging the accusing glare of her son. Her eyes were drawn to the floor, not wanting to reveal any signs of guilt. ‘She tek her two foot an’ walk out wid vexness. Jus’ like her fader she is.’
‘Mummy, it’s been weeks!’ Biscuit sensed his mother’s remorse and hardened his gaze. ‘Don’t you wonder where she der?’
‘If your sister t’ink she cyan gwarn like big woman an’ walk out from her ’ome, den she mus’ feel it.’ Hortense tried to hide her own fears, but suddenly remembered her father sending her away to her uncle. ‘She jus’ so impetuous … She knows deep down dat me waant her home.’
‘Does she?’ Biscuit walked up close to his mother, searching her eyes for shame. ‘She walked out of dis yard an’ you never done nutten!’ He felt a punch from his own regrets. ‘Say somet’ing ’appened to her? You gonna blame God again an’ not yourself?’
‘Don’t you t’ink I waant her back!’ Hortense cried, getting to her feet and squaring up to her son. ‘You nah see me bawl ah night-time an’ LORD GOD! It’s killing me dat Denise nuh come back ’ome yet. Don’t t’ink you is de only one feeling it.’
‘While she was ’ere, it never killed you den on ’ow you was treating her. You never bawl over her den. Ah puppy tears you ah show me!’
‘Lincoln! Mind your tongue! You don’t know wha’ Denise mean to me.’
He shook his head in contempt. ‘Not much,’ he answered coldly, glancing into the hallway as if expecting someone to enter the room. ‘Dis is your daughter you’re chatting ’bout’!’ he hollered again, his frustration simmering and reaching his tongue. ‘All over Brixton I’ve been looking fe her. Checking wid her friends an’ people she knows! I was even t’inking ’bout forwarding to de beast. I’m going out of my friggin’ ’ead, but all you can worry ’bout is wha’ time I reach ’ome an’ Royston staying at Aunt Jenny’s!’
‘Lincoln!’ Hortense exclaimed, the shock of her son’s raised voice penetrating her senses. ‘Wha’ do you expect me fe do?’
‘TO BE A PROPER MUDDER TO HER! But dat’s too late, INNIT.’
‘I brought all you t’ree into dis world, an’ believe me, it painful. An’ me raise you all ’pon me own. Who are you fe tell me to be ah proper mudder! Don’t t’ink you grow so big dat me cyan’t wash out your mout’ wid soap water.’
‘’Ave you ever t’ought why Denise gone? I’ll tell you why. Cos she t’ink you ’ate her cos of her daddy. An’ sometimes me believe it, too!’
‘Lincoln! ’Ow cyan you speak such ah t’ing!’ Hortense over-exaggerated, knowing her son was right. She dropped her sight to the carpet. ‘Me try an’ try wid you t’ree. An’ it woulda easy if me jus’ gi’ you up to de social worker dem. But no, me try an’ try. Now all you cyan do is run up your mout’ ’bout t’ings you nah know. An’ Denise decide wid her wisdom to tek her leave. Dat’s all de t’anks I get … Me never did t’ink she would really go an’ nuh come back.’
‘Dat’s no excuse. You’ve never said anyt’ing positive ’bout your one daughter. I ’ope you can live wid your conscience if anyt’ing ’appens to her.’
‘So …’ Hortense paused, realising she would never forgive herself if Denise came to harm. She mentally slammed the door on her guilt again. ‘So it’s my fault why your daddy dead?’ She turned around and raised her arms, as if she was addressing the heavens. ‘So it’s my fault why Denise run ’way? An’ Lord don’t fling me down, it probably my fault dat Judas betray de Lord.’
‘You got one right,’ Biscuit confirmed dryly.
‘You t’ink you’re so righteous, I don’t wan’ fe imagine where you get your money from, but you still ah lick me wid morality.’
‘But you still tek wha’ me gi’ you t’ough, innit.’
‘Bless me papa. Me nuh gwarn listen to your accusations any more dis-ya night. Me gone to me bed! An’ when mornin’ come you might show ah liccle respect to de woman who brought you inna dis world.’ Hortense swabbed away her tears and steeled herself to look into Biscuit’s eyes. She only managed it for three seconds while talking in a whisper. ‘I ’ave never claimed dat I am perfect.’
Utterly defeated, she ambled slowly out of the room without looking back. Biscuit heard her bedroom door close gently. He collapsed into an armchair and wept for his family. He thought of Royston growing up with a sister who was a whore, and a brother who was a drug dealer. He despised himself and what he had become. No more! he told himself. From now on he would put his family first. Wha’ would his mudder t’ink if she knew dat Denise was a whore? And the link he had with it all? Carol’s account of how Denise had looked on that day she suddenly appeared at her home was the worst feeling he’d ever had to confront. I’ve got to get her back, he vowed to himself.
In the South London night sky, a stubborn thin cloud finally revealed a quarter crescent moon. The trees within Brockwell Park murmured to each other as if they did not want anyone to hear their business. The mild weather for the time of year had enticed the first spring gnats into the air. The irregular swishes of traffic on Tulse Hill didn’t quite gel with the hooting of the owls. Two Brixtonians were sitting on a park bench at this hour: 2am.
‘Coffin Head, man,’ Sceptic addressed his spar. ‘I’ve been jailhouse an’ believe, you won’t tek to it. Nuff battyman. Leggo dis idea of killing a beastman.’
‘Char! It seem like you forget wha’ dem did to you an’ me. Friggin’ pigs dem, all dey do is jus’ brutalise us. Why do we affe tek it, man? Der going too far. I wonder ’ow many black yout’ dey brutalise. Dey t’ink der so bad wid der government boot an’ inna dem uniform. Friggin’ uniform won’t rarse stop a bullet.’
He delved inside his jacket pocket and his hand emerged with his piece of gun-silver metal. He trained his aim on a nearby tree and imagined it to be a policeman. ‘Booyaka!’, he cried. ‘Fist to fist an’ blade to blade days dem done. De gun tek over.’
Sceptic looked upon his friend with concern, wondering why Coffin Head couldn’t just complain to his brethrens about the police beating he received, rant about it, then accept it as part of life for a black youth living in the inner city. ‘Maybe you should forward ’ome fe a while,’ he offered. ‘Start yam some decent food an’ t’ing. You an’ Floyd don’t cook. You can’t t’ink right when you’re yamming peanuts for breakfast an’ cream cakes fe dinner, dread. An’ radication mus’ be tired of waiting ’pon your doorstep by now.’
Coffin Head put the gun back in his pocket. ‘Went ’ome last night,’ he replied. ‘Stayed fe an’ hour. My mudder wants me to move up Birmingham to rarted, where my uncle lives. Fuck dat shit. Last time my mudder took me der, de black people were seriously backward up der. Dey don’t play up to date music, dem dress weird inna dem Saturday Night Fever slacks, an’ dey can’t even chat proper. Can’t understand dem a damn. Char! A rarse elocution dem need. Fuck Birmingham, man.’
‘It won’t affe be fe too long. Jus’ till you cool down ah liccle.’
‘Cool down which part? I don’t wan’ fe cool down. Five renkin’ beastman b
oot me up inna cell an’ den dey boot me out ’pon street like I’m a rarse football. An’ all you say is cool down! Fuck dat, man. Char! Sometimes you don’t chat sense.’
‘Quaker City comes from Birmingham sides, innit. You could go ah dance an’ check dem out.’
‘Quaker City? Dey come down to London wid der distorted sound wid der bass sounding like wardrobe dropping down staircase, to rarted. An’ der speaker boxes look like de furniture for a shanty town, to rarted. An’ dey play tune dat Moa Anbessa were spinning t’ree year ago. Even Slacker Rocker ’ave more style dan dem.’
‘Der heavy t’ough.’
‘De only t’ing heavy ’bout Quaker City is der trodder boots. Dem sound man look like der ’bout to climb mountain to rarted. An’ der locks ain’t neat like dem Moa Anbessa man.’
Sceptic accepted defeat on the Birmingham issue. He looked around himself. ‘Remember dat day our posse was ’ere, chatting ’bout wha’ we wan’ fe be when we grow up?’
‘Yeah. An’ not one of us ’as never even got close. Beastman won’t let us do nutten … Look at Denise, she was always chatting ’bout being a singer, now she’s earning corn fe Nunchaks.’
Sceptic began rolling a spliff, catching a sad, far-off look in his friend’s eyes. ‘You can tell me man,’ he prompted. ‘She’s always tickled your fancy, innit. Tell me, dread, how long ’ave you been sweet ’pon her?’
Coffin Head peered at the stars as a sudden shyness swept over him. Sceptic could read him well, he thought. He realised he probably exposed his feelings for Denise sometimes. It had hurt him bad when he heard of Denise’s plight, and although he would never tell Biscuit, he had always known that Hortense would drive her out of the home. He had witnessed many times the constant arguments in the Huggins household, and this led him to believe that Hortense couldn’t give a fuck about her daughter. He knew this helped fuel his wrath towards the police. ‘Yeah,’ he finally answered. ‘I’ve always kinda liked her. She’s got it all, man. Safe. Her facetyness jus’ gi’s me a …’ he tailed off, as Denise’s current predicament overwhelmed him.
Sceptic dropped his head in sympathy, passing on the burning joint. ‘Lick dis. Bought it off Biscuit yesterday. He says he’s giving up de juggling.’
‘Well’ ’im ’ave to. For he knows dat his juggling carries ah portion of de blame for all dese tribulations. An’ I’m not innocent eider …’ Coffin Head felt a guilt within him.
‘Blowoh,’ Sceptic cried. ‘Frig my days, man. Worries never end.’
22
Enter the Pimp Don
30 March 1981
The smoke of a burning hash and ganga spliff dragon-breathed from a greying glass ashtray, looking for an open window through which to escape. A bare light-bulb illuminated the spider-web-like cracks in the whitewashed walls. A crudely built five-foot speaker box lay on its side, a wad of ten-pound notes upon it. Next to the cash were two lighters, both see-through, one tinted black and the other blue. A simple wooden chair, placed in the corner of the room, was draped with a black skirt, burgundy blouse and a woman’s underwear. The only other item of furniture in the room was a double bed with an elaborate pink-coloured head-rest. A Chinese-eyed black girl, sporting extensive make-up and burgundy coloured lipstick was naked underneath a flower-patterned quilt. She looked with controlled lust at the tall bare-backed man parked at the end of the bed, studying him as he sucked on his spliff. Just above the waistband of his slacks, the girl noticed the fringes of an ugly scar. I wonder what’s below his trousers, she mused.
Nunchaks took a heavy toke of the joint before turning around to face the girl. ‘Lie ’pon your belly. Me nah like look ’pon ah girl when I man do my t’ings.’
The girl did as she was ordered. Nunchaks climbed on the bed, declining to take off his trousers. The girl heard him unzip his flies and felt him spreading her legs and roughly palming her backside. ‘Can’t we play a little … Y’know, get me going an’ t’ing,’ she suggested.
‘Shut yer mout’, bitch. Ah privilege yer should be feeling.’
Nunchaks pulled the quilt off and threw it to the floor. He then mounted the girl’s buttocks, and without warning started ram-rodding away, not listening to his partner’s yelps of pain. When he had satisfied himself he zipped up his flies and went to relight his burning cocktail. ‘Don’t boder mek ah bloodclaat mess ’pon de bed. Customer don’t like to spend der corn an’ find dutty bed.’
The girl rolled off the bed, keeping her legs tight together, and found a box of tissues resting on the window-sill. She chanced a glance in Nunchaks’ direction and observed him playing with the black lighter, flicking it on and off; this habit always disturbed her. ‘Do I affe work tonight? I’m really tired, an’ I did mek over a hundred last night.’
Nunchaks got to his feet and ambled over to the girl, still clicking his lighter. With his other hand, he raised an index finger and stroked the young woman’s face, starting from the right eyebrow to the corner of her mouth. He looked on her with total contempt. The girl’s insides quaked, for although she had had sex with Nunchaks many times, this was the most intimate he had ever been with her. She imagined his finger to be a long knife, searching for a suitable place to carve. ‘An’ you’re gwarn to mek ah nex’ ’undred tonight,’ he whispered. ‘De customer dem like you, dat’s why me gi’ you de privilege.’
He groped under the bed and his right hand emerged with his name-sake weapon. Two lengths of wood, each a foot long, encased inside brutal steel tubes with a five-inch chain linking them. He hung it around his neck and addressed his whore once more. ‘You ever see de Towering Inferno? Baddest film Steve McQueen ever mek. You remind me of de blonde ’ead bitch who ’ad ah sex session wid ah married man while de building ah burn. Bot’ ah dem get burn up wid de girl falling t’rough de window an’ drop to her deat’ miles ’pon miles below.’
Opening the door, he heard the strains of the Gong’s ‘Pimpers Paradise’ discharging from another bedroom. He strutted along the hallway to a candle-lit living room, wallpapered in an orange and yellow pattern. Upon a tangerine-coloured sofa he saw two of his whores hoovering cigarettes while watching as Kojak pondered a crime on the television. Both were dressed in short skirts, white tights and chest-gripping tops, and they acknowledged their boss with plastic smiles. ‘You two working ’pon Bedford Hill tonight,’ he decreed. ‘Don’t even bloodclaat t’ink ’bout clocking off till you mek ah ’undred each, y’hear me?’
The girls nodded in unison, getting to their feet while contemplating another night strolling the South London streets. They followed Nunchaks to the front door where the leather-coated Muttley was waiting, pulping his gum with his powerful jaws. Crowned by a black flat-cap, his shoulders seemed too wide to pass through the doorway. The pimp collected his cashmere coat from a peg as he briefed his minder.
‘Bedford Hill me gone, me brethren. When Denise come, tell her fe wait fe Ratmout’. She cyan work ’pon de Line tonight, I t’ink she ready now. De white customer dem gonna love her to de bone … She young an’ fresh an’ dats wha’ dem like.’
Muttley nodded.
‘Ratmout’ should soon come. Tell ’im to cut up de herb fine an’ weigh it. After dat tell ’im to dry it out ah liccle ’pon de ’eater. Den after dat, he cyan tek Denise down de Line. Tell ’im fe keep ah good clock ’pon her an’ be selective ’pon de client dem. Me nuh waan no ragamuffin wid her. Remember, go wid de money an’ de money is inna white ’and wearing ah suit.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Muttley walked into the hallway and disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
Nunchaks departed the flat and peered into the settling night from his fourth floor vantage point. He saw the towering chimneys of Battersea Power Station, and beyond this, bisecting the horizon and blinking red, the Post Office Tower. Within a year, he promised himself, they will fear my name ’pon de uder side of de river. He fondly looked down to his Cortina Mark Two, thought about his future and saw it was prosperous. But the fear of being penniless squ
atted in a dark corner of his mind. He remembered running away from home when he was only fifteen and living in a squat, full of junkies. The memory of waking up in a Brixton slum, not knowing when he was going to eat, still haunted him to this day. He had learned fast; running small errands for local hoodlums provided money for his supper, and snatching handbags outside Brixton Tube Station clothed him in nice garments.
He recalled the Physical Education lessons he had had at school. The other boys would recoil at the sight of the burn scars on his thighs, and then they would whisper in huddles, glancing at the atrocity. He pleaded with the teacher to allow him to abstain from games, but was told to ignore the jibes and pay them no attention. His mother would say the same.
His life changed when a girl he asked out said no because she didn’t want it known that she was going out with the ‘burn-up guy’, although she said he was alright. That moment had happened fifteen years ago, but Nunchaks remembered it as if it were just last week. No bloodclaat leggo-beast gonna mek ’im feel dat way again, his emotions insisted.
‘Get your backside inna de car,’ he commanded. ‘An’ nah forget to walk wid ah roll. Wine up your hips dem to mek man hungry fe you, y’hear me. An’ smile. Gi’ dem ah smile to mek dem t’ink dey are de best-looking men inna de world. Charge more fe a bareback rider, £5 more. An’ don’t waste time wid talk. Jus’ fock, mek dem shoot dem load an’ get ’pon de street again … No talk. I bought new boxes of tissues today, use dem.’
‘We know de drill, Nunchaks,’ one whore sighed. ‘Don’t ’ave to keep telling us.’
‘Shut your mout’, bitch.’
The two prostitutes nodded warily. Muttley reappeared and closed the front door as the two girls made their way along the balcony, whingeing about the cold. Nunchaks placed his weapon inside a custom-built holster within his coat and thought about the money Denise would earn for him. ‘She could mek ah ’undred fifty ah night, to rarse claat. Ah ripe cherry dat.’
