Brixton Rock (3 page)

I
t was the last Saturday night before Christmas and Brenton was lying on his bed trying to work out how he would budget his meagre government brass throughout the raving festival. How would he ever afford all the double-priced cab fares for the coming parties and dances? Something else troubled him, too – the glaring countenance of Terry Flynn…but a slap on the door diverted his thoughts.

“Hey, Brenton, you awake?” asked his hostel-mate Floyd, knowing full well that he was.

“What if I am?”

Grinning, Floyd strutted into the room. “I’ve got a pair of legbacks in my room and a few cans of Special Brew, so I need you to kind of match up the situation,” he boasted. “Come on – slap a smile on your boat and follow me.”

Brenton stood up slowly, grinding his right temple with his palm and unwilling to show too much enthusiasm. He fielded for a box of snouts on the dressing table and fingered inside for a screwed-up ball of betting shop paper. Opening the wrapper, he exposed a sprinkling of cannabis. As he followed his spar out of his room he uttered mischievously: “Well, you’ve got the liquor and I’ve got the good grass.”

Floyd smiled his anticipation. He guessed that his friend spent nearly as much dough on herbal items as he did on food with his G-cheque.

The happy duo entered Floyd’s room where a battered suitcase thumped out Dennis Brown’s
Money
in
My
Pocket
from the top of the dressing table. Brenton acknowledged the two girls, who were nodding their heads in time to the bass, then seated himself beside them on the bed.

Floyd, still standing up, made the introductions. “This is Brenton – the guy who crucially dealt with Terry Flynn.” After gesturing with his hands he added, “Brenton, sitting next to you is Sharon, the facety one, and next to her is quiet Carol, who don’t say shit, she’s so quiet.”

Looking aggrieved, Sharon voiced: “Who are you calling facety?” She nudged Brenton sitting beside her. “You all right – don’t listen to what he says.”

Carol leaned forward and faced the uncomfortable-looking Brenton. She greeted him softly. “All right? How do you manage to live with someone like him?” She concluded her question with a thumb jerked in the direction of Floyd, who was smiling.

It would take a fool not to find Sharon attractive. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail that revealed her clear brown complexion, and her countenance bore the confidence of a newscaster. She appeared very smart in her green suede jacket and black skirt, and the ensemble showed off her Olympic-swimmer build – a build that still pip-squeaked femininity through the medium of her almond-shaped eyes and full lips.

Carol was slimmer and taller than her friend. She also had the darkest complexion in the room. A relaxed, permed hairstyle and piercing eyes made her a fine challenge to all the sweet bwais and bad bwais alike, and this challenge was made more tempting by the matching black sweater and skirt she wore under her unbuttoned beige trenchcoat.

“Give me a brew, Floyd,” Brenton ordered to hide his shyness.

Looking contented, Floyd grabbed a lager off the dressing table while Brenton pastried his joint. The girls watched him, clearly fascinated.

“So what are you doing in a sex maniac’s bedroom?” he asked. “You’re taking a risk coming here – Floyd’s a pervert. He goes walking and talking in the park wearing nutten but his sticksman coat, flashing his small t’ing to old white ladies.”

Sharon rocked back laughing out loud, while her pal grinned with embarrassment because of the rudeness of the remark. Carol, although self-conscious, was magnetised by Brenton. She liked the look of his solid physique.

Not minding that Sharon was laughing at him, Floyd handed out beers all round. Brenton head-butted his shyness through the window marked ‘Fuck off’ and, looking at Sharon, enquired: “So where did you meet Floyd, then?”

“At Bali Hai, two weeks ago. Carol and me were enjoying ourselves at the club, dancing and t’ing, then I buck up on Floyd. He asked me that if I don’t want to dance with him he would go home and think about being a monk. I mean, what a load of nonsense! Anyway, he looked like he had nuff refusal from a whole ’eap of gal, so I danced with him ’cos I felt sorry for the poor bwai.”

Brenton and Carol sniggered, making Floyd suffer the red lash of embarrassment. Despite what she had just said, Sharon liked Floyd’s roguish looks and trickster personality, but she wasn’t prepared to tell him so, not just yet. The guy’s ego was big enough without her feeding it.

Sharon watched the ruffled Floyd sip his beer then nagged him: “You’re supposed to be taking us raving tonight. What’s ’appening?”

Floyd parked his beer on the dressing table while thinking up a retort and he caught Brenton’s smile; his friend was enjoying his discomfiture.

“That party we’re supposed to go to was cancelled,” he admitted. “I think my source’s mother didn’t like the fact that a party was being arranged in her yard, and she didn’t know a damn.”

A look of disbelief swarmed over Sharon as she glanced at Carol, who was peacocking herself by flattening the creases in her skirt.

Raising his palms to make the internationally known gesture of ‘it’s not my fault’, Floyd attempted to defend himself. “My budget ain’t big enough for us to go to a club like Nations, and I don’t know of any other parties, so, er, do you want another brew?”

Brenton laughed aloud while Sharon remained dumbfounded. Carol, show-boating her irritation, gave a rebuke. “So I’ve got dressed up for nutten?”

By now Brenton had finished gift-wrapping his spliff so he christened it with a Vista while Carol watched.

Time mooched by and with the cocktail of alcohol and cannabis the foursome slowly relaxed; talking and laughing more and more. Inhibitions were binned as they giggled at the most trivial things. Sharon and Carol’s attempt to construct a spliff was greeted with uncontrollable laughter from the two young men.

Soon it was approaching two o’clock in the morning and everyone had metaphorical weights pulling down their eyelids. But Floyd, the only one of the quartet still standing up, was listening intently. With a half-smoked spliff in his mouth, his mind was a sponge that absorbed the lyrics of the militant roots music being played.

The songs reflected the struggle for black freedom and the persecution of the black race throughout world history. The lyrics also had a rebellious slant against the Western world’s way of doing things – or, as Floyd and many other blacks called it, Babylon. As he meditated on the words he enjoyed the cussing of the people who represented power. He listened more fervently, and especially liked one song that was about the Rastafarian religion and the connections this faith had with the Good Book.

“Brenton,” he called suddenly. “I wanna ask you somet’ing.”

Brenton ironed his right temple to indicate that he wasn’t in the mood for any philosophical reasoning. “Can’t you see I’m crashing?” he grumbled. “Rest your lip, man, and listen to the music – you love to chat too much.”

Floyd fish-eyed the girls, who were half-asleep and listening to the cooing of their distant beds. He wanted to press home his point and ignored his spar’s plea.

“No man, seriously, do you believe in God?”

“No, I don’t believe in God! Does that answer your bloody question? Am I speaking loud and clear? I don’t believe in no God! Can I rest up now in peace?”

The weary-looking Sharon began to take an interest in the conversation. She watched Floyd keenly, waiting for him to question Brenton, and he kindly obliged.

“Give me a good reason why you don’t believe in God.”

Brenton inhaled deeply, trying to control something that was shooting through his throat. He felt compelled to answer. “’Cos I don’t, I just don’t.”

By now, Carol too had become fascinated by the strange exchange taking place. Floyd had a patrician look about him.

“Give me a reason, man – a proper reason.”

“What’s your problem, bwai? Haven’t I given you a fucking answer? Shit, I don’t believe this. It’s like being in a beast cell when you’re in this blasted mood.”

Floyd thought he’d better lay off for the next few moments so he used a plastic smile to gaze at Sharon.

“Look, right,” Brenton stated hotly. “If there is a God He hasn’t done fuck all for me. My life has been pure tribulation, and there are millions like me, you know? All wondering why the fuck their lives are so fucked up.”

Carol leaned forward, attracted by the contours of Brenton’s emotive face, and smiled at him approvingly when he resumed his theological malediction.

“What kind of God would let this happen? Nah, it’s a dog eat dog world out there, and I’m ready to sink my canines into any Doberman or Yorkshire blasted Terrier who gives me strife. I don’t want to worry about any God to pray to. I’ve got nuff problems already.”

Floyd nodded while Sharon, intrigued by the monologue, told
him: “You’re very bitter, innit. Life must have been hard for you. It’s none of my business, but I reckon you have a kinda chip on your shoulder. What I’m saying is, you’re not the only one to have it hard, you know? We’ve all got it hard. Every yout’ thinks his burden is the heaviest.”

Brenton was listening, although he didn’t meet her eyes, so Sharon continued: “Especially us blacks. You just have to get on with it. Everyone here has probably got their own problems, but we shouldn’t let them get us down. You catch me on FM?”

Brenton nodded thoughtfully, cradling his chin, then he enquired: “What do you mean, I’m bitter? And besides, what’s a chip on my shoulder got to do with believing in God?”

Sharon smiled. “You know full well what I mean.”

After listening to Sharon’s birdsong, Floyd pointed to her and remarked: “She makes more sense than any of them fool-fool social wankers that I’ve come across. You listen to her good.”

Sharon and Brenton laughed, while Carol was escalating down into the basement marked semi-snooze, snuggled up against the bed’s headrest. Floyd proceeded to build another spliff, using the last of Brenton’s Rizla papers.

“Yeah, man,” Brenton encouraged him. “Just wrap up another zoot and don’t ask me no more God questions. Oh, and you’d better give Sharon a few pulls before she gets a chip on
her
shoulder.”

After the last toke was pulled everyone somehow made themselves comfortable on Floyd’s single bed, using each other’s bodies as pillows. The cannabis and lager had wrought their full effect and the quartet fell into a deep sleep as the suitcase boomed out the Gong’s
Easy
Skanking.

B
renton sat on the park bench he had adopted wondering whether he should have accepted Mr Lewis’s invitation to spend the day with him and his girlfriend. Although the offer of a turkey dinner had awoken the taste buds, Brenton thought he would only be in the way, so had felt compelled to decline the invitation. He recoiled at the thought of the fried corned beef and boiled rice that Floyd had so keenly volunteered to cook; he was at the hostel now, waiting with bone-alerting relish for Sharon’s promised visit. Consequently, even at home, Brenton felt he would be in the way, particularly as Floyd was planning a physical dessert for his girl.

He speculated on what his mother would be doing at the moment. Was she stuffing her bird? Or maybe she was winter-cleaning her house for the critical eyes of her in-laws. She might, just might, be thinking of how her lost son was spending the Christmas period, but Brenton doubted it.

The park was serene; even the spirits of the lifeless trees seemed to have departed to attend an oak blues, while the musty, cellar smell of the leaf-laden pond massaged the air with velvety fingers. Brenton looked around for any sign of other people and his eyes tailed a middle-aged man wearing a grey overcoat and cloth cap walking his Labrador dog. He considered that maybe the man was an ear-boxed husband who was trying to avoid his wife and excited, noisy kids on Christmas morning, then told himself that
he would never get married; all that cussing and moaning! In fact, Brenton felt he was fated to be a loner. He deemed it was only guys like Floyd who had to have a woman. Then again, guys like Floyd craved nuff women. Nothing seemed to satisfy the hunger of his bone! Brenton had lost count of the number of fit girls who phoned his hostel-mate.

That made him wonder what sort of father he himself would make. Probably a bad one, he acknowledged. Anyway, he had enough tribulations already without a baby adding to them.

The notion of having a girlfriend intimidated him. Floyd had said that Carol loved him off…but Brenton made no moves – he didn’t want anybody to get too close to him. Too right, women are too damn nosy, Brenton thought – always wanting to know your business and introduce you to their boring fathers. Still, Carol was attractive, but maybe she was a bit too tall for him.

Lost in thought, Brenton moved slowly out of the park and for a moment speculated on how Terry Flynn would be celebrating his Yuletide – probably by going to a party and drapesing some bwai for his corn.

Skywards, the greying heavens mirrored Brenton’s mood. When he got back to the hostel, the smell of fried corned beef struck him like a sock full of sand. He headed straight for the kitchen where, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a fork in his hand, Floyd was stirring something in a charred, bent frying pan.

“Where’ve you been, guy? You get up early, innit. I was feeling kind of peckish, so I thought I’d start dinner early.”

Floyd was in an upbeat mood. Brenton parked himself on the small kitchen table. Weary but inquisitive, he glanced at Floyd’s busy hands and asked: “You’ve got family around Brixton, innit. How comes you’re not spending Christmas with them?”

The question took Floyd by surprise. Turning off the two gas rings, which were heating the boiled rice and corned beef, he opened the fridge door and helped himself to a can of strong lager. After passing one to his mate, he answered, “Don’t get on with my 
parents.” He paused, took a serious gulp, then revealed: “My paps booted me out when I was only fifteen – bastard. Said he didn’t want no t’ief living under his roof.”

Brenton held his drink in front of his face, reading the label on the can as Floyd continued: “My mudder wanted me to stay, but she didn’t say anyt’ing. She’s too scared of the bastard, you understand? I don’t even know why she stays with the selfish sap. He treats her like dirt.”

Brenton was giving Floyd his full attention, so he plonked his can on the table quietly so as not to disturb his monologue. “Anyway,” he went on, “all this happened two years ago. I’ve got two older sisters I see now and again, but I’ll never go back home. Not while my paps is still there – I hate the coconut. He never stood up for me, and the friggin’ idiot will always believe whatsoever the pigs tell him – never me.”

Brenton studied his hostel-mate, thinking that he, too, had his problems. Floyd got to his feet and proceeded to share out the dinner as Brenton swigged down his lager. Deliberately changing the subject, Brenton enquired: “What time is Sharon coming round?”

“As soon as she can sneak out her yard without her licky-licky mudder noticing.”

Brenton raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What? Sharon’s mother is a ’colic? You wouldn’t think so‚ would you? Sharon seems so sort of…wise.”

Floyd licked free a tiny morsel of corned beef that had glued itself to a cuticle then remarked: “Even people who seem decent have fucked-up families.”

“You like Sharon a lot, innit? Or do you just want to bone her?”

Floyd parked a mountainous plate under Brenton’s nose then smiled as he sat down, preparing to taste his own cooking. “Yeah, I do like her,” he replied, “she’s got sense, man. She goes to Brixton College, innit, but I must admit, I’d love to bone it. She’s fit man. Her body’s gone clear – you wanna see her in tight jeans – her
backside just fits in neatly and t’ing. Yeah, man, that will be a wicked grind.”

Brenton grinned, picking at his food. “Yeah, she is nice. Ain’t you gonna take her to a club or something?”

Floyd laughed, wondering whether Brenton was asking a serious question. “With my dole corn? Be serious, man. I can’t even afford to get my slacks dry-cleaned.”

“Then learn to wash ’em by hand and iron them, innit,” Brenton scolded.

The pair finished off their meagre Christmas dinner, easing it down with a generous helping of some brutal brew, and then Brenton washed up the plates while his hostel-mate smoked a cigarette. “Lewis let me have his portable TV last night,” Floyd enthused, “so we might as well watch the James Bond film or something. The aerial’s shit, but I think I can get it to show a half-decent picture if you stand on the coffee table and hold it over your head.”

“That’s sweet. I thought I’d be bored out of my mind all day.”

“So what’s your story, then?”

“Ain’t much of a story to tell. I ain’t got no family, I’m on my friggin’ tod; my bitch of a mother left me at social services when I was a baby.”

“What about your paps?”

“Don’t know of him. Sometimes I think my mother don’t know of him either.”

Brenton’s last statement brought about a brooding silence and he compared his dinner of corned beef and rice to the corn-meal porridge that the Gong sang about in
No
Woman
No
Cry
,
but he couldn’t see how everything was gonna be all right.

“You know,” stated Floyd, stealing the pose of Martin Luther King, “my uncle used to say that when you’re on the bottom rung of the ladder the people above you can’t push you down any further – so the only way is up.”

Brenton fingered his earlobe. “I saw some words on the cell
wall. It went: ‘we, the oppressed, far outnumber our oppressor. If we unite and rise up as one, then no shitstem could ever control us’.”

“Sounds like a man like Peter Tosh was in your cell before you – serious vibes that,” guessed Floyd.

“But what does it mean?”

“Probably that the guy who wrote it was crucially pissed off by the beast and wants to get his own back.”

Brenton laughed. “Let’s watch telly.”

The duo trooped up the stairs and even though they only saw Mr Bond on the dodgy little black and white TV, both felt that Christmas Day hadn’t turned out that badly after all.