East of Acre Lane Page 3

  As the brothers ambled towards home, Royston munched his Kit-Kat and asked, ‘Do white people always throw fire in black homes?’

  ‘No. But dey might do it more often if we let dem.’

  ‘The beast won’t catch the white people who done it, will they?’

  3

  Roadblock

  Coffin Head palmed his car horn and waited for Biscuit. Dressed in thick, green corduroy trousers and a cream-coloured puffy anorak, he had time to smoke a cigarette before Biscuit came down. He looked out of the passenger window and thought to himself that Cowley was the ugliest council estate in the area. Why did they use the colour of old shit for bricks, he wondered. An elderly black woman passed his view, wearing a Sunday-best white dress underneath her unbuttoned blue trench coat. His eyes tailed her as Biscuit, dressed in blue seamed jeans and a thick black sweater, filled the passenger seat.

  ‘You’re an hour late,’ Biscuit rebuked.

  ‘Char, I ’ad t’ings to do, innit. Drop my mum to church.’

  ‘Church! I can’t see why so many of our mudders forward to dem boring service,’ Biscuit remarked.

  ‘Your mudder don’t.’

  ‘Cos she’s always busy ’pon Sundays wid bagwash, cooking an’ dem t’ing der.’

  Coffin Head restarted the car and drove south along Brixton Road, turning left into Mostyn Road.

  ‘I’ve been to Smiley’s flat before one time wid Floyd,’ Biscuit said. ‘But you know what Myatts Field is like – one big friggin’ maze. I’ll never find it again.’

  ‘Yeah, but I know where Dyer’s flat is,’ replied Coffin Head. ‘We’ll head der first. He lives wid his mudder.’

  Biscuit scanned the interior of the car. ‘When you gonna fix up dis car, man? Look how my seat is eaten out! No girl will sit ’pon dis. Dat yellow fluffy stuff is all coming out. An’ when you gonna get a new handle for de window? An’ bwai, you better get some more carpet to cover up de rust an’ t’ing ’pon de floor.’

  ‘I’ll fix it up nex’ week wid de corn I’ll make off de herb. An’ stop your complaining; dis car has saved you nuff trods on a cold night. We coulda walked to Myatts Field anyway, it’s only a five-minute trek.’

  ‘I don’t like walking across dat green wid all de amount of untold dog shit … An’ who de rarse is Dyer?’

  ‘Luther Dyer, jus’ come out of Borstal. He went to Kennington Boys an’ used to walk wid de Sledgehammer posse.’

  ‘Wha’ did he go Borstal for?’

  ‘Drapes a handbag an’ t’ing off a girl at Cats Whiskers. Beastman were waiting for him outside de club and he tried to chip but dey caught him jus’ outside Brixton Bus Garage. He shoulda known dat de beast always patrol outside de club. I t’ought it was a bit extra for de beast to ’ave van, nuff dog and truncheons blazing.’

  ‘How much bird did he get?’

  ‘’Bout a year. Beast went to his yard an’ found whole ’eap of uder t’ings. His mudder went cuckoo, cos she didn’t know nutten.’

  Coffin Head turned into the Myatts Field Estate, driving down a narrow road with alleyways and paths leading off in all directions. Tiny sections of grass, dissected by cheap wooden partitions, fronted two- and three-storey blocks that seemed to have been built by an agoraphobic architect.

  Coffin Head found a parking space and eyed a trio of black teenagers smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze. ‘I ain’t leaving my car here for long,’ he commented.

  They climbed out of the car and surveyed the low-level concrete jungle around them. Coffin Head led the way up two flights of stairs to a path that offered no view outside the estate and was hardly touched by the sun. It was hard to tell where one home started and another finished. They kept a close watch over their shoulders, only too aware that even bad men got mugged around here. After many turns, they finally arrived at Dyer’s fortressed door. Coffin Head knocked impatiently.

  ‘Who dat?’

  ‘Coffin Head an’ Biscuit.’

  ‘I ain’t got no corn to buy telly, hi-fi or anyt’ing like dat.’

  ‘But we’re selling some nice collie, what you saying?’

  The callers heard two mortice locks click back. The door swung open to reveal Dyer wearing a thick pullover and woolly hat.

  ‘Gas man cut off de gas to rarted,’ he began. ‘My mudder tried to reason wid dem but dey weren’t ’aving it. Friggin’ stinkin’ gas man dem. I have it in mind to break in to one of der yards an’ turn de gas on, fling a match an’ chip. Dey couldn’t wait ah nex’ week for us to pay de bill. An’ my mudder gets bronchitis … What herb you ’ave? Sinsemilla?’

  ‘Nah, jus’ collie,’ Coffin Head answered. ‘What d’you want? Ten pound draw?’

  ‘Yeah, but I wanna sample it first. Nuff imitation herb ’pon street.’

  Dyer led his acquaintances along the narrow hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, Biscuit took out his rizlas and built a smooth spliff.

  ‘So what brings you two ’round ’ere? Don’t usually get ’ome delivery – more time I affe get my herb ’pon de Line. An’ you know dat’s a dangerous t’ing.’

  While rolling the joint, Biscuit gazed at the Che Guevara poster that overlooked the bed. ‘Well, apart from dealing,’ he replied, ‘we’re trying to find Smiley.’

  ‘Smiley! Dat ginall. He’s trying to check my sister. Told my sister dat he’s got six pickney already but she ain’t listening.’

  ‘So where’s his yard?’ Coffin Head butted in.

  ‘Five doors away, an’ if you see him tell him to stay away from Chantelle. She’s only sixteen.’

  After tasting the herb, Dyer nodded with a half-grinned satisfaction and paid for the merchandise.

  ‘It’s alright,’ he remarked. ‘Ain’t got too much seed in it an’ burns OK.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Coffin Head agreed. ‘It’s de best herb we’ve ’ad for a while. You should buy up some more before we sell out.’

  ‘Nah, my budget’s kinda sad right now.’

  ‘So you’ve come out of de import – export business,’ laughed Coffin Head.

  ‘Yeah, I got to see a friggin’ probation officer every Friday. An’ my mudder says dat if she finds out I’m t’iefing again, she’ll fling me out wid de chicken bones.’

  ‘Well, wish I could stay an’ chat but we’ve got some runnings to do,’ announced Biscuit, and the two wasted no time in leaving.

  Following Dyer’s instruction, they found Smiley’s flat. The door was made of a varnished hardwood and had two spy-holes. Looking at the three locks, Coffin Head thought it funny that Smiley worried about burglars. Biscuit knocked ferociously.

  ‘Ah, who de backside beat down me door!’ stormed a voice on the inside.

  ‘It’s Biscuit. Open de door nuh, man.’

  Smiley opened the door, wearing only his football shorts and a not-this-time-of-morning expression on his face.

  ‘Look, right, I ain’t buying nutten. Dis is Sunday, man. You wanna observe de rarted Sabbath.’

  ‘Char! Shut your mout’ an’ let us in de yard. Serious business we come to discuss,’ announced Coffin Head.

  Smiley, taken aback by Coffin Head’s temper and wondering if his two associates had had a recent visit from the police, stood aside and let Biscuit and an impatient Coffin Head pass inside. Reaching the lounge, the visitors recognised the expensive furniture and top-of-the-range Sony hi-fi system from a burglary they’d done two months back. The hardware was totally out of sync with the crudely painted blue walls, the home-made coffee table and ageing burgundy carpet.

  ‘If you ain’t selling den why are you beating down my gates,’ inquired Smiley.

  ‘Dose t’ings we sold you the uder day – we got to ’ave dem back,’ answered Biscuit.

  ‘What d’you mean ’ave dem back?’

  ‘We raided the wrong friggin’ yard! It turned out to be Nunchaks’ brudder’s woman yard.’

  Smiley fell on the sofa in hysterics. ‘You two raided the wrong yard! What a palaver. Nunchaks mus’ ah bee
n well happy.’

  Biscuit and Coffin Head looked at one another, both thinking that a punch on Smiley’s jaw was not totally out of the question.

  ‘Dis might be a joke to you but I nearly get fling over a friggin’ balcony cos of dis,’ said a solemn Biscuit. ‘Where’s de t’ings, man? You ain’t sold dem on yet ’ave you?’

  Smiley needed a few seconds to compose himself. In his mind, Biscuit was suddenly transported back to the top of the tower block and his confrontation with Nunchaks. Coffin Head shifted his feet uneasily, fearing Smiley’s reply.

  ‘No, not yet,’ he finally answered. ‘Lucky you, innit. Der still in my van. I ain’t had time to put dem in my lock-up yet.’

  ‘Thank fuck fe dat,’ sighed Biscuit. ‘Where’s de van?’

  ‘Behind the block. But before we go down, we affe chat ’bout de money side.’

  ‘Char,’ Coffin Head scoffed. ‘You paid us two hundred notes for de t’ings an’ we jus’ gi’ you de money back, innit.’

  ‘No, dat can’t work, man,’ Smiley argued. ‘You affe gi’ me a nex’ twenty notes for my inconvenience.’ He rubbed his fingers together, gesturing a little payback.

  ‘Inconvenience? Char! Wha’ inconvenience? Your backside weren’t on the job so fuck your inconvenience. I should inconvenience your fockin’ backside wid a drill to rarted,’ Coffin Head threatened.

  ‘I had to cancel some runnings I had to do dat T’ursday night. Like my sound was s’posed to be playing up Settlement in Peckham, but I had to reschedule.’

  ‘Reschedule which part!’ contested Coffin Head. ‘Since when your sound plays in Settlement? You’ve got barely got enough boxes to play in a t’ree room blues, let alone a hall like Settlement.’

  ‘Look, I ain’t arguing wid you. Gimme a nex’ twenty notes.’

  ‘Char! After all de favours we done you.’

  ‘Give ’im his twenty notes, Coff. You know how he’s grabilicious from time.’

  ‘Char!’

  Coffin Head pulled up his trouser leg, rolled down his sock and took out a wad of notes bound with elastic bands. He carefully counted out £220 and begrudgingly handed it to Smiley, who checked the amount again.

  ‘It’s nice doing business wid you,’ grinned Smiley. ‘I’m gonna rinse off my BO, pull on one of my Cecil Gees, den I’ll drive de van ’round to your lock-up. You can follow me in your mash-up car.’

  ‘Fuck you! It gets me from A to B,’ Coffin Head argued. ‘Jus’ ’urry up, man.’

  Twenty minutes later, Smiley was opening up the back of his van. ‘No damage,’ he proclaimed. ‘You can check everyt’ing. I even got one of my girl to polish an’ clean de goods de uder night. Bwai, you wanna see de legs she’s got; Dawn’s her name.’

  Coffin Head, not entirely convinced by Smiley’s assurances, leaped into the back of the vehicle and cast a critical eye over the stolen goods. He noticed a small tear on the back of one of the armchairs, but remembered that was done while loading the van. He hoped Nunchaks wouldn’t see it. ‘Yeah, he’s right, man, everyt’ing looks alright.’

  Keeping a keen eye out for any nosey-parkers, Biscuit caught sight of a moving net curtain. ‘Coff, ’urry up an’ close de shutters, man. Don’t trus’ de people in dis estate. Some of dem are squealers.’

  ‘Wha’ did you see?’ asked Smiley.

  ‘Someone’s watching us,’ replied Biscuit.

  Coffin Head jumped down and hurriedly closed the shutters behind him. ‘Let’s remove from dis place, man. I’m parked up jus’ ’round de corner. Follow us, yeah. We’re going to Biscuit’s lock-up behind Cowley.’

  ‘Yeah, I ’ear you. Don’t boder drive off too fast cos dis van is a crawler – second gear don’t work.’

  ‘Seen.’

  On their way to the car, Coffin Head and Biscuit walked past the teenagers they had seen earlier, who glared at the two as if they wanted trouble. They returned the challenge with cut eyes of their own before jumping into the Dolomite.

  ‘Better be careful, Coff,’ advised Biscuit. ‘Dey could be members of de Field crew.’

  ‘Char! If dey wanted to start somet’ing, dey would ’ave!’

  Coffin Head U-turned and drove slowly out of the estate, waiting for Smiley to catch up with him. Biscuit, more concerned about the twitching net curtain than the ever watchful gang, silently urged him to speed up; he didn’t trust anybody from this place.

  Turning right into Brixton Road, Coffin Head pulled out in front of a police car. Shit! Why didn’t I see de beast wagon? he cursed himself. ‘Char, beast. Let’s hope dey jus’ drive past.’

  Biscuit slapped his palm on the dashboard in irritation and glanced over his shoulder to see if Smiley was immediately behind. He was. ‘Shit!’

  ‘I’ll slow down,’ Coffin Head said. ‘Hopefully, de beast will jus’ drive past.’

  The patrol car accelerated ahead then veered across the road, forcing Coffin Head to brake sharply. Smiley, in the van behind, bottomed his brake pedal to stop himself from driving into the back of the Dolomite. The stolen cargo shifted forward and Smiley heard a faint crushing sound. He looked out through the windscreen and saw he had missed the back end of Coffin Head’s car by six inches. He then met Biscuit’s frantic gaze before looking ahead to the white and blue Allegro with two officers inside.

  ‘Ah wha de blouse an’ skirt!’ screamed Smiley. ‘You waan kill me?’

  ‘Oh my fucking days,’ cried Biscuit, shaking his head. ‘We’re fucking jinxed, man.’

  Coffin Head looked down to the floor of the car and closed his eyes. ‘We’re fucked, totally fucked. An’ Smiley’s gonna go into one.’

  A tall, twenty-something officer, sporting a crew cut with long ginger sideburns, stepped out of the patrol car and surveyed the scene in front of him. He quickly strode past Coffin Head’s car to Smiley’s vehicle. Smiley looked to the heavens and prayed that the hot goods had not yet been reported to the beast. The policeman stood in front of the window and gestured for Smiley to wind it down. Coffin Head and Biscuit looked on, their heartbeats resonating through to their throats.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ the officer said. ‘I take it you do have the relevant documents for this vehicle?’

  Smiley regretted ever opening his door to Biscuit and Coffin Head, wishing he had taken up the offer to stay at Dawn’s yard for the night. He would be nice and cosy in bed still, probably having a breakfast of fried plantain, eggs and ardough bread. ‘Yeah, I’m legal,’ he finally replied, staring ahead through the windscreen, refusing to meet the eyes of the policeman.

  ‘Do you have your licence on you, sir?’

  ‘I don’t carry it ’round wid me, it’s at my yard.’

  ‘Let’s hope it is. But all the same, I will give you a producer. If you have your documents, then you will have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Can’t you take my word? I don’t lie y’know, I’m a Christian.’

  ‘Now, sir, if I did that all the time, eighty per cent of people around here would drive safely in the knowledge that they were not legal.’

  ‘Look,’ Smiley said, shaking his head in exasperation. ‘Your people ’ave stopped me before, man. I’m safe. Ain’t you got nutten better to do? Shouldn’t you be finding out who fling a petrol bomb in dat party at Deptford de uder day.’

  Coffin Head had wound down his window in an attempt to eavesdrop on the exchange. He couldn’t hear much, but saw Smiley apparently being asked to step out of the van.

  ‘And what do you have in the back,’ the officer demanded in a superior tone.

  ‘I’m jus’ helping my brethrens move, innit. Jus’ doing a favour.’

  ‘Open it up!’

  Biscuit and Coffin Head heard the demand. They looked at each other and decided to emerge from the car, their minds furiously whirring as to what to do. On seeing Biscuit and Coffin Head approach his colleague, the second policeman, who had remained in the patrol car, busied himself with his radio before stepping out, imagining the worst of scenar
ios.

  ‘Do you understand English!? Open it up!’ the ginger-crowned officer repeated.

  Smiley’s delay gave Biscuit time to think. ‘He’s jus’ helping me move, innit. Nutten going on funny, officer.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Open it.’

  Smiley lifted the shutters, thinking he was going back to his home of four months ago: Wormwood Scrubs. The two officers peered inside. ‘I hope you’ve got receipts for this lot?’

  ‘You know how it is, officer,’ Biscuit answered. ‘When you’re moving house, t’ings get lost an’ t’ing.’

  ‘Do you have the receipts or not?’

  ‘It’ll take a while to look for dem. Let it pass an’ I’ll come up to de station tomorrow an’ show you nuff receipts.’

  ‘Let it pass! Do you take me for a fucking idiot? This van stays with us until we complete our checks.’

  ‘What d’you mean de van stays wid you?’ Smiley bemoaned. ‘I was jus’ helping a brethren move. My van’s got nutten to do wid it.’

  ‘We don’t even know if the van belongs to you, do we?’ the officer snapped.

  ‘You lot ’ave stopped me untold times already an’ gi’ me producers,’ Smiley argued again. ‘I’ve ’ad more producers dan Hollywood.’

  ‘Wanna entertain my colleagues with your remarks down the station, do you?’

  The policeman doing all the talking turned to his colleague and together they ambled out of Smiley’s earshot. ‘Have you got the form, Denis? Make out one for that Dolomite over there as well. Look at the state of it. I bet that thing never passed an MOT – it looks like it’s been in a stock car rally.’

  Coffin Head wasn’t amused. The policeman scribbled down the registration numbers of the van and the Dolomite, then handed it to his colleague who returned to the Allegro and picked up the car’s radio.