Читать книгу East of Acre Lane - Alex Wheatle - Страница 10

2 February 1981

‘Why can’t we jus’ tell Nunchaks where to pick up the goods?’ asked Coffin Head, bracing his shoulders to protect himself from the biting wind.

‘Cos I don’t trus’ him,’ replied Biscuit. ‘I want man an’ man to sight us leave together.’

‘You’re too para, man.’

‘It wasn’t you who was standing ’pon de top of de tallest tower block inna SW9.’

The pair were walking into Brixton High Street, leaving behind them the police station on their left-hand side just as twenty policemen emerged.

‘Hey, Coff, we’d better step it up,’ whispered Biscuit.

Coffin Head looked over his shoulder. ‘Char! You’re right.’

The heavens tried their best to offload a Christmas card amount of snow, but the storm clouds were shoved by a strong-armed wind. Beggars outside the tube station rubbed their mittened hands in resignation, for they knew that a cold day meant less offerings; people couldn’t be bothered to take off their gloves to search for their loose change. The doom-mongers and bible addicts that usually frequented the lobby of Brixton Tube Station had obviously decided that the world would not end on this day.

‘You sure Nunchaks will be in Soferno Bs record shack?’ queried Coffin Head.

‘Yeah, he always checks de place out on a Saturday afternoon. He don’t buy much tune but he poses off his jewellery at the counter, innit, an’ passes ’im comment to any girl who steps by.’

‘He might not be der-ya today cos it’s so friggin’ cold,’ replied Coffin Head, inwardly pining for his car.

‘Stop bitchin’, man,’ Biscuit scolded. ‘Anybody t’ink you were born in Jamaica, de way you go on. You been bitchin’ since you left my gates, screwing up your face ’bout de cold.’

Passing underneath the railway bridge, the friends turned left into Atlantic Road where they saw a familiar face peering into a menswear shop window.

‘Mikey, long time me nuh see you, brethren,’ hailed Biscuit.

Mikey, Sharon’s cousin, was wearing a sheepskin coat and a woollen hat. ‘Biscuit, Coffin Head,’ he greeted. ‘Wha’s appening? Still in de garden game?’

‘Yeah, man,’ Biscuit replied. ‘So if you want your plants don’t go to no one else.’

‘If me get a discount …’

‘Could work out somet’ing. Listen, yeah, we ’ave to step so we’ll sight you later.’

‘Seen.’

Coffin Head and Biscuit, now strutting like bad men, passed the section of Brixton market that was behind the main-line train station. Shoppers were studying a variety of wares that ranged from cheap digital watches to multicoloured rugs. The street was carpeted with bits of soiled fruit, broken palettes and food wrappings. But even this could not wipe out the smell of fresh fish wafting through the air from the doorway that led to the arcade area of the market.

Soferno Bs record shack, on the corner of Atlantic Road and Coldharbour Lane, was populated by sound men and idlers who were all nodding their heads like stepping chickens. The shop boomed out Johnny Osbourne’s ‘To Kiss Somebody’, a hot-steppers favourite with a relentless drum and bass rhythm. Sound boys leant over the counter giving affirmative nods to the busy assistant whenever they liked a tune. On the counter were stacks of seven-inch import records that were marked down to play at numerous blues and raves all over London over the weekend. Jamaican patois filled the air as sound men tried to make themselves heard over the murderous bass-line. Reggae album sleeves covered the walls, along with flyers promoting the gigs of untold sound systems.

Nunchaks stood in the corner of the shop, wearing his cashmere coat and his black felt Stetson hat. The sound boys kept a respectable distance from him as he bopped his head and drummed his gold-clad fingers on the counter.

Coffin Head, taller than Biscuit, peered over the crowd and saw Nunchaks first. ‘See ’im der. In his corner.’

Biscuit was surprised to see Nunchaks without his minders. He suddenly felt more confident and threaded his way through the horde, Coffin Head in tow.

‘Chaks, Chaks,’ Biscuit greeted. ‘Wha’appen?’

Nunchaks turned around and grinned a dangerous grin. ‘So yout’, you find me. Me ’ope you can deliver.’

‘Yeah, I can,’ answered Biscuit confidently, his eyes darting east and west, conscious of all eyes on him.

‘Let’s step outside, yout’.’

The trio walked out of the shop and made their way inside the arcade. Standing outside a West Indian bread shop, Nunchaks had trouble torching his cigarette with his lighter. ‘If de t’ings are damage in any way, yout’, den you haf fe get damage.’

Biscuit smiled nervously. ‘No, man. Everyt’ing in working order an’ t’ing. Don’t worry yourself ’bout dat.’

‘Yeah, man,’ Coffin Head concurred. ‘Not even a stain.’

‘Well, I ’ope so. Cos if you’re wrong, you know wha’ it like to try an’ walk wid no kneecap?’

Biscuit didn’t answer. He stood silently as the smell of recently baked ardough bread laced the air. Coffin Head shifted his feet uneasily.

‘De t’ings are in my lock-up,’ revealed Biscuit. ‘Pick dem up when you’re ready. Try an’ mek it early morning cos de beast send cars up and down my estate during de night. An’ in afternoon time der der-ya ’pon foot, sometimes t’ree ah dem together.’

‘Why should I boder ’bout radication? Me nuh t’ief nutten – ah my family’s property me ah come for.’

‘Yeah, but we don’t want no beast to sight us off-loading t’ings from the lock-up,’ said Coffin Head. ‘If dey do, der gonna mark us down, man. Char.’

‘Alright,’ Nunchaks agreed. ‘I’ll send ah van first t’ing tomorrow. An’ you’d better be der-ya. Cos I don’t like wasting my people dem time. Y’hear me, yout’?’

‘Understood, man,’ Biscuit said.

‘Alright, dat is settled,’ Nunchaks concluded. ‘But de warning is der: me find anyt’ing wrong wid de goods, you know wha’ will ’appen.’

Biscuit, his gaze dropping to the concrete, remembered what Bruce Lee had done with his Nunchakoos in Enter the Dragon, while Coffin Head took a deep breath.

‘I might wan’ you two fe a liccle job down by Dorset Road sides,’ Nunchaks suddenly announced. ‘Y’hear me, yout’?’

‘I don’t know, Chaks, man,’ Coffin Head fretted. Dorset Road, within throwing distance of the Oval cricket ground, was home to Nunchaks’ rival, Cutlass Blake. Cutlass called his gang the ‘Trodding Blades’ and any visitors to their turf were not greeted warmly.

‘Wha’ you mean you don’t know? Remember it’s me who put money inna your pocket! An’ me de reason no one trouble you. When people know you working fe me, dey lef’ you alone. You don’t fockin’ know, you ah say. When I tell you fe do somet’ing, you don’t rarse tell me you don’t fockin’ know!’

Coffin Head shook his head in submission. Biscuit looked at his friend in surprise.

‘I ’ope we understand each uder,’ Nunchaks said ominously.

Biscuit nodded.

‘Alright, dat is out of de way,’ Nunchaks said. ‘Come, follow me to me car.’

Biscuit and Coffin Head were led up Railton Road, listening to the Lone Ranger’s ‘M-16’ resounding from Desmond’s Hip City record shack. The Front Line was relatively quiet at this time of day, apart from one doom-monger dressed only in cut-down jeans and a smart waistcoat. Marching down the middle of the road, he shouted, ‘Brimstone an’ fire will soon come. Believe it!’

Ignoring the doom merchant, Nunchaks turned to the teenagers. ‘Come, yout’s. Me car is jus’ parked up by T’umper’s takeaway.’

The trio walked on, Biscuit wondering where all the whores and bad men went to during the day-time. Nunchaks opened the door to his car and ushered his two employees into the back seat. He pulled away and drove along the Front Line before turning left into a quiet road. Although the Line was quiet, Nunchaks knew there was always a chance that an informant or rival dealer could be watching, so he stopped the car a half mile away. He got out and opened the boot then returned to the driver’s seat with a small plastic bag. ‘You sell de last bag alright?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ replied Biscuit. ‘No problem. Sold de last draw T’ursday night.’

‘You ’ave de corn?’

Coffin Head stooped to remove the elastic band that gripped the wad of two hundred pounds inside his sock. He passed the cash to Nunchaks who didn’t bother counting it; there was no way his juniors would cut him short.

‘Right, remove ya,’ Nunchaks ordered.

Biscuit and Coffin Head vacated the car and watched as Nunchaks performed a three-point turn and headed off to central Brixton.

‘Char,’ Coffin Head grouched. ‘He’s always doing dat, telling us to get out of his car an’ trod.’

‘Would you expect anyt’ing different?’ said Biscuit.

‘Can’t we get our herb off someone else?’

‘Oh yeah, like who? To rarted.’

‘Slim Lamb Harry, innit. He lives up Palace Road, in de estate up der. Brenton knows him.’

‘Nah, he’s too hot, man. An’ he deals wid dem white man down Rotherhithe sides. He’s into cocaine, speed an’ all kinds of shit. An’ he charges ’bout two t’irty for an ounce of herb. An’ he carries a fockin’ Remington. I ain’t dealing wid no man who’s got a rarse gun under his trench.’

The friends walked along Shakespeare Road, both looking at the huge council block on their left. With its lack of windows, locals called this expanse of concrete ‘The Prison’.They could hear some rootshead testing out his bass speakers in a third-floor flat. On another floor, they heard a child being severely disciplined by his mother. The various noises intermingled into a soundtrack of foreboding. Coffin Head wondered what Nunchaks would do to him if he knew what Coffin Head was thinking.

‘Coff, your turn to sell at de Line dis week,’ said Biscuit, knowing his spar hated to trade his stock there.

‘Char, in dis fockin’ weder?’

‘I done it last time. Stop your moaning, man. I t’ought you wanted to buy some garms for de wedding?’

‘Yeah, I do. I jus’ don’t like de Front Line. Too much man who ’ave gone cuckoo. Too much man wid a blade who would wet you for nutten.’

‘You’ll get used to it, man.’

‘How can you get used to madman who tell you dat your heart’s gonna be melted by de rarse fires of hell?’

The pair turned left into Loughborough Road. Coffin Head dwelt on the perilous act of selling herb on the Front Line. Just two months ago, while idling with Brenton and Floyd, he had seen a youth get his stomach carved with a machete. Coffin Head had seen men get cut before, but this incident had disturbed him. In the middle of an argument about the quantity of herb the youth had bought, the dealer walked calmly up to the naïve teenager and, without warning, took a mighty swing.

Biscuit’s mind was on Nunchaks and the next assignment. ‘I ain’t doing it,’ he announced. ‘I ain’t bruking into no more yards. I’ve had enough of dat shit. It’s too dangerous, man. We don’t know whose yards we bruking into. Say we run into a man who’s got a friggin’ gun or somet’ing? Especially if we do a job up Dorset Road. Gonna ’appen one day, y’know. Jus’ a matter of time. An’ it ain’t like we’re meking too much out of it, eider. Nunchaks jus’ gives us half what we sell. Nah, man. I ain’t doing it again. Fock dat runnings.’

‘I didn’t wan’ to do it in de first place,’ revealed Coffin Head. ‘How we gonna get out of it?’

‘I affe think ’bout it, man. I’ll come up wid some excuse.’

The friends reached Mostyn Road where they went their separate ways. Biscuit headed off home and Coffin Head to his place off Denmark Road. Back at the flat, Biscuit found his mother placing food in the cupboards after a shopping trip. Royston was helping her, glad to be inside the warmth of his home. He loathed the queues in Brixton market.

‘Lincoln, you’re ’ome,’ Hortense greeted. ‘Wha’ you waan’ fe your dinner today? Mutton or some beef.’

‘Don’t mind, Mummy. Whatever.’

‘My God it col’ outside. Why you nuh wear de scarf me knit fe you. Col’ will ketch your backside if you nuh wrap up.’

‘I’m alright, Mummy. I’m wearing two T-shirt, innit.’

He retired to the lounge, where he turned on the television and watched the wrestling. His mother prepared the dinner as Royston played with his favourite toy cars.

Denise arrived home two hours later, and immediately made for the gas heater in the lounge. ‘T’anks for the twenty notes you gi’ me. Controlled a nice dress for de party.’ Still standing in her black wool coat and beige corduroy trousers, Denise switched the heater to its full capacity.

‘Dat’s alright,’ replied Biscuit. ‘Jus’ when you need somet’ing, don’t run to Mummy. She’s got enough worries already.’

‘So, wha’ you saying? When I need somet’ing I affe run to you?’

‘Widin reason.’

‘Wha’ gives you de right to tell me when I should ask my mudder fe somet’ing?’ Denise asked hotly. She placed her hands on her hips and primed her tongue. ‘I’m sick an’ tired of you playing daddy for me. Don’t you remember? I ain’t got no daddy, never ’ad one. Not like you.’

‘I’m not trying to act like a daddy, I jus’ don’t like it when you an’ Mummy ketch up inna argument ’bout money. Besides, you know Mummy don’t earn much at de cleaning job.’

‘At least I know it’s legal corn she’s bringing ’ome!’

‘Survival’s de game.’

‘Don’t t’ink I don’t know where you get your money from. You t’ink I like buying clothes wid your money?’

Biscuit paused, refusing to look his sister in the eye. ‘Instead of worrying ’bout dat, why don’t you look a job. Even a part-time job would help a liccle … An’ keep your voice down.’

‘Why don’t you look a job,’ returned Denise, leaning towards her brother aggressively. ‘Cos wha’ you doing ain’t no blasted job.’

‘But it buys you a friggin’ dress t’ough, innit,’ Biscuit retorted, pointing his right index finger near to his sister’s face.

‘If I did wha’ you do, you would soon complain.’

‘Dat’s cos you’re more brainy dan me. Why don’t you put dose CSEs to use instead of loafing around.’

‘You t’ink cos me ’ave some CSEs dat will get me a job? You don’t see de news lately. Even people who jus’ come out of university wid initials after dem name can’t find work. I went job centre yesterday an’ de only jobs dey had was for chambermaid in some hotel. Ain’t no way I’m cleaning up after people who can afford to stay inna top-ranking hotel.’

‘Our mudder cleans up after people.’

‘Don’t mean I affe do it. It’s humiliating.’

‘An’ our mudder’s humiliation put food on de table.’

‘Me nuh partial. Don’t mean I affe do de same t’ing.’

‘You can’t satisfy, man.’

‘I don’t call satisfaction wid a rarse broom in me ’and,’ dismissed Denise, swishing her left hand in front of her face contemptuously.

Knowing her brother loved to watch Saturday afternoon wrestling, Denise switched channels on purpose, trying to gain his full attention. Biscuit stopped himself from giving her a severe cussing; he hated to argue with his sister within earshot of his mother.

‘It’s alright for you t’ough, innit,’ she whispered through pursed lips. ‘Doing wha’ you like cos Mummy t’inks dat liccle halos an’ expensive perfumes comes out of your batty. You can’t do nutten wrong in her eyes. It mek me sick when she says Lincoln dis an’ Lincoln dat, describing you as some liccle Jesus. Maybe she would treat me de same if we ’ad de same daddy.’

Biscuit fidgeted uneasily. His tongue wanted to answer the charges with venom, but his common sense decided otherwise. ‘I’m going to my room, can’t tek your shit, man. Sometimes you’re so red eye you’re coming like devil pickney, to rarted.’ He kissed his teeth, got to his feet and cut his eye at his sister.

Denise laughed. ‘Like mudder like son, innit. She tells me nuff times I come from de devil.’

‘She mus’ be right wid de mout’ you got.’

‘Yeah? Why don’t you all jus’ call me Jezebel.’

Biscuit departed the lounge.