East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle
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some of these desperate women, especially the ones with children, had already shacked up with other men who came by their incomes via illegal means, starting the cycle all over again. He wondered when the day would come when his mother would have to visit him only on Saturdays.
Frank was a decent guy, always offering Biscuit a can of beer if he could afford it. And he loved his kids, forever taking them out to the park. But he hadn’t worked in a steady job for nearly three years. From the smart-dressed guy Biscuit knew as a child, Frank had transformed into an unshaven figure who raged at the staff in the job centre for a chance of work, any work. With Frank’s brooding and getting under his wife’s feet at home, the rows with Stella had increased, and so did the money they owed.
Biscuit dropped a naked chicken bone on his plate then reached up to take two tenners from the top of his wardrobe, calling out to his mother, ‘Mummy, come ’ere for a sec, I waan chat to you.’
Hortense ambled into her sons’ room, shaking her head as she searched her eldest son’s eyes. ‘She’s inna right state,’ she said softly, bringing her gaze down to the carpet. ‘Me nuh know wha fe say to her, I really don’t. She jus’ bawlin’ an bawlin’. Frank dis an’ Frank dat. If me see ’im me gwarn gi’ ’im two bitch lick. Me cyan’t tek Stella noise inna me ’ead. An’ de two pickney dem jus’ ah si’ down quiet like mice, looking at dem mudder.’
Biscuit glanced quickly at the top of the wardrobe to check if his bags of herb were out of his mother’s sight. A powerful surge of guilt took hold of him as he slowly raised his right hand that clutched two ten-pound notes. ‘Control dis for her,’ he offered.
Hortense looked at the cash for five seconds before opening her left palm. ‘Y’know Lincoln, yu ’ave ah ’eart. Like I said before, me nuh waan to know weh yu get your money from. But yu ’ave ah ’eart. God bless.’ She departed with a stolen glance at the top of the wardrobe.
Half an hour later, Biscuit caught a 109 bus, climbing up Brixton Hill to visit Carol. He had time to think about what he had done, and although moral questions echoed inside his head, he satisfied himself that survival was the game. He got off in front of a high steepled church opposite the narrow road that led to Brixton prison; he could just make out the high walls and spotlights in the distance. Walking into Carol’s road, he heard the familiar screaming of police cars. Carol lived in the shadow of Strand secondary school, a building that could have been used for Gothic horror films with its pointed arches and sharp angles. She was one of the only friends Biscuit had who lived in a decent-sized house with a garden, which her father tended faithfully. Biscuit thought that if his own father was still alive, then perhaps his family would be living on a street like this.
Mentally polishing his manners, he rang the buzzer once. The door opened to reveal Carol with a comb in her hair, one half of it plaited, the other half afro. The hue of her skin was like perfect milk chocolate and her height was suitable for the catwalk. Her figure was slender, giving way to curves just where men liked them. Her onyx-coloured eyes were generous and kind, giving her an all-round appearance of sensitivity. Wearing seamed blue jeans and a white polo-neck sweater, she smiled at her visitor. ‘Alright, Biscuit,’ she greeted. ‘I was expecting you a liccle earlier. I’m jus’ plaiting up my hair.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Biscuit said, his face yielding to a full grin. ‘Got a liccle delayed.’
‘Come in.’ She gestured him through the door. She touched his arm as he passed and leant her face next to his, whispering, ‘Remember to say hello to my parents.’
Biscuit followed her through the hallway, looking up to the high, white-glossed ceiling then dropping his sight to the richly embossed, beige wallpaper. Intimidation crept within him. Carol led him to the kitchen at the end of the hallway where her parents were sitting around a circular glass table, sipping coffee. Her father was a tall man with a neat, trimmed moustache. The hair he had was combed back behind his ears, leaving the top of his head naked. Carol’s mother was wearing a black head scarf that crowned an unlined, angular face. She had the same dark eyes as her daughter.
Biscuit took in his surroundings and thought that his own mother would love to possess a washing machine and wash up her dishes in the two sinks he saw in front of him. He doubted that all the cupboards in Carol’s kitchen would fit in the cramped cubicle where his mother cooked.
‘Evening MrWindett, evening Mrs Windett,’ he greeted them.
‘Evening, Lincoln,’ Mrs Windett returned. ‘An’ a late one it is, too.’
Biscuit looked up at the clock that stood high over the double sink: nearly half past ten.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Windett, I won’t keep Carol long. I know she’s got work in the morning.’
‘You ’ave no work to go to inna de morning, Lincoln?’ Mr Windett asked, peering over his reading glasses.
‘No, but I have to get up early an’ look about some interviews.’
‘Good, dat is good,’ MrWindett replied, before returning to his gardening magazine.
Carol led Biscuit upstairs to her bedroom. It was decorated in peach-coloured wallpaper that gave it a warm feel. The burgundy carpet was deep enough to lose your toes in, and alongside the double bed was a white rug. The twin wardrobes each had a full-length mirror, and Biscuit lost count of the perfumes and toiletries upon the dressing table. On one side of the bed was a small, white-painted cabinet with a lamp resting on it, and in the corner of the room was a JVC stereo. Denise would love all this, he thought.
She invited him to sit at the foot of her double bed and then went over to her stereo system where she inserted a cassette tape. The Cool Notes’ ‘My Tune’ sang softly from the speakers.
‘Biscuit, you look troubled, man. Wha’s de hard time pressure?’ Carol asked, joining him on the bed and snuggling up close to his side while adjusting his brown beret.
‘Nutten dat I can’t sort out,’ he replied, twirling his right index finger around one of Carol’s plaits. ‘T’ings are running smoothly, man.’
‘You know I don’t like de business you’re in.’
‘Den wha’ is a yout’ like me s’posed to do?’ Biscuit asked, dropping his hands to his thighs. ‘You know my liccle hustling helps out my mudder. If it weren’t for me we’d never pay de bills an’ t’ing.’
‘So wha’ you gonna do in twenty years’ time?’ Carol asked, now fingering Biscuit’s hair. ‘Still sell herb down de Line?’
‘No,’ he answered, his eyes now shut. ‘Hopefully I’ll ’ave some kinda job by den.’
‘You’ll have to. Cos I told you before, I ain’t going out wid no man who’s hustling. One day we’ll be raving out somewhere, de nex’ you might be locked up. I ain’t dealing wid dat, Biscuit. An’ I don’t business how much money you mek.’
‘Wha’s your problem, Carol? We rave together anyway, we spend a lot of time together, innit. An’ besides, nuff innocent man get jail up by de beast.’
‘Yeah, well. But wha’ you’re doing you ’ave more chance being jailed up. An’ we rave as friends, only as friends. An’ besides, Floyd an’ Sharon would always come wid us, an’ Coffin Head an’ Brenton.’
‘Wha’s wrong wid dat? Dat’s always been the case. Our posse always go everywhere together, innit.’
‘Biscuit, listen to me proper, man,’ Carol asserted, removing her fingers from his hair. ‘You said you wanted to marry me one day. Now tell me, how can I marry a somebody who meks his money selling herb or doing whatever. Me an’ you won’t even get to first base if you’re still carrying on wid dem t’ings der.’
Biscuit searched her eyes and realised she wouldn’t back down. He’d been after her a long time, since the third year of secondary school. After the school day finished, Biscuit would make a detour across Brockwell Park in the hope of seeing her after school hours. She and a few