East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle
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a check on Coffin Head’s car lights, indicators and tyres, the policemen returned to their car and were on their way. The black youths watched them drive northbound, towards Kennington.
Biscuit sighed. ‘Dat was fucking close. It’s a good t’ing de goods weren’t reported, otherwise we’d be yamming oats for breakfast.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Smiley.
The trio continued their journey into Cowley estate, turning into a side road where blue-painted garages with flat-topped roofs stretched out for a hundred yards or so. None of the pull-up garage doors had escaped the signature of a graffiti artist called Howling Lion. Biscuit was especially careful as he off-loaded their cache from the back of the lorry into the garage, telling Smiley and Coffin Head to cover the stereo with black bin liners and look out for any passers-by who might have an interest. Soon Smiley was on his way, telling his spars that some girl was expecting him. Coffin Head and Biscuit remained in the lock-up, surrounded by car parts, odd bits of furniture, all sorts of hi-fi equipment, a top of the range camera, a brand-new food mixer and other miscellaneous items, all overlooked by a huge poster of Bob Marley, the Gong.
‘So what’s your plans for de rest of de day?’ Coffin Head asked.
‘I’m going up de Line, try an’ sell some herb, den after dat I will check Carol. Ain’t seen her all week.’
‘You going up de Line?’ Coffin Head said in alarm. ‘Why don’t we jus’ sell the herb to people we know?’
‘Cos I wanna mek up de corn we lost on dat burglary.’
‘Bit drastic, innit? You don’t know who you’re going to meet up der so.’
‘I’ll be safe, man.’
‘Char. Sometimes you’re so headstrong. I’ll catch you tomorrow.’
Biscuit made his way to the Front Line – Railton Road – which led from the heart of Brixton to Herne Hill. It was just after 6pm. The wind was growing wilder by the hour, blowing empty lager cans and failed betting shop receipts along the kerb. Biscuit pulled his brown leather beret further down and pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his black leather jacket. He turned left from Coldharbour Lane, heard a John Holt song as he walked past Desmond’s Hip City record store, and nodded to a rasta cyclist he recognised.
As he reached his destination he clicked into cautionary mode, looking out for the police, bad men, madmen, or any other occurrence that might need a swift reaction. Almost all the housing on this terraced street was in need of repair. Every other house seemed to be boarded up, and the pavements were full of rubble and bits of wood. As he walked on, he knew he was being watched from countless windows and slightly open doors. ‘Man, de t’ings a man ’ave to do to sell ah liccle herb,’ he whispered to himself.
Biscuit knew this environment well, and his eyes were keen and his hearing acute as he found himself a clear spot from which to sell his wares, near to a row of four shops that sold West Indian produce such as tinned ackee, fish fritters, fried dumplings and rum cakes. One of the outlets was an off-licence. He sat on a wall outside a crumbling house, ignoring the comings and goings of suspicious men. He took out an already rolled spliff and lit it, observing the street for any potential customers. A green 3.5 Rover pulled up and out stepped the beaver-skin hatted Sammy Samurai, wrapped in an ankle-length black leather coat. The gangster walked past Biscuit, his metal-tipped soles echoing on the concrete, and offered him a faint smile of recognition as he disappeared into the residence. From somewhere above, Biscuit heard the shouts and yelps of a domino game in progress: ‘Your double five dead to bloodclaat,’ growled a voice. ‘Gi me de rarse money now!’
Biscuit watched the Filthy Rocker sound bwai DJ Pancho Dread, whose dreadlocks were tucked into a moth-eaten sombrero, practising his latest rhymes about ten feet away, sitting on an unstable milk crate. ‘Beast affe dead, me seh de beast affe dead, cos dem raid de party where me sister get wed, dem mash up de front room an’ push over me bed, me gwarn tek me ratchet knife an’ cut dem in dem head …’
Biscuit’s eyes lingered on a trio of whores walking up the street in perverse dignity. Their faces were caked in white powder and burgundy lipstick. The imitation fur jackets they wore were not long enough to cover their ridiculously short skirts, and the holes in their fishnet stockings were big enough for a hand to slip through. Black Uhuru’s ‘Shine Eye Gal’ blared from a ghetto-blaster that Biscuit couldn’t quite locate.
Zigzagging across the road in a drunken stupor was a bare-footed man dressed in only a string vest and stained trousers that were cut off at the calves. ‘Everyone’s gonna die,’ he cried, his face giving way to an enormous smile as he waved his arms about. ‘Do you know wha’appened in Sodom an’ Gomorra? Sleeping wid Satan will be de sinners reward. I am de reincarnation of John de Baptist, so mark my words, Judgement Day will be soon upon us.’ The population of the street jeered and laughed as the wild-haired man followed his haphazard course.
Biscuit didn’t have to wait long for custom. A white girl in an African-type head-wrap approached him. ‘You selling?’ she whispered.
‘Might be,’ he replied.
‘I’ve got ten pound and I want some grass.’
‘Happy to oblige, madam.’
‘It better be good stuff.’
‘Char, man. You want de t’ings or not?’
The girl, no older than fifteen, showed Biscuit her ten-pound note. He nodded and delved into his inside pocket. He’d already portioned his weed into matchbox size polythene bags. His inside right pocket contained his five-pound draws, his inside left the tens.
Not bothering to check her merchandise, the girl turned and disappeared into the passenger seat of a Cortina Mark Two with tinted windows. ‘Poor bitch,’ Biscuit whispered to himself. ‘What’s she doing out ’pon dis street at her age?’
Within two hours, he had made over £160. He still had over seventy-five per cent of the herb left, and guessed that if he continued at this rate, he and Coffin Head would make over double their outlay. He knew he’d been fortunate because Soferno B sound system had wired up their set in a run-down terrace about 100 yards away, testing out some new speakers. They had attracted a sizeable crowd which proved to be a good customer base for ganga, and Biscuit got his share.
He was preparing to depart the Front Line when he saw a familiar face approach him. His greying locks falling over a large forehead, Jah Nelson fixed Biscuit with the glare of one eye. His other eye was misshapen and half closed. A familiar figure to Brixtonians, Biscuit always saw Jah Nelson at Town Hall dances, especially when Shaka sound system was playing. But he wasn’t sure whether to believe a story that his friend, Floyd, had told him.
Apparently, Nelson had been arrested at the front door of Westminster Abbey with a ‘disciple’ of his, both of them carrying pick-axes. Defending himself and his disciple in court, Nelson told the magistrate that since European man had continually desecrated the tombs of ancient Egyptian royalty and got away with it, he didn’t see no reason why he couldn’t destroy the tomb of an English monarch. The magistrate sentenced him to six months in prison.
‘Biscuit’s de name, innit?’ Nelson asked.
Biscuit nodded at the dread. The rasta was dressed in what could only be described as Jesus Christ’s line of fashion, but on this particular street he didn’t look out of place. ‘Wha’appened to de army trousers, dread? You gone all African ’pon me.’
‘I haven’t gone all African ’pon you. I’s been an African from time.’
‘So, Jah Nelson, you come up here for your supply of collie?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Might be able to help