Forest Gate

by Peter Akinti

  'I've always wanted to own a bookshop.' He paused and studied his hands intently as if waiting for the next sound. 'There's an empty shop in Forest Gate with a place in the back where I can paint.' He began to cry.

  Trevor remained silent for a moment. 'Tell me why you're crying.'

  'Because it's such a small thing to ask, but I know I'll never get it, no way, no how.'

  Trevor scribbled in his notebook. 'Do I remind you of anyone?' he asked without looking up.

  'Yes,' James said. 'You look a bit like whassisname, that gay guy off the telly.'

  'Let me rephrase. The way I'm speaking to you, does it remind you of the way anyone else has spoken to you in your past? Like your father perhaps?'

  James took a deep breath. 'No.'

  'How often do you think of your father?'

  'Hardly ever.'

  'Do you miss him?'

  'Nope.'

  'How connected do you feel to what is going on around the world?'

  'Such as?'

  'Such as the war on terror, say.'

  'I don't have any views on the war on terror except that Bush is a complete wanker. I don't think we should have gone to Iraq. The thing is, and I have thought about this a lot, no one really cares about what people like me think. No matter what I do I'm never going to matter.'

  'You shouldn't think like that, you're only seventeen. Give yourself a break. You're in a crisis, it will pass. You have your whole life in front of you. You have to be patient, work hard like everybody else.'

  'It won't pass. Do you know that Nigerian boy who got stabbed in the leg on his way home from the library and died? He was ten. The boys that did it, the Preddie brothers, they moved from Peckham onto our estate just before they got arrested. Most of their gang, the Young Peckham Boys, live around here now. There are seven gangs I know of in my area. Some all black, some mixed. It all comes down to post codes – except with the RTS, they're from everywhere.'

  'RTS?'

  'Rough Tough Somalis. When boys say hello to me on the street I say hello back but I worry because I keep forgetting who is who and who owns what. That guy Nassirudeen Osawe who got killed at the bus stop on Upper Street in broad daylight the other day by the Shakespeare gang. His sister goes to my school and those guys who did it are at my house with my brothers almost every day. They all know my brothers. I may only be seventeen but I have lived with this shit every day. What I'm feeling won't pass. This doesn't go away.'

  'I hear what you're saying, but do you think killing yourself is a solution? You can't take all this on, James. You have to put it in a drawer somewhere in the back of your mind like the rest of us. Try not to worry about that stuff for a while.'

  James couldn't explain any more. He couldn't understand why he was even trying. His throat burned.

  'What book are you reading at the moment?'

  'I'm not. I gave up with the books.'

  'Why? I thought you loved them.'

  'I do.'

  'Did you read that one about Arsenal?'

  'Hornby? Course I did.'

  'What about Malcolm?'

  'Malcolm? You mean Malcolm X? You want me to read Malcolm X in the mess I'm in? No. I read Malcolm when I was like eight. It was the one book all my brothers read, like the Bible.'

  'OK, so who do you like to read?'

  'Baldwin.'

  'Giovanni's Room?'

  'I haven't read that. I've read The Fire Next Time. Beale Street and that other one – Another Country. I've read that shit like a zillion times.'

  'I liked Another Country too.'

  'You read that?'

  'Yes, I read all the gay fiction I can lay my hands on.'

  'Another Country is not gay.'

  'Maybe you need to read it again. You do know about James Baldwin?' Trevor crossed his legs and smiled, waved his arm dismissively.

  'Know what?'

  Trevor glanced up but than lowered his head to avoid James's eyes and his mouth tightened involuntarily. 'Sorry, forget it. Your mother says you also like to write.'

  'I used to, until they took one of my notebooks and started making fun of me. Then I stopped.'

  'Who did?'

  'Two of my brothers.'

  'Do you like football?'

  'I'm from east London. That's what we do.'

  'What team do you support?'

  'Arsenal.'

  'Oh, you're a Gooner. So you see we do have some things in common. They won 5–nil on Saturday. How does that make you feel?'

  'T'riffic. Who scored?'

  'Not sure.'

  Gooner my arse, James thought.

  'Why did you choose that particular tower?'

  'You mean to jump? I didn't choose. It was Ashvin's idea. He'd heard that lots of people were doing it from there. Because they're disgusting, they're ugly.'

  'They're thinking of knocking them down,' said Trevor.

  'They been thinking about a lot of things around here, but let me tell you, they ain't gonna do shit.'

  'How do you feel about being rescued from the roof?'

  'T'riffic.'

  'Do you want to tell me why you tried to kill yourself?'

  'Because I know who I want to be and I keep getting forced into being someone else.'

  'What do you mean by that?'

  James lifted the plaster holding the IV tube in his arm and tried to scratch around the needle. He breathed deeply.

  'Think of every tired cliché you've ever heard about black men. I'm trying desperately hard not to be that. I don't want to become a stereotype. Everyone thinks they know me but they don't. I don't suppose it matters to you. Everything I think has already been thought,' said James. 'Everything I feel has already been felt. Everything I want to do has been done. It's like I don't matter. People who don't even know me are already tired of me. I'm only ever going to be what I don't want to be.'

  'You keep saying that. What do you mean?'

  James wanted Trevor to take him seriously. 'I was on the train last week,' he said, 'and I got into a fight. I sat down opposite a black guy. He looked a few years older than me. He had on baggy jeans, big Timberland boots and a T-shirt three sizes too big. He was just looking at me. Out of the blue he asked me what I was looking at. "Nothing," was all I said. We spent the next three or four stops staring each other down. Like, really staring each other down. I didn't want to look at him but I didn't want him to think I was backing down or scared, even though I was. I was really scared but I wanted to be strong. You know? I wanted to let him know I wasn't afraid of him being up in my face the way he was. By the sixth or seventh stop I gave up. I looked away but he just wouldn't stop staring. "What?" I finally asked him at the ninth stop. He didn't answer but he got up when I did and followed me off the train. After we got through the ticket barrier he called me a faggot, said something about the tightness of my jeans. I told him his old man and the whole line of men in his family were faggots and that his mother had sucked my dick.'

  'And?'

  'And he slapped me, which is supposed to be a big dis.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'My brother 4 bitch-slaps people when he knows they can't fight him.'

  'Oh. Right. So what happened next?'

  'We fought. The only reason I fought him was because 4 said that real tough guys don't talk. When they want to fight they fight. And this guy was all talk. Plus he followed me off at my stop. With a real tough guy, it would have kicked off on the train. It didn't last long, a bunch of people pulled us apart. I had marks on my neck from his fingernails. It was nothing really, but for about a week, every time I saw the marks in the mirror I felt the shame of fighting with another black guy. I was pushed into doing what I would never want to. The thought stalked me, this idea of being forced into things that I don't want to do. That's the story of my life and of the lives of everyone I know. We get pushed around. In the end we become what we never imagined we would. I don't want to live like that, not ever. I know nobody gives a shit. Who woul
d?'

  Trevor was silent for a while. He looked at James intently and then he wrote something else down.

  'Were you reading Baldwin at the time?'

  'What time?'

  'On the train, the fight?'

  'No.'

  'What's so bad about being called a faggot?'

  'Nothing,' James said quickly, 'I guess.'

  'One last question, if you don't mind. If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be?'

  'Far away from here on a hill surrounded by tall trees and a lake and some grass.'

  'Do you mean marijuana?' Trevor held up his clipboard poised to make note.

  'I don't smoke weed. I mean grass like in a garden.'

  Trevor looked at James and he smiled. 'Do you ever leave your estate?'

  James sighed and closed his eyes. Sometimes he went to the City at lunchtime. He would buy a frothy coffee and sit in the window of Starbucks or eat a pub lunch in the Seven Stars, that 400-year-old pub behind the Royal Courts of Justice. He liked watching the robed barristers and white men in suits, trying to see where he might fit in one day. Once he saw a tall and angular dark-skinned black man, in his late thirties, wearing a pen lodged in the breast pocket of a navy blue suit with a clean white shirt with initials fancily sewn into his cuffs. At first he just walked by and they merely eyed each other. Than he stopped and turned back to face James, moved his Financial Times from under his left armpit to his right. Then he looked at his wristwatch, a Rolex Oyster Perpetual, the same as 4 bought 3 for his last birthday.

  James thought he was just showing off at first. But then he watched the movements of the man's body, his anxious eyes; the way he would hesitate and begin again; seeming scared, like he knew he was one false move away from the street. James didn't want to live like that. But he didn't say any of this to Trevor.

  Trevor closed his notebook dramatically. 'There, that's it. We're all done,' he said.

  He sounded like every doctor who had ever stuck a needle in James's arm. Trevor reopened his black pad and then looked at James.

  'You will be pleased to know that I won't recommend you being sectioned. You'll most likely be advised to see a therapist and to take some anti-anxiety medication. Nobody can force you to do anything you don't want to, but please leave the option open. Some people believe they can simply use willpower to control their suicidal feelings. The problem with that is there is probably a chemical imbalance in the brain. And that needs to be treated with medicine. So let me ask you this, James: if you had a broken leg, would you get treatment or would you just keep walking on it, writhing in pain, trying to convince yourself that you just needed willpower to overcome the pain? No,' he said after a teacher-like pause, 'you would get treatment, and you would do so immediately. You wouldn't even think twice about it. Your situation is similar. If you are diagnosed with clinical depression, or something, then there is a physical cause for your condition. And you need to get it sorted out. It is not just emotion. The brain, after all, is an organ. And sometimes it needs treatment.' Trevor stood, zipped up his bag and then placed a business card near the fruit bowl and put his hand on James's shoulder. James shrugged it off.

  'You know, sometimes you sound like a robot. You do this a lot, right?'

  Trevor smiled. This time James thought it might be genuine. 'I'll bear that in mind. Remember, I'm here for you. You can talk to me any time. But you have to meet me halfway. I can only do so much and I think accepting my limits is an important aspect of what I do. I want you to do something for me that's very, very important. Make a commitment to staying alive. Can you promise me that?'

  'I promise.' James said just to speed up Trevor's departure.

  Trevor patted James arm lightly. 'You see, you are more connected than you realise. One final thing. Relax. That's right. Take some deep breaths and do something that you enjoy. Take a candlelit bath, burn an effigy of P. Diddy. I don't know. Go for a walk in the park with a beautiful friend. Listen to some nice music.'

  Trevor, with his peevish tone and his GQ manner, suddenly repulsed James.

  'You know what I mean?' Trevor said. 'Just take it easy. And engage in these activities that relax you on a regular basis. And let me tell you, James, today is the first day of the rest of your life. You are on your way. On your way to a better life.'

  He slung his bag over his shoulder and left. James watched him for as long as he could see him and he mulled over everything that had gone wrong in his life. He looked at Trevor's business card. He had not been handed a real business card before, from a white man. Then James reached over and picked up the letter.

  SEVEN

  MEINA AND JAMES

  AFTER READING HER LETTER James expected Meina to visit at some point. But he had not expected that she would look so like her brother. When she walked into the room he was standing with his back to the door, looking out of the window, watching out for her. He was still attached to an IV and wore what looked like an oversized blue bib. The sound of her footsteps at the door startled him and he swivelled round too quickly, almost collapsing to the ground. Her eyes were tawny, like her brother's but set wider apart, giving her face an almost feline appearance – the look he saw was fleeting, it was gone from her face as soon as she smiled but it was a look that would stick in his memory. There was no mistaking the pain.

  James had seen her from his window the day before, sitting on a bench in the hospital gardens, under a row of oak trees and a cloud-filled sky. She wore a long raincoat and a wig she had bought for ten pounds at Afroworld on Kingsland High Street in Dalston. It was the type of Afro idealised in the sixties, natural, light and never subdued. Meina wore it defiantly; that day she had been dreaming of being someone else, a strong rebellious sister, out of the reach of pain. Her hands were dug deep into her pockets and she sat with head bent low, staring at her shoes. Around her fellow visitors, doctors, nurses, paramedics and auxiliary workers bustled through the gardens. But as Meina sat facing the building, nervously trying to steel herself in preparation for her imminent meeting with James, she felt alone, far removed from the people passing her.

  She remembered her brother's visits to the homes of her ex-husbands. Ashvin was the reason she had kept on being divorced. Once, pretending to be a blind beggar, he had sat in the white heat outside one house for almost a week. That was the longest it ever took for any of the husbands to return her to her aunt's house. Waddaddo, blind beggars, were believed to have the power of deflecting misfortune by conjuring protective spells or by adding the Qur'an baraka (blessings) to a family's personal amulets. Their predictions were always costly. Meina looked out from the confines of a gloomy room that smelled of unwashed laundry, early one Sunday morning. She could not believe her eyes when she saw Ashvin walking towards her new home. He wore metal cuffs on his wrists, and a silver wrapper that had belonged to their father which he had covered with banana leaves, yam vines and what looked like oil.

  Meina was with her fourth husband, a thin rodent-faced old man with spiky hair and quick hands – Asad or Ayad, she could no longer remember his name. Like most of the ex-husbands, he was brutal in his adherence to his beliefs and lived in a world of camel clops on desert sand and raised women's voices around the communal water well. This was Bargal, a remote village far in the south where villagers were known to threaten to behead those who did not pray five times a day. The husband had four maddening children – all girls with flashing eyes – who he instructed to bang on the floor with a broom whenever they wanted their father's new bride to fetch something. It was a mundal, an old mud house with crumbling walls and a small herd of camels in the dusty, termite-mound-studded yard. The room Meina was kept in was dirty with small windows that let in little light. Ashvin sat opposite the entrance on a low stool, sweating in the ninety-degree heat. The villagers murmured nervously as they passed by. No one dared approach; most just stared inquisitively from their front doors.

  Meina had no idea how he had come up with the scheme. It was genius,
but she was troubled – if he succeeded, it would only encourage their aunt and her husband to arrange more marriages, to make more money from selling her off. He was a clever, resourceful fourteen-year-old. Their father had told them that blind beggars were considered specialists who 'fought' jinns in ceremonies resembling exorcisms. Meina had seen Ashvin's 'ceremony' three times before. He would take the head of a dead snake from his pocket and a boiled egg. Passing the egg through the head of the snake, he would break open the shell, eat the egg and spread the bloodied remains around the entrance to the mundal. Sometimes he would light a fire and lightly touch the head or the eyelids of the snake, muttering all the while.

  For the first few days Asad/Ayad hovered at the entrance to the house, his hands clasped behind his back. But by the Friday of that week he had lost his resolve. He was a man in total distress, stammering and stuttering. 'Oh, blind beggar,' he pleaded, 'I am the owner of this home. Why me?'

  'The eggshells mean sickness,' said Ashvin, stretching his neck to look up so that his eyes bore into the old man.

  Meina watched from the window as her brother crossed his eyes and spoke up in a raspy, strangled voice – as though he could not bear to confide his secret.

  'Do you have a new woman in your house? A young girl?' The husband nodded nervously. Ashvin, looking down and crushing bloodied eggshells between his palms, shook his head, 'She is cursed. She will bring sickness to your camels. To the whole village. No doctor will have the cure.'

  Meina was sure he would be discovered because of the sound of his voice. His accent was rough and throaty-sounding, easily identifiable as belonging to someone from the city, as opposed to the slower, more melodious voices of people who lived in remote villages. But he was never caught out, and when the news of his warning spread, a sense of panic buzzed around the sleepy village. The neighbours demanded the husband leave or send his new bride away.

  The sight of Meina on the hospital bench had haunted James. She was eighteen, a grown woman. What did she want from him? But she too was nervous and did not say much that first day. She studied the stitches on his lip and the scar on his neck – a vivid, jagged, raw red ring. She stood at the door, wide-eyed, with dimples and half-full lips that looked as if they might burst if kissed. Although they had never spoken, James had seen her around Forest Gate, at the bus stop. She had always seemed reserved, unapproachable. In the past they had only nodded acknowledgement once or twice, and now, finding themselves alone, neither one knew what to do.