Brixton Rock (22 page)

Once he reached Brixton, he bullfrogged up the escalator, feeling he must see Juliet as soon as possible. Halfway up, glancing casually at the downward escalator opposite, he saw someone among the passengers who made his guts tighten. Terry Flynn.

Intoxicated with the toke of revenge, Brenton ran hard, back down the uprising escalator, brushing past astonished commuters. “You bastard!” he roared.

Flynn was just getting off at the bottom; he turned around in alarm. He went for his flick-knife in his back pocket, but before he could reach it, Brenton pounced on him.

“A wha the rass,” stammered Flynn.

“You’re a dead man!” screamed Brenton.

Springing forward, he wrestled his Nemesis to the ground, his eyes wild, revenge etched in his face. Snarling, he rained in punches. Terry Flynn’s flick-knife escaped onto the platform as startled passengers looked on. Flynn managed to evade Brenton’s clutches and made for his knife. Brenton rugby-tackled him, causing Flynn’s forehead to make an audible scraping sound on the unforgiving platform. With a desperate effort, Flynn sprang up, booting Brenton in the face, smashing his nose and disfiguring his mouth, causing a splattering of blood to spot the ground. Again, Flynn made for the elusive blade. The Gong’s
Heathen
suddenly came into Brenton’s mind.

Undeterred, Brenton leapt on his prey again, only to be met by an elbow detonating against his jaw. But Brenton managed to grip an ear and almost tore it off, creating a gristly breach at the side of Flynn’s head. At that Flynn went absolutely nuts and kneed Brenton in the face, resulting in a pair of teeth skittling along the platform.

The two of them rolled dangerously close to the platform edge, punching and kicking each other. Brenton could smell lager on Flynn’s breath, mixed with his BO. The onlookers stood frozen, watching in horror; paralysed by the sight of blood.

Brenton viced Flynn’s neck within his hands and squeezed as
hard as his strength allowed. Flynn opened his mouth as wide as he could and guillotined his teeth, ripping flesh off his opponent’s shoulder, causing a rush of blood to rapidly swarm over his T-shirt. Flynn spat out something grotesque onto the platform, but Brenton refused to relax his grip, despite experiencing intense pain. The live rail started to crackle. Flynn saw his knife about a foot away from his hand. Blood was pouring from Brenton’s nose, cascading onto his gashed lips. And his heartbeat was racing almost fatally. Flynn’s head and neck turned crimson, as his ear sagged horribly, dripping a torrent of warm blood. “You’re a dead man!” Brenton screamed.

Flynn, panic-stricken, finally heaved his assailant off him and went for the knife again. Brenton saw his enemy’s plan and dived onto his back, causing Flynn’s right arm to break with a thud on the concrete. The knife skittered over to the platform edge. Brenton had cracked his knees badly on the fall, and now blood drenched his jeans. Suffering excruciating pain, he was forced to relax his grip, and it was then Flynn saw his chance. He lunged for the knife just as a Tube train came hurtling into the station, severing his hand and mutilating his arm. A crystal shattering scream echoed around the station as spectators turned their faces away in shock. Two women fainted.

Brenton sensed he had to get away. Bathed in blood - his own and Flynn’s - he struggled to the escalator, using only his adrenaline to keep himself upright, leaving his Nemesis writhing in agony.

This final conflict had lasted no more than a minute.

Underground train guards raced to Flynn’s aid. While Brenton made his getaway, bloodying everything he touched.

Oblivious to the shocked eyes that stared at him, Brenton caught a bus to his mother’s home. Whilst on the upper deck, ignoring the amazed gawps of passengers, he pulled off his T-shirt, rolled it up and pushed half of it onto his blood-flowing nose, and the other half onto his badly bitten shoulder. Limping off the bus,
he somehow made it to his mother’s home, only kept going by his determination to see Juliet.

Fresh from her visit to the doctor, she opened the door.

“Oh my God!” she screamed. “Brenton; what has happened? Oh my Lord, oh Jesus!”

Brenton looked as if he was about to join Mr Brown. Juliet quickly supported him, grabbing his arm and helping him inside.

“Juliet, Juliet … Jul … Jul … iet.”

He fell on the hallway carpet, blood still pouring from his shoulder, and his knees giving way to shock.

“Brenton! Brenton! What has happened to you? Oh my God, I have to call an ambulance! Oh Jesus. I love you! Love you, with all my heart!”

Brenton prised his eyes half-open, thinking he was going to die. His head swam about in whirlpools, causing his vision to become misty. But he could see an indistinct figure at the top of the stairs. Was it Mr Brown? He’d promised that he would always be there for him, Brenton recalled. Thank God for Mr Brown.

Juliet became hysterical. “Jesus forgive me!”

She laid Brenton on the carpet and picked up the phone, dialling frantically with her blood-drenched fingers. Brenton focused his eyes, and watched his mother coming dreamlike down the stairs. Where’s Mr Brown? he dismayed, before slipping into unconsciousness.

After Juliet had called the ambulance, she spun around and tended to Brenton, tearing off her blouse to stem the blood from his shoulder. She was unaware of her mother, standing in acute shock halfway up the stairs, looking as though someone had kidnapped her heart.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” Juliet whispered. “An ambulance is on its way and you’re going to be all right. You’ve got to be - for your baby. You hear me, Brenton? For your baby!”

C
ynthia Massey’s mind exploded with the thought that perhaps in seven months or so her son would become the father of her daughter’s child; if he lived.

Juliet felt a chilling presence behind her. She turned around and beheld her mother.

For a stretched second, the two women looked at each other. Then Ms Massey rushed to her crimsoned son, cradling his head, wiping blood away from his mouth and nose with her experienced nurse’s hands.

“Is de ambulance coming?” she asked briskly.

“Yes, yes, Mum. I just called them.”

“Run go fetch a towel.”

Her face stained by tears, and forgetting the life inside her, Juliet raced upstairs, marking the banisters with Brenton’s blood.

Ms Massey managed to turn Brenton onto his side and continued swabbing the blood from his torso, praying that he hadn’t gone into shock. He was still breathing; but his body oozed blood, slowly curdling in sickly trickles. She pleasured in Brenton’s faint exhales. How she had wanted to mother him when he was a baby; there was so much she regretted.

Juliet bounded down the stairs clutching two bath towels. A strange irony struck her as she took in the sight of her mother tenderly nestling her son’s head.

Using one of the towels, Cynthia pressed firmly on Brenton’s
shoulder wound. His torso convulsed, like a fish that has been freshly caught and thrown down on a ship’s deck. His eyes were vacant.

Five minutes later the ambulance arrived, its siren blasting. After the crew were satisfied that the bleeding had ceased, Brenton was stretchered into the van. As Ms Massey climbed in beside him, Juliet followed, hoping her mother would give her a forgiving glance. But Ms Massey turned her back on her and tended to her son, looking him over with such a powerful maternal care that Juliet felt the lurking presence of jealousy embedding itself into her heart. He’s mine, he’s mine, she thought. I loved him first and I will love him last.

The ambulance hastened its way to Kings College Hospital, where Brenton had made himself a regular visitor. He was wheeled away to receive immediate attention, overlooked by the critical eyes of his mother. Juliet sat brooding in the Casualty foyer, wondering if Brenton would call for her when he regained consciousness.

The doctor informed Ms Massey that Brenton had passed out due to loss of blood and shock. He required many stitches in his shoulder and knees, and his nose would have to be reset. He might well develop sinus problems in the future.

After the doctor had left Brenton’s curtained cubicle, Juliet stole inside, unable to keep away from her brother’s side any longer. She saw her mother seated by Brenton’s bed, gazing at her son, wondering how he had sustained his injuries. He was stirrings‚ tossing his head from side to side, as if reliving a childhood nightmare. His eyes half-open, he mumbled something.

Juliet’s gaze searched her brother’s eyes, willing for him to see her. “He’ll be all right, Mum.”

Ms Massey said nothing, and acted as if she heard nothing.

“Do you want a cup of tea or something, Mum? There’s a vending machine outside in the foyer.”

Ms Massey surveyed her son. “Take time, try and stay still.”

Juliet ambled warily to Brenton’s bedside.

“Don’t touch him!” frosted her mother, feeling a terrible anger.

“He’s my brother.”

Brenton moaned and his eyes flickered wildly, as if he was dazzled by a myriad of disco lights.

“An’ so you jus’ realise‚” whispered Cynthia, her voice echoing a passionate accusation, finally meeting her daughter’s eyes.

The tiny life inside Juliet suddenly grew heavier. Her features abruptly appeared drawn as she felt the dawn of her morning sickness.

Ms Massey’s eyes returned to the helpless sight of her son. Juliet’s gaze dwelled on her stomach as Brenton muttered again.

“We all make mistakes, Mum,” Juliet finally replied.

Ms Massey chose to ignore her daughter once again.

For close to an hour, mother and daughter sat in silence, observing Brenton’s every fidget, while a nurse entered the cubicle, monitoring his stability. He regained semi-consciousness, but was in too much pain to worry about his mother and sister exchanging silent glares. His shoulder felt as if someone had drilled a hot poker through it. Trust Terry Flynn to fight like a girl, he thought.

Soon, Brenton was wheeled away to a ward, through the hospital corridors. He wondered what Mr Lewis would say about it all. And what had happened to Flynn? he suddenly thought. He might have been brought to the same hospital. Could be interesting if they were parked in adjoining hospital beds.

Ms Massey escorted her son to the ward, while Juliet, sick of her mother’s contempt, sought out a pay phone to call Mr Lewis. Floyd received the call. “Hello, is Mr Lewis there?”

“No, it’s Floyd.”

“This is Juliet. I’ve got some bad news. It’s Brenton, he’s in hospital.”

“In hospital! Again?”

“Yeah, I think he’s been in a fight.”

“Oh no … Flynn. Is he all right?”

“Who’s Flynn? Yeah. He’s all right, he just came round. His shoulder is ripped open, his legs are cut, and he’s got a broken nose. Who’s this Flynn?”

“Er, one of his enemies.”

“
One
of his enemies?”

“It’s a long story. Don’t worry about it now. He’s all right now, innit?”

“Yeah, he’s at Kings College.”

“Where else? I’ll tell Mr Lewis as soon as I see him, all right?”

“OK, then. Thanks, bye.”

“Bye.”

Floyd dropped the phone and raced upstairs to his room, where a smoking Biscuit was studying some newly acquired watches.

“Brenton’s in hospital,” Floyd blurted out. “Flynn must have catch up wid him. His shoulder is all tear up.”

“Shit, they must have had a serious clash. I wonder what happened to Flynn?”

Floyd dropped himself on the bed. “And I wonder where they clashed. Brenton was going on weird yesterday, after he lost his job. He mus’ have got all vex and started looking for Flynn.”

“Nah,” Biscuit disagreed, taking a Mars Bar out of his pocket, “he ain’t that mad. They must have clashed on the street, innit.”

“And Flynn always carries his blade,” added Floyd gravely.

“I hope he’s safe and t’ing. Where is he?”

“Kings College. He might as well move in there; doctors probably recognised him when he reach.”

“So what – should we forward there and see how he is?”

“Yeah. His sister’s there already, and your eyes are gonna think they’re having a feast when you look ’pon her.”

“Let’s step it up then!”

“Hold up. I’ve got to leave a message for Lewis.”

Floyd went downstairs to the kitchen where he found the notepad and pen, and hurriedly scribbled a message for the social worker while Biscuit waited impatiently at the front door.

Two hours later, Juliet returned home, finally satisfied that Brenton was no longer in any immediate danger. Why did I open my big mouth? she chided herself. What was Mum doing at home at that time, anyway? How long had she been waiting on the stairs?

Fate had conspired against her, and was wearing its full battle armour. Her mother would have found out about her pregnancy in due course. But now! She herself could scarcely come to terms with it, let alone coping with the fact that her brother was the father. And now, that bastard Fate had to meddle in her affairs, when it had no right to.

She left her mother at the hospital; Ms Massey was showing everybody how concerned she was about her son. Floyd and Biscuit offered their sorrows, affirming that Brenton had a ‘solid body’, so his recuperation would be swift. Biscuit was particularly charming, running errands, collecting coffees and generally being the antidote to the gloom with which everybody else was infected.

An hour or so since Floyd and Biscuit made their hurried way to Kings College, Mr Lewis appeared in Brenton’s ward. He found Ms Massey stooping over her sleeping son, appearing washed-out and frail. Poor woman, he thought. Only recently she found her son, and now this.

Floyd and Biscuit were standing at the foot of the bed, whispering to each other, with the name Flynn resurfacing from time to time.

“Ms Massey, I believe?” Mr Lewis addressed her.

“Yes. An’ you are the social worker?”

“I came as soon as I received Floyd’s message. How is he?”

“He’s not too bad now. The doctor says he’s stabilised but he lost a whole ’eap of blood. He nearly bled to death. He’s sleeping now but he’s conscious.”

Mr Lewis stole a glance at Floyd and Biscuit, still muttering to themselves. “Does anyone know what happened? Was it a fight?”

“It seems so,” replied Cynthia. “The doctor say it look like as if someone tek a chunk outta him.”

“Someone bit him?” Mr Lewis gazed upon Floyd once more, asking a thousand questions. “Floyd, do you have any idea what happened?”

“No. But I know he was upset yesterday ’cos he did lose his job. He was made redundant, and he was going on weird when he reach home yesterday.”

“Did you see him this morning?”

“No. By the time I got up, Brenton lef’ the yard.”

Mr Lewis’s eyes turned to Brenton’s mother. “Is there anything I can do? If you want I can drive you home when you’re ready.”

“T’ank you, dat would be very kind.”

An hour later, Mr Lewis drove Cynthia home, accompanied by a subdued Floyd and a crisp-eating Biscuit. The quartet talked little on their journey, all of them shaken by Brenton’s near-death.

Mr Lewis saw Ms Massey to her front door, aiding her as she walked. She thanked him, offering an exhausted smile, then went inside, leaving Mr Lewis to ponder if Brenton’s assailant was the same one as before.

Juliet heard her mother come in while preparing something to eat in the kitchen. She looked along the hallway and found the carpet still specked with Brenton’s dried blood. Ms Massey took off her coat and noticed the hideous sight of a bloody hand print on the banisters. Juliet’s hand.

It was as if the bones that had remained hidden under the floorboards for years had now crawled out and were bleeding over everything, reminding everyone of the anguished suffering of their solitary existence.

“You want something to eat, Mum?”

Ms Massey silently trundled along the hallway, towards the kitchen.

“I’m doing a bit of mackerel on ’ard-dough bread,” Juliet offered, her heartbeat racing.

Cynthia sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes unforgiving, and her fury obvious. As Juliet nervously buttered the bread, a little
dob of margarine dropped onto the floor. Cynthia’s eyes followed it.

“The devil himself mus’ ah possess you! Wha do yuh, chile? You ’ave destroyed everyt’ing. You’re nutten but a leggo-beast. Do you realise what you ’ave done?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mum.”

The fish and bread suddenly looked unappetising.

“So you sorry. Sorry can’t repair the damage. What the Lord God ’ave I done to deserve dis?”

“Sorry.”

“Stop say dat ’cos you mek me sick.”

Juliet’s eyes became sodden. For a fraction of a second, she considered taking the bread-knife and plunging it deep into her stomach. She wanted to tell her mother how she loved Brenton. But how could she?

“My own son,” Ms Massey continued, “who I ’ave prayed to see again for years. An’ my own daughter is carrying his chile! Haven’t I paid enough, Lord? You’re a disgrace! A damn disgrace!”

“Well, at least I done it out of love,” Juliet retaliated, “which is more than you can say for how you felt for my father!”

“Your fader has not’ing to do wid dis.”

“But it’s true.”

“What do you know what is true! You’re carrying my son’s chile!”

“Yes, that is true. Your grandson! Are you gonna abandon him like you did your son?”

Cynthia’s senses imploded, and a thousand regrets attacked her memories. Juliet would have given anything to take that last statement back. Her mother raised herself deliberately, as if every movement bred a considerable pain. Juliet watched her struggle along the hallway, and realised that nothing would ever be the same. Had her consuming lust caused her family to be torn apart? she asked herself. Whoever dig the ditch, she thought, shall fall in
it; a song from the Gong she had heard while in Brenton’s bed. And she visioned herself wiping the sweat off her brow as the other hand held the spade.