Forest Gate (13 page)

'I don't have a phone.'

'Well, get one,' said 5, throwing some money at Meina.

'I don't need your money.'

'Don't get pissy, sis,' said 4. 'We're not interested in your love life, but anything happen to our little brother here and I'm going to hold you personally responsible.' He turned to James. 'And let me tell you something else for free, little brother. You think you found yourself a pretty girlfriend? Well, don't get carried away. She may be pushing all the right buttons now but these black girls are fucking crazies. They're the devil's work. Believe me, I'm only telling you this because I love you. Forget drugs, forget guns, and forget about the white man. You get the wrong black chick and she'll snatch your soul and then she'll start to fuck you up –'

'And when you're lying in the road with blood coming out your ears, she still won't be satisfied,' interrupted 5.

They all laughed in that wolf-like way they did, like a pack. Meina looked at their mother, hoping for support. But Mrs Morrison just shrugged. 'We're serious,' Number 3 said. 'It's time to use your head. Don't make her any promises and stand your ground. Black women are like Brazil nuts, you can't tell a bad one until you've cracked it and taken a bite.'

'And wear a rubber at all times,' added 2.

James listened to his brothers as one might a passing aeroplane on a beautiful day. It sounded like they were preparing him for war.

'Doesn't Danny W's babymother live on Lumumba?' asked 3.

'That's right, I used to bone her. Terry Stevenson, she lives at number 44.' It was the first time Number 1 had spoken.

'Yeah, I remember her. She was hot,' said 2.

1 and 2 laughed hysterically.

'She wasn't hot,' said 3.

'I'm not saying she was hot to look at,' said 1. 'But I think we would all agree she had body for days.'

'I give you that,' said 2 looking at 3.

'All right, I concur,' said 3 after a long moment. 'She was fit.'

'Somebody call Danny and tell him the coup,' said 5.

'You know Danny's gonna want work,' said 3.

'So is Ratchet,' said 2.

'I'll give a little something to Danny W. He's cool. But didn't I see Ratchet on
Top of the Pops
or something?'

'Not
Top of the Pops
. It was one of those other music shows. He went in the charts at number 11 or some shit. He's into that grime or grindi or whatever the fuck. He got an 18,000-pound advance by Black Dawg, bought a 7,000-pound Rolex, some trainers and a piece of shit SUV with 33-inch rims that were more expensive than his ride,' laughed 1.

'Jesus. Grindigrime? Is that what they're calling being a twat these days?'

'I told you. Piss ants,' said 4.

5 sighed loudly. '3, go talk to Ratchet. Throw him something. Not real work – just let him do something so he thinks he's on the firm.'

'Something like what?' asked 3.

'Use your imagination,' said 5 and Number 3 smiled.

The SUV pulled into the centre of Lumumba estate, tinted windows vibrating with the sound of Fifty Cent. The driver's door clicked open and James's brother 4 jumped out, a white Kangol perched at a ridiculous angle on his massive bald head. 2 and 3 also jumped out, opened the boot and wrestled out two suitcases full of James's things. James and Meina sat in the back seat trying not to notice the twitching curtains. James's face was solemn, flushed with embarrassment. They had hardly spoken since leaving his flat.

'Are you angry with me?' he asked.

'I don't have Aids.'

'I know you don't.'

'Why does your brother 5 look like that?' Meina had to shout above the din in the car.

'Like what?'

'Sad.'

'He's been that way since he got back from prison. He sleeps with a loaded gun beside him and most nights he sweats his sheets and screams out. I asked him what it was like once and after he chewed my head off he said going to prison had cost him his soul.'

Just before they'd left, 5 had called James out of the maisonette. By then the rain had started. Meina was waiting for James, holding the front door. She saw 5 hand James a sheet of A4 paper with a list of numbers on it.

'Put this somewhere safe,' he said. 'If you need anything take it, all you need to do is to let one of us know. These are your family privileges, your inheritance. I know what you're going through but I have to be honest with you, not everyone spoke up for you. They think you're too young and way too irresponsible but I think you're old enough now. And listen, if your mother asks you anything about this money, say nothing. You hear me?'

The resolve in his brother's voice brought tears to James's eyes. He began scratching at his neck. 5 leaned closer to him, lowering his voice, 'If you want to leave, you're free to leave, but you understand what you're doing, right, James? You're leaving us.'

James could not look at him. Despite what he said about their drug dealing, he did have respect for his brothers. Meina watched and winced as James rubbed the scar on his throat. She could see he wanted to cry but he was holding it in to prove something to his big brother. It was painful to watch.

'Come here,' said 5, drawing James into a tight embrace. 'I know how you feel, James. If you've got to go, you've got to go. But try to make sense of your life. I made a lot of mistakes, but in the space of five years I've accumulated over thirty bank accounts. There's just under sixty thousand pounds in each one. Why just under sixty?' He pulled back and looked at James, waiting for an answer.

James wiped his eyes and puffed out his chest.

'Just under sixty thousand because that's the limit an individual is allowed in this country without risking the financial authorities being contacted behind their backs.' James sounded like an actor reciting lines.

5 smiled. 'And what else?'

'Swiss bank accounts are overrated.'

Then there was a silence. When James saw his brother's tears he was shocked, he lowered his eyes in embarrassment.

'I never dreamed this is what I'd become. Sometimes I can't look at myself in the mirror. Sometimes when I think about what your brothers and me are I feel sick. Drugs corrupt lives. How did I let our mother get addicted to crack? I blame myself. I started all this, they just followed my lead. It's not just the money, James; it's the power, the feeling of being in absolute control of your own fate. It shouldn't have been like this but the alternatives for people like me are laughable. It's gotta be different for you, James, you hear me?' 5 grabbed his brother's shoulders. 'Look at me.' James tried to wriggle free, he struggled and finally managed to push his brother away. 5 pulled a tissue from his back pocket and blew his nose and then laughed.

'I don't want you to be stupid,' said 5. 'One day you're gonna be in control of all we've worked for.' Suddenly, without warning, 5 raised his hand and struck James hard on the left side of his face.

'Look at me.' His voice was menacing. 'What did I just say?'

'You said you don't want me to be stupid,' said James, holding his stinging cheek.

5 stared at him for a moment and then pulled out a box of jimis. 'You have to be careful with these African girls. Aids is big out there. Always wear your t'ings. You hear me? Don't bring Aids into our family; you've caused enough trouble already.'

James looked at 5 with hatred burning in his eyes. He turned, glancing at Meina, realising that she had heard. 'I can't believe you just said that,' he said to his brother. 'You really are dumb sometimes, d'you know that?'

D
URING THOSE FIRST DAYS
we were happy not to see anyone else. We stayed together, out of step with the rest of the world. Each day was a struggle and each night a battle with terrible dreams. Sometimes I would hear him sobbing in the early hours but I didn't dare ask questions over breakfast in the morning. I know James heard my own tears – but he didn't say anything. Instead we just provided each other with reassurance. There were awkward moments such as the time he caught me smelling my breath in my hands, or once when I forgot myself and stepped out of the bathroom looking for a towel, my hair was soaking wet, and he saw my tits.

In the light of day we did as much as possible to act as if our wounds had healed.

James hardly ever went outside the flat. He only had to visit the doctor once a week and he didn't go to school. We ate and shopped together, I would compile the shopping list and he would push the trolley around Morrisons. We watched pirate DVDs that James bought from the Chinese man who stood outside the Forest Gate Pizza Hut on Friday nights. We discovered we shared a love of painting, and bought cheap canvases from Woolworths in Stratford and spent weekends on the canal in Camden where we would picnic, talk and he would paint the Senegalese boys who sold shit weed and I painted the market stalls and the canal boats. James said he hated London – but he knew it so well. I was fascinated by the things and places he showed me. He could get tasty Jamaican or Nigerian food in Dalston; Senegalese in Stratford; the best Chinese food ever in Leytonstone and delicious Turkish kebabs near the college in Walthamstow. Once, when I complained I had never had fish and chips, James took me to a place behind Neal Street in Covent Garden that made me understand what all the fuss was about.

Our brief escape from reality ended suddenly one Sunday night with a loud knock on the door. It startled us; we stared at each other as though someone knocking on the door wasn't the most natural thing in the world.

'I'll get it,' I said.

'No, wait, let me check the window first . . . Shit.'

It was Detective Inspector Whittaker, the policeman who had visited James in hospital. There was a police van and an unmarked car outside. Whittaker entered our living room uninvited, wearing a neat double-breasted suit. He walked around slowly and poked his head into each room.

'How bitter another's bread is, thou shalt know by tasting it; and how hard to the feet another's stairs are, up and down to go,' he recited, ignoring us both.

'What do you want?' asked James. 'My brothers don't live here.'

I moved towards James. We stood side by side, facing the inspector.

'Aahhh, Bisto.' Whittaker tilted his head to the side, smiling. He stared at James for a moment.

'I'd like to speak to you in connection with my investigations into the death of Nalma Kamal. We have a neighbour who witnessed a fight and a serious sexual assault – this young man was beaten within an inch of his life, raped, and shot point-blank. We think someone, a boy, saw the whole thing. Unfortunately for you, James, you fit the description.

My heart was in my mouth.

'If you could prove it was me you'd be taking me in,' said James.

'We're still making inquiries. We're waiting for results on residue found on the gun.' He scrutinised James's face for a reaction. 'Everything in good time,' said Whittaker. 'You aren't a suspect but I have a strong suspicion you were there. Is there anything you want to say? I'll find out the truth in the end.'

I stretched out a finger and touched James's hand. I couldn't stop my heavy breathing. We should have anticipated this and worked out what to say. I felt James's hand tremble.

'You can't just walk around our house,' he said, watching the inspector do exactly that.

'
Our
house.' The inspector smiled at us mockingly and walked on through the living room and then stuck his head into Ashvin's bedroom. 'Where does the family start? It starts with a young man falling in love with a girl – no superior alternative has yet been found.' He turned to James. 'That's Churchill, young man. You know Churchill?'

'What do you want?' I asked.

Whittaker spoke while still looking into Ashvin's room. It almost seemed he was being careful not to enter.

'I don't have any proof yet but I have been doing this a long time.' His voice was grave. 'James Morrison, I'd like to know where you were on 6 June. It should be easy enough to remember since it was your best friend's birthday, a day you spent together, is that right?'

'Yeah. So what?' said James.

'How did you boys choose to celebrate?'

James smiled. I could see him contemplating telling Whittaker the truth. He felt he had nothing to lose.

Trying my best to maintain some equilibrium, I placed a hand on James's shoulder. 'They spent it here with me,' I said.

Inspector Whittaker was slightly thrown. I'd answered very quickly.

'I baked a chocolate cake and I rented a movie from Stratford Blockbusters. It was
Black Hawk Down
– my brother's favourite.'

'Can you prove it?' asked the inspector.

'I have a membership card.'

'I'll need to take your membership number.' He turned to James. 'So you were here?'

James looked at me and sighed. 'Yes,' he said.

The inspector seemed to be able to feel James's ambivalence. 'Is this true? You watched a film?'

James nodded. 'Yes.'

'And this
Black Hawk Down
– can you remind me what it's about?'

'A failed US mission in Somalia. We debated the accuracy of the film for most of the night.'

'I'm not asking you, miss.' His face reddened as he spoke, and then turned back to James. 'Who's in it? Anyone I might know?'

'Who's in it? I dunno, why don't you go rent it and find out?'

I closed my eyes for a second. I wished James hadn't said that.

'Who's in it?' The inspector put his face close to James's.

I felt James's body stiffen as he tried to keep his composure.

'The only person I can remember is Ewan McGregor. He drank a lot of coffee in the movie. Must have given him real bad coffee breath.' James made a 'you've got bad breath' expression but I saw the anger spreading across the inspector's face scared him.

'Think you're smart? Well, I get a hard-on for little boys like you and I'm what they call a patient Freudian. People always slip and when they do, I'm right there.' He clapped his hands together loudly.

'Look, I haven't done anything wrong. I'm not scared of you,' said James quietly, but the inspector was already letting himself out.

I closed the front door and I watched James's chest heave as I made my way over to the couch. 'Come. Sit down with me,' I said and gently tugged his arm. He stiffened and his eyes hardened.

'Nobody understands what I'm feeling. Nobody wants to know except when they think I've done something wrong. I'm sick of this shit. Of living in this neighbourhood, being humiliated all the time, treated like some animal by everybody.'

He looked so injured and vulnerable. It was if a great weight had fallen and was pressing on him.

'I'm going out,' he said.

'Where?' I asked.

'I don't know. To be by myself.'

'I'm coming with you,' I said.

I hadn't thought out what I'd just said. All I wanted was to chase away the trouble I saw on his face the way I wished I had been given the chance to do with Ashvin. I wasn't sure what I would do or say if James ignored me and walked out. All I knew was that I wanted a chance to make a new life and I couldn't allow him to run away with my hopes. I put my arm on his shoulder hoping that by now he understood the things that were going on in my mind: I was tired of being on my own without a family, full of fear, tired of things not going my way. I blushed when I tasted my tears. I cried even more as he clawed in his pocket digging out a crumpled tissue and frantically dabbing at my eyes.

I wanted to hug him but I didn't.

'We were doing OK, weren't we? You don't need to run,' I said.

'Everything you want is here. You can talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. I can help you if you tell me what you want.' I stood and led James into my bedroom. I walked over to the window and closed it. I turned to him. 'I want to know what really happened on your birthday. Tell me the truth.'

He looked at me for a moment and then he sat down on the bed and told me. While he spoke I listened, impassive, not saying anything or moving at all for that matter. Halfway through James's story, I began to sob. But I kept myself still, facing the weak orange light of the street lamp beyond the window.