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.
Louisa Mark’s ‘Caught You In A Lie’ played quietly from the stereo, the anguished vocals giving the lyrics extra power. Carol studied her long-time friend and thought of the many if onlys between them. Biscuit’s commitment to her she never doubted. Her wish was for him to rid himself of all crime and search for a career or a worthwhile job. Then they could make plans for the future, and perhaps even marry.
Deep down, she loved Biscuit. He had kind of grown on her through the years, like getting on terms with a glass of Guinness – the first you could hardly swallow, but by the seventh it’s a cool taste. She dared not tell him of her true feelings, however. Things might get complicated.
‘Some youts are going on dat YOP scheme run by the Government,’ Carol suddenly announced. ‘De money ain’t brilliant but at least dey’ve got a chance of getting a permanent job when dey finish de six months course.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Biscuit replied. ‘Sceptic tried it. He quit after two weeks. He told me de money is only seven pounds a week better dan dole money. De government are only doing it to cut down on de unemployment figures, innit. An’ besides, dem employers who use de scheme are jus’ using de youts dem – a kinda slave labour. After de six months done dey don’t offer any yout’ a permanent job, dey jus’ get anoder yout’ to do a nex’ six months, innit.’