Web of Lies (3 page)

The following week, instead of wandering around at break times, Femi and Gary joined a gang of boys playing football. The others were all year sevens and a few year eights, who shouted things like “Hendy will have you for breakfast if you do that!” and “Hendy’s going to mince you up, man!” They put on a Scottish accent, mimicking the sports teacher. Some year eights also joked about the teacher’s outdated Afro. From what Femi had already seen of Mr. Hendy, they weren’t likely to joke anywhere within his hearing.

After their Tuesday session with Mr. Hendy, Femi stood sweating beside Gary.

“All you lads could be good players if you’re prepared to put in the effort.”

The teacher’s black curly hair swept back from his pale brown forehead like the mane of a lion. He stood with his
hands on his stocky hips, surveying the small group of boys he had called aside.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Right, Sir!”

“What does that mean? A, you heard me? B, you agree with me? C, you’re prepared to do the work? A and B don’t count in my book. All I’m interested in is C. Think about it, and if C is your answer, come to football practice on Thursday after school. You can tell your parents you’ll be finished by five o’clock.”

“Well done, my boy!” Femi let Papa hug him. “I should have practiced more with you myself but—”

“It’s okay, Papa.” He knew the old apology.

If only there was more time in every day!

Two pairs of red-and-black goalkeeper’s gloves hung above Femi’s bed. The larger pair had hardly been used. They had been a present from Mama—for Papa and Femi—bought just before she died.

However, Papa had something else on his mind.

“Soon it will be dark by five, and I’m not happy with you coming home alone. Perhaps you should wait at school until I come and get you.”

“No, Papa!” Femi protested in dismay. “You may be late!”

It was true. Whenever there was an emergency at the center, Papa was late. More than once he had missed his supper, rushing in and out in order to start his cab shift on time.

“Gary will be with me, Papa. We’ll walk down the
High Street together. You worry too much, Papa. Gary’s parents—”

“What Gary’s parents do is not my concern. You are my concern.”

“You gave me a key, but you think I’m still a baby!” Femi’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“I hope your mother can’t see us from wherever she is. She would ask what kind of place I have brought you to—” The words sounded like a bitter mouthful. Whenever Papa spoke of Mama, Femi never knew what to say. He swept the back of his sleeve roughly across his face.

“If I say yes…”—Papa waited until Femi was looking directly at him—“I want you to assure me that you will come straight home.”

Once again Femi promised.

“Your word is your bond now. If you don’t keep it,”—Papa weighed his words—“there will be no more football.”

After school on Thursday, Mr. Hendy put Femi into defense.

“There’s something terrierlike about you, lad, that makes me think you won’t be a pushover.”

Femi grinned. Gary was made a forward. With Mr. Hendy’s voice ringing in their ears, they darted, tackled, and tumbled like sworn opponents. In the changing room afterward, while others were joking and laughing, they changed quickly. Femi had told Gary about Papa’s warning.

The sky was a deep blue as they set off down the main road, past the first row of small shops. Crates of yams,
plantains, pumpkins, and various greens were piled up in front of a grocery store. But it was the smell of roasted peanuts in spicy
suya
kebabs, being barbecued in the restaurant next door, that brought a sudden pang to Femi’s empty stomach. Sade would be preparing their meal, but nothing she cooked was ever as good as
suya
.

“What was my dad fussing about? It’s still light,” Femi grumbled. He kicked an empty can into Gary’s pathway. Gary kicked it back.

“Did your dad make you walk home with your sister when you were in your own country?” Gary asked.

“In Nigeria our dad drove us every morning in his car and”—Femi hesitated—“our…our mum picked us up in hers.” He aimed the can at a lamppost. It zinged as it hit the target and bounced across the pavement.

“You had two cars! Dead rich! You never told me!” Gary exclaimed. “That’s wicked, man! How come you live here, in this dump, then?”

Femi felt his chest tighten. He was about to say that it was too long a story when the can suddenly shot toward his foot. It didn’t come from Gary. Femi peered up as James stepped out from a doorway ahead. Just beyond him was the abandoned petrol station.

“Good shot there, little brother. Practice makes perfect, I see.”

James blocked the pavement in front of them.

“We’ve been at football. That’s why we’re late.” Femi felt his words rushing.

“It’s still early, man! What’s the problem?”

“His dad said—” Gary came to his defense.

“Yeah, yeah!” James interrupted. “I know what his dad says. Just like my dad used to, just like all dads. What’s your name?”

“Gary,” Gary said boldly.

“Well, cool it, Gary. I want my little brother to meet a friend of mine. You just carry on, and I’ll see he gets home on time.”

Gary waited for Femi to say something, but Femi remained silent.

“Okay. See you tomorrow then.” If Gary felt put down, he was not going to show it.

“Yeah, see you around, man.” Femi tried to sound normal.

“Sorry to break up your one to one.” James softened his tone as soon as Gary was out of hearing. “Errol wants to meet you. Don’t worry, it won’t be long. You’ll be on your way before your dad notices a thing.”

Femi flicked over his wrist to check his watch. He felt his muscles tensing at the mention of Errol.

“Don’t you trust me then?” There was a sharp edge to the question.

“I’ve got to be home by half past.”

“Not a problem. Errol only wants a quick chat. You can use the shortcut.”

The shortcut that Papa said never to use. Femi’s heart was thumping as fast as if an opponent’s ball had just flown over his head. He followed James past three pumps that stood like solitary sentinels in front of the deserted cabin where people used to pay for their petrol. The massive roof cut out the late afternoon light. In the dimness underneath,
it was already evening. Whoever this Errol was, what did he want with him? How could he have said no?

At the far side of the building, a wooden screen jutted out from the wall. That smell! It took him straight back to Alade Market in Lagos and the young men who hung around in corners smoking. As they turned the corner, a tall, thin figure emerged from a door at the back of the cabin behind the screen. His toffee-brown face was almost hidden by a peaked cap and narrow dark glasses. He was dressed all in black with a black-and-white cap and matching two-tone shoes. The place looked grimy, but Errol was immaculate. He left the door slightly ajar and, although no sound came from inside, Femi sensed that they were not alone.

“So this is the little brother!” Errol laughed lightly. A gold chain around his neck glinted despite the gloom. “I’ve seen you around, Femi.”

Of course! This was the same young man he had noticed lounging opposite Avon after school recently, surrounded by some of the older students. How slow he was! Once or twice he had been aware of the dark glasses focused in his direction, but he hadn’t been too bothered. Young men often stood on the streets scrutinizing others from behind their shades. But this was the same Errol who had sent a message to Sade.

“Yes.” When Femi’s voice finally came out, it was so small it seemed to come from a little person floating above him.

“Well, if your sister didn’t point out yours truly, I don’t hold it against you, Femi.”

How was he meant to reply? Errol leaned backward, but his gaze didn’t shift.

“Don’t embarrass him, Errol, man! Look, we haven’t got long because we don’t want Femi in trouble with his daddy, do we?” Femi felt that hint of mocking once again. “I’ve got to see to a friend, so I’ll leave you two together for a minute.”

A couple of young men had appeared near the old air pump, and James strolled off toward them. Femi’s tongue and stomach felt like they were knotted in tight braids.

“Okay, let’s do a little business. Man to man.” Errol leaned forward and smiled. “You need money, right?”

James must have told him. He couldn’t deny it.

“Yes.” It was hardly more than a whisper.

“Do you work Saturdays?”

“My dad won’t let me.”

“Let me see what I can do for you, Femi. If James Dalton says you’re his little brother, that’s good enough for me.”

“Thank you.” Femi didn’t want to appear rude, but he glanced anxiously in James’s direction.

“I owe you one, Femi. You gave your sister my message, right?”

“Yes.” It was his small voice again.

“Your sister’s different. She’s a good-looking girl. Like one of them African princesses—and she’s got pride, man. I like that, Femi.”

“Hmmh!” A muffled sound came from the room. Whoever was inside was listening.

Femi dug his hands into his pockets. He had no idea
what to say. What was this all about? Papa would be home soon, and he was risking football and everything for a conversation that left him confused. Why hadn’t he insisted on staying with Gary?

“I have to go now.”

“A little brother who does what he’s told. I like that, too, Femi. Hey, James, he says he’s got to go.”

Femi turned to find James behind him.

“You finished the business, right?” James asked.

“Yeah, safe!” Errol held out his arm to slap palms with Femi. For a fraction of a second, Femi felt his hand being crushed. The gold rings that Errol wore on three long fingers pressed against Femi’s knuckles.

“James will take care of you in that Avon school. No one will mess with you, know what I mean?”

Before there was time to reply, James was ferrying him away.

“I’ll see you around, Femi,” Errol called as they turned the back corner of the building. The shortcut between the unfinished houses and the waste ground lay ahead. Femi knew he was going to be in trouble for being late.

“I’ll walk with you, little brother. Show me where you live.”

At least James’s arm on his shoulder felt protective outside in the dark.

T
HURSDAY
18
TH
S
EPTEMBER

“James says meet him outside the Leisure Center tomorrow at eleven.”

Children streamed by on either side of Femi in the corridor. There was no time to find out more. The year-eight boy with the message was swallowed up in the throng, and Femi had to battle on to math.

Gary had kept a seat for him near the back of the classroom. There was hardly time to breathe before Ms. Hassan had taken the attendance register and launched into checking the problems she had given them for homework. A group of girls near the front kept flinging up their hands. Femi let the numbers spiral across the board and Ms. Hassan’s words wash over him.

What excuse could he give Papa for Saturday? The Leisure Center was close to the shopping mall. He could
walk there in twenty minutes from home, so he wouldn’t need bus fare. But even so, Papa insisted on knowing whatever he was doing. Papa’s worrying had started almost as soon as he had come out of prison. In those early days together, after their reunion, Femi bitterly regretted having told Papa the truth about his first few weeks at Greenslades Primary.

He had thought Papa would be proud of how he had defended himself against three bullies and their sly taunts about refugees. At first he had ignored them. But it was when they tricked him into the boiler room that they got more than they bargained for. They thought they had cornered him. But then he had glimpsed a brush with a short wooden handle. Grabbing it, his anger had burst out. The brush flailed like a machete. His attack was so unexpected that he managed to slip like greased lightning through the astonished bullies. He banged the door and, to his huge relief, it had an automatic lock. His tormentors were locked inside! Scampering up the stairs, he had heard their shouts and hammering. He reckoned the janitor would soon hear them. Let them explain how they came to be there! If they laid the blame on him, he would tell everything. But the head teacher never called him. She disapproved of bullying, and perhaps the bullies were worried that, if the truth came out, they would end up in more trouble. In fact, those boys never bothered him again. That was why he had wanted to share his victory with Papa. Instead, by telling the tale, he had simply encouraged Papa’s worries.

It had been the same in year six. He had begged to go
to a football club on Saturdays. It was two bus rides away, and Papa wouldn’t let him go. It wasn’t about not affording the bus fare. Femi had protested that he would be perfectly safe. He would mind his own business at the bus stop and on the bus. He would be fine. It wasn’t fair of Papa. But Papa had an answer for everything.

Was it fair when those racist boys killed Stephen Lawrence? He was also minding his own business.

Shortly afterward Papa wrote an article for the
African Echo
and left a copy on Femi’s bed. The headline had glared up from his pillow. “What Must Parents Do?” Femi had stuffed the newspaper into a drawer. He had heard Papa’s excuses. Why read them all over again? Grown-ups said what suited them.

When Papa asked if Femi had read his article, he had brushed the question aside with “No time yet.” Papa quietly asked for the newspaper back. The disappointment in his voice was unsettling. Trying to smooth the crumpled paper before he returned it, Femi had let himself glance over Papa’s words.

The rest of Papa’s article was about what London really was like. One sentence especially had stuck in Femi’s mind.

At Greenslades a boy in year six had shown off a knife at lunchtime that he had sneaked out of his older brother’s room. The blade was razor sharp. The boy boasted of seeing blood on it. He claimed his brother had used it to defend himself. Someone must have reported him, because he was called to the head teacher’s office and suspended. In Lagos Femi and his friends had spent their time talking about football. Here in London boys chatted just as much about fights, gangs, and older brothers. Papa might be right about the violence, but, all the same, his idea of keeping his children locked up was mad. Femi had been hoping that, when he transferred to secondary school, Papa’s attitude would change. Instead, it was becoming even more embarrassing. Here was James offering to take him under his wing. He should count himself lucky! No one messed with you if you had an older brother to take care of you.

Of Errol, Femi was less sure. It wasn’t what Sade had said. She was just trying to be like Papa, warning him about everyone and everything. Girls were also strange. Sometimes they pretended not to like someone when really they did.

“Well? What answer did you get?”

Femi jerked upright. Ms. Hassan’s eyebrows loomed ominously close as she glanced down at his blank page. He waited, in silence, to be skewered.

“You use invisible ink, do you, Femi?”

Laughter rippled around him. Femi’s fist pressed against his thigh as he shook his head. He bowed downward, curling into himself. But Ms. Hassan hadn’t finished.

“You can come and show us how to work out this problem on the board. At least my chalk isn’t invisible.”

There were a few more giggles. People always played with you when they thought you were weak. If he were in the same gang as James, no one would laugh at him, would they? Shuffling out of his chair, he resolved to find a way of getting out of the flat without making Papa suspicious.

S
ATURDAY
20
TH
S
EPTEMBER