I have no idea what this means, but I repeat the formula at the counter and am given the wings, a vat of drink and a cardboard container of chips, all for less money than a Pret-a-Manger crayfish and rocket sandwich.
As he works his way through the first few chicken wings he doesn’t speak, and I get the strange feeling that I shouldn’t either. Seeing him, feeling his presence, my instinct is that I should take things slow, not be too keen or overtly curious. Play it as a chat rather than an interview. I take a snap decision and decide to leave the Dictaphone in my bag. I can do this by memory. It’s not as if he’s going to sue me for misquoting him. I need to keep him relaxed and draw him out. For any quotes, the gist will do. It doesn’t have to be word perfect.
‘So how’s things at the warehouse?’ I say. Nothing too direct. Nothing too challenging.
‘Pretty chilled.’
‘The hostage is OK?’
‘First things first,’ he snaps. ‘You don’t print nothing about my mum. Nothing.’
‘Er . . . OK, nothing about your mum.’
‘Don’t go there again. Leave her alone.’
‘All right.’
‘You better.’
‘I will. I was asking you about the hostage.’
‘We’re looking after him. He’ll be fine.’
‘You’re not going to hurt him?’
‘Got no plans to,’ he says, sucking at a bone, a mischievous twinkle darting across his face. There’s something unsettling about the speed with which he can flick from relaxed to threatening and back again. I already sense that if I say the wrong thing he might just stand up and walk out. He can’t hurt me. Not here, not in public, with the entire Metropolitan Police Force looking for him, but I wouldn’t want to be alone with the guy.
‘Have you got any demands?’ I say, fighting back the tension that is clenching my windpipe. I need to stay calm and get the important questions out of the way quickly. This interview could end any second.
He pushes away the wings and starts on his chips, lifting his chin and looking at me down his nose, assessing me. ‘I got a demand off of you,’ he says. He’s leaning far back, now, his legs spread wide, non-eating hand resting in his lap.
‘Yes? What’s that?’ My pulse accelerates, a trickle of fear seeping into my veins. He’s already taken one hostage, perhaps he wants another. Perhaps this whole meeting is some kind of set-up.
‘You wrote that stuff? About Concentr8? That was you?’
‘Yes.’
For the next quarter-hour, the interview flips. He questions me, on and on, exploring every detail, testing my evidence, digging out everything I know about Concentr8, about what it is, how it’s given out, who changed the policy on its distribution and how. He knows most of it already, has the whole article from the previous day’s paper clear in his head, but he presses for more, squeezing me for every drop of information I have.
This kid is sharp. He looks slow, but he doesn’t miss anything and no logical inconsistency gets past him. Born somewhere else, he could have become anything. With my education he could have ended up doing my job, no trouble. But it’s pretty clear he’s going to spend most of his life in jail.
His questions spiral back again and again to the heart of the story. ‘So they said they was helping us, but they was actually drugging us up to keep us quiet?’
‘That’s a question of interpretation,’ I say, ‘but it is beginning to look like that.’
‘Everybody wins, yeah? Schools, teachers, feds, parents? Everyone.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Except the kids that are taking the pills.’
‘You tell me. What does it feel like to be on them?’
‘Don’t even know who I’d be if I’d never had it, do I? No idea what it’s done to my head.’
‘It’s been out of circulation for a while now. Everyone’s saying that’s one of the reasons for the riots. Isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So do you feel different since it was taken away?’
‘Yeah, but you get used to taking it, don’t you? That’s why people wanted it back. But that just makes it worse, don’t it?’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Fuck sake, man! These same people banging people up over and over for class As, for weed, talking about that stuff on and on like it’s the devil’s work, then they can’t even see that getting us hooked on some other shit is the exact same thing. When we do it, it’s a crime. When they do it, it’s . . . I don’t know . . . social work.’
‘You think it’s the same thing as drug dealing?’
‘Course it is! Why are people out on the streets? They’re hooked! It’s the same story. Filling your body with shit that fucks your brain is bad enough, but when it’s shit that makes you want it even when it’s fucking you? Yeah, that’s dealing. What else is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What else is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tell me. What is it?’ He isn’t shouting, but there’s steel in his voice.
My heart begins to race again, though not with fear. This time I think it’s shame. Blaze can see that the connection had never occurred to me. I feel as if he’s found something in me that I didn’t even know was there, as if he’s rooted out some core prejudice.
‘What is it?’ he repeats, still quiet but icy with anger.
It’s against all my journalistic principles to answer his question. This interview isn’t about me or my opinions. It isn’t important what I think, at least ought not to be, but Blaze won’t let the question go. He’s silent, waiting for my answer, and I can see he won’t move on until he has one.
All my plans, all the options I had in my head for how to write up this interview, now feel useless. Blaze has done something to me. The most unexpected sensation has taken me over. I feel as if I am on his side.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I suppose it is the same thing.’
‘Yeah. Hurts you to say it, though, don’t it?’
‘It’s just a surprising idea.’
‘To you, maybe. Listen, I got you here cause I wanted to hear this shit from the source. I wanted to get it straight in my head and know for sure what’s what. But I got a plan I want you to help me with. You need a story, yeah? That’s why you’re here?’
‘I suppose.’
‘I got you a story.’
‘You’ve given me one already.’
‘No, I got you a proper story.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You said do we got demands?’
‘Do you?’
‘Sort of. It ain’t exactly a demand.’
‘What is it?’
‘I won’t talk to the feds – they’re dicks – but I will talk to the mayor. One to one. Man to man.’
He’s right. That is a story.
‘You can set that up?’ he asks.
‘I can’t set it up, but I can publish the request. He’ll have to respond.’
‘Cool.’
‘I’ll do it on one condition,’ I say.
‘You’ll do it anyway.’
‘One condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If the meeting happens, I get to come.’
He looks at me, sucking the stripy red straw that protrudes from his Coke. A smirk plays across his lips as he puts the drink down. ‘You can’t get enough of me, can you?’
It’s hard to be sure, but I suddenly feel as if Blaze might be flirting.
‘You’re the story,’ I say. My cheeks, for some reason, feel slightly hotter than they did a few seconds ago.
‘That’s your condition? Without that you won’t write nothing? You’ll pretend you never came here, never met me?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Yeah, I’m taking the piss. But fuck it, you can come. Why not?’ He takes another suck at his Coke, swivels his head, takes a quick scan of the room, and stands up. ‘You think he’ll do it?’ he asks, flicking up hi
s hood.
‘I have no idea.’
I think I need Ritalin. Anyone with a prescription? I sound like a junkie . . .
Twitter user
KAREN
So I wake up and he ain’t there? And I’m thinking, oh he must be down with the others or something but he ain’t – cause when I go down and ask they’re all like, I thought he was up there with you.
So we look around and it ain’t no thing at first, but gradually we’re looking in more and more places and I swear he is gone. He ain’t nowhere. And it’s Femi what gets stressed about it first? Even before we looked around the whole place, he’s already he’s stitched us up, he’s done a runner, I’m going to kill him. I mean at first nobody’s listening it’s just Femi sounding off like he does – he wouldn’t kill nobody, least of all Blaze – but even if we don’t think he’s right you can feel the suspicion soaking into the rest of us. Even Matchstick looks worried.
Troy ain’t giving nothing away but he’s with us looking for him – which he wouldn’t if he really knew where Blaze was and if he was coming back.
So it’s all like bubbling on a bit tense but nothing too crazy until Femi turns on Matchstick? That’s when I’m like oh, shit.
Grabs him by the arm and says listen, ain’t nobody looking after you now you got to take us all out of here. Where you took me before – was that the actual way out or just something to mess with me?
Matchstick looks up at him, his eyes going all big, and you can see he ain’t going to say nothing. Femi can push it as far as he likes, Matchstick ain’t going to speak.
Shakes him. I swear he’s half his size so it looks weird the two of them squaring off for what would be the stupidest fight ever.
Tell me, you little prick!
Nothing.
You want me to take you up there? Just me and you? See what happens? Put the shit up you like you did with me. You think you could take it?
I ain’t never seen Matchstick cry but I swear he’s close now. That’s when Troy steps in.
Let go of him he says.
Fuck off.
Let go says Troy, proper steel, even though Femi’s a head taller, could have him no trouble. Matchstick twists while Femi’s distracted, swerves away, runs to the corner under the pile of tyres. Now it’s Femi and Troy nose to nose.
What’s your problem? says Femi.
I ain’t got a problem says Troy.
Yes you have.
No I ain’t.
We got to get out of here, you idiot! He fucked us once by bringing us here, now he done it again leaving us in the shit with a hostage, looking like it’s all our fault! You think that’s not a problem you’re sick in the head!
Who says he’s gone? Who says he ain’t coming back?
Femi steps back. Looks around. Where is he then?
Troy don’t budge and don’t even blink. Dunno but I know he coming back. Matchstick’s here. I’m here. The rest of us is here, so he’s coming back.
Says who?
You think he ain’t then you don’t know him. You don’t know nothing.
Well stay if you want, cause I ain’t.
Fine, but don’t touch Matchstick.
Or what?
Just don’t.
Then there’s a voice from the zigzag doorway. Ain’t even loud but it cuts through like a shank, makes everyone spin to see what it is.
You got a problem with Matchstick?
It’s Blaze.
Went to the doctor, and I was like I need to be 100% focused he said here's some Ritalin. #determined
Twitter user
FEMI
You got a problem with Matchstick?
People talk about shitting yourself like it’s a joke like it’s just words but I swear when I hear that voice something goes – something loosens – and I ain’t being funny but if things had been different down there I literally could have shat just like that, out of pure fear.
Can’t show it though, can I? That would just make me look worse. I know I just got to flip it – push things forward to try to make the Matchstick thing disappear. Where you been? I say trying to sound angry instead of guilty or scared.
Out he says. Like – big surprise. Why would he say anything else? And I know it’s like a power thing – waiting for us all to dive in with what? where? why? – but I ain’t up for that. Why should I?
Where d’you go? says Lee. We thought you’d done a runner.
Who thought that? says Blaze.
Lee’s eyes flick towards me, then away again. You can see him remembering that for him it’s almost always a bad idea to open his mouth, cause something stupid always falls out.
Nobody says Lee. I mean all of us. But just for a bit. I mean we knew you’d be back soon. Didn’t we?
He’s looking around for somebody to help him out, but nobody does.
Why didn’t you say something? says Karen. Instead of just going off.
I sorted things out he says. We’re leaving. After today. Last night tonight, then after that it’s all over.
What – the feds? You spoke to the feds? says Karen.
No.
So how d’you know what’s happening tomorrow?
I don’t.
But you said –
I just said it’s ending. Don’t know what it’s going to be, but tomorrow it’s ending. Something’s going to happen and if it don’t we just walk out. OK?
Nobody says nothing. Nobody even nods. Only thing that moves is Matchstick appearing back out of the corner and shuffling up behind Blaze.
Thought we should celebrate he says and it’s only then with him taking it off that I realise he’s got a backpack on. He unzips it and takes out a speaker dock and two bottles of vodka. Smirnoff. The real thing. After that there’s some spray paints. Then he tips it up and tons of sweets and stuff tumble out all over the floor.
Matchstick’s looking right at me. There’s poison in them little eyes of his and I got this sick feeling that even though I never told Blaze what happened – even though Blaze acted like he forgot the question he started with – what I did ain’t going to be ignored.
But if it’s all over tomorrow then that’s like some massive reset button what’s just going to cancel everything that’s happened before. Once the feds come in – or whoever it is – that’s everything between me and Blaze and Matchstick wiped clean. But anyway there’s tons of vodka, and a whole afternoon and evening and night to get through before it’s tomorrow, so anything could happen. I still feel jumpy, proper jumpy, knotted up and halfway to a puke.
Blaze walks away up to the office – leaves the bottles and the paint and the sweets and the speaker and just wanders off – no explanation nothing. Karen goes up with him and we all sort of flop out. Nobody opens the vodka or puts on music or nothing. I mean it’s too early, maybe that’s why. There’s still food lying around, so we pick at yesterday’s stuff and eat some sweets. After a bit, Lee goes for the paints and starts spraying walls and machines and things. Shaking and spraying. Just blotches and spirals and swear words. Nobody really watches or joins in. There’s a moment when he goes still and tries to do what I think might be a cat or something, but he gives up and covers it over with a long squirt.
That’s when I slip out. I mean nobody’s watching so why not? Out the concertina door. Through the bent metal wall flap. Across the warehouse. Up them stairs. Along the balcony. Try not to look down but can’t not – just like last time. Up on to the windowsill, I swear even a pigeon would feel weird up here, it just ain’t right.
Crawl along. Out the window. Along the ledge. Pause at that corner where Blaze was hiding and this time I stop. Just peep round. Nothing there.
Keep going. Going and going. Another corner.
Then another.
And another.
Then I’m back where I started, ain’t I?
No way out. No way down. Just this massive drop all the way round.
It was a set-up. Whole thing was a set-up.
/> So what can I do? What? Except go back in and sit around and wait to see what happens.
It’s either that or jump off.
I kneel and look over the edge. Long way down. Tarmac. White lines at neat diagonals to fit in the right number of cars. It’d all be over in a moment. No consequences then – no explaining – nothing. It would only take a second. I can see which parking space I’d land in.
It’s weird how you don’t even choose who you become. Nobody ever tells you that when you’re small. All this shit’s just going to happen to you, and you’re some tiny little insect what’s flapping its wings hard as it can to try and get to where it wants to get to – but when the wind blows, it’s the wind that’s going to decide where you end up. Ain’t you at all, however hard you flap them pissy little wings.
If it was up to me, I wouldn’t never have met nobody like Blaze or Troy or any of them. I wouldn’t have ended up with friends that ain’t even friends. I wouldn’t have ended up like this, all on my own up on some roof with no options, no choices, just boxed in on every side between different things that I don’t want – that nobody would want.
I never hurt nobody. Never wanted to and never did.
Can’t think of nothing now except Mum and Dad, and they come at me like faces out of a mist swirling all round. It’s like I’m wrapped in them – like I’m up high on this tiny ledge and there’s this sheet wrapping me tighter and tighter – but it ain’t a sheet it’s Mum and Dad and what I done to them and how I messed everything up, and the guilt of it is choking me and swallowing me up, and I swear even if I don’t jump I might just fall cause the power of it . . . the crush is so strong it’s like maximum pain and no pain at all . . . at the same time . . . like when light gets brighter and brighter until there’s so much whiteness you can’t see nothing at all . . . so bright it might as well be pitch dark . . . same thing, I swear, I can feel everything and nothing almost like I’m dead already and just floating away . . . squeezed so hard there ain’t even nothing left to squeeze . . . nothing . . . cause the person that was me ain’t there any more, he’s just flown up . . . and whoever it is on that ledge . . . swaying and wobbling . . . that ain’t me . . . and if he stays up or falls down that don’t even make no difference to nobody . . .
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