by Alex Wheatle
Cries of objection stung the air, and one black youth stepped into the scene, leant on the allegedly suspect car and stared at the officers with absolute contempt. He pushed up his face, cut his eyes and kissed his teeth. Coffin Head and Sceptic looked on as the crowd wondered how the police would react. The two policemen looked at each other before quickly arresting the youth who mocked their authority. ‘Yu racist bloodclaat!’ screamed a voice from above. Everyone looked up and saw various youths on the roof of the All Star Takeaway. ‘Babylon mus’ dead!’ the man in the track-suit top shouted.
Coffin Head and Sceptic joined in the protests as they heard the Cool Ruler’s ‘Mr Cop’ playing from an upstairs window. ‘Cool down your temper, Mr Cop!’ the mob sang, its members expanding from every walkway and arcade.
The officers hurriedly radioed for assistance. ‘Get here now! Right now!’
Heads fought for space in second-floor windows as the owner of a butcher shop hurriedly slammed his shutters. Coffin Head saw Brenton join the mob, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Biscuit, Carol and Sharon running with many others towards Railton Road.
A police van, swelling with officers, hot-wheeled into the theatre with the idea of taking the arrested youth away. At once it was surrounded by shouting youths. They rocked the van from side to side, trying to tip it over. The officers inside hastily moved away from the windows. Sirens came from every direction. The crowd surged. Sceptic lost his footing. Coffin Head began to kick the side of the van, and others copied him. Brenton saw a man pick up a half-brick. As Sceptic felt a footprint on his head, he heard a shattering sound. Petrified shouts came from within the van. Another brick landed on the vehicle’s bonnet. Coffin Head could see that something had smashed through the window of the vehicle’s rear door.
‘Babylon haffe dead!’
‘Murder!’
‘Kill dem, kill dem!’
Somehow, the van managed to escape, screeching away, not caring whether motorists or pedestrians got in the way. The van ran over Floyd’s right foot, near to the Atlantic pub, and he fell to the ground. Biscuit had run into Coldharbour Lane, and was standing outside Woolworth’s with Carol and Sharon. He scanned the crowd, hoping he might see Denise, but picked out Floyd instead. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘I’m gonna see if Floyd’s alright.’ Going back to the junction of Atlantic Road, he could hear the smashing of shop windows all around him.
On hearing the almost deafening sound of what seemed like a thousand sirens, the main body of rioters had retreated to the junction of Mayall Road and Railton Road. Coffin Head and others ran into an off-licence and helped themselves to bottles of all shapes and sizes. The man behind the counter stood still, utterly dumb-struck. Sceptic was gathering bricks from the crumbling walls of an abandoned terrace. Pancho Dread, his locks free of any hat, was putting stones and small debris into a football sock. Brenton was standing in the middle of the road, looking down Atlantic Road, ignoring the sounds of breaking masonry all around him. Barrabas was standing behind Brenton, testing out his flick-knife. Onlookers peered out of upstairs windows, following the same sight path as Brenton, and a few of them took photos. Shop-owners thought it best to close business early, and in a panic began to board up their shop-fronts in any way possible.
Brenton saw the police reinforcements make their beach-head at the junction of Coldharbour Lane and Atlantic Road. He had never seen so many police vehicles in his life, and judging by the sirens there were more to come. He sensed the unease of the crowd as the police formed themselves into a line and started advancing. ‘MURDER!’ screamed a youth. A second later, a barrage of missiles darkened the afternoon sun. The sound of bottles smashing on the ground and masonry colliding against vehicles filled the atmosphere. Coffin Head had noticed that Molotov cocktails were being prepared by some residents. Yardman Irie, dressed in green army garb, threw a lump of wood into the police lines. ‘ARMAGEDDON!’ he screamed.
The police cowered under the deluge, some officers sustaining wounds to their faces and forearms. They decided to charge the mortar throwers, keeping their heads low. Sceptic was one of the first to turn on his heel and leg it into Kellet Road. Some went with him, throwing missiles at cars while shouting with adrenaline-pumped vigour. Others ran into Saltoun Road, taking out their anger on the vehicles parked there. Coffin Head and Brenton remained where they were. They saw the first Molotov cocktail being launched into the air and smash into the police ranks. As it hit the ground, it ignited and caught alight, causing panic within the police lines. ‘JUDGEMENT DAY!’ yelled Yardman Irie, grabbing a vessel of promised fire and throwing it. As Coffin Head looked to his right at one of the terraced houses that was supplying this new weapon, he wondered who the fuck was organising it.
Within seconds, he had joined with the Molotov cocktail throwers, and when he saw that the police were backing up to see to their casualties, his whole body was charged with a weird elation he couldn’t describe. He noticed that in their retreat, the police had left behind a van. Smiley, who was dressed in a T-shirt that showed a black fist clutching barbed wire, topped by a black beret, ran to the vehicle with about thirty others. They turned the van on its side with glee, smashing the windows and concaving the bodywork. Coffin Head joined the roar of acclaim when Smiley and his band returned to the main body of rioters.
Brenton, with twenty other malcontents, ran to a small building site that was encircled by corrugated aluminium sheets. He noticed that a few white guys were with him. Together, they tore down the sheets and before them were untold bricks and pieces of wood. While gathering missiles, he sensed a strong burning sensation in the air. He looked down the road and saw the Windsor Castle pub engulfed in flames. He paused and looked on in disbelief. He then became aware of something burning in Kellet Road, but couldn’t see what it was. He heard protests from every direction and guessed that there was rioting in all the surrounding streets.
Back at the mob front line, Coffin Head coughed and wiped his streaming eyes. Peering through the smoke, he could see that the cars that lined Railton Road were being drained of their petrol then set alight. He wondered where Sceptic had run to as he heard some residents banging with hammers, boarding up their front windows.
Smiley, who had again encroached on the police lines, saw officers with reddened and bleeding faces. Then he heard sirens of different tones coming from north, south, east and west. Flashing blue lights forced him to blink rapidly. Brenton, gaining a vantage point on a lamp-post, saw that traffic in the area had come to a complete halt, except for emergency vehicles racing to the arena. He lowered his sight and observed a senior ranking police officer trying to quell the anarchy by talking through a loud-speaker. There was a surreal pause as rioters wondered what to make of it.
‘Remove, ya!’ a youth yelled, pointing his finger.
‘Killer beast!’
‘Murderer!’
Brenton saw a pair of arms sellotape an image of Che Guevara inside a second-floor window as the missile throwing resumed. As he was about to jump down from the lamp-post, he saw a number 2 bus in the distance, heading for central Brixton. ‘Fuck my days!’
Halfway down the road, the driver stopped and stared in complete shock as he realised he was driving into a war zone. For a short moment, he observed the raging battle in acute astonishment, then he gathered his senses, told his passengers that his bus was concluding its journey and suggested to them that they make their own way back to Herne Hill. On seeing the smoke billowing into the horizon, and a crazed rabble flinging all and sundry into the air, the passengers quickly agreed.
Coffin Head saw a member of the Dorset Road posse, Olmek Maya, wearing an Arsenal football shirt, hot-step to the bus with four others. One of them wrenched the keys off the driver, and before Coffin Head wondered what Olmek’s crew would do, the big red vehicle was put into gear and charged towards the police line. He bottomed the accelerator and accepted the baying roars of approval by giving a clenched fist salute. ‘MURDERRRR!’
>
A policeman, noticing the approaching red threat, and pissed off with being a target in a mortar shy, picked up a brick and hurled it into the bus’s front windscreen. The double-decker swerved, wheel-spun and annihilated someone’s front wall. A woman’s head popped out of an upstairs window. She stared unblinking at the devastation, then looked up to the heavens, offering a prayer.
By now, insurrection had taken hold of the streets. Fire and ambulance crews were attacked with no apology. Cars everywhere became unwilling beacons as buildings felt the petrol bombs. The heat rose as policemen wiped away rivulets of blood and sweat. Infernos spread to nearby roads as fire vehicles were abandoned and left to the mercy of the mob.
While running down Saltoun Road, Sceptic saw a step-ladder being arsoned as an elderly black man looked out of his blackened bedroom window, clutching a bible in his hands. The streets were carpeted with broken bottles, jagged bricks and masonry as the putrid aroma of expiring vehicles blended with the air.
Biscuit, with Floyd, Sharon and Carol, had helped themselves to new garments from shops in central Brixton. They couldn’t believe that the police were offering no resistance. Biscuit glimpsed Herbman Blue boarding up his premises while his crew made their escape up Rushcroft Road.
The windows of every shop that skirted the High Street, Atlantic Road and the adjacent streets, had been smashed to oblivion. A middle-aged white lady ambled up Brixton Hill, holding a baby in her left arm while pushing a pram that held a new television. Sweet-bwais tried on clothes in deserted menswear shops as women fought over gold in a wrecked jeweller’s. A suited man sat on a kerb and burst into tears as his shop was emptied of all garments; beside him on the pavement was a new pair of boxer shorts. Ten yards away was a headless tailor’s dummy. Woolworth’s, situated in the High Street, was not immune to the looters’ lust. Food shelves became vacant and tills were pillaged. Stereo systems marched out of the store upon people’s shoulders as shop assistants watched in dread. Armfuls of clothes disappeared in all directions as security staff cowered in back rooms. Inside Boots, the pharmacist locked himself into his back room as looters stocked up on cold remedies, face creams, toothpaste, soap and anything else they could lay their hands on.
Marketers hastily boxed up their goods while hungry beggars raided butcher shops and the spicy chicken takeaway. A small boy, separated from his mother, picked up a melted policeman’s helmet and tried it on for size. Bible thumpers jumped off their soap boxes and scattered while their cousins, the doom-mongers, stood still in complete awe. Socialist Party activists abandoned their selling of newspapers and joined the looters. Empty shoe-boxes littered the pavement on the High Street as all creeds swapped their footwear for something new. Groups of young men served themselves drinks in the Prince of Wales pub. A little black boy, dressed in a Darth Vader T-shirt, was filling his pockets with chocolate bars. Throwing away his old tatty jacket, a tramp pulled on a new one, tutting at the length of the sleeves. A teenager went by on his new roller-skates. A white guy with three Tesco’s shopping baskets ran into a menswear shop. An elderly black gentleman walked casually towards Acre Lane trying on different hats, while packs of youngsters, hearing of the uprising, poured into the district from all avenues.
The encroaching dusk backdropped the numerous fires, especially in the George public house in Effra Parade, the building totally covered in flames that licked the air above the surrounding terraced houses. Passers-by looked up in awe as firemen battled to quell the fire’s rage.
The number of fire appliances employed proved woefully inadequate as property owners witnessed their life’s work perish in flames. People lay injured in the streets and screams came from every corner; some voices yelled war-cries while others shrieked in pain. Ambulance men didn’t know who to treat first, or even if they should dare. Elderly people were reminded of the war as they dispersed as quickly as they could, clutching their belongings to their chests. Residents of every tower block in the area peered over balconies while listening to news reports on radios. The injured of the Metropolitan Police was fast approaching two hundred; no figures were available on the general public.
The Town Hall clock chimed 9.45pm and Coffin Head, realising that the police had finally assumed relative control of the debris-laden streets, hid in the shadow of a burnt-out van in Leeson Road. He had already seen guerrilla-style attacks on police lines in the last hour. His breathing had become almost asthmatic and his face slimed in a blackened sweat. His heartbeat up-tempoed to a ferocious level as he wondered what had become of Sceptic. With a trembling right hand he pulled out his gun, crouched low and waited. He saw the police at the end of the road, sipping hot beverages from polystyrene cups. They were armed with truncheons and holding up their transparent deflector shields. Coffin Head crept forward, sensing the time to seize the moment was upon him.
Twenty yards away, he watched a policeman take a piss against someone’s side wall. Coffin Head locked him in his sights, and like a hunting lion advanced stealthily towards his prey. He noticed a bead of sweat drop upon the gun’s shaft as he finger-groped for the trigger. He could feel his pulse all over his being, and the perspiration cascading from his eyebrows began to impair his vision.
The policeman zipped up his flies and turned around. He looked up and saw a dark figure in front of him. Open-mouthed and stock still in shock, his eyes widened as he noticed the gun.
Coffin Head trained his aim to the mouth of the constable who was ten yards away. His hand trembled as if there was a wasp in his grasp, forcing the revolver to shake in a drunken circle. The assassin searched the distressed eyes of his prey and felt an awesome power take over him. The power to take a life or grant one. Coffin Head’s whole body shook like a pneumatic drill. The wanna-be killer examined the eyes of his enemy once more, but he could not squeeze the trigger. He swivelled around, placed the gun within his jacket and burned his soles to the end of Leeson Road, hot-stepping under the bridge, looking back only when he reached a housing estate by Somerleyton Road. He bounded up three flights of concrete steps before taking time out beside a refuse chute.
Blinking repeatedly to clear the sweat that had marred his sight, he peered over a balcony wall and found that he hadn’t been followed. He ran into a crowd of dissidents at the junction of Shakespeare Road and Somerleyton Road, and once he was within the safety of numbers his heartbeat slowed down. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and a rippling shock surged within him. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered to himself, palming away the sweat on his forehead. He composed himself for two minutes before joining the nearby crowd, wondering if he would ever get another chance.
Hortense, who had been listening to the continuous riot reports on LBC radio with increasing alarm, drummed the front door of Frank and Stella’s flat. Frank opened the door, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans.
‘Frank, Frank. Me worried ’bout Lincoln,’ she stressed. ‘You ’ear de news? Lord me God, Armageddon ah gwarn in Brixton, an’ Lincoln nuh reach ’ome yet. You affe find ’im before somet’ing ’appen. Me dead wid worry.’
‘Calm down, Hortense, your son knows how to look after himself. He’ll be alright.’
‘You nah ’ear de news. De whole ah Brixton is burnt to de very ground. You affe find ’im, Frank.’
‘Stella!’ Frank called. Stella emerged from the kitchen where she’d just finished the washing up. ‘Hortense is worried about Lincoln, I’m gonna take a walk and see if I can find him. But I’m sure he’s OK.’
‘But will you be OK?’ Stella asked, offering a displeased glance to Hortense. ‘The shit’s really hit the fan and we can’t afford for you to get arrested, what with you starting that temporary job an’ all.’
‘I’ll be alright, Stell. Can’t see the Filth having time to arrest me with all what’s going on.’
‘T’ank you, Frank,’ said Hortense. ‘If you sight ’im jus’ bring ’im ’ome.’
‘As good as done,’ Frank replied, pacing towards his bedroom to get fully dressed.
Hortense parked herself on an armchair as Stella returned to the kitchen. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Hor? It will calm you down a bit.’
‘Dat would be nice, Stella.’
‘Blow me with a fluffy feather,’ Stella remarked. ‘I’m sure glad I done my shopping dis morning. I was with the kids.’
‘You’re lucky, Stella. Me never seen such ah t’ing in all me days.’
‘We saw it on the news. Couldn’t bloody believe it. All those bleedin’ fires … It’s two sugars you take, innit, Hor?’
‘Yes, me love.’
Stella went to make the tea.
The clock at Brixton Town Hall rang in the midnight hour to the accompaniment of a thousand burglar alarms. Off-licences all over the region had been broken into and plundered. Boosted by the luxury of not having to worry about money to buy liquor, spontaneous parties rocked the whole borough, with sound systems offering their services for free. Even the vagrants were well furnished with Hamlet cigars and spirits of their choice. They gathered together in whatever shelter they could find, toasting the shattered windows around them.
In Hayter Road off Brixton Hill, Crucial Rocker sound had set up in a deserted tenement and were swaying the locals. Brenton, Biscuit, Sharon and Carol were all there, along with a drunken Finnley and a cigar-sucking Sceptic. The whole house was jammed full and patrons had brought their own crates of beer and packets upon packets of cigarettes. Even some white neighbours joined in the party, swigging from Thunderbird bottles and downing Skol lager.
Winston, the selector of the sound, spun the Wailers’ ‘Burnin’ An’ Lootin’’, whereupon the revellers joined in the chorus: ‘Burnin’ an’ a lootin’ tonigh-i-ite.’
