East of Acre Lane Page 4

  ‘Right, you lot, names and addresses, and don’t give me no bullshit because it ain’t worth it.’

  Smiley responded first. ‘My first an’ middle name is Smiley Stopped-By-Beast. My surname is Suspect.’

  The policeman paced towards Smiley with menace. Biscuit shook his head while Coffin Head whispered, ‘We’re fucked, totally fucked.’

  ‘Now, you might think you’re funny,’ the policeman said soberly. ‘Perhaps you want to be charged with obstructing police inquiries?’

  ‘Stop friggin’ about, Smiley,’ rebuked Biscuit. ‘Tell him what he wants, we ain’t done nutten.’

  ‘Jus’ winding you up, officer,’ Smiley laughed.

  ‘Name and address!’

  ‘Charlton Forbes,’ Smiley answered. He gave the officer his address and Coffin Head and Biscuit did likewise.

  After a five-minute wait, during which the officer wrote in his notebook, the other policeman emerged from his car and spoke quietly to his colleague. The three black youths crooked their ears in an attempt to listen. Coffin Head knew he was legal, but he wasn’t sure about Smiley.

  ‘Seems like you lot are who you say you are,’ one of the officers stated. ‘But both vehicle owners will be required to produce their documents to a police station of their choice. The form tells you exactly what to do.’

  ‘I’m an expert,’ Smiley grinned.

  ‘Within seven days,’ the policeman added.

  Biscuit thought of Nunchaks’ ultimatum: seven days to get the stolen goods back to him. He produced a wry smile as he realised he was halfway out of the hole he had got himself into.

  After 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.’

  4

  The Front Line

  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. Hi
s 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 you out, dread,’ Biscuit said with a wink.

  Nelson glared at him accusingly. ‘Ain’t you ah bit young to walk an’ go’ long dis street an’ sell ’erb?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Cah dis is ah dangerous place. You mus’ know dat all kinda man get jook up on dis road fe liccle more dan nutten.’

  ‘Look, right, a man’s got to survive an’ I’m old enough to do wha’ I want fe do.’

  ‘Ah man you call yourself. Ah man would try fe do somet’ing better, and nah get ’imself moulded by de environment where ’im live.’ Nelson watched Sammy Samurai return to his car, then set his one eye upon a whore who was idling on the pavement. Realising that her employer was waiting in the car, the prostitute ran to the 3.5 Rover and climbed inside. Biscuit tailed the car as it pulled away, heading to Herne Hill.

  ‘I don’t get involved in dat kinda shit,’ he finally replied. ‘I’m jus’ ’ere to sell my liccle herb.’

  ‘But you will. Given time.’

  ‘Wha’ you on ’bout, Nelson? You’ve lost me. Do you want to buy or not? If not, den stop wasting my time.’

  ‘I want ah quarter ounce, but on one condition.’

  ‘A quarter! Dat will be 50 notes. What’s de condition?’

  ‘Dat we mek de exchange in my yard.’

  ‘Where you live? I ain’t trodding nuff miles, I’ve ’ad a busy day.’

  ‘Jus’ up near Fiveways.’

  Biscuit knew the place, it was not two minutes’ walk from where he lived. ‘Alright den, lead off.’

  He followed the dread, thinking of his mother’s smile when he would give her the money to buy Royston’s new shoes, and his sister’s grin when he handed her the cash for her new dress. He felt it wasn’t an ideal situation and suffered a tinge of guilt, but it was the best he could do for now. Survival was the game.

  Jah Nelson walked slowly, looking like a modern-day Nazarene, satisfied with a flock of one. The dread didn’t talk much on the way along Coldharbour Lane, choosing to survey the people he passed, which only added to Biscuit’s suspicion. Ah well, he thought, if the dread was gonna give him fifty notes, he didn’t care how weird he looked. But he hoped the police wouldn’t see him. They were more likely to stop or arrest somebody who walked with Jah Nelson.

  Following his release from prison in the summer of 1979, Nelson had taken to delivering lectures on racial pride in Brockwell Park. His audience would sometimes consist of a few dreads and curious kids, but the police deemed him a stirrer of racial hatred, asking him to leave the park at every opportunity. Recently, Nelson had decided to protest about his persecution on the steps of Brixton Police Station. This led to a charge of disturbance of the peace. He served another month’s sentence.

  On reaching Fiveways, Nelson led Biscuit down a narrow road to the entrance of Loughborough estate. The dread lived on the third floor of a faded yellow-bricked council block. About forty paces along a rubber walkway from the flight of concrete stairs, he unfastened the mortice locks to his front door and led Biscuit inside.

  Biscuit was immediately drawn to the pictures and paintings that hung in the hallway. He ambled slowly along, taking in images of Haile Selassie, Malcolm X, Bob Marley, Mahatma Gandhi and the great pyramids of Giza. Nelson looked at Biscuit’s wonderment and smiled, then led the way to his front room. On entering, Biscuit thought to himself that the dread should rename it a library. There were books everywhere: upon shelves, covering the home-made coffee table, beside the hi-fi and on a table where Biscuit thought a telly should have been.

  Nelson told him to sit down in an armchair while he went to ignite an incense stick jutting out of a vase that was resting on another home-made table in the corner of the room. Biscuit made himself comfortable and began to study the walls. In front of him, hanging over a gas heater, was a large painting of an African woman breastfeeding her child. Scanning clockwise, he saw a smaller sketched drawing of a slave ship crossing the Atlantic. In the corner of the room was a painting that depicted the selling of slaves in a Western market, while staring from the adjacent wall was a photo of Jack Johnson, the first black heavy-weight champion, and beside that was a portrait of Malcolm X. Biscuit looked behind him and a huge map of ancient Africa filled his sight. He felt as if he had stepped into a different world. Nelson smiled as he studied Biscuit’s face.

  ‘You’re pretty serious ’bout your stuff, innit?’ Biscuit said, still looking around.

  Nelson took out his rizlas. ‘Yeah, mon. Being a rastaman is not my religion, it’s my life.’

  Biscuit felt uncomfortable and wanted to finish the deal. ‘You said you wanna quarter?’

  ‘Dat can wait. Hol’ on ah liccle.’ Nelson went to his bedroom and returned with a red, gold and green scarf in his hand. ‘Get up,’ he ordered.

  Biscuit did as he was told.

  ‘Right, walk to the door,’ Nelson instructed.

  ‘Wha’ for?’

  ‘Jus’ do wha’ I say, man. I want to show you somet’ing.’

  Biscuit walked to the door. ‘Hey, Nelson, man. You’ve been smoking too much herb, dread. Wha’ kinda tomfoolery is dis?’

  ‘It’s tomfoolery dat so many yout’s don’t know dem history.’ Nelson stood impassive. ‘Now, walk to de middle of de room.’

  ‘What? Wha’ you up to, dread? You mus’ tek me for fool.’

  ‘Jus’ do what I say, an’ be patient.’

  Nonplussed, Biscuit walked to the centre of the room. ‘Right, now we got the palaver out of the way, show me your corn, dread, and I will give you de herb.’

  ‘Patience, man, you mus’ ’ave patience. Attum-Ra, why de yout’s dem nuh ’ave no patience?’

  ‘Wha’ now?’ Biscuit asked. ‘If I knew you’d ’ave me prancing about like an idiot I wouldn’t of come here.’ What is de dread up to? he asked himself. I’m friggin’ glad dat Sceptic ain’t ’ere, he’d be rolling on de floor by now, laughing his head off.

  ‘Jus’ hol’ on,’ the dread persuaded. ‘I jus’ wan’ to teach you somet’ing.’

  Nelson approached Biscuit with the scarf in his hand. ‘I’m gonna put dis scarf to cover your eye dem. Den, you try an’ do wha’ you jus’ done before. Start from de door an’ walk to de middle of de room.’

  ‘Nelson, man! I t’ink you’ve gone too many days without socks, dread. It’s turning you fool to rarted.’

  ‘Jus’ do what I say.’

  Biscuit took the scarf and covered his eyes, securing it at the back of his head. He then tried to make his way to the centre of the room, feeling his way around the furniture and stepping uneasily around the coffee table. Nelson laughed heartily, but Biscuit tolerated the humiliation, thinking it was worth his
while if he was going to make fifty notes.

  After stumbling twice, he found the door. ‘Right, now try an’ walk over to de under side of de room,’ Nelson ordered.

  Biscuit felt his feet brush against the sofa, and as he went further he suffered a sharp pain as his hand met the corner of a hardback book resting on the arm of the sofa. The book fell and Biscuit almost felt himself follow it to the floor.

  Nelson had seen enough. ‘Alright, tek de scarf off an’ si’ down.’

  Satisfied that the dread had had his entertainment, Biscuit sat on the sofa. Nelson disappeared off to his bedroom and returned with fifty pounds in his hand. He gave the money to Biscuit and sat beside him, grinning like a smug teacher. ‘Now, you might t’ink I’m jus’ teking de piss, as de Cockney man say. But de image of you stumbling around an’ not knowing quite where you were is somet’ing you should remember.’

  Biscuit was still none the wiser, gently shaking his head. Nelson eyed the boy’s confusion.

  ‘Now, ’ear dis,’ the dread continued, pointing a scholarly finger at Biscuit. ‘A long time ago, two different nations were virtually wiped off de earth by a terrible flood, hardly anybody survive. One of de nations used to keep records an’ books written on tablets an’ so forth. But de uder nation never kept nutten like dis. De survivors from de nation dat keep records an’ books rebuilt der country by using old documents dat dey found, an’ dey became prosperous again. De uder nation, although once ah great civilised country, der survivors were forever blinded by de flood an’ dey did nuh know how to build nutten. To dis day dey are living like cave man.’

  Nelson pointed to the map of Africa. Biscuit took no notice and decided to fish out his client’s herb. The dread needs serious help, he thought. He’s probably been licking de chalice too much.

  Nelson seemed disappointed at the lack of interest Biscuit took in his lesson. He examined the herb and nodded when he felt satisfied. ‘When ah man wanders far an’ decides to settle down near ah village of huts,’ he resumed, ‘should he do wha’ de locals do an’ buil’ ’imself ah hut? Or should he do somet’ing new an’ buil’ ah ’ouse wid brick?’