Too Much Trouble

by Tom Avery

  TOO MUCH TROUBLE

  TOO MUCH TROUBLE

  TOM AVERY

  JANETTA OTTER-BARRY BOOKS

  Too Much Trouble copyright © Frances Lincoln Limited 2011

  Text copyright © Tom Avery 2011

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 and in the USA in 2012 by

  Frances Lincoln Children’s Books, 4 Torriano Mews,

  Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ

  www.franceslincoln.com

  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, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-84780-234-7

  eBook ISBN 978-1-90766-675-9

  Set in Palatino

  Printed in Croydon, Surrey, UK by CPI Bookmarque Ltd. in April 2011

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  For Chloe, my love

  Prologue

  The gun was much heavier than I expected. I struggled to hold it steady, two feet out in front of my face. Heavy, cold and terrible. I had seen several guns, hundreds if you count those in films and on television, but I had never held one. I had certainly never pointed a gun at someone’s face. I had never threatened to take away a person’s life.

  ‘Give me the piece, Emmanuel,’ said the large man without a trace of hesitancy, as I stared at his face through the sights of a pistol. His slow, accented drawl resounded with the sure confidence of a man who was used to obedience. ‘Give it to me, boy!’

  My hands shook as my resolve began to break.

  Chapter 1

  If you stay really still and really quiet, people don’t notice you. Even if they’re looking straight at you. Even if they’re asking you questions. Even if you’re answering them. I was good at not being noticed. No one had noticed me for years.

  You can be too quiet. There’s quiet and then there’s ‘weird quiet’. If you’re weird quiet you definitely get noticed. I knew a boy called Akeeb Aslam, he was weird quiet. He got taken out of my class. After that he had to talk to Miss Harding every break-time about how he was feeling, and other stuff that teachers think pupils need to talk about. I didn’t want that to happen to me.

  If that had happened, the game would, almost certainly, have been up. If that had happened, people would have started asking the right questions, the kind of questions that could have caused trouble for more than just me.

  This is not the story of how I stayed quiet, how I slipped under the radar of so many teachers. This is the story of questions being asked and trouble being encountered. It starts on my last day at my first secondary school; I was in Year Seven.

  It starts here because I want you to see my last ordinary day before guns and threats and ‘real’ crime entered my life.

  That day my geography teacher, Mr Banks, was asking us all where our families came from. We were meant to be learning about why people move to different countries. He called it migration. I knew all about migration.

  He had asked a few pupils before me. Some from England, some from Pakistan. A lot of the pupils who went to that school were from Pakistan. A lot were from England too. Then it was my turn.

  ‘Emmanuel,’ Mr Banks said, ‘could you tell the class where your family come from?’

  Be quiet, but not too quiet, and never answer too quickly either. Weird keen and weird quiet, they both get noticed.

  After trying to look thoughtful, I replied, ‘My mum’s from France and my dad’s from Central Africa, sir.’

  ‘Wow! Where did you grow up, Emmanuel?’

  ‘A bit in Africa and a bit here, sir.’

  Mr Banks kept on going. ‘Where do you call home then?’

  I just shrugged.

  ‘Thank you, Emmanuel,’ Mr Banks said. Then he moved on to Billy. Billy’s mum and dad were just from England. Mr Banks didn’t say ‘wow’, but I’d rather my parents were from England.

  I guess I could have said I was from anywhere. Portugal would have been cool; I could have said I had gone to school on the beach.

  But lying is not really my thing. Generally you don’t need to lie. It’s so much easier to leave out bits of the truth than to add in lies.

  ***

  I walked home with Asad and Ikram. They were brothers, twins in fact, and probably the smallest Year Sevens in the whole school. They had lots of cousins all over the place though, so nobody messed with them.

  ‘Don’t stop it, pop it and lock it, never gonna stop, you can’t stop me!’

  Ikram’s phone was blazing out the latest Lil’ Legacy track. We were all trying to rap along. Everyone loved Lil’ Legacy at my school: everyone who counted, anyway.

  ‘What you doing this weekend then, Em?’ asked Ikram. He emphasised my name by kicking a Coke can into the road. I watched the can sail off the pavement and jolt to a halt as it hit the wheel of a parked car on the other side of the road.

  ‘Nothing much. Might head into town. Maybe play some football. What about you two?’

  ‘Goin’ to our cousins in Bradford, innit,’ Asad replied. ‘Yousef’s gonna show us his new car. He’s gonna be driving soon.’ Asad mimed his cousin driving along, bopping his head to show the music playing and turning his head from side to side in challenge to the other imaginary motorists.

  Ikram continued. ‘Yeah, he thinks he’s gonna be a bad-man then. But I reckon Uncle will have him back at college.’ Asad’s mime ended with him crashing the car – he jolted around as if he’d been electrocuted.

  Asad and Ikram were easy to be friends with. They hardly ever asked big questions and they would do all the talking if I let them, which suited me fine. They didn’t even know where I lived. They knew I had a little brother but I had taught him enough not to go shouting his mouth off. I thought I had taught him how to not be noticed too.

  I left the two brothers at the gate of their house as usual. I could see their grandma twitching the heavy floral curtains. I knew that if I hung around I’d get fed, but I had to pick up Prince, my brother. And besides, if you go to dinner at someone’s house, they ask you questions and it causes trouble when you don’t answer.

  ***

  Prince used to walk home on his own, but the school had stopped him when he couldn’t (maybe that should be wouldn’t) tell them how far it was to his house. I had been picking him up for a few weeks and I did not like it at all. I walked through the gates of the playground just as the bell went. Parents as far as the eye could see, all waiting for their kids. I said hello to a few people, parents of friends and parents of Prince’s friends. I never stopped to talk if I could help it.

  ‘Emmanuel!’ I heard a call behind
me. I turned round to see a lady approaching me. Someone’s mother, maybe Prince’s friend, Harry’s. ‘Hello, honey, is your mum around?’

  I looked to each side. Wasn’t it clear that my mother wasn’t around? ‘Sorry, she’s at home,’ I replied.

  The lady reached into her bag and pulled out a little slip of paper. She handed it to me as she said, ‘Could you get her to give me a call, honey? We wanted to see what day Prince could come over for tea.’ The piece of paper had a phone number on it and a name, ‘Judy’.

  ‘All right,’ I said, as I pocketed Judy’s phone number.

  ***

  I had gone to St Mary’s Primary School, now Prince’s school, for just under three years. I joined near the beginning of Year Four.

  It’s much harder not to be noticed at primary school than at secondary. You have one teacher all the time who tries to get to know the whole class. Then there’s dinner ladies and teaching assistants and old ladies who just come in to hear you read, all keen on asking the ‘cute little kids’ questions. It’s definitely harder at primary school, and I admired the way Prince did it.

  He shone so bright that no one could see the boy underneath. He was one of the school’s ‘most promising’ pupils; he was in the football and hockey teams; and, if anyone had taken him, he could have taken part in a national athletics competition.

  I found it much harder than Prince. Teachers tried to call home four times about my behaviour. I learned quite early on, that to get by you sometimes have to do things that are ‘unacceptable’. And ‘unacceptable’ behaviour sometimes led to fights: fights in which my temper always got the better of me.

  When teachers phoned the number they had on my record, they only ever got an answer-phone. It was my uncle’s answer-phone, and he was almost never at home.

  ‘Why don’t we have any other contact numbers for you, Emmanuel?’

  I’d shrug, looking down at the floor. For some reason the teachers liked you to look at them when they were telling you off, even though this often made them angrier. I always tried to steer clear of the angry teachers, because my temper would only get the better of me too and, worse than anything, teachers hate you answering back.

  ‘Well, do you know your parents’ work numbers?’ the teacher would continue.

  I would shrug again. Shrugging makes teachers angry, but not as angry as not answering and certainly not as angry as lying - just the right amount of angry. The kind of angry where they are ready to give up on you, which was fine by me.

  ‘You don’t know any other phone numbers? Emmanuel, you are in Year Five now, you’re not in Reception. You need to take some responsibility!’ At this point the teacher’s voice would be rising. Whatever you do, do not answer. Glance up at them, looking as sorry as you can, then look back down. This is the best teacher-calming move I know.

  Luckily, some teachers let it drop. They’d phone just that once, maybe leave a message, maybe write a note in my planner, maybe ask me about it the next day. They usually wouldn’t even notice if no response came back – they had dealt with the situation.

  Prince just got the regular letters home. Events, days out, school fetes, you know, the usual. Anything that needed signing, I’d sign. I signed as Victor Anatole. That’s our uncle’s name. I signed my own letters too. Like I said, teachers usually aren’t that careful. I’d even signed Emmanuel Anatole on a few letters, when I’d not really been thinking. As long as they have a signature in their hands most teachers don’t mind.

  Looking back now, I know that the teachers must have been asking some questions. I’m sure that they discussed the two boys whose parents never showed up to parents’ evenings. But no one asked the right questions.

  There were teachers who really tried to care for me and Prince. Asking us how we were getting on. Asking about life at home. Asking about our parents. But I guess it’s difficult to carry on caring when all you get is shrugs in reply.

  Chapter 2

  I could see Prince, standing with his class on the steps outside Mrs Jacobs’ classroom. He hadn’t seen me, but I didn’t wave. I usually just waited. I didn’t go over to the class because Mrs Jacobs would ask me how I was getting on at secondary school. I didn’t really know how I was getting on. OK, I thought.

  Eventually Prince saw me and pointed me out to Mrs Jacobs. She waved and sent Prince running towards me, his book-bag flailing over one shoulder and a piece of paper, with what looked like straws stuck to it, clutched in his hand.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ he shouted at me. ‘Can we get McDonalds, um-um?’ He licked his lips as he said this and I remembered my own hunger. So far that day I had eaten a packet of crisps on the way to school and a slice of pizza from the school canteen at lunch.

  I didn’t reply, but asked, ‘What is that?’ And I pointed to the paper-and-straw construction, which was mostly green and held together with a lot of sellotape.

  ‘It’s a football pitch.’ Prince held it up for me to inspect. ‘Can’t you see? We had to make a model of somewhere that makes us happy.’ Prince was looking at his model, the look of pride in his achievement on his face battling with confusion about why I couldn’t see what he saw. ‘Most people just did their house and stuff. Miss said mine was very original.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I can’t remember what she said ‘original’ meant. She thought it was good, anyway.’

  I didn’t think it was good. How can a place make you happy? It didn’t look like a football pitch either. It looked like a piece of paper that had been painted green and had paper straws stuck to it, which is what it was. And that didn’t make me happy either.

  We didn’t get McDonalds but walked home past Something Fishy, and got some dinner there. It was a bit of a longer walk, but well worth it - they did the best chips. We shared a large portion. I had a fish-cake and Prince had a battered sausage. Prince wanted scampi, but funds were running low.

  In a sulk, Prince picked over his battered sausage and nearly threw a fit when I said, ‘If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.’

  We walked down the alley between Kelfield Road and Greens Close. Near the end was our fence.

  To get into the house we had to do some climbing. Our uncle had forbidden us to use the front door. He said we looked suspicious, and besides, he only gave us a key for the back. Prince loved the climb, but I didn’t. Prince has always been better than me at anything physical, apart from fighting. No matter how many times we clambered over that fence I still felt giddy at the top of the wooden panels. I imagined what would happen if I fell off the top, what would happen to me if I was hospitalised, what would happen to Prince. Responsibility makes everything more dangerous.

  We had to try to stay as low as possible while we climbed – we didn’t want the neighbours to notice us hoisting ourselves over every day. First I helped Prince, and then I pulled myself up. We used to have a loose panel that swung aside so we could squeeze through, but we wedged it shut when a massive dog got right into the house. We both hated dogs.

  ***

  I had good reason to hate them. A Golden Retriever had tried to take a chunk out of my arm once. I know, a Golden Retriever! I was at the park, and Prince was at home. First I went on the swings. I always wanted to see if it was possible to swing right round, you know, over the top. Then I was just wandering around. Maybe I was waiting for one of my friends, I can’t remember.

  Anyway, this big stick came out of nowhere and whacked me on the side of the head. The stick wasn’t so big that it knocked me down, but big enough that it really hurt. I was a bit dazed, but bent down to pick up the stick. Next thing I knew, this great big, hairy dog was all over me, teeth bared. It tried to grab my arm but just got my jacket, so I hit it with the stick.

  Then this man came running over. He was quite old. He had dark hair streaked with grey and a big grey moustache that drooped over some of his mouth. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing to my dog? Put that stick down, you little. . .!’ And so on.

  I just threw the stick,
and when the dog followed it, I ran. I didn’t look back. I was only nine then.

  I think Prince hates dogs because I’ve told him that story so many times.

  ***

  So we climbed over the fence into the most overgrown back garden you will ever see. The grass was so tall, Prince and I used to crawl through it and you couldn’t see either of us. There was a bush about the size of a car that had taken over one side of the garden. Another plant had spread in and out of the grass. It had white flowers the size of my hand, that you could pop out of their leaves by squeezing the end.

  We traversed that jungle twice a day, to and from the house. A very empty house. It had a mossy smell that hit you as you came through the door, like the smell of a garden crossed with the smell of an open dustbin on a warm day. All that the house contained was our mattresses, clothes, school stuff, a television and DVD player, and a lot of plants.

  And I mean a lot. All identical, leafy plants.

  The plants belonged to my uncle and his friends. They grew under special lights in the whole of the basement and the first floor. We lived on the ground floor. We were not allowed near the plants. Occasionally, we had ventured into the purple glow and warmth of the lights, and braved the intensity of the mossy smell that came from the leafy forest.

  But we tried to obey my uncle as much as possible. We had discovered what happened when we didn’t.

  This is where we lived. Just me and Prince. We lived there alone because our mother and father sent us to England. We lived there because this was our uncle’s way of looking after us. We had arrived in his life three years earlier. Giving us regular money and a roof over our heads was all that he said he could do. He also said that if we made too much trouble the money would stop and the plants would move into the downstairs as well.

  I guess we made too much trouble.