Читать книгу: «East of Acre Lane», страница 4
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. His 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?’
‘Wha’?’ Biscuit replied, preparing to leave. ‘Nelson, man. I ain’t got time for your funny stories dem. I affe dally.’
Nelson stroked his stringy beard. ‘You t’ink you could come to my yard every two weeks an’ sell me some collie?’
‘Yeah, dat could be arranged. But don’t expect me to walk ’round wid some scarf over my face.’
The dread laughed, but shook his head as he watched Biscuit depart.
5 Oh Carol
‘Shouldn’t you be sleeping?’ Biscuit rebuked his younger brother. It was past nine when he finally made it home from Jah Nelson’s estate. The flat was quiet for once and he had found Royston alone, sitting on their bed.
‘Shouldn’t you have been home for dinner?’ asked Royston mischievously.
‘Put de damn cars away an’ go to your bed. I wish I never bought you de damn t’ings. De uder day I went to my bed an’ one of your blasted cars ’cratched me in my back.’
Royston hid himself under the covers, but his brother could still hear the stifled laughter coming from under the blankets. Biscuit ignored him and placed his herb and money on top of his wardrobe. He then took off his zip-up bomber jacket and pulled off his beret, revealing knotty, tangled hair. He headed for the lounge.
His mother was sewing buttons on one of Royston’s grey school shirts, occasionally looking up at the news bulletin on the telly. Denise was sitting on the sofa, chatting away to one of her friends on the phone. She was talking about some party or other and asking if she could borrow a pair of shoes.
‘You waan me to warm up your dinner, Lincoln?’ Hortense offered.
‘No, it’s alright, Mummy, I can do it.’
Biscuit went to the kitchen and lit two gas rings. He put a dab of margarine in the rice and peas saucepan and replaced the lid, then poured half a cup of water into the boiled chicken pot, stirring it with a fork. He checked his watch, wondering if it wasn’t too late to travel up to Brixton Hill and call on Carol. She was expecting him and he hated letting her down. His thoughts were interrupted by a manic banging on the front door.
‘Who ah bang ’pon me door so?’ Hortense queried. ‘Lincoln, ’ow many times ’ave me tell you fe tell your friends dem not to bang down me door!’
Biscuit went to the door. ‘Easy nuh, man. You sound like beast to rarted.’
A frantic thirty-something white woman, whose elfin-like face didn’t quite match her heavy frame, stood on the balcony. The woman seemed to have been crying for days. Her long auburn hair wouldn’t have recognised a comb, and underneath the tear stains her face was a pink mass of sadness. She was wearing a tatty dressing gown and slippers.
‘Where’s your mum, Lincoln?’ she asked desperately.
Before Biscuit could reply, the lady was past him and inside the lounge. Hortense stopped sewing and looked up in concern. Biscuit returned to the kitchen and peered through the doorway as his mother got to her feet and switched off the telly. Denise paused in her conversation and ran her eyes over the white woman’s blotched face.
‘Hortense, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do,’ the white woman whimpered, holding her temples within her palms and then shaking her head. ‘I haven’t seen Frank for two days, they cut off the electric yesterday, the kids are hungry, I ain’t got no money.’ She covered her face with her hands, shifting her feet in an unsteady semicircle. ‘I just can’t carry on, Hortense. I’ve had it up to ’ere. Fucking social are no use, the gas people are on my case and Frank’s gone. He’s fucking gone, without a fucking word. He’s just fucking gone!’
‘Stella, slow down, you’re talking too fast,’ Hortense replied, ushering her friend to sit beside her. Stella wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she was suffering some cramp, then dropped herself on the sofa.
‘I might as well fucking kill myself. Frank’s gone, how could he just go like that? I’m at my wits’ end. I dunno where I’m turning. How could he fucking leave me like this!’
Hortense put her arms around the shoulders of her friend. Biscuit watched from the kitchen, embarrassed by Stella’s sobbing and cursing Frank under his breath. Denise said a quick goodbye to her friend and looked on, wondering what she could do to help.
‘Denise! Don’t jus’ sit der! Run downstairs an’ get Tommy an’ Sarah. Den gi’ dem somet’ing to eat,’ Hortense ordered her daughter aggressively. ‘An’ mek Stella ah cup ah tea.’
Royston poked his face around the door frame to see what the commotion was all about. ‘Royston!’ Hortense yelled. ‘Go back to your bed before me bus’ your backside.’
‘I just can’t take it no more,’ Stella wept. ‘Frank went for a job interview for a labouring job the other day, but he didn’t get it. Since then he’s been acting all funny. I thought he might snap out of it after a while. But he’s gone. I’ve phoned his mum but he ain’t been ’round there. I even phoned his brother in Birmingham. I dunno where he is.’
Denise returned with two bewildered children in tow. The youngest child, a girl, gripped her teddy tightly as her brother held on grimly to an old Beano magazine. They edged into the room as if embarrassed to see their mother in such a state. The girl covered her face with the bear.
‘Hiya, Tommy,’ Royston greeted, braving the hallway once again. ‘Hiya, Sarah.’
‘Royston!’ Hortense screamed. ‘If me ’ave fe tell you again your backside will be sizzling like fried chicken-back! Go to your bed!’
On sight of her children, Stella palmed away her tears, trying to regain her composure. Hortense tenderly stroked her friend’s hair. Denise stood at the kitchen doorway waiting for instructions, while Biscuit guiltily prepared his dinner. ‘Gi de pickney dem some bun an’ cheese,’ Hortense ordered. ‘De last time we baby-sit fe dem, dey did favour it.’
Biscuit didn’t want to get stuck with all this woman’s business. He took his dinner to his bedroom on a tray, catching Royston standing by the door, feeling pushed out of the drama.
‘Wha’ did Mummy say?’ Biscuit scolded. ‘Get to your blasted bed.’
Royston did as he was told while he watched his brother eat his dinner. ‘Why was Stella crying?’ he asked.
‘Cos Frank’s gone missing an’ she ain’t got no money.’
‘Did Frank go missing cos he can’t find a job?’
‘Somet’ing like dat.’
‘So, when people been looking for a job for a long time, and they can’t find one, do they do what Frank done? Just go somewhere and go missing?’
Biscuit didn’t answer. In a strange way, he thought his brother was right. People did go missing when they couldn’t find work. They went missing in the head. Some, like Biscuit himself, sought to provide by illegal means. Every Saturday morning he witnessed the exodus of single mothers to various prisons throughout the country to visit their providers, rationing the week’s social security cheque to afford the fares. He knew that some of these desperate women, especially the ones with children, had already shacked up with other men who came by their incomes via illegal means, starting the cycle all over again. He wondered when the day would come when his mother would have to visit him only on Saturdays.
Frank was a decent guy, always offering Biscuit a can of beer if he could afford it. And he loved his kids, forever taking them out to the park. But he hadn’t worked in a steady job for nearly three years. From the smart-dressed guy Biscuit knew as a child, Frank had transformed into an unshaven figure who raged at the staff in the job centre for a chance of work, any work. With Frank’s brooding and getting under his wife’s feet at home, the rows with Stella had increased, and so did the money they owed.
Biscuit dropped a naked chicken bone on his plate then reached up to take two tenners from the top of his wardrobe, calling out to his mother, ‘Mummy, come ’ere for a sec, I waan chat to you.’
Hortense ambled into her sons’ room, shaking her head as she searched her eldest son’s eyes. ‘She’s inna right state,’ she said softly, bringing her gaze down to the carpet. ‘Me nuh know wha fe say to her, I really don’t. She jus’ bawlin’ an bawlin’. Frank dis an’ Frank dat. If me see ’im me gwarn gi’ ’im two bitch lick. Me cyan’t tek Stella noise inna me ’ead. An’ de two pickney dem jus’ ah si’ down quiet like mice, looking at dem mudder.’
Biscuit glanced quickly at the top of the wardrobe to check if his bags of herb were out of his mother’s sight. A powerful surge of guilt took hold of him as he slowly raised his right hand that clutched two ten-pound notes. ‘Control dis for her,’ he offered.
Hortense looked at the cash for five seconds before opening her left palm. ‘Y’know Lincoln, yu ’ave ah ’eart. Like I said before, me nuh waan to know weh yu get your money from. But yu ’ave ah ’eart. God bless.’ She departed with a stolen glance at the top of the wardrobe.
Half an hour later, Biscuit caught a 109 bus, climbing up Brixton Hill to visit Carol. He had time to think about what he had done, and although moral questions echoed inside his head, he satisfied himself that survival was the game. He got off in front of a high steepled church opposite the narrow road that led to Brixton prison; he could just make out the high walls and spotlights in the distance. Walking into Carol’s road, he heard the familiar screaming of police cars. Carol lived in the shadow of Strand secondary school, a building that could have been used for Gothic horror films with its pointed arches and sharp angles. She was one of the only friends Biscuit had who lived in a decent-sized house with a garden, which her father tended faithfully. Biscuit thought that if his own father was still alive, then perhaps his family would be living on a street like this.
Mentally polishing his manners, he rang the buzzer once. The door opened to reveal Carol with a comb in her hair, one half of it plaited, the other half afro. The hue of her skin was like perfect milk chocolate and her height was suitable for the catwalk. Her figure was slender, giving way to curves just where men liked them. Her onyx-coloured eyes were generous and kind, giving her an all-round appearance of sensitivity. Wearing seamed blue jeans and a white polo-neck sweater, she smiled at her visitor. ‘Alright, Biscuit,’ she greeted. ‘I was expecting you a liccle earlier. I’m jus’ plaiting up my hair.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Biscuit said, his face yielding to a full grin. ‘Got a liccle delayed.’
‘Come in.’ She gestured him through the door. She touched his arm as he passed and leant her face next to his, whispering, ‘Remember to say hello to my parents.’
Biscuit followed her through the hallway, looking up to the high, white-glossed ceiling then dropping his sight to the richly embossed, beige wallpaper. Intimidation crept within him. Carol led him to the kitchen at the end of the hallway where her parents were sitting around a circular glass table, sipping coffee. Her father was a tall man with a neat, trimmed moustache. The hair he had was combed back behind his ears, leaving the top of his head naked. Carol’s mother was wearing a black head scarf that crowned an unlined, angular face. She had the same dark eyes as her daughter.
Biscuit took in his surroundings and thought that his own mother would love to possess a washing machine and wash up her dishes in the two sinks he saw in front of him. He doubted that all the cupboards in Carol’s kitchen would fit in the cramped cubicle where his mother cooked.
‘Evening MrWindett, evening Mrs Windett,’ he greeted them.
‘Evening, Lincoln,’ Mrs Windett returned. ‘An’ a late one it is, too.’
Biscuit looked up at the clock that stood high over the double sink: nearly half past ten.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Windett, I won’t keep Carol long. I know she’s got work in the morning.’
‘You ’ave no work to go to inna de morning, Lincoln?’ Mr Windett asked, peering over his reading glasses.
‘No, but I have to get up early an’ look about some interviews.’
‘Good, dat is good,’ MrWindett replied, before returning to his gardening magazine.
Carol led Biscuit upstairs to her bedroom. It was decorated in peach-coloured wallpaper that gave it a warm feel. The burgundy carpet was deep enough to lose your toes in, and alongside the double bed was a white rug. The twin wardrobes each had a full-length mirror, and Biscuit lost count of the perfumes and toiletries upon the dressing table. On one side of the bed was a small, white-painted cabinet with a lamp resting on it, and in the corner of the room was a JVC stereo. Denise would love all this, he thought.
She invited him to sit at the foot of her double bed and then went over to her stereo system where she inserted a cassette tape. The Cool Notes’ ‘My Tune’ sang softly from the speakers.
‘Biscuit, you look troubled, man. Wha’s de hard time pressure?’ Carol asked, joining him on the bed and snuggling up close to his side while adjusting his brown beret.
‘Nutten dat I can’t sort out,’ he replied, twirling his right index finger around one of Carol’s plaits. ‘T’ings are running smoothly, man.’
‘You know I don’t like de business you’re in.’
‘Den wha’ is a yout’ like me s’posed to do?’ Biscuit asked, dropping his hands to his thighs. ‘You know my liccle hustling helps out my mudder. If it weren’t for me we’d never pay de bills an’ t’ing.’
‘So wha’ you gonna do in twenty years’ time?’ Carol asked, now fingering Biscuit’s hair. ‘Still sell herb down de Line?’
‘No,’ he answered, his eyes now shut. ‘Hopefully I’ll ’ave some kinda job by den.’
‘You’ll have to. Cos I told you before, I ain’t going out wid no man who’s hustling. One day we’ll be raving out somewhere, de nex’ you might be locked up. I ain’t dealing wid dat, Biscuit. An’ I don’t business how much money you mek.’
‘Wha’s your problem, Carol? We rave together anyway, we spend a lot of time together, innit. An’ besides, nuff innocent man get jail up by de beast.’
‘Yeah, well. But wha’ you’re doing you ’ave more chance being jailed up. An’ we rave as friends, only as friends. An’ besides, Floyd an’ Sharon would always come wid us, an’ Coffin Head an’ Brenton.’
‘Wha’s wrong wid dat? Dat’s always been the case. Our posse always go everywhere together, innit.’
‘Biscuit, listen to me proper, man,’ Carol asserted, removing her fingers from his hair. ‘You said you wanted to marry me one day. Now tell me, how can I marry a somebody who meks his money selling herb or doing whatever. Me an’ you won’t even get to first base if you’re still carrying on wid dem t’ings der.’
Biscuit searched her eyes and realised she wouldn’t back down. He’d been after her a long time, since the third year of secondary school. After the school day finished, Biscuit would make a detour across Brockwell Park in the hope of seeing her after school hours. She and a few of her friends would walk from Dick Shepherd school into the park and shoot the breeze, sometimes fending off apprentice sweet-bwais. On the few occasions Biscuit did see her, fearful of rejection in front of his crew, he wouldn’t say much, just a hi and a hello, but it made his day. One afternoon, he plucked up the courage to wait outside Carol’s school gates, with the intention of asking her out for a date. She said no, telling him he was not her type. It felt like a mortal blow, but one his pride accepted after time healed his ego. When they both finished their education, they lost touch for a while; Biscuit knew where she lived but was too shy to knock on her door. It was only when Floyd started to go out with Carol’s friend Sharon that Biscuit decided he’d better make a move, especially when Coffin Head expressed an interest in her. Now he wanted her as much, if not more, than ever before.
