East of Acre Lane Read online

  ALEX WHEATLE

  East of Acre Lane

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to the life

  and musical legacy of

  Dennis Emmanuelle Brown

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 Heady Heights

  2 Homestead

  3 Roadblock

  4 The Front Line

  5 Oh Carol

  6 Delivery

  7 Sons of SW9

  8 Sisters

  9 Six Babylon

  10 Crisis

  11 The Wedding

  12 Gunman Connection

  13 The Teachings of Jah Nelson

  14 Queen Majesty

  15 Babylon Pressure

  16 Bounty Hunting

  17 Sister Love

  18 Herb Man Hustling

  19 The Shitstem

  20 Brixtonian Females

  21 Truths and Rights

  22 Enter the Pimp Don

  23 The Brixtoniad

  24 Confrontation

  25 The Blessing of Jah Nelson

  P.S. Ideas, Interviews & Features …

  About the Author

  Unfinished Stories: Joanne Finney talks to Alex Wheatle

  Life at a Glance

  Top Ten Books

  A Writing Life

  About the Book

  Brixton Hot! by Alex Wheatle

  Read On

  Have You Read?

  If You Loved This, You Might Like …

  Find Out More

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Heady Heights

  27 January 1981

  It was 3am and Biscuit found himself being driven through the bad lands of South London. He was in the back seat, his heartbeat accelerating, flanked on the right by this big grizzly thing called Muttley, who looked like a young George Foreman with untamed facial hair. On Biscuit’s left was the evil cackling dread nicknamed Ratmout’, whose face would crease into a mask of sadism if anything humoured him. Nunchaks, the Brixtonian crime lord, was behind the wheel, displaying perfect calm. How de fuck am I gonna get out of this? Biscuit thought.

  He wondered what he’d done to warm Nunchaks’ wrath, and regretted leaving the party without Coffin Head and Floyd. It had been a dread rave. Plenty girls to dance with, strong lagers free flowing, and Winston, the top notch selector of Crucial Rocker sound, spinning some dangerous tunes.

  ‘Jus’ ah liccle drive to tek in de sights,’ Nunchaks said, smiling.

  ‘Forget ’bout de herb, man,’ Biscuit suggested, ‘I’m too busy nex’ week to do any selling, an’ I was riding a serious crub wid a fit girl at de party.’

  ‘De bitch can wait,’ Nunchaks responded grimly.

  ‘Don’t fuck about, Chaks,’ Biscuit fretted. ‘Lemme outta de car, man, I ain’t in de mood for one of your jokes.’

  ‘Who de rarse says I’m joking. An’, more time, I don’t like yout’ who joke wid me.’

  The Cortina Mark Two pulled up at the foot of a cloud-seeking tower block, somewhere behind Stockwell Tube Station. The thick-necked Muttley yanked Biscuit out of the car as Nunchaks, in his cashmere coat and beaver-skinned hat, observed the skyline. He looked like a character from Shaft.

  ‘What de fuck ’ave I done, man?’ Biscuit panicked. ‘I beg you. I ain’t done nutten to you. Dis has gone too far.’

  ‘You made ah wrong move, yout’,’ Chaks growled. ‘If you can’t listen good, den you mus’ feel pain.’

  ‘Wha’ wrong move, Chaks, man? Wha’ ’ave I done? I’m one of your best customers. My brethrens will be wondering where I am. Gi’ me a chance to explain whatever I’ve done.’

  ‘Stop grovelling, yout’, you sound like weak-heart bwai inna beast cell.’

  Ratmout’ and Muttley dragged Biscuit towards the lift of the tower block. Before him Biscuit read the graffiti that decorated the bruised, hardwood swing doors of the entrance. Che Guevara, you’re wanted in Brixton, demanded one line. Biscuit looked up and saw hundreds of windows embedded in dark concrete reflecting the blackness of the night. He wanted to scream, but knew that if he did, his forehead would kiss Chak’s steel-studded Nunchakoos. Ghetto youths, especially in Brixton, flocked to the late-night Ace cinema to watch the latest Martial Arts films, and they all considered the top ranking scene of all time was when Bruce Lee wielded his Nunchakoos in Enter the Dragon, mincing the brains of five assailants. The scene was not lost on Nunchaks.

  How did I ever get hook up wid dis bad man? Biscuit thought. A cold sweat snaked down from his temples. He thought of his hard-working mother and his younger sister and brother, wondering if he would see them again. Only half an hour ago he was smoking a spliff and enjoying a serious smooch with a fit girl. Now he felt like he was approaching the end of his short life.

  Muttley, wondering if the lift was in order, thumbed for the top floor and then ran his eyes over Biscuit, as if he was sizing up which part of the body he should eat first. As the mechanism of the lift echoed into a downward motion, Ratmout’ emitted a throaty cackle, displaying his black gums and two missing front teeth. To add to Biscuit’s torment, and to pass the time, he slowly ran his right index finger along his throat. Nunchaks was flicking his lighter on and off, cursing that it had run out of gas.

  When the lift arrived and the steel doors had juddered open, Biscuit caught the scent of something a dog had left in the corner of the cramped compartment. They entered the confined cabin, Biscuit scouring Nunchaks’ coat for any glint of custom-built brain scrambler. On the back wall of the lift was more graffiti in bold, red letters: legalise it.

  A red-lit circle indicated that the lift had reached the 25th floor. The two flunkies shunted Biscuit through a wire-meshed door that led the way to the balcony. Biscuit ran the scene through his mind in trepidation. This was the end; he could see his eighteen-year-old body crumpled upon the concrete forecourt below, as lifeless as a black bag of rubbish. He felt an asthma attack gathering force in his chest and his fear rendered him speechless. Nunchaks was still fiddling with his lighter.

  ‘Wha’ yard number did you raid the uder day?’ Nunchaks demanded.

  ‘You can ’ave all de t’ings, man. Stereo, telly, everyt’ing. You can ’ave de lot, man. Jus’ lemme go. Der’s dis yard I’m working on nex’ week an’ you can ’ave all de t’ings we t’ief from der as well.’

  ‘Wha’ number!’

  ‘Er, you told me twenty-seven, innit.’

  Nunchaks turned to his cronies. ‘My mudder always teach me dat if me can’t hear, I mus’ feel.’

  ‘Don’t frig about, Chaks, you’ll get de t’ings back, no worries.’

  Nunchaks managed to get his lighter working. He paused, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Twenty-seven, you say?’

  ‘Yeah, man. Dat’s de number you gave me.’

  ‘Can you remember me saying twenty-seven?’ Nunchaks asked his goons.

  ‘No, boss,’ Muttley answered gleefully.

  ‘I swear you told me twenty-seven. I swear, man.’

  ‘You calling me a liar, yout’? You already raised your voice to me once. Do it again and you’re flying t’rough de air.’

  Biscuit glanced behind him and saw the communication towers of Crystal Palace blinking away on the horizon, overlooking the myriad of tiny illuminations that peppered South London. He could just make out the grey, flat tops of his home estate along Brixton Road. His eyes went eastwards and he took in the Oval cricket ground, backdropped by huge round gas tanks that looked like the crowns of poor giants. Surrounding all this were cousins upon cousins of council blocks.
Biscuit wondered if there was anybody around to hear him scream. Maybe someone who lived below had witnessed his plight and would come to the rescue.

  ‘I told you seventy-seven, yout’,’ Nunchaks said coldly.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Biscuit asked. ‘De yard ’ad a top of de range JVC system, an’ you can ’ave it, man. Free of charge wid nuff compliments an’ t’ing.’

  ‘Do you know who lives at twenty-seven?’ Nunchaks asked eerily.

  Biscuit hadn’t a clue and wondered why it mattered so much to Chaks. He sensed his knees were buckling under the weight of his body, as if they knew he was going to die. My days are fucked, he thought. Knowing my luck I burgled a dealer’s yard.

  ‘My brudder’s woman lives der,’ Nunchaks revealed. ‘When I sight her she was ah liccle upset. She couldn’t believe dat while she was sleeping, some bastard bruk into her yard an’ tek away her t’ings dem. You even t’ieved de friggin’ ornaments!’

  ‘Sorry, Chaks, man. If we did know we wouldn’t ’ave gone near her yard. I’m sorry, man.’

  ‘Shall we bruk him up, boss?’ the smirking Ratmout’ suggested, eager to earn his money for the night.

  ‘Yeah, mon,’ Muttley added, pulling up his sleeves and preparing his right fist. ‘Mash up his knee cap to rarted.’

  Nunchaks was more concerned with his lighter. He threw it over the balcony and into the night. Biscuit turned his head to watch it spiral towards the ground. He closed his eyes at the moment of impact.

  ‘Fockin’ wort’less piece of rubbish. I’m gonna drapes de bwai who sold me dat.’

  He studied Biscuit and sensed the fear in the boy’s lean body. Biscuit’s petrified, narrow eyes were trained on Nunchaks’ coat, yet Nunchaks knew that if he revealed what was concealed inside he would get an altogether different reaction from the youth. He looked at Biscuit’s rangy legs and had to admit that he would never catch him in a long chase. He searched the teenager’s features again. Biscuit’s brown eyes were set in a diamond-shaped, chocolate-mousse-coloured face that showed the hint of a moustache. His top lip bore the scar of a recent spliff and infant sideburns lined his jawbone. Nunchaks had Biscuit cornered now; he could really frighten him.

  Biscuit awaited his fate, breathing heavily and wondering if it wouldn’t look too pitiful if he used his inhaler.

  ‘Me ’ave ah liccle business in Handswort’ to attend to,’ Nunchaks announced. ‘I should be back by de end ah nex’ week. An’ when I reach, if me don’t see de t’ings dat you t’iefed, I’m gonna personally peel your fingers like raw carrot wid my machete to rarted. Y’hear me, yout’?’

  ‘De t’ings will be back before your ’pon de motorway, man. Considered done.’

  Nunchaks glared at Biscuit for five seconds, before reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a polythene bag of top-range cannabis, rubbing the fingers of his free hand together. ‘You ’ave de corn, yout’?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  Biscuit took out the wad of notes, totalling £250, from the back pocket of his Farahs and made the exchange. Nunchaks about turned and made his way to the lift, tailed by his minders.

  ‘By de end ah nex’ week, yout’.’

  Biscuit watched them enter the lift and sighed heavily as the door closed. He shuddered at what might have been and tried to get the image of Nunchaks’ lighter dropping to the ground out of his mind. ‘Fuck my days,’ he whispered. ‘Dat was close.’ He felt a ridiculous urge to peer down to the concrete below, but stopped himself. ‘Fuck my days.’ He attempted to compose himself, and after a few minutes of trying to get his breathing together, he decided he would have to step back to the party and alert Coffin Head. ‘Shit! A one mile trod in my crocs.’

  He made tentative steps to the lift, afraid that Nunchaks and his crew were lurking about in the shadows. Impatiently, he pressed the button, then wondered if it would be a better idea to run down the concrete steps. Before he made his mind up the lift arrived. He stepped inside, comparing the metal box to a square coffin. On reaching the ground floor, he made a quick check to see who was about before sprinting to Stockwell Tube Station. He remembered the many times he had partied and smoked good herb with his crew in the buildings adjacent to the tower block. Now the place had an altogether different atmosphere. He wondered if this was Nunchaks’ regular site for scaring the shit out of youths. Perhaps he had killed someone here. He looked behind at the great monolith and raised his sight to its highest point. ‘Fuck my days.’ He christened the building mentally, calling it Nunchaks’ killing block.

  He turned right into Clapham Road, only too aware of the dangers that might come from any lane, shadow or building, but this was a hazard he had come to accept as a natural aspect of living in the ghetto. He passed a supermarket on his right and noticed ten or so trolleys keeled over on their side. Vandalism touches everything around here, he thought. He pondered on taking a short cut through a council estate but decided against it; he had seen enough council blocks on this night. On his way, he mentally cursed the boarded-up housing, the rubbish on the streets, the graffiti that covered the railway bridges that made up his habitat. Nevertheless, it was home, and he was a part of his environment just as much as the rundown church he now passed by.

  Cars were parked and double parked around him as Biscuit heard the music thumping out to greet the morning. Gregory Isaacs’ ‘Soon Forward’ filtered through the snappy Brixton air, the smooth and delicate vocals riding over a slow, murderous bass-line with a one-drop drum.

  He knocked on the door of the house, its windows covered by blockboard.

  ‘Pound fe come in, an’ if you nah have the entrance fee, I will cuss your behind for wasting my time.’

  ‘Paid my pound already, man. You don’t recognise me?’

  ‘Don’t boder try fool me. One pound fifty fe come in, especially for you. I don’t like ginall.’

  ‘Crook your ear, man. I entered de dance wid Nunchaks.’

  The doorman thought for a moment.

  ‘Alright, enter, yout’.’

  The stench of Mary Jane made Biscuit’s nostrils flare as he made his way to the jam-packed room he had left with Nunchaks, his sight aided only by a blue light-bulb. Girls were dressed in thin, ankle-length, pleated dresses. Most of them sported hot-combed hairstyles; black sculptured art finished off with lacquer. By this time of night, a generous share of the girls found themselves enveloped by their men, smooching away to the dub version of ‘Soon Forward’. Sweet-bwais were dressed in loose-fitting shirts that were often unbuttoned to reveal gold rope chains. The latest hairstyle was semi-afro which was shampooed and ‘blown out’, giving an appearance of carved black candyfloss. No one calling themselves a sweet-bwai would go to a party without their Farah slacks and reptile skin shoes.

  As Biscuit threaded his way to the room in which he’d last seen Coffin Head, the ghetto messenger Yardman Irie grabbed hold of the Crucial Rocker sound system microphone, ready to deliver his sermon. Dressed in green army garb and topped by a black cloth beret, Yardman Irie waited for the selector, Winston, to spin the rabble-rousing instrumental ‘Johnny Dollar’.

  ‘Crowd ah people, de Private Yardman Irie is ’ere ’pon de scene. Dis one special request to all ghetto foot soldier.’

  Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy

  Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy

  Me daddy cannot afford de money fe me tea

  Me mudder cannot pay de electricity

  De council nah fix de roof above we

  De bird dem a fly in an’ shit ’pon me

  Me daddy sick an’ tired of redundancy

  We ’ad to sell our new black and white TV

  De rat dem ah come in an’ ’ave ah party

  Me look out me window an’ see ah plane nex’ to me

  Me feel de flat ah sway when we get de strong breeze

  We are so high we cyan’t see de trees

  De flat is so damp dat me brudder start wheeze

  De shitstem is bringing us
down to our knees

  But de politician dem nah listen to our pleas

  Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy

  Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy

  Me don’t know why we left from de Caribbean sea.

  The crowd hollered their approval of Yardman Irie’s lyrics while flicking their lighters in the air; those without clenched their fists in raised salutes. Everyone wanted an encore. ‘FORWARD YARDMAN IRIE, FORWARD!’ Yardman Irie refreshed himself with a swig of Lucozade and a toke from Winston’s spliff.

  Amidst the excited throng, butted against the wall, Biscuit made out Coffin Head, riding a disgusting crub that sorely examined the wallpaper.

  ‘Coff! Coff!’

  Coffin Head looked up and saw his spar threading his way towards him. What does he want now, he thought. Probably needs a pen so he can write down a girl’s digits.

  ‘Coff, need to chat to you. Urgent, man. Step outside.’

  Coffin Head’s dance partner, who was wearing a flowing pleated dress that was thin enough to expose her bra, looked upon Biscuit. ‘Can’t you wait till de record done?’

  ‘Who’s chatting to you? Jus’ quiet your beak an’ lemme chat to my spar.’ Coffin Head had read the worry upon Biscuit’s face. ‘Dis better be important, man. I was gonna ask de girl back to my gates an’ deal wid it proper. She’s fit, man!’

  ‘Trus’ me brethren, dis is important. Where’s Floyd?’

  ‘He jus’ chip. He lef’ wid some light skin girl. Said to me he’s gonna service her if possible.’

  The two friends walked out of the party and Coffin Head led the way to his Triumph Dolomite. ‘You get de herb?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but don’t worry ’bout dat. We’re in serious shit.’

  ‘Whatya mean?’

  ‘De yard we burgled the uder day …’

  ‘Wha’ about it?’

  ‘It was de friggin’ wrong yard!’

  ‘Who cares a fuckin’ damn? Got some nice t’ings, innit.’

  ‘It’s Nunchaks. His brudder’s woman yard!’

  Coffin Head looked disbelievingly out through the windscreen. ‘You’re not ramping, are you?’