covered by blockboard.
‘Pound fe come in, an’ if you nah have the entrance fee, I will cuss your behind for wasting my time.’
‘Paid my pound already, man. You don’t recognise me?’
‘Don’t boder try fool me. One pound fifty fe come in, especially for you. I don’t like ginall.’
‘Crook your ear, man. I entered de dance wid Nunchaks.’
The doorman thought for a moment.
‘Alright, enter, yout’.’
The stench of Mary Jane made Biscuit’s nostrils flare as he made his way to the jam-packed room he had left with Nunchaks, his sight aided only by a blue light-bulb. Girls were dressed in thin, ankle-length, pleated dresses. Most of them sported hot-combed hairstyles; black sculptured art finished off with lacquer. By this time of night, a generous share of the girls found themselves enveloped by their men, smooching away to the dub version of ‘Soon Forward’. Sweet-bwais were dressed in loose-fitting shirts that were often unbuttoned to reveal gold rope chains. The latest hairstyle was semi-afro which was shampooed and ‘blown out’, giving an appearance of carved black candyfloss. No one calling themselves a sweet-bwai would go to a party without their Farah slacks and reptile skin shoes.
As Biscuit threaded his way to the room in which he’d last seen Coffin Head, the ghetto messenger Yardman Irie grabbed hold of the Crucial Rocker sound system microphone, ready to deliver his sermon. Dressed in green army garb and topped by a black cloth beret, Yardman Irie waited for the selector, Winston, to spin the rabble-rousing instrumental ‘Johnny Dollar’.
‘Crowd ah people, de Private Yardman Irie is ’ere ’pon de scene. Dis one special request to all ghetto foot soldier.’
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me daddy cannot afford de money fe me tea
Me mudder cannot pay de electricity
De council nah fix de roof above we
De bird dem a fly in an’ shit ’pon me
Me daddy sick an’ tired of redundancy
We ’ad to sell our new black and white TV
De rat dem ah come in an’ ’ave ah party
Me look out me window an’ see ah plane nex’ to me
Me feel de flat ah sway when we get de strong breeze
We are so high we cyan’t see de trees
De flat is so damp dat me brudder start wheeze
De shitstem is bringing us down to our knees
But de politician dem nah listen to our pleas
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me seh life inna Brixton nah easy
Me don’t know why we left from de Caribbean sea.
The crowd hollered their approval of Yardman Irie’s lyrics while flicking their lighters in the air; those without clenched their fists in raised salutes. Everyone wanted an encore. ‘FORWARD YARDMAN IRIE, FORWARD!’ Yardman Irie refreshed himself with a swig of Lucozade and a toke from Winston’s spliff.
Amidst the excited throng, butted against the wall, Biscuit made out Coffin Head, riding a disgusting crub that sorely examined the wallpaper.
‘Coff! Coff!’
Coffin Head looked up and saw his spar threading his way towards him. What does he want now, he thought. Probably needs a pen so he can write down a girl’s digits.
‘Coff, need to chat to you. Urgent, man. Step outside.’
Coffin Head’s dance partner, who was wearing a flowing pleated dress that was thin enough to expose her bra, looked upon Biscuit. ‘Can’t you wait till de record done?’
‘Who’s chatting to you? Jus’ quiet your beak an’ lemme chat to my spar.’ Coffin Head had read the worry upon Biscuit’s face. ‘Dis better be important, man. I was gonna ask de girl back to my gates an’ deal wid it proper. She’s fit, man!’
‘Trus’ me brethren, dis is important. Where’s Floyd?’
‘He jus’ chip. He lef’ wid some light skin girl. Said to me he’s gonna service her if possible.’
The two friends walked out of the party and Coffin Head led the way to his Triumph Dolomite. ‘You get de herb?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, but don’t worry ’bout dat. We’re in serious shit.’
‘Whatya mean?’
‘De yard we burgled the uder day …’
‘Wha’ about it?’
‘It was de friggin’ wrong yard!’
‘Who cares a fuckin’ damn? Got some nice t’ings, innit.’
‘It’s Nunchaks. His brudder’s woman yard!’
Coffin Head looked disbelievingly out through the windscreen. ‘You’re not ramping, are you?’
‘Course I ain’t friggin’ ramping. He told me dis as he was jus’ ’bout to fling me over de balcony of some dirty tower block. I t’ought my forehead was gonna kiss de friggin’ concrete. We’ve got to get de t’ings back.’
Coffin Head shook his head in dismay ‘I always said don’t deal wid dat man, I always said. But oh no, you jus’ wouldn’t listen. It’ll be cool, you said. Well, fuck my days. I’m fucked, we’re fucked. You jus’ don’t wanna listen to reason, man. Didn’t I say Chaks is into all sorts of shit. Pimping, money-lending, protection racket, drugs, cheque book. He even owns a Rottweiler dat fights uder dogs in Brockwell Park, to rarted. De man’s well versatile.’
‘Look, Coff, we can chat to Smiley an’ he might give us de t’ings back. We jus’ got to give ’im back his corn.’
‘Did you tell Chaks we sold de t’ings to Smiley?’
‘Are you cuckoo? Course I never! If I did you t’ink I’d be here now?’
Coffin Head turned the ignition key and pulled away. Barrington Levy’s ‘Bounty Hunter’ came on the car stereo, the lyrics backed by a hot-stepping rhythm that was full of menace. The song filled the two teenagers with dread.
‘Wha’ we gonna do, man?’ Coffin Head asked, turning into Brixton Road.
‘Check Smiley tomorrow.’
The council estate that housed Biscuit’s family and countless others, stretched between two bus stops along Brixton Road, and was three blocks deep. Biscuit made his way to his home slab and climbed four flights of concrete stairs, eyeing the graffiti that seemed to have been written when the block was built. The sight of the dark brown brickwork brought a powerful relief that not even the filthy syringes that were breeding in dark corners could repel. He winced as he observed the panoramic view of the tower block where Nunchaks had threatened his life. The sky was a malevolent grey, and to the east, beyond Kennington, he saw the hint of a threatening sunrise creeping over the tower blocks of Elephant and Castle. ‘A new day,’ Biscuit thought to himself and smiled. It was a phrase his mother had taught him when he was young. ‘A new day is full of hope.’
As a