The Escape
Gabriel Dedji
Austin Macauley Publishers
The Escape
About the Author
About the Book
Dedication
Copyright Information ©
Acknowledgements
Prologue Chapter 1
Prologue Chapter 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17A
Chapter 17B
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue Chapter 1
Epilogue Chapter 2
About the Author
At home, the 17-year-old author still lives with both of his parents, his father, a Cambridge PhD graduate working as a Methodist Minister; and his mother, a Science teacher. He also has three older siblings.
When he isn’t fantasising about conspiracy theories, listening to or playing his own music or reading novels, he is studying hard for his A-levels in French, Politics and English Literature.
About the Book
The start of our story begins in a place called Rebellion, found after the journey through the rough and troubled path of a teenager’s mind.
Fights. Parties. Supernatural appearances?
Remel Brathwaite grows to be knowledgeable in almost each one of these fields and he’s paved a way in which he can find no joy or success. Certainly, it seems as if he is journeying to a set end on a path with no alternative choices.
Until one day...
There is the appearance of a metaphorical light that calls him to do something meaningful; something that means more than the life that he lives within the inescapable pit which he has let himself fall into. Yet it seems, in line with all reason, that he has gone mad. Can this be a reality? Whilst his past-life disappears behind him, Remel is allowing himself to follow the words of a mystical stranger named ‘King Keys’ for the sake of change and revolution.
Dedication
Dedicated to God, my family, all those who have supported me and all those who will continue to support me throughout
my life.
Copyright Information ©
Gabriel Dedji (2019)
The right of Gabriel Dedji to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528966481 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
To begin with, I must thank God: my inspiration. Without his divine presence and guidance, I question whether this book would have arrived to this stage or even have been written at all. I thank God for my family: the people who have been everything for me. I cannot thank my parents enough for the never-ending support they provide for me despite the fact that we, more often than not, don’t see each other eye to eye artistically. I express my gratitude for them and my siblings because they have taught me to keep my feet on the ground as I grow tall with a head in the clouds.
Finally, but also quite importantly, there is no way in which I can even begin to name all of the people, some unaware of this current accomplishment, who have moved me to continue the writing of this book simply because of their kindness towards me and my family. Your gifts of food, cards and your constant need to ensure that we are in good health, out of the goodness of your hearts, have all been pieces of inspiration and motivational delight through sleepless nights.
Prologue Chapter 1
The time is 14:57. Humphrey Anit, a language teacher, is taking care of a class that is full of students who do not listen.
Humphrey Anit was a good teacher. He was a man of Indian descent, but he had clearly spent most of his life in England. In the eyes of the students, he was seen as a gentle giant due to the fact he was around 6’4". Humphrey was also frustrated. He sat at the front of the class observing the ongoing mayhem. Usually the class would misbehave until Humphrey told them to be quiet and sit down. They usually listened to him and respected him, because he listened to his students and respected them. Today, however, his students had gone crazy. They were wild as they ran around the room rampant (all 26 of them). He tried helplessly to control his ‘learning family’. The term made him sick. In other schools, the term ’form group’ was used. The term ‘learning family’ indicated that a learning guide had some sort of moral responsibility for these students apart from doing the register, telling them off and occasionally praising them. Despite the fact that he didn’t really have any moral responsibilities, Humphrey took it upon himself to make sure every student he taught felt happy in the school. Humphrey was an angel for all the students: a true Godsend. So it was a shame that he was keeping the secret that he was leaving the students at the end of the year.
Two boys, one of them Congolese and the other English, caused a kerfuffle as a class discussion progressed into an argument and others chimed in too. Another boy sat in the corner of the classroom, throwing pens and scrunched up pieces of paper at people across the classroom for no apparent reason. He hid and ducked under his chair as people proclaimed that they would beat up the person who had thrown something at them. Three Kurdish boys shoved each other around and kicked each other for a £1 scramble. Another group of girls screamed as they caught up on the latest gossip. This classroom was wild. A girl named Violet although innocent and sweet was incredibly annoyed at Maverick—the mischievous troublemaker of the class—for taking her pencil case and water bottle. She chased him around the classroom, and they threw chairs and tables around in the process. The room was in disarray, and the noise was deafening.
There he was: Mr Anit’s favourite student. He was a young boy who was far from well behaved but nowhere near the troublemaking standards that were set by Maverick. Today he decided to refrain from taking part in any unruly behaviour. He looked at Mr Anit’s face and comprehended his frustration and tiredness. Mr Anit couldn’t wait to go home and see his wife and his son. The boy had a light bulb moment. He took a small keyboard looking instrument out of his bag. He connected a whistle to the keyboard-like instrument and blew into it whilst playing the keyboard with his right hand. Suddenly, music started to play. The sound was peculiar. The melody was a syncopated and slowed down combination of traditional afro beat and jazz (so out of place for the scenario). It was almost musically perfect, but it sounded as if it was missing the percussion of Tony Allen or another similar musician (which was extremely hard to find). The source of the sound was alien: like the hybrid of a harmonica, accordion and recorder. Everyone stopped t
heir noise. They were all mesmerised. The boy was like a pied piper, using music as a mystic tool leading his audience to quiet. He ended the piece with a perfect cadence. There was a silence for a few seconds. It wasn’t an awkward silence. It was a silence that contained the amazement of the class at this odd instrument. The Congolese boy who was arguing with his English friend was intrigued.
“What other songs can you play?” he asked in excitement.
The boy with the melodica thought to himself. He then thought of the perfect song. He played a song off of Kendrick Lamar’s newest album. This instrumental was a simple melody built off of three notes, but multiple students smiled as they recognised the tune. The buzzer went.
“Tuck your chairs in and have a good day,”
Mr Anit announced to the class as they left.
The students from the learning family left swiftly and orderly although some left their chairs untucked.
“Bon travail. C’était excellent. Merci beaucoup,”
Mr Anit told his favourite student.
“Ce n’était rien. J’aime jouer de la musique et je ne pouvais pas voir mon meilleur prof mécontent,” the student replied.
Prologue Chapter 2
Mr Anit’s favourite student: the boy with the melodica is tired thus has decided to leave his friends and go home alone.
This young boy had spent his entire life in London, but his family was from a country in the continent of Africa. He came from a good household, and his parents always taught him to aspire for the best. The student did listen to his parents in terms of aiming for the best, but his parents believed that the best meant maths, science and anything that fell under those two. However, this boy was not a scientist or a mathematician. He was a dreamer. He was a writer. He was a poet. In his world, his future consisted of changing the world to be a better place through his gifts of writing and music composition. He would daydream about his future constantly. He did so as he walked home. He nearly hit a speeding ambulance as he crossed the road.
The name of the ambulance driver was James Cooder. He hurried down the road, parting traffic at will to arrive at a scene of injury to save someone’s life. James and his work-partner, Cathie who sat next to him in the ambulance were both frustrated when they had to stop abruptly for the young boy who wasn’t paying attention whilst crossing the road. They made it to the crime scene, but it was too late. A man lay on the floor with a knife in his stomach and two men were running away in opposite directions. A woman and her seven-year-old son, presumably the family of the man, stood holding hands, crying for someone to save the man’s life. Nothing could be done.
Chapter 1
Rasharn White and his friends are relaxing during their summer holiday. They bump into Emmanuel Akinyemi and his friends who robbed Rasharn’s twin brother a month ago. Rasharn has a weapon on him. The encounter happens around 15:30 in a rough area known for gang violence.
“I promise you, you will die right here!” shouted Rasharn with a thundering voice, full of a vicious anger.
A lightning punch swiftly landed on Rasharn’s face creating a crunching sound in his jaw. The belief that lightning never strikes twice was disproved as several of Rasharn’s friends delivered powerful blows not only to Rasharn’s enemy, Emmanuel, but Emmanuel’s whole entourage in an act of spontaneous retaliation. Emmanuel and his friends fought back violently in self-defence. A battle broke out between both groups. They were a group of uncontrollable lions, tackling each other furiously for their own pride and self-confidence; pouncing on each other in vain as neither side would ever win. The fighting was accompanied by cries of aggression. Rasharn grabbed one of his opponents and swung him to the floor. The opponent quickly regained balance and spat on Rasharn’s face, his saliva was coloured scarlet red with blood. This was the ultimate act of disrespect. Rasharn was then punched in the stomach before his anger could evolve. The two traded jabs at each other’s face, pushing their bodies to the physical limit, like professional boxers. The other delinquents involved in the conflict were distracted by their fray.
Emmanuel, the initial victim of Rasharn’s fury, swung a boy to the floor and ran to help his friend like a mounted knight, arrogantly coming to the rescue so he could bring his side to victory. He ran behind Rasharn, seized him then threw him to the floor. Emmanuel, filled with arrogance and violent adrenaline, stomped repeatedly on Rasharn, with his size 12 boots, as if he was about to dig him straight into a hole in the floor 6 feet deep. One of Rasharn’s friends lunged at Emmanuel out of nowhere as if he had flown out of the chamber of a cannon. Both of them fell to the floor and wrestled with each other to get back on their feet. Rasharn stood back up. His face was bruised, his eye was black and his body looked weak with pain. Shouts of profanity were amplified out of his mouth whilst everyone watched, and he took a machete out of a rip on the inside of his coat. They were standing on the back roads of a rough area in London. The area was usually empty due to the fear of parents for their own life and their children’s lives because of gang violence. Today at this moment in time, a small crowd, five or six women strong, had amassed in the distance. The women were from some nearby council flats and had come out to see where all the noise was coming from. They were barely able to distinguish faces, but an enormous machete was recognisable even from the distance. Now they were holding their phones, ready to call the police.
*BANG*
The noise was ear piercing. It sounded like a gunshot. The hooligans looked around with searching eyes to see who had been shot and where the shot came from. Remel, the young man who had lunged at Emmanuel, looked at the sky. Remel, who was not only a gang affiliate but also a student gifted in physics, recognised the circle-shaped cloud in the sky: it was the result of an aircraft breaking the sound barrier. Not a plane, he thought (atypically to everyone else around him in consideration of the situation). His thoughts were disrupted by an explosive flying kick to the stomach of Rasharn—who was still wielding a knife—from Emmanuel. Despite the fact that Rasharn was able to stay standing, he was disconcerted, winded and his machete had fallen to the ground. Remel hastily ran towards the weapon and picked it up without thinking. One of the delinquent boys grabbed Emmanuel and put him in a headlock. The boy struggled to keep Emmanuel in his grasp. They both wrestled for control.
“Stab him! Do it!”
The boy screamed with so much desperation that Remel could only do as he was told. He was about to strike.
Out of nowhere, music started to be played. The sound was peculiar. The melody was a syncopated and slowed down combination of traditional afro beat and jazz (so out of place for the scenario). It was almost musically perfect, but it sounded as if it was missing the percussion of Tony Allen or another similar musician (which was extremely hard to find). The source of the sound was alien: like the hybrid of a harmonica, accordion and recorder. Remel and the other young boys paused. Their bodies froze in their stances. Their eyes surveyed the area in search of the source of the mystic sound. The women watching the climax of the brawl were now calmer than before and less curious; they put their phones away. Remel spotted a man no further than 20 yards away from him with a black iron mask. Only half of his face (from his head to his upper lip) was covered. The iron-masked man was the source of the tune. Remel was in awe. All the other boys looked at the man. He had a skinny frame which was decorated with slim-fit, black trousers and a white buttoned shirt. The man wore a long, black overcoat that stopped just above his knees. He was extremely tall compared to Remel and the other boys who were staring at him. The man ended his song with a perfect cadence. He then took his melodica and clipped it to his back confidently. His muscle memory was obvious: he performed this basic action often. He took the whistle off of his melodica and placed it in the pocket of his coat as he walked towards the boys who had previously been in a fight that would put them all in prison for murder under the act of joint enterprise.
“Drop the weapon,” the iron-masked man spoke softly, but his words resonated w
ith the young boys and Remel in particular. It was as if the man not only spoke to the hooligans, but he was simultaneously communicating with them telepathically.
“Go home.”
The iron-masked man still spoke softly, but this time his voice had a more imperative tone.
“Who are you?” asked Remel inquisitively.
“Go and you’ll find me,” the man commanded.
The boys followed his order, and they all made their way home to their houses and council flats with a feeling of peace in their bodies and no urge to fight. Remel on the other hand felt a sense of dissatisfaction and curiosity as to what the man meant. It was all so strange.
Around 20 minutes later, Remel walked home alone. He was slightly perplexed by the events that had just taken place. When he reached his house, his hands fiddled in his coat pocket to reach his keys. He found them, but he could also feel a small piece of paper in his pocket. He took it out of his pocket and he saw printed writing on it. The words read: ‘King Keys, The Perpetually Pensive Poet. Read Jeremiah 29:11’.
Chapter 2
Remel Brathwaite is at home, confused and trying to understand what had happened.
Remel read the paper several times over whilst standing at the door. The phrasing was odd. After the eighth time reading the paper, he placed it back in his trouser pocket and walked into his house. He was hit with the smell of his mum’s cooking. The air was flavoured with plantain and fried chicken. The smell gave his heart a sense of warmth, even though his thoughts were unfocussed. He took off his dirtied jacket and placed his shoes in his shoe room then went to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror. His hair, cut into a low temple fade, was rough and messy. He had a scar on his forehead and a bruise on his cheek, however this was not what he was looking for. He washed the dirt off of his palms and the blood off of his knuckles. The blood took a while to clear, but eventually, his hands were clean of evidence of the fight. He dried his hands, placed them in his pocket and took the piece of paper out. The words read: ‘King Keys, The Perpetually Pensive Poet. Read Jeremiah 29:11’. He had already read it numerous times, and each time, more questions clouded his head.
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