by Alex Wheatle
Biscuit smiled wryly to himself, remembering that Jah Nelson had given him a different interpretation of the song. The burning and looting meant to rid yourself of negative images in the mind. He noticed a tipsy girl, dressed in a brand-new white trouser suit, singing at the top of her voice. He wondered if Denise was safe.
The crowd roared its acclaim to Yardman Irie who was nearing the control tower, receiving back slaps as he went. Kingsley, the operator of the sound, offered the mic man his half-smoked spliff as Winston played Culture’s Rastafari anthem, ‘Natty Never Get Weary’.The herds raised their fists in wild salute and hollered their total approval. Winston smiled, glanced at the masses and knew it was time to unleash Yardman Irie on the microphone. The selector opted for Bobby Ellis’s instrumental version of the ‘Shenk I Shenk’ rhythm. Yardman Irie grabbed the mie and addressed the revolutionaries. ‘In tune to de great boss sounds of Crucial Rocker. Dis one is special request to all de revolutionary foot soldier, so flash up your lighter if you der-ya inna de uprising. From de murder of Blair Peach in 1979, to de eleventh of April, 1981. An’ if you was der-so, bawl FORWARD!’
‘FORWARD!’ the crowd cried.
‘Alright, dis one call de uprising, special request to de man call Grizzly Garnet, Delroy Dyer, an’ to de memory of Blair Peach.’
Uprising dis an uprising, hey!
Uprising dis an uprising
We’re sick an’ tired of your ghetto housing
An’ de friggin sus law an’ de police beating
Der ain’t no work an’ we ’ave no shilling
We cyan’t tek no more of dis suffering
So we gwarn riot inna Brixton an’ inna Sout’all
We gwarn riot inna Parliament an’ inna White’all
You better sen’ fe de army an’ de ’ome guard
Cos we gwarn mash up an’ burn down New Scotland
Yard
So light up your spliff an’ inhale de chalice
We’re gwarn to riot inna friggin’ Buckingham Palace
In 1979 dey kill de man call Blair Peach
It’s a guilty verdict de ghetto yout’ reach
So ’ear wha’ Jah Nelson tell me an’ preach
Babylon affe fall an’ dat’s wha’ I teach.
So listen Maggie T’atcher an’William Whitelaw
You better do somet’ing fe de needy an’ de poor
Fe de ghetto sufferer you don’t open any door
If you carry on dat way den we declare WAR
Uprising dis an’ uprising, hey!
Yardman Irie’s voice was drowned out by roars of enthusiasm, and youths clicked on their lighters, holding them up in the air. Car horns outside joined in the praise as Yardman Irie introduced another ghetto artist.
‘Crowd of people I beg you ’ear me. Stepping up to de microphone is de bad singer wid a voice like mellow canary call David Miller.’ Clenched fists rose as one in recognition. ‘Winston selector man, play tune mek we bubble.’
The rebel rouser passed on the microphone to the singer, and without introduction Miller tore into his Brixtonian anthem.
Swing an’ Dine, dance all the time
Swing an’ Dine, dance all the time
That’s how we do it ’pon de Front Line
Yes, that’s how we do it ’pon de Front Line.
The crowd needed no encouragement to repeat the chorus, preventing Miller from singing the next verse.
SWING AN’ DINE, DANCE ALL THE TIME
SWING AN’ DINE, DANCE ALL THE TIME
THAT’S HOW WE DO IT ’PON DE FRONT LINE
YES, THAT’S HOW WE DO IT ’PON DE
FRONT LINE.
24
Confrontation
3am, 12 April 1981
Coffin Head walked into what seemed a triumphant celebration. He saw Brixtonian girls swigging from bottles of wine and dressed in brand-new chiffon-type skirts and blouses. He laughed as he looked at guys who yesterday he knew as rough-necks, yet were now wearing reptile skin shoes, waffle trousers and real silk shirts. Dennis Brown’s ‘Deliverance Will Come’ blared from Crucial Rocker’s battered speaker boxes, backdropped by the sound of popping champagne corks. A drunken girl kissed Coffin Head on his cheek as he saw his crew beside Crucial Rocker’s control tower.
Ten minutes later and suitably refreshed with a couple of free cans of lager, Coffin Head found a willing partner and started to crub the early hours away along to Carol Thompson’s ‘Mr Cool’. Beside him, bruising the wall, was Sceptic, who had also claimed someone to dance with.
Floyd and Sharon were showing off their new sexy crub as Brenton hoovered a spliff, observing the rejoicing crowd while perched on top of a bass-jolting speaker box. No one told him to get off, fearful of his reputation. Below him, slumped to the ground with his face kissing the mesh that protected the speaker, was an intoxicated but grinning Finnley, who three hours before had contributed a crate of Tennants to the party.
Having said their goodbyes, Biscuit and Carol made their way to the exit, wiping themselves free of sweat. As the still night freshened their faces, they walked arm in arm, happy to be together and sensing their relationship had reached a higher stage.
‘Man, what a day,’ Carol commented. ‘I jus’ ’ope my fader don’t ask me where I got my new dresses from.’
‘My arms are still aching after carrying all dose garments to Floyd’s yard,’ Biscuit chuckled. ‘We affe go der tomorrow an’ pick up our stuff.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when Floyd was in dat shop trying on suit,’ laughed Carol. ‘An’ he got untold pairs of shoes. Most of dem are left foot t’ough.’
‘Knowing Floyd, he’ll probably go down to de shop Monday morning an’ ask to exchange dem … If de shop is still standing. I t’ink it was Burton dat was blazing away. It’s funny how Floyd recovered from de wheel going over his foot when he sighted de looting.’
‘Wha’ did Brenton get?’ Carol asked.
‘A few pairs of trodder boots an’ jeans. He ’ad his ’ands ’pon a ghetto-blaster but he gave it ’way to some small yout’. Bwai, Brenton kinda strange sometimes.’
‘Sharon got untold rings,’ revealed Carol. ‘She ’ad to fight off some crusty yout’ who tried to drapes her. Sharon kuffed ’im wid a shoe heel for ’im to back off. Man, people were going cadazy for gold.’
‘Yeah, I know. Watching dem girl fight made me t’ink of Denise. I ’ope she’s safe in all dis. She could be inna cell or anywhere.’
Carol squeezed Biscuit’s left hand. ‘She’ll turn up, man. Believe.’
The couple turned right into Brixton Hill and observed the police ranks in central Brixton going about their business behind roadblocks. Smoke still rose steadily across the horizon and tired firemen tended to burnt-out buildings. Police vans raced here and there, their flashing blue lights illuminating the High Street. TV news crews had set up base near St Matthews church, filming the scene while pricking up their ears, hoping for a new development. Journalists and community leaders stood staring at the destruction by the Town Hall, feeling sorry for the road sweepers who would clock on for work on Monday morning.
‘How you gonna get ’ome t’rough dat lot?’ Carol asked.
‘I dunno. Not sure I want to. Coff was saying dat dey ’ave blocked off de end of Brixton Road by my sides. An’ Floyd was saying dat Brixton is blocked off from Streatham Hill sides. A yout’ was telling me in de dance dat some Radication squads are patrolling de streets. It’s like der’s an unofficial curfew going on. Some yout’ who was stepping by de George Canning pub get ketch. Dey fling ’im inna van an’ he was gone … So keep your eyes clocking on de way to your yard. As fe me I’m gonna go back to de dance an’ probably coch at Floyd’s yard. Or maybe Brenton’s … Then again, Brenton lives de uder side of Brixton Hill, so he might ketch a problem reaching ’ome.’
‘If you want, you could stay by me.’
Biscuit looked upon Carol in shock. ‘Stay at your yard? Ain’t your parents gonna go cadazy? Your f
ader will chop off my seedbag.’
Carol chuckled as a shy look spread over her. ‘I hope not. I might be needing dat in de future.’
Biscuit’s face lit up. ‘In de future?’ he asked, unable to restrain his grin. ‘Like in de nex’ hour?’
Carol smiled coyly, offering a sexy glance at the heavens.
Biscuit needed no further invitation and took hold of his girlfriend’s arm and upped his walking pace. Ten minutes later, standing outside Carol’s front door, he was still concerned about staying intact. ’Is he a light sleeper?’ he whispered. ‘Wha’ time does he get up inna de morning? Do your parents knock ’pon your door when dey enter your bedroom? Don’t want your mudder seeing my backside. How far is it down to de ground from your window? Your fader don’t keep a bitch piece of gardening tool under his bed does he?’
‘Biscuit … Shut up.’
Carol turned her key inside the mortice lock before inserting her latch key. Biscuit peered through the dark hallway, certain that Carol’s father was behind a door. His heart pounded as Carol led him upstairs. When they reached the landing a female voice forced it to vibrate against his chest bone.
‘Carol, you alright me dear? Me an’ your fader worry ’bout you tonight. But me tell ’im you ’ave sense an’ would nah get involve wid all de madness dat ah gwarn inna Brixton. Ah pure newsflash der ’pon TV.’
‘I was round Sharon’s, Mummy.’
‘Yes, me t’ought so. She’s ah nice girl. We all see de riot ’pon de news an’ your fader did ah fret.’
‘He should know l’ave sense.’
‘Yes, so me did ah tell ’im. Goodnight me dear.’
‘Goodnight, Mummy.’
Biscuit’s heartbeat refused to relent until he reached the safety of Carol’s bedroom. She turned on a light, which only served to fuel her boyfriend’s dread. He sat on the bed and watched, mesmerised, as Carol undressed. Her slight waist led to her deliciously curved backside, and he was transfixed by her toned thighs. The sight of her unbuttoning her pink blouse was too much. He turned his gaze away, conscious of his ecstatic face.
‘Sleep in your clothes, do you?’ Carol whispered.
‘No, er, course not. Jus’ chillin’ ah liccle. Can you turn off de lights, it’s making me nervous.’
Carol switched off the light and dived under the covers, dressed only in her bra and knickers. Biscuit began to pull off his jeans, conscious of any sound he made. Relax, man, he told himself. Don’t dive on her like you jus’ come from jailhouse. Tek your time an’ try to control de rampant t’ing between your legs. Please God, don’t mek me shoot before my time. Oh, frig my days, man, I ain’t got no dick macs. Oh fuck. I can’t believe it.
He climbed into bed, his apology written all over his features. ‘Er, Carol … I ain’t got no caterpillar coats, man.’
She smiled. ‘D’you t’ink I’d trust you wid dem t’ing der? Don’t worry yourself. I’ve been on de pill for six weeks.’
‘Six weeks? You ginall. Why you never tell me?’
‘Cos I wanted it to be a surprise.’
Biscuit held his dream girl in his arms and his mind flashed back to those far off schooldays when he’d tried to gain her attention and walk her home from school. He was jealous whenever another guy chatted to her, and when an opportunity arrived to make small talk with her, he would say something ridiculous.
He kissed her on the mouth, hoping he was doing it right as his hand caressed her back. ‘D’you t’ink our pickney will look like you or me?’
‘Biscuit.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shut up.’
Carol raised herself and unclipped her bra, flinging it down on a bedside chair. Biscuit stroked her breasts with an index finger before wrapping his hands around them, marvelling at their firmness. Carol responded by palming her lover’s chest and squeezing his pectorals while kissing his forehead. Biscuit gripped her panties, and in one motion whipped them down to her ankles. Carol kicked them free before brushing his genitals with her right thigh.
Take it easy, Biscuit told himself. Shit! Why did I stay a virgin for so long? No wonder Floyd’s always skinning his teet’. I’m coming here every night till I die. Man! Wha’ a feeling.
He kicked off the covers so he could truly appreciate the wonder of Carol’s body, and he just had to take hold of her buttocks and squeeze them tenderly before excitement got the better of him. Carol didn’t seem to mind. Biscuit locked his mouth on her left nipple.
Five minutes later, after they had pawed each other to submission, Biscuit entered her. He could not help but go quicker than he wanted to, and within a minute had climaxed. He palmed away the sweat from Carol’s face, rearranged a few of her hair strands and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
Back at the riot celebration in Hayter Road, a white man entered the terrace and experienced his first Brixton blues. The bass-line of the Crown Prince’s ‘Here I Come’ almost wrecked his unaccustomed ears as a reveller planted a lager can in his grasp. Coffin Head, who was enjoying a flesh-warming crub with a Red Stripe-drinking female, spotted the bewildered crusty frame of Frank, who was comparing the noise to a Who concert he’d once attended.
Coffin Head excused himself from his dance partner and went over to Biscuit’s neighbour. ‘Frank, man. Wha’ are you doing ’ere? Looking a piece of leg-back fe de night? Bwai, if Stella find out you reach ’ere so, she will grate your bone, man.’
‘Nah,’ Frank objected. ‘Come to look for Biscuit. Is he here?’
‘No, boss. He walked Carol ’ome ’bout half an hour ago. He ain’t reached back yet, so bwai, he might get his t’ings tonight an’ break his duck.’
‘So he’s alright then?’
‘Yeah, man. He’s more dan alright. Drink up your beer, man, an’ find a girl to crub. Ah celebration dis.’
Frank allowed himself a generous swig of the beer. ‘It’s just that his mother was a bit worried about him. That’s all. It kinda gave me the excuse to see what’s happening. And fuck me, Brixton’s like a fucking war zone.’
‘You could say dat.’
‘The Filth wouldn’t let me through the High Street, so I had to go round the back of Ferndale Road and then on to Acre Lane. There’s Filth all over the place, telling people to get off the streets. And fucking journalists all asking questions. I told ’em to fuck off. But some people can’t get home. I saw some guys break into an off-licence and take everything. I was gonna go up by Floyd’s, thinking that you lot were up there, but I saw this little party going on so I thought I’d check it out.’
‘I come de same way as you. De beast ’ave blocked up everywhere, even the Camberwell end of Coldharbour Lane. Der is still nuff yout’ ’pon street though, ’aving battles wid de beast ’ere an’ der. Anyway, we’ve come to de right place, thank God. Everyone’s ’ere.’
Frank looked around him, and after seeing the performance put on by Floyd and Sharon, thought that they might as well go home and shag each other to death. He saw the brooding Brenton, still roosting on his adopted speaker box, draining a Coke can. Frank turned around and spotted Sceptic constructing a seven-paper spliff while ogling the chest of a jigging girl.
Someone else had entered the party and was also looking for Biscuit. Floyd’s head sprung into vexed animation as Smiley approached Coffin Head with apparently urgent news. He briefly acknowledged Frank before gaining Coffin Head’s attention. ‘Where’s Biscuit? Me an’ ’im affe chat, serious business.’
‘He’s wid Carol. Why?’
‘I know where Denise der-ya.’
‘Where?’ interrupted Frank.
Smiley glared at the white man. ‘Wha’s it to you?’
‘Char! Cool yourself, Smiley man. He’s a brethren of Biscuit … Where is she?’
‘You didn’t get dis from me, y’understand?’
‘Smiley, man. Spill de shit or you wan’ me fe get Brenton ’pon your case.’
‘You know dat tall block of flats by Clapham Road,’ Smiley answered
hurriedly. ‘Near Kennington sides.’
‘Yeah,’ Coffin Head replied.
‘I was driving back from a girl’s yard from Oval, an’ me sight Nunchaks, Muttley an’ Denise getting out from a car. So me park up my car an’ see wha’ ah gwarn. Me sight dem go to de fourth floor, an’ believe, nuff man was around up der, looking over de balcony. It mus’ be Nunchaks whorehouse, man.’
Frank’s eyebrows pushed up to the middle of his freckled forehead as Coffin Head quickly summoned Sceptic. After a quick briefing they went to inform Floyd, who in turn paced over to Brenton. ‘Outside, man. Outside. Can’t ’ear a damn you’re saying.’
Floyd led the crew into the street, and once they were gathered, addressed them of the situation. ‘Someone’s gonna ’ave to go up by Carol an’ tell Biscuit.’
‘I will,’ offered Sharon, swabbing her perspiration with a tissue. ‘But someone will ’ave to tek me up der. Nuff police der-bout an’ der in de mood to jail up anybody tonight.’
‘Alright, dat’s settled,’ decreed Floyd. ‘Me an’ Sharon get Biscuit, an’ de rest of you meet up in my yard, den we’ll forward from der.’
‘An’ do what?’ queried Brenton. ‘You t’ink we could jus’ walk inna de flat an’ tek Denise away?’
‘It’s gonna affe be almshouse business,’ remarked Coffin Head.
‘Wha’ a blowoh,’ exclaimed Sceptic. ‘Well, I ain’t going if Brenton ain’t going.’
‘Shut de fuck up before I pluck out your tongue,’ reprimanded Brenton. ‘If anyone don’t wanna help, den fuck off an’ remove now.’
No one moved a limb as Brenton examined all eyes. ‘Where’s Finnley?’ he asked.
‘He’s charged up,’ answered Floyd. ‘He ain’t gonna be no use to us.’
‘Den we’ll ’ave to leave ’im,’ said Brenton. ‘I’m sure Smiley will take ’im ’ome.’
‘Nuff bad man work fe Nunchaks, y’know,’ informed Sceptic. ‘Der is dat mad-up Muttley an’ Ratmout’ an’ some uder crusty youts.’
