Alex Wheatle - East of Acre Lane

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.’

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.’