Authors: Peter Akinti
'Meina? Why are you staring at me like that? What is it? What's wrong?' James looked uneasy.
'Nothing. My tummy hurts,' she lied.
She walked with him, trying not to step on the green weeds stretching out from between the pavement cracks. When they reached the Mandela estate James stopped in front of a large red rectangular door with a silver intercom where the handle should have been. The Morrison flat was up on the first floor nestled between two pensioners who had disliked the boys since 5 was in his teens when he played hip hop so loudly it shook their windows and rattled their cutlery. There was a sign on the door that read
Warning
:
no ticket, no laundry
. One of his brothers had put it up to remind customers that they did not give credit.
James inhaled deeply. He didn't want to go in. He turned to Meina.
'Look. My brothers . . . they're a bit, well . . . you have to kind of brace yourself, is what I'm trying to say.' He exhaled and pressed the bell.
'Who be dis?'
James sighed and leaned against the door. 'It's me.'
'Where's your key?'
'I just wanted to warn you, I'm with someone,' said James.
'Who?'
'She's cool. Open the door.'
There was a loud buzz as heavy bolts were automatically released.
Their building was three storeys of sixteen flats and maisonettes overflowing with smells from different corners of the world. Each flat had a reinforced front door with two or four windows depending on the number of bedrooms. The main entrance, with the intercom, opened onto a communal garden where dogfights were held on the last Friday of every month. The garden was a small patch of disheartened grass generally full of dog shit, soiled nappies, unemptied bins and mail-order clothes on the shared washing line.
The Morrisons had owned number 28 for over twenty years.
James's father, Bunny, had bought it under a rent-to-buy scheme dreamed up by Margaret Thatcher, in the days before the poll tax or the community charge. He had paid for it in three cash instalments. It was during the recession in the early eighties when everyone had to smoke weed. Bunny said his weed was so good that when Bob Marley played at the Speakeasy club in Hackney in 1973, his people would only deal with Bunny.
'James is here,' a voice in the distance came from the first-floor landing. James tried to lift his head up but winced as the pain shot through his neck muscles and reverberated along his spine. Then his mother's face peered over the balcony.
'Thank God you're safe. Hurry up, we've been waiting.'
James closed his eyes, inhaled the foul winds from the tenements and slowly, reluctantly, re-entered his world.
The maisonette was cluttered and haphazard, with bold colours, red, white and black. It didn't look like an ex-council flat inside, but it was. If there was a style it was hoardist – newly painted maximalist narc-deco with heavy wine-coloured curtains. There were four bedrooms upstairs and a tiny kitchen off the living room. The space was dominated by big expensive furniture but lacked spirit. Old wine boxes were filled with stacks of empty CDs, there were six massive flat-screen TVs, hundreds of DVDs and piles of
Vibe
and
Essence
magazines. The only sign of warmth in the room was James's futon, one of those cotton-covered things that came with a free matching storage ottoman. James kept all his favourite things in the ottoman box, like a sea captain's chest, beside his bed. His mother had threatened to buy him a proper bed but he had refused, he loved sleeping on the old futon; with its stains, its worn and faded blue upholstery, its lumpy dips and ripples, its smell of sameness, it stood in marked contrast with the lushness of the rest of the room.
James and Meina entered the living room. Light fought to get in through the curtains covering the long window that took up much of the left wall. The room smelled of oatmeal. James's mother had cooked Quaker Oats with extra sugar, just the way he liked. James paused, took a slow look at his brothers and grimaced. One of the brothers, skinny with smiling eyes, was slumped over his elbows at the table with a green blanket over his shoulders. He was either high or drunk – or perhaps both. Another brother, this one with features remarkably similar to James's, sat at the same table playing cards by himself. Only one brother, neatly dressed in black shirt and jeans, stood up as James and Meina entered the room. His skin was clear, several shades lighter than James's. He was good-looking and could have passed for a professional footballer. Another brother fumbled with a mobile phone before slapping it shut. 'Who's the honey?' he smiled, removing a toothpick from his teeth and wiping his mouth with a napkin. He was bigger than the other brothers – with well-toned muscles – and wore a blue knitted Kangol. One brother did not look up at all. He sat at the head of the table reading the
Voice
. He was thin and drawn with greying hair and sad, anxious-looking eyes. James and Meina kept still in the open doorway, overcome by an oven-cleaner smell. 2 switched on the television and turned it up – that's what they used as background noise whenever they were about to discuss 'business'. Meina got the feeling she had walked into a sitcom. She was fascinated. While the news droned on her heart leaped from fear to embarrassment as she worked out what she would say and waited for her initial feeling of awkwardness to pass. 5 folded the paper then looked up at James.
'You've become a minor celebrity,' he said. 'You've made the
Voice
. It says here that in London over the last three months more than fifty black boys under eighteen have committed suicide. You survived though. You've had five different requests for interviews and the BBC want you to take part in a
Newsnight
debate.'
His brothers laughed but James looked panicked and confused. He told Meina later that he was remembering being chased through Victoria Park in Bow by a black Alsatian with yellow eyes. He had managed to run to his brother 5 who was arguing with his then girlfriend by the swings. His brother beat the owner – an Irishman – so badly that he ended up on a life-support machine for three weeks. Then 5 took the dog and it got killed in a dogfight that won him a monkey.
'Don't tell me,' said James. 'It's bad for business.' He walked slowly to the pine dining table, pulled an extra seat from the back of the room and offered it to Meina.
Once she was seated, he stood behind her chair and announced, with curious formality, 'Everyone, this is Meina. She's my guest.' The word 'guest' came out harshly, as though he was begging everyone to mind their manners. Meina heard one of the brothers suck on his teeth loudly.
The brother who looked most like James raised himself off his chair and farted loudly. 'Whoa. That was a ripper,' he laughed.
'Oh, bad guts! That stinks. You're an animal,' said the brother in the black shirt, covering his nose and wafting the air around his face. 'And in front of James's
guest
.'
The brothers laughed again. James glared at the culprit.
'What you looking at me like that for?' his brother asked, shrugging his shoulders. 'If you hold in your farts they can kill you. Besides, it wasn't me. It was the mice – they're getting proper lively around here.' Meina was confused, glancing around the room for signs of mice, but James reached out and touched her arm, shaking his head.
'What's wrong?' asked James's mother and she reached to pull him close, moaning softly as she looked at the scars on his neck. James pulled away and went to the kitchen, coming back with eight bowls and taking a seat between his mother and Meina. Although only forty-eight she had already lost most of her hair and two front teeth. Her remaining teeth were bad, chipped in places and discoloured. Meina watched as she tried to scoop oatmeal porridge into the first bowl. It had a bad smell, like moulding potato, and her hands shook as she struggled to get any in the dish.
'I'm fine, I'm fine. It'll only take me a couple of seconds,' she said.
No one seemed to be listening. Perhaps she knew everyone was watching her, pretending not to notice all the effort it took her to do something so simple. She spilled a spoonful. 'Would you like some oats?' She gave Meina a hard stare, daring her to refuse.
'Oh, yes please.'
'One scoop or two?'
She was spilling it over the table. Meina looked at James.
'Two,' he said. The he leaned in and whispered to Meina, pointing across the table at his brothers, 'He's Number 1, that's Number 2, he's Number 3, Number 4 and that's my oldest brother, 5.' Meina nodded, still mesmerised by the mother's unfruitful efforts. Eventually she managed to scoop enough into the bowls but there was a terrible mess. She stood and looked around the room. She walked slowly – much too slowly for someone her age. She took several steps, holding onto the edge of the table, and then turned and went back to her seat. Meina had always thought of addicts as the lowest form of humanity, but here was this woman, a mother, still trying to feed her boys. It was confusing. She had resisted the strong urge to get up and help her serve, worried that she would be overstepping some boundary. She forced herself to keep still and sighed when she realised she had been holding her breath. Did they expect her to eat the sludge that had been slopped into her bowl? She looked at James, his head down, staring at his own bowl. They all ate the cold porridge.
'So why'd you do it?' asked 2.
They had obviously been discussing James before he arrived with Meina. What had they missed? Where had they gone wrong? And what could they do to make James better?
They all stared at him. Waiting. Their expressions were different but all lacking in warmth. 3 appeared quietly by James's left side and patted his shoulder.
'No jokes this morning?' asked James.
'What you did is definitely not good for business,' 3 replied. 'It makes the family look bad.'
'The fuck is wrong with you?' said 4. 'You don't even shave yet and already you want to kill yourself. S'cuse my French, Mum. I know we agreed we wouldn't, but what the hell is wrong with him? How you let some traumatised African boy make you put a rope around your neck and jump from a roof?'
Meina felt her gut clench. She wanted to say something but she was afraid – 4 was by far the meanest-looking of James's brothers.
'If he told you to jump off a bridge wouldya do it?' said 2, mimicking their mother's voice. There was heavy laughter – suddenly it felt like the hottest day of the year and Meina could feel her face flush. James had the good sense not to speak; he sat still in his chair, his hand reaching up to rub the scars on his neck. He glanced at his mother with a look that was both contemptuous and pleading. Her shoulders sagged in an ill-fitting, fluff-covered jumper. What did she think of him?
'So what you wanna do?' asked 5.
James shrugged, not looking up.
'If you still wanna die, let me do it, idiot,' offered 4.
James lowered his head even closer to the table and let out a sob. For a moment nobody spoke.
'OK, OK. What can we do to help make things better?' asked 5. He sounded sincere.
'Let me be,' James said, almost in a whisper.
'He is coming to live with me.' Meina took a deep breath and forced herself to look at the brothers, her chin raised up. 'I'm the sister of the "traumatised African". We only came here to collect his things.' For a moment a ring of silence thinned the air until nothing remained except the throb of hearts.
'Lookie here, you must have lost your mind, coming in here talking all that shit. You ain't taking my son any place, African,' said James's mother. She had risen unsteadily to her feet and spat the last word out. The venom in Mrs Morrison's voice shocked Meina.
James spoke slowly through his tears as he scanned his brothers' faces. 'I can't stay here. I'm moving in with Meina and that's that.' There were soft chuckles from two of the brothers. James bowed his head and rubbed his forehead with his hands, sighing then gritting his teeth as if in pain. His mother handed him a tissue, her voice suddenly gentle. 'Don't cry in front of your girlfriend, son.'
'Where do you live?' asked 3.
'On Lumumba.'
'That's only round the corner,' said 2.
Numbers 1 and 2 looked at each other. 'Ratchet's boys,' they said together and smiled.
'Ratchet?' asked 3.
'Remember Genesis' little brother?' said 2.
'Piss ants. Why would we remember him?' asked 4.
'That where you stayed last night?' 5 asked James. 'Did anyone see you?'
'Yes. I met Ratchet and his friends.'
'Shit. Now the whole neighbourhood know,' said 4.
Meina sat still, her eyes darting from one brother to the other as she followed the conversation.
'Look, I don't want anything from you guys,' said James looking at no one in particular. 'I just need a break. I've spent my whole life living in your shadow, but I can take care of myself.'
'Then you should learn how to behave,' snapped 4. 'Let him go.' He waved his arm. 'Ungrateful piece of shit. You watch how fast his skinny arse comes running when a bunch of those fuckers kick in his little girlfriend's front door and start waving pistols in his face.'
There was a long silence and then 5 spoke.
'3, help your brother pack. 4, you drive him to the flat and help him unpack. Make sure the whole neighbourhood sees you doing it.'
'I need some money,' said James. 5 raised his eyebrows at him and James slid down in his seat. If he had a tail it would have curled between his legs and up around his head.
'You got some nuts on you, boy,' said 5, in almost velvet tones. 'You hate what it is we do but now you want our money?'
There was more laughter.
When 5 spoke everyone heard. He wasn't quite a bully but it was close. They all watched him walk over to James's futon, unzip one of the cushions and count off notes from a thick wad hidden there. 'Here. Two grand. Don't spend it all at once.' He turned to Meina. 'And you . . . don't even think of telling anyone what you just saw.'
James's mother pulled on Meina's arm. 'Listen, sweetheart, I need to take your number,' she said.