by Kit de Waal
He bends down, picks up his backpack, and feeds his arms through the straps. Tufty stands in the doorway.
“Come, Star. Tell the man you’re sorry and I’ll take you home.”
“I’m not sorry,” he says.
He tries to push past Tufty.
“What?” says Mr. Devlin. “What did you say? Do you realize what this means to me? My son is dead. Dead, do you hear me? He died when he was younger than you are now. How dare you say—”
“All right, all right,” says Tufty. “Leave him. He don’t look right. Leave him, come, let’s go.”
But Mr. Devlin grabs Leon’s arm and pulls him backward.
“You’re not going anywhere without giving me my apology.”
“Leave him,” says Tufty. “You can’t see it’s late? What’s he doing out so late? Where’s your clothes?”
But Mr. Devlin isn’t listening.
“You need to have respect for other people’s things. He is mine. Not yours.”
“What you doing in here, Star?” says Tufty. “It’s too late for you to be out. Too dangerous. Where’s your top? Get dressed. I’ll take you home.”
Leon feels his teeth sharpening themselves against each other. He can hear the sawing in his temples, the grinding in his ears.
“I don’t care,” he says.
Both men speak together.
“What?”
“I don’t care,” repeats Leon.
“You can’t say that,” says Tufty.
“I don’t care!” he screams. “No one cares!”
“All right . . .”
But Leon hasn’t finished. He screws his fingers into tight fists and shoves his hand in the air like Black Power.
“No one cares about me. No one cares about my brother. I’ve got a baby as well. He’s my baby. He’s a real baby, not a wooden baby. But no one cares about that. I can’t see him. I keep asking and asking but you only care about yourself. Everyone steals things from me.”
Mr. Devlin shines his light up at the ceiling and the whole shed becomes bright. Leon knows they can see the tears on his face and he knows they will think he’s behaving like a girl but they’re wrong, as usual. He’s like his dad and he will leave the tears where they are and he won’t wipe them off even though they are itchy. Instead he slaps his chest with the palm of his hands.
“Why can’t I have my things? Everyone else can have theirs. People tell lies to me all the time. They pretend to care but they don’t.”
They are staring at him, listening, dead still. He slips the backpack off and holds it in one hand. His other hand fishes around inside.
“Anyway, I don’t care, because I can look after myself. And I can look after my brother. I’ve done it before. So I don’t care if I can’t go to the seaside.”
Leon can feel himself growing stronger. He can see they believe him. They look at each other and then back at him. He is tall. He’s strong and powerful, like Maureen said. And he’s been making plans for a long, long time.
“And I’ve got lots of money and all of our food so I don’t need your things and the head doesn’t even look like Jake anyway.”
Mr. Devlin opens his mouth but Leon slips the pruning knife out and slashes the air.
“No!” he shouts. “Don’t say anything because I won’t listen. No one listens to me so I won’t listen to them.”
It’s about time everyone realizes who they are dealing with. It’s nice to see that two grown-up men can be scared. The knife feels slick and heavy in his hand; he can see Mr. Devlin and Tufty stiffen because they’re scared, they can see how big he is and they know he will stab them if they get in his way. Leon swings the knife from right to left and both of the men back off.
“Easy, no, man,” says Tufty. “Easy, Star.”
“I’m in charge now,” says Leon. “And I don’t have to listen. I don’t have to take it easy.”
He keeps stabbing the air between them until Tufty backs away from the door.
“Wait, Star! Come on. Talk to me, man.”
Tufty is holding his hands up like he’s being robbed but Mr. Devlin takes a few steps away. The noise of the police cars and fire engines is loud and constant. There is shouting as well, far away, like a soccer match or a party.
When Mr. Devlin speaks, he is quiet and slow.
“Leave him. The boy is right. He is in charge. He has the weapon.”
Leon nods. He can feel the fear in the air, between him and the two men. Between him and the rest of the world.
“Yeah. I’m in charge.”
“Yes,” says Mr. Devlin. “You are in charge. We can see that.”
Mr. Devlin and Tufty quickly look at each other. Mr. Devlin holds his hands out.
“What would you like to do now?” he says to Leon.
“I’m going to Dovedale Road to get my brother.”
“I see,” says Mr. Devlin. “Dovedale Road.”
“Yeah,” says Leon. “And then I’m going to find my mom because she needs him.”
“Yes, I understand,” says Mr. Devlin. “Your mother. I see. You’ve got her address?”
“Bristol. The Halfway House.”
Tufty opens his mouth then shuts it again. Mr. Devlin nods.
“Right. Dovedale Road first and then to Bristol? That’s a long way. Isn’t it, Mr. Burrows?”
“Yeah, man. You need someone with you, Star.”
They think he’s stupid.
“I’m going now,” Leon says.
Mr. Devlin backs away farther into the shed and pulls Tufty away from the door.
“Yes, of course,” he says. “We won’t stand in your way, will we?”
Tufty is frowning.
“But first,” continues Mr. Devlin, “perhaps you should put your clothes on. Or maybe you would like something to eat. Or drink. Dovedale Road is a long way.”
“No,” says Leon. He points the knife at both of them and opens the door with his foot. Leon has seen this plenty of times on The Dukes of Hazzard. If you want to get away, you have to keep your weapon on the enemy at all times. They could rush you. They could have their own weapons hidden in their sock. They might have reinforcements. All the time, you hold the weapon up, strong in your hand. Keep eye contact. Be brave.
But they don’t move. They stand together at the back of the shed. Leon’s in control now. Nobody else.
The door is open. He steps out backward with his knife in the air. He watches them for a few seconds and then he runs. He hears them after him. He hears them scuffling behind him on the path, the flashlight beams bounding all over the place, so Leon sticks to the bushes that lead around the allotment. He crouches low like a soldier, stopping every so often. Crouch, stop. Crouch, stop. Whips of leaves and brambles attack him but he keeps going. Crouch, stop. He can hear them shouting at each other, chasing him, angry because of the stolen knife and the baby’s head, because he wouldn’t say sorry. Mr. Devlin doesn’t like him anymore. Crouch, stop.
“Star! Come out. Come on. It’s not safe.”
Tufty knows he steals things and wants to take him back to Maureen and Sylvia but they don’t want him, either. They want a new dog that’s no trouble, a well-behaved little mutt. Crouch. Stop. Tufty and Mr. Devlin have run to the gate and are shining their lights everywhere and shouting at each other.
“Yo, Star!”
“What’s his name?”
Tufty doesn’t answer.
“Christ, you don’t know his name?” says Mr. Devlin.
“Danny. No. Ian, no, Leo, something like that.”
“Christ,” says Mr. Devlin.
“You were the one sitting in the shed with the child. Don’t say nothing to me about it. I just showed him a few things with some seeds.”
“He liked you.”
Mr. Devlin starts
shouting. “Hello! Hello! Boy!”
“Don’t say ‘boy,’” says Tufty. “You don’t call black people ‘boy.’ Never.”
“What is he then? He is a boy. I’m just calling out what he is. You call people ‘man,’ don’t you? I’ve heard you.”
“‘Boy’ means something else.”
“Mother of God, every child in my class was ‘boy’ when I wanted his attention. It means nothing.”
“Yeah? That depends on who you’re talking to.”
“Brazilians. Boys from the slums of São Paulo. Brazilian boys in my class in my school that I ran with my Brazilian wife, you bloody fool. Black boys, brown boys, white boys. Just boys.”
“All right, all right. We’re wasting time.”
Tufty starts walking away.
“Shine over there,” shouts Mr. Devlin, “I’ll go by the Atwals’ and by the fence. Spread out, spread out. Look low, he will go low.”
“If he’s still here.”
Leon stays hidden. The trees and bushes make inky shapes against the purple sky and every so often their leaves move in the wind, whispering, trying to tell him something, warn him, tell him what to do. Invisible things scuttle past his feet, stop, start again. Like Leon, they know how not to get caught. Leon smells bonfires and burning plastic. There must be fireworks somewhere. There’s a streetlight just outside the gate and if he gets up too soon they’ll see him. And anyway, before he does anything else he has to get his bike from where he left it near Mr. Devlin’s shed. He doesn’t want to walk all the way to Dovedale Road. He hears them coming. He cramps himself into a ball, down low behind a metal trough full of dirty water.
“He’s gone home,” says Mr. Devlin.
“Home?” says Tufty. “You didn’t hear him say his mother is in Bristol?”
“And his brother. What did he mean about his brother?”
“I don’t know.”
“The child should be indoors.”
“Look,” says Tufty, “his bike is there by your shed. He ain’t going without his bike.”
“Maybe,” says Mr. Devlin. “But he’s desperate.”
“Yeah, when you’re desperate you do desperate things.”
“Yes, all right, Mr. Burrows. I get your point.”
“Them people on the street—”
Mr. Devlin growls like a dog.
“Enough of the street, the street. You people are so fucking stupid! You can’t even organize yourselves.”
“Who you calling stupid?”
“It’s ridiculous what you’re doing. You have no plan, no structure, no chain of command . . .”
All Leon has to do is wait. Eventually they’ll start fighting and forget all about him. But then Tufty starts to laugh. It’s a laugh like Sylvia’s, with nothing funny in it, bitter and tired.
“I ain’t fighting you, man.” Leon hears Tufty taking deep breaths. “You’re an old man and I’m better than this. I’m not a fighter. I don’t hate people. I ain’t fighting no more.”
Mr. Devlin goes to say something but Tufty shouts at him.
“Go about your business, man!” he says. “Go on. Fix up the gate. I’ll look for my friend. He’ll come out for me. Go on. Go home.”
Tufty walks away toward Leon’s bike. Leon has missed his chance. He should have gone while they were still angry. He can just make out Tufty picking up the bike and wheeling it toward the gate. Mr. Devlin is breathing somewhere close, shining his light in long steady sweeps across the allotment. Leon has to run for it.
He scrambles up, darts out, and slinks along the hedge. He comes to the path, then it’s open country. He must get his bike off Tufty and make a run for the gate. He still has the knife.
“Yo! Yo!” calls Tufty.
Leon runs and pulls the bike but Tufty grabs it back and Tufty is so strong that he wins.
“Yo, Star! Wait.”
Leon runs straight past him, twisting and feinting so Tufty can’t grab him. He hears Mr. Devlin running, getting closer.
“Stop him!” he shouts. “Get after him.”
But Leon’s gone. They’re old. They can’t catch him. He’s free.
38
Inside Leon’s body, everything is mixed up. He feels hungry but he also feels full. His blood is hot and bubbly, making him want to run all the time, but he’s cold and so tired he could curl up on the sidewalk and go to sleep. He wants to fight. Men and older boys are running in the middle of the road, shouting at each other and not noticing him. He wants to fight them all. He wants them to stop and help him.
The smell of smoke is everywhere—seeping through his skin, in the fabric of his pants, on his scalp, his naked back, his hair—and if he was at home, Sylvia would tell him to get changed and have a bath. She would close the windows and light a cigarette, she would put the TV on and give him a bag of potato chips and a drink. Maureen would be worried about where the smoke came from and whose house was on fire but Sylvia wouldn’t.
He runs into the next street. How far is Dovedale Road? What bus is it? How much is it? He stops in front of a shop and takes his map out of his backpack. It’s soaking wet and, as he pulls it, it rips in half. A bottle of soda has smashed in his pack. His map is ruined. His breath comes in short bursts in time with the thrumming of his heart, sudden and sharp. Behind him he hears an explosion and the noise hits him like a fist. He crouches down in case something lands on him from the sky and he scampers to the doorway of a shop with all its windows smashed in.
An angry ghost of black smoke rolls up the street. If Leon stays where he is, it will cover him over, eat him up. He feels the soda dripping out of his pack and running down the back of his legs. It makes him want to pee and then he’s crying again.
“I don’t know where I am,” he says.
Run away from the ghost. Run all the way to Dovedale Road. Knock on the door where Jake lives. Ask them if he can stay. Maybe they do want another boy. No one’s probably asked them. No more stealing. No more lying. No more creeping around, eavesdropping. The TV always on low. Promise.
He turns a corner and sees a car lying on its side. Fat arms of white fire curl out of the broken windows and wave at him. Something in the car is hissing like fat in a frying pan. Leon turns and runs back the other way. The next road is deserted. The streetlights are broken but the lights are on in every house and a woman stands on the corner covering her face and crying. Two men in turbans shout at him.
“Get off the street! Can’t you see? Go home!”
“No! Come with us. Over here.”
Leon takes a few steps toward them. “I’m lost,” he says.
“Take him inside.”
“Get him off the street.”
Leon backs away.
“Dovedale Road!” he shouts.
“Don’t run away,” they say but Leon is too quick. He dashes down an alley, kicking bottles and bricks out of the way. He needs to get back to the allotment and get his bike. He can cycle all the way to Dovedale Road. He’s strong. He can do it. The alley goes on and on forever and right at the end there is a bright light. He runs toward it, stumbling and banging against the brick wall. He can hear himself breathing and words keep coming out of his mouth even though there is no one to hear. He wants to stop talking to himself but he’s too scared.
“I’m lost. I don’t know where I am. Help me.”
He bursts out of the entry into the middle of a wide road and the noise turns itself off like a tap.
The road and the pavements are covered in bricks and bottles and glass and bits of iron. In the middle of the road is a bike on its side. It could take him all the way to Dovedale Road. He takes two steps toward it.
“Down Babylon!”
Something whizzes over his head and when it smashes it explodes into a puddle of fire, the flames jumping high off the street. Leon turns and runs and the
n he sees them. Crowds and crowds of black men at the end of the street, surging forward and back like one wild lion about to pounce. Leon stares at them but they are looking past him to the other end of the road, where there’s a wide wall of shields and baton, hundreds of policemen lined up across the street.
The words through the loudspeaker are angry.
“Clear the street. Disperse and clear the street.”
Leon wipes his arm across his face. He doesn’t want the policemen to see his tears. He goes to walk away when a brick lands near his feet. He turns to the crowd of men at the other end of the street. They begin shouting all together. Chanting with one voice.
“Justice! Justice! Justice!”
Someone else cuts in.
“Break down Babylon! Break down Sus!”
“Fucking pigs! Police brutality! Murderers!”
“Racists! Killers!”
The same policeman says it again. “Disperse and clear the street.”
Leon cups his hands round his mouth. “Dovedale Road!”
His words are drowned. The voices of the black men rise and snarl together like a monster’s roar that carries right over Leon’s head, all the way over the glass and the bricks and the fire and the bits of metal, all the way over the shields, snapping and biting. No one is looking at Leon. No one is listening. No one ever listens. No one even knows he’s there.
Leon takes his backpack off and puts it down by his feet. He opens the top and takes out Mr. Devlin’s gun. The policemen have batons and shields. The angry men have bricks and swearing. Leon has a gun. He holds it out toward the police. He turns and points it at the black men.
Everything goes quiet. Leon stands tall and raises his head.
“Hey!” he shouts.
The loudspeaker screams.
“Put the weapon down!”
Leon turns back to the police and holds the gun up to eye level, looking down the barrel. Mr. Devlin has done a good job with this gun. The dark wood is oiled and shiny. It has a little trigger and a little sight on the end of the barrel.
