My Name Is Leon (22 page)

38

Inside Leon's body, everything is mixed up. He feels hungry but he also feels full. His blood is hot and bubbly, making him want to run all the time, but he's cold and so tired he could curl up on the sidewalk and go to sleep. He wants to fight. Men and older boys are running in the middle of the road, shouting at each other and not noticing him. He wants to fight them all. He wants them to stop and help him.

The smell of smoke is everywhere—seeping through his skin, in the fabric of his pants, on his scalp, his naked back, his hair—and if he was at home, Sylvia would tell him to get changed and have a bath. She would close the windows and light a cigarette, she would put the TV on and give him a bag of potato chips and a drink. Maureen would be worried about where the smoke came from and whose house was on fire but Sylvia wouldn't.

He runs into the next street. How far is Dovedale Road?
What bus is it? How much is it? He stops in front of a shop and takes his map out of his backpack. It's soaking wet and, as he pulls it, it rips in half. A bottle of soda has smashed in his pack. His map is ruined. His breath comes in short bursts in time with the thrumming of his heart, sudden and sharp. Behind him he hears an explosion and the noise hits him like a fist. He crouches down in case something lands on him from the sky and he scampers to the doorway of a shop with all its windows smashed in.

An angry ghost of black smoke rolls up the street. If Leon stays where he is, it will cover him over, eat him up. He feels the soda dripping out of his pack and running down the back of his legs. It makes him want to pee and then he's crying again.

“I don't know where I am,” he says.

Run away from the ghost. Run all the way to Dovedale Road. Knock on the door where Jake lives. Ask them if he can stay. Maybe they do want another boy. No one's probably asked them. No more stealing. No more lying. No more creeping around, eavesdropping. The TV always on low. Promise.

He turns a corner and sees a car lying on its side. Fat arms of white fire curl out of the broken windows and wave at him. Something in the car is hissing like fat in a frying pan. Leon turns and runs back the other way. The next road is deserted. The streetlights are broken but the lights are on in every house and a woman stands on the corner covering her face and crying. Two men in turbans shout at him.

“Get off the street! Can't you see? Go home!”

“No! Come with us. Over here.”

Leon takes a few steps toward them. “I'm lost,” he says.

“Take him inside.”

“Get him off the street.”

Leon backs away.

“Dovedale Road!” he shouts.

“Don't run away,” they say but Leon is too quick. He dashes down an alley, kicking bottles and bricks out of the way. He needs to get back to the allotment and get his bike. He can cycle all the way to Dovedale Road. He's strong. He can do it. The alley goes on and on forever and right at the end there is a bright light. He runs toward it, stumbling and banging against the brick wall. He can hear himself breathing and words keep coming out of his mouth even though there is no one to hear. He wants to stop talking to himself but he's too scared.

“I'm lost. I don't know where I am. Help me.”

He bursts out of the entry into the middle of a wide road and the noise turns itself off like a tap.

The road and the pavements are covered in bricks and bottles and glass and bits of iron. In the middle of the road is a bike on its side. It could take him all the way to Dovedale Road. He takes two steps toward it.

“Down Babylon!”

Something whizzes over his head and when it smashes it explodes into a puddle of fire, the flames jumping high off the street. Leon turns and runs and then he sees them. Crowds and crowds of black men at the end of the street, surging forward and back like one wild lion about to pounce. Leon stares at them but they are looking past him to the other end of the road, where there's a wide wall of shields and baton, hundreds of policemen lined up across the street.

The words through the loudspeaker are angry.

“Clear the street. Disperse and clear the street.”

Leon wipes his arm across his face. He doesn't want the policemen to see his tears. He goes to walk away when a brick lands near his feet. He turns to the crowd of men at the other end of the street. They begin shouting all together. Chanting with one voice.

“Justice! Justice! Justice!”

Someone else cuts in.

“Break down Babylon! Break down Sus!”

“Fucking pigs! Police brutality! Murderers!”

“Racists! Killers!”

The same policeman says it again. “Disperse and clear the street.”

Leon cups his hands round his mouth. “Dovedale Road!”

His words are drowned. The voices of the black men rise and snarl together like a monster's roar that carries right over Leon's head, all the way over the glass and the bricks and the fire and the bits of metal, all the way over the shields, snapping and biting. No one is looking at Leon. No one is listening. No one ever listens. No one even knows he's there.

Leon takes his backpack off and puts it down by his feet. He opens the top and takes out Mr. Devlin's gun. The policemen have batons and shields. The angry men have bricks and swearing. Leon has a gun. He holds it out toward the police. He turns and points it at the black men.

Everything goes quiet. Leon stands tall and raises his head.

“Hey!” he shouts.

The loudspeaker screams.

“Put the weapon down!”

Leon turns back to the police and holds the gun up to eye level, looking down the barrel. Mr. Devlin has done a good job with this gun. The dark wood is oiled and shiny. It has a little trigger and a little sight on the end of the barrel.

“Dovedale Road!” he shouts. “Take me to Dovedale Road!”

The angry men start creeping forward behind Leon.

“He's got a fucking gun!”

“That kid's got a gun!”

“Get the fucking gun, man!”

As they get closer, Leon hears scuffling.

“Don't crowd him!”

“Get him!”

Then Leon hears one voice, clear and sweet over all the others.

“Yo, Star!”

39

Tufty! It's Tufty! Waving with both arms.

“Star!”

Leon raises the gun to wave and everyone drops to the ground. Some scatter off to the side, to the dark houses and shops with broken windows.

The police crouch down behind their shields.

Then Mr. Devlin runs out into the middle of the road. He's waving at the police and the crowd.

“It's wooden!” he shouts. “It's not real. It's wooden!”

He is turning round and round, waving and all the time coming closer and closer to Leon.

He holds his hand out for the gun.

“Good boy,” he says. “Give me the gun. Give it to me. Put it down.”

Leon backs away. He picks up his pack and backs away.

“Give me the gun. You don't understand. Give it to me.”

He makes a quick and sudden move for Leon and grabs his arm. A bottle smashes at Leon's feet. Another bottle and brick fly over and something hits Mr. Devlin in the head. Leon sees him stagger.

“Pig!” shouts the crowd. “He's a pig!”

The bottles come hard and fast, smashing on the ground, shards of glass splintering everywhere. A stone hits Leon on his leg, something scratches past his back. He cries out.

“Run!” says Mr. Devlin, the blood on his forehead trickling down into his eye, then something hits him on his shoulder. He cries out and falls down.

“Run, boy!” he says and pushes Leon away.

Under his feet, Leon feels the thunder of the policemen's boots. They stamp toward him, crouching behind their shields, and all the angry men run forward, cheering and shouting. They are feet apart.

Tufty grabs Mr. Devlin by the arm.

“Get up, man!”

But Mr. Devlin is swaying and won't move.

“Help me, Star!” shouts Tufty. “We got to move. Quick!”

But they can't get Mr. Devlin up and there are people screaming, rushing past them from both sides. Tufty shields Mr. Devlin with his back but all Mr. Devlin does is moan and there's blood running off his face now, onto his green jacket.

“Help me!” shouts Tufty. “Get his arm.”

Leon throws the gun down and grabs Mr. Devlin under his arm. He pulls and pulls but Mr. Devlin is very heavy and he isn't even helping. Tufty puts both arms round Mr. Devlin and hauls him to his feet.

“Get up, man!”

People everywhere are tripping, barging into them. Mr. Devlin falls again.

“Get up, Mr. Devlin!” Leon shouts. “You have to get up!”

He does try. Leon can see he's trying. He holds his hands out to Leon and Tufty but the blood is in his eyes.

“Come on!” says Leon and puts Mr. Devlin's arm over his shoulder. Tufty helps as well. Mr. Devlin scrambles up onto his feet and Leon takes his hand.

“This way,” says Tufty, “over there.”

“Walk, Mr. Devlin,” says Leon.

Tufty steers them back toward the alley. They push and shove. Shields clash into arms and heads and chests. It sounds like a battle. Tufty and Leon and Mr. Devlin claw their way. Find a space at the edge. See the alley. Quick. Then suddenly Tufty goes down. He makes a terrible noise when he falls and when Leon turns around he sees a policeman with a baton in the air.

“You fucking coon!” he shouts.

He bends over Tufty and brings the baton down and down and down again on Tufty's back. Tufty writhes on the ground, his arms up over his face. The policeman beats Tufty so hard his helmet falls off and rolls away.

“Leave him!” shouts Leon. He pushes the policeman out of the way. “Leave him alone.”

The policeman stumbles and nearly falls over and as he gets up he screams at Leon.

“You little black bastard!”

He raises his baton and flexes his arm. He's panting, his mouth open in a horrible shape. Leon stands still and looks up at him. There is no one else. Mr. Devlin is lying in the alleyway. Tufty is lying on the ground. He might be dead. This is the time when there is really no one to look after him. The policeman blinks and a thin line of spit falls from his bottom lip. Leon holds his arms open.

“We are not a warrior,” he says. “We have dignity and worth.”

The policeman's mouth falls, slack and loose, his baton still
in the air, like he's raised his hand at school to answer a question. Leon nods.

“We've been growing things,” he says. “Scarlet Emperors. That's what we do.”

The policeman stares at him. At the other end of the road there are people screaming and swearing, bellowing at one another, roaring like the fires in the bins and in the cars and in the shops. There are fire engines and ambulances joining in. There are people running past and people lying on the ground. But right now, in this place, there is no one else.

It seems like Leon and the policeman look at each other for hours and hours and Leon knows the policeman's scared. It's in his eyes. The policeman wants to say “Can you help me?” so Leon says it for him.

He walks over to the policeman's helmet, picks it up, and holds it out. “Can you help me?”

The policeman drops his arm and the baton swings back and forth, then stops. He grabs the helmet and puts it on.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Go on, fuck off home and take your dad.”

The policeman turns then and runs back to the fighting crowd, his baton in the air. Leon has to make Tufty stand up.

“Come on, Tufty. Mr. Devlin needs us.”

He pulls one of his arms and Tufty yells out. He pulls the other arm and turns Tufty over. He grabs Tufty's shirt and pulls and pulls, straining and keening until Tufty is sitting up.

“Get up, Tufty, get up!”

Tufty rolls onto his side, brings his knees up, and staggers to his feet.

He walks like he's drunk, holding Leon's shoulder, and they shuffle into the alley. He's not exactly crying but he's making the same sort of noises. They both pull Mr. Devlin up onto his feet.

A bottle smashes against the alley wall.

“Move,” says Tufty. “Move.”

They all squash into the alley. There's no air, only smoke, no light but—at the far end—gray instead of black. They stumble through, falling into one another. Leon feels his way brick by brick, scratches his elbows on the wall, feels it cold and weeping on his skin. His feet turn on the slippery stones. Mr. Devlin follows, bumping and shuffling, and Tufty leaning all the time on Leon's shoulder. They come out into the street, thick with silence; the burning car is smoking at one end. Mr. Devlin slumps against a low brick wall and, inside the house, a curtain moves.

Mr. Devlin's face is red with blood and Tufty has blood running from his scalp. One eye is half-closed. He holds his head in both hands and speaks through his fingers.

“Where are we? What street is this?”

Leon points at a street sign.

“Moreton Street.”

“Moreton Street. Moreton Street,” repeats Tufty. “We got to get off the street. Hurry.”

They both help Mr. Devlin up onto his feet and pull him along. He's muttering and groaning like he did in his shed and Leon takes his arm.

“Shall we call an ambulance, Tufty?”

“No,” says Mr. Devlin. “No. I'm all right.”

Tufty squints at him through his good eye.

“Neither of us all right, man.”

They walk and turn the corner, turn the corner again, and Leon knows where he is.

“That's College Road,” he says.

Tufty grunts. He swaps the arm that's carrying Mr. Devlin and carries on.

“I live there,” says Leon. He points down the hill where Sylvia lives. “There,” he says. “Right there.”

40

Leon knocks on the door. He tries to think how long he has been away but he doesn't know. It must be a very long time. The door opens. It's Sylvia.

“It's him! Mo! It's him. Mo!”

She stops suddenly and looks at Mr. Devlin and Tufty.

“Bloody hell, what's happened?”

She grabs Leon and holds his face, turns him round, checks him back and front.

“You hurt? Mo! Quick! Who's this?”

Sylvia takes hold of Mr. Devlin's arm. “You better come in.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Careful, this way,” says Sylvia, helping him inside.

Then Maureen comes. She's got her coat on and her purse in her hand. Her face is red and her lips are moving but there are no words. Leon stands next to Tufty because he doesn't know if she'll be angry that he left or angry that he's come back. So he stands next to Tufty and if she says anything he's going to ask Tufty if he
can stay with him for one night until he can find Dovedale Road. He still has his backpack, wet and dirty, and his money, but he will need a new map. Maureen shakes her head, opens her mouth to say something, and then closes it again.

Tufty puts his hand to the back of his head and when he looks at his palm, it has blood on it. He groans and starts walking down the path.

“You need to keep your eye on your boy,” he says.

“And you are?” shouts Maureen, shoving her purse in her pocket.

“He's Tufty Burrows,” Leon says. “He's a gardener.”

Maureen looks hard at Leon then beckons Tufty back.

“Oi! Wait! Where do you think you're going in that state? Come on. Get yourself inside. Let me have a look at that head. Where did you find him? No, don't tell me. I don't think I can bear it.”

She keeps talking all the time while Tufty steps inside and she leads him to the kitchen.

“We've seen it all over the news. I've never seen the like. Terrible. A policeman's half-dead and someone's been beaten to death in a police cell. I don't know, I honestly don't.”

She sits Tufty on a kitchen chair and wrings out a cloth.

“Civil war, it is. What happened? Were you involved? No, don't tell me.”

She dabs the back of Tufty's head, all the time talking and not looking at Leon.

“I owe you my thanks, I know that much. You've brought him back and that's all that matters.”

She says nothing to Leon. She's not telling him off. Not noticing him. Sylvia is looking after Mr. Devlin, talking and dabbing and worrying about stitches and doctors and the ER and getting the police involved.

“Don't,” says Mr. Devlin, one of his eyes almost closed up. “I don't want the police. I saw what they did to him.”

He turns his head to Tufty. “Thank you,” he says.

Leon stays in the doorway. He slips his pack off and puts it on the floor. He knows Maureen has seen it.

“Can I go to the toilet, please?” he asks.

“I don't know,” says Maureen. “I don't live here. You better ask Sylvia.”

But Sylvia doesn't answer him. She's acting busy and bossy as usual and she keeps shaking her head and looking at Maureen and then looking at Mr. Devlin and filling a bowl with hot water and fussing a bit more.

Leon walks along the hallway to the bathroom. He washes his hands and looks at himself in the mirror. Where he was crying there are little tracks on his dirty face. He has a few leaves stuck in his hair and there are scratches on his back and arms where the brambles caught him. He's even got blood all over his chest, Tufty's or Mr. Devlin's. Maureen will have noticed but she hasn't said anything. He does a lovely long pee and then flushes the toilet. He closes the lid and sits down. One of his legs is moving and shaking all on its own and he can feel the tears again just behind his eyes, waiting to come out.

It's too dark to leave now. He might get hit by a rock or a policeman. It was very easy to get lost even with a map. His bike is at the allotment and he's too scared to go and get it. He walks back to the living room. Maureen is ushering Tufty onto the sofa.

“Sit, go on. Sit down. I'll make you a cup of tea. Go on, sit. You're in no fit state to be walking the streets. Go on, sit down. You're safe in here.”

Tufty holds a cloth to his head and leans back.

Maureen stands over him. “Good, that's it. And you,” she says finally to Leon, “you go and sit next to him. Have you had a pee? You'll need a sandwich before bed. Bet you're starving, aren't you?”

He can't see her face, because she's on her way to the kitchen, but her voice sounds shaky and thin.

“Yes,” he says and suddenly she stamps back into the living room, stands in front of the television, and puts her hands on her hips.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at, Leon?”

They all go quiet. Sylvia has shut up and Tufty puts his head down.

“Do you know what I've been through tonight? Not knowing where you were? I've been trying the police fifty times but they're too busy. Apparently. Too busy to bother with a ten-year-old run-away. I haven't called Social Services because I don't want you ending up in a bloody home, do I? I don't want them coming in here and saying I can't look after you.”

She wipes her face with a tea towel, her chest heaving and her breath ragged and torn.

“Where were you going and why? Why are you half-naked? What in the name of God has got into you? What's it all about, Leon?”

Sylvia walks out of the kitchen and puts her arms round Maureen.

“Mo, love. Calm down. You've just come out of the hospital, Mo. Calm down.”

But Maureen wriggles away from her.

“I'm fine,” she says. “I'm calm. I am. He's home now.”

They both go into the kitchen. Tufty raises his eyebrows.

When Maureen comes back she has a huge plate of sandwiches that she puts on the coffee table, a can of Coke for Leon, and a cup of tea for Tufty.

“Sugar's there,” she says.

She sits in Sylvia's chair and closes her eyes.

“You're back. That's enough for now.”

Tufty nudges Leon and nods in Maureen's direction.

“Say sorry,” he whispers.

Leon has a mouthful of cheese sandwich. He looks at Tufty
because he doesn't want to say sorry, and anyway, Tufty doesn't know about Maureen and Sylvia's plans.

Tufty nudges him again and frowns.

“Say it,” he hisses.

“Sorry, Maureen,” says Leon.

She half opens her eyes.

“Off to bed when you've had that. No, actually, get a wash, a good wash all over. You're sleeping in my room on the floor. The window's painted shut and I'll move my dressing table in front of the door. Think you can move that in the night, Leon?”

He shakes his head.

“Bloody right,” she says and closes her eyes again.

A sharp sliver of sun cuts
through the curtains and into Leon's eyes. He can see the pinkish back of his lids, dots of color and light like a kaleidoscope he once had. He can hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen and the radio on with Sylvia's music. He hears Sylvia laugh. He remembers getting into the bath and hearing the grown-ups talking in the kitchen. He thought he could hear Tufty and Mr. Devlin and Sylvia and Maureen all laughing together but maybe they were arguing. He doesn't remember getting into bed. He didn't dream.

He opens his eyes and sees that he is on the floor on some cushions at the bottom of Maureen's double bed. Under the bed is dusty where Sylvia forgot to vacuum. He scrambles up, squeezes past the dressing table, and opens the door. He's starving.