East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle
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into a soundtrack of foreboding. Coffin Head wondered what Nunchaks would do to him if he knew what Coffin Head was thinking.
‘Coff, your turn to sell at de Line dis week,’ said Biscuit, knowing his spar hated to trade his stock there.
‘Char, in dis fockin’ weder?’
‘I done it last time. Stop your moaning, man. I t’ought you wanted to buy some garms for de wedding?’
‘Yeah, I do. I jus’ don’t like de Front Line. Too much man who ’ave gone cuckoo. Too much man wid a blade who would wet you for nutten.’
‘You’ll get used to it, man.’
‘How can you get used to madman who tell you dat your heart’s gonna be melted by de rarse fires of hell?’
The pair turned left into Loughborough Road. Coffin Head dwelt on the perilous act of selling herb on the Front Line. Just two months ago, while idling with Brenton and Floyd, he had seen a youth get his stomach carved with a machete. Coffin Head had seen men get cut before, but this incident had disturbed him. In the middle of an argument about the quantity of herb the youth had bought, the dealer walked calmly up to the naïve teenager and, without warning, took a mighty swing.
Biscuit’s mind was on Nunchaks and the next assignment. ‘I ain’t doing it,’ he announced. ‘I ain’t bruking into no more yards. I’ve had enough of dat shit. It’s too dangerous, man. We don’t know whose yards we bruking into. Say we run into a man who’s got a friggin’ gun or somet’ing? Especially if we do a job up Dorset Road. Gonna ’appen one day, y’know. Jus’ a matter of time. An’ it ain’t like we’re meking too much out of it, eider. Nunchaks jus’ gives us half what we sell. Nah, man. I ain’t doing it again. Fock dat runnings.’
‘I didn’t wan’ to do it in de first place,’ revealed Coffin Head. ‘How we gonna get out of it?’
‘I affe think ’bout it, man. I’ll come up wid some excuse.’
The friends reached Mostyn Road where they went their separate ways. Biscuit headed off home and Coffin Head to his place off Denmark Road. Back at the flat, Biscuit found his mother placing food in the cupboards after a shopping trip. Royston was helping her, glad to be inside the warmth of his home. He loathed the queues in Brixton market.
‘Lincoln, you’re ’ome,’ Hortense greeted. ‘Wha’ you waan’ fe your dinner today? Mutton or some beef.’
‘Don’t mind, Mummy. Whatever.’
‘My God it col’ outside. Why you nuh wear de scarf me knit fe you. Col’ will ketch your backside if you nuh wrap up.’
‘I’m alright, Mummy. I’m wearing two T-shirt, innit.’
He retired to the lounge, where he turned on the television and watched the wrestling. His mother prepared the dinner as Royston played with his favourite toy cars.
Denise arrived home two hours later, and immediately made for the gas heater in the lounge. ‘T’anks for the twenty notes you gi’ me. Controlled a nice dress for de party.’ Still standing in her black wool coat and beige corduroy trousers, Denise switched the heater to its full capacity.
‘Dat’s alright,’ replied Biscuit. ‘Jus’ when you need somet’ing, don’t run to Mummy. She’s got enough worries already.’
‘So, wha’ you saying? When I need somet’ing I affe run to you?’
‘Widin reason.’
‘Wha’ gives you de right to tell me when I should ask my mudder fe somet’ing?’ Denise asked hotly. She placed her hands on her hips and primed her tongue. ‘I’m sick an’ tired of you playing daddy for me. Don’t you remember? I ain’t got no daddy, never ’ad one. Not like you.’
‘I’m not trying to act like a daddy, I jus’ don’t like it when you an’ Mummy ketch up inna argument ’bout money. Besides, you know Mummy don’t earn much at de cleaning job.’
‘At least I know it’s legal corn she’s bringing ’ome!’
‘Survival’s de game.’
‘Don’t t’ink I don’t know where you get your money from. You t’ink I like buying clothes wid your money?’
Biscuit paused, refusing to look his sister in the eye. ‘Instead of worrying ’bout dat, why don’t you look a job. Even a part-time job would help a liccle … An’ keep your voice down.’
‘Why don’t you look a job,’ returned Denise, leaning towards her brother aggressively. ‘Cos wha’ you doing ain’t no blasted job.’
‘But it buys you a friggin’ dress t’ough, innit,’ Biscuit retorted, pointing his right index finger near to his sister’s face.
‘If I did wha’ you do, you would soon complain.’
‘Dat’s cos you’re more brainy dan me. Why don’t you put dose CSEs to use instead of loafing around.’
‘You t’ink cos me ’ave some CSEs dat will get me a job? You don’t see de news lately. Even people who jus’ come out of university wid initials after dem name can’t find work. I went job centre yesterday an’ de only jobs dey had was for chambermaid in some hotel. Ain’t no way I’m cleaning up after people who can afford to stay inna top-ranking hotel.’
‘Our mudder cleans up after people.’
‘Don’t mean I affe do it. It’s humiliating.’
‘An’ our mudder’s humiliation put food on de table.’
‘Me nuh partial. Don’t mean I affe do de same t’ing.’
‘You can’t satisfy, man.’
‘I don’t call satisfaction wid a rarse broom in me ’and,’ dismissed Denise, swishing her left hand in front of her face contemptuously.
Knowing her brother loved to watch Saturday afternoon wrestling, Denise switched channels on purpose, trying to gain his full attention. Biscuit stopped himself from giving her a severe cussing; he hated to argue with his sister within earshot of his mother.
‘It’s alright for you t’ough, innit,’ she whispered through pursed lips. ‘Doing wha’ you like cos Mummy t’inks dat liccle halos an’ expensive perfumes comes out of your batty. You can’t do nutten wrong in her eyes. It mek me sick when she says Lincoln dis an’ Lincoln dat, describing you as some liccle Jesus. Maybe she would treat me de same if we ’ad de same daddy.’
Biscuit fidgeted uneasily. His tongue wanted to answer the charges with venom, but his common sense decided otherwise. ‘I’m going to my room, can’t tek your shit, man. Sometimes you’re so red eye you’re coming like devil pickney, to rarted.’ He kissed his teeth, got to his feet and cut his eye at his sister.
Denise laughed. ‘Like mudder like son, innit. She tells me nuff times I come from de devil.’
‘She mus’ be right wid de mout’ you got.’
‘Yeah? Why don’t you all jus’ call me Jezebel.’
Biscuit departed the lounge.
Biscuit had just eaten his dinner of stewed mutton, yams and green banana. His mother had cooked the meat and vegetables in one pot, making a delicious broth, and served it with boiled brown rice. After telling Royston to tidy up his bedroom, Biscuit bear-hugged his brother goodnight. As he was leaving the flat he found his mother leaning over the balcony, looking out over the concrete landscape. The lights were coming on in the streets below.
‘You alright, Mummy?’ he asked, noticing a sadness in his mother’s