East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle

mek your mudder worry over you, especially in dis cold.’

      He set off into the blackness of the estate, on his way to Coffin Head’s place. On route, he saw two boys trying to gain entry into a car that was parked in Calais Street. Bwai, dey start early dese days, he thought. They’re barely old enough to be in secondary school.

      A car horn interrupted his thoughts and he saw Coffin Head’s battered Dolomite brake sharply. Biscuit wasted no time in filling the passenger seat. ‘Put de heater on, Coff, its friggin’ cold.’

      ‘Char, you know so it don’t work. Somet’ing wrong wid my electrics.’

      ‘Der’s always somet’ing wrong wid your car, innit,’ Biscuit remarked. ‘Can’t you fix it up? I t’ought you was a scientist when it comes to mechanics.’

      ‘Shut up, man. You should be glad you ain’t trodding to Floyd’s yard.’

      Coffin Head turned left into the shadow of Kennington Boys School, an institution that bred many bad men. Biscuit looked at the school and wondered if the pupils would turn out just like him. Coffin Head’s eyes stayed on the road, driving past the tall, white council blocks on Loughborough Road before turning towards central Brixton. In the distance he saw the dark outline of a still windmill as he turned into the estate where his friend lived. Floyd’s block was only two storeys high, but it was a three-minute walk to get from one end to the other.

      ‘You bag up de herb in ten-pound draws?’ asked Biscuit.

      ‘Yeah, four draws I bagged up. One for Floyd, Sceptic an’ Brenton, an’ one extra in case any brethren turns up.’

      Floyd lived on the second floor, and two minutes later they reached his front door. Biscuit knocked as Coffin Head checked to see if he had parked in a well-lit spot. ‘If joy rider trouble my car I’m gonna gi’ dem two lick an’ sen’ dem hospital,’ he threatened under his breath.

      ‘Backside!’ greeted Floyd. ‘De herbmen cometh.’

      ‘Char, let us in, man. You don’t know it’s col’ outside?’ complained Coffin Head.

      The flat was in a state of redecoration. Pots of white paint were huddled in a corner of the half-painted hallway, next to a soiled black bucket. The visitors admired the posters of Jacob Miller and Dennis Brown; the rest of the wall in the passage was filled with flyers of raves and blues gone by. Floyd led the way to his uncarpeted lounge. Three bean bags sat in the middle of the room. A hazy-looking black and white television set, placed in the corner, had just finished a news broadcast and a Brixton suitcase thumped out Horace Andy’s ‘Natty Dread Ah Weh She Want’, the fragile vocals riding over a sensuous rhythm.

      On one of the bean bags sprawled a slim black guy with a goatee beard and high cheekbones. Sporting a wide green beret and a gold-toothed grin, his black polo-neck sweater was falling off his meagre torso. ‘Wha’appen Coff, Biscuit,’ he said. ‘You got de herb?’

      ‘Sceptic,’ Biscuit replied, ‘you t’ink me’s a dud salesman to rarted?’

      Coffin Head and Biscuit crashed on a bean bag each. Floyd disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a wooden chair in one hand and two ashtrays in the other. He joined his friends in front of the television set. The latest episode of Dallas was showing silently, with JR blackmailing a rival by placing drugs at the victim’s home and calling the police.

      ‘Gwarn, JR, you’re bad,’ hailed Sceptic. ‘Anyone who troubles ’im always end up inna cell.’

      ‘You shouldn’t praise ’im too much, Sceptic,’ remarked Biscuit. ‘It’s man like dose dat are working for JR who fucked you up inna cell.’