by Janet Pywell
I’m just a stranger.
‘You can draw really well, Adam. This sketch of the fern is excellent.’ I lean forward to study his work, but he waves my sketch pad in my face.
‘You can keep them if you like, Adam. I’ve been drawing for years. As a child, it was my way of escape. I was brought up in Spain, and I used to hide from my parents in churches; my mother was jealous, and she used to beat me, and my father was an alcoholic,’ I whisper.
He reaches out, and his fingers are gentle when he strokes the ragged scar on the back of my hand.
‘My mother did that. She was aiming for my face, but I covered it with my hands.’ I show him how and he watches me silently. ‘I was terrified …’
‘I remember, you told us that night in Morocco,’ his voice is barely a whisper. ‘Does she still hurt you?’
‘No. She’s dead now. She was drunk, and she wrapped Papa’s motorbike around a tree.’
‘Good.’ He rips my drawings out of the sketch pad, tucks them into his pocket, stands up, and leaves the room without looking back.
Later that afternoon, Matt makes me a coffee, and we sit in his office. It’s stark, newly painted but informal. There’s a worn couch, a rickety desk, and a couple of mismatched hard chairs. He places the mugs on a Formica table between us.
* * *
‘I saw Adam in the art class,’ I say.
‘Adam’s autistic,’ Matt explains. ‘A gang recruited him over a year ago, and they had him running errands at first, and then drugs to Suffolk. The police broke up the drugs ring, and it wasn’t worth prosecuting the children. They weren’t criminals – they were victims – and Adam went back to live with his grandparents. We try, through Child Services, to return the kids to their families. Adam’s grandparents are old.’
‘Where are his parents?’
‘His mother died of an overdose when he was ten, and his father, well, we don’t know who he is or where he is. The grandmother said the daughter never told them. She was pregnant at seventeen, and they threw her out. They knew nothing about her or Adam until we knocked on the door fourteen years later. Adam had been living with a guy – a stranger – who was a real nasty piece of work. He got Adam involved in the drug-running, but after this drugs bust, the guy went to prison.’
‘At least the police are catching some of them.’ I sip my coffee. ‘They seem active.’
‘It was a big police operation last year. Rumour had it that there were undercover cops involved – unfortunately, they were killed and the Asian disappeared, but now he’s back.’
‘Do the police know?’
Matt shrugs. ‘I assume so. I try and stay out of getting involved with the police and the gangs. We have to remain neutral. Dixon House has to be a safe place for the kids around here to come.’
‘Do they live near here?’
‘Adam lives in one of the flats on the estate. You might have seen the three high-rise blocks behind here? It’s not ideal, but his grandparents are quite old, and they took him in, so they’re doing their best. At least they let him come here, and they know that parkour means a lot to Adam.’
‘He’s very talented.’
‘He’s incredibly gifted,’ Matt agrees. ‘He’s one of the best.’
‘He doesn’t speak much.’
‘No, he won’t speak about what happened, either. He won’t tell us what happened to him or who was involved. We’ve tried to help, to offer counselling and friendship, but he stays completely silent.’
‘Do you think he’s frightened?’
‘Maybe. I think he knows that the bad guys are all still out there – and when something happens as it did to Ali, it’s a warning to them all.’
‘But the Asian’s not the one in charge?’ I ask Matt deliberately as a question.
Matt shrugs. ‘In my experience, it often goes much higher than the thug on the street who intimidates the kids.’
‘Peter thinks the same,’ I reply. ‘So, if the Asian is the enforcer, then who is it? Who makes the rules? Who’s in charge?’
Matt cracks his knuckles.
‘I don’t know, Mikky, but if I did, I’d go after them myself. I’d hunt them down and kill them with my bare hands for all the lives that they have destroyed.’
‘So, what do you know about the Asian?’
‘Nothing, Mikky. Absolutely nothing. No one will risk their lives talking about him.’
* * *
Half an hour later, Claudia joins us. She brings a strong-smelling herbal tea into Matt’s office and places the mug on the table, and wraps her green, yellow, and orange dress delicately under her bottom as she sits down. She wears a matching turban that emphasises the deep colour of her beautiful skin, and the gold bracelets on her arm jangle as she sips her tea.
‘How does this place keep going? How is it funded?’ I ask.
‘Volunteers run it and we have some funding from the government, then there are private donations.’ Claudia’s African voice is melodious as it goes up and down on the musical scale.
‘Is there a lot of support from the government – or is it the city council who helps you?’ I ask.
Matt finishes his coffee and sits back.
‘We’re a registered charity. The local politician Raymond Harris has been incredible. He’s a local councillor, and he’s working hard to improve the estate. The council flats are in a terrible state. Some of them are filthy, with rats and cockroaches, and there are no locks on the main doors, and there are robberies all the time …’
‘Is that near here?’
‘The estate consists of the three high-rise tower blocks, two roads behind us, walking toward Regent’s Canal. They’re old buildings now, and they’re in a bad state of neglect. The residents are lobbying for more investment and support, and we’re hoping that with the election next month, there will be more money injected into supporting the local people here. The problem is,’ Claudia explains, ‘that if the buildings aren’t looked after, then they quickly become infested with rats and things. It also means that people have no respect for the property, and they do awful things; robberies increase, and they become a den for the drug users.’
‘The problem isn’t just the drugs, Mikky,’ Matt explains. ‘It’s poor social housing, unemployment, and drug abuse, which all have a knock-on effect with the kids’ lives and their education—’
‘Domestic violence is also a big problem,’ interjects Claudia. ‘As well as sexual assault on young people; boys and girls. We do our best to provide help and support here, and we work closely with the police and social services, but sometimes it’s a losing battle …’
Matt cracks his knuckles. ‘It’s worse when we lose one of our own – like Ali. It affects us all. That’s why I won’t believe he committed suicide. He had too much to live for – he had plans, and he would have turned his life around. I know he would have.’
‘Have you spoken to his family?’
‘He lived with a foster family for a while. I spoke to them on the phone. His mother’s an addict, but more recently, he lived with his father. He’s a train driver. I spoke to him last weekend.’
‘Does he live on the estate?’
‘Yes.’
‘In one of the high-rise flats?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the same one as Adam’s grandparents?’
‘No. There are three blocks of apartments, two with fourteen floors and one with twenty-five floors.’ Matt flexes his shoulders.
‘Sometimes the lift doesn’t work, and homeless people are sleeping on different floors, in the hallways,’ adds Claudia. ‘Sometimes it reeks of drugs or urine, and it’s not healthy, especially for the families who have young children.’
‘What can be done?’
‘Well,’ Matt says, crunching his knuckles. ‘Raymond Harris is doing his best, and the police are doing what they can do with limited resources – and we do what we can here. We try and give them shelter and a safe place to be.’
‘Let
’s see what the election brings.’ Claudia smiles brightly. ‘I’m an optimist, and I’m hoping the new government will give us a windfall. They have to turn this around when you think of what all those businessmen and banks earn while these poor people live in poverty, waiting for help from the government because they can’t get a job.’
Matt shakes his head. ‘I doubt the government will change, Claudia. That’s wishful thinking. I think we’ll be stuck with the same capitalists, who only line their own pockets without a thought for the poor and the homeless.’
‘Thank goodness we have Raymond Harris.’ Claudia folds her arms across her generous breasts. ‘Without him, we couldn’t survive.’
* * *
I’m walking out of Dixon House when I spot Adam sitting on a low wall, a few metres down the road, on his own. He’s looking at something in his hands – probably his phone – and I wonder if I should join him, but I decide against it. Instead, I check the address in my hand, hastily scribbled by Matt, and head toward the buildings they refer to as the estate.
The wind is cold on my face. It’s four o’clock, and already the low cloud and the threat of more rain has brought darkness to the streets.
I sidestep a puddle, leap over dog poo by the lamppost, and avoid the addicts with bleary eyes and grubby fingers rolling joints and loitering in the doorways.
All around me, life goes on; a young girl with fake eyelashes, enhanced lips, and a fake tan pushes a buggy. An older woman tugs the hand of a screaming toddler, pulling him angrily along the street, and from an alleyway, a dog barks.
Beside a small park with a patch of green grass, three grey buildings rise into the sky and seem imposingly tall. I have vertigo. When I look up, it causes my knees to tremble and my palms to sweat.
I check the address and, using Google Maps, I find that each block of apartments is named after a saint: Luke, Thomas, and John.
Luke and Thomas have fourteen floors, and John is the tallest, with twenty-four. I swallow hard, and my mouth is dry.
The address is like the verse of the Bible.
Luke. 12. 24.
Matt and Claudia are right – the locks are broken on the main door. I walk in through the front entrance and there’s no security. The lift is honking of urine, so I opt for the stairs, climbing two at a time, deciding it will keep me fit. Twelve floors, apartment number 24.
Some of the floors are not illuminated. The lights are broken, but I move on instinct, quickly, and I call out, shocked and surprised when a bundle in the corner unfurls and groans.
I hurry, climbing higher, wondering about fires and security.
A door bangs. A voice shouts and curses, so I jog up to the twelfth floor, scanning the door numbers: 24.
There is chipped paint on the front door and a new lock.
I knock and wait.
Eventually, a round-shouldered man with a walnut head and brown eyes behind round tortoiseshell glasses opens the door.
Ali’s father, Mustafa, looks more like an accountant than a train driver.
‘I’m Mikky dos Santos.’
‘Matt phoned to say you were coming,’ he says. ‘Come in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mustafa.’ His grip is warm and his fingers soft. ‘Go straight on to the living room.’
Inside the small flat, I can see he’s made an effort to make the apartment homely; there’s a large L-shaped black sofa, a big television on the wall, and a few ferns and house plants on the floor. But there are no pictures, no framed photographs of Ali or him, or anyone.
‘Do you want a drink?’ he asks.
‘No, thank you.’
I perch to where he points, on the edge of the sofa, and he sits at right angles to me. His elbows rest on his knees, his fingers gripping his hands, as if he’s in prayer.
‘I met Ali last week, in Morocco,’ I begin.
‘Ah, good. I think he enjoyed it there. It sounded like he had fun.’
‘He and his friends – they’re very talented.’
‘They are good at parkour,’ says Mustafa.
‘Did you ever see them?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, but Ali showed me the video thing he took on his iPhone.’
Silence falls between us until I say, ‘I’m so very sorry …’
Mustafa removes his glasses and wipes his eyes. ‘It’s so pointless …’
‘What?’
‘His short life.’
‘Was he unhappy?’
‘No!’ He sounds surprised at my question, and he replaces his glasses on his nose. ‘The opposite. Things had just started going well for him. Matt had organised this trip to Morocco, and they were supposed to film again …’
‘He had a lot to live for.’
‘Yes. He wanted to join the police force.’
‘Were you happy with this?’
‘Yes, of course. Anything, so that he didn’t waste his life. It hasn’t been easy – our life here – there’s a lot of bad influences out on the street, and he fell in with the wrong crowd …’
‘Do you know how that happened?’
He barely pauses. ‘His mother, she was a bad influence – she had no strength of will, and she took the easy way out.’
‘The easy way?’
‘Drugs,’ he spits disgustedly.
‘Was that easy for her?’
‘It is around here. This place is rife …’
‘And what about your influence?’
‘Mine? What do you mean?’
‘Well, Ali is – was – your son, too.’
He glares at me. ‘My parents didn’t come over from Pakistan for me to live like this—’
‘Where is your wife from?’
‘She’s English – from Brentwood.’
‘So, you met, fell in love, and then … what?’
He removes his glasses and polishes the lenses with the corner of his shirt, then tucks it back into his trousers.
‘I work hard.’ He places his glasses back on his face and he focuses on me. ‘I always have. But my wife didn’t have the same work ethic. While I was out every day, she was playing bingo or in the pub, and then she met these … these scumbags … and they ruined her. You have no idea what it’s like around here. I couldn’t stand it, so I left.’
‘But you came back?’
He looks away and concentrates on the new TV on the wall.
‘I was off work with stress and anxiety. There was an accident – a body on the train track – not my train, but the one before me … it’s nerve-wracking going at that speed, and you don’t expect that a body …’
I wait while he composes himself.
‘I didn’t even bring up my son as a proper Muslim. I’m ashamed. It took me a while to get myself sorted out, but I lost my home – I couldn’t pay my mortgage – and eventually I moved back here. Then Adam came to live with me. He’d been in foster care, and I felt guilty that I hadn’t been able to look after him when his mother had let him down. He was my responsibility, but then I failed him, too …’
‘Did he ever mention the Asian?’
Mustafa frowns. ‘I think I’ve heard the name. I don’t know who he is. I’ve never seen him, but I know he preys on the kids around here and gets them to do jobs for him.’
‘Like what?’
‘Drugs and stuff.’
‘Do the police know?’
‘I think so, but no one sees him. They can’t seem to catch him.’
‘Is he the big guy – the man at the top?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Was Ali involved with him?’
Mustafa scratches his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ve heard there’s a cult, and that the Asian has a following and some of the kids swear their allegiance to him …’
He doesn’t reply, so I continue, ‘Was Ali a member of this cult?’
Mustafa shrugs.
‘Did he have any tattoos?’
Mustafa looks surprised. ‘He had an Aztec
symbol thing on his arm, like a lot of boys do.’
‘Was there a sword or a big knife?’
Mustafa shakes his head. ‘He didn’t show me anything.’
‘Were you two close?’
Mustafa regards me carefully before replying, ‘I work shifts – you know, on the trains – so sometimes I’d be asleep when he went to school.’
‘Did you do things together?’
‘Sometimes we watched TV.’ He nods at the screen on the wall. ‘But we have different interests. He likes sport and music, and I like films.’
‘Did you know his friends?’ I ask gently.
‘He didn’t bring anyone home.’
‘A girlfriend, perhaps?’
‘No, no one came here.’
Our conversation ends. There is nothing left to say. There is no more information that I can get out of this sad man. He’s suffering, coping with his grief.
I reach into my bag and pull out a large envelope and offer it to Mustafa.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a photograph I took of Ali in Morocco. I thought you might like it.’
Mustafa pulls out the photo frame and gazes at Ali’s smiling face, with his modern and popular haircut.
He’s posing with his hands in his pockets, outside the shop in the Kasbah. While Mustafa studies his son’s image, I’m reminded of Ali’s shyness and inexperience in bargaining, and how he asked me to accompany him to buy the leather flying jacket.
Mustafa places it on the coffee table. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t be afraid to get some help,’ I say, as I walk to the front door. ‘There is bereavement counselling available, and it might help you.’
‘I’ll see.’
I pause to look at the lock. ‘Did you have a burglary?’
‘That was a few months ago.’
‘Did they steal anything?’
‘Of course, the television and an iPad.’
‘You sound as if it happens all the time.’
‘It does. This is a council estate – it always happens.’
‘Not all council estates are like this. Sometimes the residents have groups to support each other, and to improve things.’
‘I don’t get involved. I work too many shifts, and I’m too tired.’
‘I’m sorry, Mustafa,’ I say, but he doesn’t answer, and as he closes the door behind me, I hear the lock scrape back into place.
