‘Romantic, huh?’
She watched him peer over the expanse of dark water, tugboats and solitary fishermen, her eyes lit bright with deep pleasure. Markriss leant against the cold metal railing, finding it difficult to believe this world came to an abrupt close—the financial infrastructure, commercial hub and recreational facilities—all becoming one and the same behind Western City Circle, the river emerging miles on the other side of the city. Beaten to submission by the World’s End Reservoir that siphoned water daily, by the tonne.
He leant his bike against the railing. Raymeda looked at him with an expression of thoughtful concentration that drew him close, the force of whatever was on her mind tugging at him, favourable or not. She allowed his embrace, although she was tense and wouldn’t hold him in return. Markriss recalled her warmth. It was all he could do not to smile. He rested his head against hers and they kissed, gentle and mutual, until she forced him away, eyes tight, frowning as she turned to the river.
‘You were right in Burbank,’ he tried, quiet with dismissal. ‘It was romantic.’
She’d wandered to the end of the lookout point. A coin-operated telescope pointed at concrete, lifeless.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘We shouldn’t.’
He pondered the words that might draw her out further and unlock her reasons; remembered the security guards. He sat on a bench.
‘Know why I’m here?’
She twisted from muddy water, smiling a little. ‘Well, if I’m honest part of me hoped you’d come to see how I was doing.’ She looked directly at him. ‘Senef said something about you wanting to talk with Misty. I reckon that’s the reason.’
Sweat prickled his cheeks and forehead. Unseen shards of pain. He looked at his hands. They glittered like soft earth, city night.
‘Yeah . . . But I was worried about you, Raymeda. It’s been mad at school not knowing where you lot are.’
‘Home tutors.’ She left the telescope, coming to sit by his side. ‘Our parents told the governors we weren’t coming back till Nesta was arrested. Apparently they need to find him first.’
‘They’ll have a job. I haven’t seen him.’
Raymeda kept her focus on the telescope. ‘Mum has.’
‘She has? When?’
‘Sometime last week. Mum does voluntary stuff at this centre in Iseldown, you know, the Munroe Centre in Ochosi? Every week, two nights a week she’s there. She’s been doing it for years, knows all the faces. Right after you guys took us to Burbank, Nesta turns up with a load of guys. My mum spoke with a few of them. Apparently Nesta and the rest got involved with some grocery store robbery in Taunton, so they had piahro and weren’t shy about advertising. Mum called the police, then Nassir and Abiola—that’s Misty’s mum and dad. She probably wasn’t quiet about it, cos some of the kids told Nesta and when the police came he was gone. There’s an estate not far from Munroe where local kids hang. Mum reckons that’s where the police would find him and the rest. They won’t even look.’
‘Right. Did Misty tell you anything about what happened at Burbank?’
A massive sigh, her legs trembling. Markriss felt it through the bench.
‘A little . . .’
‘Why, what did she say?’
Another reluctant, constricted face. He had to know. Markriss hated to cause such obvious discomfort, but he had to.
Raymeda breathed like Yi-Kei, her eyes immediate liquid glass. ‘She told me that night. We didn’t go straight home after you dropped us off, we went to the 24-store to cool off. They do rubbish coffee but the smoothies are all right. I bought Misty a Strawberry Twist cos I didn’t want her going home with runny make-up and crumpled-up clothes. I wanted her to drink it, and I’d clean her up and that would be it. If I’d known those bruises weren’t gonna fade I would’ve taken her home, but I wasn’t sure if it was serious. Stupid, right? Misty’s done crazy things before, between you and me. I thought this might just be another of her weird things.
‘So she’s all quiet and teary, and I’m sitting there asking what happened just like you, and she’s not saying a thing. Then she starts to talk. Telling me how things were cool, how they smoked and ate food she’d cooked at home especially, got intimate and fell asleep like we did. Then . . . I’m not sure about this, because she was crying quite a bit, and I couldn’t really get what she was saying . . . But . . . I think she said she woke up and saw Nesta was having some kind of fit . . . He was talking to himself, making noises, thrashing from side to side. She shook him, trying to wake him up and that’s when he rolled over and started to strangle her.
‘The weirdest thing about it is she swears you were there, Markriss. Swears blind, even though she knows you were lying next to me the whole time. He was definitely trying to kill her, she reckons. First she thought it was rough sex; then it got violent and she couldn’t breathe. Everything slipped away from her she said . . . The trees, Nesta . . . She really thought she was gonna die . . .’
Raymeda halted, gulping emotion.
‘Then she saw you. Flying in the trees—she said that, not me—“Flying in the trees like a comic-book person,” is what she actually said . . . Misty’s convinced you were there and you saved her, Markriss. Don’t ask me how. You were with me, definitely. You didn’t move from that spot. I’m sure.’
Her eyes widened, as though she remembered something; their glint enough to betray a calculation that threw him.
‘You did have that nightmare still. And you did scream Nesta’s name. Didn’t you?’
He stood up, crossing the lookout point, going back to the safety of the railing. His damp T-shirt stuck to his back. The wind felt colder, reaching his skin. He might have been inching closer to answers, though none that he’d wish for. A foghorn cried, long and distant.
‘Maybe you should be telling me what happened. What you dreamt about.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive. I tried.’
‘And you weren’t smoking pi?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Even though Nesta does?’
‘No. I don’t.’
He knew that throwing rough words over his shoulder could be read as a sign of guilt. He inhaled deep breaths, closing his eyes, then turned back to the bench and saw Raymeda bowing her head towards her trainers as though truth might be gleaned from her entwined laces and the minuscule, intimate dance of loose threads in the breeze. To lie was the worst thing, although there was no way she could deal with what he’d really seen and felt. No way. His nerves sang, his pulse beat, rapid at his wrists. He might have still been floating high above them. Everything he’d experienced that night and since remained locked in that higher perspective, that looking down from a great height. His feet hadn’t felt the warmth of earth, his arms hadn’t steadied his body. It was too bizarre, even for him.
‘Sorry, Ray. I don’t know.’
Water and night shimmered in her eyes. She managed a smile.
‘Mum said you’d do this. She told me you wouldn’t accept what happened, and we shouldn’t speak with you or Nesta again. Me and Misty agreed about him in the 24-store, although we’d thought you’d get the benefit. See how brave you were. You aren’t.’
Markriss kept silent. He wanted to ask what it was he should accept, yet to do that he’d have to tell Raymeda everything. His lips grew tight from being pressed together.
‘You should go.’
A step closer, and a jolt when she pivoted her body towards the walkway that led back to the steps and her housing block. He’d held her not long ago.
‘So that’s it? Aren’t we friends . . .?’
The grimace, even thrown backwards, disturbed her beauty, a rock that broke glass.
‘We’re not going in the same direction, Markriss.’
He wanted to argue, and had no idea how to begin, what should be said, what she might want to hear.
‘Go home. Don’t make me scream for the guards.’<
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She took another two steps. Her back, her shoulders. Her hair. He waited until he was sure that she meant every word, especially the last, most hurtful. Picked up his bike, threw one leg over, rode. He pedalled until the lights on either side streaked into soft blurs and the wind grew constant, low in his ears.
Markriss kept pace, riding into Iseldown at brisk speed until the burn in his legs matched that of his heart; acknowledging anger, expression set like Lee Tsoi’s treats, heart thumping. This was not a zone to be taken lightly. Already, teenagers loitered in streets and estate entrances with their older and younger counterparts; already, he’d received the stares reserved for out-of-towners, police and others without trust, youths even spitting in his wake as he tore by, a dull tattoo of patters behind him. He had the knife Nesta gave him, previously hidden in his saddlebag, now relocated to his back pocket so they could see it as he raised himself above the handlebars. It ensured he wasn’t followed, that he was a kid with business to settle. The youths let him tend.
He knew the estate. Gunnersbury, deep in the heart of Iseldown, where police resorted to driving past years ago, and road teams ruled with a fist that was usually small and semi-formed. The young sons and daughters of criminals long made their presence felt. Backed by family reputation and deeds, they’d turned Gunnersbury into their own personal territory for so long, it became the estate decent people didn’t mention, and a magnet for unloved, untended kids who’d come of age steeped in crime.
A squeeze of the hand, a squeak of unoiled brakes, and a slow turn to the left, Markriss searching the dark spots where bodies formed habitual flints and shadows, until there he was, as Raymeda’s mother predicted. Huddled yards beyond the estate entrance where Markriss stopped, sweating and breathing hard, amongst a thickened group of seething kids by the grainy underground garages. Nesta, dead centre, smoking and spitting lyrics at the dark-shelled sky, blind to the approval of his team, lost in expression. Fuelled by noisy animation, they bounced each other into walls whenever he said something they rated, or cupped hands around mouths, sounding off to the heavens in appreciative cries. Doubtless there were ancestors who saw, heard and approved. Markriss watched in awe at how lineage could reach across so many years, moulding its kin in ways that might only be viewed with distance—such as he was granted in that moment. Old customs performed anew. He stood by the entrance for close to ten minutes, cars passing through to stop with their windows open, halting beside the team for quick exchanges, moving on. They were so involved in what they were doing, so used to being unmolested, Markriss could have been there ten minutes more and they would not have seen him.
He let his bike roll along the through-road, feet on pedals unmoving, down the steep incline into their domain. The wind sang on the edge of nothing, receding into quiet. A chill on his forehead and shoulder blades returned, damp on his chest. The youths muttered, minimal as wind. Nesta saw him last, feeling the stiff countenance of his fellows, chin raised in his direction. He grinned, saw Markriss wasn’t smiling. The corners of his lips fell, muscles gave way. He stepped from the group and came a short way up the incline, arms swinging, a faint rocking from side to side, a man at sea.
‘What’s up, Mars?’ The tails of his bee-yellow raincoat flapped in the breeze, a thin, expensive material whispering as he stepped. Synthetic, glossy from lack of wear. ‘How you find me, man?’
Markriss dismounted. Lowered the bike. Nesta waited for him to kneel and rise empty-handed, grinning again, a grand show of teeth, eyes one-dimensional, on one spot.
The team all had the same eyes, minus the grin.
‘I remember this estate. Came with you once, remember?’
Laughing, turning to face the underground garage. ‘Man’s got a good memory!’
Markriss reached into his jeans pocket and pulled the knife, holding it stiff. It was important for them to see. The team screeched warning. Nesta whirled, alarmed for a rich second. His shoulders dropped. The grin seeped back.
‘That’s familiar.’ More teeth. ‘Markriss, wha you doin? You don’t want this, I’ll bleed you up. Forget what I said, your memory can’t work that good, otherwise you’d know. We shouldn’t be fightin anyway! What for?’
‘For Misty!’ he growled, anger taking him closer. Heart thumping to escape, veins hot. The team laughed, touched fists. They liked that.
‘Misty? Shit, Mars, listen yourself. This ain one of those Coronet films. You better mind out. Anyhow, you’re so bothered how come you didn’t use that in the park?’
‘I would’ve, if it wasn’t for the girls.’
The grin faded. Nesta’s entire face flattened. His team conferred without taking their attention from Markriss. In his lower regions, the base chakras Willow would have emphasised, Markriss began to think he might not have chosen his most favourable path. It produced a stomach twinge he tried to dismiss.
Nesta’s shoulders heaved silent, disbelieving laughter. He shrugged off the bee raincoat. A mop-haired boy shot flames at Markriss and took the coat, folding it with sales-assistant patience.
‘Alright, Mars. You’re my mate, no matter how you feel. I won’t hurt you. Put down the bleeda. Let’s be men. Don’t do nothing permanent.’ Grumbles of approval. ‘Wha you reckon?’
‘So they can do me in while we’re at it?’ Wincing, knife erect in a sweating fist. ‘No thanks. I’ll fight fists, away from this lot, and I’m not leaving the knife. I won’t use it on you. OK? You know I’ll keep my word.’
Nesta thought, nodding, hardly pausing to make a decision. His peers were happy for the first time since Markriss arrived, rubbing hands, bouncing on toes. Fun.
‘OK . . . So I got your word?’
‘Yeah. You have.’
‘Say it.’
‘You have my word I won’t use this on you, Nesta.’
‘Cool. Come we walk. You man wait here.’
Markriss raised the bike with his left hand and began to wheel further down the incline, knife in his right, eyes on Nesta and the team of young men. He tried not to think of Raymeda, firm and warm beneath his palm, the smell of lotus mixed with oils he didn’t understand, soft breath tickling his ear though he would not move. The pleasure of not moving. Her beauty, shattered by disappointment. Misty at the upper window, and not. Things he was too young to know, those he should never have known. He could not stop them entering his mind.
Nesta scuffed the soles of his trainers on the pavement to create rhythm, digging into his pockets to produce a piahro splint. He paused, stuffed it into his mouth and lit up, trotting to join Markriss. The smell was intense, acrid, terrible. Invading everything, hanging like a vengeful spirit. Nesta had a raw, diagonal blin that ran from his temple to the lobe of his ear, lava red, probably made by a knife. The weeks they’d spent apart underlined their differences. Already, battles for his friend. How young he must seem to the boys in Nesta’s company, even if most were his age. The forthcoming brawl might be difficult, faced with someone used to fighting as a man, often fighting men. Butterfly flutters betrayed him. He was afraid to do it, equally afraid what would happen if he didn’t, fearful that one rash decision based on childish ideals of justice might become the ten-second instance that ended his life.
They walked deeper into Gunnersbury. Slabbed blocks, squat and weighty on either side. Hard-faced, five landings a piece, solid chunks of brickwork, as alive as the leaping dogs that ran up and down before him, groups of equally strong men in car parks, severe women hefting shopping aided by moaning infant children. An open-air labyrinth where heroes and monsters took the same form. Pathways, walkways, hundreds of windows and doors. Multi-coloured estate maps obliterated by scrawled graffiti into fogged masses of ink and paint. Some lights worked, many were knocked out. Black globe cameras hung, cracked and jagged as breakfast eggs. The low hiss of cars on the main road fell until the only sounds were the estate. The shuffle of feet at his rear. Hoots and whistles, car horns and screams that crept a thin line between expressions of play and pain.<
br />
He was being led into probable danger, only there was no alternative. He lowered the knife to a less visible position.
An old, decrepit block where another steep incline led towards the underground car park. The few windows in nearby blocks were boarded, or no more than gaping rectangular holes. Many were bricked up. Flats had bigger holes where doors should have been, outlines of burnt and broken frames. There were no lights in the car park beyond, a steel shutter pulled to the ground, lying twisted on concrete, a broken corpse. Some kid waited metres away from the dereliction, shoulders hunched, shivering. He heard them, rounded on Nesta, eyes lit up.
‘Ra, Ness, Ra, wait up. Gotta piece?’
‘Later. Stuff to do.’
‘Ah come family, a little somethin . . .’
The tiny youth wheezed in Nesta’s face, crowding him, ignoring Markriss. His face was murky, eyes underlined with crusted dirt. A rotten smell rose from his body, the damp musk of a mouse. His chest rattled like dried poppy seed as he breathed, similar to the noise emanating from Yi-Kei Tsoi, although louder, bubbling throughout his pleas until he paused, coughing webbed brown phlegm onto a patch of yellow grass. Markriss looked away. Nesta ignored it. The kid wiped his mouth, unconcerned.
‘So what, Ness?’
Silence made Markriss turn and see his former classmate incline his head at the kid.
‘Sort him, it’s fine.’
Nesta’s boys stepped to one side, completing the transaction with a flurry of hand movements. When it was over, Nesta eyed Markriss, motioning at the car park. They descended, the kid wandering off. Darkness enclosed them. A flicker of sparks; Markriss flinched in anticipation of some trick. It was Nesta’s flamethrower lighter providing a rippling circle of luminosity.
A River Called Time Page 5
