What Came Before He Shot Her (31 page)

She was just a screaming little girl in a leotard who couldn’t make herself heard by any of them.

You want to know the
cause,
white lady? Kendra wanted to ask her. I can tell you the cause.

But that was only part of the story. Even Kendra didn’t know the rest.

Fabia Bender said, “We have to begin by gaining her trust, Mrs. Osborne. One of us has to form a bond with the girl. It’s not going to be easy, but it has to be done.”

Kendra nodded. What else was there for her to do? “I understand,”

she said. “Can I take her home now?”

“Yes. Of course. In a moment.” Then the social worker settled more firmly into her chair, her body language making it clear that the interview was far from over. She said that she’d managed to gather a bit of information on Vanessa in the weeks since her first phone call to Mrs.

Osborne. The officials at East Acton’s Wood Lane School, not to mention the local police in that area, had cooperatively filled in some blanks.

Thus Fabia Bender had some history, but she sensed there was more to it than one dead father, an institutionalised mother, two brothers, and an aunt with no children of her own. If Kendra Osborne would be willing to fill in some
additional
blanks for the social worker . . .

So Kendra realised that Fabia Bender
did
have some of the family secrets, but this knowledge did nothing but make her own discomfort worse. Kendra developed a deeper loathing for the woman, especially for her accent. Fabia’s well-modulated tone screamed upper-middle class. Her choice of vocabulary said university graduate. Her ease of manner declared that she’d had a life of privilege. To Kendra, all of this added up to someone who could neither understand what she was dealing with nor begin to negotiate a way through it.

“Seems like you’ve got the blanks filled in,” Kendra told her shortly.

“Some, as I’ve said. But what I need to understand more clearly is the source of her anger.”

Try her gran, Kendra wanted to tell the woman. Try being on the receiving end of Glory Campbell’s lies and desertion. But Glory Campbell and her casual disposal of her three grandkids comprised dirty linen in Kendra’s cupboard, and she did not intend to air her own used knickers in this white woman’s face. So she asked Fabia Bender a logical question: How much
more
than a dead father and an institutionalised mother was necessary to the understanding of Ness’s fury? And what did an understanding of her fury have to do with keeping her from ruining her life? Because, Kendra told the social worker, it was becoming damn clear to her that doing some serious life ruining was what Ness Campbell had in mind. She saw her existence as destroyed already, so she’d decided to go along for the ride.

To speed things up, as it were. When nothing mattered in the future, nothing mattered at all.

“You speak like someone who’s been there,” Fabia Bender said kindly. “Is there a Mr. Osborne?”

“Not any longer,” Kendra told her.

“Divorced?”

“That’s right. What does this have to do with Ness’s trouble?”

“So there is no male in Vanessa’s life? No father figure?”

“No.” Kendra made no mention of Dix, of the Blade, or of the smell of men that had, for months, clung to her niece like the trail of slime left by a legion of slugs. “Look. I expect you mean well. But I’d like to take her home.”

“Yes,” Fabia said. “I can see that. Well, there’s only one thing left to discuss, then, and that’s her appearance before the magistrate.”

“She’s never been in trouble before,” Kendra pointed out.

“Except for the small matter of her failure to attend school,” Fabia said. “That’s not going to count in her favour. I’ll do what I can to get her probation and not a custodial sentence—”

“A
sentence
? For a mugging that di’n’t even
happen
? When we got drug dealers, car hijackers, housebreakers, and everything else running

’bout the streets? And
she
the one going to get put away?”

“I’ll provide a report to the magistrate, Mrs. Osborne. He’ll read it in advance of her hearing. We’ll hope for the best.” She stood. Kendra did likewise. At the door to the room, Fabia Bender paused. She said,

“Someone needs to form a bond with this girl. Someone besides the friends she’s choosing just now. It’s not going to be easy. She’s got very good defences. But it must be done.”

LIFE IN NUMBER 84 Edenham Way was tense in the aftermath of Ness’s arrest, and this was one of the reasons that Joel decided not to wait until Toby’s next birthday to do something with the “It’s a Boy!”

banner. Not only did he want to make up for how Toby’s birthday had turned out, but he also believed it was important that his little brother be distracted from what was happening in Ness’s life, lest he drift off and away from the family, disappearing into his own head for an extended time. So he put up the banner across the window in their bedroom and waited for Toby’s reaction to it. He didn’t need to use stamps this time. Instead, he asked Mr. Eastbourne for several lengths of Sellotape, which he carefully brought home from school affixed to the plastic cover of a notebook and, consequently, easily removed.

Joel need not have concerned himself with any of this. Toby liked the banner well enough—although not as much as his lava lamp—but it turned out that he was maintaining an admirable degree of oblivion with regard to Ness’s difficulties with the law, not so much by visiting Sose as by listening to daily messages being sent to him from there. As far as the night of his birthday went, he had virtually no memory of it.

He recalled the takeaway curry and especially the almond, raisin, and honey
naan
. He recalled eating his meal off the tin tray with Father Christmas decorating it. He even recalled that Ness had been there, bringing a magic wand for him. But he had no memory of the Blade’s appearance at their house or the disruption he’d caused when he’d walked through the door.

That was the beauty of what was happening inside Toby’s head.

Some things he could recall with a clarity that surprised everyone.

Other things were gone, like wisps of smoke against a foggy sky. This provided him a form of contentment that his siblings were not able to match.

His parents, for example, existed for Toby within a pleasant cloud.

His father was a man who took his children to the community hall next to St. Aidan’s church, where they waited for him in the crèche.

That, Toby spoke about when pressed to do so. But the reason they were in that crèche waiting for their father, the fact of the meetings that Gavin Campbell had clung to and attended every day in another room of the hall . . . Toby had no memory of that. As for his mother, she was the person who had fondly run her fingers through his hair the last time she had come home. The rest of it—an open window, three floors up with an asphalt car park yawning down below, a train rushing by on tracks just beyond the building—he did not remember, nor could he have done so, so young had he been at the time.

Toby’s mind thus offered its curses, but it offered its blessings as well.

Joel didn’t have this same situation in his own mind. On the other hand, he did have Ivan Weatherall and the unspoken promise Ivan made of escaping—if only for a few hours—from the electrical atmosphere of Kendra’s home, where Kendra existed in a state of anxious anticipation regarding Ness’s upcoming appearance before the magistrate, where Ness herself was lounging about and pretending she didn’t care what happened to her, and where Dix was attempting to have hushed conversations with Kendra in which he tried to act the role of conciliator between aunt and niece.

“Maybe they ain’t the kids you wanted, Ken,” Joel heard him murmur in the kitchen as Kendra poured herself coffee. “An’ maybe they ain’t the kids you ever saw yourself having. But they sure as hell ’s the kids you got.”

“Stay out of this, Dix,” was her reply. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He persisted. “Y’ever t’ink about how God works?”

“Man, I tell you: No God I’m familiar with has ever lived in this part of town.”

If her reaction illustrated how impermanent was the living situation in which Joel and his siblings found themselves, Dix’s was at least more heartening. And if he didn’t exactly act the part of father to the Campbell children, at least he tolerated them, and this was good enough.

That’s why, on an afternoon when Dix was repairing the old barbecue in Kendra’s back garden in anticipation of coming good weather, he let Toby watch and hand him tools, which gave Joel the chance he’d been waiting for to visit Ivan Weatherall again.

He’d been thinking about the scriptwriting class. More, he’d been thinking of the film that would be the result of the class’s efforts. He’d never written anything before, so he didn’t see himself as being able to join them in fashioning a screenplay, but he’d begun to dream that he might be chosen to do
something
that was related to the film. They’d need a crew. They’d probably need a whole gang of people. Why, he thought, shouldn’t he be one of them? So while Dix and Toby worked on the barbecue, while Ness gave herself a manicure, while Kendra went on a massage call, Joel headed in the direction of Sixth Avenue.

He chose a route that put him in the vicinity of Portnall Road. It was a fine spring day of sun and breeze, and as Joel passed along the point where Portnall and the Harrow Roads met, this same breeze carried to him the unmistakable odour of cannabis. He looked around for the source. He found it at the front of a smallish block of flats, where a figure was sitting in the doorway, knees up, his back against the wall and a pad of paper lying on the ground at his side. He was in a patch of sunlight, and he’d raised his face to it. As Joel watched, he toked up deeply, eyes closed, relaxed.

Joel slowed his pace and then stopped, observing the man from the other side of a low box hedge that defined the edge of the property. He saw that it was Calvin Hancock, the graffi ti artist from the sunken football pitch, but his appearance was altered. The dreadlocks were missing.

His head had been shaved, but in fits and starts. From where Joel stood, it looked as if some sort of pattern now decorated the young man’s skull.

Joel called out, “Wha’ you do to your hair, mon? Ain’t you a Rasta no more?”

Cal turned his head. It was a lazy movement, more like a roll than an actual turn. He removed the spliff from between his lips. He smiled.

Even from where Joel was standing, he could see that Calvin’s eyes looked unnaturally bright.

“Blood,” Cal drawled. “Wha’s happenin wiv you, bred?”

“Goin up to see a friend on Six’ Avenue.”

Cal nodded, a look on his face that suggested this information had some profound meaning for him. He extended the spliff in Joel’s direction in an amiable fashion. Joel shook his head. “Smart, dat,” Cal said in approval. “You stay ’way from th’ shit ’s long as you can.” He looked down at the pad that lay next to him, as if he suddenly remembered what he’d been doing before getting high.

Joel ventured onto the property to have a look. “What’re you workin on, den?”

Cal said, “Oh, dis ain’t nuffink. Just some sketchin I like to do to mark the time.”

“Lemme see.” Joel looked at the pad. Cal had been sketching what appeared to be random faces, all of them dark. They were each different but taken as a group, there was something about them that suggested a family. As indeed they were Calvin’s own: five faces together and a sixth by itself, apart from the rest and unmistakably Calvin. Joel said, “Dis is wicked, mon. You take lessons or summick?”

“Nah.” Cal picked up the pad and tossed it to his other side, out of Joel’s sight. He drew deeply on the spliff and held the smoke in his lungs. He squinted up at Joel and said, “Bes’ not hang here,” and he tilted his head towards the door of the building. Someone had tagged it in the way much of the neighbourhood was tagged. In this case,

“Chiv!” made an amateur scrawl of yellow against the grey metal of the door.

“Why?” Joel asked him. “What’re you doin here, anyways?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“More like for who, innit. The Blade’s inside, and you just ’bout the last person he going to be happy to see if he comes walkin out.”

Joel looked at the building again. Cal, he realised, was bodyguard-ing, no matter how strung out he seemed to be. “Wha’s he doin, den?”

Joel asked the Rasta.

“Fuckin Arissa,” Cal said bluntly. “Jus’ about dat time of day, innit.”

He pretended to look at a nonexistent watch on his wrist as he spoke, and then he added slyly, “I can’t ’xactly hear her howls of pleasure, though, so this’s all speculation. Could be his parts ain’t workin like they ought. But hey, what I tell you, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

Joel smiled at this. So did Calvin. Then he began to laugh, seeing in his own words a humour that only cannabis could create. He put his head on his knees to control his chuckling, and this gave Joel a better view of his head. What Joel saw was a bizarre pattern that had been shaved onto Cal’s skull: a crude striking snake’s head seen in profi le. By the look of the design, it was apparent that whoever had wielded the cutting shears had been an amateur at it. Joel had a fairly good idea who that person had been.

He asked his question without thinking. “Why d’you hang wiv him, mon?”

Cal lifted his head, neither chuckling nor smiling. He took another long hit of the spliff before he answered, although the act of toking up was in itself a form of reply. He said, “He need me. Who else goin to guard dis door, make sure he can do Arissa in peace wivout some blood blasting in and taking him out while he’s got his trousers down. Man’s got enemies, innit.”

And so he did, although not one of them was an enemy without reason. They existed among the women the Blade had used and deserted and among the men who were more than eager to take over his patch. For the Blade ran a sweet operation: He had weed, bone, and powder for cash but also for goods or, better yet, as barter. Plenty of young men on the streets had been willing to risk themselves taking on this jewellery shop at the Blade’s command or that post office or the other corner grocery or some darkened house where the owners would be out on a Friday night . . . and all to get supplied with whatever it was that they used to get high. With this as his main line of business, there were any number of thugs who wanted in on the Blade’s action, no matter the risks that went with it. Even Joel had to admit that there was something enticing about inspiring fear in some, jealousy in others, loathing in most, and—if the truth be told—lust in girls eighteen and younger.