Alex Wheatle - East of Acre Lane

‘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