Forest Gate

by Peter Akinti

  'What's so funny?' Meina asked when we left.

  'That was the white woman who my father was seeing on the side. I could hear my mother's angry voice when I saw her. "That bitch. She ain't even pretty. Just a regular, cheap, white ho."'

  We walked for another ten minutes, following pink balloons and arrows, with our arms around one another mostly for support.

  We stopped walking once. I buried my head in Meina's hair and kissed her neck. She drew me in and pressed her lips against mine. I couldn't stop myself.

  'Doesn't it feel great out here?' I said.

  'Yes, but what if we got stranded?'

  'Then we'd spend all night in those hills,' I said and laughed.

  'What's up with you?'

  'I don't know. I feel like I could take all my clothes off and run wild for miles.'

  'Yeah? Well, don't,' she said and she kissed me again.

  I heard voices echoing before I saw the cave. It was at a fork in the road between two cliff edges. Lights had been wired to a car battery and roughly arranged at the mouth of the cave, stretched across the wall on netting. We could see that bodies took up most of the space inside, six of them dressed in dark colours, all in their teens. It looked like a medieval cybercafe and smelled strongly of fish and chips.

  There was a radio playing. The presenter sounded like he was climaxing when he announced he would be playing the new Britney Spears. There were two boys and four girls huddled around a calabash. One of them, an Indian looking girl with a long forehead, read aloud: '"On this occasion, however, the spirit of suicide Rekla Merchant had not come merely to mock."'

  All six of them started when we entered.

  'I'm James. I'm looking for Belinda.'

  'My God!' a girl's voice shrieked from inside the cave. 'It's my brother.'

  The girl who spoke had a voice that could have belonged to a boy. Her mouth opened and closed and her tongue touched her lips but at first no more words came out.

  'You're my brother,' she said eventually, standing in front of me.

  There wasn't any denying it. Those were Morrison eyes; that was a Morrison mouth, a Morrison nose. Not only had she stolen my father and my grandmother's name, she'd stolen my father's looks too. She even had his thick eyebrows.

  She was tall and had a slight chip in her front tooth. She looked a lot like me, but for the lightness of her skin and the wild, matted hair that fell way past her shoulders. Except for her shocking-pink nail polish everything else she wore was black. She put her hands to her head, as if trying to tidy her hair, but it was useless. It was only when she hugged me that I realised I was shaking. Then she turned to the others. 'It's OK. They're on the level,' she said. Then she turned back to Meina and gave her a welcoming hug too. 'These are my friends: Ritchie, Judith, Kimi, Diane and Kat.' The gang all gave waves and small nods. 'Where's that bottle of wine?'

  They cheered noisily like a band of thieves.

  'How did you get here? Where are you staying?'

  'At a place called the Mermaid,' I said.

  A lean, scrawny boy with tight blond curls handed her a bottle.

  'That's the fussy dressmaker woman's place, right?' he said. 'We got banned from there last year.'

  There was another rowdy cheer and chinks from the clash of cups, glasses and beer bottles.

  SIXTEEN

  JAMES

  PAT AND BELINDA HAD lived in the house on Trevescan Place since they'd left London. It was one of several cottages on a slope, opposite a row of fruit trees backing onto the coast. Meina sat with me, holding my hand. Bell sat alongside her mother in the living room at a small black dining table. The wood floors were covered in part by a colourful rug. It was a large but cosy room with four small windows facing the east. There was a large painting I recognised as Equiano the African on the chimney wall above an open log fire. A framed picture of my father, smiling, with his arms wrapped lovingly around Pat and Belinda sat on the marble fireplace. The picture troubled me, I didn't like looking at my own father and feeling like a stranger.

  After banging around in the kitchen for half an hour Pat had presented an impromptu dinner of leftovers: cream of mushroom soup, some chicken with herb-seasoned white rice and green beans. It was hard to imagine my father with this woman.

  Life was complicated, I thought. Not just the living but dealing with the realities and the instinct for order that other people have, that I didn't always grasp.

  'I know I'm a stranger to you,' said Pat, 'but I loved your father very much. You look like him, you know. I'm glad you've come. It means a lot to me and Bell.'

  My mother had told me that my father only went out with Pat because of the size of her tits. I had to struggle constantly to keep my eyes from her unruly bosom; it moved when she spoke and she kept adjusting her bra. I watched her shift her heavy frame to make herself a cup of green tea. She said she worked in a pub (Thursday was her only day off) – in her too-tight denim skirt and revealing striped top, she looked like she ought to. She rubbed her chubby hands together, speaking to me in a low, measured voice.

  'Your father was a strong man.' She paused and looked cautiously at all of us to be sure she wasn't being mocked. 'He wanted out of Forest Gate. He stopped drinking, you know, tried to clean up, but he died before he got a chance to move. Things were tough for Bell and me when we arrived down here but it worked out in the end. It always does, you know, James. People manage. We have to.'

  I lowered my head and kept still for a long while. A gusty wind whistled and I could hear the sound of waves.

  Pat walked calmly to the kitchen sink, and I watched as she wiped her hands on a dishcloth, and then put on a CD. It was a gospel-style voice singing with what sounded like a recording of a seventies soul band. I was surprised at her choice of music. Belinda must have caught my expression.

  'Gross, right?' she said when she saw me watching her mother nod her head to the rhythm. Belinda had my father's jawline. She was strangely cold to her mother. It took me a while to notice but Belinda seemed to get more agitated every time her mother spoke. She would huff, shift uncomfortably in her seat or roll her eyes.

  I felt awkward with Pat and Belinda eyeing the ligature scars on my neck. It was still raw in places but the edges seemed to have turned blue. It made my skin feel sore and looked almost transparent. I didn't want anyone to feel uncomfortable on my account so I spoke up.

  'I know you know what happened. Meina's brother Ashvin was my best friend. He died.'

  Pat looked alarmed and raised her hand to her mouth.

  Belinda muttered, 'How awful,' under her breath and then for what seemed like ages there was silence.

  'How's Bertha?' asked Pat, trying to change the subject.

  It had been a long time since I had heard anybody use my mother's name.

  'She's addicted to crack,' I answered.

  'Oh.' Pat tried hard to mask her surprise.

  'And . . . er . . . how are your brothers?'

  'Had they started dealing before you left?' I asked.

  First she went pale. Then her skin flushed with colour. 'Yes, I think so,' she said.

  'Well, they're the same more or less then.' I was starting to get angry at this casual meaningless questioning, everything that was unsaid, but we all managed to smile through.

  Meina looked at Belinda. 'So,' she said awkwardly, 'those guys in the cave. Are they your best friends?'

  Finally, Pat sighed and looked straight at me. 'You know, I always liked your mother,' she said.

  'What?' said Belinda. 'Was that before or after you started screwing her man?'

  'May I have another drink?' Meina asked.

  'You were friends before, right? You and my mum?' I insisted, welcoming the guilt I finally saw on Pat's face.

  Meina narrowed her eyes and straightened her back, focusing on Bell. I turned to Bell and for a moment I studied the shape of her face, her eyes and the shock of hair.

  'Yes . . . I loved your father . . . Unforgivable thing
s happen,' said Pat. 'Your mother was a friend. Of course, I haven't seen her since the funeral – she wanted to argue with me even then, but anyone who knows me will tell you I'm not the quarrelling sort.'

  Belinda tutted. 'That's so lame. So what sort are you, Mother?'

  Pat pursed her lips as if to stop her angry words. 'When you get to my age you'll know nothing stands in the way of true love. Anyway, it's good to see you, James. And Meina, I'm sorry for your loss.' She stood and put her hand on my shoulder, crouched and kissed Meina on both cheeks. Then she picked up her book and put a bit of paper in it to mark her page, sighing. 'Sometimes, Bell, you can be so . . . so uncivilised,' she said. 'I'm going to bed.'

  There was a resounding silence. I could see Meina felt embarrassed. I said nothing.

  'Mum, I was just kidding,' shouted Belinda. But Pat was already gone.

  Belinda poured herself another drink, held her glass up to the light so she could look underneath it. 'God, it feels good to have a drink without feeling guilty about it.' Her eyes widened and she grinned at herself as she raised the glass. 'To the return of the prodigical brother. Is that the right word?' she said chuckling.

  Meina and I exchanged glances.

  'Please, you guys, don't look like that. You have no idea. I saw my father shot. I was there. Then to move out here, the middle of nowhere. The few black kids around don't want to talk to me; white kids don't want to talk to me. It's all her fault.' She sighed. 'I used to drink every day. I tried to sleep with every white boy in my class. I wanted to sleep with every one of them in the school.'

  Meina looked horrified. 'Why d'you do that?' she asked.

  'You don't understand. I was hated in that school. For no reason. I couldn't understand why they hated me so much. Nigger this 'n' nigger that . . . when I left London I didn't even think I was black. I mean, I lived with a white woman who loved R&B but that was as far as it went. I didn't fully absorb the fact that I was black until I got here. Then I realised it was so obvious to the rest of the world. Everybody seemed fascinated with the colour of my skin. There was no one to teach me what it meant to be black. I didn't understand why they hated me. What did I do?' She looked at her glass, took a gulp of the brown liquid and smiled prettily. 'So you're my brother?' She touched my cheek.

  'I've always wondered stuff about you.'

  'Stuff like what?' I said.

  'A bunch of little stuff.' She laughed and for an instant she resembled her mother.

  'What's your favourite cereal?' she said.

  'Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.'

  'Erykah Badu or Alicia Keys?'

  I screwed up my face and my lips trembled when I smiled so I turned away from her. 'To listen to or get busy with?'

  'Both.'

  'Definitely get busy with Alicia Keys, but I prefer Erykah's voice.'

  Bell started a funny-sounding rendition of 'Call Tyrone' (I think you better caaall Ty-rone).

  'Like . . . have you had sex?'

  I blushed. 'Well . . . yes, lots of times.' I saw Bell smile at Meina.

  'So who have you had sex with?'

  'With lots of different girls.'

  'If you could spend a night with any celebrity who would it be?'

  'Jurnee Smollett.'

  'That little girl from Eve's Bayou?'

  'She ain't little any more.'

  We both laughed. It was like we were proving black credentials.

  'Charlie Brown or Bart Simpson?'

  'Charlie Brown.'

  'Stevie or Prince?'

  'Stevie.'

  'Reservoir Dogs or Usual Suspects?'

  'Reservoir Dogs . . . no, I mean Usual Suspects.'

  'Naomi or Tyra?'

  'Naomi, any day, every day. I have a picture of her.'

  'Will Smith or Denzel?'

  'Neither.'

  'If you had to pick?'

  'Neither.'

  'What's your favourite drink?'

  'Sprite.'

  'Duh. I mean proper drink?'

  'I don't have one.'

  She touched my cheek again. 'My own, real brother.' She filled her glass as if to keep her hands busy and this time she asked Meina and me to raise our glasses. We waited for her to make a toast.

  'I think you two make a fucking lovely couple,' she said. She swallowed a mouthful and burped.

  'I've never felt I belonged in Cornwall,' said Bell. 'I love it and hate it at the same time. I feel like I'm a London girl inside.

  'I hate London. It feels so much better out here,' I said.

  'It does feel nice,' Meina said, looking out towards the night sky.

  'But London is where it's all happening,' said Bell. 'You have Brixton Academy and Wembley, all the best gigs. You have grime music, all the best clubs, DJs and radio stations. Not that I care, but you've even got Buckingham Palace. I can't wait until I get some money together and figure out what to do with myself when I get back.'

  I had never been to Buckingham Palace, Brixton Academy or Wembley Stadium and I hated grime. It was the first time I had been identified with those things by an outsider. It felt confusing.

  'I'd seriously think about that if I were you,' I said. 'London just feels so crazy right now. When you're there you don't feel as much a part of it as when you aren't. I don't feel, like, any of those places belong to me.'

  'What do you mean, crazy?'

  'I mean it's rough. I know this sounds cheesy but London doesn't take prisoners and when it goes down nobody could give a shit.'

  'Rough how?'

  'Rough, rough . . . I met a guy the other day who I hadn't seen since he got put away for shooting his sister. He said the "safe" accommodation social services had found for him since his release didn't feel safe, and he couldn't bear to go back to the estate where his family lives. He used to push weights but when I saw him he was skinny. He said he'd lost two stone during his time inside. And he looked twelve years old except for his eyes, which had that old-man look that some people carry about, like they've seen too much.'

  'Shot his sister?' Meina said.

  'Yeah, shot her in the face. He was only thirteen at the time. His mother buried her boyfriend's gun in the back garden. She got two years for possession and for not giving up the name of her boyfriend. Of course everyone knows who he is, some clown from the Nkrumah estate. But the scary thing is everybody has a gun buried in the garden – you have to have a gun or at least know someone with one. Guns are part of the environment, like a final defence.'

  'What's his name?' asked Bell.

  'Keeshon,' I said. 'He was playing with his lighter and I noticed the tips of his fingers were all black like my mother's, a sure sign he was on crack. I was afraid for him. His mother's boyfriend was afraid he would talk, give the police his name. He started thinking that maybe Keeshon would want to seek revenge. Keeshon told me he didn't want to carry a knife but if he didn't have one he couldn't defend himself. He said he didn't want people to think he was a pussy but he didn't want to kill anyone and it's too dangerous to talk to the police. I understood him, you know. Whatever happens I remember thinking it would never be the same. He's never going to be the boy I used to kick a ball with over on Wanstead Flats, who dreamed he was gonna be Pelé. All that was over. You know what really gets me is that bad shit happens to every one of us, I mean people like me. I'm always afraid of whatever it is that's lurking out there for me.'

  'What did he say to you about his sister?' asked Bell.

  'I didn't ask but he kept playing with his lighter, like I wasn't even there, and he kept saying how much he loved her. It's all just so fucked up. I mean, what do you think is going to happen to him walking around in that state? He's fucked.'

  'Is that why you came down here?' asked Bell.

  'I didn't want to come. But since I got here it's like being able to breathe freely, like I've wanted to be here all my life, away from all the crap.'

  'Nothing is going to happen to you,' Meina said. 'You don't have to think like that. I like London
. It doesn't feel dangerous to me in that way. Before my parents were murdered my father received death threats, and we were in constant fear for our lives because it was impossible to distinguish between the fighters. When I came to England, I was still so afraid whenever I saw a black man in uniform. Many of these men in Africa with their guns, they're lawless, unchecked. We had no one to protect us. Once Ashvin escaped being kidnapped by two men with a gun he met on his way home from school. He denied he was related to my father. Some of the offices and facilities at the university where my father taught were vandalised and burned. Another time, we were shot at on our way to market. Bullets shattered the back windscreen of our car, pierced my mother's headscarf, and our poor driver, Hassan, was killed on the spot.'

  Sadness crept into the room. I felt caged. My neck ached and itched; I rubbed at it because it was too painful for me to try to scratch. Meina must have sensed my discomfort. She leaned over and kissed my hands. I held my breath, reached out and gently rubbed her back. I closed my eyes and rested my head on her shoulder.

  Bell didn't look like she was paying much attention. She poured herself another drink. 'All the women should form an army and lock up all the men around the world. Including you, my brother,' she said, slurring her words.

  'You know 5 was in prison?' I said.

  'Why?'

  'He beat up some guy, put him in a wheelchair.'

  Meina shivered and searched for something in my eyes.

  'I asked him why he did it. "I love this country," he said, "I just can't stand some of the fuckers who live in it."'

  Later, when it got chilly, Belinda and I went to her bedroom to pull the sheets and blankets from the bed to keep us all warm on the floor under the table. Her room was small. She had a desk by her window with an expensive laptop and printer. There were a few books on some shelves, some Japanese names and three thick volumes by Alexandre Dumas.

  'You write?' I asked.

  'No. I like to draw-and there's bugger all else to do out here.'

  We stood together staring at the picture of the two of us eating cake together when we were kids.