So I breathe and I think and I try and work out what’s for the best but my brain’s useless now, just a mess of panic and freaking out, so then I just think fuck it if Matchstick can climb out there so can I.
Down to the end of the balcony. Up on the railing. Two hands on the roof joist. Try not to look down but then I do, and that floor it’s just so far away the only thing I can think about is how my brains will splat everywhere like a tomato if I fall. I swing and I get my legs up on the windowsill, but that’s when I realise Matchstick must have timed it different, cause I got my feet on the sill but my hands is still gripping the joist and I’m at this stupid angle, almost horizontal not standing not hanging just stuck. Wrists going weak already, ain’t got long to figure this out, so I let my feet drop and take a swing. I get higher up this time on to the windowsill and let go with my hands, and this is the moment where if I get it wrong I’m dead.
So then I’m crouched on the sill heaving puff after puff of air into my lungs, and my eyes are shut and I’m thinking in a second I’m going to open my eyes to find out if I died or not, then I realise if I’m thinking this I got to be alive, so I open my eyes and I am.
Ain’t time to be grateful cause Matchstick’s getting away and it’s a narrow ledge half rotten don’t want to be up here any longer than I have to. So I crawl along – bits of wood crumbling and splintering under my knees – then out through the window and there’s a good ledge to stand on. I mean if I hadn’t just been on that sill this would probably put the shitters up me, cause there’s another massive drop down to some car park, but it’s as wide as a paving stone and I mean it’s not like you just fall off a paving stone for no reason, so I figure I’m pretty safe up here.
Can’t see Matchstick but there’s only one way you can go to a turning at the edge of the roof. That must be where he gone, and after that corner there must be a way down.
Don’t know whether to go straight after him or take a moment. Suck in the freedom. Cause up above me is the sky – a huge unbroken slab of it all round – and I ain’t seen that much space and air for ages. Spread out below is the city – flats, warehouses, railway lines, even a few trees. And blowing on to my face there’s just the most beautiful thing of all what I haven’t felt for days. Wind. Not much but enough to cool my face. Never would have thought anything that small or normal could feel so sweet.
Takes a while to get back to myself. Pulse, sweat, buzzy head, all that stuff, but I go a bit more normal in a minute or two, and walk on down the ledge to where Matchstick must have gone. Freedom, man – it’s just the best feeling.
I go round the corner of the roof, and right in my face – straight in front of me – there’s Blaze. Standing on the ledge so close we’re almost nose to nose. The fright of it almost freezes me solid in one moment. I reel back, and I swear that would have been it if Blaze hadn’t grabbed my arm and pulled me back in.
My legs are jelly now with the double shock of Blaze and then of almost falling off the roof, so I ain’t got no pride left now, I just go down on my knees like a baby and breathe and breathe but however much air I pull into me it never feels like enough, and I just feel like I’m suffocating. I can hear the stupid noises coming out of my mouth like choking, sobbing, I don’t know what it is, and I ain’t even got it in me to feel embarrassed.
All I can see is the concrete and Blaze’s trainers. Then he sits next to me with his legs dangling down off the edge like there ain’t even no drop.
What up? he says, not sounding angry or nothing, but there’s a weirdness in the not-angry voice that sounds even more psycho than if he was laying into me.
I’m sorry Blaze I’m sorry I say blubbing the words out all wobbly and spitty and feeble.
Where you going?
I don’t know.
Matchstick is there right behind him. Nothing in his eyes just nothing.
Why’s you following my brother?
I don’t know I’m sorry I just wanted some chocolate.
Don’t lie to me, man. Don’t lie to me.
There’s a long silence but I don’t know how long cause I’m either sinking or floating or something, I just don’t hardly know who I am or where I am no more. Eventually without even choosing what to say, the truth – or half of it – comes out my mouth in a big gush. You burnt our pills! It’s done my head in! That’s my medicine! I need it and we fought for it, we all fought for it together, then you didn’t say nothing and you just burnt it, man, you burnt it! That ain’t fair. You should have said! You should . . . I don’t know . . . it ain’t fair, that’s my medicine! I need it!
Then it’s quiet again – so quiet I can hear the wind. Must be a loose cable up here cause I can hear a clack clack clack from up on the roof behind us. Or maybe it’s a bird, I don’t know.
You need it? says Blaze, eventually. His voice sounds almost kind, but I can’t trust it. There has to be something else hidden behind, I don’t know what.
Yeah! I need it. Doctors said I do and I do. But you burnt it for no reason!
You want some?
Course I do!
Well that’s all you needed to say.
What? I says.
Don’t need to lie and cheat and sneak about. Tricking my little brother. You just need to come to me.
But you burnt it!
Some of it. Kept a few back, didn’t I? Just in case. You want some?
Yeah.
You should have just asked me that in the first place, shouldn’t you?
I’m sorry.
You want it now?
Yeah.
Well come on then.
He stands and walks to the broken window. Matchstick follows. Then me. Following Blaze. Back into the warehouse.
We’re halfway when his phone rings. He says Yo. She’s there? Now? OK, tell her. Give it to her. Then hangs up.
Who was that? I asks.
Nobody he says.
With the legal production of amphetamines topping ten billion tablets a year . . . the FDA and a panel of the National Academy of Sciences, known as the ‘Task Force on Drug Abuse’, recommended to a Senate subcommittee in 1971 that the potential for Ritalin abuse was such that it should be placed ‘in the same strictly controlled classification as morphine and other valuable but dangerous drugs’.
Matthew Smith, Hyperactive: The Controversial History of ADHD
THE JOURNALIST
I’ve never been invited to morning conference before. Not even close. But today, without uttering a word, the editor’s secretary taps me on the shoulder and beckons me to follow her. The meeting’s already started by the time I go in, and I’m greeted with not much more than a couple of nods. Nobody speaks to me, and for almost half an hour I just sit there, listening while they plan the shape of tomorrow’s paper. I take notes, not because there’s anything I really need to write down, simply because it makes me feel less out of place. Then the editor turns to me, and without any kind of greeting asks if I’ve got a follow-up.
I tell him I have a lead I’d like to pursue.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘How long do you need?’
‘Day or two.’
‘Fine.’
That’s it. Everyone stares but I just look at the pad on my lap and focus every brain cell on thinking don’t let them see how much you’re enjoying this. Don’t even smile. This isn’t a treat, it isn’t a gift, it isn’t a favour, it’s just what you’ve deserved all along, and if the others can’t see it, that’s their problem. If you act like you don’t belong, you won’t, so don’t smile, don’t be grateful, don’t even look pleased.
I walk out of the meeting with Alan, who runs my section. Before he can say anything, before he can give me any other work to do, I tell him I’m heading out on that story. He can call if he needs me.
Two minutes later I’m outside, standing in the hot, fetid embrace of London’s August air. All around me I can see nothing but concrete, steel and glass, but there’s a muddy, fishy waft of river that smells like the
leakage of an embarrassing truth. My skin immediately prickles as the pores open, ready to seep sweat.
Across the wide concourse between the tower blocks, workers are scurrying in purposeful diagonals, heads down, barrelling on through their working day, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. Watching them, I feel a momentary sensation of serene distance, as if for all their hurry they are standing still, while despite my stillness I am somehow in motion. This assignment is my chance. Everything I’ve ever worked for has led me towards this job, this piece, this moment. I have to get it right. The key to the door to the next level is in my hand. I mustn’t fumble or hesitate.
I turn and head for the Tube. I need to go home and change.
The names of the hostage-takers aren’t confirmed, but a few clues as to where they’re from have just leaked out. Nobody has announced anything but there’s a Twitter buzz pointing towards the Aylesbury Estate in Southwark. I have a hunch that if I just go there somebody will tell me something, but I can’t do it dressed for Canary Wharf. That would be like going to a football match in a ball gown. The journey is barely any distance, just a short hop across south-east London, but in other ways it’s almost as far as you can travel.
Before stepping out of my flat I check myself in the mirror. Superdry hoodie, Nike trainers, Diesel jeans: my attempt at council estate style. Scruffy/flashy/sporty/designer – the cheap-but-expensive look. I know the jeans are too middle class, but I don’t have a better option, and going the whole hog to leggings or tracksuit trousers would be pushing it too far. I might look like I was taking the piss. There has to be some kind of match between my clothes and my accent.
I leave my purse and jewellery at home. The only things I take are my house keys, my phone, and a few notes folded up small, shoved to the bottom of a pocket.
It feels strange to go anywhere without a bag. Every few seconds my brain seems to have a momentary panic – MY BAG!! – before I remind myself what I’m doing. A lot of men go through life like this, completely bagless, pockets jangling with stuff. It makes you walk differently, all this ballast swaying and clanking at the groin. Maybe they think it draws attention to their equipment. I can’t think of any other reason for it, because this is definitely not a comfortable way to travel.
I take a cab to the estate but get the driver to pull up around the corner. I want to arrive on foot, unobtrusive. I don’t want anyone to spot me as an outsider until I’ve had a chance to scope out the place.
The map on my phone tells me almost nothing. There’s just a big empty gap alongside Thurlow Street, not even marked with any name, and that’s the spot. A few roads thread into it, but there’s no obvious entrance or exit. I’m assuming you can walk through, but it looks like a driver would have to go around the outside and slip in through the correct inlet. In this way it seems designed almost like a fortress, though whether that would be to keep people out or keep people in I’m not so sure. Either way, it makes the place more or less invisible to anyone who isn’t actually going in. The rest of us can just drive around the perimeter without even knowing that it exists, or that ten thousand people live there.
As the cabbie writes out my receipt, he asks if I’m visiting someone.
‘Kind of,’ I say.
He gives me a sceptical look as he hands it over. ‘Watch out for yourself,’ he says, before winding up the window and driving off. It’s not an exchange that fills me with confidence.
Should I be afraid? All the thousands of people who live there must go in and out all the time. I’ve seen a statistic saying there’s a crime every four hours on the estate, but there’s no particular reason why anything would happen to me. However much crime there is, presumably most people get through most days without anything bad happening to them. Or anything actually criminal, anyway. The odds are in my favour. Besides, this is my only lead. If it was easy or obvious, there’d be hundreds of other journalists here ahead of me, and from where I’m standing it doesn’t look like there’s a single one.
Fear attracts aggression. I allow myself a few more seconds of anxiety then decide to switch it off and walk in. Not too casual, not too curious, no photos, no notes. I’m just going to walk through the place at a speed which makes me look like I know where I’m going and have a reason to be there.
The outer edge of housing, along the main road, is in the classic south London council estate style. Garages and the odd shop at ground level, nine storeys above in alternating stripes of concrete balconies and windows. Fans of iron spikes interrupt the long balconies at regular intervals, like bar lines on a stave.
A narrow road leads through a gap between two of these huge edifices, leading into that blank spot on the map. I walk in, treading gingerly over the cracked and pitted tarmac. On one side of the road is some kind of incinerator, a windowless concrete cube with one tall chimney pointing skyward. On the other is a fenced-in playground scattered with football-playing kids and teenagers. This is probably who I ought to talk to, but I decide to take a look around first.
At street level there are just garages. Above these are walkways, one of which snakes above my head, over the road, but it’s not obvious how you’d get up to one of these walkways and into an actual flat.
Inside the estate, there’s more variation in the buildings. They are mostly lower rise, some concrete, some in what looks like Eighties red brick. There are knee-high concrete bollards everywhere, as if drivers in this place can’t be trusted to stay on the roads, which perhaps they can’t, because every road either loops back on itself or stops without warning, only to continue beyond a narrow strip of pavement protected by those grey, cracked bollards. Great care has been taken to ensure this place can be driven into, but not through.
Apart from that playground, there’s no open space. Just parking and more parking. Outside some of the more recent-looking buildings there are scraps of grass behind metal railings, either a useless private garden or a useless communal space, it’s impossible to tell.
It is mid-morning and there’s hardly anyone around. The first person who walks past me is a middle-aged Asian woman in a sari. I try to stop her and ask if she knows anything about the hostage situation but she doesn’t even break stride or look at me. She just gives a faint head-shake which seems to mean, I have no interest in anything you could possibly say to me. She may well have a point.
I try a pair of teenage girls next. They pause for a moment, stare at me with an odd mixture of blankness and hostility, then use two words to recommend that I leave.
I decide to head back towards the playground. It’s not really a playground, just a fenced-in patch of tarmac, but at least the kids there aren’t on the way to anywhere else. If I pick my moment, it will be harder for them to walk away.
I hover at the gate for a while, but I know I can’t leave it too long. I don’t want them to think I’m some kind of weirdo. So when the ball comes my way I trap it underfoot and, with an attempt at a relaxed smile, address the kid who comes to fetch it. He’s white, thirteen-ish, skinny and pale.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m a journalist and I’ve heard a rumour about this estate. Is there any chance you and your mates would talk to me for a minute or two?’
He grabs the ball and looks up at me. I’m a foot or so taller than him. His face is flushed and sweaty. He snorts, and for a moment I think he might be about to spit in my face.
He chucks the ball to one of his friends and spits on the ground behind him.
‘What about?’ he says.
‘It’s not about the riots,’ I say. ‘That’s not my story.’
‘What about the riots?’ he says.
‘No, not that. It’s about the hostage thing. You heard about that?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s she want?’ It’s another kid, taller, black, who pops up behind him. Moments later there’s about seven of them, all around me.
Stupidly, I’ve stepped away from the gate, so I now have no exit rou
te. The fence is at my back and there’s a semicircle of boys in front of me.
Fear attracts aggression, I remind myself.
‘I . . . I’m a journalist. I’m supposed to be researching the hostage situation. In Hackney. I’ve seen a rumour on Twitter that there’s a connection to this estate. That some of the people involved are from here.’
There’s a sudden burst of laughter. One of the kids actually falls over. I hear a few of them repeat to one another in upper-class voices, ‘A rumour on Twitter . . . ooh, a rumour on Twitter . . . Is it a rumour? Is it on Twitter? . . .’
I find myself half smiling, more in relief that the hostility seems to have evaporated than through any understanding of what the joke actually is.
Eventually, the tallest of the kids addresses me. ‘You don’t know who it is?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re a journalist?’
‘The police haven’t released the information.’
‘Everyone knows who it is, man. Fuck sake. What’s wrong with you?’
‘You know who it is?’
‘Duh!’
‘Who is it?’
‘How much?’
‘What?’
‘How much? What’s it worth?’
‘I . . . er . . .’
‘Twenty quid!’
‘Twenty quid?’
‘Yeah. Minimum.’
‘Er . . . OK.’ I reach into my pocket and separate out a single note from the tightly folded bundle. I tease it out carefully, making sure it doesn’t pull any more money with it, and hand over the twenty pounds.
‘Blaze,’ he says. ‘Blaze and his crew.’
‘Blaze?’
‘Yeah, Blaze.’
‘Blaze? That’s a name?’
The kid nods.
‘Do you have a real name?’
The kid shrugs.
‘How old is he?’
The kid shrugs.
‘Roughly. Twelve? Fifteen? Twenty? Thirty?’
More laughter. ‘What are you talking about? He’s a teenager. Like, fifteen, sixteen something like that. Thirty! Shit, man!’
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