Web of Lies (11 page)

Femi tried to bury himself with his bedcovers. It was three hours since Errol had sent him to Durrant Court. The longer he stayed away, the worse it would be. Errol would come after him, send someone for him. James knew where he lived, and he would tell Errol. He called Femi “little brother,” but he had also warned him that Errol was unforgiving. The men in the BMWs—Errol’s friends—didn’t stand for being messed around.

Femi’s mind twisted and turned. He should have gone to the garage right away. Errol would have seen the state he was in and been angry that the muggers attacked someone from his gang. If he didn’t know them himself, his friends would. They must know everyone in the area. Errol’s friends would find them and get the money back. How stupid of him to have run home! There was much less chance of Errol listening to him now. If he didn’t get
to the garage soon and sort it out, the trouble would spill over. Papa would find out. That was unthinkable. He had to go and speak to Errol before it was too late.

Femi crept into the corridor, thankful to hear music coming from Sade’s room. It would help cover his footsteps. He tiptoed into the bathroom and lifted his jacket off the curtain rail where Sade had hung it up to dry. Carrying his coat, still wet, he tiptoed past her door. It was slightly open and she was writing at her desk, with her back to him. From this angle, her face almost seemed to be touching her Iyawo head. He turned the latch to the front door as softly as possible and slipped out.

It was no longer raining, but the air was gray and damp as he raced through the shortcut, trying to rehearse what he should say. When he saw James leaning against the garage wall, he felt a wave of relief. Errol must still be inside, and James could be a mediator. But as soon as he was close enough to see James’s face, he remembered the voice in the bicycle shed. Hard. Cold. The voice that had refused to help a pleading boy.

“What time d’you call this, bwoy? I vouched for you! Look how you mess me up. Let’s see how you like the heat!” James signaled for him to go inside. Femi had no time to explain anything before entering the fire. James stepped behind him, blocking any retreat.

The two young men whom he had seen earlier that morning shifted out as soon as he entered. This time, he knew: they were on sentry duty. Errol sprang up from his armchair and stood with his arms folded, legs apart. There
was only the box table between them, and Errol towered above him.

“What have you got for me?” The eyes behind the dark glasses pinned him down but not the million butterflies in his stomach.

“I—I—I haven’t got it, Errol! Four—four men mugged me! They forced me into the lift! I put the envelope here!” Femi thrust open his jacket and showed Errol the empty pocket. “I—I’m telling the truth, Errol, I promise—no—please, Errol—no!”

With a single stride Errol closed in on Femi, kicking the box table aside and gripping Femi’s wrist, twisting and turning him. The pain pierced where he was already tender.

“You think I stupid, Mister African bwoy! Why you take so long coming back, heh? You ran home, right? My friends saw you. You ran home to hide my money, right?”

“No, it’s not true! I went home ’cause I was going to be sick! I’ve been vomiting!” Femi howled. “Ask my s—!” He stopped. If Errol said anything to Sade, it would get to Papa. But Errol had already guessed what he was going to say and it seemed to increase his fury. He accused Femi of cheating him, of being as stuck up as his sister, Sade, of needing a lesson.

“Tell him I’m not like that!” Femi entreated James. “I never cheated! Tell him!” Errol’s knee was pressing on a nerve in his back and the muscles in his arms felt as if they were ripping apart. Through his tears he saw James looking deadpan, silent.

With an unexpected yank, Errol readjusted his hold. One arm swooped like a lasso around Femi’s trunk. The other swirled up with a vicious glint and a blade grazed past Femi’s face. He butted his head away but was barricaded by Errol’s chest.

“Cool it, brother, cool it! He’s only a kid. He wouldn’t cheat you.”

James was coming to the rescue, at last. But, to Femi’s horror, the words were like a match. Suddenly Errol was bawling accusations at James. Maybe he was behind Femi! Maybe he was cheating on him! Maybe he had cheated him over Sade, too! Errol’s knife quivered in front of Femi.

Femi didn’t know who lunged first, but he saw the blade slice across James’s chin and a spray of blood arch toward him. In the wrench and tussle that followed, Errol released his clutch and Femi hurtled onto the armchair. The armrest splintered beneath him, breaking away from the chair. He grabbed one end of the L-shaped baton and edged toward the door. James and Errol were wheezing heavily, each locked around the other as James struggled for the knife. He was trying to say something. It was a grunt, but it sounded to Femi like “Run!”

What happened next was a blur. A flare of metal and a tangle of jerking elbows, arms, hands. James was sinking, plummeting. Femi brandished the broken armrest, ready to beat his way out past the sentries. But they propelled themselves into the room so rapidly that they didn’t notice him beside the door. Femi took his chance. As he
fled, an image flicked past the corner of his eye. One of the sentries was tugging something out from inside his jacket. Femi was already halfway across the forecourt when a shot detonated and sent him plunging down the High Street.

Sade woke with the sound of voices. Papa and Mrs. Wallace were back. She glanced at the little clock beside Iyawo. Quarter past four. Her magazine had slipped off her bed. She must have fallen asleep. If Femi had also napped, he might have calmed down a little. She would ask him one more time to talk to Papa himself. Otherwise it would be up to her. If Papa thought he only had Mrs. Wallace to worry about, he was in for a shock. There was a saying for it:
Just because you are running from the jaws of the crocodile, do you think the leopard will let you pass?

Sade knocked on Femi’s door, softly, then louder. When there was no reply, she opened it and saw his bedcovers piled up on his bed. No Femi. But it was only when she saw that his jacket was no longer hanging on the rail in the bathroom that her heart slipped. She hurried to the living room, calling his name.

“What’s wrong, Sade? Femi should be at football practice, eh?” Papa poked his head out of the kitchen.

“No, Papa—he was here! I don’t know where he’s gone!”

Mrs. Wallace appeared behind Papa. Sade averted her eyes as she forced the story to tumble out, starting with the terrified state in which Femi had come home earlier. The tale was like a jigsaw with a gaping hole in the center. She wanted to leave out the messages that Lizard Eyes had sent her, her suspicions about James, her futile attempt to get James to lay off Femi. But they could all be clues. Papa let her speak without interruption. When she finished, she stared at her clasped palms, waiting for an onslaught of questions and reproach. Instead she felt a heavy silence.

Truth keeps the hand cleaner than soap.

Her hands were deeply muddied.

“Have you any idea where these boys might be?” Papa’s low voice shook like distant thunder.

Sade glanced up. His face was etched with dismay.

“No, Papa. That Errol Richards sometimes waits outside school. Sometimes he hangs round the shops in the High Street, but I’ve never seen him around the flats.”

Papa was already pulling on his coat.

“I’m going to the cab office—see if I can get a cab—I’ll check the school, High Street, Leisure Center, here, everywhere.”

“Shall I come with you, Folarin?” Mrs. Wallace asked quietly.

“No. Please stay here with Sade. If Femi returns, he’ll need you.”

The words pierced Sade with guilt. It was so clear now. By keeping quiet all these weeks, she had been totally irresponsible. To top it all, today, when she knew Femi was in trouble, she had taken a nap and let him escape. How could Papa trust her anymore? Instead, he had to ask for help from Mrs. Wallace, who was already sick with worry about her own son.

Sade answered the phone just before six o’clock.

“Is Femi back?”

“No, Papa.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I’m going to the police.”

Femi crouched on the seat, his head in his hands scrunched above his knees. He was tense, stiff, aching. No one else had been in the men’s toilets when he had hurtled into the end cubicle. With luck, no one had noticed that the door had not been opened for hours. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to ten. What would happen at closing time? Would the attendants check that they weren’t locking anyone in? He couldn’t imagine spending a night alone in the Leisure Center, yet where else could he go? He couldn’t face Papa with blood spattered down his shirt! What if Papa had gone to the police? If the police found him, they would want to know about the blood. If he told them what Errol had done to James, he would be dead meat if Errol ever caught him.

He remembered a small gazelle, caught in the headlights of Papa’s car on the road to Grandma’s village and
Family House. Papa didn’t like to drive at night, but they had been delayed and he was driving fast.
Move! Shift!
They had all willed the wide-eyed, petrified animal to run, but it had turned to look at the car and stopped, right there in the middle of the road. By the time Papa had tried to brake, it was too late. “Paralyzed with fright.” That’s what Papa had said. Femi still remembered the dull, sickening thud. That was the first time he had thought about death.

The picture of James collapsing at Errol’s feet kept returning. What if Errol had killed him? The shot still echoed in his head. Was it just a car backfiring or was it from a gun? What if James had been left wounded, bleeding to death? James had acted the big brother. He had tried to protect Femi from Errol’s fury. But he, Femi, had been such a coward that he hadn’t even tried to call an ambulance. What kind of little brother was that?

Every time the door to the men’s toilets opened, Femi drew in his breath. Full alert. As soon as the news got around, the whole gang would turn against him. They would think he had stolen the money, got James involved—and then deserted him. They might even guess that he was in the Leisure Center. The toilets were an obvious place. With a leg up, someone could look over the top of the cubicle. They would find a way of getting him out. He had nothing with which he could protect himself. Only a broken piece of wood from Errol’s armchair.

Shortly after ten, the door to the men’s toilets was thrust open, followed by shuffling and heavy footsteps. It
sounded like an army. Femi jolted up on to his feet and squeezed himself into the back corner of the cubicle, gripping the armrest close to his stomach. A swift shadow above him cut out the light. By the time he looked up, it was gone. He had been identified.

“Femi Solaja, we’re police. We’ve seen your photograph. Your father has been to see us. He’s very worried about you.” It was a woman’s voice, calm and steady.

Femi gritted his teeth. Why had Papa sent the police? They would see the blood!

“A boy was seriously attacked this afternoon. We need to speak to you. If you have any weapons, slide them under the door right away.”

How did the police know that he had anything to do with James? Papa couldn’t have told them! Femi pressed his back harder against the wall, trying to stop himself from shaking.

“Do you hear me, Femi?”

He heard all right. Like the wide-eyed gazelle had seen Papa’s car.

“If you have any weapons, push them under the door now.”

Weapons? Surely they couldn’t mean this splintered piece of wood? They meant the knife jabbing up and down into James. They meant the gun with the shot still resounding in his head.

“If you don’t respond, Femi, my armed colleagues will have to bring you out.”

It was a no-nonsense voice. It expected to be obeyed. But it was on the other side of the door and Errol’s voice
was closer, circling inside his head….

Say anything, boy, and you’re dead meat, you understand?

He could see Errol’s dark glasses targeting him. Femi shut his eyes. Seconds later all hell broke loose.

“PUT YOUR WEAPON ON THE FLOOR! WEAPON ON THE FLOOR! PUSH IT UNDER THE DOOR! UNDER THE DOOR!”

The screams hit him with such terrifying force that his fingers released the armrest. It clattered to the floor.

“…UNDER THE DOOR!”

His foot kicked the wood and it spun across the cubicle, under the door, out of sight.

“PUT ALL YOUR WEAPONS DOWN! PUSH THEM OUT NOW! NOW!”

His head was splitting. He didn’t have any other weapons.

“OPEN THE DOOR SLOWLY AND SHOW ME THE PALMS OF YOUR HANDS! THE PALMS OF YOUR HANDS!”

He jerked to the door like a puppet. His fingers fumbled with the latch. His left hand gripped the door, inching around the edge. For a couple of seconds longer, the door was his shield. He thrust out his right palm.

“COME OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! ON YOUR HEAD!”

He let go of the door and raised his hands, so petrified that tears were frozen. Three rifles pointed at him from close range. Three men in black followed every move.
Behind them, to the right, more police stood by the cloakroom door.

“GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR! FACE DOWN! ON THE FLOOR!”

The screaming was as loud as if Femi was at the far end of a football field. Femi threw himself down beneath the rifles.

“ARMS SPREAD OUT! OUT!”

Splayed out, he felt someone pounce and pull his wrists behind his back. They were snapped together, tight. When he moved his arms, the cuffs squeezed into his skin. Hands padded down his legs, hips, trunk, everywhere. Someone was checking the toilet where he had hidden. Then he was being hauled up, dusted down. A hand was unzipping his jacket.

“Ah! What have we here?” The man in black who had been yelling lowered his voice. It was suddenly ordinary, but his face was the color of overripe pawpaw. Femi looked down. The splashes on his gray sweatshirt were an even deeper red than the man’s face. Three new police officers now closed in on him. Femi saw their eyes fix on the bloodstains.

“No gun, sergeant. No knife. Only this.” The broken armrest lay awkwardly near Femi’s feet. The officer pulled a pair of small scissors from his pocket and swiveled Femi around.

“Over to you now, sarge,” he said as he snipped the cuffs.

A plastic strip fell to the floor. Femi rubbed his wrists.

“What’s this blood about?”

This was the same firm female voice that had spoken to him before the yeller. A finger whirled in front of his sweatshirt, but Femi avoided looking up.

“There’s been a very nasty assault nearby,” the policewoman continued evenly. “You fit the description and you’ve got blood on your clothes. I’m arresting you on suspicion of being involved—”

I’m arresting you.
He didn’t hear anything else.

They led him out of the Leisure Center toward their van with a police officer on either side of him and one behind. It was when he saw the cage inside the back of the van that he panicked and tried to wriggle away. They grabbed him easily, but he struggled and kicked until they pinned him down. When Femi looked up, he was surprised to realize that the hands holding him in an iron grip were those of the policewoman. This time they handcuffed him with metal cuffs, his arms in front. He fought back his tears as he scrambled up the steps. There were two seats inside the cage facing each other. He sat on one as the cage door was locked, then the van door locked. As the vehicle juddered into motion, he gripped the wire with his fingers and buried his head in the crook of his arm.

S
ATURDAY
11
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CTOBER