cream-coloured puffy anorak, he had time to smoke a cigarette before Biscuit came down. He looked out of the passenger window and thought to himself that Cowley was the ugliest council estate in the area. Why did they use the colour of old shit for bricks, he wondered. An elderly black woman passed his view, wearing a Sunday-best white dress underneath her unbuttoned blue trench coat. His eyes tailed her as Biscuit, dressed in blue seamed jeans and a thick black sweater, filled the passenger seat.
‘You’re an hour late,’ Biscuit rebuked.
‘Char, I ’ad t’ings to do, innit. Drop my mum to church.’
‘Church! I can’t see why so many of our mudders forward to dem boring service,’ Biscuit remarked.
‘Your mudder don’t.’
‘Cos she’s always busy ’pon Sundays wid bagwash, cooking an’ dem t’ing der.’
Coffin Head restarted the car and drove south along Brixton Road, turning left into Mostyn Road.
‘I’ve been to Smiley’s flat before one time wid Floyd,’ Biscuit said. ‘But you know what Myatts Field is like – one big friggin’ maze. I’ll never find it again.’
‘Yeah, but I know where Dyer’s flat is,’ replied Coffin Head. ‘We’ll head der first. He lives wid his mudder.’
Biscuit scanned the interior of the car. ‘When you gonna fix up dis car, man? Look how my seat is eaten out! No girl will sit ’pon dis. Dat yellow fluffy stuff is all coming out. An’ when you gonna get a new handle for de window? An’ bwai, you better get some more carpet to cover up de rust an’ t’ing ’pon de floor.’
‘I’ll fix it up nex’ week wid de corn I’ll make off de herb. An’ stop your complaining; dis car has saved you nuff trods on a cold night. We coulda walked to Myatts Field anyway, it’s only a five-minute trek.’
‘I don’t like walking across dat green wid all de amount of untold dog shit … An’ who de rarse is Dyer?’
‘Luther Dyer, jus’ come out of Borstal. He went to Kennington Boys an’ used to walk wid de Sledgehammer posse.’
‘Wha’ did he go Borstal for?’
‘Drapes a handbag an’ t’ing off a girl at Cats Whiskers. Beastman were waiting for him outside de club and he tried to chip but dey caught him jus’ outside Brixton Bus Garage. He shoulda known dat de beast always patrol outside de club. I t’ought it was a bit extra for de beast to ’ave van, nuff dog and truncheons blazing.’
‘How much bird did he get?’
‘’Bout a year. Beast went to his yard an’ found whole ’eap of uder t’ings. His mudder went cuckoo, cos she didn’t know nutten.’
Coffin Head turned into the Myatts Field Estate, driving down a narrow road with alleyways and paths leading off in all directions. Tiny sections of grass, dissected by cheap wooden partitions, fronted two- and three-storey blocks that seemed to have been built by an agoraphobic architect.
Coffin Head found a parking space and eyed a trio of black teenagers smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze. ‘I ain’t leaving my car here for long,’ he commented.
They climbed out of the car and surveyed the low-level concrete jungle around them. Coffin Head led the way up two flights of stairs to a path that offered no view outside the estate and was hardly touched by the sun. It was hard to tell where one home started and another finished. They kept a close watch over their shoulders, only too aware that even bad men got mugged around here. After many turns, they finally arrived at Dyer’s fortressed door. Coffin Head knocked impatiently.
‘Who dat?’
‘Coffin Head an’ Biscuit.’
‘I ain’t got no corn to buy telly, hi-fi or anyt’ing like dat.’
‘But we’re selling some nice collie, what you saying?’
The callers heard two mortice locks click back. The door swung open to reveal Dyer wearing a thick pullover and woolly hat.
‘Gas man cut off de gas to rarted,’ he began. ‘My mudder tried to reason wid dem but dey weren’t ’aving it. Friggin’ stinkin’ gas man dem. I have it in mind to break in to one of der yards an’ turn de gas on, fling a match an’ chip. Dey couldn’t wait ah nex’ week for us to pay de bill. An’ my mudder gets bronchitis … What herb you ’ave? Sinsemilla?’
‘Nah, jus’ collie,’ Coffin Head answered. ‘What d’you want? Ten pound draw?’
‘Yeah, but I wanna sample it first. Nuff imitation herb ’pon street.’
Dyer led his acquaintances along the narrow hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, Biscuit took out his rizlas and built a smooth spliff.
‘So what brings you two ’round ’ere? Don’t usually get ’ome delivery – more time I affe get my herb ’pon de Line. An’ you know dat’s a dangerous t’ing.’
While rolling the joint, Biscuit gazed at the Che Guevara poster that overlooked the bed. ‘Well, apart from dealing,’ he replied, ‘we’re trying to find Smiley.’
‘Smiley! Dat ginall. He’s trying to check my sister. Told my sister dat he’s got six pickney already but she ain’t listening.’
‘So where’s his yard?’ Coffin Head butted in.
‘Five doors away, an’ if you see him tell him to stay away from Chantelle. She’s only sixteen.’
After tasting the herb, Dyer nodded with a half-grinned satisfaction and paid for the merchandise.
‘It’s alright,’ he remarked. ‘Ain’t got too much seed in it an’ burns OK.’
‘Yeah,’ Coffin Head agreed. ‘It’s de best herb we’ve ’ad for a while. You should buy up some more before we sell out.’
‘Nah, my budget’s kinda sad right now.’
‘So you’ve come out of de import – export business,’ laughed Coffin Head.
‘Yeah, I got to see a friggin’ probation officer every Friday. An’ my mudder says dat if she finds out I’m t’iefing again, she’ll fling me out wid de chicken bones.’
‘Well, wish I could stay an’ chat but we’ve got some runnings to do,’ announced Biscuit, and the two wasted no time in leaving.
Following Dyer’s instruction, they found Smiley’s flat. The door was made of a varnished hardwood and had two spy-holes. Looking at the three locks, Coffin Head thought it funny that Smiley worried about burglars. Biscuit knocked ferociously.
‘Ah, who de backside beat down me door!’ stormed a voice on the inside.
‘It’s Biscuit. Open de door nuh, man.’
Smiley opened the door, wearing only his football shorts and a not-this-time-of-morning expression on his face.
‘Look, right, I ain’t buying
