Forest Gate (18 page)

Meina and I both turned to our left and only then did we notice the man wrapped in a heavy blanket, sitting in a wheelchair in the far corner of the room behind a dining table. The table, dressed with blue gingham fabric, had been decked with a bottle of red wine and berries in a basket. The man leaned forward, nodding his head involuntarily. He had a napkin tucked around his neck and a head of wavy black hair.

'Mr Bloom said separate rooms. Is that right?'

It sounded like a question, but it wasn't. She was already on her way up the stairs as she spoke.

'We have six guest rooms, nothing fancy mind. Three small rooms on the first floor and three rooms on the second. I'll put you both on the top.'

The wide stairs were imposing. I had to hold on to the iron railings to keep from making them creak so much. There were several doors on the second floor, very close to each other and painted different shades of blue. Pearl smiled as she handed me the keys.

'Rooms four and five,' she said. 'No fighting.'

Meina peeked her head through to look at the rooms before handing me the key to number 5. As far as I could tell, the rooms were exactly the same, simple with blue walls and a view out to the sea. The beds set in a niche in the far wall were painted white and had been laid with cushions and patterned eiderdowns.

After I had washed I got straight into bed – it had been a long journey and the food I'd eaten on the train had upset my stomach. Lying down felt like being inside a boat. I couldn't sleep so I got up and stared out at the view through the window. The sky was dark except for the silver-blue light from the crescent moon reflected on the sea, which altered with every shift of the waves. I felt humbled by the vastness of everything around me. It all looked so vivid, yet so still. It was as if there was a message in the sky from God. I didn't know what it said, but it felt like everything had a reason for life here. All my senses were suddenly amplified. When I looked out of that window all my doubts, all the pressure, all the dangerous thoughts shattered into thousands of pieces and disappeared into the sky. I turned to see Meina standing at my door, her thumb between the pages of a book. She had been watching me.

'Breathtaking, isn't it?' she said, coming to stand next to me. 'It's the first place I've been here that reminds me of home.'

'Really?'

'If my country were peaceful this is how beautiful it could be. This looks like Mogadishu used to, near Buujimo Shineemo, the old cinema that used to be surrounded by brightly coloured buildings put up near the market by the Italians. Now there are sandbags everywhere, where Ethiopian soldiers with camouflage on their backs and flip-flops on their feet hide in the shadows with heavy guns. People in robes crossing at intersections back and forth. Everybody scurrying around because death can come from anywhere.'

'What's wrong?' I could see her cheeks glistening.

'Nothing,' she said.

'No, come on. What is it?'

'It's nothing, honestly, I'm OK.'

I remained silent for a moment, chewing on her lie.

'What were you reading?' I asked.

'It's a book of short stories, I told you already,' she said.

'I meant which one?'

'It's called "Bright and Morning Star" by Richard Wright. Do you know him?'

'Yes, but I haven't read that. What's it about?'

'I'm not finished yet but so far it's about a mother worrying about her son who is out trying to organise a Communist meeting.'

'Will you read it to me?'

'I don't know, James. It's very sad.'

'You have to stop doing that.'

'What?'

'You keep worrying that I can't handle stuff. I can.'

'You tried to commit suicide. Why are you kidding yourself into thinking you're all right?'

'Kidding myself?'

'You're acting as though nothing happened, but it did. Something did happen. I lost my brother.'

I kept silent. I'd known all along that she still blamed me.

'Will you read it to me or not?'

She did. We lay on my bed and she read in a quiet voice. It was one of those stories you read and you never forgot, one that made you feel for your ancestors, one that made all your own troubles pale in comparison.

'I'm going to try to write a short story like that one day,' she said when she had finished.

'I think you will. Can you recite poems like Ash?' I asked.

'No.'

'Yes you can. He told me you could quote loads. He used to recite his favourite poem sometimes when we were together. He said it was by Langston Hughes. I know some of it by heart. "Suffer Poor Negro –"'

'That's by David Diop. It's in a collection of poems edited by Langston Hughes.' Meina laughed. 'My brother was so dumb. And it wasn't his favourite poem. His favourite was . . . I don't remember all of it or who wrote it but our father liked it very much. It went something like:

'You are a man, my son.
You are a man tonight.
They are all here:
Those of your first moon
Those you call fathers,
Look, look at them well;
They alone are the guardians of the earth
Of the earth that drank your blood.'

Her chin began quivering. The room was quiet save for a gentle tap on the window of naked tree branches blown by the wind. She sniffed her runny nose and then turned and wept into my pillow.

'Big girls don't cry,' I said patting her back. I didn't know what else to do. 'If you stop crying I'll buy you a . . . pretty dress.'

She sat up and looked out at the moon. Something like a smile parted her lips.

'You promise?'

'Promise what?'

'To buy me a dress, silly,' she said pushing her palm against my chest.

'Of course,' I said. 'A real expensive one like Victoria Beckham from the magazines.' I pulled her towards me.

Something happened between us on that first evening in Cornwall. Something sudden and carnal and frantic that left my heart pounding in a blissful state where I was unsure whether I was dreaming or dead or alive. Afterwards we lay naked, side by side, holding hands. She stayed with me, and this time I held her tightly. She buried her head under my chin, on my neck, as the wind whistled through the cracks and the sea crashed violently against the shore.

When I opened my eyes an hour later I felt bad for lying on her arm. But I was glad she hadn't let go of me.

'Are you still tired?' I asked.

She didn't answer.

'I'm starving,' I said.

'I could eat too.'

'Shall we go to my sister's?'

'Right now?' she said surfacing from under the heavy sheet.

'Yes, I want to get it over with.'

'Come on, then,' she said, rubbing her eyes. 'Let's go.'

The night was peaceful. I took a long look at a stocky man standing under the glow emitted from a street lamp. He was in a baseball cap and jogging bottoms. Just as I got nervous he began jogging down the street and I noticed the gleaming eyes of a black-and-white dog strolling beside him. Most of the streets sloped down to the centre of the town but we walked in the opposite direction for almost twenty minutes past huddles of granite cottages and cobbled courtyards with the warm sea breeze wafting over us like an embrace. We had a full view of the green hills over which the moon poured a bold light.

'It looks like a stage,' I said.

Meina tilted her head. 'It's beautiful,' she said. Then, after a while, 'Are you sure this is it?'

'Trevescan Place, number 14. This is it.'

The moment I knocked on the door, I was sure it was a mistake.

'Let's go,' I said, but it was too late.

'Bell? I've told you a hundred times. Where's your key?'

I knew she was only forty-five but she looked older. She was tall and scruffy-looking, only just this side of fat. She smiled when she saw us.

'Oh, sorry,' she said, 'I thought you were my Belinda. You must be here for the sleepover. It's not here this week, it's in the cave on Hell's Mouth. Just follow the signs on the road until you see their lights in the cave.'

'What's so funny?' Meina asked when we left.

'That was the white woman who my father was seeing on the side. I could hear my mother's angry voice when I saw her. "That bitch. She ain't even pretty. Just a regular, cheap, white ho."'

We walked for another ten minutes, following pink balloons and arrows, with our arms around one another mostly for support.

We stopped walking once. I buried my head in Meina's hair and kissed her neck. She drew me in and pressed her lips against mine. I couldn't stop myself.

'Doesn't it feel great out here?' I said.

'Yes, but what if we got stranded?'

'Then we'd spend all night in those hills,' I said and laughed.

'What's up with you?'

'I don't know. I feel like I could take all my clothes off and run wild for miles.'

'Yeah? Well, don't,' she said and she kissed me again.

I heard voices echoing before I saw the cave. It was at a fork in the road between two cliff edges. Lights had been wired to a car battery and roughly arranged at the mouth of the cave, stretched across the wall on netting. We could see that bodies took up most of the space inside, six of them dressed in dark colours, all in their teens. It looked like a medieval cybercafe and smelled strongly of fish and chips.

There was a radio playing. The presenter sounded like he was climaxing when he announced he would be playing the new Britney Spears. There were two boys and four girls huddled around a calabash. One of them, an Indian looking girl with a long forehead, read aloud: '"On this occasion, however, the spirit of suicide Rekla Merchant had not come merely to mock."'

All six of them started when we entered.

'I'm James. I'm looking for Belinda.'

'My God!' a girl's voice shrieked from inside the cave. 'It's my brother.'

The girl who spoke had a voice that could have belonged to a boy. Her mouth opened and closed and her tongue touched her lips but at first no more words came out.

'You're my brother,' she said eventually, standing in front of me.

There wasn't any denying it. Those were Morrison eyes; that was a Morrison mouth, a Morrison nose. Not only had she stolen my father and my grandmother's name, she'd stolen my father's looks too. She even had his thick eyebrows.

She was tall and had a slight chip in her front tooth. She looked a lot like me, but for the lightness of her skin and the wild, matted hair that fell way past her shoulders. Except for her shocking-pink nail polish everything else she wore was black. She put her hands to her head, as if trying to tidy her hair, but it was useless. It was only when she hugged me that I realised I was shaking. Then she turned to the others. 'It's OK. They're on the level,' she said. Then she turned back to Meina and gave her a welcoming hug too. 'These are my friends: Ritchie, Judith, Kimi, Diane and Kat.' The gang all gave waves and small nods. 'Where's that bottle of wine?'

They cheered noisily like a band of thieves.

'How did you get here? Where are you staying?'

'At a place called the Mermaid,' I said.

A lean, scrawny boy with tight blond curls handed her a bottle.

'That's the fussy dressmaker woman's place, right?' he said. 'We got banned from there last year.'

There was another rowdy cheer and chinks from the clash of cups, glasses and beer bottles.

P
AT AND BELINDA HAD
lived in the house on Trevescan Place since they'd left London. It was one of several cottages on a slope, opposite a row of fruit trees backing onto the coast. Meina sat with me, holding my hand. Bell sat alongside her mother in the living room at a small black dining table. The wood floors were covered in part by a colourful rug. It was a large but cosy room with four small windows facing the east. There was a large painting I recognised as Equiano the African on the chimney wall above an open log fire. A framed picture of my father, smiling, with his arms wrapped lovingly around Pat and Belinda sat on the marble fireplace. The picture troubled me, I didn't like looking at my own father and feeling like a stranger.

After banging around in the kitchen for half an hour Pat had presented an impromptu dinner of leftovers: cream of mushroom soup, some chicken with herb-seasoned white rice and green beans. It was hard to imagine my father with this woman.

Life was complicated, I thought. Not just the living but dealing with the realities and the instinct for order that other people have, that I didn't always grasp.

'I know I'm a stranger to you,' said Pat, 'but I loved your father very much. You look like him, you know. I'm glad you've come. It means a lot to me and Bell.'

My mother had told me that my father only went out with Pat because of the size of her tits. I had to struggle constantly to keep my eyes from her unruly bosom; it moved when she spoke and she kept adjusting her bra. I watched her shift her heavy frame to make herself a cup of green tea. She said she worked in a pub (Thursday was her only day off) – in her too-tight denim skirt and revealing striped top, she looked like she ought to. She rubbed her chubby hands together, speaking to me in a low, measured voice.

'Your father was a strong man.' She paused and looked cautiously at all of us to be sure she wasn't being mocked. 'He wanted out of Forest Gate. He stopped drinking, you know, tried to clean up, but he died before he got a chance to move. Things were tough for Bell and me when we arrived down here but it worked out in the end. It always does, you know, James. People manage. We have to.'

I lowered my head and kept still for a long while. A gusty wind whistled and I could hear the sound of waves.

Pat walked calmly to the kitchen sink, and I watched as she wiped her hands on a dishcloth, and then put on a CD. It was a gospel-style voice singing with what sounded like a recording of a seventies soul band. I was surprised at her choice of music. Belinda must have caught my expression.

'Gross, right?' she said when she saw me watching her mother nod her head to the rhythm. Belinda had my father's jawline. She was strangely cold to her mother. It took me a while to notice but Belinda seemed to get more agitated every time her mother spoke. She would huff, shift uncomfortably in her seat or roll her eyes.

I felt awkward with Pat and Belinda eyeing the ligature scars on my neck. It was still raw in places but the edges seemed to have turned blue. It made my skin feel sore and looked almost transparent. I didn't want anyone to feel uncomfortable on my account so I spoke up.

'I know you know what happened. Meina's brother Ashvin was my best friend. He died.'

Pat looked alarmed and raised her hand to her mouth.

Belinda muttered, 'How awful,' under her breath and then for what seemed like ages there was silence.

'How's Bertha?' asked Pat, trying to change the subject.

It had been a long time since I had heard anybody use my mother's name.

'She's addicted to crack,' I answered.

'Oh.' Pat tried hard to mask her surprise.

'And . . . er . . . how are your brothers?'

'Had they started dealing before you left?' I asked.

First she went pale. Then her skin flushed with colour. 'Yes, I think so,' she said.

'Well, they're the same more or less then.' I was starting to get angry at this casual meaningless questioning, everything that was unsaid, but we all managed to smile through.

Meina looked at Belinda. 'So,' she said awkwardly, 'those guys in the cave. Are they your best friends?'

Finally, Pat sighed and looked straight at me. 'You know, I always liked your mother,' she said.

'What?' said Belinda. 'Was that before or after you started screwing her man?'

'May I have another drink?' Meina asked.

'You were friends before, right? You and my mum?' I insisted, welcoming the guilt I finally saw on Pat's face.

Meina narrowed her eyes and straightened her back, focusing on Bell. I turned to Bell and for a moment I studied the shape of her face, her eyes and the shock of hair.

'Yes . . . I loved your father . . . Unforgivable things happen,' said Pat. 'Your mother was a friend. Of course, I haven't seen her since the funeral – she wanted to argue with me even then, but anyone who knows me will tell you I'm not the quarrelling sort.'

Belinda tutted. 'That's so lame. So what sort
are
you, Mother?'

Pat pursed her lips as if to stop her angry words. 'When you get to my age you'll know nothing stands in the way of true love. Anyway, it's good to see you, James. And Meina, I'm sorry for your loss.' She stood and put her hand on my shoulder, crouched and kissed Meina on both cheeks. Then she picked up her book and put a bit of paper in it to mark her page, sighing. 'Sometimes, Bell, you can be so . . . so uncivilised,' she said. 'I'm going to bed.'

There was a resounding silence. I could see Meina felt embarrassed. I said nothing.

'Mum, I was just kidding,' shouted Belinda. But Pat was already gone.

Belinda poured herself another drink, held her glass up to the light so she could look underneath it. 'God, it feels good to have a drink without feeling guilty about it.' Her eyes widened and she grinned at herself as she raised the glass. 'To the return of the prodigical brother. Is that the right word?' she said chuckling.

Meina and I exchanged glances.

'Please, you guys, don't look like that. You have no idea. I saw my father shot. I was there. Then to move out here, the middle of nowhere. The few black kids around don't want to talk to me; white kids don't want to talk to me. It's all her fault.' She sighed. 'I used to drink every day. I tried to sleep with every white boy in my class. I wanted to sleep with every one of them in the school.'

Meina looked horrified. 'Why d'you do that?' she asked.

'You don't understand. I was hated in that school. For no reason. I couldn't understand why they hated me so much. Nigger this 'n' nigger that . . . when I left London I didn't even think I was black. I mean, I lived with a white woman who loved R&B but that was as far as it went. I didn't fully absorb the fact that I was black until I got here. Then I realised it was so obvious to the rest of the world. Everybody seemed fascinated with the colour of my skin. There was no one to teach me what it meant to be black. I didn't understand why they hated me. What did I do?' She looked at her glass, took a gulp of the brown liquid and smiled prettily. 'So you're my brother?' She touched my cheek.

'I've always wondered stuff about you.'

'Stuff like what?' I said.

'A bunch of little stuff.' She laughed and for an instant she resembled her mother.

'What's your favourite cereal?' she said.

'Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.'

'Erykah Badu or Alicia Keys?'

I screwed up my face and my lips trembled when I smiled so I turned away from her. 'To listen to or get busy with?'

'Both.'

'Definitely get busy with Alicia Keys, but I prefer Erykah's voice.'

Bell started a funny-sounding rendition of 'Call Tyrone' (
I think you better caaall Ty-rone)
.

'Like . . . have you had sex?'

I blushed. 'Well . . . yes, lots of times.' I saw Bell smile at Meina.

'So who have you had sex with?'

'With lots of different girls.'

'If you could spend a night with any celebrity who would it be?'

'Jurnee Smollett.'

'That little girl from
Eve's Bayou
?'

'She ain't little any more.'

We both laughed. It was like we were proving black credentials.

'Charlie Brown or Bart Simpson?'

'Charlie Brown.'

'Stevie or Prince?'

'Stevie.'

'
Reservoir Dogs
or
Usual Suspects
?'

'
Reservoir Dogs
. . . no, I mean
Usual Suspects
.'

'Naomi or Tyra?'

'Naomi, any day, every day. I have a picture of her.'

'Will Smith or Denzel?'

'Neither.'

'If you had to pick?'

'Neither.'

'What's your favourite drink?'

'Sprite.'

'Duh. I mean proper drink?'

'I don't have one.'

She touched my cheek again. 'My own, real brother.' She filled her glass as if to keep her hands busy and this time she asked Meina and me to raise our glasses. We waited for her to make a toast.

'I think you two make a fucking lovely couple,' she said. She swallowed a mouthful and burped.

'I've never felt I belonged in Cornwall,' said Bell. 'I love it and hate it at the same time. I feel like I'm a London girl inside.

'I hate London. It feels so much better out here,' I said.

'It does feel nice,' Meina said, looking out towards the night sky.

'But London is where it's all happening,' said Bell. 'You have Brixton Academy and Wembley, all the best gigs. You have grime music, all the best clubs, DJs and radio stations. Not that I care, but you've even got Buckingham Palace. I can't wait until I get some money together and figure out what to do with myself when I get back.'

I had never been to Buckingham Palace, Brixton Academy or Wembley Stadium and I hated grime. It was the first time I had been identified with those things by an outsider. It felt confusing.

'I'd seriously think about that if I were you,' I said. 'London just feels so crazy right now. When you're there you don't feel as much a part of it as when you aren't. I don't feel, like, any of those places belong to me.'

'What do you mean, crazy?'

'I mean it's rough. I know this sounds cheesy but London doesn't take prisoners and when it goes down nobody could give a shit.'

'Rough how?'

'Rough, rough . . . I met a guy the other day who I hadn't seen since he got put away for shooting his sister. He said the "safe" accommodation social services had found for him since his release didn't feel safe, and he couldn't bear to go back to the estate where his family lives. He used to push weights but when I saw him he was skinny. He said he'd lost two stone during his time inside. And he looked twelve years old except for his eyes, which had that old-man look that some people carry about, like they've seen too much.'

'Shot his sister?' Meina said.

'Yeah, shot her in the face. He was only thirteen at the time. His mother buried her boyfriend's gun in the back garden. She got two years for possession and for not giving up the name of her boyfriend. Of course everyone knows who he is, some clown from the Nkrumah estate. But the scary thing is everybody has a gun buried in the garden – you have to have a gun or at least know someone with one. Guns are part of the environment, like a final defence.'

'What's his name?' asked Bell.

'Keeshon,' I said. 'He was playing with his lighter and I noticed the tips of his fingers were all black like my mother's, a sure sign he was on crack. I was afraid for him. His mother's boyfriend was afraid he would talk, give the police his name. He started thinking that maybe Keeshon would want to seek revenge. Keeshon told me he didn't want to carry a knife but if he didn't have one he couldn't defend himself. He said he didn't want people to think he was a pussy but he didn't want to kill anyone and it's too dangerous to talk to the police. I understood him, you know. Whatever happens I remember thinking it would never be the same. He's never going to be the boy I used to kick a ball with over on Wanstead Flats, who dreamed he was gonna be Pelé. All that was over. You know what really gets me is that bad shit happens to every one of us, I mean people like me. I'm always afraid of whatever it is that's lurking out there for me.'

'What did he say to you about his sister?' asked Bell.

'I didn't ask but he kept playing with his lighter, like I wasn't even there, and he kept saying how much he loved her. It's all just so fucked up. I mean, what do you think is going to happen to him walking around in that state? He's fucked.'

'Is that why you came down here?' asked Bell.

'I didn't want to come. But since I got here it's like being able to breathe freely, like I've wanted to be here all my life, away from all the crap.'

'Nothing is going to happen to you,' Meina said. 'You don't have to think like that. I like London. It doesn't feel dangerous to me in that way. Before my parents were murdered my father received death threats, and we were in constant fear for our lives because it was impossible to distinguish between the fighters. When I came to England, I was still so afraid whenever I saw a black man in uniform. Many of these men in Africa with their guns, they're lawless, unchecked. We had no one to protect us. Once Ashvin escaped being kidnapped by two men with a gun he met on his way home from school. He denied he was related to my father. Some of the offices and facilities at the university where my father taught were vandalised and burned. Another time, we were shot at on our way to market. Bullets shattered the back windscreen of our car, pierced my mother's headscarf, and our poor driver, Hassan, was killed on the spot.'

Sadness crept into the room. I felt caged. My neck ached and itched; I rubbed at it because it was too painful for me to try to scratch. Meina must have sensed my discomfort. She leaned over and kissed my hands. I held my breath, reached out and gently rubbed her back. I closed my eyes and rested my head on her shoulder.

Bell didn't look like she was paying much attention. She poured herself another drink. 'All the women should form an army and lock up all the men around the world. Including you, my brother,' she said, slurring her words.