The Upper World

by Femi Fadugba

  Crutchley sat his bearlike frame down in his swivel chair, then unbuttoned his tweed jacket to let his belly dive freely over the belt. To understand how men like him and Mr Sweeney worked, you had to know how they were made. Back in the year 2000, a ten-year-old boy named Damilola Taylor was walking home to his family’s flat in North Peckham Estate – just down the road from our flat. He’d been studying at Peckham Library and had walked part of the way home with John Boyega – yep, the same Star Wars Boyega that Spark’s friends had been talking about in West End on Wednesday night. If I had to guess, young Damilola was probably looking forward to doing what all ten-year-olds like doing at home. Taking a nap. Tucking into some rice and stew. Playing a few rounds of FIFA and finishing his homework before his parents got home.

  But he never made it home. Two boys, a couple years older than him, shoved a shard of broken glass into his leg and left him to bleed out on a stranger’s stairwell. A true story. So it goes.

  Back then, more and more stories like that kept coming out, and the government decided they couldn’t ignore the outcry or waste the opportunity. They responded with a war on black-on-black crime in London, with Penny Hill Secondary plopped right in the middle of the two main battlefronts: Brixton and Peckham. The expensive crime-prevention programme that rose from the ashes was called Trident (which just so happened to be the same name the government gave to the fleet of military submarines ready to drop nuclear bombs on Britain’s enemies). It was Trident, and its extra funding, rules and supporting programmes, that had brought men like Crutchley and Sweeney to Penny Hill.

  ‘So, Mr –’ the headmaster paused to glance at the report cards on his desk before continuing – ‘Mr Esso Adenon. Where’s that name from, out of curiosity? Esso?’

  ‘It’s from Bénin,’ I replied. ‘A little country between Togo and Nigeria.’

  ‘Does it mean anything? The name?’

  ‘Yeah, in Gen – a language people speak there – it means “yesterday” and “tomorrow”.’

  ‘Well, which one?’ There was a moment of silence as he and Sweeney leaned in for my response.

  ‘Both,’ I replied. ‘That’s what my mum told me anyway.’

  ‘Well, that’s awfully confusing, isn’t it?’ He chuckled and Sweeney, once he knew it was safe, laughed too.

  In my mind, I was kissing my teeth. It wasn’t the first time I’d been through this, not the first time someone had asked me to rip up my name into smaller, plainer pieces they could swallow. I knew exactly what non-reaction I had to give to keep this tiring bit of small talk as small as possible.

  Realizing I wasn’t up for his posh-boy pleasantries, Crutchley sat up in his seat. He tossed a file across the cherrywood table and for a second it looked like it was going to fall off at my end, but it stopped just short. He’s done that before, I thought.

  ‘So, tell me how you’ve got yourself into this mess, Esso.’ After waiting four or five seconds, he raised his voice. ‘I asked you a question – how did you get yourself into a brawl in my dining hall?’

  ‘I didn’t get myself into anything,’ I shot back. ‘You can ask anyone in the dining hall – everyone knows it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Ah, “it wasn’t my fault”,’ he mocked. ‘If I had a pound for every time I’ve heard that sentence, I wouldn’t be here working for thirty quid an hour with you bundles of joy.’

  Sweeney grinned thirstily, exposing the coffee-stained tips of his two front teeth.

  ‘What do you make of all of this, Sweeney?’

  ‘I – um – I –’ Sweeney stuttered. He clearly hadn’t expected to be asked to do anything but smile.

  ‘We haven’t got all day,’ Crutchley warned him.

  ‘I’m … I’m not really sure who started it, sir. By the time I got Esso under control, Devontey Teno was already on the floor unconscious.’

  ‘Ah, Devontey Teno. Another wonderful surprise. We’ll come back to him in a second. And Ms Russel, where was she when all of this was going on?’

  ‘She got to the fight even later than I did, sir. There was a commotion at the other side of the dining hall – a silly game they play called “scramble”, where they essentially fight each other on the floor for a pound coin.’

  ‘Ah,’ Crutchley said. ‘I see you’re getting down with the lingo, Sweeney.’

  ‘Just enough to do my job, sir.’ He was blushing. ‘Ms Russel and I were busy breaking up the scramble, and I saw Devontey and Esso fighting on the other side of the dining hall, so I had to go and address that.’

  ‘Righto.’ Crutchley swivelled his chair back to me. ‘Esso, if you take a look inside your file there, you’ll notice a curious trend: an increase in detentions and demerits coinciding with a decline in your test scores. You’ve done a cracking job of shifting your focus from success to self-sabotage.’

  It clearly wasn’t his first time using that line, either.

  ‘I hate to say it, Esso, but I’ve seen this all before. From half the kids here. Not only is it bloody depressing, but it’s also just boring. Like watching car crashes that take years to end.’

  He rested his forearms on his table. ‘You might think I’m just some crusty, heartless old git, but I do care about what happens to the pupils at this school. I genuinely care if you succeed or not. If you live.’

  The way he said his last sentence and the way he and Sweeney exchanged looks made me wonder just how much he knew about my cold war with D and his brother.

  ‘Esso, we’re in all sorts of mess in this school.’ He put his finger to his chin. ‘And not just demerits and suspensions kind of mess. I’m talking Her Majesty’s Prison mess. And we need you to … help us … help you.’

  Sweeney couldn’t hide the confusion on his face, but by now I was already five steps ahead of Crutchley. He wanted information on D and the T.A.S. boys. The boys who’d been running riot at Penny Hill all year with impunity. And he wanted it from me.

  ‘Let me be plain, Esso. I don’t believe any of this is your fault. Devontey has sat in that same chair you’re sitting in more times than I can count. I’m well aware of what that beastly boy is capable of.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, as you were on your way here, I had Purdy go through his locker. Can you guess what she found?’

  I kept my head down, waiting for him to answer his own question.

  ‘A list of things I can’t even legally own. Surprise number three,’ Crutchley said. ‘It’s safe to say you won’t be seeing him at Penny Hill any more.’

  Madness, was my immediate reaction as I thought about what that meant for D. For some reason, the second place my mind went to was his mum, and how cut up she’d be when she found out her oldest son was school-less. She’d find a way to blame herself like she always did.

  But, as bad as I felt for the two of them, it didn’t hold a candle to how afraid I was for myself.

  ‘Your locker was clean, of course,’ Crutchley added.

  I nodded back casually.

  ‘But your disciplinary record is anything but.’

  Crap.

  ‘If you add that to the demerit that I’m thinking about giving you for today’s fight,’ Crutchley went on, ‘I have more than enough to make a case for your permanent exclusion.’

  Crutchley pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on the desk. It was blank except for the school crest printed at the top. As he put pen to paper, I could just about make out what he was inking in black.

  Early Christmas list

  From: Esso

  To: Mr Crutchley

  Just below those words, he scribbled the number one, then DEVONTEY TENO next to it. Then he continued numbering down the page.

  The wait was killing me.

  Finally he rotated the page and slid it my way.

  ‘I’ve only put one name on this page, and I’d like you to help me guess the rest. Everyone you know in the Think After Shooting gang.’

  T.A.S. was the best-known set in Brixton, but I was still impressed he knew the name and ho
w to spell it out. I’d heard it used to stand for Think After Shanking. I guessed once the price for an unmarked stick had dropped to a few pinkies, even acronyms were moving differently.

  ‘You can choose to tell us because it’s the right thing to do, or because you want to avoid getting expelled. Or both. Your motivation is entirely up to you. And, for my part, I can guarantee complete confidentiality.’

  Confidentiality. I played with the word in my mind, then sent it far, far away. Everyone knew what happened to singers. The code of ethics was graffitied on every brick wall between here and home; the stories scribbled on our little hearts.

  Like the one story about that Indian girl who saw her friend get shanked on Camberwell New Road and told Crutchley. I’d heard he’d promised her confidentiality as well. But that didn’t stop the detectives from dropping her name in front of their prime suspect during his interrogation to buy leverage. The following week, she got taken out in broad day outside her house. No other witnesses came forward.

  My knuckles were throbbing – still bleeding in places – and a dense fatigue was yawning through my body. Uninvited, the daymare of D and Bloodshed walking towards me in the night crept forward from my memory. I could almost hear the cracking of hail on the pavement, almost see Peckham Library in the background. If that premonition came true, like the first two already had, I was set to run into them after the sun went down – a future that felt even more likely after what I’d done at lunch.

  I was now stuck debating two hideous choices: I could grass on D and get splashed; or I could keep it real and get kicked out of school, and probably out of Mum’s house as well. That’s life, I thought. You’re given a problem; you find a solution for that problem. But then your problem and your solution have sex when you’re out the house, and you come home to a litter of new problem children to take care of.

  Who could I even turn to for help with my new demonic problem children? Mum? Her pastor? Definitely not Rob or Kato …

  None of them, I decided. I sat back in my chair and let out an exaggerated sigh that caught Crutchley and Sweeney off guard.

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t really do Christmas gifts,’ I said, facing Crutchley. A ten-second stare-off kicked off between us, focused and quiet enough that I could hear the clock ticking and Sweeney itching.

  Crutchley broke first. ‘I’m disappointed in you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But not all that surprised. I just wonder when you people will learn that, if you want to play at Wimbledon, you have to wear white.’ He looked at Sweeney. ‘Please take him to the detention room and supervise him until the end of the day. And make sure he gets a bandage for his hands. He’s already dripped all over my carpet.’

  Crutchley shared his final words of advice as he tailed me to the door: ‘I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to think it over. You can come to me or Mr Sweeney when you change your mind. It really is a worthwhile opportunity, Esso – Penny Hill would be sorry to see you go.’

  He folded the paper twice, slid it in my side pocket, then sent me back into the wild.

  The detention room was on the top floor, and every few steps Sweeney turned back to me with that thin-lipped, close-mouthed smile of his.

  Our meeting with the headmaster had done something for him. He had a new bounce in his step. Not only had Crutchley trusted him enough to let him in on his plan, he’d also asked for his help in executing it. Sweeney was probably already calculating how much his take-home pay might jump once promotions were announced.

  ‘I hope you’ll do the right thing here,’ Sweeney said as we got to the final flight of stairs. ‘Mr Crutchley and I weren’t bluffin’, you know. You should be more scared of what we’re capable of than anything those T.A.S. hoodlums are threatening.’

  The slimy look on his face gave me an idea. A plan.

  I slid my palm along the railing, wondering how soon I could put it to work. Too early and Sweeney would think I wasn’t slick enough to pull it off. Too late, and he’d think I didn’t have the bottle. In the end, though, the perfect time announced itself when Sweeney put on his smug grin again, and I decided it was the last time I could stomach it.

  ‘Kemi Harper,’ I said. It was barely loud enough for him to hear, but I knew he had.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Kemi Harper,’ I repeated. ‘You know her, don’t you?’

  His eyes darted around as he scratched the crown of his thin mop. His wide strides turned into nervous shuffles, his soles scraping the floor every other step.

  ‘I’m not really sure what you’re playing at, Esso. I mean –’

  ‘How about Jodie Pyne? Hope Ngozi? Leanne Davies?’ I offered. ‘To be honest, the Leanne thing was more of a rumour. Might have been complete bollocks actually, but I could throw in some other guesses if you like?’

  ‘Shhhhhhhhhh!’ He grabbed my arm, yanking me through the doorway of the nearest empty classroom. ‘Esso, you don’t know what you’re on about.’ He turned to double-check no one was in earshot. ‘And you don’t have any proof for these bloody allegations either. So just keep your mouth shut before someone hears you!’

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’ I replied, not bothering to lower my voice. ‘Half of Penny Hill knows about you. You think that, just because they’re legal by a few months, you’re safe?’

  He was still clamping my arm, and tight enough that it would start tingling soon. But I let him hold on.

  ‘I just hope you do the right thing, Mr Sweeney. Crutchley ain’t the kind to bluff. Trying to remember who I heard that from recently.’

  That one turned his face all the way upside down.

  ‘Look, mate.’ I brought my mouth close to his ear. ‘I’ll keep quiet about your creepy and pathetic extracurriculars.’ I had no intention of keeping that promise … Nadia already had plans to tell on him, and I’d be there to co-sign whatever she said. But I still needed to sell this hard. ‘All you gotta do is make sure I don’t get expelled. Whatever sneaky plans Crutchley has for me, handle that, bruv.’

  Sweeney’s skin was greying. He didn’t deserve to keep his freedom, let alone his job. He nodded frantically, shaking me out of my thoughts and waiting for my final words.

  ‘Now,’ I added coolly, ‘get the fuck off my arm.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Rhia · 15 Years Later

  I’d been tracking my delivery on my way home, so I knew it had already arrived. I ripped apart the packaging like a cave girl, moving closer to the corridor light so I could see my new football boots shine. Maria was the only other girl on the team with these. Actually hers were the 240-quid Predators and I had the half-price Adidas Preditos with the side ridges painted on instead of moulded. Going for the classic black, red and white had been a no-brainer. Once you strayed from that, you might as well get them in Burberry print and stick neon lights on the toecaps.

  It was the day before Christmas Eve, and this was my present to myself. Poppy had given me the cash to order them this morning – minutes after Gibbsy had sent a video note telling me I was starting in the Academy Cup final in two weeks. By the time I got to school, Olivia had told everyone. She might have been even more gassed than I was. She knew my cardio schedule and stretching regimen. And, when she came home from a motive with her friends, she was used to finding me asleep in bed with a pulser strapped to my thighs and a creatine shake on the desk, ready for my morning workout.

  I leaned my soggy umbrella against the wall. There was tinsel running along the hallway and round the door frames. Even though the sparkly decorations warmed my heart, a part of me was looking forward to the holiday passing. The new year provided a chance to reset … to re-strategize.

  Only a few days had passed since I’d opened Dr Esso’s letter, and I was already brainstorming ways to communicate with him secretly. But I’d also promised myself I’d let things cool down first, enjoy the holidays properly, and resist doing or even thinking about doing anything till after.

  I headed towards my room, impatient to try
on my new secret weapons and to make sure they’d made the right boot half a size bigger like I’d asked. On my way, I spotted Poppy’s flats outside the front room and, lined up next to them, Tony’s boots and Olivia’s Docs.

  Strange, I thought. They were all home, but it was so quiet. No TV blaring; no Olivia chattering on the phone and Poppy telling her to quieten down; no groggy hum of Tony snoring on the couch. As I crept into the front room, I had the alarming thought that a burglar might have tied them up on the floor and gagged them. But there they were – the three of them on the couch in their usual spots.

  Olivia was staring out the window. Poppy’s face was buried in her hands. Tony was the only one looking dead at me.

  ‘What is this? An intervention?’ I joked, my heart fluttering. My biggest worry was that they’d somehow realized I still had plans to contact Dr Esso and were now teaming up to stop me.

  ‘Sit down, Rhia.’ Tony pointed at a chair in the middle of the room that he’d unfolded for whatever this meeting was.

  I turned to Olivia, hoping she’d give me some kind of warning signal: another pair of bollocks, or maybe she’d ‘lie’ on her side, our code to fib if it came to it. But, instead, she carried on pretending she couldn’t feel my eyes poking her.

  Then a sniffle leaked out from inside Poppy’s palms. She was crying. This wasn’t an intervention, I realized suddenly.

  It was an ambush.

  ‘Rhia, I think you might want to sit down,’ Tony repeated.

  I could already feel my fight-or-flight instincts gripping me. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Trust me. It will make this easier.’

  ‘This might be your first time doing this,’ I replied. ‘But it’s not mine. I’ll stand on my two feet.’

  Poppy’s weeping got louder.

  ‘That’s fair.’ Tony stood up, the floorboards bending beneath him. ‘As you’ve probably noticed … I’ve been in a bad state for a while. And Poppy’s been picking up my slack for longer than she deserves.’ He massaged the back of his neck. ‘Next month we’re moving into a small place in Devon. We’ve always wanted to do it and Poppy reckons the change of scenery’ll help. But the bit that breaks our hearts is that we can’t take care of you any more. We’ve barely scraped together enough for the move.’ He paused. ‘And, if we sacrifice any more, it’ll break us.’