Too Much Trouble

by Tom Avery

  Chapter 3

  Our uncle Victor was a great man back in our country. I don’t remember much from those days, when Prince and I lived in Africa, but I remember that people listened to my uncle. He would sometimes give talks in front of the whole town. He even had soldiers with him sometimes.

  The last time I saw him there, I was eight. I was playing in the street, playing a game with stones that my father had taught me. You had to move the stones by jumping them over one another on a grid traced on to the ground. Seeing the dust of a big car coming, and hearing the noise of music over a rattling engine, I ran inside to my parents and Prince.

  My father came outside, I stood in front of him and we both looked down the road as the car approached. I saw Victor and I shouted out excitedly, ‘Uncle, it is Uncle!’ I was little then and just saw a loving uncle, who occasionally brought us nuts and sweets.

  ‘Hush!’ my father said harshly. ‘I want you to go and get your brother. I want you to take him out the back. And I want you to walk to school.’

  I remember so clearly because it was in the evening and we had been at school all day. I remember thinking that my father was playing a joke on me. I remember that my father used to make jokes. But then I looked at his face. It was very serious. He looked neither angry nor sad, but somewhere in between.

  I asked him slowly, ‘You want me to take Prince to school?’

  He said even more sharply, ‘Now!’

  I was stung. My father was normally so gentle. I looked down the road again and saw my uncle shielding his eyes from the sun and looking right at me.

  In a moment I was back inside the house. I told Prince that I could beat him in a race to the school. Prince has always loved competitions. He was faster than me when he was just three and I was six. ‘Slow-coach, slow-coach!’ he used to chant, giggling. Anyway, Prince was out the back door as quickly as I came in the front. I followed him, my mind racing through thought after thought, trying to invent a plausible story for what my father had asked us to do.

  ‘I will give you a head start of one minute,’ I said to Prince. I was as scared as I had ever been but just as curious – and for a moment the curiosity had won out. By lingering for just sixty seconds, I thought I could try to work out what was going on.

  I heard the rumbling vehicle stop in front of the house and the music cut off. I heard muffled voices and the front door open and close.

  I heard my uncle’s deep and almost sing-song voice. ‘This is the last time I will tell you, brother, we can’t stay here. The rebels are heading in this direction, it is not safe.’

  ‘I knew you would go! But this is where we live. It was always just a playground to you, but we have built a home here!’ my father roared back.

  As his voice rose I could feel fear replacing everything else I had felt. I ran as fast as I could. For once I did beat Prince in a race.

  ***

  On the night when this story starts, the night before our lives changed again, we watched the television and tried to do our homework. Prince had some maths work; multiplying two-and-three-digit numbers. I think I helped him but neither of us was completely sure. The worksheet said we had to write down all our working-out. We used a calculator, so we definitely got all the correct answers.

  My English teacher had asked us to design a cover for a book we had been reading in class. I knew most people would do it on a computer. I did it in pencil and used all three of the felt-tip pens we had. It didn’t look good. In fact, between my book cover and Prince’s football pitch we had produced some work to rival Akeeb Aslam’s at his most weird.

  On the television we watched the usual soap operas, the ones that we had to watch in order to join in the right conversations the next day. We also watched a programme about a group of superheroes. They had to stop one of the baddies from killing his family. He was going around the country hunting everyone who was related to him, because he hadn’t seen them since he was little. He was furious with them.

  After that finished we went to bed. We pushed our bags right up against the door of the room we slept in. None of our uncle’s friends came to look after the plants that night. The bags wouldn’t have stopped them, but they would have given us some warning.

  ***

  So that is the day when this story begins. A day like many before it but not the ones that followed.

  Chapter 4

  When I turn eighteen I’m not going to have a big party. After all, it is just the same as any other birthday really. I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe I will try to find the place that Prince had to make a model of, somewhere that makes me happy. That would be worth finding.

  On Lil’ Legacy’s eighteenth birthday he did something stupid. He did something that, in its way, led to me holding a gun for the first time. I haven’t decided whether I should thank him or not.

  Like many mornings before, Prince and I left the house and crossed the garden on empty stomachs. The little money we had left was clinking in my trouser pocket as we clambered over the fence. This would buy us breakfast and stretch to a small meal in the evening. I was hoping Uncle Victor would visit us that evening. I hated to see Prince go hungry. Prince stopped being himself when he was hungry. He was no longer the fastest and smartest kid around. He became quiet when he was hungry. Weird quiet.

  We stopped at the corner shop and bought four packets of Space Raiders crisps. I also got Prince a Chomp chewy bar for lunch-time, which should have kept him on form and out of trouble.

  I don’t remember seeing Lil’ Legacy’s face plastered across the front of the newspapers as we left the shop, but it must have been. Lil’ Legacy could usually be found in one or more of the little papers, but that day he would have fronted them all. The little papers are the ones that mostly have their names in red and contain all the news that a twelve-year-old cares about. I know they are really called the tabloids, but I think they should just be called the little papers. ‘Little papers’ and ‘big papers’, then everyone would know what you are talking about and English teachers would have less to explain.

  I walked Prince almost to his school. We parted with a wave, and he set off running the last three hundred metres. If he got there too late the Year Sixes would have taken over the football pitch, and Prince and his friends from Year Five would have to play against the wall by the monkey bars.

  ***

  Once I fell off those same monkey bars. Well, I’m sure I fell off loads of times, but one time I hurt myself really badly. Me and Chancey Mills were having a monkey bar battle. That is where two people start from either end of the bars, swing themselves towards the middle and then kick each other, trying to get their opponent to drop.

  Chancey was really good - he gave the hardest kicks and had only been beaten a few times. I figured if I got him early, I would have a good chance. So, I set off really quick and swung really hard at him. I completely missed and my legs swung up in front of my face and then were flung back behind me. I lost my grip on the bars and came crashing down on to the concrete playground, hard. Really hard.

  Some of the girls who had been watching started screaming out, and Mr Chiltern came running over. I knew that I was hurt, but my fear outweighed my pain. What would happen if they called an ambulance and then couldn’t get hold of any family? I thought a hospital would ask more questions than a school. Was this the kind of trouble my uncle didn’t want?

  I picked myself up, wincing from the shooting pains that were coming from my mouth and chest. ‘I think I’m OK, sir,’ I managed to say to Mr Chiltern.

  ‘Are you sure, Emmanuel?’ He lifted my hands towards his face and turned them over. ‘Oh no,’ he continued, inspecting my palms, which were streaked with reddish lines. ‘I think these grazes are infected, we will have to amputate!’

  He made a chopping motion down towards my hands and I managed to force a smile through the pain, which was making its way from my chest and round to my right side. I could also feel small bits of what felt like gravel in my
mouth.

  ‘Why don’t you go and sit down on the benches for a bit, Emmanuel?’ Mr Chiltern turned to Chancey. ‘And I want to talk to you.’

  ‘But, sir, I didn’t even touch him! He just sort of had a spaz and fell right off,’ I heard Chancey complain as I walked over to the benches.

  It turned out that the bits of gravel were small pieces of my front teeth. You’d recognise me even today by my chipped smile. I don’t know what the pain in my chest was, but it felt the same for weeks. It felt even worse when I laughed or coughed or just took a deep breath.

  I really didn’t want to upset my uncle.

  ***

  If you walk towards a school at the right time, you can see loads of families. Families walking. Families saying goodbye. Families hugging and kissing. Families arguing. Families sulking.

  I always used to watch the families. It made me think of my old home. It made me think of my mother and father.

  We used to do a lot of running with my father. We would run to school together. We’d run to the water pump. We’d run to Grandma’s. We’d even run into town sometimes.

  My father would run a few steps ahead of us and shout, ‘Come on, slow-coaches.’ Me and Prince would almost burst trying to catch him, giggling and panting the whole time. Sometimes we’d slow down so that my father would slow down, then we’d run as fast as we could. He would be watching over his shoulder though, and would speed up, laughing and calling out, ‘You won’t catch me like that.’

  I was usually the first to stop, bent over and gasping for breath, but still smiling. As soon as I stopped my father would wheel around, run back to me and scoop me up.

  ‘Well done, well done, Emmanuel. Next time. . .’ he would say.

  ‘We will catch you next time, Dadda,’ me and Prince would reply.

  My father would drop me on my feet and roar, ‘Not if I catch you first!’ Then we ran again, all of us laughing.

  ***

  The best family to watch were Asad and Ikram’s. More often than not I would stand by their gate, waiting and watching. I waited for Ikram to get all his stuff together and watched, through the living room window, his mum and his grandma turning over cushions and looking under chairs in search of a lost shoe, or keys, or a planner. Asad was normally ready and waited like me. He stood at the front door holding it ajar and hollering up the stairs. He shouted insults in Urdu that I didn’t understand, directed at his less organised brother. They tried to teach me some Urdu, but I could never roll my ‘r’s enough.

  Jee haa, that’s all I remember. It means yes, I think.

  Me, Asad and Ikram usually walked to school together, but something stopped me today.

  They came tumbling down their path, having located Ikram’s black-and-gold cap, which he had left on top of the fridge.

  ‘All right, Em?’ Ikram slurred through a mouthful of toast he was attempting to finish as he shrugged his bag on.

  I nodded in reply, we all shook hands and bumped our shoulders together, a ritual greeting we had adopted.

  ‘Can you believe it about Lil’ Legacy?’ said Asad as we began walking slowly towards school.

  Ikram continued, ‘It’s proper big news, innit?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything. What’s happened?’ I was slightly embarrassed. I tried hard to watch all the right programmes and hear all the news that allowed me to fit in, but I was completely lost on this one.

  ‘You know it was his 18th birthday last week?’ I did know this, but listened intently to Asad’s words. ‘He had a massive party, right. . .’

  Ikram picked up mid-sentence, ‘and he must have got mashed and he was talking to loads of people and he told them that he was not meant to be living here and he had been illegal for years.’

  My brain began ticking over very quickly as Asad finished the story. ‘And now the police are after him and are going to deport him to Africa or somewhere!’

  My brain was now spinning faster than it ever had, whirring through possibilities. Prince would definitely hear about this at school. Prince was a huge Lil’ Legacy fan. Had I taught Prince enough to know what to keep to himself? Could I make it back to Prince’s school before he went into class?

  As I turned and began sprinting away from Asad and Ikram, I yelled a slightly incomprehensible excuse about forgetting something. I was followed by their confused laughter until I turned the corner at the end of their road. I pushed on full tilt, my lungs burning as my feet pounded against the pavement. I knew I couldn’t keep up that pace for long, but thoughts still whirred through my head.

  Images of my uncle angry. Images of Prince being arrested. Ideas of what I could do if the worst had happened.

  I tripped before my lungs gave out, and I was forced to stop. I skidded a good few metres along the paving but leapt up again in moments. I tried running but could only manage a hobble. My knee was grazed and bleeding, torn wet flesh showing through ragged holes in one trouser leg.

  I found myself limping past parents on their way home from dropping off children. This was long before I got to the gates, and I knew I wouldn’t get to Prince before he went inside. I still kept on going.

  Chapter 5

  I entered the playground as the last few Year Sixes followed their teacher inside the school. Heading towards the reception, I began formulating a reason why I needed to talk to Prince. I was going to be late picking him up? Or he had forgotten something? But I knew that Miss King, the receptionist, would say I could leave a message with her.

  I was still trying to invent a plausible story that would get me a few minutes with Prince, as I pushed open the heavy glass door into the school.

  Behind the long reception desk stood Mrs Marshall, the headteacher, beside a frowning Miss King, who had a phone receiver held between her cheek and her shoulder and was staring intently at her computer screen. They both looked up as I entered.

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Mrs Marshall. ‘Speak of the devil! Hello, Emmanuel. We were just trying to call your parents.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied, my thoughts thrown into turmoil by this revelation. ‘Erm, can I just talk to Prince please?’

  Mrs Marshall looked at me over her glasses. She wasn’t cross, I think she looked confused.

  ‘OK,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Follow me. It’s probably best if you stay here till we get this sorted out.’

  I felt my throat tightening and my stomach balling up as my fears began to be realised.

  ‘Is everything OK, Miss?’ I was not entirely sure what I was asking.

  ‘You just come and wait with Prince and we’ll see about getting hold of your parents.’ I could tell Mrs Marshall was not going to tell me anything so I just followed. Every step felt heavier and I began to hear a humming noise that filled my head, blocking out thoughts that I didn’t want to think.

  Mrs Marshall led me to the first-aid room. Prince was sitting on the long, orange bed; one of the teaching assistants was crouching in front of him and cleaning his hand, her pale skin against his dark brown.

  ‘You’re OK, bub,’ she said to Prince, inspecting his cut hand.

  I hope we’re OK, I thought.

  The teaching assistant straightened up from tending to Prince’s bloody knuckles and noticed us entering. She broke into a smile. ‘Hello, Emmanuel, what are you doing here?’

  I didn’t answer but glared at Prince, who was looking at his knuckle and wincing.

  Mrs Marshall brushed past me and I could hear her talking softly to the teaching assistant. I was intent on Prince and didn’t hear what was said until the beaming teaching assistant spoke up.

  ‘OK,’ she said, still grinning widely. ‘Leave it to me.’ Then she addressed me and Prince. ‘I’ll see you boys in a minute. Keep pressing that pack against your hand,’ she said, motioning to the vivid blue packet that Prince held in his undamaged hand.

  Mrs Marshall and the happy teaching assistant turned and left. I could hear them speaking over footsteps that clicked along the wooden floor as they made t
heir way back to the reception area.

  I turned on my brother. ‘What have you said?’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ was all Prince replied.

  I quickly repeated myself, taking hold of Prince’s shoulder. ‘What have you said?’

  He looked up at me from a further inspection of his knuckle. ‘Nothing! I haven’t said anything much.’ He stopped for a moment and I continued to glare at him. ‘Well, just, you’ve heard about Lil’ Legacy, right?’

  I nodded, my heart beating a heavy rhythm inside my chest.

  ‘Well, I just told Gary Coomber that me and Lil’ Legacy could be related. I told him I wasn’t meant to be here too and maybe we were from the same place. You don’t know; we could be like cousins or something.’

  I looked at my brother and felt like I was seeing an enemy. I was so angry. I grabbed his grazed hand. He winced but I didn’t let go.

  He went on. ‘Gary said he would tell on me and I’d have to go back where I came from. We got in a big fight and then Mrs Marshall came out. That’s it. I promise. Like I said, nothing.’ Prince finished with a whine as he finally managed to wrestle his hand free of mine and re-apply the blue pack.

  A swear word began to form on my lips, but instead I blurted out, ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

  Prince didn’t answer. His eyes flicked down to his hand.

  I looked up at the clock. I didn’t need to know the time, but I couldn’t bear to look at Prince. I pulled him up to his feet from the orange bed.

  ‘Come on!’ I said. I picked up his bag and headed for the door.

  Chapter 6

  ‘You look after him, Emmanuel.’ Those were the last words I heard my father say.

  It was on my last day in Africa. A very long day. I remember being woken up by my mother. She held out a cup of hot porridge to me and told me to eat and get dressed. Then she fussed over Prince. He was still so little at six years old.

  When I was dressed my father came inside, and a man, whose face I knew but whose name I didn’t, came in behind him.