by Kate London
Edward and Jennie came round from time to time, and he’d learned the word feds. Edward and Jennie: they were feds. Ed the Fed. Main thing about feds he’d had to learn: never trust them. They’re not what they seem.
Ed being friendly to impress his mum: ‘Hello, Ryan. How’s things?’
‘All right.’
He wasn’t taken in by their smiles. He’d been warned.
They stood with his mum in the kitchen and talked. She never asked them to sit down. When he tried to listen in, she shut the door to the kitchen and told him to make himself busy.
Once she was showing them out and she must have thought he was on the PlayStation or something because he heard her say, ‘Look, if I knew anything I’d tell you. He was a bullshitter anyway. Everyone says he was such a big man but he was always letting the kids down. Far as I’m concerned, he’s done it big-time this time, getting himself stabbed.’
Where did she get off? What was she even thinking? His father was a hero. Look how many people had turned out for his funeral. He didn’t like to hear that his dad had let him down neither. Anyway what did she know about letting people down? Everything, that’s what! There was some white guy used to come round. Pushed Ryan around. Pushed him in the chest, slapped him, pushed him out the front door and told him to fuck off for the afternoon. His mum had a black eye too. Shakiel had to sort him out in the end. Ryan never saw the white guy again. Then there was the shit he had to put up with because of her.
‘Your mum,’ he’d said to some piss-taker at school who was going on about some stupid spelling and shit, and the boy had said, all fucking la-di-da in his fancy fucking voice, ‘Excuse me, but your mum.’
The boy had sung it like a song.
‘Crack whore. Crack whore. Your mum’s a crack whore.’
Ryan’s hands were already clenched. ‘What’d do you mean?’
Even though he didn’t know what it meant, he knew it was bad and somehow that whatever it was, it was also true. So he punched the boy so hard his nose bled. The teachers put him in a room while they waited for his mum to come. He hated the room, he hated them all with their whispering. He hated his mum. The deputy head put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. ‘Come on. We can sort this out. What did he say to you?’ He could have smashed the teacher too, but he didn’t. He smashed the window instead. He still had a scar down the side of his hand. The police came but his mum didn’t. Something was up. In those situations it was very important not to let anyone know what you were feeling. That was easy enough, because he didn’t know what he was feeling.
He was out all night, what with the hospital and the police and all. Social worker acted as his appropriate adult. Tall, floppy hair in a beanie hat, and a Better Call Saul T-shirt. Ewan, that was the guy’s name. Kept saying safe and you all right? Ryan felt sorry for him. In the morning, Shakiel picked him up from the station. He’d got a big car then, not like now. It was a Humvee, and Ryan sat up front, next to Shaks. Shaks let him choose the tunes.
He said, ‘We’re going to drive by your school and you’re going to point the little prick out to me.’
Ryan sat there, high in the passenger seat, and pointed out the boy.
‘The mini wasteman with the blue backpack? That him?’
Ryan nodded.
‘Wait here.’
Ryan watched. Shakiel got down and followed the boy a bit. On the corner, he put his hand on his shoulder. It looked friendly, polite. They talked for a bit. The boy nodded, respectful. He could have been talking to a teacher. The boy’s name came back all of a sudden. Miles. Fucking stupid name. When he walked away, he looked over his shoulder for just a second, and Ryan had grinned for the first time in ages. Miles was shitting himself.
Shakiel got back in the Humvee and drove Ryan to get chicken. He was too cool to put his arm round him or anything, but Ryan will always remember what he said. ‘Anyone disrespects your mum, you tell me. Your dad and me, we were family.’
Then there was the other big thing he owed Shakiel. The memory lived in the vagueness of early childhood, further back than the thing in the school. The first glimpse of it he could see was Shakiel speaking with his mum in the kitchen. It had been a bit like when Edward and Jennie came round except that she had asked Shakiel to sit. Before she shut the door on him, Ryan saw Shakiel put the newspaper on the table.
Soon after that, his mum showed Shakiel out. At the door she said, ‘Thanks.’ But when he’d gone – and Ryan saw her checking the walkway to make sure he really was gone – his mum held him by the shoulders and said, ‘I don’t want you seeing him. I don’t want you taking his presents or riding in his stupid car. He plays the big man but he was bad for your dad and he’s bad for you. Don’t be admiring him. Stay away from him.’ Something in his face must have disappointed her, because she shook him. ‘You even listening to me, Ryan?’
Later, he offered to take the bins out. He fished the Standard from the black bag. The headline was tea-stained. He sat and read it on the external stairway, moving his finger along the line like in school.
Rapper stabbed to death.
He could read it, but he didn’t know what it meant. He knew it was important, but not exactly why. In those days he still shared his sister’s bedroom and he tucked the paper under his mattress and read it over and over. In fragments the meaning dawned. First that basic fact: some guy, Daniel Harris, had been killed. Then, like an inspiration, the understanding that it was Shakiel who had done it.
Met Police fear this may be part on an ongoing turf war between rival north London gangs.
As Ryan got older, the nature of the event became clearer and its significance expanded. It became part of him: a solemn thing. Shakiel and his dad had been like brothers. Shakiel had honoured that bond and paid his debt. That’s what made it so hard now, because Shaks, he wasn’t just a trapper. He was blood.
So it bothered him.
The guy, the one who’d stabbed Spence, he’d had that tat on his neck – the bird. He’d seen that boy in the chicken shop before the gig. He remembered him because he’d been acting like such a prick in his long coat, showing out, flashing the cash. Thought he was really something. Then later Shakiel had told him to punch that other wasteman at the gig. Ryan didn’t even know what that was about – he’d just done what he’d been told. Hadn’t seemed much of a big deal at the time. But Shakiel knew what it was about. Shakiel knew why he’d told Ryan to punch the guy. So what the fuck now? That was just a coincidence, wasn’t it – that the guy who killed Spence had been hanging out at the edges of the same gig? He hadn’t seen him with the guy he punched. It didn’t have nothing to do with Spence dying.
He didn’t want to keep coming back to that question. It was disrespectful to think Shaks hadn’t taken care of him. Shaks was family. Look what he’d done for him. But it kept coming back: Spence, clutching his leg, and the blood on the ground. Terror on his face. And Ryan telling him, ‘Bruv, you’re going to be all right.’ And then that guy with the buzz cut walking past like nothing was happening, and Spence stepping up to him, like Ryan was irrelevant or something, and saying, ‘Please don’t let me die.’ He’d wanted to laugh, to say, ‘Why you talking to him, Spence? You ain’t gonna die, fam. Don’t be stoo-pid.’
The tube train was moving off. He put his hand to his face. He’d never see Spence again. It wasn’t possible.
If Shaks was sending him to something, Ryan would never say nothing. Never ask no questions. It would be disrespectful. Shaks, he knew his shit. And he couldn’t have known, no, because Lexi was a regular customer and he was dealing to her in the usual place. Nothing out of the ordinary. Shaks could never have known it was a set-up. It shoulda been fine.
Ryan was crying. He was pleased no one could see him. He had to step up to the plate. It scared him, but it wasn’t like a choice, not something you could choose to do or not do. It wasn’t fucking homework. It was a debt you had to pay. Spence had been his mate. It was never something he could let lie. Shaks would
understand that because of that other thing, his dad and Daniel Harris.
He turned towards the flat. He wanted to open the door quietly. Go straight upstairs, hide out in his sister’s room. But his mum was waiting for him, smoking in the kitchen. She’d got to him before he could get in the hallway, blocking his way.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Walking.’
She frowned. ‘Walking.’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled, couldn’t resist it. ‘Duke of Edinburgh kind of thing.’
She shook her head. ‘I should slap you.’ She was rigid for a moment. Furious, was it? He managed to slip past her and was about to escape up the stairs, but he heard her say, ‘Why these boys coming to my house, Ryan?’
That stopped him. He turned back to her.
‘What boys?’
‘Never mind that. I know who picked you up. You tell me what’s going on. What you doing with Shakiel?’
‘Nothing. Stop worrying.’
She imitated him, furiously and snidely. ‘Stop worrying.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Stop worrying! What am I supposed to do? There’s boys coming to my door! You’re nicked this morning—’
He protested, even believed himself for a moment. ‘For something I never did.’
‘If you didn’t do it, why couldn’t you have said? Why’d you have to go no comment?’
‘I always goes no comment. Best thing.’
‘You’re not a gangster, Ry. You’re fifteen.’
‘Who were the boys, Mum?’
She studied him. ‘Tell me what’s going on. Do I need to call the police?’
‘No, Mum. Don’t do that.’ He wanted to walk off – leave her to it, turn on the PlayStation – but he had to know who the boys were. ‘Who were they? What did they say?’
She was looking at him again, all tense and worried, not giving it up. ‘Are you in trouble? You can tell me.’
He shook his head, irritated. What could she do? How could she help? ‘No, Mum.’ He tried to avoid her eyes. If only she’d cough up and leave him alone. He needed to know what had happened. Then she smiled, and it was painful to see that sad smile on her ragged face. No one respected his mum.
She said, ‘Whatever it is, you can tell me.’
He felt irritated and sad and desperate all at the same time. ‘Just tell me who they were!’
‘You don’t have to sort this out yourself.’
But he did!
‘Tell me.’
She frowned, thought for a moment. She was going to give in, he could see it.
‘The main one, he was thin. Mean-looking. Had a tat on his neck – a blue bird.’
Coming to this house. Threatening him, his mum, his sister!
‘Yeah?’
‘Ry, if you tell me what’s going on, we can sort this out.’
‘What did he say?’
Her face creased up. He thought she might cry.
‘He said, “Tell Ryan that he needs to hold it down. Tell him we know where he lives.”’
He couldn’t help himself. He pushed past her and was out the front door. She was running along the walkway after him, calling, ‘Ryan, Ryan! Come back! Who were they? Come back!’ It was embarrassing her shouting like that. And she didn’t have no shoes on. She was always embarrassing him.
He didn’t have a number for Shakiel no more. No burner neither. What should he do? He walked down the concrete steps and across the meadow towards the storage sheds, where he kept the knife. He wanted to feel it, heavy and cold in his hand.
He slipped the lock on his mum’s shed and sat down with his back against the wall. The light filtered in through the wooden slats of the door. Never warm in this little concrete cell. Him and Spence: they’d got the knife off the internet. Clicking through the different models, they’d discussed it in Spencer’s room. Those big monster knives? No – they were just naff in the end. All that ripping-outentrails nonsense. It wasn’t surgery! All you needed was a good blade. Plus you could never conceal those monster blades. Spence had tapped his finger on the image of the one they chose. ‘For real,’ he’d said. Zombie Hunter Rescue Knife, it had said on the advert. The words were inscribed down the handle. The knife folded small – you could tuck it into your boot or the back of your trousers – and the blade looked evil. When it arrived, they’d passed it from one to the other, turning it in their hands, flicking the blade out. Spence cut himself on it.
‘Bruv, you’re on it,’ he’d said admiringly, sucking his finger and passing the knife to Ryan.
They’d carried it a couple of times but it made them para. They’d agreed to keep it in Ryan’s shed in case they needed it. Safest place because – like they’d always said, laughing and high-fiving each other – dem feds don’t know about dat shed.
Ryan smiled at the memory of the stupid joke and turned the knife over in his hand, where it settled comfortably. He flipped the release with his thumb and the blade snapped out: dark steel with a silver serrated edge curving to a deadly point. He clenched his hand around the handle, imagining the force of stabbing forward. He did it a few times. He pushed the blade back with two hands, one bracing the handle, the other forcing the blade. It was stiff and difficult, like it didn’t want to be hidden away. Then he nested the folded knife in his palm, feeling the potential, the hidden spring, the blade inside like evil steel, flicking it out with one determined movement of his thumb. Easy.
Snap!
Snap, snap. Snap, snap, snap.
He drew the edge down the pad of his index finger, drawing blood. His blood, Spence’s blood. He’d left him this knife. It was meant.
He stabbed the blade forward from his shoulder.
He’d fucking kill him. See how his mates fucking liked it.
He tucked the Zombie Hunter into the back of his jeans, then locked up the shed. Perhaps they were coming for him now. He fucking hoped they were. He was sorry he’d missed them. He’d be ready this time. Poke him twice. To the neck. Tell him to fucking hold it down. He cycled the streets around the Deakin, figures of eight, in loops, hoping they’d turn up. A cop car slowed as it passed. He could feel the driver and passenger checking him out, but then the car picked up speed and drove on.
It was all a bit of a let-down, to be honest. The knife was burning in his waistband to get busy.
He could go over to their ends. Swing into the underpass, hang out and wait. It didn’t have to be the boy with the tat. Any one of them would do. But he didn’t have no one to go with. The power of the knife was ebbing and he hated himself. It would be better here, on the Deakin. More likely to succeed. He felt like a baby. But next time he’d have the knife on him.
He went back to the meadow and lay down on his back next to his bike. In the barely dark of the London night, the windows of the flats were patchwork, most lit orange. The summer’s daisies long gone.
The earth was spinning at thousands of miles an hour. A line stretched out from his chest, out, out beyond the solar system, out into space, a speck of light disappearing into nothing. He wasn’t as big as an ant. He needed someone bigger than him. His mum was fucking useless. The knife in his waistband was burning away to be busy. He got back on the bike.
Through the London streets, moving low-key, the bike swaying beneath him. Like a hawk hovering, he hung out by one of the bus stops, watching, cruising. The hunter is patient. The hunter moves through the night. Sure enough, there was the woman getting off the bus, reaching the phone from her front jeans pocket. He swooped, the phone in his hand still warm from her body, the screen bright as a torch. He tipped the front wheel into the air. And then, like a cold shock, the joy was gone. No Spence to hand the phone to. No sweatshirt thrown to him for a quick change. No high-fives and laughter. He turned and looked at the woman running up the street after him. She ran funny, her feet not in line with her knees. She was a bit fat. He pitied her. He wanted to apologize, because having the phone only made him sad. Sorry, auntie. The phone don’t mean nothing to me, but I had to. Need an
excuse to see Steve.
A few streets away, he locked the bike to a lamp post. On foot, he no longer looked like what the police would be watching out for. He turned into Farrens Lane. The street-cleaning machine, like a low-rent R2-D2, was making its way slowly up the road, lights on top turning, brushes sweeping up the leftovers of the day’s market. Silent men in dirty fluorescent jackets also making their way up the street, throwing full bin bags onto a slowly moving rubbish truck. Ryan quickened his pace to overtake them. He stopped by a Chinese health shop and pressed a bell by a narrow front door. A sash window opened above him and a white man leant out.
‘Mate. It’s nearly fucking midnight!’
‘I got something for you.’
Steve disappeared from the window. Ryan waited and the catch on the door slipped. He followed Steve up the narrow steep stairs to the upper door. Some crappy music was playing, and as he entered the sitting room, he said, ‘What’s this shit?’
‘Cheeky arse. That’s Steely Dan.’
‘That’s some joke business, bruv.’
‘And fuck you too.’
Ryan liked that about Steve: he was so not cool that he ended up cool. Ryan flopped into the old car seat that was on the floor. Steve stood, arm leaning on the crappy old mantelpiece. Underneath it was an electric radiator that was belching out heat. Steve was in socks, old blue jeans that hung down from his skinny arse, a stripy button T-shirt.
‘All right?’ he said.
‘Yeah, good.’
‘You heard about that thing?’
‘What ting?’
‘That boy, Spence I think his name was.’
Ryan nodded. ‘I heard.’