Brenton Brown (23 page)

‘Mr Brown!’ called Sean. ‘Mr Brown. You alright?’

‘What? Yes, sorry. Give me a sec.’

Brenton returned to the kitchen. He filled a glass with cold water and drank it in one go. He stared into the sink. He felt his face getting warm so he sprinkled water on the top of his head. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and exhaled. Son of Terror Flynn! He thought. Badman Terror Flynn. He terrorised nuff people, jacked a trailerload of man back in the day. Floyd ain’t gonna believe this. Jesus on a fucking moped! Christ on a raas claat bike! Life sometimes funny. What do I do? I can’t take away the job I’ve just given him. That would be fucked-up and bad-mind. Son of Terror Flynn? Boy! What a palaver. He ain’t looking for revenge, is he? He might wanna kill my backside.

Taking in one more deep breath, Brenton returned to the lounge. Sean watched him all the way. Brenton slowly sat down. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said. ‘Yeah, we were going to war on each other. We had this mad blood feud going on. But the tube train killed him.’

Sean studied Brenton’s face as if he had to write an essay about it. He said nothing for the next few minutes. Brenton started eating his patties again. He drank his beer. Only when he
finished
did Sean speak again. ‘One of my paps old-time bredrens said you was a proper warrior, not scared of nothing.’

‘Not scared of nothing?’ repeated Brenton. ‘That ain’t true.’

‘But you weren’t scared of my paps rep or anybody else.’

‘I was scared of everyt’ing,’ said Brenton. ‘Your paps scared
the living backside outta me. I knew he was after me. I couldn’t sleep at night. Could hardly walk on street without looking over my shoulder.’

‘But you still went to war with him,’ interrupted Sean. ‘Why?’

Brenton thought about it. ‘I’m not sure. I think I was a bit cuckoo, you know, crazy. I was reckless. I didn’t have nothing to lose. But I was still scared. I think I couldn’t stand the fact that he was looking for me. It seriously stressed me out so I thought what the fuck? I might as well look for him.’

Sean leaned forward in his chair. He searched Brenton’s eyes. ‘What? What makes you brave? What makes a man brave? What makes them stand up and fight when a next man is thinking of running away?’

Brenton scratched behind his right ear. He was about to say something but paused. He gazed at Sean. ‘Depends on what you think is brave,’ he finally said. ‘It’s not all about going to war with a man. Some people are not cut out for that shit. Some are. But whether you are or not it don’t mean that you’re all brave. Sometimes being brave is about doing something positive when your own bredrens are laughing at you. That’s brave.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sean.

‘I used to know a rapper,’ Brenton answered. ‘In my day we used to call them toasters. He wanted to be the best so
everywhere
he went he took his notepad with him, seriously. He would write his lyrics down and nuff yout’s did laugh at him. Back in my day no rapper trod street with a pencil and paper, y’understand? Anyway, this rapper used to have this small
dictionary
, you know, one of them pocket-sized t’ings. He used to go to the library and read nuff books, you understand? Man and man would laugh at him, take the piss outta him, kick all his books outta his hands. But he left Brixton to go Jamaica and become massive.’

‘What was his name?’ Sean asked.

‘Ranking T-saurus,’ replied Brenton. ‘He could chat lyrics all night. He got a recording contract with some American label and now he’s living in style in Atlanta. Believe me! But my point is when man and man was laughing at him, it was seriously brave to keep doing what he did, y’understand?’

Sean nodded.

‘I’ve got a brother-in-law,’ continued Brenton. ‘Clayton. To tell you the trut’ I’ve never got on with him. Clash of personality and t’ing. Trust me. Me and him can never agree. He goes on all superior and t’ing. He gets on my damn nerves with all that shit. But I respect him though ’cos he went to uni where there was whole heap of white people; I think he was the only black brother in his class. Yeah, Juliet told me all about the shit he had to deal with. I think he was the only brother in the whole damn uni. Anyway, he took all their fuckery, all their
fucked-up
whispers, all their racism and t’ing and got what he wanted, y’understand. That’s
brave.’

‘I hear that,’ nodded Sean.

‘So even you,’ resumed Brenton, ‘coming to my yard today. Juliet told me a little about your life, how you got involved with a madness, went prison and t’ing. But you stepped to my yard. You wanna change. Respect due! That’s brave. With Malakai passing away and t’ing you coulda gone to war with them other yout’s, y’understand? There might’ve been pressure dropping on your head from the street to get your revenge, you know. Malakai was your best friend and t’ing. But nah, you stepped to my yard looking work. Respect due for that. That’s brave. Y’understand what I’m trying to say?’

‘Yeah. I see what you mean.’

Brenton nodded. ‘I’m sorry for what happened with your daddy but it was a long time ago. It was a me-and-him situation, a last-man-standing kinda fucked-up t’ing. I could understand if you didn’t wanna work with me but the offer’s still there.’

Sean looked at the table then glanced at Brenton. ‘Yeah, it was a long time. Man wants to move on now. I wanna make something outta my life. Malakai thought I could. So I owe him at least a try.
Trust!’

Offering his right hand to shake, Brenton looked into Sean’s eyes. Sean studied Brenton’s hand. He then swapped glances with Brenton and shook his hand.

‘Next Monday morning,’ said Brenton. ‘Reach my yard at seven thirty in the morning.’

‘Yeah, I’m up for that,’ said Sean.

Five hours later, Brenton was naked staring at himself in his bathroom mirror. Johnny Clarke’s
Jah Love Is With I
was playing from his bedroom. He studied the scars on his neck, his
shoulder
, his chest and on his legs. ‘You’re lucky to still be here,’ said Brenton to himself. ‘Damn fucking lucky.’

He picked up a jar of moisturising cream and started to rub it on. His landline phone rang. Brenton went to answer it in the lounge.

‘Hello,’ he greeted.

‘Hi, it’s Juliet.’

‘Bit late, innit?’

‘I just wanted to find out how your meeting with Sean went?’

‘Went alright,’ answered Brenton.

 ‘Just alright? Did you offer him something?’

‘Yeah, a part-time kinda t’ing. He’s starting with me next Monday.’

‘That’s brilliant, Brenton!’

‘No worries, just trying to set a man back on the road, y’understand?’

‘Thanks for doing this, Brenton.’

‘You sure it’ll be alright with Breanna?’

There was a pause.

‘She’s still vex about him.’

‘That’ll pass,’ said Brenton.

‘She might need counselling, Brenton. She’s still very upset. She never leaves her room. Always crying …’

‘What do you expect, Juliet? She just lost her man. Course she’s gonna still be upset.’

‘But she’s saying she wants to quit her job and do some
voluntary
youth work.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Brenton.

‘She’s throwing away her career.’

‘She might not like her so-called career,’ argued Brenton.

‘I told her not to do anything drastic,’ said Juliet. ‘She’s still grieving. I told her to give herself time.’

‘She’s old enough to make her own decisions, Juliet.’

‘But she’s not thinking straight. She swore at Clayton tonight and all he was trying to do was to tell her to take time out and think things over. She’s been feisty like any other young girl at her parents but, Brenton, I’ve never heard her swear at one of us before.’

‘Juliet, what do you expect? She saw her man get gunned down on the street for fuck’s sake …’

‘And I’m trying to see her through it …’

‘No, Juliet. Breanna needs to go through it in her own way. Let her do what she wants to do. What’s so wrong with doing youth work anyway? You and Clayton should let her do it if that’s what she wants to do.’

‘Brenton, she needs help,’ said Juliet. ‘Maybe I should arrange for her to see a counsellor or someone?’

‘Did she ask to see a fucking counsellor?’ asked Brenton. ‘Leave it alone until she wants to see one of them people.’

‘I’m worried for her, Brenton. Really worried.’

‘She’ll come through, man. It’s only been what? A month or so? Give her time, man. The shock is still in her.’

‘Brenton, with all that’s going on …’

‘With all what’s going on?’

‘I just think,’ stuttered Juliet, ‘I just think that we should all be there for her, you know.’

‘We are all there for her,’ said Brenton. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your plans.’

‘What plans?’ asked Brenton.

‘Your plans to leave.’

‘What about it?’

‘Don’t you think you should put them on hold?’ said Juliet. ‘Breanna needs all of us right now …’

‘I’m not leaving tomorrow, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Yes, but how do we know if Breanna’s going to pull through all this? We don’t know. She needs you here.’

‘Juliet, I’m not going nowhere for months. Not at least till November. Breanna will be alright by then, believe it.’

‘Say she’s not?’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Juliet! Think positive. Look, I’m not changing my plans. The paperwork’s gone through already. What happened with Malakai was a tragedy and t’ing. Breanna will get back her life.’

‘Why you so sure?’

‘Wherever I am in six months’ time she’s free to visit. The same goes for you.’

There was a long pause.

‘Would you come and visit, Juliet?’

‘I … I just think you shouldn’t go when Breanna is going through all this stress.’

‘You didn’t answer my question, Juliet?’

‘I … I don’t know,’ answered Juliet. ‘All I can think of now is Breanna.’

‘Yeah, of course,’ said Brenton. ‘She’ll be alright. As I said just give her time.’

‘You’re right,’ said Juliet. ‘Sorry to call you so late. I was just, you know, so worried about her.’

‘That’s alright. You don’t have to apologise and t’ing.’

‘Sorry, I just feel a bit … helpless. Do you realise that when you go to America you have to have health insurance and all that? If you haven’t got it they can turn you away from the
hospital
. Did you know that?’

‘Stop fretting, Juliet,’ said Brenton. ‘I’ve looked into all that. I’m on the case. My eyes are wide open. Believe me … is there anything else?’

‘No … sorry again for calling so late.’

‘No worries.’

‘OK, Brenton. Good … goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Juliet … tell Breanna I’m thinking of her.’

‘I will.’

‘
WHERE YOU GONNA SMOKE
a spliff in Miami?’ asked Floyd,
draining
a glass of beer. ‘Police in the States don’t ramp, you know, especially in Florida. Dat’s George Bush’s brother state. Major worries! They’ll fuck you up without no apology. You know that their truncheons are about three-foot long. The redneck police have spikes on their truncheons and it has this homing t’ing on it that beeps when it’s close to a black man. It might be best to step where the crocodiles coch so you can burn a zoot in peace, dread.’

‘Serious t’ing,’ laughed Coffin Head.

Coffin Head was standing up, glancing through the large windows at Brixton Town Hall from his vantage point three floors up in the Ritzy bar. Christmas lights lit the lone tree in
Windrush
Square and festive illuminations were threaded through the branches on the trees that surrounded St Matthew’s Church. Within the grounds of the church, despite the snarling wind and biting cold, idlers, the homeless and the confused drank their drinks straight from the bottle and hunted for cigarette butts to make roll-ups. They watched a lone dog snout for a late supper in an overflowing bin. Coffin Head looked to his right towards the High Street and he saw a 159 bus brake sharply to avoid a reeling woman. Young black men congregated outside the
Kentucky
takeaway as outside the restaurant a black-cab taxi driver refused the custom of a dreadlocked, shoeless white guy.
Dance-hall
music was earth-quaking out of a jeep that had stopped at
the traffic lights beside the Ritzy cinema. Coffin Head looked to his left where next door to the Town Hall bouncers from the Fridge nightclub were storm-trooping a cursing raver out onto the street and apparently starting to kick him. Just below the Ritzy a well-dressed teenage girl was sitting on the kerb with her head in her hands. She was sobbing as a police siren rang out in the distance. Coffin Head shook his head and muttered, ‘
Different
people may come and go but nutten change inna Brixton.’

Inside the Ritzy bar, Luciano’s
It’s Me Again Jah
was sounding out from the stereo system. The clientele included moviegoers who had come up from the Ritzy cinema downstairs. The walls were covered in classic film posters. The coffee machine at the bar seemed to be forever buzzing and crammed into a corner members of a black book group were having a heated debate about Eldridge Cleaver’s
Soul on Ice.

Brenton’s party included Floyd, Coffin Head and Biscuit. Their table was covered with empty and half-f glasses of beer and cocktails.

‘You’re not gonna take one last look, Brenton?’ said Coffin Head. ‘Brixton in all its fucked-up glory! Some yout’s call it the Dirty South. What did we call it back in the day? The ghetto, I think. What age did you come to Brixton?’

‘Sixteen,’ answered Floyd. ‘And when I first saw him I said to myself who the blouse and skirt is this idiot with the mad grey Afro and white people clothes!’

Brenton chuckled. ‘To be honest,’ he said. ‘I could hardly understand a word you were saying, dread.’

‘I never met a yout’ like that before,’ said Floyd. ‘His accent! There was some kinda BBC, Surrey fuckery going on with his accent. I thought he went to some posh school where they wear dem black square t’ings on their head-tops and dem vampire garms.’

‘Nah,’ said Biscuit shaking his head. ‘I could tolerate his accent.
Didn’t bother me. What freaked me out was his walk. When I sight Brenton for the first time I just couldn’t stop laughing at his walk. I mean, where the fuck did you get that walk from? That was some farmer, cow-nibbling, sore-bunion, straw-yamming, country-bumpkin kinda walk, dread. Man! I laughed!’

‘I had to teach him to walk like a Brixtonian,’ said Floyd. ‘You know how stressful that was? You see dem programme about a greyback granny learning to drive? You see how stressed out the instructor gets when the greyback can’t even remember how to start the car? Well quadruple that shit and you might get near to how Brenton stressed me out with me teaching him how to walk street like a black man. He had no riddim, man. No bounce.’

Everybody laughed.

‘And then I tried to teach him how to crub with a girl,’
continued
Floyd.

‘Yeah, I remember that,’ said Coffin Head. ‘Serious t’ing. That girl in Clouds.’

‘What girl in Clouds?’ Biscuit asked. ‘Was I there?’

‘No you weren’t there,’ recalled Brenton. ‘Your mum wouldn’t let you go.’

‘That’s cold, Brenton,’ chuckled Biscuit. ‘Did you have to remind me of that? Can someone tell me the runnings of what happened with Brenton and this girl at Clouds?’

Floyd began laughing. Coffin Head joined in and Brenton wasn’t impressed.

‘Stop the skinning the teet’ man,’ complained Biscuit. ‘Tell me the story nuh!’

Composing himself for a couple of seconds, Floyd burst out laughing yet again.

‘For Jesus in a fucking jeep!’ moaned Brenton. ‘Can we move on from this fuckery?’

‘No, no,’ said Floyd. ‘I’ll tell the story.’

‘Go on then!’ urged Biscuit. ‘And stop fucking about.’

‘Alright, alright,’ said Floyd catching his breath. ‘Here’s the SP. For one long bitching week I was trying to teach Brenton how to crub with girl, y’understand? Man! It was like teaching Prince Charles how to roll a five-paper spliff.’

‘What?’ queried Coffin Head. ‘You was crubbing with Brenton? Fuck my living days, dread! I always wondered what you two got up to in that hostel. That is just fucked-up nastiness, dread. Two man crubbing? Did the both of you get a
Thunderbird
One erection? All juices are go? Full blast and t’ing?’

‘Coffin Head,’ called Floyd. ‘Will you keep your beak quiet while I tell my tale.’

‘Tell your tale then but I don’t wanna hear no battyman
runnings
. My earlobes don’t like dem t’ing there.’

‘Anyway,’ resumed Floyd, offering Coffin Head a mean eye pass. ‘I was showing him the movements, you know, one step, two step, figure eight, double dip, rookumbind, bruise pussy and all the rest. He seemed to get the hang of it when he was dancing by himself …’

‘I’m getting a fucked-up image of Brenton doing this figure eight on his own,’ laughed Coffin Head.

‘Coffin Head!’ called Floyd again. ‘Can you please staple, superglue and double-lock your beak, man. I’m trying to tell the story! Fuck my rasta lying flat on a fucking road ramp!’

‘OK, OK,’ said Coffin Head. ‘Carry on and t’ing. I won’t interrupt.’

Floyd offered Coffin Head another brutal eye pass. Brenton rolled his eyes and Biscuit kissed his teeth.

‘So after the training,’ Floyd resumed. ‘I took my man to Clouds. I had to lend him some of my garms and tell him to fix up himself ’cos I wasn’t stepping into Clouds with Brenton dressed in his white country-bumpkin clothes and his fucked-up Afro. Lord Jesus! Brenton’s hair was dry! I should’ve sent him to one of dem Arab countries to dip his head in an oil well!
The Afro was a fire hazard, nuff danger and t’ing! Anyway, he also had his fucked-up side-burned farmer trod and his plastic shoes. When he put those t’ings on his feet I called him the PVC Kid. Man! You could hear the squeak of his shoes from the bins behind Cowley estate, dread! He didn’t know nutten about fashion. He was lucky there wasn’t a heat wave going on ’cos his feet woulda come like a whole heap of chocolate button on a firing barbecue, serious.’

‘Get on with it, man,’ said Brenton.

‘Nuff girl was there,’ continued Floyd. ‘Nuff Vauxhall Manor School girls there, Dick Shepherd, Priory Park, St Martin’s,
basically
a whole heap of girl. Brenton was kinda nervous and he was sweating like an old man with nuff heart worries inna
whorehouse.
I pulled this girl. Brenton watched. When I finished crubbing her I told Brenton to pull her friend.’

‘Her friend was a trog, man!’ protested Brenton.

‘Yeah, she was a bit serious train accident disaster and t’ing but man have to start somewhere, right?’ said Floyd. ‘Anyway, at first Brenton wouldn’t pull the girl. I was getting pure frustration ’cos of the amount of time of training I put in. I told Brenton that if he don’t pull the trog I’m stepping home.’

‘No,’ argued Brenton again. ‘You wanted to step home ’cos that girl you was crubbing with didn’t give you her digits.’

‘Anyway,’ Floyd went on. ‘Brenton pulled the trog. They started crubbing. Lord on a fucking lilo! I don’t know what the fuck Brenton was doing.’

Everyone laughed again, even Brenton.

‘I think Brenton was trying to do the two-step,’ Floyd resumed. ‘But he was going waaaay too fast, bredren. You know like how white men with no riddim do that old-school
locomotion
dance? Brenton was looking down at his feet and the trog started to get vex, and man, she looked even more ugly when she got vex. The next t’ing I know, they both drop.’

‘Right in the middle of the dance floor?’ asked Biscuit.

‘Yep,’ Floyd answered. ‘Slap bang, golden bolt, Crafty Cockney bullseye and t’ing. Everyone stopped crubbing and looked at Brenton and the trog. It was embarrassing. The trog started cussing Brenton. Brenton just kinda stood there. He had to take all her Brixton fishwife, ghetto-drain cussing. He didn’t know what the fuck to do or say. It was embarrassing, dread. I had to step away. I could hardly look and t’ing.’

Everyone collapsed into giggles and Brenton could only shake his head and join the laughter.

Ten minutes later, Coffin Head was composed enough to ask, ‘Why you really going, Brenton? Florida’s a long way, bredren. You ain’t gonna miss us?’

Brenton thought about it. ‘I want what you have,’ he finally answered. ‘All of you got your families and t’ing. Got kids and t’ing. I haven’t got that yet. Believe it! I’ve tried but it’s never worked out with anyone.’

‘What happened to Lesley?’ asked Biscuit. ‘She looked alright. Fit for her age and t’ing. Good mum, well educated. She had her own hair. And her cooking weren’t too bad.’

Brenton shook his head. ‘T’ings just didn’t, you know, work out.’

‘So you think it might work out with some American girl?’ asked Coffin Head.

‘You never know,’ replied Brenton. ‘I just wanna change, dread. Been in Brixton for how long? Twenty-five years or
thereabouts
. Wanna coch in another corner of the world.’

‘Yeah and when you settle we’re gonna come over,’ laughed Biscuit. ‘We’re gonna piss in your pool, shit in the sea, jack Mickey Mouse, rape Barney Rubble’s wife, burn a fat spliff in the magical kingdom, drug up Coffin Head and push him in alligator pond.’

‘Rape Barney Rubble’s wife!’ repeated Coffin Head, disgusted. ‘Biscuit, dread, you’ve got issues with your female characters in
toons, dread. Serious t’ing. You’re fucked up. You’re seriously fucked up.’

‘What’s a matter with you, Coff?’ asked Biscuit. ‘Brenton knows I’m joking. How the living fuck am I gonna rape a cartoon character? Christ in a crackhouse! I’m just saying that we’ll all visit him and t’ing when he’s settled.’

‘That’ll be sweet, dread,’ said Brenton. ‘And I’m gonna try and come over here at least once a year … by the way, who’s gonna put me up?’

‘Not me,’ said Floyd. ‘You poop too much. I remember his poops from the time I lived with him in the hostel. Brenton’s poops are seriously dangerous, weapon of mass destruction and t’ing. You ain’t stinkin’ out my yard, you know how Sharon stays about that kinda t’ing.’

‘See how your best bredren treats you though,’ said Coffin Head. ‘You can stay with me and Denise. We got a spare room and t’ing.’

‘I’ll hold you to that, Coffin Head,’ said Brenton.

‘No worries, dread,’ replied Coffin Head. ‘Just let us know in advance so we got nuff time to buy some serious air freshener, incense sticks and t’ing.’

Everybody laughed again. Brenton finished his drink and as he did so he took a long look at his friends and wondered how his life would have been different if he hadn’t met them.

‘Gotta step now,’ Brenton said. ‘Gotta be at the airport by half seven but before I hit my bed I have to drop something off at Juliet’s yard.’

‘Alright then,’ said Floyd. ‘Coff, how much liquor you had tonight?’

‘Just the one, man!’ Coffin Head replied. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘Alright, alright,’ said Floyd. ‘No need to burst no blood vessel and t’ing. Just checking.’

‘Come on, man,’ said Biscuit. ‘Let’s step to Coff’s BMW. You know what? This is the first time I’ve been in his BM and he’s had it for what? Seven months now?’

‘It’s gonna be the only time,’ insisted Coffin Head. ‘There’s custard cream crumbs all over the passenger seat, man. Serious t’ing! And you ain’t cleaning it up.’

‘Oh for fucking Buddha on a bouncy castle!’ Biscuit said. ‘Stop bitching, Coff!’

As Brenton heard the banter of his friends, he realised how much he would miss just listening to them. It was a joy to hear their jesting and he reckoned he had no need to fork out and watch a play for entertainment like Juliet had always
encouraged
him to do. But would he be able to make new friends in Florida? he wondered. Probably not. And if I did they’d be nowhere near as good or funny as Floyd, Biscuit and Coffin Head. Maybe it’s easier for me to discover and live in another place? My roots are not in south London. Not like it is with them. They belong here. This place has defined the way they walk, talk and carry themselves. They’re at ease here. If I was honest with myself I’m not at ease here. Not at all. Serious. Maybe I’m not at ease anywhere. But I’ll be alright. Been on my own before.

The image of the outhouse where Brenton was locked in for so many hours as a child grew large in his mind.

Coffin Head led Brenton and the others to his BMW. When Brenton climbed inside he could smell a strong mint air
freshener
. The interior was pristine clean and Brenton found no crumbs on the front passenger seat. He spotted a small
battery-operated
hoover on the shelf behind the rear seats. Coffin Head started the car, the Chantells’
Waiting in the Park
harmonised from the stereo and Brenton smiled as Coffin Head drove around the one-way system and up Tulse Hill.