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Authors: Alex Wheatle

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BOOK: Brenton Brown
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‘I think you should ask your mum about your real dad,’ said Malakai. ‘You’re a big woman now. Twenty-one tomorrow. What she told you about your real dad don’t sound right. Ask her again but be polite about it. Be understanding. Ask in a mature way.’

‘I will,’ replied Breanna.

‘We’ll wait until your bus comes,’ offered Malakai.

Breanna kissed Malakai again and she snuggled up to him while waiting for her bus. Jazz was exchanging phone numbers with Sean and by the time they had finished their bus had arrived.

‘Don’t be late tomorrow!’ said Breanna.

‘I won’t,’ replied Malakai. ‘Get on the bus!’

Malakai and Sean watched them step up to the top deck. They both waved as the bus pulled away.

‘Man! You work fast,’ said Malakai. ‘Did you get her number?’

‘She asked for my number first, bredren,’ Sean replied.

‘Do you really know Breanna’s Uncle Brenton?’

‘I don’t know him. My mum does. Did you see the scar on his neck?’

‘Yeah. Looks ugly, man. It’s like brown jelly or somet’ing. Wouldn’t like to touch it.’

‘Then it’s him,’ Sean confirmed. ‘My mum definitely knows him.’

Half an hour later Sean reached his fourth-floor flat in the

Lilford estate off Coldharbour Lane. There was scaffolding surrounding the blocks to help the construction workers replace old windows. Eek-A-Mouse’s
Virgin Girl
singjayed out from a second-floor flat. Sean heard two dogs barking as he climbed the stairs. Entering the flat he glanced at the yellowing paintwork in the hallway. He wiped his feet on the tatty mat on the
imitation
wood-panelled floor. He found his mother in the cramped kitchen washing up mugs and dishes. She was listening to a radio phone-in programme; a caller wanted to know what to do after discovering that her boyfriend had made seventeen calls to a girl she didn’t know on his mobile in the last two days. Sean sat down at the small kitchen table. Without turning around his mother said, ‘There is chicken in the oven for you. Wash up after yourself. I’m tired of getting up in the morning and seeing the sink full up. And if you have any friends around tonight tell them to keep it quiet … Fling him out, you damn idiot! What’s wrong wid you? He’s fucking another bitch! Lord Jesus! You get pure foolish woman ’pon de radio.’

‘Already eaten, Mum,’ answered Sean. ‘Went Nando’s with Malakai.’

‘Why you never tell me? That food better not waste! You can have it for your lunch tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, Mum. I will.’

‘And you’d better be careful out there on street. You shouldn’t be going to a place like Nando’s. I don’t want no damn phone call telling me somet’ing happen to you.’

‘Mum! What do you expect me to do? Sit in the flat all day? You keep telling me I get on your nerves.’

‘Those bad breed boys might be still looking for you.’

‘Most of them are inside. And the rest of the crew who aren’t doing time are pussies …’

‘Don’t use that language in my yard!’

‘They won’t do me nothing, Mum. It’s been over two years now.’

‘There’s still nuff bad feeling around. Maybe we shoulda take up the police offer to relocate?’

‘What? Be driven out of our ends by those puss …’

‘Don’t
use that word in my yard!’

‘Look, Mum. I’m not involved in that life anymore. I’m trying my best to walk good as you say. I’m ignoring all the crap that’s on road.’

‘Where have you been today anyway? You’d better be looking for work. I can’t run this place by myself. I need help.’

‘I was this afternoon. Then I bump into Malakai and I followed him Nando’s. You’d never guess who his girlfriend’s uncle is?’

‘Eddie Murphy? Stevie Wonder? Bob Marley? The raas claat Cream Puff Man in
Ghostbusters
? What kinda stupid blasted question is that? How am I supposed to know?’

‘Brenton Brown.’

Sean’s mother, Venetia, stopped washing the dishes. She stilled for two seconds before turning around to face her son. ‘Brenton Brown?’

‘Yeah. The same Brenton Brown who you’ve been telling me all my days that mash up your life.’

‘That was the past,’ said Venetia. ‘A long time ago. I don’t want you doing anything stupid.’

‘Don’t do nothing stupid? You’re the one who kept saying everything was his fault. You know, with my paps.’

‘Stay away from him, Sean,’ Venetia warned, pointing a finger. ‘He’s a dangerous man. Crazy, so some people say.’

‘I ain’t gonna be afraid of him. I just wanna meet him. See what all the fuss is about mad Brenton Brown.’

‘I’m warning you, Sean.
Stay
away from him.’

Rising to his feet, Sean offered his mother a contemptuous glare before disappearing into the lounge. He switched on his Playstation. He turned up the volume. His thumbs and fingers
were a blur as he played a violent game where he had to kill as many characters as possible before reaching the next level.

‘Don’t think you’re playing that damn somet’ing all night!’ Venetia yelled. ‘I want to watch my news in fifteen minutes. And turn it down! What you take this for? You think you inna disco?’

Sean kissed his teeth and kept on killing characters on the screen. Venetia returned to her washing-up. ‘Brenton Brown,’ she whispered. ‘You fucker. You wreck my life.’

TAKING OFF HIS HARD HAT,
Brenton walked into the kitchen of the house he was renovating. Dustsheets were on the floor and the smell of paint attacked his nostrils. A white guy with a
measuring
tape and a pencil was marking something on the kitchen wall. Brenton watched him for a few seconds before admiring once again the new kitchen cupboards he had fitted. A naked bulb illuminated the undercoat on the ceiling. A bruised, dusty radio with a coat hanger acting as an aerial was playing Spandau Ballet’s
Gold
. ‘Daniel, try and finish up by tomorrow morning, yeah,’ pressed Brenton.

‘Should do so, Bren.’

‘The lady of the place been on my case all day,’ revealed Brenton. ‘Wanted to turn off my mobile. I told her ages ago that we should finish her flat by the end of this week. But nah. Her parents are coming down from wherever tomorrow afternoon and she wants to show off her new flat all decorated and t’ing.’

‘Just got to put the second coat on and tidy up the corner of the ceiling then I’m done.’

‘Good,’ said Brenton, examining the paintwork of the ceiling. ‘I’m stepping now ’cos it’s my niece’s birthday today. You’re alright to lock up, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, no probs.’

‘And remember to put the lids back on the paint cans and sweep up when you finish. That fussy bitch might decide to come round later on and have a look at what we’ve done today. I don’t want her loading off to me in the morning.’

‘Alright, Bren. I get it. You told me five times today already.’

‘OK, Daniel. Sorry about the grief I’ve given you today but that woman really gets on my tits.’

‘Tomorrow, Bren.’

‘Try and make it for seven in the morning, Daniel. Let’s finish this job and get the fuck out of here. I’ve got a job in Barnes I want to start.’

‘Barnes? Where’s Barnes?’

‘The other side of Putney,’ Brenton answered. ‘We got another conversion to do, making three flats out of a three-storey house. Should keep us going till Easter. The man who asked me for a quote drives one of them new Jags so I’m gonna jack up my price.’

‘Overtime?’

‘Yes, Daniel, they’ll be overtime if you want it.’

Taking off his overalls before stepping out of the building, Brenton wondered if he should’ve made more of an effort to buy Breanna a present. He had been busy with work but was that a reasonable excuse? Dunno what to buy her anyway, he shrugged. She’s got the latest mobile, iPod and all that fuckery. And no way am I gonna dare buy her clothes. Fuck that. Hope she’s happy with two hundred pounds. Was it too much for an uncle to give to his niece? Nah. She’s twenty-one. It’s a milestone. And I’m the only uncle or aunt she’s got. Maybe I should give her more? Make it a round figure. Five hundred pounds. Maybe not. Don’t want to give Breanna more money than what Juliet and Clayton might spend on her. Fuck Clayton. Maybe I should give Juliet a call to find out what they’re buying her? Haven’t spoken to her since the funeral. It’ll be nice to put that argument behind us.

Before getting into his car, Brenton took out his mobile and thumbed down to Juliet’s number. He paused. He stared at her number. He visualised her face. A deep longing stirred in him. He checked his thoughts. Nah, she’s probably busy with all that
Lambeth Council shit. She might still be mad with me. Still gotta buy Breanna a card. I bet Clayton buys her a card and does some writing in it that is well over the top.
To my darling dearest sweet daughter on her most special day.
Fuck Clayton. Breanna
ain’t
your daughter.

Climbing into his car, he switched on the ignition and Little John’s
Smoke Ganga Hard
exhaled from the stereo. From Pimlico it took him half an hour to reach his home off Brixton Hill. He stopped off at the Nubian culture shop where he bought Breanna’s card. Once he reached home he washed his hands before writing in the card,
To Breanna, Love Uncle Brenton
. He dreamed of one day signing a card,
Love Dad
.

Deciding against a shower, Brenton took a leisurely bath and felt good that all the dust, grime and dirt from his day was washed away. Daniel better sweep up when he’s finished, he thought. Should I call him? Nah. He’s already said I’ve been stressing out too much this week.

Once he had pulled fresh clothes on he inserted Breanna’s card and two hundred pounds into an envelope. He felt good and smiled in anticipation. He wrote Breanna’s name on the
envelope
and underlined it with a flourish. For a moment he wished he had a better writing hand. Like Juliet’s. Her writing is so neat, so elegant. There was a knock at the door and he went to open it

Standing perfectly still in a black trench coat with both hands on her hips was Lesley. Something was erupting in her eyes and Brenton noticed the solid look of her jawline. Her lips seemed that bit thinner than the last time he’d seen her. Oh shit! he thought. I haven’t called her back. Oh fuck! ‘Come in,’ he said.

‘So you can talk?’ snapped Lesley. She marched in and sat down at the dinner table. She placed her designer handbag on the table and folded her arms once more. She didn’t unbutton her coat and she looked out of the window as if she was waiting for some kind of apology. ‘Forgotten how to use your mobile?’

Taking his time closing the door, Brenton cautiously joined Lesley at the table. He carefully pulled out a chair as if any noise he made would ratchet up her obvious anger. He struggled to come up with a greeting.

‘Why haven’t you returned any of my calls or texts?’ asked Lesley. She was still staring out the window. ‘And don’t give me no rubbish about your battery playing up.’

‘Just … busy, you know.’

‘What do you mean you’re just fucking busy?’

Brenton had never heard Lesley swear before. Well, maybe the odd
shit
but she only said it if she dropped and smashed a glass while drying up or something. ‘I’ve been stressed lately.’

‘You’ve been stressed lately? Ahhh. Poor you. Life been a bit too much for you these past few weeks, has it?
Rubbish!

‘It has with my mum dying and t’ing.’


Rubbish
again. You’re using that as an excuse and you’re insulting my intelligence.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I can’t ever remember you expressing any undying devotion to your mum so don’t give me this grieving
oh my god my mum just died
rubbish.’

‘It did hit me hard. Sometimes you don’t appreciate somet’ing till it’s gone.’

‘If you’re gonna chat rubbish in my ears then I might as well leave.’ Lesley stood up from her chair and hooked her handbag over her left shoulder.

‘It’s not just Mum,’ Brenton explained. ‘It’s work as well. Been stressful lately.’

Sitting back down again, Lesley offered Brenton a hard stare. He looked away as if guilt slapped his face. He rested his eyes on the framed sketch of a resilient rasta boy that was hanging from a wall. ‘My son was sick the other day,’ Lesley stated. ‘Usually I would call my mum to look after him but she’s sick as well.
There’s a flu bug going around. It’s that time of year. I’ve already taken enough days from work and I know I’m beginning to piss off my boss although he’s been polite about it.’

‘Sorry to hear,’ offered Brenton.

‘Sorry to hear? When I come home I’m tired but I have to sort out dinner and make sure my kids do their homework. Then I have to deal with bills that I haven’t opened for days. Then I have to remember to call Mum or otherwise she’ll accuse me of not caring. If I’m lucky I might get time to cool out with a glass of Baileys about ten o’clock and watch
CSI: Miami
. But I don’t get that luxury ’cos there’s always something to do in my house like cleaning, sorting out the kids’ clothes and stuff. I really look forward to the weekend, when I’ve got time for myself, time to see you. Then I get a call from that wort’less father of my kids saying he can’t take them at the weekend because he’s working or something; what he really means is that he’s taking his new woman on the fucking Eurostar to Paris. After all that shit, I still find time to call you. If your phone’s off then I send you a text.’

‘I know,’ Brenton nodded. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry? So when I’m stressed out and feeling emotional I still wanna be in touch with you. A nice conversation after a tiring day would be nice, you know, with my so-called man. You know? Give me a bit of understanding. A boost. But oh no! Not from you. You can’t answer my
fucking
call or text ’cos you’re too
stressed
. You’re nothing but a selfish, me-me-me piece of shit.’

‘It’s not that I meant to disrespect you …’

‘Oh so that makes it alright? For what? Two or so years I’ve been trying to make it with you. I ignored how little you put into our relationship. I ignored that it took you months to
introduce
me to your precious family. I overlooked you being rude to my friends; Cerise thinks you’re a mental case by the way. I even put up with you not inviting me back to your place for the first three months. Jesus! I thought you was fucking around.’

‘Look, Lesley. Let me explain.’

‘No! You listen to me.’

‘I admit I’ve been off-key lately.’

‘Is that what you call it? Off fucking key? When you haven’t got the decency to return any of my calls? You know what? I don’t deserve this. You’re the worst kind of man. A fucking shit!’

‘Lesley, you need to calm down.’

‘Don’t fucking patronise me! After everything I’ve done to make our relationship work, what did you say to me in the car?
T’ings are not working out. I need a break
. The way you said it was so casual. Like I was a stereo or something that didn’t work anymore. Don’t you respect anyone’s feelings? Are you even capable of considering someone’s feelings? Is it all about you and only you?’

‘I have nuff respect for you.’

‘No you don’t,’ accused Lesley. She glared at him. ‘You’re a cold-hearted piece of shit. You used your mother’s situation to try and break up with me.’

‘That ain’t true,’ argued Brenton. He looked away, unable to face Lesley’s contemptuous glare. She laughed.

‘Like I said, you’re the worst kind of man. Maybe you’re not the kind that sleeps around but at least you know where you stand with those men. No, you’re the type that can’t commit. You allow women into your life but only up to a point. You allow women to start loving you but there’s a limit. You can’t let them get too close. Oh no. Guys like you are too precious for that. You never let them get too intimate. And when I say intimate I don’t mean making love.’

‘Two years is a long relationship,’ said Brenton. ‘Don’t that mean something?’

‘Not in your case it don’t. As soon as I managed to get close to you, get to know your family and stuff, you say you need a raas claat break. It was only three months ago your sister invited
us to her place for that dinner party. I thought, OK, we’re really tight now.’

Brenton bowed his head.

‘Your sister joked that we should get married,’ resumed Lesley. ‘You remember? Everyone had a giggle about it but
not
you! We’re not even thinking about it, you said. We don’t even live together you said.
You
humiliated me in your sister’s house. But even that I put up with. Be patient I said to myself. He’ll come around. Like
fuck
you would!’

‘Did I ever say we was gonna get married? Did I?’

‘No, you didn’t. But where were you expecting us to go in our relationship? Carry on meeting every Saturday night, go out somewhere and then have sex? You really think that’s all I wanted? You really think I’m the kind of woman who would just settle for that? Was I some kind of sexual relief after your
stressed-out
week of work? Am I just a little notch better than a fucking blow-up doll?’

‘No, course not.’

Needing to escape Lesley’s biting glare, Brenton went to the kitchen. He stood at the sink and bowed his head.
Fuck!
he screamed in his head. I’ve really fucked up. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘No!

‘Do you want a biscuit or something? Got some custard creams. Apple?’

‘No!’

Returning to the dinner table with a cold beer in his hand, he faced Lesley again. ‘What can I say? I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry for what?’ Lesley countered. ‘Sorry for letting me get close to you? Sorry that I developed real feelings for you? Sorry you met me? What are you running away from? What did you expect to happen when you have a relationship with someone for two years or so? Or in our case an
alleged
relationship.’

‘I … I had a fucked-up childhood,’ admitted Brenton. Maybe I should tell her all about it? he considered. She might be
sympathetic
. Don’t tell her everything though.

‘Yeah,’ Lesley nodded. ‘I know. You had a bad childhood. Breanna told me you were in a home. You think my childhood was any better? ’Cos I was the oldest my mom beat the living shit out of me when things went wrong in our house. If Dad came home drunk and shouted at her I would get it in the neck in the morning. On some mornings I got it all over my fucking body. I spent my eleventh birthday in some battered woman’s home. The crazy thing about it was that Mum was in there for Dad battering her but the social workers never even realised she was beating the living shit out of me!’

‘Sorry,’ Brenton managed. He didn’t know where to look.

‘My dad beat me up on my sixteenth birthday,’ Lesley continued. ‘For putting on make-up, and you know what’s funny? If my dad won on the horses he’d take his winnings and go and see prostitutes. After all that my mum still went back to him. So don’t come to me with no
fucking
violin tissue story wanting my pity. I don’t want no man of mine crying about
his sad life in a children’s home
while he’s in his forties.’

‘I didn’t know you had it so rough,’ said Brenton.

‘You didn’t want to know. You never asked. It was just about you and when I asked about your past you told me you didn’t want to discuss it! So you lived in a home. Do you wanna hear a fucking violin concerto? Do I have to buy extra towels to dry your tears? So fucking what! At least you got three meals a day. Where I grew up everyone had a sob story but you know what? Most get over it and don’t wallow in self-pity. They move on.’

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