by Simon Mayo
‘And?’ Max sounded unimpressed.
‘And their parents just upped and left one day. Left them alone in their house. The girl kept it going for a few weeks – taking her brother to school, cooking food and so on. But in the end, teachers at the boy’s school realized they hadn’t seen either parent for a while and alerted Social Services. They were taken into care later that day. The girl put up quite a fight apparently.’
‘This just gets better,’ muttered Max. ‘A stroppy teenage girl and a toddler. Maybe I can go to college early. Give you more room.’
‘Max, that’s not fair—’ began Dan.
‘You just announcing it isn’t fair, Dad!’ said Max, his voice strained. ‘Where are the parents anyway? Can’t they find them again? You can’t just disappear.’
‘Well, they have,’ said Dan. ‘Social Services think they have a . . . gang network.’
‘Gang network? Is this for real?’
Dan nodded. ‘They could be anywhere apparently.’
‘Well, that confirms it then,’ said Max. ‘My vote is no. If you’re still interested in my opinion.’
His parents looked at each other, then Gina reached out to her son. His straggly blond hair had fallen over his face but she resisted the urge to tuck it behind his ear.
‘OK, a compromise,’ she said. ‘We’ll say we’ll take them in the short term, but they have to keep looking for long-term foster parents. How’s that?’ The question was aimed at Dan as much as Max, and her husband nodded.
Eventually her son shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe. I’ll think about it. But one more thing,’ he said, ‘seeing as we’re having a family meeting. I think we should be very worried about this new American law. The heritage crime thing. It’s just . . . if that happens here, we’ll be the first to get locked up. Everyone knows what your folks got up to.’
Dan and Gina shifted awkwardly in their seats. Dan began what sounded like a speech he’d given before.
‘I know the Depression has been bad. Really bad. But the American legal system is nothing to do with the law here. They lock up more of their people than any other country on Earth, they have the death penalty, they love God and guns. We’re not the same.’
‘Agreed,’ said Max, ‘but our unemployment is the same, the need for a scapegoat is the same. Plus their tying it to slavery makes it different – makes it harder to argue against. We had a slave trade here; our companies got wealthy like theirs did. They want reparations. Slavery is the original heritage crime, but they’re adding more all the time. I don’t like it. And the French, Italians and Spanish all seem up for it too. Half of Europe thinks it’s a good idea. The European Union might be history, but there are still a few things they seem to agree on.’
Dan shook his head. ‘Their legal codes are different to ours—’
‘But it’s popular,’ Max persisted. ‘In our economics class last week Mr Hogarth was explaining how it got passed in the US, how they’d settled on limiting the guilt to two generations. Crimine Patrimonio is already halfway through the Italian parliament, Crimes Patrimoine has just been introduced by the French. Then we discussed which of our families would go to prison if it was passed here. Everyone just looked at me. Yesterday I had Convict graffitied on my locker.’
Dan and Gina looked horrified.
‘Just saying,’ said Max.
Soon after Abi and Mattie Turner moved into the Nortons’ house in North London, heritage crime arrived in the UK. It had been discussed endlessly on news sites and talk shows; some magazines ran articles showing which politicians and celebrities had criminals in their family tree. But for all the analysis of the legal issues at stake, it was a small incident which opened the floodgates. A notorious drug dealer in Southampton was taking part in a community payback scheme: his BMW had been confiscated and sold; now he’d been ordered to help build a local drop-in centre that would benefit the people he had damaged. A small crowd had gathered to watch him begin his punishment when someone noticed that his family were watching from the security of a new Range Rover with tinted windows.
‘Make them work too!’ shouted a woman, pointing at the car.
‘He messed up my whole family,’ called another. ‘They should get their hands dirty too!’ There were shouts of agreement, and a section of the crowd started walking towards the car; everyone heard the sound of the central locking being activated.
‘I’d agree if I were you,’ said the organizer of the payback scheme, speaking rapidly to the dealer. ‘I’ll call for back-up, but it would defuse the situation if you just said yes.’
Concerned for the safety of his family, the man agreed. To cheers and applause, his wife and two children, aged fourteen and ten, put on bright orange tunics and began to dig. It was all over social media in minutes. Images of their luxurious house were juxtaposed with the family’s ‘chain gang’ appearance. The response was overwhelming – the public approved and wanted more. Fast.
Within days the community payback scheme saw not only convicted law breakers but their families digging and building, sweating and suffering. The TV crews covered each new work party. Politicians started asking why, if the families of small-time criminals should pay back their debt, the principle wasn’t applied on a much bigger scale. Websites sprang up revealing the addresses of ‘heritage criminals in your neighbourhood’. Stones were thrown through windows, the police called to disperse crowds outside the houses of the ‘offenders’.
*
The Nortons were slow to pick up on what was happening in Southampton.
Dan’s office had become a bedroom again; the new arrivals had their statutory bedroom each. All Dan and Gina’s attention was on trying to assimilate Abi and Mattie Turner.
For the first week Abi had barely spoken; if she communicated at all, it was through Mattie. Her gaze was fierce, her body language hostile. She refused to go to school, barely ate, and fought off all attempts to get her to wear new clothes or control her shock of brown hair: she tried to attack Gina when she produced scissors. Dan had come between them, but it was Mattie’s shouts that had reined his sister in.
Max had kept his distance. He had seen foster kids struggle to settle in before, but none had been as aggressive as this bristling, angry, silent girl.
By contrast, Mattie had attached himself to Max, following him everywhere and talking incessantly.
‘Max, what clothes do you like? Max, can I watch you play your computer game? Max, can I sleep in your bed?’ The only way to quieten his new fan was to ask about his parents. Mattie clammed up tight.
Then a local news site broke the full story. In lurid detail, with photos, they revealed that the children of criminals had been placed with the offspring of other criminals. BRITAIN’S NUMBER ONE CRIME FAMILY? ran the headline. The national sites weren’t far behind.
‘Is this true?’ stormed Max. He pointed to the adjoining room where Abi and Mattie were watching videos. ‘You mentioned a gang network, but did you know they were wanted?’
‘Yes,’ said Gina. ‘That’s why we took them in. They were the children of crooks, just like Dad and me. We thought we could help. No one else would know what we know: what it feels like to be ashamed of your own parents, to constantly change the subject when someone asks about them. We thought we could be the perfect match.’
There was silence in the kitchen. They all became aware of the muffled sound from the TV.
‘Maybe you should give them back,’ Max said quietly.
Gina’s eyes filled with tears.
Dan reached for her hand but looked as worried as she did. ‘What if they come for Abi and Mattie too?’ he whispered.
Gina’s eyes opened wide, propelling the tears down her cheeks. ‘They’d never lock children up, Dan! This is Britain! We don’t do that here!’
Max propped up his tablet on the kitchen table. ‘Well, you should watch this.’
He played his parents an edited video of all the payback scheme incidents. They watched children and
teenagers pulling on fluorescent jackets and, to a chorus of jeers from onlookers, pick up brooms and shovels. Gina and Dan stared at the images, horrified.
‘Look at this, though,’ said Max, and his parents found themselves holding their breath. ‘This is part of a speech from a leading prison reformer. He’s a rising star called John Grey.’
‘Heard of him,’ said Gina. ‘Nasty piece of work. Pompous and preachy. A classic moral crusader.’
‘That’s him.’ Max pressed ‘play’.
The man in the video stood at a lectern, grasping its sides. Short, well-groomed hair, wire-framed glasses.
‘There are those living among us,’ he said, partly to the camera, partly to the unseen audience, ‘who have come to feel that they are above the law. A culture of impunity has developed whereby they think they can get away with their crimes.’ He paused, his lips pressed tightly together. The audience waited. ‘And they are right – they can get away with it. At the moment. For now.’ Murmurs of approval could be heard from the crowd. ‘While we have all suffered in the greatest Depression anyone has known, there are some who have been untouched, who have done just fine, thank you very much. This is a class of people,’ he continued, ‘who benefit from the proceeds of crime. Now, the community payback schemes have started to address the problem, but I believe we have say to these people, “Enough! You owe us. And it’s time to pay us back.”’
Max paused the video. ‘That’s just the start. This man means business and everyone is listening. I’ve looked him up. He’s hard-core.’
‘He’s scary,’ said Gina.
‘Yes, and what did Grandpa do again, Mum? Steal a few million from his own company before disappearing?’ Max turned to Dan. ‘And your dad and his partner had a credit-card scam? The family joke about partners in crime isn’t going to seem funny any more. I know you guys are great and everything, and how you fell for each other because you were escaping blah blah blah, but this . . .’ He pointed at the screen, which had freeze-framed Grey pouting at the camera. ‘This means us. I know it’s sad your dad died and everything, but we got some of his money—’
‘Barely anything actually—’ began Dan, but Max carried on.
‘And, Mum, when your dad had been gone a certain number of years, you got your inheritance, right?’
Gina nodded.
‘And insurance?’
She nodded again.
‘Did it pay for the house, school fees – that kind of thing?’
‘Yes, Max, it did, but—’
‘Then we’re guilty!’ Max was shouting now; he looked frightened. ‘Once they start looking for people who need to “pay back”, we’ll be right there, number one on that list! The press already have our story!’
A thud at the door made them all start. Gina hurriedly wiped her eyes.
‘Parcel?’ said Dan, getting up.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Max, but Abi and Mattie were there first. They were standing by the open door, staring at a burning, smoking package. The hall was instantly filled with a foul, gut-churning stench and Max hauled them away.
‘Dad!’ he yelled. ‘You need to see this!’ He steered Abi and Mattie back into the lounge.
‘What’s happening, Max?’ asked Mattie, holding his nose. ‘What’s in that parcel? It smells like poo, but why was it on fire?’
Gina hurried in and Max nodded at his mother. ‘Mum will explain,’ he said, and ran back to join his father.
Gina sat on the sofa, Mattie jumping up and forcing his way under her arm. Abi sat cross-legged on the floor, but her wide eyes were fixed on Gina.
‘This is about us, isn’t it,’ she said.
It wasn’t a question but Gina answered it anyway. ‘I think so. There are some very sick people out there.’
Mattie nuzzled further into Gina’s jumper. ‘Are we going to have to go and live somewhere else then?’ he said, his voice very small.
‘No,’ said Gina. She hugged him tightly and met Abi’s enquiring stare. ‘Whatever happens, we are staying together.’
There were no more stink bombs, but there was no mistaking the new hostility either. After the label of ‘Britain’s number-one crime family’ had stuck, even visiting the shops became a trial. Being ignored or served last every time was upsetting and time-consuming, so they just stopped going. Christmas that year was delivered in a convoy of trucks.
*
With all the children that his parents fostered, Max found that it was birthdays and Christmas that were always particularly stressful. Instead of nervous excitement they were often met with an unhappy, feigned indifference. So it became the Norton Christmas tradition that, for breakfast, you could have any food you wanted. Anything at all. Once Max had explained to the new foster children how it worked, their eyes had lit up. A long list had been written, another delivery booked.
Christmas morning was, therefore, greeted with excitement, tinged with uncertainty.
‘You do know what I asked for, don’t you?’ asked a sceptical Mattie as they went downstairs in their pyjamas.
‘Remind me,’ said Max.
‘Sherbet, toffee marshmallows, cupcakes and chips,’ he said.
‘Together?’
‘Yes, together. You said we could ask for anything!’
‘I know,’ said Max, ‘but that is just weird.’
‘And I wanted a cheeseburger with fries, pizza and chocolate cake,’ said Abi. ‘And fudge.’
Max whistled. ‘Hideous. You’ll be sick before lunch. Let’s see what we’ve got.’
He opened the kitchen door, and a wave of clashing smells filled their noses. Gina and Dan were already seated, and laughed as they looked at the faces in front of them.
‘Happy Christmas!’ cried Dan. ‘And happy Christmas breakfast too! Come in, sit down!’ The table was laid, and there were place names written on card.
‘Wow,’ said Mattie as he looked at his plate. Piled high with cupcakes and marshmallows, it had chips arranged around the outside. A side order of sherbet had been poured into a small sugar bowl. ‘Abi, look at this!’ He beamed. ‘I’ve got everything!’
‘Me too,’ she said, staring at her three plates.
Gina pointed to each in turn. ‘Pepperoni and cheese,’ she said. ‘A well-done burger with all the extras. And fudge with cake for pudding. Did we forget anything?’
‘No, it’s amazing!’ said Mattie. ‘Can we start?’
‘Of course!’
‘What are you having?’ Abi asked Gina through a mouthful of chips.
She pointed to the sizzling frying pan on the stove, where Dan was in charge. ‘As many bacon sandwiches as we feel is wise.’
‘Which could be about five each!’ said Dan, laughing as he prodded and rearranged the rashers. Gina stood alongside him, threading an arm through his.
They had been worried that Abi and Mattie’s first Christmas with them would be a tense, awkward affair. Mealtimes were often a flash point, with Max intolerant of Abi’s sullenness. Much planning had gone into making the day as stress free as possible.
‘Everything considered,’ Gina muttered, hoping her words were drowned out by the hissing, spitting fat, ‘all good so far.’
Max had found some old-time Christmas music and was trying to get everyone to sing. ‘No?’ he said. ‘Just me then.’ And he launched into ‘Merry Christmas, Everybody’.
‘Best pizza ever,’ declared Abi to surprised smiles from everyone. ‘Who thought up this whole idea anyway?’
‘Well,’ said Dan, ‘let’s just say it’s been around . . . a while. Best not delve too much into family history just now.’ He saw Gina and Max wince. ‘More chips, anyone?’
Day 789
My favourite things RIGHT NOW:
G when she’s telling me things.
Not dreaming of ANYTHING.
Everyone stinks at the moment. We need more showers but screws say no (they stink too and need them more than us).
Raced on 4 levels with Daisy. Bin 55 smelled
so bad! Actually sick.
Jug up was taken at trestle tables arranged in three rows that ran the length of the levels. Most strutter families had a working parent, a collar, who ate breakfast at 6 a.m.; everyone else ate between 7 and 7.30. Ant and Mattie walked down the levels together. The cavernous annexe filled with the morning noise of cell doors opening, shouted complaints and, below, food being served. The smell of breakfast temporarily broke through the ever-present stench of sweat and mould, and Ant found herself suddenly very hungry indeed.
‘Smells like porridge. And toast. And maybe meat of some kind.’
Mattie snorted. ‘Might smell like that. Won’t taste like it. But just in case it’s bacon . . .’ Porridge and toast were normally on offer, as was some kind of fruit, usually chopped up in vast bowls. Occasionally they got sausages and, even more occasionally, bacon. Any portable meat disappeared within minutes, some eaten, the rest smuggled out for snacks or trading.
On the steps they were joined by Daisy, her white-blonde hair falling in curtains across her face.
‘Na, Daisy,’ said Ant.
‘Naa, Ant,’ she replied, ‘considering the noise last night.’ She saw a tall, gangly boy approach them and laid into him immediately. ‘What the hell was that all night? I couldn’t hear what you were arguing about, but God, you were loud.’
‘Really?’ said Amos Shah, a fourteen-year-old in an eighteen-year-old body, pushing his black-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He moved wearily, spoke sarcastically. ‘I think we were arguing about . . . Oh, let me see . . . Oh yeah, pretty much everything really. Don’t know if you’ve noticed but we have to share with the Noons now. Dad doesn’t like it much.’
‘Yeah, well, next time just hit each other,’ she said. ‘It’d be quieter.’
A cell door slammed and a tall, broad-shouldered figure came to join them. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Daisy’s complaining about the noise.’ Jimmy Noon smiled so widely that all Daisy could do was punch him harmlessly on the arm.
‘Can’t you and your mum shut them up?’ she said, exasperated.