Brixton Rock Read Online Free

receive a much harsher sentence. In his reply, Brenton assured the magistrate that he would seek a job and that in future he would not retaliate when faced with provocation.
    Back outside, Brenton found himself joining Mr Lewis on the steps of the courthouse. The social worker looked him up and down for a few seconds then stated: “You know what? I agree with the magistrate. I don’t want to see you in this damned place again either. Besides, as he says - you won’t be walking down these steps to freedom if you’re nicked again.”
    When they reached the car Brenton declined the offer of a lift home, saying he preferred to ‘hol’ a bus’ and check a spar he hadn’t seen for a while. That was his first intention anyway, but as he passed an off-licence he couldn’t resist the tonsil-pleasing delights of strong lager.
    Using the cash Mr Lewis had given him for his bus fare, he bought a can and opted for the long trod to Brockwell Park, but as he emerged from the shop an Asian man stopped in his tracks and stared at him. Brenton scowled as he opened the brew with a hiss. “What the fuck you looking at?”
    The Asian man soon retreated, not daring to look behind.
    It was a crisp day. The smell of heavy-vehicle engines skanked in the air and Brenton felt the breeze on his brown face as he strolled past Kings College Hospital on Denmark Hill. As he trudged on he could see illuminated Christmas trees in the front windows of a few houses and he thought how Christmas didn’t cater for the likes of him. A while later, when he was ambling down Herne Hill, he passed a church that had a large poster at its entrance. It read: Don’t forget the real meaning of Christmas. Come to church where we rejoice in the true meaning. At thatBrenton kissed his teeth and sauntered on, hands thrust deep in his pockets.
    When Brenton reached the park he saw a brace of schoolboys fishing with pole-extended nets in a condom and crisp packet-filled lake, searching for any life forms in the soiled water. Brenton sat down on a bench nearby. It was a peaceful spot where someone could relax their tormented mind.
    In the last couple of days he had heard some rumours concerning him and Terry Flynn. Flynn and his posse, as the ghetto press would have it, were headhunting Brenton to exact some sort of revenge. The thought of this baked fear into his mind, but he refused to display his consternation. The youths who knew Brenton well thought of him as being an ice-man, but he had his fears like anyone else. Also, he dreaded the fact that he would now be looking over his shoulder everywhere he roamed as a consequence of his beer-mug versus snooker-cue clash.
    He remembered the first time he laid eyes on Terry Flynn. It was just after he arrived in Lambeth, freshly brainwashed from the children’s home. Following a stroll in Brixton, some reggaetoasting guy wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat pressed a card into his hand. On it was the address of a forthcoming blues party not five minutes walk from the hostel.
    He arrived at 9:00 p.m. and wondered where everybody was, but a kindly girl told him he was a few albums early and that things would start to warm up about midnight.
    Midnight came, and feeling the need to be refreshed, Brenton made his way through the growing throng to a makeshift bar that was set up at the entrance to the kitchen.
    En route he accidentally trod on someone’s foot. He looked up, muttering an apology, and beheld a mean, bearded face wearing a beret and hoovering a spliff. The face glared at him like he was a slave who had refused a chore, then growled: “Watch weh you ah go, bwai.”
    “I said sorry.”
    “Don’t mek me see you again, you liccle half-breed, you.”
    Without hesitation, Brenton punched his tormentor smack on his jaw and made for the front door where he fled into the still, inky night. He learned later that the man he had boxed was this Johnny Too Bad deal called Terry Flynn.
    Viewing their recent fisticuffs in