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Brenton felt a little envious as he compared them with his own battered trainers. Looking at his friend again, he enquired, fingering his chin: “What council home did you go to?”

  “St Saviours. You know, the one just off Brixton Hill? It was all right there – not too strict, and the staff were easy. Like you could actually talk to them without them telling you how to become a responsible citizen.”

  Much to Floyd’s annoyance, Brenton spilled a few strands of tobacco on the floor, but he chose not to comment when he saw him bend down and pick up the precious brown shreds. Instead he continued, “But they had some stupid rules, like I had to be in by ten o’clock. That was kind of embarrassing when I used to have some fit piece of beef visit. But in the end they just gave up trying to make me come home by that time ’cos sometimes I wouldn’t come back till morning.”

  Brenton cocked his ears. He had heard of St Saviours and that its rules were less rigid than elsewhere. Floyd asked: “What home was you at?”

  “Pinewood Hills,” Brenton mumbled, tramping out the tobacco stain on the floor.

  “That’s that big place, innit? Yeah, I’ve heard of Pinewood Hills. It’s going south, innit, on the way to Brighton.”

  Brenton turned down the volume of the suitcase. He appeared very solemn, as if he was about to recall the tale of a lost battle. He sat down on the bed with his hands clasped together – he wanted to scratch behind his ear, but he became self-conscious. Captivated, Floyd listened intently as his pal explained: “Yeah, that’s right. It’s a massive place – it must have about eighty big mansion-type houses that they named after trees and plants.”

  Floyd rubbed his hands together over the ashtray to get rid of surplus tobacco debris. Brenton went on, “Pinewood’s got loads of grounds and fields, and it’s so big you could get lost in there. We’d play games like Tim-tam-tommy in the bushes. I grew up in the place and it’s kind of strange. Pinewood’s like a little town without shops, know what I mean? It’s got everything – a laundry, swimming pool, community centre. It’s even got its own fucking primary school. But the good thing about it is the big fields and bushes and t’ing.”

  Engaged in the fable of Pinewood Hills, Floyd inclined towards his spar as Brenton continued: “But there’s one serious t’ing though. Some of the staff are evil, believe me – serious t’ing.”

  Brenton’s dial turned into a study of seriousness as he uttered draughtily: “Some kids got beaten up and felt up by those bastards in charge. One kid I got to know was sent away to a mental home ’cos they reckoned his temper was too bad. We used to say some housefather was bumming him. You know, that sort of thing. There are some people who work at Pinewood Hills who should be in jail. I’ve seen it, man. I nearly killed one of the bastards once, ’cos he tried to touch me up. Nah, man, it’s a serious t’ing.”

  Floyd was appalled and wanted to change the subject. “One of your parents is white, innit?” he said, lighting a fresh spliff.

  The question caught Brenton unprepared, like a sprinter who failed to hear the starter’s gun. He felt ashamed as he answered, staring at the carpet, “Yeah, it’s true. My dad is a fucking white man, and my mother is Jamaican. That’s all I know about them, apart from the fact that they don’t give a shit about me. I have to live with it, though. It’s people like Terry Flynn who vex me, calling me names like ‘mongrel’ and ‘zebra’, you know? Stupid names like that.”

  “Seen.” Floyd understood fully, headbutting the air.

  “After that roll we had in the blues dance‚” Brenton resumed, “I saw him on a 109 bus going up Brixton Hill. He spied me trodding, and started shouting ’half-breed’.”

  Floyd was just about to encase a butt-filled joint, but he paused when Brenton recommenced. “But it’s sort of funny, though. White people treat me like I’m totally black – they don’t see the white in me. But blacks and even you have noticed that some of my features are white. I was wondering when you was gonna ask me this question, but I suppose I’d rather be fully black anyway.”

  Floyd gave him the look of an understanding social worker. “I can imagine it’s kind of hard sometimes.”

  “Yeah, but I want to see my mother. I don’t know why – curiosity, I suppose. You must think I’m stupid, innit?”

  Floyd’s disapproval showed in his expression, as if some bowler-hatted white man had told him to look for a job. “What for, man?” he rebuked. “I check it that she ain’t made no steps to see you? Nah, forget it, man. Just live your life. Don’t waste no time on your mudder. She hasn’t done anything for you, so why bother?”

  Brenton knew that part of what his spar said was realistic, but he still wanted to justify his need to seek out his mother. Flicking his ash into an ashtray, he explained: “I want to know what she’s like, or even what she looks like, you know? It’s sort of a gut feeling. Besides, I might have brothers and sisters who I’ll get to meet. Lewis says he’ll try and trace her. The day before, he told me he had a good lead from an old doctor. Lewis has been reading my files, trying to pick up clues on where my mother is.”

  Floyd shook his head, like a magistrate hearing the defence of a down and out rastaman, and started to fiddle with a cassette tape. Brenton reclined on the bed, switched his gaze towards the television, and proceeded to twiddle an earlobe. Floyd commented: “You’re wrong, man. It might just be a serious waste of time. You don’t owe your mudder nutten. Just accept the fact she’s not interested in you and probably never will be. If she was, she would’ve made some sort of move by now.”

  Brenton’s countenance had sketched itself into a scowl and his body clicked into animation when Floyd pressed home his point. “Some people are fucked up and I suppose our parents have fucked up. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here in a shit hostel, smoking bloody butts, but that’s life.”

  Brenton wasted no time in airing his displeasure. “Shut up, man! Just shut up! You’re the one who’s fucked up ’cos you think you know it all. And if I want to find my mother, I don’t have to ask you, right? You or nobody else will tell me what’s best for me.”

  Slapped by his friend’s volcanic tone, Floyd decided it would be wise to change the subject. So gesturing at the suitcase, he remarked, “I’m bored with that D. Brown tape. It’s time for Gregory Isaacs.”

  Floyd proceeded to change the tape while Brenton remained silent, feeling the palms of embarrassment warming his cheeks. He hauled himself up from the bed and left the room, wondering why he had lost control of himself during the vocal volley. He realised the he was projecting the anger he felt towards Terry Flynn on Floyd. After all, his spar was only giving his opinion – an opinion he hoped would be in Brenton’s best interest. Perhaps people were right about him, when they said he was nutten but a stepping volcano. Coching on these thoughts, sprawling on his bed, Brenton stared at James Dean. “Floyd must think I’m mad-up, innit, James?”

  Mr Dean made no reply.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bad Card

  4 January, 1980

  Brenton idled on his bed, mulling over what he should spend his dole money on – maybe the new Barrington Levy album? Nah, he thought, ain’t got shit to play it on. Glancing down, he examined the injuries of his beat-up trainers and came to a decision.

  Expecting his Giro to be delivered any moment, he rose and went to the bathroom to make war with his BO. A short while later, eating his cereal in the kitchen, he saw Mr Lewis heavy-footing along the hallway, carrying a scruffy briefcase. “Morning, Brenton. I wanted to see you yesterday, but you were out.”

  Brenton’s eyes stared into his cereal bowl. “Morning.”

  “I was down in Area Three Office yesterday to read your files,” Mr Lewis informed him. “The doctor whose name appears in your files – well, I’ve arranged to see him today. He has a surgery in Tulse Hill. Apparently, when you were a baby, you were registered with him. I’ve got a feeling he knows your mum.”

  Brenton cocked his ears. “So you reckon that this doctor might know where my mother is?”<
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  “Well, it’s a slim chance. You were registered with him fifteen, sixteen years ago. It doesn’t say in your files whether your mother was registered with the same doctor, but he might know something, so it’s worth a try.” Mr Lewis was being very careful not to up-anchor Brenton’s hopes.

  The social worker turned and was about to enter his room when the letter box clattered. He stooped down to pick up the mail, went back into the kitchen, and gave Brenton his brown envelope. “Don’t forget to pay me your board, and do try to make the money last.”

  Brenton nodded automatically then hunted among the coats on the banister, searching for his anorak. Forgetting to wash up his cereal plate, he left the hostel, walking more quickly than usual, impatient to reach the small local Post Office-cum-shop.

  As always, he was welcomed by an arthritic queue. Why the hell does my G have to come the same day as the blasted old people ram up the Post Office, he thought.

  Eleven cashed pensions later, Brenton arrived at the summit of the queue and was confronted by a double-chinned Asian lady. Dressed in Indian attire, she fidgeted uncomfortably on a wailing wooden stool, feeling safe behind the wired glass and metal bars. She peered through her guard and ran her eyes over Brenton’s hardlife countenance. “Identification, please?”

  Brenton passed his crumpled medical card and already signed Giro underneath the counter. The stool-testing clerk examined the cheque as if it was a faked Picasso, then slowly counted out the sum of £42.25, before pushing the cash and medical card back to the impatient Brenton. Turning and walking out of the Post Office, he whispered to himself, “Now for a pair of decent new trainers!”

  He headed towards Camberwell Green, where he saw one of his Brixtonian pals running for a bus. “Yo.”

  “Wha’ppen, Brenton? I’m going to Peckham to check this fit piece of beef. Sight you later.”

  Wearing a red, gold and green woollen hat, which seemed to be baiting gravity as it flapped in the wind, Brenton’s spar bullfrogged on the bus, bumping into an elderly black woman, who proceeded to cuss the agile youth.

  A snout later, the number 45 bus entered the scene, and took him to his required destination off Brixton High Street.

  Breezing into one of the many shoe shops that were located there, Brenton browsed around, studying the trainer shoes and fingering their texture. A young white male sales assistant, whose sceptical eyes kept on following Brenton’s movements, irritated him. Aware of the fact that he was being watched, he strutted towards the suspicious assistant. “Look, man, if I wanted to t’ief anything, I would of done – right? So why don’t you stop clocking me, ’cos I’m paying with real money.”

  The shopworker backed away and asked another potential customer if they needed his aid. Meanwhile, Brenton made up his mind on what footwear he wanted and searched for the nervous assistant whom he had just humiliated. “Yo, service! I want these.”

  Holding up the trainer shoes, Brenton watched with a hyena-like grin as the shoe salesman hurriedly rushed over to attend to him, obviously finding his bad-bwai mood intimidating. He handed over the cash to purchase his new footwear, then strutted out of the shop. “Have a good day, won’t you,” he said smoothly, “and remember – the customer always comes first.”

  The sales assistant hoped one day he would win a transfer to somewhere like Carshalton.

  It was half an hour until noon on a grey day with a vexed breeze. Despite this, Brixton Market was full of eager bargain-hunters and middle-aged mothers inspecting the varied fruits.

  Brenton meandered along the vegetable and fruit-filled streets and decided to trod home. On Coldharbour Lane he observed the lively atmosphere of the packed Soferno-B record shack, filled with black youths listening out for the latest releases as the bass-line boxed the shop windows.

  What he didn’t notice was two black guys standing on the other side of the road, opposite the record shop. They had just come out of the barbershop there, although neither of them appeared to be trimmed. They were brethren of Terry Flynn; Flynn himself was inside, receiving a briefing of the ghetto news.

  Brenton walked past the bustling unemployment exchange, unaware that the youths had summoned Terry Flynn and were shadowing him. Carrying his trainers in a plastic bag, Brenton turned left off Coldharbour Lane, looking up at the white-painted tower blocks on Barrington Road.

  The sight of a council carpenter repairing a broken-into front door; a silver-headed black man, draining a brew, watching the day go by dressed in his pyjamas; and a fretful-looking postman, adding undue haste to his last delivery round of the day, were familiar events on the tower block balconies.

  Still unaware of his pursuers, Brenton trod past a brutalised children’s play area. A broken swing skanked in the chilly breeze as a Cortina mark 2 revved noisily at a stubborn set of traffic-lights.

  Terry Flynn and his spars continued to stalk their prey as Brenton strolled behind the back of another tower block. Here the avenging trio saw their chance. Brandishing a flick-knife, Terry Flynn and his cohorts hurtled towards their unsuspecting target.

  “Get the half-breed bastard!” yelled a crazed Flynn, drunk on the rum of violence.

  Brenton turned around sharply to find three guys converging on him with serious intent. With no time to run, he dropped his carrier bag and dodged the first blow by ducking. But a fist from nowhere struck his jaw and rocked him. Punches rained in on the helpless youth as he swung out his fists in desperation. Suddenly, he suffered an excruciating pain in his neck, and everything became misty as heat galloped through his skull, numbing his senses.

  Fretting at the sight of thick blood, Flynn stared at his gore-splattered hand. “Don’t fuck with me, right? You ain’t no bad man!” Then the three attackers scattered out of the area, leaving their crimsoned victim lying on the asphalt, suffering from shock and stab wounds.

  Brenton hadn’t spotted the elderly white woman who witnessed the assault from her ground-floor flat. Aware of the victim’s injuries, she shakily dialled for an ambulance, then replacing the phone, she parted the net curtain and observed the hurt teenager worming in pain. She wiped her brow, willing the ambulance to come as soon as possible, wondering whether the poor lad would live or die.

  The woman dared not go outside and tend to Brenton, as she thought the assailants might still be at large. The pyjama-clad old man, perched on the ninth-floor balcony, had also observed the whole incident, but he remained impassive on his perch, sucking a skinny roll-up.

  Five tokes later, the witnesses watched an ambulanceman giving emergency first aid to Brenton. Other onlookers now formed a small semi-circle, viewing the wounded Brixtonian get stretchered into the ambulance, his eyes now closed. The old lady followed the vehicle with her eyes as it sped off into the distance, all of its sirens screaming. The small group of nosy onlookers soon drifted off into separate directions as a council worker approached the scene, dressed in a donkey jacket and armed with enough black plastic bin bags to make anyone’s day turn into night. He surveyed the bloodstained concrete. “Kiss me neck, why do dey waan kill each udder? Man to man are so unjust.”

  Many hours later, Brenton found himself lying in a hospital ward, suffering from a crucial headache. He focused his senses and realised that he was wearing a protective neck-brace. Trying to look around him, he sustained a sharp pain. Grimacing, he stared at the resident of the bed opposite his; a guy whose features were almost totally sheathed in bandages. Somehow, Brenton felt lucky.

  The decor of the ward reminded Brenton of his hostel. Beige-painted walls gave the place a dismal appearance, although flowers in small vases, placed on wooden bedside cabinets, brightened up the room a little. The limping tree-trunk-coloured curtains cried out for a laundering.

  He noticed a white male, bedridden with injuries to his limbs, staring at him. This made the still-groggy Brenton very uncomfortable, especially as he was only wearing a plastic hospital gown. He quickly pulled up his bedcovers to mask any embarrassment, not wanting no
white man to see his privates.

  A colour television set was situated high up in the corner of the room, supported by a metal stand so every patient could see it. A white-faced clock with black numerals and hands told Brenton the time was four-thirty; but he wondered what day it was.

  Monotony came quickly to the neck-braced Brenton. His only entertainment was listening to the other patients bleat on about their injuries. He thought to himself. Where are the doctors and nurses? Then he recalled the sight of Terry Flynn rushing snarling towards him – tall and dark-skinned, with his short tufty hair and unshaven chin – and quickly reopened his eyes to exorcise the disturbing image.

  As he waited for someone to tend to him, many thoughts sped through Brenton’s mind. Like, what had happened to his newly acquired trainers? And did anybody know he was in hospital? Suddenly, he thought – what hospital? The label on the white bedsheet read Kings College‚ which was a fifteen-minute journey from home.

  At ten past five, a doctor finally appeared in the ward, accompanied by a sister and a nurse. The male doctor was clad in an immaculate white jacket that could have been used in a soap-powder advert. He walked with an upright posture, suggesting he felt pride in his work. But what made him look particularly acute was his large forehead, enhanced by a retreating hairline.

  The doctor approached Brenton and greeted him with a smile. “How do you feel, young man?”

  “I ache all over and my brain’s killing me.”

  “We had to do a bit of delicate work on your neck. You have, er, let me see now, about twenty or so stitches. You might not think so, but in a way you were lucky. You see, the incision just missed a main artery. Some of the tissues around your neck are, like I said, very delicate and will take time to heal. So we don’t want you to be moving your neck as you would normally.”

  The doctor pointed at the neck-brace. “This will stop you from making any jerky movements. But don’t worry, you won’t be wearing it for too long; a couple of weeks at the most.”