Alex Wheatle - East of Acre Lane

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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