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Nunchaks glared at Biscuit for five seconds, before reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a polythene bag of top-range cannabis, rubbing the fingers of his free hand together. ‘You ’ave de corn, yout’?’
‘Yeah, course.’
Biscuit took out the wad of notes, totalling £250, from the back pocket of his Farahs and made the exchange. Nunchaks about turned and made his way to the lift, tailed by his minders.
‘By de end ah nex’ week, yout’.’
Biscuit watched them enter the lift and sighed heavily as the door closed. He shuddered at what might have been and tried to get the image of Nunchaks’ lighter dropping to the ground out of his mind. ‘Fuck my days,’ he whispered. ‘Dat was close.’ He felt a ridiculous urge to peer down to the concrete below, but stopped himself. ‘Fuck my days.’ He attempted to compose himself, and after a few minutes of trying to get his breathing together, he decided he would have to step back to the party and alert Coffin Head. ‘Shit! A one mile trod in my crocs.’
He made tentative steps to the lift, afraid that Nunchaks and his crew were lurking about in the shadows. Impatiently, he pressed the button, then wondered if it would be a better idea to run down the concrete steps. Before he made his mind up the lift arrived. He stepped inside, comparing the metal box to a square coffin. On reaching the ground floor, he made a quick check to see who was about before sprinting to Stockwell Tube Station. He remembered the many times he had partied and smoked good herb with his crew in the buildings adjacent to the tower block. Now the place had an altogether different atmosphere. He wondered if this was Nunchaks’ regular site for scaring the shit out of youths. Perhaps he had killed someone here. He looked behind at the great monolith and raised his sight to its highest point. ‘Fuck my days.’ He christened the building mentally, calling it Nunchaks’ killing block.
He turned right into Clapham Road, only too aware of the dangers that might come from any lane, shadow or building, but this was a hazard he had come to accept as a natural aspect of living in the ghetto. He passed a supermarket on his right and noticed ten or so trolleys keeled over on their side. Vandalism touches everything around here, he thought. He pondered on taking a short cut through a council estate but decided against it; he had seen enough council blocks on this night. On his way, he mentally cursed the boarded-up housing, the rubbish on the streets, the graffiti that covered the railway bridges that made up his habitat. Nevertheless, it was home, and he was a part of his environment just as much as the rundown church he now passed by.
Cars were parked and double parked around him as Biscuit heard the music thumping out to greet the morning. Gregory Isaacs’ ‘Soon Forward’ filtered through the snappy Brixton air, the smooth and delicate vocals riding over a slow, murderous bass-line with a one-drop drum.
He knocked on the door of the house, its windows covered by blockboard.
‘Pound fe come in, an’ if you nah have the entrance fee, I will cuss your behind for wasting my time.’
‘Paid my pound already, man. You don’t recognise me?’
‘Don’t boder try fool me. One pound fifty fe come in, especially for you. I don’t like ginall.’
‘Crook your ear, man. I entered de dance wid Nunchaks.’
The doorman thought for a moment.
‘Alright, enter, yout’.’
The stench of Mary Jane made Biscuit’s nostrils flare as he made his way to the jam-packed room he had left with Nunchaks, his sight aided only by a blue light-bulb. Girls were dressed in thin, ankle-length, pleated dresses. Most of them sported hot-combed hairstyles; black sculptured art finished off with lacquer. By this time of night, a generous share of the girls found themselves enveloped by their men, smooching away to the dub version of ‘Soon Forward’. Sweet-bwais were dressed in loose-fitting shirts that were often unbuttoned to reveal gold rope chains. The latest hairstyle was semi-afro which was shampooed and ‘blown out’, giving an appearance of carved black candyfloss. No one calling themselves a sweet-bwai would go to a party without their Farah slacks and reptile skin shoes.
As Biscuit threaded his way to the room in which he’d last seen Coffin Head, the ghetto messenger Yardman Irie grabbed hold of the Crucial Rocker sound system microphone, ready to deliver his sermon. Dressed in green army garb and topped by a black cloth beret, Yardman Irie waited for the selector, Winston, to spin the rabble-rousing instrumental ‘Johnny Dollar’.
‘Crowd ah people, de Private Yardman Irie is ’ere ’pon de scene. Dis one special request to all ghetto foot soldier.’
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me daddy cannot afford de money fe me tea
Me mudder cannot pay de electricity
De council nah fix de roof above we
De bird dem a fly in an’ shit ’pon me
Me daddy sick an’ tired of redundancy
We ’ad to sell our new black and white TV
De rat dem ah come in an’ ’ave ah party
Me look out me window an’ see ah plane nex’ to me
Me feel de flat ah sway when we get de strong breeze
We are so high we cyan’t see de trees
De flat is so damp dat me brudder start wheeze
De shitstem is bringing us down to our knees
But de politician dem nah listen to our pleas
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me don’t know why we left from de Caribbean sea.
The crowd hollered their approval of Yardman Irie’s lyrics while flicking their lighters in the air; those without clenched their fists in raised salutes. Everyone wanted an encore. ‘FORWARD YARDMAN IRIE, FORWARD!’ Yardman Irie refreshed himself with a swig of Lucozade and a toke from Winston’s spliff.
Amidst the excited throng, butted against the wall, Biscuit made out Coffin Head, riding a disgusting crub that sorely examined the wallpaper.
‘Coff! Coff!’
Coffin Head looked up and saw his spar threading his way towards him. What does he want now, he thought. Probably needs a pen so he can write down a girl’s digits.
‘Coff, need to chat to you. Urgent, man. Step outside.’
Coffin Head’s dance partner, who was wearing a flowing pleated dress that was thin enough to expose her bra, looked upon Biscuit. ‘Can’t you wait till de record done?’
‘Who’s chatting to you? Jus’ quiet your beak an’ lemme chat to my spar.’ Coffin Head had read the worry upon Biscuit’s face. ‘Dis better be important, man. I was gonna ask de girl back to my gates an’ deal wid it proper. She’s fit, man!’
‘Trus’ me brethren, dis is important. Where’s Floyd?’
‘He jus’ chip. He lef’ wid some light skin girl. Said to me he’s gonna service her if possible.’
The two friends walked out of the party and Coffin Head led the way to his Triumph Dolomite. ‘You get de herb?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, but don’t worry ’bout dat. We’re in serious shit.’
‘Whatya mean?’
‘De yard we burgled the uder day …’
‘Wha’ about it?’
‘It was de friggin’ wrong yard!’
‘Who cares a fuckin’ damn? Got some nice t’ings, innit.’
‘It’s Nunchaks. His brudder’s woman yard!’
Coffin Head looked disbelievingly out through the windscreen. ‘You’re not ramping, are you?’
‘Course I ain’t friggin’ ramping. He told me dis as he was jus’ ’bout to fling me over de balcony of some dirty tower block. I t’ought my forehead was gonna kiss de friggin’ concrete. We’ve got to get de t’ings back.’
Coffin Head shook his head in dismay ‘I always said don’t deal wid dat man, I always said. But oh no, you jus’ wouldn’t listen. It’ll be cool, you said. Well, fuck my days. I’m fucked, we’re fucked. You jus’ don’t wanna listen to reason, man. Didn’t I say Chaks is into all sorts of shit. Pimping, money-lending, protection racket, drugs, cheque book. He even owns a Rottweiler dat fights uder dogs in Brockwell Park, to rarted. De man’s well versatile.’
‘Look, Coff, we can chat to Smiley an’ he might give us de t’ings back. We jus’ got to give ’im back his corn.’
‘Did you tell Chaks we sold de t’ings to Smiley?’
‘Are you cuckoo? Course I never! If I did you t’ink I’d be here now?’
Coffin Head turned the ignition key and pulled away. Barrington Levy’s ‘Bounty Hunter’ came on the car stereo, the lyrics backed by a hot-stepping rhythm that was full of menace. The song filled the two teenagers with dread.
‘Wha’ we gonna do, man?’ Coffin Head asked, turning into Brixton Road.
‘Check Smiley tomorrow.’
2 Homestead (#ulink_0c07f40e-fa1a-5a46-9cd5-e9a7e63a9a6f)
The council estate that housed Biscuit’s family and countless others, stretched between two bus stops along Brixton Road, and was three blocks deep. Biscuit made his way to his home slab and climbed four flights of concrete stairs, eyeing the graffiti that seemed to have been written when the block was built. The sight of the dark brown brickwork brought a powerful relief that not even the filthy syringes that were breeding in dark corners could repel. He winced as he observed the panoramic view of the tower block where Nunchaks had threatened his life. The sky was a malevolent grey, and to the east, beyond Kennington, he saw the hint of a threatening sunrise creeping over the tower blocks of Elephant and Castle. ‘A new day,’ Biscuit thought to himself and smiled. It was a phrase his mother had taught him when he was young. ‘A new day is full of hope.’
As a child, Biscuit had witnessed at first hand the eroding of his mother’s dignity, set in motion by the death of his father from pneumonia in 1963 after one of the worse winters the country had ever suffered. Biscuit could not remember his father at all, but his mother had described the details of his death. Working outdoors to service telephone lines, Mr Huggins had battled with the ferocious winter that chilled the country for nearly six months. In April of that year, flu claimed him first.
Pneumonia paid him a visit soon after, sending him to his grave in Streatham cemetery in early May. Biscuit’s mother had hated the sight of snow ever since, and she still swept it away, cursing under her breath, whenever it made an appearance by her front door. Immediately following her husband’s death she also vowed never to enter a church again, citing that God had made her suffer too much. During his childhood, Biscuit was sometimes awakened by his mother’s rantings against the Most High. He would creep along the hallway and spy her holding her head between her hands in the front room, crying.
Biscuit turned the key and entered the flat.
‘Lincoln! Is dat you? Wha’ kinda party gwarn till de lark dem sing inna tree top? Ah seven ah clock ah marnin y’know. You know me caan’t sleep when you out der ’pon street ah night-time.’
‘I keep telling you don’t wait up for me, Mummy. Didn’t I say I wouldn’t be back till morning?’
He took off his leather jacket and hung it on a peg in the hallway, which was lit by a naked bulb. Last summer, he had bought and put up the cheap white wallpaper and glossed the skirting in an attempt to brighten up the corridor. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to pull up the wild-patterned, multi-coloured carpet while he was decorating, and it still bore the white paint and paste stains.
The bedroom that he shared with his brother, Royston, was nearest to the front door with the entrance to the right of the hallway. On the left-hand side, two paces further up, was Denise’s room, which was next door to his mother’s chamber. Moving on, the bathroom was situated on the right. Beyond this and to the right was the lounge.
The centrepiece of this room, sitting on a mantelpiece above the gas heater, was a large framed, black and white photo of Mr and Mr Huggins on their wedding day. Other photos, propped on the black and white television set or peering out of an old wooden china cabinet and sitting on a window ledge, were mostly of a young Biscuit. The wallpaper in this room was a more stylish pink and white pattern, disturbed only by a Jamaican tourist poster, boasting a golden beach and turquoise sea. To the rear of the room was the kitchen door, where a calendar, published by a Jamaican rum company, was hanging from a nail.
‘You waan some breakfast?’ Biscuit’s mother called from the lounge. ‘I’m gonna cook up some cornmeal porridge after me done de washing up.’
‘Nah, t’anks. I jus’ wanna get some sleep, Mummy.’
‘Den tek off your clothes dem. Me gone ah bagwash when it open. Me nah like to reach too late, cah de place cork up come de afternoon.’
Biscuit sat on the bed and smiled as he witnessed his brother Royston trying to pretend he was asleep. He looked upon his round-headed, dimple-cheeked sibling as he peeled off his crocodile skin shoes, then ambled into the kitchen where his mother was busy rinsing pots and dishes.
Biscuit kissed his mother on her left cheek and offered her a home-coming smile. Her hair was braided into short plaits, all pointing in different directions. The hue of her black skin was dark and rich, but her eyes sparkled whenever she looked upon Lincoln, her first born and only child from her beloved husband.
‘Here, Mummy, control dis,’ he offered, presenting his mother with a five-pound note. ‘For de bagwash.’
‘But you jus’ gi’ me ah ten pound yesterday fe do ah liccle shopping.’
‘Jus’ tek it, Mummy.’
She took the note and placed it on top of the fridge, her face curving into the kind of smile that mothers only reserved for their children. Biscuit acknowledged her silent thanks. ‘I’m gonna ketch some sleep.’ He turned and made for his bedroom.
The room was dominated by the double bed he shared with his nine-year-old brother. A single wardrobe housed Biscuit’s garments and Royston’s school uniform. A simple blue mat was the racing ground for Royston’s matchbox cars, and a small chest of drawers had both siblings’ underwear fighting for breath. On one side of the room, above Biscuit’s side of the bed, spawning from the join of ceiling and wall was a damp stain in the shape of South America.
‘Royston, I know you’re awake,’ Biscuit said.
‘No I’m not.’
‘Den how comes you answer me?’
‘You waked me up.’
‘You was awake from time.’
‘No I wasn’t, you waked me up.’
‘Go on! Admit it. You were waiting up for me.’
‘So … It’s horrible when I wake up in the middle of the night and you ain’t der.’
‘Come ’ere you little brat.’ Royston leaped up and viced his brother’s neck with his chubby arms. ‘Well, you ain’t got no excuse now. Go back to sleep.’
Biscuit undressed down to his Y-fronts and slipped under the covers. Royston was still sitting up, and watched as his brother’s head hit the pillow. He tried to think of something with which to restart the conversation.
‘Did you get any rub-a-dub at the party?’ he asked, wondering how his brother would react to the latest addition to his vocabulary.
‘Stop using word if you don’t know wha’ dey mean. Quiet yout’ an’ go back to sleep.’
‘I do know what it means.’
‘Good fe you. But you don’t ask dem kinda question to big man. Know your size.’
‘You ain’t a big man.’
‘I’m a lot bigger dan you.’
‘But you ain’t a man yet. A man goes out to work. You don’t work.’
‘Royston, quiet your beak. Why is it every weekend I come back from somewhere, you wanna keep me up?’
