Brenton Brown (13 page)

OPENING A COLD BOTTLE
of mineral water, Brenton drank half of it in one gulp. He looked towards the changing rooms of the leisure centre once again but still no sign of Floyd. A boy sitting in the corner was examining the contents of his nose on his right index finger as his tracksuit-wearing mother was ordering tea and chocolate muffins. Her hair was still wet from showering. Brenton thought her tracksuit bottoms were too tight for her generous backside. An old man still dressed in his blue shorts and grey vest was resting on another table with his sweat-soiled towel draped over his shoulders. He was very still and his eyes were staring longingly at the drinks display. Brenton wondered if he would make it to the counter to order a drink. The smell of chlorine from the swimming pool was hard to ignore and the hum of the air conditioning was irritating him.

Should they be selling crisps and cakes in a sports centre? Brenton thought. I s'pose they gotta make their money … where the fuck is Floyd? He took another gulp from his drink.

Floyd arrived with a victorious smile as Brenton was midway through his second bottle of water.

‘You're like a woman, man,' Brenton griped. ‘Taking so damn long to get a shower and put your clothes on.'

Dropping his sports bag and his squash racket by Brenton's table, Floyd went to buy two blackcurrant-flavoured energy drinks. A minute later he sat down opposite Brenton, took a generous swig from one of his bottles and smiled again. Brenton kissed his teeth.

‘You're a bad loser, man,' Floyd said.

‘I've been sick, you know.'

‘Sick, my back foot,' Floyd countered. ‘You went work
Thursday
and Friday, didn't you? And you agreed to play. When I lose I don't give no excuses.'

‘That's 'cos you don't have excuses …
I'm
a better player.'

‘You weren't the better player today. Jah know dat!'

Inhaling slowly to control his irritation, Brenton said, ‘I agreed to play with you 'cos I wanted to sweat out what's left of my flu. My energy levels were seriously low today. Believe dat!'

‘Fuckery, Brenton. You lost fair, square and rectangle and t'ing.'

‘Next week it'll be back to normal. Believe it!'

‘Whatever, man. Whatever … Are you gonna go off and sulk and erupt over your teddy bear or you coming around my yard for your dinner?'

‘I dunno,' replied Brenton, still wounded by his defeat. ‘What's Sharon cooking?'

‘Somet'ing better than whatever sad microwave dinner you got in your fridge.'

‘Can't you answer a straight question instead of taking the piss?'

‘Man! The stepping volcano's inna temper,' laughed Floyd. ‘You wanna take your ash cloud away from my direction! I should beat your raas more often and stop letting you win to make you feel sweet. Jah know dat!'

‘I'll ask again,' said Brenton, finishing his mineral water. ‘What's Sharon cooking?'

‘Mutton, rice and peas.'

Brenton was unable to suppress his smile.

‘I know you can't resist dat!' chuckled Floyd. ‘So stop your damn sulking, deal wid your loss like a man and admit I'm the better player.'

‘Fuck you!'

‘Brenton, man!' Floyd rebuked. ‘Mind your ghetto language. There're kids around.'

They both looked at the boy who had been picking his nose. He was now enjoying a Kit Kat bar and melted chocolate covered his fingers.

Half an hour later, Brenton was following Floyd's black Peugeot 206 to his home in Streatham. He could hear Floyd's boosted-up car stereo boom out Black Uhuru's
Plastic Smile
. As he drove up Wellfield Road he reminisced about the days in his youth when they would walk home late at night from the Bali Hai club on Streatham High Road back to their hostel in
Cam-berwell
. Man! Brenton recalled. We didn't give a fuck how long we had to trod home. Kids today? They have to get in a damn car to get to the end of the friggin' road!

Brenton parked behind Floyd. ‘My tools are at work so I can't do anyt'ing for Sharon today,' he said as he climbed out of his car.

‘Stop worrying, man,' Floyd assured. ‘Sharon's not gonna ask you to do nutten.'

‘Ain't she?'

Floyd opened his front door and Brenton entered behind him. The wooden-tiled hallway had framed cartoonish images of African women pouring water from flower-patterned vases hanging from the walls. Always makes me wanna piss, thought Brenton. The aroma of rice and peas and mutton smacked him in the face and he licked his lips. Man! he said to himself. Good job I did come here 'cos I ain't got a damn t'ing in my fridge. I should've bought them a bottle or somet'ing. Sharon likes her brandy.

The double-roomed lounge was on the left but Floyd led Brenton to the end of the hallway that led to the kitchen. There was a Daffy Duck clock above the fridge and on the pine kitchen
table sat a small television set that was silently broadcasting a political interview. Also on the table were Lambeth council papers and files. Brenton thought of all the social workers he had met.
Wankers!
he yelled in his mind. Apart from Sharon of course … and Mr Lewis.

Sharon was wearing a Bob Marley headscarf and a Tweety Pie apron. A few rogue strands of grey hair grew defiantly on her fringe. She stirred the mutton pan and then checked the rice and peas pot before turning around to greet Brenton.

‘Alright, Bren,' she greeted. ‘Did you win again? Nice of you to reach. If you've got time I want you to look at our bathroom later on.' She turned to Floyd. ‘What was the score today?'

‘
I
won!' proclaimed Floyd. ‘Oh ye of lickle faith and t'ing!'

‘Seriously?' Sharon asked, disbelief on her face. ‘You won?'

‘You see how she stay though,' said Floyd, gesturing with his hands. ‘My
own
wife has no belief in me.'

‘You shit though,' laughed Brenton. ‘And when Sharon came to watch us that day I murdered your backside.'

‘Brenton, man!' protested Floyd. ‘Don't use dem phrase, man. You murdered my backside? Makes me feel uncomfortable! Rejig your lingo, dread.'

Everybody laughed and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Can I get you a drink, Brenton?' asked Sharon.

‘Yes, please. Cold water. Nuff ice.'

‘You're not gonna ask me?' complained Floyd.

‘No. You know where the fridge is.'

Rising from his seat, Floyd moaned, ‘You see what I have to live with?'

‘So where's Gregory and Linvall?' Brenton asked.

‘Linvall's playing football in the park and Gregory's in his room,' Sharon answered.

‘He never comes out of it,' said Floyd. ‘Playing games,
downloading
music or films or on that damn phone of his. When the
internet police come and fine him for downloading every film in Hollywood history he's on his own. Believe dat! He needs to step out of his room and do different t'ings.'

‘Leave Gregory alone,' snapped Sharon. ‘Does he trouble anybody? No! Is he polite? Yes! So what if he's a bit shy? Trust me, Bren, he's a nice yout'. Not like dem sour mout' boys I see on street. They ain't got no respect for anybody.'

‘I didn't say he wasn't nice,' cut in Floyd.

‘I'll get your water, Bren,' said Sharon.

While Sharon was pouring Brenton water, Floyd was serving himself a cocktail of Southern Comfort, Coca-Cola, lime juice, lemon juice and four cubes of ice. He mixed it furiously with a teaspoon, gave it a shake and took a sip before adding another drop of Southern Comfort. He then licked his lips and grinned with satisfaction. Brenton watched him and shook his head.

‘I want to re-tile the bathroom, Bren,' said Sharon. ‘And put a new bath panel on and put in some shelves. I want your advice … maybe you'll give us a hand when you got time?'

Brenton rolled his eyes. ‘I'll have a look.'

Sharon served Brenton his water. She sat down at the table and looked at Floyd. ‘Your mum called again,' she said. ‘I'm sick and tired of being in the middle so why don't you just go and check on her and see what she wants?'

‘Didn't she mention anyt'ing?'

‘No
, she didn't mention anyt'ing!' Sharon turned to Brenton. ‘This has been going on for untold weeks. Floyd's mum calls, he don't want to chat to her, I end up taking a message and Floyd won't see her.'

‘Might be important?' offered Brenton. ‘She might be sick. Look what happened to my mum.'

‘She ain't sick,' said Floyd. ‘You watch her, she'll live longer than Moses.'

‘I'm not gonna be in the middle between you two,' insisted
Sharon. ‘I'm tired of it, running to her and running to you.
Go
and see her. Today!'

Floyd thought about it. ‘Wanna come, Brenton? You haven't seen her for the longest time.'

Brenton, who was wondering what age Moses reached before he finally passed away, was about to answer but Sharon cut in. ‘No, leave Brenton out of it. He don't need to hold your hand. Go and see her on your own. It's obviously something serious she wants to chat about.'

‘I'll think about it,' said Floyd.

‘No you won't think about it,' ordered Sharon. ‘Just see what she wants. How many times have you seen her since your dad died last year?'

Floyd glanced at Brenton then looked at the floor. Brenton sipped his water.

Sharon stood up and leaned closer to Floyd. She dropped her tone to almost a whisper. ‘See her today, Floyd.'

‘She's probably gonna nag about something,' said Floyd. ‘
Look how long you've been working in school as a mentor! How come you're not a teacher yet! Go back to college! You don't have any
ambition
.
And blah friggin' blah. All she does is run me down and tell me how my sisters are doing this and that.'

‘Might be somet'ing different,' offered Brenton. ‘Your old man might've left a will and left you with a hundred grand or somet'ing.'

‘Brenton, when I asked you to come around I didn't expect you to take the friggin' piss! My old man leave me money? Are you sick, Brenton? Are you one long bitching cucumber short of a
raas
salad? The man always hated me. Seriously! He would rather give money to the BNP than give me anyt'ing! Fuck the old man's will!'

‘Floyd, you damn fool, if it was about the will that would've been settled shortly after his death,' said Sharon.

‘Then I wonder what's it all about?' said Brenton. ‘Maybe she's going back to Jamaica?'

‘Nah, ain't that,' replied Floyd. ‘Last time she went there one of my aunties stole some of the clothes out of her suitcase, her brother was vex 'cos she never bring any duty-free cigarettes, she ended up paying for some uncle called Wilbur's funeral and my cousin, Milton, was caught trying to t'ief her passport. Trust me, she ain't returning there, seriously.'

Brenton and Sharon couldn't contain their laughter.

‘Ain't funny, man,' Floyd said. ‘Mum's blood pressure was going up like thunderbird three to rarted when she got back. Ever since she's been on some serious pills, dread.'

Brenton chased down his dinner with beer. Floyd then
entertained
him with a selection of modern reggae but Brenton
preferred
the old-school style. When Sharon saw that he was losing interest she yanked him upstairs where he advised her on how best she could fix up her bathroom and what he was willing to offer in help.

‘Don't I have a say?' protested Floyd.

‘I'm
not
painting my bathroom black and putting up black tiles,' insisted Sharon. ‘I'm not decorating my bathroom so Count Dracula and his wife will be comfortable in it. It ain't happening and Jah knows dat!'

‘What's the point of you asking me suggestions about how we gonna do the bathroom and then you just ignore what I say?' argued Floyd.

‘'Cos what you say don't match,' replied Sharon. ‘I know you love black but a black bathroom? If my superiors at work found out they'd think I'm part of some weird freaky cult that kills kids.'

As Brenton tried to stifle his laughter, they all went down the stairs together. ‘I'm leaving now, yeah,' said Brenton. ‘Thanks for dinner and t'ing.'

‘See him out, Floyd and
go
to see your mother,' said Sharon.

‘OK, I will,' said Floyd. ‘But I ain't staying long.'

Floyd and Brenton walked out of the house together. Floyd climbed into his car, turned the ignition key and the
Revolutionaries
'
Death in the Arena
blasted from his cranked-up car stereo.

‘You'll be alright?' Brenton asked, standing beside Floyd's car.

Turning down the volume, Floyd replied, ‘Can you come with me? But if you do, don't tell Sharon.'

‘I've got an early start, man,' said Brenton. ‘Wanna get some sleep. I've got nuff work to do in the morning. Gotta lay a floor, put some damp-course down, put up some struts for a wall …'

‘Brenton, stop going on old.'

‘I'm not going on old!'

‘Yes you are! You're going on ancient.'

‘Fuck you!'

‘Then prove that you're not going on like a grey-back
pensioner
. Stop fretting about your bedtime and step with me to my mum's.'

Brenton kissed his teeth. ‘I ain't staying long.'

‘Nor am I,' Floyd assured him.

Following Floyd to Tulse Hill estate, Brenton felt no need to switch on his own car stereo. He bopped his head to Yellowman's
Herbman Smuggling
which was booming out of Floyd's Peugeot. Floyd pulled up outside a five-storey block of flats in the middle of the estate. Despite the darkness, they could hear yelps and shrieks from the nearby children's adventure playground. They could make out the silhouettes of a white couple kissing in a doorway. The Stranglers'
Golden Brown
played out from an upstairs flat and from another block they could hear the crying of a baby.