“We write poems,” Ivan said. “It’s a chance for self-expression without censorship, although not without criticism from the audience.”
Joel looked at the paper again, and he homed in on the prize money being offered. He said, “Wha’s dis Walk the Word t’ing?”
“Ah. Interested in prize money, are you?”
Joel didn’t reply although he did think of what he could do with fifty pounds. There was a vast gap between who he was at the present moment, a twelve-year-old reliant upon his aunt for food and for shelter, and who he wanted to be as a man with a real career as a psychiatrist. Along with the sheer determination to succeed, which he did possess, there was the question of money for his education, which he did not. Money was going to be required to make the leap from who he was now to who he wanted to become, and while fifty pounds didn’t amount to much, compared to what Joel had at the moment—nothing—it was also a fortune.
He finally said, “Might be. What d’ I got to do?”
Ivan smiled. “Turn up.”
“’M I s’posed to write summick before I get there?”
“Not for Walk the Word. That’s done on the spot. I give you key words—everyone gets the same words—and you have a specific period of time to craft a poem that uses them. The best poem wins, with the best decided upon by a committee from the audience.”
“Oh.” Joel handed the paper back to Ivan. He knew how little chance he stood of winning anything if judges would be involved in making the decision. He said, “I can’t write poems anyways.”
Ivan said, “Tried, have you? Well. Here’s my thinking on the subject if you don’t mind listening. Do you, by the way?”
Joel shook his head.
“That’s a start, isn’t it,” Ivan said. “It’s very good: listening. I’d call it second cousin to trying. And that’s the crucial element of life experience that so many of us avoid, you know. Trying something new, taking that single leap of faith into the utterly and absolutely unknown. Into the different. Those who take that leap are the ones who challenge whatever fate they might otherwise have. They fly in the face of societal expectations, determining for themselves who and what they will be and not allowing the bonds of birth, class, and bias to make that determination for them.” Ivan folded the advertisement into eighths and tucked the square into Joel’s shirt pocket. “Basement Activities Centre. Oxford Gardens,” he said. “You’ll recognise the building, as it’s one of those monstrosities from the sixties that refer to themselves as architecture. Think concrete, stucco, and painted plywood, and you’ll have it right. I do hope we’ll see you there, Joel. Bring your family if you’d like. The more the merrier. Coffee and cakes afterwards.”
Joel was still carrying that advertisement around, even as he and Toby rode on the train to see their mother. He hadn’t yet shown up at Wield Words Not Weapons but the thought of those fifty pounds continued to burn in his mind. It burned so brightly that the previous idea of being involved in Ivan’s scriptwriting class became a smaller, secondary one. Each time an evening for Wield Words Not Weapons arrived and passed, Joel felt one step closer to having enough courage to try his hand at writing a poem.
As for now, however, there was the hospital visit to cope with. In reception, they were sent not to the upper floor where the dayroom and their mother’s room were located, but instead along a ground-floor corridor to what was called the conservatory, a glassed-in room on the south side of the building.
Joel joyfully took their mother’s presence here as a positive sign. In the conservatory there was nothing really to restrict a patient’s movements: no bars on the windows, specifically. So a patient could do some serious damage to herself by breaking one of the enormous panes of glass, and the fact that Carole Campbell was allowed to spend time here suggested to Joel that progress was being made in her recovery.
Sadly, this turned out to be an overly sanguine conclusion.
SO KENDRA’S INTENDED effect of a visit to Carole Campbell did indeed occur. It merely occurred to the wrong sibling. Ness went her own way for that day and met Joel and Toby forty-two minutes later than the prescribed time and in a mood so surly that Joel knew her afternoon had been less successful than she’d planned it to be, while Joel was the one whose apprehension about where the Campbells might live in the future was heightened.
Ness’s “How was the bloody cow, den?” didn’t make matters any better, for the question and the manner in which Ness asked it didn’t extend the offer of having a heartfelt conversation. Joel wanted to tell her the truth about his call upon their mother: that Carole hadn’t known Toby, that she had thought their father was still alive, and that she was existing on a plane so ethereal that she was far beyond his ability even to reach her. But none of this could he put into words. So he just said, “You should’ve gone,” to which Ness said, “Fuck you, den,” and sashayed in the direction of the buses.
At home when Kendra asked how the visit had gone, Joel said fine, good, Carole had even been doing some gardening in the conservatory of the hospital. He said, “Mum asked ’bout you, Aunt Ken,” and he couldn’t understand why his aunt didn’t seem pleased to hear this lie. The way Joel thought of it, Kendra was supposed to see Carole’s alleged improvement as an indication that the Campbells would not need a permanent living situation with her. But Kendra didn’t seem pleased at all, which made Joel feel his insides knot up as he sought a way to soften whatever blow he’d accidentally dealt her. But before he had a chance to come up with something, Dix took him to one side. He said, “Ain’t you, bred. It’s Ness. How’d she take your mum, den?,” a question Joel knew better than to answer.
Dix eyed Ness, and Ness eyed him right back. Her posture, her facial expression, and even the way she breathed out with her nostrils flared, all served to challenge him. Wisely, he refused to take up the challenge. Instead, when she was likely to be around the house, he went about his own business: at the gym, meeting with his bodybuilding sponsors, preparing for his next contest with a new determination, shopping for his special foods, cooking his special meals.
For several weeks, life thus lurched in the direction of what a casual observer might have called normal. It was in the Harrow Road where the uneasy peace of the family’s existence was broken. Joel was on his way to fetch Toby from the learning centre, where he still went regularly despite the summer holidays. He had just made the turn from Great Western Road when he saw that a disturbing bit of action was in progress across the street, behind the iron railing that lined the pavement and prevented people from crossing. There, a neighbourhood character commonly called Drunk Bob sat in his wheelchair in what was one of his regular spots, just to the left of the doorway to an off licence and beneath the window on which a special deal for Spanish wine was being advertised. He was clutching a paper bag to his chest, his grip on the top of it curving around the unmistakable neck of a bottle. He was shouting his usual cry of “Oy! Oy!” but this time instead of bellowing into the traffic, he was directing the exclamation at a group of boys who were harassing him. One boy had grasped the handles of his wheelchair and was spinning him around while the others made lunges at him, attempting to grab the bag he was holding. Drunk Bob weaved from side to side in his chair as the boys spun and jerked him. Clearly, they wished him to hold on to the arms of the chair and thus loosen his grip on the bag, which, in addition to plaguing him, was their object. But Drunk Bob obviously knew their intention. The bag was his priority. He’d taken the better part of a day to cadge enough money from passersby to purchase his drink, and he wasn’t about to hand it over to a group of boys, no matter how menacing they were.
So the boys spun him, their laughter and taunts nearly drowning out the old man’s cries. No one came out of any of the shops, for in the Harrow Road the course of wisdom had long suggested that one’s business ought to be minded before the business of anyone in the process of being disturbed by neighbourhood thugs. Several people passed by on the pavement as the boys vexed Drunk Bob. But
no one said a word save an elderly woman who shook a walking stick at them but who hurried on her way the moment one of the boys made a grab for her bag.
From where he stood, Joel could see that Drunk Bob was sliding down in his seat. In another few moments, the old man would be on the pavement and there was little chance he could defend himself there. Looking right and left for a policeman made no change in matters, for there was never a policeman in the vicinity when one was needed and always a policeman there when no one was doing a thing. Joel had no desire to be a hero, but nonetheless he shouted, “Hey! You breds let dat bloke alone. He’s crippled, innit,” which momentarily made one of the boys look up to see who was daring to spoil the group’s fun.
Joel muttered, “Damn,” when he saw who it was. Neal Wyatt and he met glances, and the expression that crossed Neal’s face was perfectly readable despite his half-frozen features. Over his shoulder, he said something to his crew, and they halted their harassing of Drunk Bob at once.
Joel wasn’t so foolish as to think this cessation of their activity had anything to do with his cry from across the street. Since in the next moment, every one of the boys looked in his direction, he was perfectly aware of what was about to happen. He began to sprint up the Harrow Road, just as Neal and his crew began moving towards the pavement railing. Neal was leading the pack, smiling like someone who’d just had a bag of money dropped in front of him.
Joel knew it was a mistake to run, but he also knew that Neal had things to prove to his crew, not the least of which was his capacity to finish Joel off. For Joel was the little worm he’d been intent upon squashing in Meanwhile Gardens when Ivan Weatherall had intervened. He was also the slug who’d been chosen by Hibah for friendship, regardless of Neal’s own wishes.
Joel heard the shouts of the boys behind him as he dashed in the direction of the learning centre. The road was only the width of two vehicles, and it would take Neal and his crew less than ten seconds to leap the railing, gain the opposite pavement, and hurtle over its railing as well. So Joel pounded furiously along, dodging a young mother with a pushchair, three chador-wearing women with shopping bags over their arms, and a white-haired gentleman who shouted, “Stop! Thief! Help!” in anticipation of whatever was to come as Joel charged by.
A quick glance over his shoulder allowed Joel to see that he’d been momentarily blessed. A bus and two lorries had swerved into view. Neal and his crew were hot to pursue him but not hot to be caught under the wheels of a vehicle, so they had to wait until all three had passed before they crossed the road and took up the chase. By that time and despite his labouring lungs, Joel had gained fifty yards on them. The charity shop was in view, and he flung himself inside, panting like an overheated dog as he slammed the door behind him.
Kendra was in the back, sorting through bags of new donations. She looked up when the door crashed closed, and what was on her tongue was something meant to sort Joel for the way he’d arrived. But when she saw his face, her intention altered. She said, “What’s going on? Where’s Toby? Aren’t you meant to fetch—”
Joel waved her off, a response so unusual that she was stunned into silence. He peered out of the window and saw Neal on his way, leading his crew like a hound on the scent. Joel glanced back at his aunt, then beyond her to the little room at the back of the shop. There was a door within it and an alley behind it. He made for them both without a word.
Kendra said, “Joel. What’s going on? What’re you doing? Who’s out there?”
He managed, “Blokes,” as he pushed past her. His breath was coming so hard that he was feeling light-headed, and his chest seemed branded with a red-hot iron.
Kendra walked to the window as Joel dived for the back room. Seeing the boys on their way, she said, “Are they vexing you? That lot? I’ll sort them out.” She reached for the door’s handle.
“No!” Joel shouted. He had no time to say more, certainly no time to tell his aunt she would make things worse if she tried to deal with the other boys. No one sorted anyone in this kind of situation, and sometimes an enemy was just an enemy for reasons no one could actually fathom. Joel was Neal Wyatt’s chosen death partner. That’s just how it was. Joel crashed into the back room, where a dim bulb lit the way to the door.
He shoved it open. It slammed against the rear wall of the building. He threw himself out into the alley, and a moment later he was hurtling up it while Kendra shut the door behind him.
Joel pounded along for another thirty yards before he was too winded to continue. He knew he had to catch his breath, but he also knew he had only moments before Neal Wyatt worked out which shop he had gone into and what he’d done when he got there. He looked for a place that was safe to hide in. He found it in a skip that was sprouting rubbish from a building site just behind a block of flats.
With the last of his breath, he heaved himself inside. He had to toss out several cardboard boxes and carrier bags filled with rubbish, but this was something his pursuers were unlikely to notice, given the condition of the rest of the alley.
He ducked down and waited, breathing as shallowly as his aching lungs could manage. In less than two minutes, he was rewarded. He heard the slapping of feet coming in his direction. And then their voices:
“Fuckin yellow arse got away.”
“Nah. He’s round here, innit.”
“Wants sortin, dat cunt.”
“Neal, you see where?”
“Real shit hole, dis.”
“Perfec’ place for likes of him, den.”
Laughter and then Neal Wyatt’s voice saying, “Le’s go. Dat slag is hidin him. Le’s get her.”
The boys moved off, and Joel stayed where he was. Indecision and fear made his bowels pressure downward, demanding release. He concentrated on not letting anything go. Arms wrapped around himself, knees tucked up to his chest, he closed his eyes and listened harder.
He heard a door slam in the distance. He knew it was the back door to the charity shop, with the boys returning there and intent upon damage. He tried to remember how many of them there were—as if this would somehow help the situation—because he knew that his aunt was more than a match for one or two boys, perhaps even three. But more than that in a confrontation would mean trouble for her.
Joel forced himself past the fear, past the rumbling at the bottom of his gut. He rose and lifted himself to the edge of the skip. He was saved by the sirens, which at that point came screaming down the Harrow Road.
When Joel heard them, he knew what his aunt had done. Anticipating the boys, she’d phoned 999 the moment Joel had ducked into the alley. She’d done Lady Muck for them, and her accent, her language, and the term gang of boys or perhaps even better gang of black louts had got the police moving, quicker than usual, bringing them on the run with lights, sirens, batons, and handcuffs. Neal Wyatt and his crew would soon know the rough justice of the Harrow Road police station if they weren’t quick about clearing out of the charity shop. His aunt had won the day.
Joel dropped to the ground and scurried off. Less than five minutes later he was entering the learning centre, where Toby had his meetings with the specialist who’d been assigned to help him.
In the vestibule, Joel stopped to brush himself off. He’d got fairly dirty inside the skip, mostly from having landed on a bag of kitchen rubbish, largely containing discarded baked beans and coffee grounds. His jeans bore the evidence of this, all along one leg, as did his jacket, where his shoulder and arm had ploughed into the remains of what looked like a mustard sandwich. He cleaned himself off as well as he could, pushed open the inner doors, and entered the centre.
Toby was waiting for him on the cracked vinyl sofa that comprised the furnishings of the reception area. He had his lava lamp on his lap, his hands curved around the bottom of it. He wasn’t looking at anything other than the unplugged lamp, but his bottom lip was trembling and his shoulders were hunched.
Joel said cheerfully, “Hey, Tobe. Wha’s going, blood?”
Toby lo
oked up. A bright smile eased the drawn expression on his face. He scooted off the sofa, all eagerness to leave, and it came to Joel that Toby had been frightened, thinking that no one was going to turn up, claim him, and take him home. Joel’s heart grew fiery for his little brother. Toby, he decided, was not intended to feel so scared.
He said to him, “Le’s nick off, mon. You ready, or wha’? I’m sorry I’m late. You wa’n’t worried or nuffink?”
Toby shook his head, everything forgotten. He said, “Nah,” then, “Hey, c’n we get some chips ’long the road before we go home? I got fifty pee. Dix gave it me. I got dat five pounds from Gran as well.”
“You don’t want to be spendin dat money on chips,” Joel pointed out. “It’s birthday money. You got to spend it on somet’ing to remember your birthday by.”
“But if I want chips, how else I get ’em? An’ the fifty pee wa’n’t birthday money anyways.”
Joel was trying to come up with a reply for this, one that would explain—with kindness—that fifty pence would not be enough to buy the chips, no matter that it wasn’t birthday money, when a tall black woman with close-cropped hair and golden earrings the size of hubcaps appeared from one of the centre’s interior offices. This was Luce Chinaka, one of the learning specialists who worked with Toby. She smiled and said, “I thought I heard someone out here talking to my young man. Could I have a word, please?” This last she said to Joel before she went on to Toby, “Did you forget to tell him I wanted to see him when he came to fetch you, Mr. Campbell?”
Toby ducked his head. He clutched his lava lamp closer to his chest. Luce Chinaka touched him lightly on his sparse hair and said, “It’s all right, luv. You’re allowed to forget things. Wait here, won’t you? We won’t be long.”
Toby looked to Joel for guidance, and Joel could see the panic rise in his brother’s face at the idea of being left alone so soon after being rescued. He said, “Hang here, mate,” and he searched the room until he found a Spider-Man comic for Toby to look at. He handed it over and told him to wait, promising that he wouldn’t be long. Toby took the comic under his arm and clambered back onto the sofa. He placed the lava lamp carefully next to him and laid the comic on his lap. He didn’t look at it, however. Instead, he fastened his eyes on Joel. They were simultaneously trusting eyes and eyes of appeal. Only someone with a stone in his chest in place of his heart would have failed to be moved by their expression.
What Came Before He Shot Her Page 27
