Forest Gate (19 page)

'You know 5 was in prison?' I said.

'Why?'

'He beat up some guy, put him in a wheelchair.'

Meina shivered and searched for something in my eyes.

'I asked him why he did it. "I love this country," he said, "I just can't stand some of the fuckers who live in it."'

Later, when it got chilly, Belinda and I went to her bedroom to pull the sheets and blankets from the bed to keep us all warm on the floor under the table. Her room was small. She had a desk by her window with an expensive laptop and printer. There were a few books on some shelves, some Japanese names and three thick volumes by Alexandre Dumas.

'You write?' I asked.

'No. I like to draw-and there's bugger all else to do out here.'

We stood together staring at the picture of the two of us eating cake together when we were kids.

'Do you ever visit his grave?' she said.

'I used to go every month. But it's been ages.'

'I don't remember where he was buried.'

'Just behind Forest Gate, in Manor Park. There's only one cemetery.'

'Will you take me sometime?'

'Sure.'

She kissed my cheek and leaned against me. 'When I was little Dad used to read to me from the books he had bought for you.'

I turned my head. Belinda seemed oblivious to how much it hurt me to hear her say that.

Bell carried the sheets and blankets and I took the pillows. Meina and I discarded our shoes and socks and lay either side of Bell. 'Let's make it cosy,' she said linking her arms and worming her legs between ours. 'You guys should come in the spring. I'd like that. We sleep with all the windows down and you can smell fresh flowers and hear the waves. That's when I sleep best.'

The three of us slept together, breathing against each other's necks in a heap under the dining table.

I woke late, tangled in a mesh of arms and legs. The day started beautifully; the house was so quiet I woke to the morning calls of seabirds. The sun stung my eyes as it cast a steady beam through the window of the room. Meina said it was by far the best thing about not being in Somalia – the quiet mornings. When I tried to imagine what it was like for her I couldn't. But that morning when I looked at them both still sleeping I felt happy. I should have known the day would turn out badly.

At breakfast Pat scowled at Bell who was wearing a bright red dress with a brown leather jacket. Meina had borrowed clothes from her and wore long black boots and a white sweater dress. She had spent the morning braiding Bell's hair. I told them they looked glamorous, older, like women. Perhaps it was the red lipstick.

We met up with Belinda's on–off boyfriend, Kimi – the boy with the blond curls – who Meina and I had seen briefly the previous night. I felt a bit strange when we met and did that bumping-shoulder bro thing. Kimi kissed Meina on both cheeks. She told me she didn't like the smell he carried of cigarettes. When she asked I told her I thought Kimi looked different.

'Last night he looked like the nerd who would have a frog in his pocket; today he turns up in vintage Pumas, and a James Baldwin T-shirt. He's all right with me.'

I couldn't work out how Kimi got to be with Bell. I didn't think there was anything especially sexy about him but they looked happy. He looked like someone who would be a killer Scrabble player or who knew all the answers to a crossword, like he had lots of cool stuff in his mind.

'I like the way you put yourself together,' I told him and I meant it.

'I call him Greenie,' said Bell and she kissed Kimi on the mouth. 'He always had boogers falling out of his nose at school but he was the only one who was nice to me when I first arrived. Said to me: "I don't think you're a nigger," in this cute little voice.' Bell laughed and kissed him again.

We went to a place called the Riverside. Despite its name, it was by the roadside in the basement of an office building. It was sparse and laid-back with a sign offering Wi-Fi on a snaking bar top, bare bricks and fake bookshelves here and there. Years of cigarette smoke had given the place a grey pallor; and it was filled with black-and-white shots of Jack the Ripper's London. It felt like one of those modern pubs that try too hard to look traditional, like in the Docklands, all wrong, but Bell said they served the best cheesecake.

Meina sat opposite Bell, huddled with me in a red velvet booth with deep pink cushions under a picture of the Kray twins. Greenie said it was sacrilegious to play dance mixes of Nina Simone and Billie Holiday on a too-loud sound system. The place had a heavy, delicious smell of home-made cake but it was claustrophobic, like we were in a laundry. A butch white girl with green hair cut in a Mohican, skinny black jeans and red DMs came to take our orders. The cakes had poncey names like 'Gladiator', 'Matrix' and 'Heat' and even a chocolate one called 'Mean Sweet'.

Greenie and I worked our way through a four-layered carrot cake ('Sin City'), and Meina and Bell ate a strawberry cheesecake with two big scoops of cherry Häagen-Dazs – the Dolly Parton. The sun came out and Greenie suggested we hire bikes from a shop where his mate worked.

'It's only twenty minutes' walk,' he said. 'You know, Bell, up by Longrock. It's nice out; we can give them a tour.'

'No, Greenie,' said Bell. 'I've been on one of your tours. Let's get the bikes but we should just mess around, nothing boring.'

Greenie looked at me and I nodded.

'I haven't been on a bicycle for years,' Meina said.

We walked down a narrow, sloping lane with a row of small shops where locals, tourists, students, backpackers and surfers sat at the open tables of restaurants, cafes and pubs. It seemed a lot longer than twenty minutes. Finally, we found ourselves walking along a wide sandy beach where the rocks were slippery and covered with glistening seaweed.

The shop was a low brick building with bikes lined up on the wall outside. Greenie's mate Michael agreed to let us have the bikes as long as we were back before his boss came to close up at six.

'No worries,' said Greenie.

'Where you headed?' asked Michael.

'Not sure yet. Probably along the Mount, show them Marazion, Paul and Mousehole. Don't worry, we'll have 'em back on time.'

We took off along a dedicated cycle track, down a path above a sandy bay where surfers in wetsuits huddled in a pack waiting for waves. It felt good to be outside, cycling around places where nobody would have heard of my brothers or me. I shut out all sound, everything became absolutely silent and I could hear my heart pounding, felt the blood rushing around my body and the tensing and relaxing of my calf muscles. Suddenly I was pedalling faster and faster. Greenie thought I was trying to race so he lowered his head and pedalled to catch up with me. I couldn't stop myself. I remembered how much I used to love cycling around West Ham Park on Saturday mornings while my father sat on a bench reading the football in the
Sun
.

'Don't go anywhere I can't see you.'

'All right, Dad,' I'd say and then I'd be off like a rocket.

Later, as the sun cast golden light on the clear water we walked the bikes to a chip shop Bell and Greenie liked. We ordered plaice and chips and I sat by the window, trying to listen to the sound of the water through the maddening cries of the gulls. A fisherman stood in his boat, working deftly with thick rope in his hands, and clusters of black and brown seaweed floated on the edge of the shore. I rested my head on my arms, looking out at the horizon.

I noticed everything. In silence I tried to find something ugly, some flaw in the scene. I had always loved the sunset but it hadn't fully registered as out of the ordinary until then.

'It's breathtaking,' I said. I thought of Ashvin and had to fight to stop my tears.

Eventually we took the bikes back and went along the beach again.

'Greenie,' I said, 'what do you think of James Baldwin?'

Greenie stood, stuck out his chest and pointed to his T-shirt. 'James Baldwin is the dog's nuts,' he shouted out to the Atlantic and his voice echoed all around the cliff (the dog's nuts . . . dog's nuts . . . nuts).

'But do you know anything about his personal life?' I asked when he'd calmed down.

'You mean about him being queer?'

'Yeah. Don't you feel funny wearing his shirt?'

'Fuck no, this here's my coolest shirt. This one and my Van Morrison. Why? You like Baldwin?'

'I love Baldwin. I mean, he's my favourite but I thought you had to be gay to like him.'

Greenie and Bell laughed. I walked away.

Meina caught up with me. 'You can like who you want. It really doesn't matter about them being gay or not,' she said.

'Yeah? In Leytonstone a guy got stabbed for asking someone for a light in a weird voice.'

'So what? You can't live in constant fear of what stupid people think.'

She reached out for my hand and we walked back towards the others.

'Do you believe in real love?' I asked.

'I don't know. I'm sure my parents loved each other.'

'Have you ever been in love before?'

'Definitely not,' said Meina and Bell must have heard.

'How do you think love feels?' she asked.

'You don't know?' said Greenie, puzzled. He shook his head, lit a spliff and after a few puffs he passed it to Bell.

I watched her inhale deeply.

'Greenie,' I said, 'I like you and all, but don't give that shit to my sister ever again.'

My heart thudded. At first I thought Bell was about to start an argument. Greenie looked like he was about to say something but thought better of it. Bell tightened her lips and I saw her search my eyes. She gave me a sort of sullen look, blowing thick smoke into my face and I watched it rise between us like a slow dance. But it seemed as if she recognised something.

'Easy, brother,' she said.

'I'm serious,' I said.

It was silent for a while.

'In my village they say love is a pain without remedy,' Meina said. 'We have annual rituals where virgins paint their eyes, gird their hips with love beads and wear white silk and then they carry the pain of their lovers in ceremonial jars and they go to the river and pour out the pain. Where I come from they say the water trembles because of the pain of love.'

It was dusk and all seemed quiet. I watched Meina as the sun glowed on her face. 'You're beautiful,' I said. I took a deep breath and kissed her hands and throat. I watched a bird float carefree in the darkening sky and realised then that I could search for the rest of my life but might never find what I had in my grasp right then.

When it got dark Greenie tried but failed to get us into the club night at the Turk's Head. I heard Bell telling Meina it was the oldest pub in Penzance. But we couldn't get in because the doorman refused to believe us when we lied and said we were twenty-one.

'I've got whisky at home,' said Bell and so we headed back to Trevescan Place.

Mr Bloom's silver Jag was outside Bell's house when we got back. Pat sat huddled at the dining table with Mr Bloom and Inspector Whittaker, they both looked tired and drained. They all stood when we entered noisily. I noticed Pat's eyes were red and puffy, her hair was still damp from a shower and she fumbled with the waistband of her yellow bathrobe. I noticed mascara on her sleeves. She stared straight ahead.

I couldn't work out what was wrong. Then I felt afraid. My palms were sweating. Bad things always happened to people like me, I thought.

'Mum? What is it?' What's wrong?' said Bell.

I let go of Meina's hand when Inspector Whittaker took a deep breath. It was like a slow-motion scene in a movie.

'Sit down, please,' he said, nodding at me

I sat straight away. My stomach clenched.

'I'm sorry but I have very sad and difficult information for you today. There has been a tragic accident. Your brothers are dead.' He paused, shifting on his feet. I have been instructed to drive you back to London where your mother is waiting to be with you at this time. When you get back to London if you want to discuss this you may do so with a special police counsellor in the family crisis intervention team.'

I wasn't sure if I had heard him at first. The good-cop bit didn't suit Whittaker. His speech was rushed and sounded scripted. At first I thought he was joking but then I wondered why he was looking at me like we were friends.

'Which one?' I asked.

'All of them, James. They're all dead.'

'Oh Jesus,' said Bell.

I gasped and cupped my mouth. Then I laughed and stood up. Meina made the mistake of trying to touch me but I pushed her away. Everything slowed. There was an awful quiet.

'All of them? How?'

Whittaker's voice was low, strained and slightly rhythmical. 'Your oldest brother shot them all dead and then turned the gun on himself in the early hours of this morning. He had apparently stopped taking his antidepressant medication.'

'Poor James,' said Pat. 'You poor, poor dear.'

I felt heat rising in my chest, I couldn't breathe. Larry Bloom put his arms around Meina. I recognised the bewildered look spread across her face. 'It's true,' Bloom said turning to me. 'I'm so sorry, truly I am.'

'Your mother's asking for you. She wants you back,' said the inspector.

'Shit, shit, shit,' said Greenie, wringing his hands.

I bowed my head. I couldn't distinguish the voices in my ears. Something inside told me it was true – I'd known all along that something bad was going to happen. Later Meina said she heard me whisper, 'God is so cruel, so cold-blooded,' but I can't remember saying that. My knees gave way. I stumbled, punched the wall and made a spitting noise that hurt the back of my throat. Then I screamed.

T
HIRTY MINUTES LATER WE
were in Mr Bloom's car. I had always loved driving long distances, but on this journey I stared out of the window not really taking anything in, blind and deaf with a dull ache in my chest. Memories flashed past – small things, like my brothers all dressed up as clowns on my fifth birthday. I was exhausted. Meina told me my neck was bleeding and that I would make myself ill if I didn't stop crying. I told her to leave me alone.

I could feel the veins bursting at my temples and the swelling in my neck growing. I covered my face with my arms.

'It doesn't make any sense,' I said. 'It's all shit, everything's just shit.'

'It'll get better,' Meina whispered, 'I promise.'

I was surprised her touch still had an effect on me. I felt disconnected from everything else. The grief – at one point I thought I would vomit. Grief sucked all the air out of the car. I kept touching my neck, half expecting the wound to burst open. I remembered being up on the roof, wanting to die. Whittaker and Bloom kept exchanging glances. Bloom spoke once, 'James,' he said, 'I know it's difficult but –' My glare broke him off. Inspector Whittaker regarded me nervously and he blushed. I curled up in the back seat close to the door with my back to Meina.

'Don't wake him whatever you do,' said Mr Bloom a few minutes later when Meina draped a blanket over me. He thought I couldn't hear. She used a corner of the wool to wipe my face. Slowly my anger dissolved into a whimper and then I must have fallen asleep.

I don't know how long I slept, but the closer we got to east London the more restless I became and eventually was fully awake again.

Whittaker had put on some music during the journey, the same thing over and over, a demented opera version of a tune I recognised from a Toyota advert or something.

'Enough . . . no more with the screaming bitches,' said Mr Bloom at some point.

'The screaming bitch you are referring to is Adelina Patti, my friend.'

Bloom leaned over and switched CDs for Sarah Vaughan singing 'It Never Entered My Mind'.

'Inspector Whittaker, can I ask you something?' I said.

'Anything,' he said, watching me in the rear-view.

There were hundreds of dead bugs on the far edges of the windscreen. The inspector's phone vibrated. It hadn't stopped buzzing the whole way. Everyone wanted him.

'What I want to ask is at what point do you guys separate a black life from a white one?'

He gave me a quick glance and shrugged. 'It's not as simple as that . . .' he said and Mr Bloom turned up the music ('
Once you warned me that if you scorned me I'd sing the maiden's prayer again
').

'Inspector Whittaker?'

'What?'

'You got a lot of connections in the Met?'

'Some. What do you need?'

'Well, if anything ever happens to me could you maybe make sure Trident don't get the case?'

Mr Bloom laughed. 'You're a cheeky little bugger, aren't you?'

'I don't know what you're laughing for, you worked there too,' said Whittaker.

While Bloom parked the car Meina, the inspector and I walked to my mother's boyfriend's front door. I had been sitting for so long I could hardly straighten my legs. There were white men everywhere, policemen. One with a pot belly stood guarding the front door. Meina held my hand but I couldn't even look at her. There was nothing left now . . . this time I wouldn't mess it up. It was just the matter of finding the space.

'I'll stay here,' said Mr Bloom.

The temperature had plummeted and the wind cut straight through my jeans. The night air was choking with that curious sickening odour blown up from Beckton. Beckton. Site of the largest sewage works in the UK. The smell up there wasn't exactly like shit but it was something very close. There was also a distinct smell of burning rubber. I saw Meina fixed on an old tyre burning in the road.

'That's the kids,' I said. 'Lookouts. They burn tyres when the police are about.'

Shadows of thick evergreens broke up the sky, their forms almost humanlike, branches cutting up a strange bluish light from the moon. My boots scuffed across the black pavement, broken glass crunched under my feet.

'How are you doing?' asked Inspector Whittaker when we reached the flat. His skin was pasty. He had changed in a service station. He wore a blue jumper and one of those wax Barbour jackets only civil servants, bankers and off-duty policemen wear. To me he looked a bit lost outside the comfort of his suit. I could tell he was good at his job but I thought perhaps he didn't like it. He was frowning.

'I'm all right,' I said. 'Did you actually see their bodies?'

'Yes, son. Regrettably I did. But you won't be able to see them. Not for a long while yet.' He looked strained.

The smell of rubber was everywhere. I locked my fingers and put my hands on my head. 'How can they all be dead?'

Meina cried when I said that. I could feel she was suffering. Her eyes were on me as she sobbed. Everything slowed down and I couldn't make myself stand up. I just sat there.

'Get up, son. Pull yourself together, you have to be strong for your mother,' said Inspector Whittaker. He helped me to my feet.

'I'm OK,' I said.

I could tell Whittaker was hesitating about something. An irritating thought that must have been troubling him for a while.

'I want to say something before you go in,' he said. 'Now would be a good time to put an end to the family business, wouldn't you say? You'll be under an enormous pressure to keep it going but I'm just saying we could call it quits, right here, right now.' He looked at me for a moment and sighed. '"A man is strong before he is moral." I think it was Faulkner who said that. Think about it, James. If you agree, I can close the files. I won't come after you for anything, if you know what I mean?'

It was the first time I had ever thought about myself so directly connected to drug dealing. My hands were trembling, I only realised they were numb when I dug into my pockets. I decided that I liked Whittaker. He knew I was different, I could tell. At last someone who looked at
me
. Someone had finally separated me from everyone else.

'I'm going to have to get back to my office,' said Whittaker. He took out his wallet and opened it, shuffled through a stack of bills, credit cards and photographs. 'Here's my card.' He wrote his mobile number on the back.

'I'm serious, kid. Anything you need.' He sighed when he saw my expression. 'Look,' he said. His fists were clenched. 'You don't have to go bad. I have seen this happen a thousand times, families being torn apart like this. You have a choice. Allow yourself time to mourn but don't do anything crazy. You have to play your hand. Don't keep it bottled up inside.' His voice was forlorn. He held my wrists, his breath smelled vaguely of the boiled sweet he had been sucking on in the car. I could see the green veins in his neck. 'Look at me,' he said. 'Don't be stupid. Don't get angry at the world.' He released my arms slowly. 'If there is anything you need, you call me.'

Play your hand
. . . I had heard this before.

'I will,' I said and Meina and I watched the inspector walk away. We were outside Skeets's front door. I didn't want to go in.

It was one of those old Parker Morris council flats built in the seventies. Unfortunately for Skeets his building fell just outside the catchment area of the English Heritage scheme that had recently cleared twelve tower blocks and replaced them with maisonettes under the Forest Gate Olympic Regeneration Programme. His flat was a long-forgotten, dilapidated sorrowful hole, ideal for a crack den. It had woodchip wallpaper, badly cracked ceilings and greasy chipboard kitchen units barely on their hinges. The bathroom door was busted; it lay on its side in the passage like a wounded dog. There was a smell of disinfectant – Dettol or something – that failed to hide the pervading smell of sick, and I could see black mould growing in the spaces between the white tiles. Slowly, I looked around the living room, taking it all in.

Skeets sat on the far side. I had no idea who the other people in the room were. They were all watching me. They looked to me as though they were going out of their way to look like crack-heads in their shabby unironed clothes. I heard the sound of a car starting up outside. Skeets stood abruptly and walked to the window. 'Looks like the rozzers have gone. You can all leave now,' he said, still checking the window. People started shuffling to their feet and heading to the door. 'Oi, wake up, go on,' said Skeets to a man I hadn't noticed sitting in the sofa nearest the kitchen whose eyes had remained closed.

After a few seconds, the man shook off his sleep and came slowly to his feet. He bent down, picked up his coat and shuffled down the hallway, clutching his belongings to his chest. Skeets watched them all leave but he stayed. As they passed, some of them touched my shoulder, saying how sorry they were, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and made me shiver. I looked cautiously behind me as Skeets moved his tall skinny body towards the passage. He pulled his dreadlocks, long and grey, out of his face and I heard him put the security chain across his front door. I didn't like being locked in his house.

It was dark and bleak in the room, crowded with dusty plastic flowers and dirty lace doilies, a room desperately crying out for fresh air. There was a picture of a vexed young Rasta with his arms folded, and a corner sofa big enough to seat five. The single window was shaded by exhausted red velvet curtains. It was like an eye, through which I could see far out into the gloom of east London. The only sound was the drone of an old refrigerator. Skeets switched a light on, turning the window into a mirror so that I saw her standing there behind me. My temples pumped against my skull as I exchanged looks with my mother. We saw all there was to see of each other. She burst into tears and moved to embrace me. 'It's you,' she cried. I couldn't hug her back.

'I'll wait outside,' said Meina, as she backed out of the room.

My mother looked old. The crack had taken something out of her soul a long time ago. I had waited, as all my brothers had, but whatever it was that went missing had never come back. Her eyes were agitated and some of her hair was showing from the sides of her headscarf; her dressing gown had opened to reveal one of her sagging breasts. All her fingertips were black. I saw her catch a glimpse of her reflection in the window and she walked over and drew the curtains shut. Skeets looked ghostly in the dark. His face was bony and pale and I could only see the whites of his glaring eyes.

My mother came back to me and I felt her body trembling against mine; she smelled of sweat.

'It's a mercy you weren't here.' She stepped away from me again, took a deep breath and in the tense silence we tried to avert our eyes from one another.

'I don't remember everything. I was smoking, son. I'm sorry. But I remember the blood. There was blood everywhere. All over my babies. 5 woke up screaming in the night. Not like any time before, this was much, much worse. When I went to give him water he was soaked in sweat, staring out at the moon; it was big and bright. His eyes . . . his eyes looked full of the devil's thoughts. He put his gun to my head, told me to stop using. He swore if I dared touch drugs again he'd come back for me. "Come back from where?" I asked him. He didn't sound right when he spoke, he sounded like he was already dead.' Her hands were shaking as she pulled something from the pocket of her gown. 'He gave me this.'

She handed me a small white envelope with my name on it. It was a letter from 5. It had already been opened.

'"Go hide, old woman, before I change my mind." That's what he said to me. It was like he was someone else. The veins were swelling in his neck and he was shaking. I went to my room and crawled under the bed. I heard it all. Five shots; boom, all my babies gone. I don't remember anything after that.' She held her head in her hands and wept.

Maybe it was shock. Or shame. Maybe she was still high. I couldn't tell.

'James,' she said, 'I can't lie to you because you the only family I got. I need to stay high to keep the images of my babies from entering my head. Them police want me to go back there but you can tell 'em from me, I ain't never going back to that house. Not for shit.'

I looked at her for a long time and then at Skeets. I was shivering but it wasn't cold. I felt I would throw up any second. I could see my whole life there in front of me. Day in, day out, in that cramped room in Forest Gate with my mum and Skeets. It was about five o'clock in the morning. No moon. No sun. I could see the raw artificial lights glowing down over Stratford, a vast nightmare of desolation and petty antagonisms. I was crying.

'Hush now, baby,' said my mother.

We sat there together, lost in our shared grief. She stroked my face and hair, gently pulled my head towards her chest and then clamped her hands behind my back as she did when I was little.

'Baby, do you know about the money? Where is all our money at?'

I took a deep breath and pulled back. A gentle light beamed in from the window and Skeets looked right at me. Beads of sweat glistened on my forehead and more than anything else I wanted to run.

'What money?' I asked.

'Where shall I take you?' asked Bloom when we returned to the safety of his car. I was crying. 'Take it easy, James.' His voice was awkward. 'Do you want to go back to Meina's?'

'No. Do you think you could take me to my father's grave?'

'Sure. Where?'

'Manor Park. I'll show you the way.'

We arrived just as the caretaker, a shrivelled old man who, with his spiky grey beard, looked about eighty years old, opened the gates. It was early but he let us through. Mr Bloom pulled up by a large monument in the shape of a woman, Mary Magdalene probably. I read the words inscribed:
But O for the touch of a vanished band and the sound of a voice that is still
.

'Can I use your phone?' I asked.

'Of course,' said Bloom.

'I'll need to take it with me. I need to make one call. I won't look at your messages.'

'Of course,' he repeated. 'Stay on it as long as you want.'