by Peter Akinti
'My brother wrote a lot in his notebooks,' Meina said, finally, still standing. With a small gesture James offered her a seat. He made his way back to his bed but in his haste he stumbled, almost falling over. Each of his steps seemed to require all his effort. James slowly settled on his bed and Meina sat studying him. She realised at once that he had indeed meant to kill himself – Ashvin had not been part of some prank. She saw sadness in him, a melancholy that seemed familiar. 'He wrote a lot about you,' she said.
'Your voice is different,' James said.
'You mean from Ash? My brother is dead. Remember?'
Although Meina's English was almost flawless, unlike her brother's, she slurred her consonants as a French speaker would, not like someone from East Africa where the inflection was speedy, harsh and guttural. Their mother had been harder on her, the daughter, about the correct pronunciation of English words. She said it would act as a protective cloak wherever Meina went in her life.
James said nothing. He sat on the bed and let out a deep, anguished sigh, covering his mouth with his hands; a vein above the wide laceration on his neck stood out, livid and pulsating.
Meina felt her heart pounding and the anger she had been holding in threatened to explode. It was only as she studied the marks on his neck that she really believed that James had not tricked Ashvin into killing himself alone. She watched him ease himself up onto the bed, lying on his side on top of dishevelled bed sheets. The look in his eyes was so intense Meina almost forgot how young he was. He looked burdened and ill at ease; perhaps even afraid.
'You OK?'
'Yes. Thanks,' he replied.
'Ash wrote that you never lie. Is that true?'
James nodded, seeming confused. 'Yes. I mean, no. I don't lie.'
Meina ran a hand through her hair and pursed her lips to stop them trembling. 'I want to know about the boy he wrote about. The Ethiopian boy in the newspapers. Nalma. I need to know if you knew.'
'If I knew what?'
'Did you and Ashvin kill him?' It had sounded better when she practised in front of the mirror at home.
'Yes, we did.'
Meina folded her arms and took a long, hard look at James. He had closed his eyes, turning his head slightly away from her.
Tears welled up but she blinked them back. She moved to stand nearer the bed and tentatively held out her hand, as if seeking comfort.
'To have had a brother like mine was a blessing.' That was all she said. And then she left.
The weather was much cooler the next time she showed up; it had rained heavily that morning. Meina waited in the cafe by the cardiology unit until she was sure all his other visitors had gone.
'So,' she asked, 'did you read my letter?'
'Yeah, I did.'
James searched her face for a sign that she was joking. He found none.
'And what do you say?'
'Yes.'
He was discharged from the hospital two days later. For hours he walked past her estate, up and down, looking behind him to see if there was anyone watching. He sat alone in the park until it began to rain, lightly at first, then heavily, then just a slow drizzle. Finally he made up his mind. As he approached her building he counted eight boys huddled together on a wall halfway down the street. It was dark and James could not make out who they were. As he drew closer the boys stopped speaking and turned to face him.
A tall boy in a black parka with fur around the collar slowly came forward, his hand in his coat pocket. James turned to his right and saw another half a dozen boys standing in the shadows with hats or hoods covering their eyes, faces dimly lit from the joints they passed each other. Three more of them sat on the bonnet of a car parked along the street and yet another stood by himself on a gravel path near the entrance to the estate, keeping a lookout. James knew they were all tooled up. The night was cold and still; a woman in a red crocheted hat clicked her heels as she walked by. She carried a red-and-white plastic bag, the air behind her heavy with the smell of KFC. James could just make out the glow of television screens in a few of the rows of identical arched windows. Another boy put a joint to his mouth and lit it, sucking twice until the flame on the tip extinguished and became a dizzying orange spot and then he blew out the match with a blast of smoke.
'Yo! Heads up.' He seemed to be speaking out to the dark.
'Didn't you see the wall tags, my yout'?' This time James couldn't tell who had spoken. He remembered the wall daubed with graffiti that he had passed at the entrance but he hadn't taken any notice.
'It's a fucking liberty,' came another voice, angry and threatening. James felt his pulse race. He jerked back as someone smashed glass, a bottle, behind him. And then more boys approached from out of the shadows. Two more came out of the back seat of a Ford with a broken windscreen, one of them wearing a ski mask. The car was clamped and had a local council removal sticker on the passenger window. James wondered how he had missed it. The driver stayed put, hunched over the steering wheel tapping a number into a phone. Wishing he had gone straight home, James looked up the blind street from where he had come and then ahead at the bright lights at Meina's window. Conscious of the many eyes watching his every move, he straightened and struggled to stand firm like a man. His legs trembled, there was a ringing in his ears and he could taste vomit at the back of his throat. He remembered 4 had told him to hit the biggest man if he was ever confronted by a gang. 'Strike fast. Strike first.' But James could never tell whether 4 was joking or not.
Hit the biggest.
His eyes burned and he clenched his fists. All the boys looked big and he had no interest in fighting even the smallest. James sighed, overwhelmed by the weight of the unwritten, unbreakable rules that his brothers had tried to teach him. This is how it was on the estates; you didn't get a second chance to flourish or to say sorry. This is how it would be forever – a life sentence. His breathing slowed. He stared at a slab of broken pavement and wondered why he could never measure up. It was like being in a dream – he couldn't fight and he couldn't run. He looked up at the sombre sky and then he conceded. I'm fucked, he thought.
'You took a wrong turn, bruv, you can't come dan here.' The boy with the parka looked at James with a quizzical expression. He took out a knife, unfolded it. The street light caught the long silver blade as he wiped it across the thigh of his jeans.
Just then a woman parted her curtains and leaned out into the street. She was white, ashen-faced, and James thought she looked pregnant. 'Terry? You out there? Your dinner's getting cold.' The voice was a notch louder than necessary.
'Fuck off, Mum,' said a mixed-race boy in a red-and-white pair of Adidas Top Tens. He shook his head slowly with his mouth open wide, dropped his arms to his sides and then looked at the floor.
'Oi, Slater, Mummy said dinner's getting cold,' mimicked a voice and there was soft laughter.
'You lot can fuck off 'n' all,' said Terry. He shook his head again, flipped open his phone, pushed at the buttons with his thumb. 'Fuck all this,' he said, 'I'm going over to my girl's house. Fucking hate coming round here.' He smashed the bottle he carried, turned his back on his friends. 'Hello, it's me. You got food in your house?' he said into the phone and walked up the street alone.
The woman did not look surprised when she closed her curtain.
James used the distraction to pick up his pace. He felt spreading waves of fear in his knees first and then all the way up his spine. His body reminded him he was still too weak to run so he prepared himself as best he could to take a beating or to get knifed. He used both his hands to wipe the sweat from his face and when he passed a phone box he raised his chin to the light so they could be sure to see his face. He kept turning to look as closely as he could at each of their faces but he couldn't see much because of the dim street lights. When he finally reached Meina's flat his hands were shaking. She had put her front-door key in the envelope with her letter but there was no way he was going to use it. He rang the bell and almost immediately changed his min
d and was turning to walk away when she opened the door. For a long moment they stood looking at each other, then he stepped inside and Meina watched him lean his back against the wall, his hands shaking and his chest heaving. He jumped when he heard a sound. She tried to take his hand but he withdrew it.
'Come in,' Meina said, gently tugging at his arm. 'I've made you something to eat.' She turned and led him through the flat.
Something happened in that moment. As James walked through the hall everything behind him turned into a blur. Later he told her that it was the first time in a long while that he had felt safe. He let go of a deep breath – as though he had sucked in all the air in the world.
Meina's was a smaller version of the flat James shared with his mother and brothers. The same as all council-sponsored flats: all new fixtures and paper-thin walls, hidden radiators, low ceilings and carpet throughout except in the kitchen where there was always lino.
'It smells nice,' he said. He had removed his shoes but seemed unsure about stepping on the rug in the centre of the room.
'It's a cinnamon and apple plug-in air-freshener thing. I turned it on full blast to drown out the smell of my lamb.'
'You have a lamb?'
'No. I cooked lamb, silly.' Meina laughed, still nervous but visibly relaxing.
James's hand went up to the scar on his neck; he tried to clear his throat.
'Are you tired?' she asked.
'A little.'
Meina searched his face, wondering if bad intent would show. She felt a stirring of anticipation, of danger. She had thought it would feel different being with a man, on her own terms and with no one else around. Where she came from, not all women observed purdah, but she had often thought that she might as well have. Being with James felt wrong, forbidden – as though anything could happen. Being alone with a man not related to her was a disgrace; at home she would have been considered loose, out of control – if something had happened they would have said she'd asked for it since she had invited him into her home. Meina wanted to act like a typical British eighteen-year-old but she did not know how. She was far from home but felt as though she had brought all the old rules with her. In Somalia there were so many rules to protect tradition. But none to protect them from the armed gangs on every street.
They sat on the couch and ate together, watching a DVD. It was a love story with an all-white cast. Meina didn't say anything about her letter and neither did James. Although he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked embarrassed during the sex scenes in the movie, he felt like an adult sitting with her, alone in the flat. Although she saw him casting surreptitious glances, Meina pretended not to notice him watching the slender curves of her neck and her arms. Embarrassed when she looked up and caught his eye, James turned to look at a picture on the bookshelf. It was of Meina, her parents and Ashvin who looked about six years old.
'Where was that picture taken?' he asked.
Meina reclined into her seat on the couch, tilted her head and sighed. 'In our garden in Baidoa. Ashvin and my father had just returned from a fishing trip.' Her voice was slightly strained. 'I know that must sound weird, going on a fishing trip in the middle of a war, but it's not like fishing here in England. In Somalia we fish when there is nothing else to eat. Mostly we were trapped in our homes because the guns and tanks ruled the streets. But we still tried not to worry constantly about war or whether we'd ever have a government again. That's the strange thing about the place, people trying to live normal lives. Mostly we needed permission to go out from "someone who knew someone" who was a member of an armed gang. But not my father. He said he'd never give in to bullies. He said he would always go where he pleased. But my mother would arrange things for us in secret.'
Meina gave a tentative smile as she got up. Her eyes flitted over the picture, then she drew the curtains and positioned her back against the wall.
James was still staring at the picture. He couldn't remember Ashvin having such a wide grin. He looked so innocent and happy. Time had diminished that smile, stilled his spirit.
'For a moment I forgot Ashvin was dead,' he said.
Meina moved back to her seat. 'There is nothing you can do to bring him back.'
In the tense silence Meina thought of the way life presented whole new storylines without permission. James tried to suppress the urge to cry but a tear trickled out and she saw. He used his palm to wipe his eyes.
'It will be all right,' she said.
He didn't respond. He just sat back and faced the screen, unblinking, pretending to be lost in the film.
'Your lamb was good,' he said. 'I haven't tasted it cooked like that before.'
'Should I run you a bath?' Meina regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. It was something her mother always asked her father after he ate.
'No. It's OK,' he answered but he couldn't meet her eyes.
Meina had showed him to her brother's room, but when he got into the bed, under the sheets, James was too anxious to fall asleep. Through the window the moon looked depressed, stuck between heaven and earth. Its sombre, almost tentative light spilled down listlessly. The room smelled of Ashvin. For a while James listened to the couple next door arguing, their voices easily penetrating the thin dividing wall. Eavesdropping on the intimate conversation was interesting at first but after an hour of their cursing he was ready to go and kick down their door.
He woke long before dawn, soaked in his own sweat and overwhelmed with the feeling that he had failed. He had let Ashvin down. He had wanted to die at the time but now, after getting so close, he wasn't so sure what he wanted. The shame he felt shut out everything else. He tried to pray but ended in frustrated tears because he didn't believe in the things he was saying. Meina heard his sobs from her room and got up, knocking gently on his door. But James quietened, remembering where he was.
When he got up in the morning he could hear Meina in the kitchen and smelled coffee. With a forced energy, borne of despair, he lifted half of his body out of bed but his head wouldn't follow. His neck burned, every bit of him was too heavy and his eyes felt as if they had been cemented shut during the night. It was like the worst type of hangover. Meina had left him a towel in the bathroom and he washed and dressed before joining her.
'How was your night?' she said.
'Pretty shitty.'
'Pretty shitty?'
'I couldn't sleep.'
'Me neither.'
James stretched his arms up, 'I'd better get home in time for breakfast. I'll pack all my stuff then I'll come back.' He turned to her, uncertain. 'That is, if you still want me to stay here.'
'Can I come with you?' she asked.
James was caught off guard. To answer quickly would have revealed his excitement. He turned to look out of the window but when he allowed himself a small smile Meina caught it. He shrugged. 'If you want.'
They stepped out of the house holding hands. Meina looked at James, wondering if he had any idea how much such a casual gesture meant to her. The boys gathered at the corner all turned to stare.
'Let's cross,' Meina said nervously, trying to pick up the pace. James followed.
Some of the boys also crossed and walked towards them. A tall, light-skinned boy who must have been in his early twenties, with a square face and bulging arm muscles, spoke first, his eyes shining.
'Are you one of them Morrison brothers?' Half his hair was in dreads and he wore an old-fashioned black goose-down gilet with a fur hood. He smiled, showing off discoloured teeth.
'Yes.' James nodded, and kept hold of Meina's hand.
'Respect.' The boy offered James a rough fist, covered with cuts.
James didn't acknowledge the greeting – his brothers had taught him never to look like he was begging for friends.
'My name's Ratchet.' The young man lowered his hand, seeming not to notice the snub. 'So what, you livin' up these ends now?' he continued.
James exchanged his wily stare for Ratchet's strong one.
'Yeah, m
aybe.' Meina could tell James was nervous; she squeezed his hand but he continued to stare at Ratchet.
Ratchet turned to his friends. 'See I told you.' He beckoned to one of the boys; as he came close, James recognised him. He had lost all the menace of the night before. He stood next to Ratchet, raising his head sheepishly.
'One of my boys spoke out of turn to your missus, and another one pulled a knife. They didn't know. No disrespect.' Ratchet's tone was severe.
'It's cool,' said James. 'It's your manor.' He gave a gentle nod towards the boy but he would not meet James's eye.
'He says he didn't know. My boys are normally clear-headed. I don't know what's got into them recently – they been dragging their feet. I got to get 'em something to do. If your family need anything doing, let me know.' Ratchet tensed his lips as though he wanted to say something else, but then thought better of it. He raised his right hand again and balled it into a fist twice the size of James's. This time James touched Ratchet's fist solemnly with his own.
'Respect,' Ratchet said and thumped his heart three times. 'I've got a car. I can drop you off somewheres.'
'No, we're good. But thanks.'
Meina was surprised by the encounter. She had not realised that the streets of London were carved out into territories just as they had been at home. But here it was not by clans but by class, education, wealth and, she guessed, strength. Each group had its own rules, its own village mentality. She imagined the same wars taking place among the poor all over the world. War has a gender, she thought, and it's male.
'I'm not sure I understand what just happened,' she said to James as they walked out of the estate.
'It's complicated,' he said, looking down at the ground and letting go of her hand.
