Brixton Rock (2 page)

A latchkey opened the door. After switching on the light, Brenton kicked off his trainers and collapsed on his single, unmade bed. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them so he could look around.

A large brown wardrobe placed opposite the door dominated his small room. A chest of drawers stood beneath a dusty window, a black laundry bag resting against it overflowing with dirty clothes. Odd socks littered the tired blue carpet. A few toiletries were in evidence on the dressing table, along with some cassette tapes and a sprinkling of roll-up papers that cried out to be employed. Others sat temptingly beside a large glass ashtray that had been kidnapped from a pub.

It was cold in the room on this December night; Christmas was just around the corner. Brenton was visited by a sudden sense of isolation and bitterness. He wondered whether he had any brothers or sisters; maybe an aunt or uncle; then his mind rewound to his childhood spent in a children’s home. He recalled the Christmas period when the more fortunate kids would spend the
holidays with their families. He himself had had nowhere to go and no family to go to. It had been soul-destroying.

The only thing he knew about his parents was that his mother was black and his father was a white man. Ironic then, that Brenton was only ever called ‘black bastard’. He felt strongly that his parents were the cause of all his misery – and wished he had never been born.

Still dressed in the bloodstained jeans and brown pullover, Brenton struggled to find a comfortable sleeping position. Sellotaped to the back of his bedroom door was a large poster of the late film star, James Dean. Peering deep into the actor’s eyes, Brenton whispered to him, “I’ve had a shit day, James,” then fell into a restless doze.

B
renton didn't get out of bed until the middle of the next day. Still wearing his bloodstained battle-armour, he prised open his drawers, took out a crumpled white towel, then ambled across the landing to the bathroom. His movements alerted his hostel-mate, Floyd, who poked his head through his doorway and scanned Brenton for any sign of a ‘don't talk to me' mood. Satisfied, he asked: “Brenton, what-a-gwarn last night? Someone told me you bust up Terry Flynn. What did you do to him? That Flynn is supposed to be a bad man.”

Brenton had the hot-water tap running and was already stripped to the waist. He pondered for a couple of seconds then smiled, Mona Lisa-like. “Well, Floyd,” he replied, “that bad-card Flynn was running and cussing me down in Pop's Pool Club down Kennington. Anyway, fight bruk out and he comes to me with a fucking cue, so I picked up a beer mug and smashed it on his leg. I don't care about rep, man.”

Floyd emerged from his bedroom onto the small landing to face his pal. He was slightly taller than Brenton, caramel-skinned, with a handsome, mischievous face. In contrast to his hostel-mate he appeared well groomed, with a young sprouting of facial hair. Brenton had bought him a Bic razor recently; a gift for when he had just kissed his seventeenth birthday goodbye.

Brenton lathered his chest with a soap-gorged flannel then resumed his tale. “Before I knew it, the filth come and fling me
inside a meat wagon. They took me to Borough pig pen; the one near London Bridge.”

Floyd couldn't help but admire his front. As for Brenton, he thought his hostel-mate was some sort of sweet bwai; never wanting to get his digits dirty in someone else's bath-water, but he respected Floyd's Brixtonian wit and smooth, melted coconut chat.

Drip-drying, Brenton made his way back to his room swabbing himself as he went. Floyd followed him and said, “I t'ink Lewis is waiting downstairs for you.”

From Floyd's voice, you could guess he had spent most of his childhood in the watchfulness of a West Indian influence, but if you heard Brenton speak without seeing him in the flesh, you would have taken him for a white, cockney teenager.

Brenton finished drying himself and changed into a fresh pair of pale blue jeans; then he pulled on his brown jumper over a punctured, sad T-shirt. He wasn't ready to face Mr Lewis just yet. Instead, he bull-frogged down the stairs and into the kitchen where he grabbed the corn-flakes packet from a cupboard and an unwashed cereal bowl and mug from the sink. He ran the crockery under the tap and just as he was thinking crossly how Floyd never washed up his dishes, Mr Lewis snailed in from his room.

“Morning, Brenton,” he said tersely. “You obviously slept better than I did.”

“Well, you didn't have to spend hours in a cell, did you?” Brenton shot back, unwilling to have anyone suggest they'd had a worse yesterday than him.

Mr Lewis bore the pale, drained look of an old man who has recently been exhausted by a young, energetic lover. He stepped back into his office, ordering: “When you finish your breakfast, come and see me. I want to talk to you about last night.”

When it couldn't be avoided any longer, Brenton trooped reluctantly into Mr Lewis's room, wondering why his wallpaper was a more eye-catching pattern than the dreary woodchip paper that covered the rest of the house.

Mr Lewis sat behind a desk, nervously drumming his fingers on its scratched and scarred surface. At the far end of the room was an unmade fold-up bed, and beside it two Burgundy-coloured armchairs facing a black and white portable television balanced perilously on a cardboard box. A mass of Lambeth Council headed notepaper, with various other leaflets and envelopes covered Mr Lewis's desk.

Brenton elected to keep standing. “Got a snout?” he asked, spotting the packet of ten on the desk.

Mr Lewis couldn't really say no so he offered one. Then, after lighting a match, he burst out: “When are you going to get wise to this macho kick, Brenton? You can't keep fighting everybody who insults or threatens you. Get this into your skull; if you don't find a way of subduing that temper of yours, the law of the land will!”

Brenton scratched behind his right ear then caressed a pimple on his chin. A shaft of sunlight that glared from the window seemed to have a magnetic effect on his eyes.

“In my opinion, you can make a go of life,” Lewis continued more quietly. “You're intelligent enough, but you have to learn right from wrong.”

Brenton drew tensely on his cigarette. “There's no way I'm going to let any man take libs with me,” he said eventually. “I ain't backing down no matter who it is; Terry bloody Flynn or even King bloody Kong. If someone troubles me they're not getting away with it. I don't look for strife, you know that, but it sort of follows me about.”

Mr Lewis pushed an overflowing ashtray towards the youth; aware that he would have his work cut out to persuade Brenton Brown to take a more restrained attitude. “Look,” he counselled. “It doesn't have to be like that. Walk away before the argument starts. The way you're going on, you'll end up in jail; and it'll probably only be me who'll come and visit you.”

“Who says I'll want to see you if I'm in bloody jail?” Part of
what the social wanker said was true, all right – there, he admitted it – but he still wanted to give a bad-bwai reply.

“Come on, Brenton, no matter what you might think I'm here to advise you and help you the best way I can. But I can't do it if you won't let me.”

Brenton was listening intently now, but he still avoided eye contact with the social worker because he knew his countenance had a guilty look about it. “You don't know what it's like, man,” he lamented. “You can read all the books you want, but that won't make a difference, 'cos you don't actually know what it really feels like to live my shit of a life. You understand me?”

He paused to reach out for the cigarette packet and matches while Mr Lewis waited, thinking there was a large hint of truth in that last remark.

Brenton lit up again, and stared out of the window aimlessly, then continued in a despairing tone: “I wish I'd never been born. If there is a God, He's got a sick sense of humour to give me the mother like the bitch I've got. Floyd might fight with his old man but he's still got aunts, uncles and cousins. What have I got? Fuck all, that's what.”

A cocktail of bitterness and adrenaline flushed through his body, and his voice, when he raised it again, was full of pain. “Why did she give me up, eh? I was too bloody young to have done fuck-all wrong, so was it something else about me – a bit of me she couldn't put up with? I mean, she hasn't tried to contact me since she threw me away – the bitch – has she? So what the fuck was it?” His emotions were ready to overflow. He seemed incapable of keeping his feet still, while his hands waved about to signal his frustration.

Mr Lewis didn't quite know what to do or say. He just concentrated on keeping calm and appearing relaxed. His heart reached out to the troubled teenager, but he couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. University had proven unable to prepare him for these moments.

Brenton raged on, almost shouting: “I'm just a half-breed bastard. I'm a fucking half-breed bastard. You hear me?”

He threw himself on the chair opposite the social worker and lowered his head into his hands. Mr Lewis watched him pityingly. For a few seconds everything was still while he sensed Brenton's weeping pain, then he finally found his tongue. In a soft voice he encouraged: “Tears are nothing to be ashamed of. It's just a way of letting pent-up feelings out of your system. I think this has been boiling up for quite a time.”

As Mr Lewis paused, Brenton rubbed his eyes until all traces of tears were dispersed. He was now suffering from acute embarrassment. He tried to say something, but no sounds came out. Feeling dreadfully self-conscious, Mr Lewis lit up another cigarette and thought that maybe he should have chosen a different career. While he smoked he gazed at Brenton's stormy face. “You all right now?” he said eventually, his tone gentle.

“Yeah.”

Gaining confidence, Mr Lewis continued: “How can I help you, Brenton? Tell me.”

Brenton pondered this for a few seconds. “I want to see my mother,” he admitted quietly. “I've got a load of questions I want to ask her. I'm just curious about her. I wanna know what she looks like and I need some explanations for my own peace of mind.”

“Have any of your former social workers ever made contact with her, or tried to get in touch?” Mr Lewis asked.

“When I was in the Home I didn't want to see my mother, but now I do. Social workers asked me if I'd like to try and find her, but I always thought it was up to her to find me. Since then I've changed my mind.”

“If that's what you want,” Mr Lewis said thoughtfully as Brenton prepared to leave the room, “I'll do all I can to find her, starting off with Area Three Office where they keep your files. There must be something in there that can give us a clue as to her
whereabouts. But be warned. These episodes rarely get a storybook ending. Reality doesn't work like that.”

Brenton was just closing the door behind himself when he said: “I know.”

T
he magistrate looked as if he should be joining the queue at the Post Office for his pension. What wise thinking could come from this moss-growing tool of so-called Truths and Rights? He seemed to be hibernating, only glancing up when he spoke.

Brenton felt intolerably uncomfortable in the blazer and slacks Mr Lewis had loaned him, and notwithstanding his sweet-bwai attire, he still oozed a ragamuffin appearance, mainly due to his hair, which he refused to comb in spite of his social worker’s pleas. He gave the impression of one that had aspired to become a dreadlocked rastaman, but had harboured second thoughts and left his hair in a state of tangled confusion.

He looked around the courtroom, taking note of all the unsmiling faces. It was like a competition to see who could pull the most serious expression.

Brenton had pleaded guilty to the charge of causing an affray, and all he wanted to know now was whether the magistrate would send him to a government house or not. He watched the ponderous proceedings, curious about how much dough the magistrate received at the end of the month for sleeping on the job.

Mr Lewis had attended the hearing a short while ago. To Brenton’s surprise he had presented the court with a sympathetic character reference that had made the youth smirk and think, What a liar!

The lawyers fought their verbal battles, then the time eventually came when the magistrate passed sentence; Brenton received a one year suspended detention term. His face burned when the magistrate proceeded to lecture him, saying that he did not want to see him in court again, and that if he did so, Brenton would receive a much harsher sentence. In his reply, Brenton assured the magistrate that he would seek a job and that in future he would not retaliate when faced with provocation.

Back outside, Brenton found himself joining Mr Lewis on the steps of the courthouse. The social worker looked him up and down for a few seconds then stated: “You know what? I agree with the magistrate. I don’t want to see you in this damned place again either. Besides, as he says - you won’t be walking down these steps to freedom if you’re nicked again.”

When they reached the car Brenton declined the offer of a lift home, saying he preferred to ‘hol’ a bus’ and check a spar he hadn’t seen for a while. That was his first intention anyway, but as he passed an off-licence he couldn’t resist the tonsil-pleasing delights of strong lager.

Using the cash Mr Lewis had given him for his bus fare, he bought a can and opted for the long trod to Brockwell Park, but as he emerged from the shop an Asian man stopped in his tracks and stared at him. Brenton scowled as he opened the brew with a hiss. “What the fuck you looking at?”

The Asian man soon retreated, not daring to look behind.

It was a crisp day. The smell of heavy-vehicle engines skanked in the air and Brenton felt the breeze on his brown face as he strolled past Kings College Hospital on Denmark Hill. As he trudged on he could see illuminated Christmas trees in the front windows of a few houses and he thought how Christmas didn’t cater for the likes of him. A while later, when he was ambling down Herne Hill, he passed a church that had a large poster at its entrance. It read:
Don’t
forget
the
real
meaning
of
Christmas.
Come
to
church
where
we
rejoice
in
the
true
meaning.
At that
Brenton kissed his teeth and sauntered on, hands thrust deep in his pockets.

When Brenton reached the park he saw a brace of schoolboys fishing with pole-extended nets in a condom and crisp packet-filled lake, searching for any life forms in the soiled water. Brenton sat down on a bench nearby. It was a peaceful spot where someone could relax their tormented mind.

In the last couple of days he had heard some rumours concerning him and Terry Flynn. Flynn and his posse, as the ghetto press would have it, were headhunting Brenton to exact some sort of revenge. The thought of this baked fear into his mind, but he refused to display his consternation. The youths who knew Brenton well thought of him as being an ice-man, but he had his fears like anyone else. Also, he dreaded the fact that he would now be looking over his shoulder everywhere he roamed as a consequence of his beer-mug versus snooker-cue clash.

He remembered the first time he laid eyes on Terry Flynn. It was just after he arrived in Lambeth, freshly brainwashed from the children’s home. Following a stroll in Brixton, some
reggaetoasting
guy wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat pressed a card into his hand. On it was the address of a forthcoming blues party not five minutes walk from the hostel.

He arrived at 9:00 p.m. and wondered where everybody was, but a kindly girl told him he was a few albums early and that things would start to warm up about midnight.

Midnight came, and feeling the need to be refreshed, Brenton made his way through the growing throng to a makeshift bar that was set up at the entrance to the kitchen.

En route he accidentally trod on someone’s foot. He looked up, muttering an apology, and beheld a mean, bearded face wearing a beret and hoovering a spliff. The face glared at him like he was a slave who had refused a chore, then growled: “Watch weh you ah go, bwai.”

“I said sorry.”

“Don’t mek me see you again, you liccle half-breed, you.”

Without hesitation, Brenton punched his tormentor smack on his jaw and made for the front door where he fled into the still, inky night. He learned later that the man he had boxed was this Johnny Too Bad deal called Terry Flynn.

Viewing their recent fisticuffs in retrospect, Brenton was certain of one thing: he sure as hell wouldn’t like to visit the park in a wheelchair with a ratchet-designed face.

For the time being, though, he revelled in the ghetto youths’ excited talk about how he had sent Terry Flynn to the bone-juggler’s. He was aware that his fifteen minutes of fame had put him in some danger, but he reacted to it with a grin and thought of the camping trip Mr Lewis was hoping to organise; now the prospect of rain and no TV was fact becoming an attractive option.

Thinking time over, Brenton got to his feet then began to trek through the park, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, head high. He passed two elderly women and imagined them in the still of the night being chased by Terry Flynn through a decaying housing estate. He recalled moodily how earlier in the morning Mr Lewis had advised him to go to the Job Centre, but he knew it would be a total waste of time. What employer would give him a job? Besides, filling in an application form was always upsetting because of the question
Next
of
kin
?
He was always at a loss about how to answer this apparently simple question, and he hated the sympathetic looks on the faces behind the counter when he explained why he couldn’t.