Forest Gate

by Peter Akinti

  It was the first time I had ever thought about myself so directly connected to drug dealing. My hands were trembling, I only realised they were numb when I dug into my pockets. I decided that I liked Whittaker. He knew I was different, I could tell. At last someone who looked at me. Someone had finally separated me from everyone else.

  'I'm going to have to get back to my office,' said Whittaker. He took out his wallet and opened it, shuffled through a stack of bills, credit cards and photographs. 'Here's my card.' He wrote his mobile number on the back.

  'I'm serious, kid. Anything you need.' He sighed when he saw my expression. 'Look,' he said. His fists were clenched. 'You don't have to go bad. I have seen this happen a thousand times, families being torn apart like this. You have a choice. Allow yourself time to mourn but don't do anything crazy. You have to play your hand. Don't keep it bottled up inside.' His voice was forlorn. He held my wrists, his breath smelled vaguely of the boiled sweet he had been sucking on in the car. I could see the green veins in his neck. 'Look at me,' he said. 'Don't be stupid. Don't get angry at the world.' He released my arms slowly. 'If there is anything you need, you call me.'

  Play your hand . . . I had heard this before.

  'I will,' I said and Meina and I watched the inspector walk away. We were outside Skeets's front door. I didn't want to go in.

  It was one of those old Parker Morris council flats built in the seventies. Unfortunately for Skeets his building fell just outside the catchment area of the English Heritage scheme that had recently cleared twelve tower blocks and replaced them with maisonettes under the Forest Gate Olympic Regeneration Programme. His flat was a long-forgotten, dilapidated sorrowful hole, ideal for a crack den. It had woodchip wallpaper, badly cracked ceilings and greasy chipboard kitchen units barely on their hinges. The bathroom door was busted; it lay on its side in the passage like a wounded dog. There was a smell of disinfectant – Dettol or something – that failed to hide the pervading smell of sick, and I could see black mould growing in the spaces between the white tiles. Slowly, I looked around the living room, taking it all in.

  Skeets sat on the far side. I had no idea who the other people in the room were. They were all watching me. They looked to me as though they were going out of their way to look like crack-heads in their shabby unironed clothes. I heard the sound of a car starting up outside. Skeets stood abruptly and walked to the window. 'Looks like the rozzers have gone. You can all leave now,' he said, still checking the window. People started shuffling to their feet and heading to the door. 'Oi, wake up, go on,' said Skeets to a man I hadn't noticed sitting in the sofa nearest the kitchen whose eyes had remained closed.

  After a few seconds, the man shook off his sleep and came slowly to his feet. He bent down, picked up his coat and shuffled down the hallway, clutching his belongings to his chest. Skeets watched them all leave but he stayed. As they passed, some of them touched my shoulder, saying how sorry they were, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and made me shiver. I looked cautiously behind me as Skeets moved his tall skinny body towards the passage. He pulled his dreadlocks, long and grey, out of his face and I heard him put the security chain across his front door. I didn't like being locked in his house.

  It was dark and bleak in the room, crowded with dusty plastic flowers and dirty lace doilies, a room desperately crying out for fresh air. There was a picture of a vexed young Rasta with his arms folded, and a corner sofa big enough to seat five. The single window was shaded by exhausted red velvet curtains. It was like an eye, through which I could see far out into the gloom of east London. The only sound was the drone of an old refrigerator. Skeets switched a light on, turning the window into a mirror so that I saw her standing there behind me. My temples pumped against my skull as I exchanged looks with my mother. We saw all there was to see of each other. She burst into tears and moved to embrace me. 'It's you,' she cried. I couldn't hug her back.

  'I'll wait outside,' said Meina, as she backed out of the room.

  My mother looked old. The crack had taken something out of her soul a long time ago. I had waited, as all my brothers had, but whatever it was that went missing had never come back. Her eyes were agitated and some of her hair was showing from the sides of her headscarf; her dressing gown had opened to reveal one of her sagging breasts. All her fingertips were black. I saw her catch a glimpse of her reflection in the window and she walked over and drew the curtains shut. Skeets looked ghostly in the dark. His face was bony and pale and I could only see the whites of his glaring eyes.

  My mother came back to me and I felt her body trembling against mine; she smelled of sweat.

  'It's a mercy you weren't here.' She stepped away from me again, took a deep breath and in the tense silence we tried to avert our eyes from one another.

  'I don't remember everything. I was smoking, son. I'm sorry. But I remember the blood. There was blood everywhere. All over my babies. 5 woke up screaming in the night. Not like any time before, this was much, much worse. When I went to give him water he was soaked in sweat, staring out at the moon; it was big and bright. His eyes . . . his eyes looked full of the devil's thoughts. He put his gun to my head, told me to stop using. He swore if I dared touch drugs again he'd come back for me. "Come back from where?" I asked him. He didn't sound right when he spoke, he sounded like he was already dead.' Her hands were shaking as she pulled something from the pocket of her gown. 'He gave me this.'

  She handed me a small white envelope with my name on it. It was a letter from 5. It had already been opened.

  '"Go hide, old woman, before I change my mind." That's what he said to me. It was like he was someone else. The veins were swelling in his neck and he was shaking. I went to my room and crawled under the bed. I heard it all. Five shots; boom, all my babies gone. I don't remember anything after that.' She held her head in her hands and wept.

  Maybe it was shock. Or shame. Maybe she was still high. I couldn't tell.

  'James,' she said, 'I can't lie to you because you the only family I got. I need to stay high to keep the images of my babies from entering my head. Them police want me to go back there but you can tell 'em from me, I ain't never going back to that house. Not for shit.'

  I looked at her for a long time and then at Skeets. I was shivering but it wasn't cold. I felt I would throw up any second. I could see my whole life there in front of me. Day in, day out, in that cramped room in Forest Gate with my mum and Skeets. It was about five o'clock in the morning. No moon. No sun. I could see the raw artificial lights glowing down over Stratford, a vast nightmare of desolation and petty antagonisms. I was crying.

  'Hush now, baby,' said my mother.

  We sat there together, lost in our shared grief. She stroked my face and hair, gently pulled my head towards her chest and then clamped her hands behind my back as she did when I was little.

  'Baby, do you know about the money? Where is all our money at?'

  I took a deep breath and pulled back. A gentle light beamed in from the window and Skeets looked right at me. Beads of sweat glistened on my forehead and more than anything else I wanted to run.

  'What money?' I asked.

  'Where shall I take you?' asked Bloom when we returned to the safety of his car. I was crying. 'Take it easy, James.' His voice was awkward. 'Do you want to go back to Meina's?'

  'No. Do you think you could take me to my father's grave?'

  'Sure. Where?'

  'Manor Park. I'll show you the way.'

  We arrived just as the caretaker, a shrivelled old man who, with his spiky grey beard, looked about eighty years old, opened the gates. It was early but he let us through. Mr Bloom pulled up by a large monument in the shape of a woman, Mary Magdalene probably. I read the words inscribed: But O for the touch of a vanished band and the sound of a voice that is still.

  'Can I use your phone?' I asked.

  'Of course,' said Bloom.

  'I'll need to take it with me. I need to make one call. I won't look at your messages.'<
br />
  'Of course,' he repeated. 'Stay on it as long as you want.'

  I slid off my jacket, lowered myself and rested my back against the edge of my father's headstone. I glanced around – some of the weeds were overgrown, obscuring some of the older headstones. I looked up at the sky and for a moment I was still. Then I shook my head, rocked back and forth and read my brother's letter.

  James,

  I have begun this letter five times and torn it up five times. I keep seeing your face, the face of our father and the faces of our brothers. This will be the last time you hear from me.

  I'm sorry for what I have to do but this ain't no way for us to live. Marcus Garvey described us as a mighty race . . . I sure don't feel like I'm a part of it. I hate doing what I do. I hate myself. I've spent a long time trying to please no one but myself. I have no idea who I really am but I know I'm not a poisoner of black kids. I see too much blood when I look in the mirror, black blood everywhere. I can escape the mirror, James, but I can't escape myself.

  I have never had the chance to tell you about my son, Ricardo. His mother is Carla. She lives in Piauí, north-east Brazil. I met Carla years ago at that Sunday-night club on the Lea Bridge road. She was one of those girls who wore expensive shit. You know the type, getting mashed on Moet and half an E and dancing all night. Turns out she was only in London two weeks. I liked her from the off. We started chatting, swapped numbers and ended up getting close. I even took her to the airport when she left. Somehow we stayed in touch – she sent letters but she never told me she got pregnant, not until he was born. I didn't give a shit at first but it was always in the back of my mind, like. I wondered sometimes about that little boy I had somewhere in Brazil. I met up with her on the last business trip I took. I spent two weeks with them. That was real life, James. It's been ages since I have seen my boy. They mean everything in the world to me but I don't see them because I'm a disaster.

  Your girl Meina sort of reminds me of my Carla. You're onto a winner there. She looks like she might be able to boil an egg and read bedtime stories to your kids (not like some of these ghetto chicks). Don't be a screw-up like me. (Your dick is the devil – don't listen.) Hold on to her. Make yourself a good family, protect them, be the best that you can be. Don't be stupid.

  Always remember me, remember your brothers. You're on your own now. This is not the time to be weak, be strong. Don't let life turn you into a victim.

  When you leave for Brazil, be sure to take clothes for my boy (he will be four) and cigarettes for her (Marlboro). Keep an eye on Ricardo; he is the only thing about me that is pure. Their address is:

  House Teresina

  Rua das barrocas

  Santa Rosa, Piauí

  Brazil

  It's not going to be easy. I don't envy you, James. But you've always been straight as a hard-on. You are black. You are under eighteen. I don't see a place for you, not in the age we live in. I don't even know what to say to you. Still, don't make me catch you down in hell. I have racked my brain to offer you some words of wisdom. I could only come up with this: don't be afraid. This is your home, don't be driven from it. You have to survive.

  Remember your brothers: Dahrren, Jerome, Loryn and Kieran.

  And me,

  Nathan

  I read the letter a few times before pulling out my wallet and searching for Trevor Carrick's business card. Trevor Carrick, Psychotherapist.

  My father's headstone was black marble. I wondered who had chosen the uninspired words: Gone but not forgotten, ever loved husband and father, at rest. Probably Nathan.

  I looked around at some of the other graves with freshly laid flowers: lilies, tulips, irises. They looked doomed. The sun was soft, shots of light beamed on the marble headstones. I dialled Trevor Carrick's mobile number.

  It was answered on the fourth ring.

  'Hello, Mr Carrick. This is James Morrison. I'm hoping you remember who I am. We met –'

  'James, I know who you are.'

  Silence.

  'I'm sorry to trouble you. But you said I could call if I needed help. Well . . . my brothers . . . well . . . what did you give me your card for, Mr Carrick?'

  'James, I heard about what happened and I'm sorry.'

  'That's all right. But, Mr Carrick, I need some help.'

  'Anything.'

  'I don't know what to do.'

  Silence.

  'Are you there? I said I don't know what to do.'

  'Well,' he said, 'well . . . you could . . . Look, I'm glad you called. It shows . . .'

  I didn't understand Carrick's dithering. I felt like I was being mocked.

  'James? . . . James, I'm sorry,' said Carrick, 'I just don't know what to say.'

  I looked at the red button on Mr Bloom's phone and cut the call. I lay at my father's grave, surrounded by trees, with my eyes closed, for a long time. My mind was blank. There was no one else about except for a couple walking hand in hand following a path far ahead. I lay there, waiting for time to start up again.

  I sat with my father for over an hour. I had my brother's letter on my lap. I stared up at the grey slowly spreading over the sky and the pigeon shit on the red rooftops on the red-brick houses across the street. There was just stillness. When I walked out of the cemetery Larry Bloom was sitting in the car waiting patiently listening to Sarah Vaughan with the windows down.

  'Where's Meina?' I asked.

  'I wasn't sure how long you were going to need. I thought it best to take her home.'

  'Good. I need to ask you a favour,' I said.

  EIGHTEEN

  LARRY BLOOM

  I HAD BEEN TO Brazil a few times but never to our destination, Piauí State in the north-east. After a few phone calls to an old friend, Horatio Roberto de Souza, a retired army colonel and security chief, everything was arranged. James hardly spoke a word to me or to Meina during the entire flight. He had been acting as though what had happened was beyond him; pretending that there was nothing wrong. It disturbed me because I had seen this response before in Ashvin and Armeina.

  For most of the flight he kept his arms folded across his chest under his blanket, only rousing once when Meina insisted he eat. I wouldn't have agreed to take him given his suicide attempt, but the therapist thought it was a good way of monitoring his behaviour for now. At one point I caught James's eyes open and I made an attempt at a conversation.

  'Did you watch the movie?' I asked.

  He gave a deep sigh, looked genuinely pissed off. There was a flash of life in his eyes for a second but his voice was barely a whisper. 'No.'

  'How are you?' I asked.

  'T'riffic,' he said and then he shut his eyes. I looked at Meina and she just nodded as if to say let him be.

  He only spoke once after that, during our descent when he complained to Meina of a sharp pain in his ears.

  'It's normal, just swallow,' I said.

  I hired a Hyundai from a pretty mulatta at the desk. She wore a black cotton frock that was very tight at the top, which her arse stretched at the seams. She had shoulder-length plaits that bobbed when she spoke.

  'Most police officers require you to have a notarised colour photocopy of your driver's licence with all the details translated into Portuguese,' she said before I showed her my old Met Police badge and slipped her my email address.

  'What type of girl do you take me for?' she demanded. She leaned her hefty chest across her desk and gave me one of those big Brazilian smiles. I made sure she saw me look down at her thick legs.

  'That's what I hope to find out,' I said.

  When she squealed out her laugh, Meina walked away and James laughed as he followed her. If you could call it a laugh, it was more like a cough or a chuckle. It took a while to get used to Meina reaching out every now and then to touch James. It seemed she was no longer the naive little girl I always thought she was. Her withdrawal from me had hit me hard, harder than I expected. My wishful thinking was over, done with, but this made her no less beautiful. I tried to
ignore their displays of affection but it was difficult. Perhaps I should have made my play sooner. In the end I started to like him; I decided James coming along when he did was for the best. There is something charming about him, an unmistakable intelligence, but he was far from friendly: he was colder towards me than a beach pebble in winter, but always polite. Seeing them together, waiting for me by the car, I couldn't help thinking they made a good couple. I think they understood each other.

  'Jeesh, she reminded me of someone I knew when I was in the Met,' I said when we got in the car.

  'Why did you leave the police?' asked James.

  'I didn't leave exactly. My employment was terminated.' I turned and waved to the girl behind the desk who was looking at us through the glass window.

  'Are you sure you could manage a woman like that, Mr Bloom?' James said as we drove out of the car park.

  'I'd stake my reputation on it,' I said.

  Our journey would take six hours. The air conditioning was weak and when I opened the window I could hear the sea being thrashed by the wind; the cool rushing air felt good against the side of my face. The hot sun made everything seem lavishly bright and full, and made me think of Somalia. Then I thought of Meina's father – he was a good man, a beautiful man, unwavering in his beliefs with stubborn pride for himself and his country. Despite the heat I shivered. You don't realise how fragile you are until you lose someone, it's the same for all of us.

  The modern road from the airport took us along the Poti River, then Frei Serafim with its luxury apartment buildings, banana palms with scorched fronds. The air was sour from the burning turf and the heat brought out the veins in my hands and arms. It must have been up in the nineties. I scanned everything, taking in the details of the surroundings: the flowers, intense red, yellow and purple, in bloom dotted on the sides of the road; a few crumpled old slackers dozing in the shade; gold and ebony faces spewing out of cars and side streets; the scorched stuccoed buildings and their jagged facades; the trees and the hills seemed greener, more vibrant; the sky, flecked with shapely clouds and swooping birds, was a circus of early-summer delights. The whole earth was simmering in front of me and my eyes hurt as I drove. We went past waterfalls and the many lakes surrounding Ilhabela where we stopped to see the colonial church Nossa Senhora d'Ajuda, built in 1803 from rocks, shells and whale oil. Then we continued our way along the coast through stunning views of the shoreline.