Brixton Rock (18 page)

Floyd began to pick imaginary dirt from his fingernails. “He ain’t that bad when you get to know him! Man and man would say your judgement is crucially lacking. He’s a bad man!”

Rosene crossed her arms, trying to keep warm. “Look, I said it wasn’t serious. We just go out in a posse sometimes and I sort of pair off with him. He always shows respect with me - never tries to manners me or anything.”

Trying to look composed and mature, Floyd slowly nodded, while Rosene thought to herself that her dance partner looked like an ant being pursued by a boiling pool of water.

I don’t believe this, Floyd was thinking in a panic. Get myself a nice piece of legback for the night and she deals with a warmonger. “Let’s go back inside,” he said, disappointment in his voice, trying to hide his fear.

“So what? That’s it?” Rosene probed, admiring Floyd’s devilish looks.

“Er, we might clash again, yeah. But I just come here tonight to enjoy myself.”

Rosene kissed her teeth.

“It will be too much strife for anyt’ing to happen,” Floyd explained.

“In other words, you’re scared of him.”

“No! It’s just that it would be too much hassle.”

“I hardly see him these days. He’s too busy selling herbs down the line.”

Floyd’s eyebrows arched. “He sells herbs down the line?”

“Yeah - he says he’s too busy to deal wid any girl seriously.”

Floyd’s interest gathered pace. “So, er, where does he coch?”

“Vauxhall, near the station. He always jumps on a Tube to check his spars in Brixton. He never checks me at my yard ’cos my fader caught my brother and him downstairs one morning weighing herbs. So you can bell me?”

Floyd ignored the invitation. “Vauxhall? He ain’t even a Brixtonian. Dem flats near the cricket ground?”

“Yeah. I have to go back inside for a pen so I can write down my phone number.”

“Yeah, safe.”

The pair walked slowly back towards the flat, where the blues was still carrying the swing. They passed by another couple going in the opposite direction. Possibly the start of a romance, or the end of a very brief one.

The thought of dealing with Rosene suddenly appealed to Floyd. It could be his revenge against Flynn for an incident that happened in Brockwell Park one afternoon.

On his way back inside the flat, Floyd recalled in his mind his first encounter with Terry Flynn.

Last summer, Floyd and Biscuit were playing football in Brockwell Park. The sun had blessed this particular day and enticed many of the black youth out of the estates and into the swerving hills of Brockwell Park, where they walked and talked, listening to suitcases, watched dog fights and bought the latest batches of Jamaican collie herb.

After a miskick, the ball escaped and found its way to the feet of a fierce-looking black guy, who was hoovering a spliff like there’s
no more Sundays, on a park bench. Floyd went to retrieve the ball. “Kick the ball back nuh, man.”

Silence. Floyd approached the bench-dweller. “Do you chat triple Mexican or somet’ing? I did ask if you could kick it back.”

Terry Flynn exhaled the smoke in Floyd’s direction. “Who are you ah talk to bwai.” He produced a flick-knife from his back pocket. “Next time say please,” he smirked.

Biscuit galloped to be at Floyd’s side. “Come Floyd man, I wanna get level - you’re winning 2-1. The loser buys the
choc-ices
.”

Floyd stood there, mesmerised by the blade. Flynn folded the knife back into his pocket, cackling. Biscuit retrieved the ball and led Floyd away.

“Don’t chat wid him,” Biscuit advised. “When he was born, God forgot to give him humour. He’s just a warmonger.”

“What’s his problem? I only asked for the man to kick the ball back.”

“Come, man. 2-1 to you.”

Floyd had yet to tell of this incident to Brenton, but he remembered the anger he had felt and the pointless intimidation. The seduction of Rosene would be a good vehicle for his requital.

A
sweet bwai simmering in frustration sat on the bonnet of his 3.5 Rover, knowing there was no chance of escaping the roadblock. Four terraced houses away, Soferno B were rocking the neighbourhood playing endless dub plates of Sugar Minott and Al Campbell. A little further on, the all-night West Indian food shop boasted a queue of raved-out ravers, hungering for a snack of bun and cheese or fried dumpling before heads butted their pillows. Across the road from the shop, a bejewelled pimp sporting a beaver-skinned Stetson sat regally in his Jag, collecting the night's taking from his bruised and
swollen-faced
whore.

Sinking their Special Brews, teenaged boys employed by the drug dealers watched up and down the road for any sign of SPG vans. A stray dog, sniffing around dustbins looked unsurprised when his snout was nearly punctured by a thrown-away syringe … It was a typical night and early morning in Railton Road, or as locals called it, the ‘front line'.

In a run-down residence that nobody was sure who owned, about forty steps from the blues, Terry Flynn held court. Sitting in the only armchair, he was surrounded by a catalogue of Brixtonian villains. Apart from one. This one was a rasta, decked in
African-type
robes, perched on a red plastic milk crate in the corner of the room, squinting out of his one good eye, while sucking an enormous spliff.

“I shoulda drapes his fockin white arse,” Flynn regretted. “What's a fockin white man doing at a blues down here? Fockin white people. Dis is our area. Why do they wanna come here for? Nosing in on our business. I shoulda wet him up an' tek everyt'ing he had.”

Everyone nodded apart from the dread. Encouraged by the response, Flynn continued his monologue. “If a black man steps in their area, we get arrested quick time. Can you imagine if we were cruising in downtown Windsor? We'll be stopped before we step out of the rarse car.”

“Ah true dat,” a dealer concurred, scissoring a fresh batch of faded green Jamaican export.

“Yeah, mon, ah reality dat,” a picky head youth agreed.

Flynn took out his Rizlas and cancer sticks. “I fockin 'ate de white man. You see, they would never allow us to 'ave de t'ings they ‘ave. They don't wanna see us in nice car an' nice clothes. They don't wanna see us in nice yards an' 'ave serious stereos. They jus' wanna keep us in the ghetto. They all 'ate us, y'know, always 'ave, always will. Dem mek me sick, walking in our area in their stoosh suits, doing some fuckery social study.”

The monologue slid into a rant as herbalists came and went, silently purchasing the Mary Jane and Charlie.

“I want what they got, man!” Flynn resumed. “I'm gonna get meself a nice yard wid a big garden so I can grow my own herbs. And it'll have a garage big enough for two cars, me ah tell you. An' I'll join the local fockin golf club, just to piss off de white man dem.”

Snorts of laughter. “You can't play golf, Terror,” a dealer suggested.

“Then I'll fockin learn, innit. Den I will join a tennis club to rarted, jus' for de pleasure of seeing de white man's face when I gi' 'im de money to join. I'll show 'em us blacks are jus' as good as dem.”

“Then if you're for your own people, why do you rob dem?” the rastaman asked, peering through the smoke and noting the gasps from the multitude of sinners inside the room.

Flynn glared at the dread. At this moment a hot hatred swelled in his body and he was itching to use the blade close to his chest. No one usually dared to challenge him here. This is me turf, he thought. An' dis dirty rastaman is trying to show me up! “A wha you ah talk to, dread? Wha dem call you? Nelson dread wid de one eye. Ah wha de fock are you doing here anyway?”

“You never answer me question. Why you rob your own people dem?”

Flynn's veins became visible in his throat. His lips thinned and his cheek tightened. It would be easy to just take his knife and wet the dread. But cut Jah Nelson? Every ghetto yout' respected him. Jah Nelson wasn't a man of violence. Flynn knew that in his environment it was easier for a violent man to ratchet-sketch another violent man. “Dem bwai who me drapes are idiot bwai, dem too rarted an' mek people walk all over dem.”

“You t'ink even less of de white bwai, so why you don't drapes any of dem yet?” the dread riposted, speaking in a calm manner that infuriated Flynn.

The hierarchy of Brixtonian villainy smelt the sudden tension, along with the wafts of lamb's bread. They didn't think too much of Jah Nelson's chances, expecting him to be another victim of Terror Flynn's overused ratchet.

“Why should I listen to a man who gives praises to a dead African Emperor who made his own people starve to death?” Flynn suddenly countered, gauging the reaction of the rogue's gallery. “Emperor Haile Selassie I, fockin crook who 'ad whole 'eap ah money inna Swiss bank account an' made his people starve. Don't talk to me, dirty dread. Why don't you run an' go home an' wash your dirty head?”

“An' if I don't, what you gonna do? Wet me up like so many others? You t'ink me like dem fool fool bwai who is always around you, nodding their heads to everyt'ing you say. Telling you you're badder than what you really are.”

“Shut your fockin mout', dread, before me cut off your dirty locks an' peel off de skin 'pon your top lip!”

“Remember dis,” the Rasta continued, his voice still tranquil, “those who induce fear are only hiding their own fears. Jah know!”

Flynn shot out of his chair and went for the dread. The onlookers backed away, putting their merchandise in their pockets. Flynn took out his blade and held it an inch away from the dread's good eye.

“I should jook out your eye, dread. Then everyone will 'ave to t'ink 'bout another name rather than Nelson!”

Jah Nelson sucked on his spliff mightily. “Then you'd better mek a good job of it. Cah if you leave me standing an' alive, in Jah's name I will tek 'way your life. You better believe it!”

Flynn pushed the dread off his crate, causing him to drop his spliff. Jah Nelson readjusted himself as Flynn returned to his chair. “You ain't worth cleaning my blade for,” Flynn mocked. “Joker dread, as if
you
could do me anyt'ing.”

Jah Nelson relit his roach. “Well, you're not so impregnable. Everyone knows dat a young bwai mark you for life. You'd better start looking over both shoulders.”

Flynn cackled - a horrible sound that spelt out utter contempt. His friends laughed with him, thinking that Brenton Brown would never come after Flynn looking for revenge.

“Me nearly killed dat bwai to rarted,” Flynn laughed. “'Im probably still der-ya inna hospital. When the rarted bwai fucked with me, he didn't know who I was. He does now. My name's on his rarse neck!”

“Yes,” Jah Nelson agreed, “but 'im walking an' living, an' sure dat he is walking an' living, he might be the one to be your Waterloo. Jah know!”

Right now, Flynn would have liked to sink his blade in Jah Nelson's tongue. He wouldn't look so smug then, he sniggered. What was the dirty dread still doing here anyway? He'd bought his herb. Why didn't he fock off to Twelve Tribes or somet'ing an' smoke his herb there with his dirty-head brethrens?

Thinking he had made his point, Jah Nelson stood up and was aware of all eyes on him. He knew he had brought the confrontation to the brink. And he was sure that if he pressed home his advantage, Flynn would be gagging to use his blade. To cause further embarrassment would be folly, especially in front of this audience.

The dread departed, enduring a crazed stare from Flynn.

“Remove ya,” Flynn mocked. “Dirty focking Rasta. REMOVE YA.”

The dealers went back to their business as Flynn rolled a spliff. What were his peers thinking? he wondered. Did they really think that Brown bwai would look for revenge? He should ah made sure he didn't walk an' live. He should ah wet him from ear to ear, severing his windpipe. Because now he was scared. What if Brown was looking for him? He recalled the vision of Brown's eyes. Eyes that were not afraid, eyes that spelt an insane determination. The fear had embedded itself under his skin, and kept him awake at night, dreaming of those mad eyes boring into him, telling him Brown was not afraid of him. Flynn would have to seek him out and extinguish his light. Finish him for good, rip out those eyes.

And if he did kill Brown, no one would say anyt'ing. He'd just be feared even more, that's all - a good result. Besides, the beast never investigated black on black violence thoroughly. They don't care if they find another young black body lying in a pool of blood on the front line. It's jus' another statistic. An' it's expected. Dem usually asking questions for a little while, an' when they get no response they shrug their shoulders and close the case. A black life is cheaper than a white life. An' Flynn should know, 'cos he's killed two black yout' already.

Flynn made up his mind as he sucked on his cocaine and herb cocktail.
Brown
will
have
to
die.

B
renton and Floyd strode up Brixton Hill on their way to check Sharon. It was a Saturday night, and Floyd wanted to surprise his girlfriend by turning up unexpectedly at her home.

As the two brethren passed a hi-fi and audio shop, Brenton stopped to peer through the reinforced window. “See that amp over there? That’s what I want. Nuff power, I think it’s about a 100 watt a channel. Yeah, I bet that could drop a few eighteen-inch speakers.”

Floyd spotted a beast van menacingly crawling down the road. “Hey, Brenton - beast. Come away from the shop, man, you know how they stay. They’re probably bored, and wanna jail up a blackhead for the night.”

The brethrens turned into New Park Road, off Brixton Hill. “You sure it will be all right to call for Sharon and she don’t know we’re coming? It’s gonna be well sad if she ain’t in.”

“She’ll be in; she better be.”

Before knocking on Sharon’s door, Floyd clocked the time; 11:45 pm. Fearing the cuss-happy voice of Sharon’s mother, he gave the door a light slap and waited. It opened to reveal a crissly dressed Carol.

“You know, I had a feeling you would turn up here tonight,” she said. “We were just chatting about you two a minute ago.” Glancing at Brenton, she patted her hair coquettishly. “Hi
Brenton, why you never come to the party last week?”

Before his spar could answer, Floyd brushed abruptly past her. “Where’re you two going?” he said tersely. “I thought you weren’t raving tonight.”

Carol totally ignored the question, and simply waited for Brenton to answer her. “Well?” she prompted him, crossing her arms.

“I had t’ings to do that day and I had to go work in the morning, so if I went, I would have been all tired and mash up.”

Carol glared at the contrite Brenton. Then they both walked inside the dimly lit hallway, noticing Floyd waving his arms about in the kitchen.

“How comes you are raving tonight and you didn’t tell me?” Floyd questioned Sharon. “You told me yesterday and last week that you’re going to rest up and coch in on Saturday night. So where’re you going?”

“I don’t have to tell you my movements. When you and Brenton go out, I don’t demand for you to tell me where you’re going.”

Carol parked beside Sharon, offering support to her friend. Floyd turned his back on his girlfriend and kissed his teeth. He peered through the cracked window just above the empty sink, then whipped around to face Carol. “Where’re you heading tonight, Carol?”

“Don’t rope-in me on the argument. This is between you two.”

Floyd kissed his teeth again while Sharon calmly combed out her hair. Brenton sat in the remaining empty chair by the table. “Blouse an’ skirt, the course of true love.”

Sharon yanked herself from her wooden chair and marched along the hallway and up the stairs. Floyd quickly pursued her, leaving Carol and Brenton staring at each other, wondering if the argument would commence again. “Is Sharon’s mum here?”

“No, she’s at work. She’s on nights this week.”

“Where are you going tonight?”

“My brother is playing out, innit. It’s sort of a last-minute t’ing, ’cos the sound that was supposed to play couldn’t make it. I think their van broke down or something. As it’s my brother playing, me and Sharon will get freeness, so we thought why not go.”

Brenton smiled. “I think Floyd’s getting possessive.” Just at that moment, a car horn yelled from outside. “Is that for you?”

“Er, yeah. My brother’s friend, he’s picking us up.”

Brenton flicked his eyes towards the ceiling. “This should be interesting.”

An irate Floyd came storming down the stairs and tramped into the kitchen, glaring at Carol. “Who’s that outside in the wheels?”

“Why you getting so rail up? It’s my brother’s friend, Smiley.”

Floyd stormed back into the hallway where he met Sharon coming down the stairs. “What’s Smiley doing outside and where’re you going with him?”

“Look Floyd, calm down, man. Smiley’s just taking us to the dance. Mikey’s playing out innit; Carol’s brother.”

Floyd heard the horn yell once more. “I don’t trust that Smiley, he’s got about sixteen pickney already. All he has to do is pull a girl for a crub and they get pregnant with friggin quads. The man doesn’t yam or drink; he just has sex. That’s what keeps him alive. He should’ve had his seedbag punctured at birth.”

Ignoring her boyfriend’s comments, Sharon looked towards Carol, while Brenton tried to stem his laughter. “You ready then, Carol?”

“Yeah. I’ll just get my purse from upstairs.”

Sharon studied her ego-haemorrhaging man. “Look, Floyd, I’ll be all right. I mean, I was raving without you before we met. You have to give me a little space, man. You can’t expect me to only go out with you all the time.”

Floyd screwed his face into a ball of resentment as Sharon resumed, “Anyway, I can’t leave you and Brenton in the yard on your own. So you’re gonna have to dally.”

“Oh, that’s dread; come all the way here to look for you and all
you can do is dash me out on the street and step into a man’s wheels who possesses the most crucial sperm in Brixton. His pickney dem will ram-jam all the nurseries in SW9 inna couple ah years. Yeah, thanks a lot.”

As Carol emerged at the top of the stairs, Floyd became aware of the sniggering Brenton, still parked at the kitchen table. “Why are you skinning your teet’? Come on, let’s chip.”

The quartet met the sticky night air, with Floyd scanning the occupants of the coughing motor by the kerb. He found the driver staring back then averting his gaze to the appealing Sharon, just as she was about to enter the car. “Hey Sharon, hold up.”

Sharon walked towards her man. “What now?”

Floyd glanced at the driver of the car, then deliberately embraced Sharon and kissed her on the forehead. “Behave yourself.”

Sharon joined Carol in the back of the motor, and as the car sped off, Carol looked back at Brenton and waved.

The two spars watched motionless as the motor burned off into the distance. Brenton and Floyd trudged off into the direction of Brixton Hill. “I’ve got somet’ing to tell you,” Floyd said. “Should’ve told you the other day.”

“What?”

“You know that party that Sharon and me went to last week? Well, Sharon reckons she saw Flynn outside the dance selling herbs.”

Brenton didn’t say anything in response; instead, he stared straight ahead and quickened his pace. Floyd struggled to keep up with his spar. “Don’t you wanna get him back? I mean, he’s marked you for life.”

“Don’t worry, Floyd. I’ll have my day when he’s least expecting it.”

“Well, I hope you do, ’cos if he’s mashed up then I could move in on his girl.”

“You’re sick.”

“She’s wasted on him, innit.”

“Sharon’s wasted on you.”

“Frig you. I treat her wid nuff respect.”

“Then how comes since you buck up on Flynn’s girl you haven’t stopped chatting about her.”

“She’s fit, man. You wanna clock the breast ’pon her.”

“You’re as bad as Smiley.”

Floyd saw the hypocrisy, and grinned. “If he tries anyt’ing, it’s me and him.”

“Yeah, well, you should treat her nice, ’cos bwai, if you lose her, you’re gonna feel it.”

“I ain’t gonna lose her, man. Me an’ Sharon are well solid.”

“You ain’t gonna be solid if she catches your backside wid dat Rosene.”

“Why you so doom an’ gloom, man? I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not all doom an’ gloom, I’m jus’ sayin’ that when you get somet’ing precious, you should do all you can to keep it; I know I would.”

“What d’you know?” Floyd probed. “You ain’t got no steady gal; not that you’re telling me anyway. Maybe you ’ave a liccle undercover floozie you ain’t telling me ‘bout.”

Brenton didn’t respond.

Twenty minutes later, the two brethren passed the Ace Cinema, where an endless stream of cars were parked and double parked, most of them belonging to the enthusiasts of the late-night Kung Fu show.

They walked on into Brixton High Street, where a rastaman leaped out of a Hillman, dressed in massive dark flares and green safari jacket. He was crowned by a beige cloth cap, which seemed too small to house his locks. The dread pushed a card into Floyd’s hand. “Yuh mus’ reach; dance haf fe ram.”

Brenton snatched the card off his spar and read the wording out aloud.

“‘Late-night blues, the champion sound like Tupper King International will rock you until the morning.’”

Then he stopped and read through the remainder of the flyer.

“It’s tonight, at Stockwell Park Estate,” he told Floyd. “They’re all right, innit, Tupper King?”

“Yeah, they’re not bad, but I’m going to my bed. I haven’t got the vibe to go out now.”

Brenton flung the card over his shoulder, and the friends proceeded to pass Brixton Tube station, where Floyd threw a ten-pence coin at the feet of a tramp.

Unknowingly to the Brixtonians, the occupants of an unmarked beast car were keeping a concentrated eye on any black faces. But the brethrens were oblivious to this as Floyd muttered again, “If Smiley tries anyt’ing with my girl, it’s me and him.”