Authors: Alex Wheatle
Juliet gave her brother a shove, which made him lose his balance and nearly drop to the floor. “Don’t say I talk fuckries.”
Brenton grimaced with pain, clutching his lower back.
“What did you do that for? I’ve got a bad back and you’re making it worse.”
“Ahh, does it hurt? I’ll bawl for you. See what I mean about men can’t take pain?”
Brenton’s expression of pain changed to one of meek enquiry. “Somehow, I get the vibe you’ve come around here tonight to take the piss out of my back.”
Juliet laughed heartily, causing her brother to raise a smile; it felt good to see his sister in such buoyant mood. Meanwhile, Juliet hung her coat in the wardrobe. She then sat on the bed and noticed her brother staring at Mr Dean, wondering why one simple portrait of a young, good-looking man, clad in leather jacket and white T-shirt, could have so much meaning to someone like Brenton. “He only made three films, innit, then he died in a car crash,” she said softly. “Sad, innit, so young.”
“Yeah … Ain’t you going out with your friends raving tonight? To a club or something?”
“No, I just thought I would come up and see how you were. Haven’t got any objections, have you?”
“No, of course bloody not. I always like to see you, you know the vibe.”
Juliet reached out to her handbag and took a cassette from it. “I thought I’d bring my own tape ’cos most of yours are pure jumpers music. You’ve only got one decent tape. Anyway, this one’s got Roberta Flack on it.”
Brenton looked mystified. “Who’s he?”
Juliet tried hard not to laugh. “Roberta Flack is a she. You haven’t heard of her? Where’ve you been, man?”
“Her name rings a bell,” he said unconvincingly.
Juliet laughed and then proceeded to sing the first few lines of
Killing
Me
Softly.
Her brother recognised the song and wasted no time telling his sister, “Oh shit, I know that. Yeah. But the way you sing it, you make the record sound bad.”
Juliet retaliated by picking up one of the pillows and swinging it at him, connecting her brother on the head.
“You’re too facety.”
“Hey, watch my back, man. That’s twice now you’ve kuffed me. Bwai, it seem like you want me to friend-up a wheelchair.”
“You and your bloody back, you’re like an old woman … Hey, I tell you what, lie down on your stomach and I’ll give you a massage.”
“A what?”
“A massage. You know, relax the muscles and t’ing.”
“You ain’t touching my back.”
One lingering look at Juliet, who was sporting her most sexy smile and Brenton knew he couldn’t resist. So he stretched out along the bed without hesitation, flat on his stomach, then his sister sat astride him, hitching up her skirt, exposing her toned thighs. She gently rubbed his crusty shoulders and cupped her palms around the back of his neck. Then she used her thumbs to penetrate deep into her brother’s upper back, using a downward motion that teased him ferociously. Brenton felt Juliet pulsating in rhythm with her hands, and his cravings went into over-drive at the prospect of what was to come.
The massage turned into a caress, as Juliet’s digits walked inside her lover’s T-shirt and string vest. I’m gonna make him want me so much, she said to herself. His eyes closed, he savoured every moment of this so-called massage, enjoying the warmth of her soft palms exploring his yielding back. Bone-wakened, he turned around, wanting to kiss and embrace his masseuse, but as soon as he did so, Juliet sprang up. “Wait, the tape!”
Brenton soon realised that Juliet had planned the evening’s proceedings.
She inserted her Roberta Flack tape in the suitcase, then spun around to face her impatient-looking brother. “Not complaining about your bad back now, are you?”
Her hand reached out to switch off the light, and then she felt her way back onto the bed, where Brenton was vulturing to embrace her. He considered kissing her Hollywood-style, but decided instead to yank off her pullover, exposing her firm, round
breasts. Juliet knew he wanted her and Brenton couldn’t wait to feel the warm flesh of her body against his naked skin. She hurriedly sought out his heaving chest and sketched around his nipples. His hands tremored as he cupped her breasts, feeling her heartbeat as he proceeded to gently knead them. Juliet moaned, half-closing her eyes, and groped for the zip in his denims. She zipped him half-open and paused. Brenton was trembling like an eighteen-inch bass speaker. This feels so good, he thought breathlessly.
She pulled the zipper down as quick as a guillotine, then they undressed each other in a frenzy, kissing as they did so, longing to see each other fully naked.
Two I-love-you’s later, they tangled naked together. During their intense lovemaking, the couple felt comfortable enough to gaze into each other’s eyes longingly, without any embarrassment. Brenton had never felt so much joyous emotion. He prisoned his eyes, thinking it must be a dream, only to free them and set his gaze on Juliet’s glistening body. He marvelled at her nakedness. He couldn’t hold her tightly enough to his body and his partner sensed the power of his arms holding her and the pent-up emotion releasing itself from his perspiring body. She pleasured in his strapping body bearing down upon her, and watched the sweat dripping off his ecstatic face. She orienteered with her hands all over his muscular backside and could feel the cries of her own body, wanting to be stroked all over. Brenton couldn’t wait any longer as he relished the sensation of Juliet’s moist lips pecking his chest.
As he entered her, their faces ironed against each other. Juliet, wondering if God had designed Brenton just for her pleasure, knotted her lithe legs around his thrusting back, urging him into a frenzied exhilaration. He could feel her polished nails pincering his back as the couple gummed to each other, as if they wanted to make themselves as one.
Twice more they made love during the night before Brenton,
feeling only a slight twinge in his back, fell asleep blissfully happy.
Juliet noticed her brother’s strange snoring sound and wondered how many times she would listen to it. She gently snuggled up to him, placing her hand on his shoulder and coching her head on his well-constructed chest. She listened to his heartbeat and lay there, open-eyed, tuning into her brother’s breathing pattern. She looked at the scar on his neck, thinking to herself, My hero. Exploring his face, she raised her head and examined the thin hairs above his upper lip, forming an immature moustache. Still not quite a man, she thought.
Then doubts bombarded her mind. After all, she was lying in bed with her half-brother. Mum would go absolutely spare, she thought. Desires of her flesh had once more triumphed in battle, and only something brave could halt the march of lust and its allies before they destroyed everything.
O
n Capital Radio, the ten o’clock news had just reported the concern community leaders in the inner city felt about relations between the police and young blacks, and particularly the suss law. Floyd had heard the vexed rhetoric of the ghetto press, and smelt the aroma of uprising and revolution in the Brixton air. Placing his thoughts at the back of his mind, he prepared to listen to David Rodigan, who was about to introduce his reggae programme.
It was some sort of ritual on a Saturday night for untold reggae heads to listen to David Rodigan’s selection for a couple of hours, then head out to a party or a club, or in Floyd’s case on this particular night, a blues dance.
Earlier in the afternoon, Floyd had purchased a small black and white television off Biscuit for twenty notes, negotiating the asking price of thirty notes.
The volume of the television was turned down as Floyd lay flat on his back, hands clasped behind his head, watching the football while listening to reggae at the same time.
Dressed only in his black corduroy trousers and black string vest, he was very conscious of the time. For him, it was trodding too slowly. Impatiently, he willed it forward to ten past twelve. By then, he would be on his way to the blues dance where he looked forward to what he thought would be a serious crubbing session.
The sound system, I Spy, was spinning the lovers rock, and they boasted a sizeable female following.
Hanging from the plain brown wardrobe were Floyd’s galhunting clothes, which consisted of a pair of blue slacks and a blue-black-flowered imitation silk shirt. He knew it would be steamy in the blues, so he planned on wearing a cardigan instead of a pullover. He had been going to ask Brenton to trod with him to the blues, but he felt his spar was acting strange of late, so he didn’t bother. Anyway, Brenton wasn’t the best company someone could have at a blues dance. All he did was coch against the wall and inspect the crowd. And as for Biscuit, he and Finnley were on a secret gal-hunting mission up Hackney.
Floyd pondered on why Brenton shaped away from chatting and crubbing with girls, and why his brethren was not interested in Carol, who with the slightest persuasion would wide out her legbacks for him. She was criss: Floyd pictured her long elegant body and wondered why any man would reject her. Biscuit was forever asking to be set up, and perpetually asked Sharon where Carol lived, but didn’t like the repeated reply of ‘SW9’.
Match
of
the
Day
concluded. Floyd punched through the channels to check if there was anything else worth watching - apparently not. So without further ado, he switched the television off while kissing his teeth, and laid back down on his bed feeling impatient. But Ram Jam Rodigan made the waiting easier to bear, playing selections from Black Uhuru, Eeek-A-Mouse and the upcoming superstar of Jamaica, Johnny Osbourne.
Fourteen Rodigan selections and a news update later, he strutted to the bus stop, hoping the last bus hadn’t gone earlier than scheduled. His shoes were discomforting him as the rims of his leathers almost crocodiled his ankles. But nothing could dampen his optimism for the night ahead.
It was mild for the time of year and Floyd could get away with wearing only a thin blue cardigan over his shirt. As he turned into the High Street, he noticed a contrast in cultures. While many
white guys and girls were apparently making their way home, perhaps from a pub or restaurant, here was Floyd and hundreds of other reggae heads all over London, just heading out to their Saturday night, Sunday morning entertainment.
Floyd watched a middle-aged man on the other side of the road, the worse for drink. Pedestrians kept their distance from the colic, as he attempted to place one unsure foot in front of the other.
A trio of young teenage blacks appeared in the distance, trooping in a hurry, as if they were three expectant fathers-to-be, rushing to the hospital. Dressed in jeans and trainers and all of them sporting black berets, Floyd recognised them as members of the newly founded branch of the Black Panthers, based in Brixton. They seemed to have sprung up after the death of Blair Peach, who was allegedly killed by the police on an anti-Nazi march. They preached in secluded corners of Brixton, telling whoever would listen that black people should use arms to protect themselves from the truncheon-happy pigs. Floyd knew the Black Panthers had a small following, but the influence they spread, mixed with the lyrical content of music winging in from Jamaica, bred a feeling of unease and revolt.
Floyd hawked the trio. “All right?”
“Yes boss,” one of the teenagers answered, turning around to cautiously examine Floyd. “Cowley estate, tomorrow,” another teenager announced. “Reach if you can. Brothers coming in from America to talk to the ghetto yout’s. Too muck fockin Babylon man killing our people – so you must reach, and tell your brethrens - Cowley estate, on the green behind the flats.”
After this brief exchange, the threesome stepped on their way, with their bodies almost forming silhouettes as they disappeared into the deepening night.
A number 45 finally arrived, soprano-ing to a halt and surprising for this time of night, full of passengers. Receiving his ticket, Floyd sensed the driver was not at ease working at this hour, probably due to the spate of attacks on bus drivers in the area.
As there wasn’t much traffic on the road, Floyd reached his destination ten minutes after boarding the bus. He bounded off it and strutted towards the council estate where the blues was being held.
A Cortina mark 2 sped past him with a black youth’s head protruding out the window, sneering at the stepping Floyd. “Trodder!”
Floyd glanced up to see the car accelerate into the distance, thinking to himself he would have his own motor one day.
Minutes later, he entered the council estate where the blues dance was being hosted, locating it by following the faint sounds of reggae music.
This was a typical inner-city estate. Brand new cars could be found alongside old, crippled cars. Rubbish chutes were overflowing, reminding Floyd of a bigger version of his overfilled ashtray at home, and he checked the familiar sight of plywood sheets blocking up the doorways and windows of vacant flats. Black teenagers often tore down the plywood and used it to build themselves speaker boxes.
The children’s play area, in the forecourt of the estate, had been well vandalised. Even though pets were banned from most council estates, a pack of stray dogs roamed near the large circular rubbish bins, in search of a meal their owners could not afford.
Now the music could be heard clearly. Floyd trotted up the steps of one of the blocks only to find, as usual, that the lift was out of order. This wasn’t as frustrating as it might have seemed, because he thought the damn t’ing would reek of piss-water anyway.
He reached the floor of the blues dance to be greeted by a mass of rave-goers all herding around the front door. The doorman was having an argument with a guy who apparently didn’t want to pay his tax to get inside.
“I know the girl who is having the dance, man! I ain’t paying no rarse pound! Go call her, man,” roared the vexed punter, trying to gain admission.
“Sorry, me can’t do that, man. No freeness, no squeeze fe anybody. Pound fe come in,” ordered the doorman sternly.
This exchange of lyrics was holding up blues ravers who were prepared to pay their tax - Floyd included. In consequence, there was a lot of pushing and jostling occurring near the front door. Other ravers, who probably couldn’t tolerate the heat and stuffiness inside the flat, were peering over the balcony wall, hoovering their snouts and spliffs and watching the ash and dead matches flutter down to the concrete ground below.
The tense row at the front door eventually subsided after a compromise was reached, with the still riled guy, trying to avoid payment to the blues, paying 50p for the privilege.
Passing through, Floyd found himself in an overcrowded hallway, lit by a dim red light. He passed the kitchen, which was being used as a makeshift bar, and as he inched his way onwards, he accidentally trod on the foot of a surly-looking lager-swilling yout’. “Watch where you a go, bwai.” Floyd remembered how Brenton’s feud with Terry Flynn began. “Sorry, boss.”
A table was parked across the kitchen doorway, with strong lagers stacked upon it, waiting to be bought. The barman was an overweight rastaman, sporting a knitted red, gold and green hat, and wearing a jacket that a commando might have fancied. “Pound fe a Special Brew or Red Stripe.”
Floyd ignored the hard sell and squeezed into the room where the sound-system boys had strung up. Overhead wires, taped to the top of the doorframe, told Floyd that two rooms were being utilised for this dance.
It took him ten minutes to make his way from the front door to the middle of one of the dark rooms being employed. A torchlight, used by the DJ, was the only illumination. Now he was in the centre of the room, Floyd’s next move was to go and seek a decent spot to stand where the well-shaped ladies outnumbered the sweet bwais, so as to increase his chances of riding a serious crub.
Patrice Rushen’s Forget Me Nots blared out from the speakers - a soul tune, and the crowd two-stepped as if they were part of one entity as the DJ kept on yelling, “Soul break!”
Floyd took the opportunity to move closer to a few girls he spotted in the corner of the room. After another soul break he patiently sort of side-stepped and hot-stepped into prime position. Clocking around him, he couldn’t resist a foxy smile to himself as he waited for the DJ to play some lovers rock.
Taking off his cardigan, Floyd held the garment by pushing his hand in his pocket, with the knitwear draping over his wrist. Trying to acquire a good posture, he shuffled his feet a few times. The bevy of girls that aroused his loins were behind him, but the crub-hungry Floyd preferred to be behind them. Fortunately, he received a lucky break when a crusty youth removed himself from his position against the wall, and obviously feeling the need for fresh air, made clumsy efforts to depart the room. Floyd was quick to slip into the position the intoxicated guy vacated.
Following three anxiously hoovered cancer sticks, Sister Love’s
Every
Bit
of
My
Heart
boomed out from the speakers. Floyd reached out his spare hand and gently pulled the fit girl’s wrist in front of him. She turned around and with a polite look, discreetly shook her head. Not feeling too downhearted, Floyd patiently awaited the next lovers rock record. When he heard the intro to Alpha’s
Can’t
Get
Over
You,
he stretched out his hand again, extending his arm a little further as he ‘pulled’ another girl’s wrist.
Floyd thought she wasn’t as criss as the first one he’d pulled, but she was decent enough. After a lingering stare, she willingly stepped into Floyd’s clinch. There was an initial confusion over the style of dance, but it was quickly sorted out as the couple settled down to rhythmical groove. Feeling confident and peckish for a tighter crub, Floyd pulled his prey until his hands could meet around her back. Record after record Floyd requested a crub with his keen partner, and the more they crubbed, the tighter the embrace became. It had now reached the stage where the girl didn’t bother to
rejoin her friends following the ending of a record. She just settled in her bone-tremoring partner’s arms.
Thinking hard for something intelligent to say, Floyd whispered, “So, er, can’t you tell me your name?”
“What?”
He tried again, this time speaking louder. “What is your name?”
“Rosene,” she answered, craning her neck so her mouth could get as near as possible to Floyd’s lobe.
The sound of the music was unrelenting, but the couple were determined to get to know each other as they talked and crubbed for the next hour or so. Rosene must have tickled his fancy‚ because on two occasions, he even struggled through the massed throng to get to the makeshift bar. He was certainly glad his partner only downed soft drinks, as his budget did not cater for any liquor, especially at the prices they were being sold at here.
At half past four in the morning, the disgruntled sweet bwais and a couple of roughnecks who failed to find a partner, loitered in the hallway or were strung out along the balcony, staring aimlessly down at the forecourt, which was now filled with badly parked cars. The two rooms were still packed though, with sweating couples practically making love, standing up in their clothes.
Floyd decided it was time to take in some badly needed air and chat with his dance partner outside. The pair weaved their way onto the balcony, where the cool night air rapidly refreshed their sweat glands down a degree or two. Rosene appeared even more criss in the light, as he studied her clear face and carefully kept permed hair. Wearing an off the shoulder, silky blue dress, she indeed looked stunning.
Floyd bided his time until they passed any would-be news reporters – he remembered how Carol caught him crubbing with Sylvia. The couple stood at the far end of the balcony, viewing the panorama from their third-floor vantage point.
“So, er, Rosene, could I see you again? You know, um, can we go out sometime?”
Rosene seemed to be revelling in the attention. Flashing him a smile, she looked at her admirer with a sexy, sideways glance, causing Floyd to feel a flock of butterflies in his stomach.
“Maybe we could, but it might be difficult, if you know what I mean. I’ve sort of got a man, y’know.”
An expression of curiosity passed over Floyd’s face. “What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”
“You might know him – everyone else does.”
“Why? What’s his name?”
“Terry. His spars call him Terror, Terror Flynn.”
Floyd’s eyebrows shot up through his forehead. “Frig my living days … You go out with Terry Flynn?”
“He takes me out now and again - he’s a brethren of my brother’s. But it ain’t serious, if you know what I mean. He ain’t that bad when you get to know him.”