East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle
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dangerous place. You mus’ know dat all kinda man get jook up on dis road fe liccle more dan nutten.’
‘Look, right, a man’s got to survive an’ I’m old enough to do wha’ I want fe do.’
‘Ah man you call yourself. Ah man would try fe do somet’ing better, and nah get ’imself moulded by de environment where ’im live.’ Nelson watched Sammy Samurai return to his car, then set his one eye upon a whore who was idling on the pavement. Realising that her employer was waiting in the car, the prostitute ran to the 3.5 Rover and climbed inside. Biscuit tailed the car as it pulled away, heading to Herne Hill.
‘I don’t get involved in dat kinda shit,’ he finally replied. ‘I’m jus’ ’ere to sell my liccle herb.’
‘But you will. Given time.’
‘Wha’ you on ’bout, Nelson? You’ve lost me. Do you want to buy or not? If not, den stop wasting my time.’
‘I want ah quarter ounce, but on one condition.’
‘A quarter! Dat will be 50 notes. What’s de condition?’
‘Dat we mek de exchange in my yard.’
‘Where you live? I ain’t trodding nuff miles, I’ve ’ad a busy day.’
‘Jus’ up near Fiveways.’
Biscuit knew the place, it was not two minutes’ walk from where he lived. ‘Alright den, lead off.’
He followed the dread, thinking of his mother’s smile when he would give her the money to buy Royston’s new shoes, and his sister’s grin when he handed her the cash for her new dress. He felt it wasn’t an ideal situation and suffered a tinge of guilt, but it was the best he could do for now. Survival was the game.
Jah Nelson walked slowly, looking like a modern-day Nazarene, satisfied with a flock of one. The dread didn’t talk much on the way along Coldharbour Lane, choosing to survey the people he passed, which only added to Biscuit’s suspicion. Ah well, he thought, if the dread was gonna give him fifty notes, he didn’t care how weird he looked. But he hoped the police wouldn’t see him. They were more likely to stop or arrest somebody who walked with Jah Nelson.
Following his release from prison in the summer of 1979, Nelson had taken to delivering lectures on racial pride in Brockwell Park. His audience would sometimes consist of a few dreads and curious kids, but the police deemed him a stirrer of racial hatred, asking him to leave the park at every opportunity. Recently, Nelson had decided to protest about his persecution on the steps of Brixton Police Station. This led to a charge of disturbance of the peace. He served another month’s sentence.
On reaching Fiveways, Nelson led Biscuit down a narrow road to the entrance of Loughborough estate. The dread lived on the third floor of a faded yellow-bricked council block. About forty paces along a rubber walkway from the flight of concrete stairs, he unfastened the mortice locks to his front door and led Biscuit inside.
Biscuit was immediately drawn to the pictures and paintings that hung in the hallway. He ambled slowly along, taking in images of Haile Selassie, Malcolm X, Bob Marley, Mahatma Gandhi and the great pyramids of Giza. Nelson looked at Biscuit’s wonderment and smiled, then led the way to his front room. On entering, Biscuit thought to himself that the dread should rename it a library. There were books everywhere: upon shelves, covering the home-made coffee table, beside the hi-fi and on a table where Biscuit thought a telly should have been.
Nelson told him to sit down in an armchair while he went to ignite an incense stick jutting out of a vase that was resting on another home-made table in the corner of the room. Biscuit made himself comfortable and began to study the walls. In front of him, hanging over a gas heater, was a large painting of an African woman breastfeeding her child. Scanning clockwise, he saw a smaller sketched drawing of a slave ship crossing the Atlantic. In the corner of the room was a painting that depicted the selling of slaves in a Western market, while staring from the adjacent wall was a photo of Jack Johnson, the first black heavy-weight champion, and beside that was a portrait of Malcolm X. Biscuit looked behind him and a huge map of ancient Africa filled his sight. He felt as if he had stepped into a different world. Nelson smiled as he studied Biscuit’s face.
‘You’re pretty serious ’bout your stuff, innit?’ Biscuit said, still looking around.
Nelson took out his rizlas. ‘Yeah, mon. Being a rastaman is not my religion, it’s my life.’
Biscuit felt uncomfortable and wanted to finish the deal. ‘You said you wanna quarter?’
‘Dat can wait. Hol’ on ah liccle.’ Nelson went to his bedroom and returned with a red, gold and green scarf in his hand. ‘Get up,’ he ordered.
Biscuit did as he was told.
‘Right, walk to the door,’ Nelson instructed.
‘Wha’ for?’
‘Jus’ do wha’ I say, man. I want to show you somet’ing.’
Biscuit walked to the door. ‘Hey, Nelson, man. You’ve been smoking too much herb, dread. Wha’ kinda tomfoolery is dis?’
‘It’s tomfoolery dat so many yout’s don’t know dem history.’ Nelson stood impassive. ‘Now, walk to de middle of de room.’
‘What? Wha’ you up to, dread? You mus’ tek me for fool.’
‘Jus’ do what I say, an’ be patient.’
Nonplussed, Biscuit walked to the centre of the room. ‘Right, now we got the palaver out of the way, show me your corn, dread, and I will give you de herb.’
‘Patience, man, you mus’ ’ave patience. Attum-Ra, why de yout’s dem nuh ’ave no patience?’
‘Wha’ now?’ Biscuit asked. ‘If I knew you’d ’ave me prancing about like an idiot I wouldn’t of come here.’ What is de dread up to? he asked himself. I’m friggin’ glad dat Sceptic ain’t ’ere, he’d be rolling on de floor by now, laughing his head off.
‘Jus’ hol’ on,’ the dread persuaded. ‘I jus’ wan’ to teach you somet’ing.’
Nelson approached Biscuit with the scarf in his hand. ‘I’m gonna put dis scarf to cover your eye dem. Den, you try an’ do wha’ you jus’ done before. Start from de door an’ walk to de middle of de room.’
‘Nelson, man! I t’ink you’ve gone too many days without socks, dread. It’s turning you fool to rarted.’
‘Jus’ do what I say.’
Biscuit took the scarf and covered his eyes, securing it at the back of his head. He then tried to make his way to the centre of the room, feeling his way around the furniture and stepping uneasily around the coffee table. Nelson laughed heartily, but Biscuit tolerated the humiliation, thinking it was worth his while if he was going to make fifty notes.
After stumbling twice, he found the door. ‘Right, now try an’ walk over to de under side of de room,’ Nelson ordered.
Biscuit felt his feet brush against the sofa, and as he went further he suffered a sharp pain as his hand met the corner of a hardback book resting on the arm of the sofa. The book fell and Biscuit almost felt himself follow it to the floor.
Nelson had seen enough. ‘Alright, tek de scarf off an’ si’ down.’
Satisfied that the dread had had his entertainment, Biscuit sat on the sofa. Nelson disappeared off to his bedroom and returned with fifty pounds in his hand. He gave the money to Biscuit and sat beside him, grinning like a smug teacher. ‘Now, you might t’ink I’m jus’ teking de piss, as de Cockney man say. But de image of you stumbling around an’ not knowing quite where you were is somet’ing you should remember.’
Biscuit was still none the wiser, gently shaking his head. Nelson eyed the boy’s confusion.
‘Now, ’ear dis,’ the dread continued,