East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Den we’ll ’ave to go in tooled,’ affirmed Brenton. ‘Anybody ’ave a problem wid dat?’

  Sharon looked at Floyd, hoping he’d object and come up with a different idea. She glanced over to Coffin Head. What’s with him, she wondered. The apprehension was evident in Sceptic’s eyes as the enormity of the situation stoked his fear.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Frank, nodding his head and feeling the same adrenaline rush he used to get in his boxing days. ‘This Nunchaks geezer won’t be expecting it.’

  ‘Den dat’s settled,’ said Brenton. ‘Floyd an’ Sharon get Biscuit, den go to my yard to meet up wid de rest of us. Der is a few t’ings in my tool bag we could use.’

  ‘Mind how you walk,’ advised Floyd as he led the way, Sharon in tow.

  Warily, the posse climbed Brixton Hill, then Floyd and Sharon broke off into Elm Park Road. Five minutes later, Carol heard her front door being slapped.

  ‘Who de fuck is dat?’ she asked Biscuit, who was laying beneath her.

  Before he could reply, Carol had found her dressing gown and was out of the door. On the way down the stairs, she guessed it was Sharon. Maybe the party was raided by the beast, she thought. Perhaps all the crew are in cells, she fretted. Shit! On this night, anything could happen.

  She opened the door and found Sharon standing before her.

  ‘We know where Denise der-ya,’ Sharon revealed, noticing the happy glow on her friend’s face.

  Floyd took a great interest in Carol’s dressing gown. ‘Where’s Biscuit?’

  ‘Wait in de front room,’ Carol said, her expression turning serious. ‘We’ll soon come.’

  Sharon stepped to the lounge, but Floyd took his time, looking up the staircase. I wonder if my man bruk ’im duck, he questioned. Could be, could be. Carol der-ya inna her dressing gown an’ no sight of my brethren.

  As Carol reached the top of the stairs she heard her mother’s voice again. ‘Carol, is dat someone fe you?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy. It’s a friend of mine who can’t get ’ome t’rough Brixton. De police ’ave put up nuff roadblocks. So I’m gonna put her up in my room.’

  ‘Yes, me dear. Dat’s ah good idea.’

  Two minutes later, Biscuit was treading delicately down the stairs, his face showing a seriousness that his friends had never seen before. Once reaching the lounge, he addressed the two girls. ‘Right, you two are staying ’ere. Carol, as soon as Denise is safe, I’ll ding you.’

  ‘Use your ’ead,’ Sharon advised. ‘Don’t jus’ go in der wid no plan. Tell Brenton to t’ink ’bout it.’

  Floyd and Biscuit nodded their heads as they trooped out of the front room and into the hallway, purposefully. Biscuit offered Carol a knowing glance as he headed out into the night. Floyd looked at them both, dying to ask, but the importance of his task over-rode his curiosity.

  Biscuit realised that he had arrived at one of the crossroads that Jah Nelson was always talking about. Sometimes, he recalled, you have to put others before yourself. He was surprised how easily he remembered the dread’s words of advice, and he recollected Nelson saying to him that if the root was strong, the tree would bear a rich fruit. Surely the root was his family, he reasoned. So he had to get Denise back and strengthen the root, whatever the cost to himself.

  He recognised that he had accomplished nothing in his life. He remembered the first time he went to Nelson’s flat and the dread telling him that so many youths didn’t know where they came from, so they didn’t know where they were going. If I can get Denise back, he thought, at least that will be a start, and I would be heading in the right direction. Even Carol would respect that.

  Twenty minutes later, Brenton was handing out lethal weapons from his straining tool bag. Sceptic opted for a claw hammer, Frank chose a mallet, Biscuit decided on a thick screwdriver, while Coffin Head picked out a ball-hammer. Brenton, after pondering about a saw, satisfied himself with a crow bar. Floyd chanced his luck with a sharp chisel.

  All tooled up, the crew looked at each other, sensing fear and adrenaline at the same time. ‘If we can,’ Brenton addressed, ‘we’ll sneak her out an’ we won’t ’ave to use dis shit.’

  He received nodding agreement, and without further ado they went out into the early dawn where the birds had just started their morning chorus.

  Taking a route by Lyham Road, which ran parallel to Brixton Hill, they reached the back of Floyd’s block. Coffin Head went to get his car keys from Floyd’s flat, and within minutes the posse were cruising around the back streets of Clapham, accompanied by the screams of alarm bells. Coffin Head had to watch the road carefully for lumps of masonry and debris as the crew noticed smoking cars in almost every street. Residents of the various estates looked out from their balconies, drinking beer and sucking cigarettes as if it was the middle of the day.

  As the crew entered Stockwell they saw smashed shop windows almost everywhere. Shards of glass covered the pavement and broken bricks lay next to them. The stench of petrol still lingered in the air and they passed small herds of black youths concealing themselves in concrete jungle shadows. Burglar alarms shrilled without answer and isolated shouts came from unseen voices. Spontaneous parties seemed to rock the whole of South London as reggae music rumbled out from every estate.

  Coffin Head pulled up thirty yards short of the tower block on Clapham Road. Biscuit climbed out of the car, realising that this block was identical to the place where Nunchaks had threatened him back in January. He was thankful that Nunchaks’ brothel wasn’t situated on the top floor. Got to get her back, he promised himself. Sceptic, whose entire being was caked in fright, breathed heavily as Brenton led the way. Coffin Head felt the chill of the gun metal against his chest; his back was bathed in sweat. A gathering rhythm played on his ribs as his heartbeat resonated through his neck. He found his mouth drying by the second and the image that formed in his brain was of the cowering policeman backing away from his pointed gun. He prayed inwardly that he wouldn’t have to use his revolver.

  As they climbed to the first floor, Biscuit thought of his mother and pondered on her reaction on seeing Denise again. A small part of his mind was still inside Carol’s bedroom, and reality told him that this could be the best night of his life – or the worst.

  Frank thought of Stella and how she was prone to worrying. But I’m doing something worthwhile, he assured himself. For a good friend. Stella would understand.

  Brenton had only one thing on his mind: to get the job done, get home and drink a cool beer. In a distant corner of his mind he recalled the savage confrontation he had had with Terry Flynn.

  When he reached the fourth-floor balcony, Brenton waved his arm to signal to his brethrens to keep out of sight. He saw Muttley having an animated discussion with someone inside the flat. Not a very good look out, he thought.

  He placed his crow bar inside the back of his jeans and covered it with his anorak. Steeling himself, he ambled along the balcony, feeling the crow bar poke into his backside. Muttley saw him. ‘Where ya go?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s been a bitch of a night, an’ I wan’ to round it off by boning a fit steak, boss.’

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Me ’ave a white brethren who tell me ’bout dis place. Him tell me ’bout a girl call Denise. Said she well fit an’ t’ing. She der-ya?’

  Muttley looked on Brenton suspiciously; he didn’t reveal that all the girls on Nunchaks’ books had changed their names for their life on the streets. Denise’s street-name was Cherry Riper; Nunchaks had a thing about fruits. ‘We ’ave no Denise ’ere so. G’way yout’ an’ stop waste me time.’

  Brenton noticed Muttley’s right hand delve into the breast pocket of his leather jacket. Without hesitation, Brenton pulled out the crow bar, and using a two-handed swing smashed Muttley on his left temple with the forked end of the weapon, sending him witless before he crashed down over the threshold of the abode, spark out.

  Biscuit, who had seen Brenton draw first blood, raced to his aid with the
rest of the crew in urgent pursuit. Meanwhile, Brenton had stepped into the flat, yelling, ‘DENISE, DENISE!’ He saw that there were three doors on each side of the passageway and a door right at the end.

  Appearing from the first room on Brenton’s left were two bare-backed black guys, one of them hastily securing his zip.

  All of a sudden, ratchet blades glinted under the red light-bulb as Biscuit, closely followed by Frank, joined Brenton in the hallway. They didn’t know which way to go or what to do next. Doors opened, revealing a selection of Nunchaks’ crew, and screams began to ricochet off the walls. The smell of cheap perfume wafted in the air as someone bolted from one of the rooms, wielding a long curved blade. Frank suffered a cut on his rib-cage as Brenton tried to count the enemy, holding his ground and swinging his crow bar, daring for any bad bwai to come close.

  As Floyd and Coffin Head joined the fray, Floyd was immediately felled by a broom handle across his cheekbone, stunning him senseless. Coffin Head swung out with his weapon but only ball-hammered the air. From out of nowhere, he felt something blunt crashing against the back of his head, almost felling him into semi-consciousness. Groggily, he turned around and realised some rough-neck had smashed a rum bottle against his skull. He tried to swing his ball-hammer at his assailant, but his strength had left him. Slowly, as shock took a hold, he slumped to the floor beside Floyd.

  Biscuit recognised the approaching Ratmout’, armed with a baseball bat. He soon realised that his screwdriver was no match for this tool. They met near the front door and Biscuit tried to catch the bat and evade its deadly arc. He was swatted under his armpit and pain rampaged through his torso, but he managed to hold on to the end of the bat while losing his screwdriver. From then on, it was a brutal contest as to who would claim the wooden weapon.

  Meanwhile, Brenton jousted with two knifemen as Frank, who by now had lost his mallet, wrestled on the floor with a guy trying to exercise his curved blade. Seizing the hand which held the knife, Frank slammed it into the wall, causing the weapon to drop to the floor. He then went to work with his fists. His unfortunate victim didn’t know what he was up against, and in a matter of seconds his face was a bloody mess.

  Nunchaks appeared from a bedroom, his skull crackers primed for action. Denise was trying to get out of the room but Nunchaks employed a short swing which connected with her jawbone. She dropped to the floor. Nunchaks raced to the aid of Ratmout’, who was still in a struggle with Biscuit. Unaware of Nunchaks’ well-practised swing, Biscuit sustained a blow to his forehead. Ratmout’ pulled the dazed Biscuit outside as Nunchaks followed.

  Frank saw the danger and raced to his neighbour’s aid. But it was too late. Biscuit was launched over the wall and dropped 50 feet to the concrete ground below, just missing a parked car. All fear suddenly leaving him, Frank swung a right hook that hit Ratmout’s left eye. The sheer force of the impact made Frank stumble back. He tripped over a body near the door.

  Coffin Head had come to with the blurred images of the cell beating he’d received. No, not again, he promised himself. Not fucking again. He looked at a dazed Floyd beside him and immediately went for his .45, training his aim on Nunchaks’ face as he stood up, strength returning to him by the second. Ratmout’ scampered off, trying to stem the blood of his mangled eye socket, leaving his boss to his fate. Shrieks filled the flat. The whores backed away to their rooms of business. Denise was trying to gain her senses by a bedroom door, but the jolting pain from her head stopped her from regaining her feet.

  Brenton saw one of his adversaries lose all nerve. He tried to get away but Brenton caught up with him, clobbering the enemy upon his head, neck and back until he was no longer moving.

  Nunchaks stood transfixed at the doorway, staring down the gun barrel in disbelief. Coffin Head remained motionless, sweat drenching his face, not realising that blood oozed from the back of his head. Visions of the police beating formed powerfully in his brain. All this is Nunchaks’ fault, he felt. This so-called bad guy. Well, he don’t look so bad now.

  Coffin Head’s arm began to shake as his heartbeat raced up a gear and quaked his whole body.

  ‘Fire the fucking gun!’ yelled Frank.

  Brenton turned around and saw the scenario. ‘Oh, shit!’

  Denise screamed, increasing Coffin Head’s tension. His arm started to waver as Nunchaks grew in confidence. He took a cautious step forward while readying his brain killer.

  ‘Fire the fucking gun!’ Frank yelled, straining his vocal chords. ‘FIRE THE FUCKING GUN!’

  Coffin Head fingered the trigger as his eyes became soaked in a downpour of sweat. Nunchaks stopped his advance, thinking he might have been better off running away with Ratmout’. Denise screamed a continuous scream. Coffin Head sensed the odour of blood and deodorant. The trigger of the gun felt extremely cold as he sighted Nunchaks. The man’s eyes were stilled with terror. The gun felt heavy, very heavy, as Denise’s shrieks penetrated and disturbed his concentration. Nunchaks chanced another step forward.

  ‘FIRE THE FUCKING GUN!’

  Nunchaks paced a long stride.

  Unable to cope with the tension, Frank scurried to Coffin Head’s side, wrestled the gun off him and shot Nunchaks through his left cheek, the bullet forging its way inside his face and coming to a rest near his upper throat. Nunchaks was rendered motionless for a short second, his eyes set deep in total terror. His body fell backwards as blood began to spurt from just below his chin, bloodying his henchman, Muttley, and spotting the door frame.

  For a few seconds, a strange lull beset everyone. Denise looked upon Nunchaks’ body with her mouth agape, but producing no sound. Coffin Head fell to his knees as shock finally claimed him. Frank, his arm still outstretched, continued to point the gun at Nunchaks’ dead body, afraid he might get up. Then he threw the gun at Coffin Head, offering him a stern glare. ‘Know the rules, Coff. If you show a gun then fucking use it.’

  Brenton clicked into animation and hastened towards Frank. ‘BISCUIT!’ Frank watched Brenton hurry to the balcony. He then took in a distraught Denise, who was sobbing and groaning. He went to join Brenton on the balcony, and they saw Sceptic tending to a gravely wounded Biscuit on the concrete beside Nunchaks’ car. Frank burned along the balcony behind Brenton and bullfrogged down the concrete stairs, thinking Biscuit was dead. When the two of them reached ground level, they found Sceptic kneeling down, crying out loud and holding Biscuit’s head. ‘Call a fucking ambulance!’ Brenton ordered.

  Sceptic seemed unable to move. Brenton, suffering acute frustration, punched Sceptic in the face. ‘CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE!’

  Biscuit whimpered and Frank was glad to see he was just about alive, but his legs were horribly misshapen.

  ‘No,’ Frank said. ‘We’ll be lucky to get emergency services tonight. We’ll have to take him ourselves.’

  Brenton nodded, and without further thought, bounded up the stairs of the block once more. He reached the flat, hurdled over wailing bodies, and saw Coffin Head still in the same position as he had left him, his eyes staring at Nunchaks’ body. ‘Get up,’ Brenton demanded. ‘You’ve got to drive, now.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Denise crying uncontrollably by a bedroom door, her face swelling by the second.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Brenton asked.

  ‘Yeah, I t’ink so.’

  ‘Then come wid me.’

  Denise staggered along the hallway and fell into Brenton’s arms, her whole body shaking. Brenton realised she was in no condition to walk, so he sat her down and tended to Floyd, shaking his shoulder. Floyd’s eyes flicked into life and he slowly gathered his damaged senses. ‘We ’ave to go,’ Brenton said. ‘Biscuit is mash up. See if you can get down the stairs and into the car. I’m carrying Denise down.’

  Floyd nodded weakly. Brenton turned around and noticed that Coffin Head had already departed. He picked up Denise fireman-style and made for the exit. By the time he reached ground level, Biscuit was already laid in the back seat of Coff
in Head’s car, his head resting upon Frank and Sceptic’s laps. Brenton placed Denise upon the passenger seat where she heard her brother wailing and groaning in the back. She turned her head and noticed Biscuit’s deformed legs. Her breathing cycle halted as she opened her mouth, and without warning her mother’s image formed strong in her mind. She could make no sound. A freezing chill of blame and responsibility surged through her as eye-water soaked her face.

  Brenton returned to the concrete stairs where he found Floyd reeling, trying to find his feet. He helped his friend to the car, squashed him in beside Denise and told Coffin Head to make speed.

  Coffin Head pulled away, pushed into a high gear and disappeared into the gathering dawn, leaving Brenton behind.

  Auntie Jenny parked her car outside her home, climbed wearily out, walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Hortense, who seemed lost in a nightmare, needed every effort to depart her sister’s vehicle. Royston was already standing by the front door, staring at the mat with half-closed eyes. Jenny linked arms with her sister and took her inside her home, sitting her down in an armchair. Biscuit had awoken from his long operation the following day and found himself in a rigid neck-brace, his legs covered to just above the knees in plaster cast. As he focused his eyes and sensed the flood of sunlight coming through the window, he felt a strange drowsiness that made him wonder if he was in a dream. He was flat on his back and could only see the high white ceiling. In his condition he couldn’t understand why he felt no pain. Then he felt the hand of his mother caress his cheek. She leant over him and looked at him the way only mothers can.

  He tried to say something but no words came out as he saw his mother weeping silently. Then Denise, half of her face covered in plaster, came into his vision. Biscuit tried to turn his head but found his neck muscles unresponsive. Denise dropped to her knees and embraced her brother, resting her head against his naked chest. He felt her eyes dampening his pectorals as he tried but failed to touch her head.

  Royston climbed on the bed and simply stared at his brother’s neck-brace, unable to find words. Hortense pulled her youngest son towards her and hugged him, burying his head into her breasts. Denise closed her eyes and listened to her brother’s heartbeat, gradually strengthening her hold upon him.