ALEX WHEATLE
East of Acre Lane

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the life

and musical legacy of

Dennis Emmanuelle Brown

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

1 Heady Heights

2 Homestead

3 Roadblock

4 The Front Line

5 Oh Carol

6 Delivery

7 Sons of SW9

8 Sisters

9 Six Babylon

10 Crisis

11 The Wedding

12 Gunman Connection

13 The Teachings of Jah Nelson

14 Queen Majesty

15 Babylon Pressure

16 Bounty Hunting

17 Sister Love

18 Herb Man Hustling

19 The Shitstem

20 Brixtonian Females

21 Truths and Rights

22 Enter the Pimp Don

23 The Brixtoniad

24 Confrontation

25 The Blessing of Jah Nelson

P.S. Ideas, Interviews & Features …

About the Author

Unfinished Stories: Joanne Finney talks to Alex Wheatle

Life at a Glance

Top Ten Books

A Writing Life

About the Book

Brixton Hot! by Alex Wheatle

Read On

Have You Read?

If You Loved This, You Might Like …

Find Out More

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

1 Heady Heights

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.’

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

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?’

‘Not my fault your bedtime’s when everyone else is getting up.’

‘Look, Royston, I’m tired, an’ der’s a lot of t’ings ’pon my mind. I’ll talk to you later on. Oh, one last t’ing, I want you to help Mummy at de bagwash.’

‘I ain’t going. Last time I went my friend saw me and made fun out of me at school.’

‘You’re going.’

‘No I ain’t.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘No I ain’t. Mummy’s always cussing me cos I drop the clothes on the floor.’

‘Den be more careful.’

‘Why can’t Denise go?’

‘Cos she ’as to help wid de cooking.’

‘Don’t wanna go.’

‘Look, if you go, I’ll buy you some sweets.’

‘I wanna Mars Bar and a Kit-Kat.’

‘You liccle blackmailer,’ Biscuit sighed. ‘Alright den, but make sure you go.’

Several hours later, Biscuit’s mother was ironing Royston’s school uniform in the lounge, watching The Waltons on the black and white telly. She draped the pressed clothes over a worn armchair and kissed her teeth as Royston played around her feet, jumping on her nerves.

Denise was sprawled on the sofa, thinking of what her friends, Hilary and Jackie, would wear to a forthcoming party. Perhaps those new split skirts with a small, gold-coloured chain at the front which were catching on fast. Or maybe them fashionable waffle slacks.

The owner of an Olympic swimmer’s physique, Denise had a complexion that looked like dark honey. Her Siamese cat-like eyes, framed by perfectly arched eyebrows, were seductively attractive, making her a just challenge for a top-notch sweet-bwai. Her cheeks were not blessed with flesh but her lips were generous and sexy. Her pitch-black hair was beautifully styled in corn-row plaits, lending her an appearance of innocence. Dressed in seamed jeans and an oversized pullover, Denise wondered if Hilary and her boyfriend had patched things up after their argument.

‘Mummy, can I have some money to buy a dress dis week,’ she asked. ‘I’ve been invited to a party Saturday.’

‘You ’ave plenty dress inna your wardrobe – wha’ is wrong wid dem?’

‘Nutten. But I’ve ’ad dem from time an’ I wanna wear somet’ing different for once.’

‘Waan dis, waan dat. You always waan somet’ing. Electric bill affe pay nex’ week but you nuh worry ’bout dat.’

‘I haven’t asked you money for clothes for long time. Anybody t’ink me ask you every week.’

‘Why don’t you find ah nice gentleman fe buy dem t’ings der.’

‘Cah men don’t give somet’ing fe nutten.’

‘You say dat cos you mixed inna de wrong crowd. Pure rude bwai you ah deal wid.’

‘What d’you expect! Dis is SW9 not SW1. No gentlemen ’round dese sides.’

‘You would meet some nice gentlemen if you gwarn ah church wid Auntie Jenny.’

‘Dem man who go Auntie Jenny’s church – most of dem go raving on a Saturday night. Besides, why should I go to Auntie Jenny’s church when you never go?’

Hortense rested her ironing arm for a while, sat on the limb of a chair and tried to look meaningfully at her daughter. ‘Me nuh see why you ’ave problem getting ah nice man fe court wid,’ she said, ignoring her daughter’s last remark. ‘You pretty in your own way an’ not fatty or maaga. Y’know me caan’t feed two big people inna de yard.’

Denise shook her head. ‘But you’ll always feed Lincoln, innit.’

‘Me nuh say dat.’

‘You might as well.’

‘Stop putting word inna me mout’.’

Biscuit entered the lounge, rubbing his eyes, not at all embarrassed at wearing only his Y-fronts. ‘Bwai, every Sunday you two ketch up inna argument. What’s de beef now?’ he asked.

‘Mummy wants to marry me off quick time,’ Denise blurted out, getting in first.

‘Me tell you before, stop putting words inna me mout’.’

‘It might not be de exact words, but I get de drift.’

‘You’re so damn facety!’ Hortense barked, getting back to her ironing. ‘You’re jus’ looking argument.’

‘It tek two to ’ave one.’

‘Quiet your mout’, girl! Me ’ave nutten more fe say to you.’

Denise cut her eyes at her mother and then turned her fierce gaze to the TV.

Royston, who was rolling about underneath the ironing board, playing with a matchbox car, sprung up on sight of his brother. ‘Where’s my Mars Bar and Kit-Kat?’

‘What’s wrong wid you? I jus’ get up, an’ stop ramping under de ironing board.’

‘You waan ah cup ah tea, Lincoln? Mebbe some toast?’

‘Please, Mummy. But I have to dally soon and link up wid Coffin Head.’

‘Never mek me a cup of tea when I get up,’ Denise snapped.

‘An’ you never mek me one!’ Hortense retaliated.

Biscuit ate his breakfast of cornmeal porridge standing up in the kitchen, his worries interrupted by the stop-start bickering of his mother and sister. He knew it all came down to money; that was the bottom line. He wouldn’t have to wake up to family debates so often if there was more of it around. Maybe he could give Denise the money for the dress if he sold a decent amount of herb in the next few days. That would get her off her mother’s back. Perhaps he could even buy Royston his much-needed new shoes for school if things went alright. Biscuit’s mother had mentioned to him a few days before how she had had to box the young bwai for kicking stones. He knew it was a hint he couldn’t ignore. How much is dat? he asked himself. A pair of new shoes might cost a tenner – and a new dress? Maybe twenty notes for a decent one. Might be cheaper if Denise could be persuaded to shop at the market.

He weighed up his financial position as he took Royston to the sweet shop. If Coffin Head and himself sold their herb on the Front Line in Brixton, they could clear £400, especially if he bagged the weed sparingly. I’ve got a few loyal customers around this area, he thought, but no serious herb man would rely for his corn in and about Cowley estate.

When they got to Vassal Road, Biscuit grabbed his brother’s hand so they could cross together. At that moment he saw Wilson Walker, an old school brethren who now lived in Stockwell Park, depart the off-licence.

‘Walker! Walker! Yo!’

Wilson crossed the road, brew in his hand, looking like he had two years of sleep to catch up on. Biscuit and Wilson had been firm friends at school but their paths split when Wilson won an apprenticeship at British Aerospace. Now Biscuit only checked Wilson when he had herb to sell.

‘Wha’appen Walker. Where you rave last night?’

‘Diamonds blues near Fiveways. Cork me ah tell you. Checked a leg-back fe de morning. Said to her I’m going shop but I’m dallying home. I got my delights so I t’ought, why ’ang around? She lives in your estate … wasser-name? Katrina Conley – used to go Stockwell Manor.’

‘Yeah, I know her. Ain’t seen her for a while t’ough. She got her own yard?’ Biscuit queried.

‘Yeah, well, she ’ave pickney now. Eight months old.’

‘Who pumped the seed?’ Biscuit asked, keeping an eye on his impatient brother.

‘Some Filthy Rocker sound bwai, don’t know which one but I feel so it could be Liccle Axe.’

‘Bwai! She’s playing wid fire.’

‘Yeah, well. She got a flat out of it.’

‘Man! De t’ings girl do to get flat.’

‘I could do wid my own yard. Maybe I would do the same t’ing if I was a girl!’

Biscuit laughed as Royston tugged his arm. Wilson offered his brethren a cigarette as his face turned serious.

‘Katrina knows one of de people who dead in de fire last week.’

‘Dat t’ing at Deptford?’

‘Yeah, friend of friend business. Everyone was chatting ’bout it at de dance last night. Maybe dey were t’inking dat some National Front bwai would fling petrol bomb inna de dance. It’s like all an’ all so vex y’know. Me sight a white yout’ get bus’ up down Acre Lane de uder day. De poor sap only went to buy a pattie, but when he came out, some man who were in de bookie jump on ’im an’ mash up his claat. People are vex me ah tell you.’

‘So how many are dead now?’ Biscuit asked solemnly.

‘Ten. T’irty are injured or inna hospital. De beast ain’t made no arres’ yet an dat’s why people are so vex. Der’s talk of some kinda march if de beast don’t do nutten. An’ de nex’ National Front march der’s going to be nuff trouble.’

‘So nobody sight who did it?’

‘Nah. It was dark an’ t’ing an’ one minute everybody’s wining an’ dining, de nex’ minute de yard ketch a fire. Some jus’ escape. A serious business.’

‘So if it was de beef’eads, you t’ink dey will try de same t’ing?’

‘Nobody knows. I can’t see dem trying it in Brixton. If dey do it will be pure almshouse business. Some beef’ead mus’ ah dead, believe.’

‘Yeah, it’s dat. But somet’ing gonna snap, man. So many yout’ get bus’ up inna cell dese days. Y’hear wha’ ’appen to Sceptic? Beastman arres’ ’im outside Kentucky inna Brixton, tek ’im to cell an’ bruk up ’im nose an’ boot up his rib-cage. An’ now, fockin’ beef’ead might ’ave fling petrol bomb inna one of our dance. Man an’ man waan life fe life. Dat’s wha’ dem Brixton panther man say, innit.’

‘Seen. Somet’ings gonna blow up … Listen, man. You dealing?’

‘Yeah, man. Jus’ get me batch last night.’

‘I wanna check you for an eighth later on, yeah.’

‘Seen. You know where to check me, innit.’

‘Yeah, man. But don’t gi’ me a draw wid too much seed in it. Laters.’

Biscuit and Royston watched Wilson cross the road before they entered the sweet shop. Royston had listened attentively to the conversation, as he did when his brother’s friends turned up at home. He was scared for his brother but didn’t know what to say. He had heard how Biscuit’s friends were beat up by the beast, locked up in jail, or stabbed by some bad man. He knew the tale of Brenton Brown and Terry Flynn, which went down in the annals of Brixtonian folklore as one of the most violent confrontations anyone had ever heard of. Whenever Brenton visited the Huggins’ home, Royston’s eyes could not be deflected from the scar upon the man’s neck as he listened attentively to every word the ‘Stepping Volcano’ uttered. A real life Brixtonian bad man in my house, he told himself. He repeated the description of Brenton to his classmates, and would go into detail on how his hero walked.

As the brothers ambled towards home, Royston munched his Kit-Kat and asked, ‘Do white people always throw fire in black homes?’

‘No. But dey might do it more often if we let dem.’

‘The beast won’t catch the white people who done it, will they?’

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