Forest Gate (14 page)

I
T WAS THE MORNING
of our birthday. We started out by going to see Sheikh Ali. I thought we were only going for a laugh. You must have seen him in Stratford, outside the mall handing out his business cards. He says he can advise and fix things. He is majorly busy; we had to make an appointment to see him a couple of days before. We went to his flat on Lansdowne Road. Near the house the police raided for terrorists and then shot that guy by mistake, starting that whole fuss in the papers. The flat was creepy. It was like a small storefront with an iron crucifix welded to the fence post. Above the roll-down steel gate on his door was a sign that said 'Eternal Sacred Order of the Cherubim and Seraphim Church'. There were about two dozen people in the front room, Pentecostals or something. Africans. They were rocking back and forth, reading psalms and singing hymns. It was some kind of weirdo church. Apparently they were paying Sheikh Ali rent for two of his rooms, so we had to walk through them to get to the room at the back. Thinking about it, we should have known the sheikh was a fraud – Christians and Muslims don't mix like that. Anyway, we had to wait for what seemed like ages. There was a pastor wearing a white robe and a purple collar.

'Raise your hand if you need a miracle this month. We have to remain here all night long to pray for all our sins,' he shouted. More and more people in these funny three-cornered white hats and robes arrived carrying picnic coolers and bags of food. It was like a service; some of the men pounded out rhythms on African drums. The ceiling tiles were all stained brown and shit. Two women stood barefoot, swaying softly. Their eyes looked funny and they were singing, 'Jesus watches over me,' all out of tune, like. The pastor started reading through passages from the Book of Revelation, and then the gathering crowd took turns shouting 'testify', and asking the Lord for protection from sickness, from unemployment, from the kidnapping of their children. It was fucked up. We watched for a while. Ash didn't say anything. And then the sheikh led us into his private room.

It was cramped with all these really primitive furnishings and no seats except his, this massive wicker chair with bamboo carvings on it, and all around were these scary pictures.

'The fuck?' I said.

Ash laughed. 'Relax. They're Nigerian gods.'

He pointed out Shango and Obatala and Oshun. There were all these statues and mirrors with strange designs. Sheikh Ali wore this ragged white tunic and lifted his hands above our heads and started saying stuff that Ashvin thought was Arabic. He made us sit on this thick pile rug. We were laughing at first but he got all serious, like. He had a really deep voice and his beard was all patchy. I thought I was going to shit in my pants, I swear. He burned some stuff inside this glass contraption that was about twelve inches long and he made us smoke it. We started feeling sleepy as we watched him compiling numbers in this chart he had on the wall and then he was pulling out this book and then pulling out another. 'I've almost finished,' he said.

Ashvin and me looked at each other – we both felt weird.

'Don't fall asleep,' I said. 'And if I do, don't fucking leave me here.'

'I won't leave you, but you don't leave me,' Ash said and then we couldn't stop laughing. We laughed so much I started to cry because I couldn't stop and I was afraid of whatever it was we'd smoked.

I opened my eyes and I was in a place that I knew was home to millions of people, the sky was liquid gold. There were people everywhere, criss-crossing the sands and scrubs on camel-back – pilgrims performing the haj and merchants selling perfume, beads, essential oils and henna. I was in a market. A herbalist called me to his stall and told me about a poisonous desert plant that could be eaten in emergencies. He said I could eat the leaves if I boiled them. He said I would grow to love the taste and he said I should search for it. He made me a powerful charm to wear that took the shape of a small snake. It had alternating crystals and five blue beads. When I turned it to look underneath, I saw it had the word Ogun carved in red and it stung my eyes. The herbalist warned that I should never remove the charm. Then he left.

A cockerel crowed somewhere and I sensed evil in the herbalist and his words. I turned and continued to walk away from the market to the highway where I would get on a bus, where I would be free.

It was not yet dawn but the bus stop was overflowing when I arrived. It was where, at a rotary, six streets met helter-skelter. People shouted and shoved. I smelled the aromas of saffron, black cardamom spice, meat and incense; I looked at a box of old fruit, thought of festering mould and ripening, life and death. I didn't know where to focus my eyes until I heard the shrill voice of a woman sitting near a basket of carp. She was naked. I had seen her somewhere before. I concentrated on her severe face, and then I remembered. She was my schoolteacher, Miss Bukolov from Belarus.

I watched Miss Bukolov closely. She had a gun, a Baikal pistol. When she pointed it at me I noticed she had tiny flecks of blue lint in her hair.

'If you ever wank over me again I will shoot you in the head.'

'I'm sorry, don't shoot,' I said and I started to cry.

She laughed and spoke to herself. I listened carefully to her voice until I was sure it was in fact her.

'Look at my head and tell me which is bigger,' she said. 'What I carry in front of my head or what I carry behind it?'

I saw a bus and jumped on it and I felt relieved when it started to pull away.

'Hey, you, James,' shouted Miss Bukolov. 'You have grown into a fine-looking man but you forget the good manners I taught you.'

When I turned she was sitting in the seat directly behind me pointing the gun. 'I hate you,' she said.

'Miss Bukolov,' I said, 'I'm sorry, I won't ever wank again.'

She leaned back in her seat, still pointing the gun at me.

'Come closer' she said.

I stood up and leaned towards her. I stopped leaning over to her when I could feel the warmth of her mouth on the hairs on the back of my neck.

'Please,' I said.

'Look at my head and tell me which is bigger, what I carry in front of my head or what I carry behind it?'

I couldn't tell what she meant. I looked at her face, at the shape of her head.

It had a slight bulge at the back.

'Miss Bukolov, the one behind is bigger.'

She burst out laughing. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you.'

She asked the driver to stop and she jumped off the bus. I watched her crawling away on her hands and knees. The bus driver began to laugh too, loudly; I thought my ears would burst.

'James, you little wanker, I am magic and I can turn you into a trog,' he said and then he started laughing again.

When the bus driver turned to face me, I had to look twice, but I recognised him. It was Mr Shilton, my biology teacher.

'Trog!' I said and my heart raced.

'I hate you,' he said.

'Me or all of us?' I asked.

'Every one of you,' he said and he laughed.

'So who is my brother's keeper?'

'Your brother's what?' he said, and he laughed uncontrollably. 'I hate all of you. Everyone does. There are no men among you, no leaders. You're all lying in filthy beds with envy and malice, squabbling on pavements and in one-pound chicken shops, talking loudly, saying nothing. Your women hate you, your mothers don't believe in you, you'll never get jobs because nobody trusts you. Your children don't respect you and they paint their bodies with meaningless words and symbols. Your brothers think you're a wimp because you don't have a gun. Your fathers run out on you, no religion claims you, the echoes of your ancestors have been drowned out by rhyming treachery, and all the world governments think you're a joke. I am your teacher and I hate you and don't you ever call me Trog.' He let go of the steering wheel and gave me a hard push.

'Who is your leader?' he asked.

'I don't have one,' I said and I started to cry again when Trog thumped me on the nose.

'Sir, what are you doing? Let me off, I wanna get off.'

'Listen to me, kid, you've got no chance, stay on the bus, enjoy yourself.'

The bus stopped and I ran and kept running.

Ash and I woke up sweating. Sheikh Ali was still collating numbers on this wall chart thing.

'Why do you both fill your minds with so many negative thoughts?' he asked. 'Let them go before they consume you.'

Sheikh Ali said he had had a vision of death, that we were both smeared with blood. That was when your brother went crazy. He looked so much taller when he stood over Sheikh Ali, his face screwed up in anger.

'What did you give me?' Ash said.

'You some sort of nonce?' I said.

'Sit down. Keep your voices down,' said the sheikh.

'What did you give me?' Ashvin gritted his teeth.

'Ashvin, what's going on?' I had never seen him like that before.

He punched Sheikh Ali squarely on the top of his head.

'Let us out,' he said and he grabbed the glass thing and hurled it against the wall. There were splinters of glass everywhere and for a second the room froze. Sheikh Ali was rooted to the spot. He looked Ashvin straight in the eye and then started thumping the walls, blind with rage.

'How dare you?' he screamed, waving his arms frantically, trying to gather the bits and pieces together. It was intense. The sheikh was cursing with the anguished expression on his face growing more and more acute. He pulled at his hair and looked at Ashvin and then he didn't seem to know what to do – he just stood there motionless, without saying anything. Then he screamed: 'That belonged to my father. Damn you. You are damned.'

Ashvin laughed. 'Damned? Is that all? I thought you were supposed to tell me something I didn't know already.'

We ran off. When we got out of the flat it was already dark. We had been in there the whole day, which was weird because it didn't feel that way. We got on the number 25 bus, both reeking of this incense stuff. Ashvin was acting weird. He brought out this little bottle of vodka and a small tin of Vaseline. He didn't drink from the bottle, he just gargled.

'What are you doing? I thought you didn't drink.'

'It numbs the pain,' he said.

He brought out a packet of razor blades, rubbed them with Vaseline, and started putting them in his mouth. He put four in his mouth. Don't ask me how. One under his tongue, one on the roof of his mouth and one in both his cheeks.

'The fuck, Ash. What you doing?'

He took another mouthful of alcohol and spat blood behind his seat. Nobody saw. When he opened his mouth, he had four blades positioned neatly inside.

'What's that for?'

'The Vaseline makes them easier to spit out. It's a Somali gangster thing. Women use it as protection against rape.'

I shook my head. 'That's some crazy Third World ghetto shit.'

Ash laughed.

We got off in Forest Gate, outside the Nkrumah estate, and we were just hanging out – we went to the Internet cafe and I ate the chicken and chips we got for a pound. I wasn't really thinking anything of it at first but then Nalma Kamal pulled up in his blue Fiat Punto. He parked, slammed the car door when he got out and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. I felt a plum-sized ball in my throat. It felt like being tied inside a plastic bag. Your brother knew exactly what he was doing, like he had it all planned.

Nalma was tall, big. His neck was like a bull's. He was wearing baggy jeans and Timberland boots.

'Whass gwaning?' he said. He patted the sides of his hair, and rubbed at the two or three hairs that he'd twisted into a pointy beard on his chin. Then he stiffened and readied himself for what he probably imagined could be the worst. I knew a little bit about Nalma. He'd lived in Africa in varying states of terror for most of his childhood. He too had seen many things that others might not see in a lifetime. His family was from Ethiopia and everyone said he'd seen his father killed in their backyard when Ethiopia went to war with Eritrea or some shit. He'd lost contact with his mother and his sister when the family went into exile. He got asylum into Britain in 2001. Before he got his own place on Nkrumah, he lived in a hostel in Walthamstow and joined the Scare Dem Crew about two years ago.

He wasn't afraid. The three of us just stood there looking at each other. They were both smiling. I wanted to run.

'Two against one, yeah?' said Nalma. 'How you gonna come to my manor and jump me? Didn't anyone tell you how I roll?' He spoke as if he was doing all he could to make himself angry.

Slowly, as if he had arrived at a painful and difficult decision, he used his right hand to pull his gun from under his white shirt. He pointed it at me. He didn't look like he was afraid to shoot me.

'Wait,' I said.

'Oh, so you wanna talk now? But I thought you was supposed to be a bad man.'

'No. Wait,' I said. But I didn't know what else to say.

Nalma just laughed.

Your brother raised his hands and said, 'I just want a fair fight.

Just me and you, no knives, no guns.'

To this day, I wonder why Nalma put his gun down. He just stood there for a while looking into your brother's eyes, thinking his own thoughts. Ash's stare was like smouldering embers. And then Nalma lowered the gun, tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He smiled, but I could see he was nervous. It was really weird. After that we all got into his Punto as though we were three friends and Ashvin directed him to drive west to a spot in Forest Gate where the old Percy Ingle's cake factory is, behind the dark fields, you know, where all the empty garages are?

As he drove, Nalma kept looking at me in the rear-view mirror and when he pulled up he rested his head against the glass and closed his eyes for a moment like he understood what was going to happen. He was breathing heavily and there was sweat at his temples. I think he was praying. When he was done he turned the ignition off and we got out.