‘What de fuck ’ave I done, man?’ Biscuit panicked. ‘I beg you. I ain’t done nutten to you. Dis has gone too far.’
‘You made ah wrong move, yout’,’ Chaks growled. ‘If you can’t listen good, den you mus’ feel pain.’
‘Wha’ wrong move, Chaks, man? Wha’ ’ave I done? I’m one of your best customers. My brethrens will be wondering where I am. Gi’ me a chance to explain whatever I’ve done.’
‘Stop grovelling, yout’, you sound like weak-heart bwai inna beast cell.’
Ratmout’ and Muttley dragged Biscuit towards the lift of the tower block. Before him Biscuit read the graffiti that decorated the bruised, hardwood swing doors of the entrance. Che Guevara, you’re wanted in Brixton, demanded one line. Biscuit looked up and saw hundreds of windows embedded in dark concrete reflecting the blackness of the night. He wanted to scream, but knew that if he did, his forehead would kiss Chak’s steel-studded Nunchakoos. Ghetto youths, especially in Brixton, flocked to the late-night Ace cinema to watch the latest Martial Arts films, and they all considered the top ranking scene of all time was when Bruce Lee wielded his Nunchakoos in Enter the Dragon, mincing the brains of five assailants. The scene was not lost on Nunchaks.
How did I ever get hook up wid dis bad man? Biscuit thought. A cold sweat snaked down from his temples. He thought of his hard-working mother and his younger sister and brother, wondering if he would see them again. Only half an hour ago he was smoking a spliff and enjoying a serious smooch with a fit girl. Now he felt like he was approaching the end of his short life.
Muttley, wondering if the lift was in order, thumbed for the top floor and then ran his eyes over Biscuit, as if he was sizing up which part of the body he should eat first. As the mechanism of the lift echoed into a downward motion, Ratmout’ emitted a throaty cackle, displaying his black gums and two missing front teeth. To add to Biscuit’s torment, and to pass the time, he slowly ran his right index finger along his throat. Nunchaks was flicking his lighter on and off, cursing that it had run out of gas.
When the lift arrived and the steel doors had juddered open, Biscuit caught the scent of something a dog had left in the corner of the cramped compartment. They entered the confined cabin, Biscuit scouring Nunchaks’ coat for any glint of custom-built brain scrambler. On the back wall of the lift was more graffiti in bold, red letters: legalise it.
A red-lit circle indicated that the lift had reached the 25th floor. The two flunkies shunted Biscuit through a wire-meshed door that led the way to the balcony. Biscuit ran the scene through his mind in trepidation. This was the end; he could see his eighteen-year-old body crumpled upon the concrete forecourt below, as lifeless as a black bag of rubbish. He felt an asthma attack gathering force in his chest and his fear rendered him speechless. Nunchaks was still fiddling with his lighter.
‘Wha’ yard number did you raid the uder day?’ Nunchaks demanded.
‘You can ’ave all de t’ings, man. Stereo, telly, everyt’ing. You can ’ave de lot, man. Jus’ lemme go. Der’s dis yard I’m working on nex’ week an’ you can ’ave all de t’ings we t’ief from der as well.’
‘Wha’ number!’
‘Er, you told me twenty-seven, innit.’
Nunchaks turned to his cronies. ‘My mudder always teach me dat if me can’t hear, I mus’ feel.’
‘Don’t frig about, Chaks, you’ll get de t’ings back, no worries.’
Nunchaks managed to get his lighter working. He paused, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Twenty-seven, you say?’
‘Yeah, man. Dat’s de number you gave me.’
‘Can you remember me saying twenty-seven?’ Nunchaks asked his goons.
‘No, boss,’ Muttley answered gleefully.
‘I swear you told me twenty-seven. I swear, man.’
‘You calling me a liar, yout’? You already raised your voice to me once. Do it again and you’re flying t’rough de air.’
Biscuit glanced behind him and saw the communication towers of Crystal Palace blinking away on the horizon, overlooking the myriad of tiny illuminations that peppered South London. He could just make out the grey, flat tops of his home estate along Brixton Road. His eyes went eastwards and he took in the Oval cricket ground, backdropped by huge round gas tanks that looked like the crowns of poor giants. Surrounding all this were cousins upon cousins of council blocks. Biscuit wondered if there was anybody around to hear him scream. Maybe someone who lived below had witnessed his plight and would come to the rescue.
‘I told you seventy-seven, yout’,’ Nunchaks said coldly.
‘Does it matter?’ Biscuit asked. ‘De yard ’ad a top of de range JVC system, an’ you can ’ave it, man. Free of charge wid nuff compliments an’ t’ing.’
‘Do you know who lives at twenty-seven?’ Nunchaks asked eerily.
Biscuit hadn’t a clue and wondered why it mattered so much to Chaks. He sensed his knees were buckling under the weight of his body, as if they knew he was going to die. My days are fucked, he thought. Knowing my luck I burgled a dealer’s yard.
‘My brudder’s woman lives der,’ Nunchaks revealed. ‘When I sight her she was ah liccle upset. She couldn’t believe dat while she was sleeping, some bastard bruk into her yard an’ tek away her t’ings dem. You even t’ieved de friggin’ ornaments!’
‘Sorry, Chaks, man. If we did know we wouldn’t ’ave gone near her yard. I’m sorry, man.’
‘Shall we bruk him up, boss?’ the smirking Ratmout’ suggested, eager to earn his money for the night.
‘Yeah, mon,’ Muttley added, pulling up his sleeves and preparing his right fist. ‘Mash up his knee cap to rarted.’
Nunchaks was more concerned with his lighter. He threw it over the balcony and into the night. Biscuit turned his head to watch it spiral towards the ground. He closed his eyes at the moment of impact.
‘Fockin’ wort’less piece of rubbish. I’m gonna drapes de bwai who sold me dat.’
He studied Biscuit and sensed the fear in the boy’s lean body. Biscuit’s petrified, narrow eyes were trained on Nunchaks’ coat, yet Nunchaks knew that if he revealed what was concealed inside he would get an altogether different reaction from the youth. He looked at Biscuit’s rangy legs and had to admit that he would never catch him in a long chase. He searched the teenager’s features again. Biscuit’s brown eyes were set in a diamond-shaped, chocolate-mousse-coloured face that showed the hint of a moustache. His top lip bore the scar of a recent spliff and infant sideburns lined his jawbone. Nunchaks had Biscuit cornered now; he could really frighten him.
Biscuit awaited his fate, breathing heavily and wondering if it wouldn’t look too pitiful if he used his inhaler.
‘Me ’ave ah liccle business in Handswort’ to attend to,’ Nunchaks announced. ‘I should be back by de end ah nex’ week. An’ when I reach, if me don’t see de t’ings dat you t’iefed, I’m gonna personally peel your fingers like raw carrot wid my machete to rarted. Y’hear me, yout’?’
‘De t’ings will be back before your ’pon de motorway, man. Considered done.’
Nunchaks glared at Biscuit for five seconds, before reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a polythene bag of top-range cannabis, rubbing the fingers of his free hand together. ‘You ’ave de corn, yout’?’
‘Yeah, course.’
Biscuit took out the wad of notes, totalling £250, from the back pocket of his Farahs and made the exchange. Nunchaks about turned and made his way to the lift, tailed by his minders.
‘By de end ah nex’ week, yout’.’