East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  23

  The Brixtoniad

  6pm, 10 April 1981

  Rage! screamed a white T-shirt worn by a black youth who had just entered Brixton market. The traders and stallholders were thankful for the sunny weather that blessed the day. A West Indian lady kissed her teeth as the man selling yams and green bananas politely refused any more custom, saying he wanted to go home. Two schoolboys playing tag through the market barged into a head-wear stand. Four ladies’ hats dropped to the ground. ‘You little bastards!’ cried a middle-aged white woman, raising her fist. A white teenager clad in a black helmet and knee pads, travelling on a skateboard, skilfully dodged the many empty cartons and boxes on the street. The sound of crashing pots and pans reverberating on the pavement came from beside the Boots store. Next door to the hat stall, a young woman was negotiating the price of a fine, burgundy dress.

  ‘Eight ninety-nine? I’ll gi’ you seven fifty. It’s all I ’ave. Come on, man! I’m ’aving a birt’day party tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, go on with you then,’ the trader yielded. ‘As it’s your birt’day, give me the seven fifty.’

  ‘T’anks, the lady smiled, passing on the cash. ‘You’re so sweet.’

  The trader adjusted the collar of his shirt and returned the smile, only to see his customer turn around to inspect a selection of hats.

  Most of the stallholders had outstripped their usual weekly sales targets, and they were full of hopes and expectations. It was the end of the day, and with contented smiles the marketers were packing up their wares, and even giving away single fruits to passing children. ‘So it’s the Prince of Wales, is it?’ a flat-capped trader shouted to his peers.

  ‘Yeah, ’Arry,’ someone answered. ‘First round is yours!’

  Late afternoon shoppers mingled with returning commuters, offloading from Brixton Tube Station and forming disorganised queues at the bus stops. The rush-hour traffic was stalled by two male drivers who saw each other across the road. Their cars were pointing in different directions, but still they climbed out and began to converse on the central reservation. Other motorists palmed their horns, only to be greeted with Jamaican expletives. The record shops were still open, and local sound men and reggae heads jostled and frenzied for the latest releases, nodding their hatted-heads when a tune they heard licked their pleasure.

  The doom-mongers and philosophers, some standing on discarded fruit boxes, were out in force, competing to gain an audience. Most people ignored them, but a few offered them curious glances that only served to inflame their Armageddon rhetoric. Beggars and finger-flexing, eye-shifting pick-pockets patrolled the steps leading down to Brixton Tube Station, scenting a sympathetic do-gooder or a careless person in a rush. Bad bwai commuters leaped over the ticket barrier with as much concern as they would side-step a banana skin. The aged West Indian ticket collector simply didn’t care.

  On Atlantic Road, people were entertained by a white bare-backed, dreadlocked man, skanking outside the reggae stall just in front of the entrance to the arcade. His reddened bare feet didn’t seem to balk at the heat radiating from the asphalt as he performed some sort of twisty, knee-jerking movement. Sceptic was one of the spectators, bobbing his head to a dub tune while eyeing a passing girl. Other onlookers clapped their hands and laughed with the dancer. Suddenly, the tramp halted his jigging, his attention drawn by something occurring further down the road.

  Sceptic followed the white dread’s gaze and saw a black youth running down the pavement, passing the Atlantic pub like he was escaping from hell. ‘What a blowoh!’

  With one hand clutching his breast, the terrified youth looked behind him and panicked when he saw a pursuing constable. Sceptic noticed that the guys he had seen in the record shops were now all around him. ‘Wha’s ’appening, Scep?’ one asked.

  ‘I dunno.’ He looked again. ‘Blowoh! De bwai’s cut.’

  Sidewalk trodders stilled their steps; some offered a glance and carried on walking, thinking what’s new. ‘Go ’way, Babylon,’ someone yelled as the policeman caught up with the reeling teenager. The officer immediately realised he had a gravely wounded youngster in his grasp. ‘Release ’im!’ a teenager shouted behind Sceptic. The officer looked around in alarm, realising what the assembling black youths must be thinking. While holding on to the bleeding youth, he radioed for assistance, wanting to get the victim to a hospital as soon as possible.

  The adolescent repelled the officer’s touch, thinking he was being arrested. ‘Babylon wet de sufferer!’ a black man screamed, walking out of the menswear shop with a box of new shoes in his hands.

  The injured youth squirmed away from the policeman’s clutches and staggered into Coldharbour Lane. Sceptic could hear disapproving protests all around him from a rapidly gathering crowd. He found himself being caught in a mini-stampede up Coldharbour Lane, halting the rush-hour traffic. He heard a car horn as the mob around him wondered where the blooded youth was. ‘Where ’im der?’

  ‘Where de beast go?’

  ‘Dey coulda kill de bwai!’

  ‘Bloodclaat beast.’

  ‘Beast haffe dead!’

  ‘Wha’ ah gwarn?’ asked a beret-topped youth, coming out of the fried chicken takeaway, crocodiling a wing.

  ‘Radication wet up a ghetto yout’,’ replied Sceptic, trying to look above the heads in front of him. Feeling himself being jostled, he took in the angry faces around him and thought about making a run for it before things got too serious. He saw the DJ, Pancho Dread, his sombrero conspicuous in the crowd, and decided to stay with the flow, not wanting to be called a chicken.

  Suddenly he saw a cab bearing the injured youth, who was flanked by police officers, emerge from Rushcroft Road and head west on Coldharbour Lane. ‘Free de yout’!’ someone cried. Everyone roared their approval. Within a short second, Sceptic found himself being swept along towards the taxi. Oh my days, he thought. Dis ain’t ’appening. He could hear police sirens approaching, and jerking his head to either side, saw ghetto youths picking up bottles, bricks, milk crates and bits of wood. He could hardly see in front of him but reckoned that the cab was surrounded and that the injured youth had been freed from the clutches of the police.

  Biscuit, who was in Electric Avenue looking for Denise, heard the commotion. He ran to see what was happening and couldn’t believe his eyes as he reached Coldharbour Lane. Youths were hurling missiles at the police vehicles that were rushing to the scene. A car driven by a black man with a youth in the passenger seat, his T-shirt reddened, almost ran Biscuit over. ‘Bloodfire!’ he gasped. ‘Revolution ah start.’

  He quickly realised that police reinforcements were coming from the direction of Brixton High Street and north of Atlantic Road, pushing the rioters by the Atlantic pub and up into Railton Road. Thinking he might well be arrested if he stayed where he was, he ran to join the missile-throwing mob, covering his head with his bomber jacket. The sounds of police sirens was almost unbearable as he found himself rubbing shoulders with a now hat-less Pancho Dread. ‘Wha’ ah gwarn?’ he asked.

  ‘Babylon cut a yout’.’

  They both heard shouting coming from further up Railton Road. Biscuit turned around and saw some people he knew – bad men, Front Line idlers, drama seekers and herb traders, all marching to join the mob. He wondered if Nunchaks was nearby. In the corner of his eye, he saw Sceptic launching a bottle at the now formed police line, twenty yards into Railton Road. He went over to him, pushing his way through the throng. ‘Scep!’

  ‘Murder!’ Sceptic hollered at the police, caught up in an adrenaline rush. ‘Murder!’

  ‘Scep!’

  Sceptic looked to his right.

  ‘Come, man,’ Biscuit advised. ‘Let’s go up an’ bus’ a right into Kellet Road. Dis place is gonna be swarming wid de beast soon. I dunno ’bout you but I don’t wanna be inna cell tonight!’

  They went over to the pavement, crouching low, wanting to see what was happening ahead. Biscuit decided to stand on a red milk crate. He
saw a three-quarter brick obliterate a police van’s windscreen and a constable being floored by a Red Stripe bottle. A police panda car was horribly disfigured, all its windows smashed. He glanced to his right and saw a variety of missiles javelined into the air, aimed at the police line. Although he wanted to get away from the scene, it was exhilarating to be a part of this madness. His veins were filling with adrenaline and he joined in a chant. ‘BABYLON HAFFE DEAD.’

  He saw another police van slowly approach the rioters, as if daring to drive right through them. One protester launched himself on to the bonnet of the van like a body-slamming wrestler. The driver turned sharply and shrugged him off. ‘MURDER, MURDER!’ Biscuit screamed with the mob. He observed the van assailant tending to his scrapes on the road while being welcomed with glinting handcuffs. In response, Biscuit saw the rabble renew their missile assault with vigour, throwing anything they could lay their hands on. He caught sight of Sceptic tearing down some fencing. Pancho Dread and others were levelling a knee-high brick wall. The policemen could do nothing but raise their forearms in defence. A few of them commandeered dustbin lids to protect themselves. Biscuit heard sirens coming from behind him, and his eyes blinked at flashing blue lights. Frig my living days, he said to himself. I’m removing.

  He jumped down from the milk crate and looked for Sceptic, finding him on the other side of the road about to launch a Coke bottle at the swelling police line. ‘Come,’ he ordered. ‘Now!’

  They darted into Kellet Road and from there made their way to Floyd’s flat. They noticed that the entire area was gridlocked with traffic and police vehicles were racing everywhere. As they walked they could feel the smog of uprising in the air and wondered what would happen now.

  Several hours later, Sceptic was eyeing a pot upon a pool table in a pub near Brixton Prison. Middle-aged black and white men sat at the bar talking of the day’s riot. Two young women, their faces heavily caked in make-up, sipped on their Pink Lady’s, nattering quietly. Three elderly black men, sitting around a table, downing pints of Guinness, pondered on the domino sticks they held in their left hands. A white teenager had just won the jackpot on the one-armed bandit; drinkers looked around on hearing the chink, chink of the coin dispenser. The barman, a twenty-something, long-haired white man, constantly looked out the front window while wiping a pint glass dry. ‘They’re still going up and down,’ he said to those at the bar. ‘When we close up I’ll think I’ll take a cab home. All these bloody police vans about …’

  ‘Wha’ ah blowoh!’ Sceptic exclaimed to his audience, which included Coffin Head and Floyd. ‘Man an’ man were flinging all kinds of t’ings. Beastman ’ad to tek cover. Blowoh! I couldn’t believe wha’ me sight today. Beastman inna SPG wagon tried to run over a yout’, believe. Nuff yout’man were flinging rockstone an’ brick like unruly pickney ’pon coconut shy to rarted.’

  ‘Wha’ appened to de yout’ who get wet up,’ asked Floyd, perched on a bar stool and chalking his cue.

  ‘Word ’pon street says de yout’ dead when ’im reach hospital. An’ it’s Babylon man who gore ’im, y’know.’

  ‘Char! Dey get ’way wid anyt’ing, innit,’ Coffin Head scowled, circling around the table to negotiate the shot Sceptic had left him. ‘It seem like booting up yout’ inna cell ain’t nuff fe dem. Now der boring up black yout’ ’pon street.’ He addressed the cue ball and powered home a long pot. ‘We should tek a rarse gored chest fe ah chest. Mek dem t’ink twice ’bout troubling us.’

  Sceptic looked upon his pool rival with a deep concern, then glanced over to Floyd who was sipping his lager and sucking a cigarette. Coffin Head parked in his chair, paying no attention to Sceptic’s play. He wished he’d been there to take up arms with the other rioters and fling some rockstone and brick in a beastman’s direction.

  ‘Coff!’ Sceptic clamoured. ‘It’s still your shot, you jus’ sink a ball, innit.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Me forget ’ow bad me is at dis game.’

  ‘Wha’ ’appened to Biscuit?’ Floyd asked. ‘Where did he step to? He said earlier he’d meet us in de pub.’

  ‘He might ’ave gone round Carol’s, an’ he did say he might check out Yardman. See if he knows where Nunchaks brothel der-ya.’

  ‘You know so if he finds out, we’ll ’ave to step wid ’im,’ stated Coffin Head, poker-faced.

  ‘We’ll come to dat when it comes,’ answered Floyd, the tension evident in his voice.

  Sceptic wanted to change the subject. ‘Bwai, wha’ ah blowoh. Nuff yout’ say der forwarding to Brixton tomorrow an’ see wha’ ah gwarn. I know so I’m stepping down der from morning. Brixton getting hot to rarted.’

  ‘Der’s gonna be nuff beast ’pon street tomorrow,’ warned Floyd.

  ‘Good,’ said Coffin Head, missing his shot but not really giving a damn.

  ‘Bwai, you sound like Mafia man to rarted,’ observed Floyd.

  Sceptic stared at Coffin Head with scared eyes, waiting for his reply.

  ‘You affe gwarn like Mafia man yes,’ Coffin Head said. ‘If dey do you somet’ing, den you affe lick dem ’arder dan dey lick you. Renkin’ beastman, I ’ope at least one ah dem get a brick inna ’im temple an’ ketch coma to rarted.’

  ‘Bwai, Coff, you’re getting well militant, innit,’ said Floyd, thinking the police beating had fucked his friend up a little.

  ‘You ’ave to, innit,’ Coffin Head replied. ‘A serious survival dis. Sen’ dem to de rarse gravedigger inna box before dey sen’ us. Char!’

  Floyd munched on his crisps, thinking the beastman boots had inflicted more damage upon his friend than he had first thought. Coffin Head only thought of tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow I might get my chance, he mused. Yeah, tomorrow’s de day.

  Next morning, Coffin Head emerged from his sleeping bag at 10am. He pulled on his trousers, slipped on a red Adidas T-shirt and went to see if Floyd was up. His flatmate’s bed was unoccupied and joint butts filled the bedside ashtray. ‘Friggin’ ginall,’ he cursed. ‘He ’ad a draw on ’im last night.’

  In twenty minutes or so, Coffin Head was ready to seize the day. He stood still, pondering how he was gonna carry his gun. He wanted to place it somewhere secure; it wouldn’t look too cool if he was running ’way from de beast an’ de gun drop, he thought. He decided to wear his waist-coat bodywarmer. The spacious zip pockets in the lining would be a good place to mask my 45, he reasoned, even though the jacket might prove a little warm in the current climate.

  After downing a mug of tea and several Digestive biscuits, he set off towards central Brixton, his gun close to his chest.

  The pavements of Brixton were teeming with urban life, and Coffin Head found that every posse had a presence. He also noticed the increased attendance of the police, walking their beats nervously while fish-eyeing the rabble. ‘They might as bleedin’ well move Scotland Yard to Brixton,’ commented a woman who passed him at a road crossing.

  Sweat began to ooze from Coffin Head’s armpits as the reality of his vengeance mission struck home. If any beastman stops you on sus, den jus’ chip, he told himself. As he turned into Coldharbour Lane, the thin sprouts of hair above his top lip became moist. He felt sweat running down his temples and palmed it away. Sensing that eyes were trained on him, he walked swiftly to the Soferno B record shack where he hoped to find one of his own posse. Opposite the record shack, the West Indian barber shop was alive with prediction and bravado. Many black faces looked out of the windows. The usually vocal fruit and veg trader, who was situated under the bridge at the junction of Coldharbour Lane and Atlantic Road, was subdued, his eyes alert.

  The sight of Floyd, Brenton and Sceptic standing outside the packed reggae shop made Coffin Head’s heart beat easier. ‘Wha’appen, Floyd, Brenton, Scep,’ he greeted, noticing the many youths idling around, expecting something to happen. ‘Wha’ ah gwarn?’

  ‘Nutten,’ replied Floyd. ‘Man an’ man are jus’ staring out de beast dem when dey pass.’

  ‘The beast would be fool to start anyt�
��ing today,’ said Brenton, nodding his head to Dennis Brown’s ‘Slave-driver’, booming out from the shop. ‘Look how many yout’s in Brixton today.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Coffin Head, looking east along Coldharbour Lane at the stepping posses coming into central Brixton.

  Until the Lambeth Town Hall clock struck one, Brixtonian youths debated on what might happen on this day, and when a pinch of hunger beset them, they satisfied themselves with meat Jamaican patties from more than happy vendors. They washed these down with cans of Special Brew and Tennants.

  By 1.30pm, Biscuit had arrived with Sharon and Carol, the two girls filled with curiosity rather than the need for drama. He wondered if he’d see Denise on this day.

  The crew greeted and nodded to almost every peer they knew, sometimes seeing someone for the first time since schooldays. Meanwhile, the mist of tension was thickening by the minute. ‘I’m gonna check out if de white dread dancer is performing today,’ announced Sceptic. ‘Coming, Coff?’

  ‘Yeah, might as well,’ answered Coffin Head. ‘Getting bored jus’ standing up ’ere so.’

  The two friends made their way to Atlantic Road, where they had to walk near the kerb to avoid the congestion of the pavements. ‘Frig my days,’ said Sceptic. ‘Brixton ram.’

  At 2pm, they saw two young police officers walking down from Railton Road. Immediately, they drew attention from every youth on the street. The policemen decided to question the black owner of a cab, parked outside the A & M car hire on Atlantic Road.

  ‘What a blowoh,’ exclaimed Sceptic. ‘Dey ’ave got nuff front!’

  ‘Der friggin’ mad,’ replied Coffin Head, noticing that youths were spilling out of the market arcade to see what would happen next.

  ‘Go’ ’way, Babylon!’ cried a heavily bearded dread.

  Coffin Head and Sceptic joined a crowd of up to 40 youths who gathered on the pavement outside the A & M car hire. ‘Remove, ya!’ a youth wearing a black track-suit top demanded. Next door to the taxi office, the All Star Takeaway emptied as the officers, arrogantly ignoring the assembling hordes, searched the car for drugs or any other incriminating evidence. The cloud of uprising had now become heavy and was about to pour its contents upon the streets.