East of Acre Lane
East of Acre Lane is the fast-paced and razor sharp story of a young man trying to do the right thing and establishes Alex Wheatle as the exciting new voice of the urban experience.When East of Acre Lane was first published in 2001, Alex Wheatle instantly became one of the key commentators on contemporary black culture and was featured in BBC news, radio, numerous papers and Channel 4. The BBC have already optioned ‘East of Acre Lane’ to be made into a film.Set in 1981, the year of the Brixton riots, the novel is a gripping thriller in a society on the edge of explosion. Wheatle focusses on Biscuit and his posse as a way to introduce the whole community. Biscuit lives with his mother, brother and sister. He helps out by hustling on the frontline for the south London badman, Nunchaks. He doesn’t want to be doing this for the rest of his life but it’s difficult to get out of the trap.As the patience of the community breaks and the riots begin to erupt, Biscuit has to make a choice that could change his life forever.
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ALEX WHEATLE
East of Acre Lane
Contents
13 The Teachings of Jah Nelson
P.S. Ideas, Interviews & Features …
Unfinished Stories: Joanne Finney talks to Alex Wheatle
27 January 1981
It was 3am and Biscuit found himself being driven through the bad lands of South London. He was in the back seat, his heartbeat accelerating, flanked on the right by this big grizzly thing called Muttley, who looked like a young George Foreman with untamed facial hair. On Biscuit’s left was the evil cackling dread nicknamed Ratmout’, whose face would crease into a mask of sadism if anything humoured him. Nunchaks, the Brixtonian crime lord, was behind the wheel, displaying perfect calm. How de fuck am I gonna get out of this? Biscuit thought.
He wondered what he’d done to warm Nunchaks’ wrath, and regretted leaving the party without Coffin Head and Floyd. It had been a dread rave. Plenty girls to dance with, strong lagers free flowing, and Winston, the top notch selector of Crucial Rocker sound, spinning some dangerous tunes.
‘Jus’ ah liccle drive to tek in de sights,’ Nunchaks said, smiling.
‘Forget ’bout de herb, man,’ Biscuit suggested, ‘I’m too busy nex’ week to do any selling, an’ I was riding a serious crub wid a fit girl at de party.’
‘De bitch can wait,’ Nunchaks responded grimly.
‘Don’t fuck about, Chaks,’ Biscuit fretted. ‘Lemme outta de car, man, I ain’t in de mood for one of your jokes.’
‘Who de rarse says I’m joking. An’, more time, I don’t like yout’ who joke wid me.’
The Cortina Mark Two pulled up at the foot of a cloud-seeking tower block, somewhere behind Stockwell Tube Station. The thick-necked Muttley yanked Biscuit out of the car as Nunchaks, in his cashmere coat and beaver-skinned hat, observed the skyline. He looked like a character from Shaft.
‘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.
