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East of Acre Lane
Alex Wheatle
East of Acre Lane is the fast-paced and razor sharp story of a young man trying to do the right thing and establishes Alex Wheatle as the exciting new voice of the urban experience.When East of Acre Lane was first published in 2001, Alex Wheatle instantly became one of the key commentators on contemporary black culture and was featured in BBC news, radio, numerous papers and Channel 4. The BBC have already optioned ‘East of Acre Lane’ to be made into a film.Set in 1981, the year of the Brixton riots, the novel is a gripping thriller in a society on the edge of explosion. Wheatle focusses on Biscuit and his posse as a way to introduce the whole community. Biscuit lives with his mother, brother and sister. He helps out by hustling on the frontline for the south London badman, Nunchaks. He doesn’t want to be doing this for the rest of his life but it’s difficult to get out of the trap.As the patience of the community breaks and the riots begin to erupt, Biscuit has to make a choice that could change his life forever.
ALEX WHEATLE
East of Acre Lane
Dedication (#ulink_6974fbe8-fe38-512e-97eb-3b70f8243bc8)
This novel is dedicated to the life
and musical legacy of
Dennis Emmanuelle Brown
Contents
Cover (#uddb44f98-5387-5ba0-98fa-05102d01c2ce)
Title Page (#u38dde4b6-60bd-57f8-ba95-921772ca46cd)
Dedication (#uf2fd35b8-5b6c-5149-a8ca-545d9635dd75)
1 Heady Heights (#u3452885c-5e1e-5bbd-9e1c-6712abf02e91)
2 Homestead (#u620e74f3-6702-5a2e-98c1-21e072acbe36)
3 Roadblock (#u108495c2-389a-5a6e-97c9-81b47ba68292)
4 The Front Line (#u2928b983-c76b-5952-b9d5-7bfa1dcb8fc3)
5 Oh Carol (#u0f90342c-3522-5cd9-97e1-a5be14857245)
6 Delivery (#u3edb097c-83d2-5de4-8a76-63c715d3089f)
7 Sons of SW9 (#ub1e2dada-58fd-536c-9d49-7950eb6d1e15)
8 Sisters (#udb94b6f6-cfee-5440-ac28-48c56774f0f5)
9 Six Babylon (#u64fb5a3f-cfdd-5237-93bc-240e3822e446)
10 Crisis (#u61cb5b95-fcf9-5c88-863f-8d7884c21314)
11 The Wedding (#ufd9d8943-5b76-5457-9911-f62f77e0904e)
12 Gunman Connection (#uf9fed834-fa53-59a9-8c97-0fac1b2f48d0)
13 The Teachings of Jah Nelson (#uce75b1a5-c558-5537-84b1-91dda3f969c6)
14 Queen Majesty (#u579b4938-f44c-5d9e-878e-629fbc30808b)
15 Babylon Pressure (#u5484c6f3-3537-54e9-875b-05e1f15be2ef)
16 Bounty Hunting (#ua9b9161e-e862-5007-b47b-0ec08c3bf679)
17 Sister Love (#u88dc9a34-f82d-578f-96f8-7e042c605443)
18 Herb Man Hustling (#ubb2d0ef9-47cf-5681-a502-68b0a411b807)
19 The Shitstem (#u3e003155-dc7f-538d-915d-a4eda58991ff)
20 Brixtonian Females (#ud5d2ceff-3ba8-5d5c-a329-45902f599da5)
21 Truths and Rights (#uf0b42303-c67b-55eb-ab71-c7f97d4d2322)
22 Enter the Pimp Don (#uee75853d-dd43-5d4f-a025-8eb3d092b95d)
23 The Brixtoniad (#ue8fcbd92-cd3c-52b9-9400-3a1a0c1cc0ac)
24 Confrontation (#u2e76f10c-ae3e-5c3a-b2bb-9513d71fe7dc)
25 The Blessing of Jah Nelson (#uf70d83e2-2ec6-5569-a96f-027283823923)
P.S. Ideas, Interviews & Features … (#u69fcf0b9-9630-5b89-b7e8-6e9113162c5e)
About the Author (#uc7650314-c862-518e-9516-1533cc0db430)
Unfinished Stories: Joanne Finney talks to Alex Wheatle
Life at a Glance
Top Ten Books
A Writing Life
About the Book (#u5ab60ff7-4bca-5191-aacd-809e4fea8ddb)
Brixton Hot! by Alex Wheatle
Read On (#u3427bb7f-056c-5a1b-aaa8-b6d5577e44be)
Have You Read?
If You Loved This, You Might Like …
Find Out More
Acknowledgements (#ua9d40baf-de0c-5f46-ab97-87b59cde2758)
About the Author (#u3772eb88-80e9-5ea8-8b30-fe601d7e1728)
Praise (#u72a31427-eb6a-56ed-bf00-d9d2ba1574e8)
Copyright (#u338a2b23-e633-548b-b74f-b3250f2a3502)
About the Publisher (#u21862731-373c-5925-b6a9-d9d381b469c1)
1 Heady Heights (#ulink_22bec4c3-0931-5e9f-aae3-aa25cb16d155)
27 January 1981
It was 3am and Biscuit found himself being driven through the bad lands of South London. He was in the back seat, his heartbeat accelerating, flanked on the right by this big grizzly thing called Muttley, who looked like a young George Foreman with untamed facial hair. On Biscuit’s left was the evil cackling dread nicknamed Ratmout’, whose face would crease into a mask of sadism if anything humoured him. Nunchaks, the Brixtonian crime lord, was behind the wheel, displaying perfect calm. How de fuck am I gonna get out of this? Biscuit thought.
He wondered what he’d done to warm Nunchaks’ wrath, and regretted leaving the party without Coffin Head and Floyd. It had been a dread rave. Plenty girls to dance with, strong lagers free flowing, and Winston, the top notch selector of Crucial Rocker sound, spinning some dangerous tunes.
‘Jus’ ah liccle drive to tek in de sights,’ Nunchaks said, smiling.
‘Forget ’bout de herb, man,’ Biscuit suggested, ‘I’m too busy nex’ week to do any selling, an’ I was riding a serious crub wid a fit girl at de party.’
‘De bitch can wait,’ Nunchaks responded grimly.
‘Don’t fuck about, Chaks,’ Biscuit fretted. ‘Lemme outta de car, man, I ain’t in de mood for one of your jokes.’
‘Who de rarse says I’m joking. An’, more time, I don’t like yout’ who joke wid me.’
The Cortina Mark Two pulled up at the foot of a cloud-seeking tower block, somewhere behind Stockwell Tube Station. The thick-necked Muttley yanked Biscuit out of the car as Nunchaks, in his cashmere coat and beaver-skinned hat, observed the skyline. He looked like a character from Shaft.
‘What de fuck ’ave I done, man?’ Biscuit panicked. ‘I beg you. I ain’t done nutten to you. Dis has gone too far.’
‘You made ah wrong move, yout’,’ Chaks growled. ‘If you can’t listen good, den you mus’ feel pain.’
‘Wha’ wrong move, Chaks, man? Wha’ ’ave I done? I’m one of your best customers. My brethrens will be wondering where I am. Gi’ me a chance to explain whatever I’ve done.’
‘Stop grovelling, yout’, you sound like weak-heart bwai inna beast cell.’
Ratmout’ and Muttley dragged Biscuit towards the lift of the tower block. Before him Biscuit read the graffiti that decorated the bruised, hardwood swing doors of the entrance. Che Guevara, you’re wanted in Brixton, demanded one line. Biscuit looked up and saw hundreds of windows embedded in dark concrete reflecting the blackness of the night. He wanted to scream, but knew that if he did, his forehead would kiss Chak’s steel-studded Nunchakoos. Ghetto youths, especially in Brixton, flocked to the late-night Ace cinema to watch the latest Martial Arts films, and they all considered the top ranking scene of all time was when Bruce Lee wielded his Nunchakoos in Enter the Dragon, mincing the brains of five assailants. The scene was not lost on Nunchaks.
How did I ever get hook up wid dis bad man? Biscuit thought. A cold sweat snaked down from his temples. He thought of his hard-working mother and his younger sister and brother, wondering if he would see them again. Only half an hour ago he was smoking a spliff and enjoying a serious smooch with a fit girl. Now he felt like he was approaching the end of his short life.
Muttley, wondering if the lift was in order, thumbed for the top floor and then ran his eyes over Biscuit, as if he was sizing up which part of the body he should eat first. As the mechanism of the lift echoed into a downward motion, Ratmout’ emitted a throaty cackle, displaying his black gums and two missing front teeth. To add to Biscuit’s torment, and to pass the time, he slowly ran his right index finger along his throat. Nunchaks was flicking his lighter on and off, cursing that it had run out of gas.
When the lift arrived and the steel doors had juddered open, Biscuit caught the scent of something a dog had left in the corner of the cramped compartment. They entered the confined cabin, Biscuit scouring Nunchaks’ coat for any glint of custom-built brain scrambler. On the back wall of the lift was more graffiti in bold, red letters: legalise it.
A red-lit circle indicated that the lift had reached the 25th floor. The two flunkies shunted Biscuit through a wire-meshed door that led the way to the balcony. Biscuit ran the scene through his mind in trepidation. This was the end; he could see his eighteen-year-old body crumpled upon the concrete forecourt below, as lifeless as a black bag of rubbish. He felt an asthma attack gathering force in his chest and his fear rendered him speechless. Nunchaks was still fiddling with his lighter.
‘Wha’ yard number did you raid the uder day?’ Nunchaks demanded.
‘You can ’ave all de t’ings, man. Stereo, telly, everyt’ing. You can ’ave de lot, man. Jus’ lemme go. Der’s dis yard I’m working on nex’ week an’ you can ’ave all de t’ings we t’ief from der as well.’
‘Wha’ number!’
‘Er, you told me twenty-seven, innit.’
Nunchaks turned to his cronies. ‘My mudder always teach me dat if me can’t hear, I mus’ feel.’
‘Don’t frig about, Chaks, you’ll get de t’ings back, no worries.’
Nunchaks managed to get his lighter working. He paused, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Twenty-seven, you say?’
‘Yeah, man. Dat’s de number you gave me.’
‘Can you remember me saying twenty-seven?’ Nunchaks asked his goons.
‘No, boss,’ Muttley answered gleefully.
‘I swear you told me twenty-seven. I swear, man.’
‘You calling me a liar, yout’? You already raised your voice to me once. Do it again and you’re flying t’rough de air.’
Biscuit glanced behind him and saw the communication towers of Crystal Palace blinking away on the horizon, overlooking the myriad of tiny illuminations that peppered South London. He could just make out the grey, flat tops of his home estate along Brixton Road. His eyes went eastwards and he took in the Oval cricket ground, backdropped by huge round gas tanks that looked like the crowns of poor giants. Surrounding all this were cousins upon cousins of council blocks. Biscuit wondered if there was anybody around to hear him scream. Maybe someone who lived below had witnessed his plight and would come to the rescue.
‘I told you seventy-seven, yout’,’ Nunchaks said coldly.
‘Does it matter?’ Biscuit asked. ‘De yard ’ad a top of de range JVC system, an’ you can ’ave it, man. Free of charge wid nuff compliments an’ t’ing.’
‘Do you know who lives at twenty-seven?’ Nunchaks asked eerily.
Biscuit hadn’t a clue and wondered why it mattered so much to Chaks. He sensed his knees were buckling under the weight of his body, as if they knew he was going to die. My days are fucked, he thought. Knowing my luck I burgled a dealer’s yard.
‘My brudder’s woman lives der,’ Nunchaks revealed. ‘When I sight her she was ah liccle upset. She couldn’t believe dat while she was sleeping, some bastard bruk into her yard an’ tek away her t’ings dem. You even t’ieved de friggin’ ornaments!’
‘Sorry, Chaks, man. If we did know we wouldn’t ’ave gone near her yard. I’m sorry, man.’
‘Shall we bruk him up, boss?’ the smirking Ratmout’ suggested, eager to earn his money for the night.
‘Yeah, mon,’ Muttley added, pulling up his sleeves and preparing his right fist. ‘Mash up his knee cap to rarted.’
Nunchaks was more concerned with his lighter. He threw it over the balcony and into the night. Biscuit turned his head to watch it spiral towards the ground. He closed his eyes at the moment of impact.
‘Fockin’ wort’less piece of rubbish. I’m gonna drapes de bwai who sold me dat.’
He studied Biscuit and sensed the fear in the boy’s lean body. Biscuit’s petrified, narrow eyes were trained on Nunchaks’ coat, yet Nunchaks knew that if he revealed what was concealed inside he would get an altogether different reaction from the youth. He looked at Biscuit’s rangy legs and had to admit that he would never catch him in a long chase. He searched the teenager’s features again. Biscuit’s brown eyes were set in a diamond-shaped, chocolate-mousse-coloured face that showed the hint of a moustache. His top lip bore the scar of a recent spliff and infant sideburns lined his jawbone. Nunchaks had Biscuit cornered now; he could really frighten him.
Biscuit awaited his fate, breathing heavily and wondering if it wouldn’t look too pitiful if he used his inhaler.
‘Me ’ave ah liccle business in Handswort’ to attend to,’ Nunchaks announced. ‘I should be back by de end ah nex’ week. An’ when I reach, if me don’t see de t’ings dat you t’iefed, I’m gonna personally peel your fingers like raw carrot wid my machete to rarted. Y’hear me, yout’?’
‘De t’ings will be back before your ’pon de motorway, man. Considered done.’
