Toby was squirming back and forth on his bottom as he watched the boys zooming across the bowl and soaring the sides, expertly turning their boards in midair and swooping back down and across the bowl where they repeated the movement on the other side. So far they seemed intent upon ignoring Toby, but he wasn’t making it easy for them. He was crying out, “C’n I do it? C’n I try? Can I? Can I?” as he bounced his feet on the bowl.
Joel approached. But as he did so, he caught sight of a second group of boys up on the bridge that carried Great Western Road across the Grand Union Canal. They had paused in the midst of crossing the bridge, and they were looking down at the gardens. After exchanging a few words, they made for the spiral stairs. Joel could hear them clumping on the metal steps. He couldn’t yet tell who they were. Still, the size of them, their numbers, and their manner of dress…All of this suggested they were a crew, and he didn’t want to be in the vicinity when they made their way to the skate bowl if, indeed, that was where they were heading.
He hurried to the middle bowl on whose edge Toby was crying out to be part of the action. He said to his brother, “Tobe, whyn’t you wait where the ducks are? You s’posed to wait. Di’n’t you hear me tell you to wait?”
Toby’s sole response was a breathy, “Look at ’em, Joel. I ’spect I could do it. If they let me. I been askin ’em to let me. Don’ you reckon I could do it?”
Joel cast a glance to the spiral steps. He saw that the crew of boys had reached the bottom. He made a fleeting wish that they would take their business—whatever it was—somewhere along the canal. There was an abandoned barge beneath the bridge, and he fervently hoped they were using it as their lair. It had been there for weeks, just waiting for someone to take it over. But instead of making for the barge, they came directly towards the skate bowl, sweatshirts with the hoods up over baseball caps, unzipped anoraks despite the mild weather, baggy jeans riding low on their hips.
Joel said, “Come on, Tobe. We got to sort out our room, ’member? Aunt Ken said we got to keep it neater an’ stuff’s everywhere jus’ now, y’unnerstan?”
“Lookit!” Toby cried, pointing to the boys still whipping around the skate bowl. “Hey, c’n I do it? I could do it ’f you lemme.”
Joel bent and took his brother’s arm. “We gotta go,” he said. “An’ I’m that vex you di’n’t wait where you was ’posed to wait. Come on.”
Toby resisted standing. “No. I could do it. C’n I do it, you lot? I could ’f you lemme.”
“‘I could ’f you lemme. I could ’f you lemme.’” The voice mimicked Toby’s, and Joel did not need to turn around to know that he and his brother had become the focus of the boys who’d come down from the bridge. “I could do it ’f you lemme, Joelly Joel. Only I got to wipe my arse first cos I forgot to do it when I crapped my pants dis morning.”
Joel frowned when he heard his own name spoken, but he still didn’t turn to see who the boys were. He said in a fierce whisper, “Tobe, we got to go.”
But that was overheard. “I bet you got to go, yellow arse. Bes’ run while you c’n still find your way. You an’ the li’l tosser wiv you. An’ Jesus, wha’s he doin wiv dat life ring?”
Toby finally noticed the other boys, which is to say that the nastiness of the speaker’s tone, not to mention his proximity, managed to wrest his attention from the skate bowl. He looked to Joel for guidance as to whether he was meant to reply, while in the skate bowl, the pace suddenly slowed, as if with the expectation of more fascinating action.
“Oh I know why he got dat life ring, innit?” the same taunting voice said. “He goin’ for a swim. Greve, why’n’t you help him out wiv dat?”
Joel knew what that meant. Aside from the duck pond, there was only one source of water close at hand. He felt Toby’s fingers close over the frayed bottom of his blue jeans. He still hadn’t risen from his position on the edge of the bowl, but his face had altered. The joy of watching the boys in the bowl had become the fear of seeing the boys behind Joel. He didn’t know them, but he could hear the menace in their voices, even if he didn’t know why that menace was directed at himself.
“Who’s he, Joel?” Toby asked his brother.
It was time for Joel to find out. He turned. The boys formed a rough crescent. At its centre was the droopy-faced, mixed-race boy whom Hibah had claimed as her boyfriend. She’d called him Neal. If there had been a surname, Joel couldn’t remember what it was. What he did remember was his only run-in with Neal and the little joke he’d made at Neal’s expense, just the sort of remark a boy like Neal was unlikely to forget. In the presence of his crew, over whom Neal was doubtless always eager to maintain suzerainty, Joel knew that the other boy might well take the opportunity to demonstrate his power, if not over a helpless child like Toby, then over his brother, the defeat of whom would score him many points.
Joel spoke to the boy called Greve, who’d taken several steps forward to put hands on Toby. “Leave him be,” he said. “He ain’t hurtin you. Come on, Tobe. We got to get home.”
“Dey got to get home,” Neal said. “Dat’s where dey swimmin. You got a nice pool in your garden, Tobe. An’ what th’ hell kind of name is dat, anyways?”
“Toby,” Toby muttered, although his head was lowered.
“Toe-bee. Dat’s sweet, innit. Well, Toe-bee, lemme jus step out of y’r way so you c’n run ’long home.”
Toby started to rise, but Joel knew the game. One step in their direction and Neal and his crew would be all over both of them, just for the fun of it. Joel reckoned he could survive an encounter with these boys because there were enough people in Meanwhile Gardens at this time of day that either someone would come to his rescue or would pull out a mobile and phone 999. But he didn’t want to let Toby fall into the clutches of this group of boys. To them, Toby was like a three-legged dog, something to humiliate, to taunt, and to hurt.
He said to Neal in perfect friendliness, “Why, you c’n stay jus’ there, mon. Where we going ain’t in dat direction anyways, so you no trouble to us just like you are.”
One of the crew with Neal sniggered at this reply, so casually had Joel managed to speak it and so clearly had he communicated an utterly inappropriate lack of fear. Neal shot a look at the group of boys, seeking the source of this disrespect. When he didn’t find it, he turned back to Joel.
“Real yellow arse you are, Joe-ell. Get out ’f dis place. An’ don’t let me see you—”
“No more yellower’n you,” Joel pointed out, although the truth was that only two ethnicities had gone into Neal’s making while Joel’s had involved at least four that anyone had been willing to identify for him. “So I wouldn’t be talkin’ bout who got wha’ colour to his skin, bred.”
“Don’ bred me, Joe-ell, like summick you ain’t. I squish bugs your size f’r breakfast, innit.”
Titters came from the group of boys. Spurred by this, Neal took a step forward. He nodded at Greve, a motion that indicated the boy was to take Toby as he’d been instructed and he then directed his attention to the bag Joel was carrying.
“Give dat over,” he said as Greve approached and Toby shrank away from him. “Le’s just have a look wha’ you got.”
Joel was perfectly caught at this point, with only one way out, which had very little hope of success. He could see what was going to happen if he didn’t act, so he acted quickly. He jerked Toby fully to his feet, thrust the bag with the lava lamp into his arms, and said, “Run. Run! Now, Tobe, run!”
For once, Toby didn’t question instruction. He slid into the skate bowl and took off across the bottom of it. Someone shouted, “Get ’im,” and the pack of boys made a move as one unit, but Joel flung himself into their way.
He said to Neal, “You fuckin horse turd. You stick it in a pig’s arse, innit. You play at bein’ a real hot speck when you half pig and dat’s why you stick it where you stick it.”
This was, as it was intended to be, a suicide speech. But it got Neal’s attention. It also got the attentio
n of Neal’s crew because they always did whatever Neal did, having very little in the way of brainpower of their own. Neal’s face went the colour of brick, and the spots upon it went purple. His fists balled up. He lunged. His crew moved in for the kill, but he shouted, “I wan’ it!” and descended on Joel like a rabid dog.
Joel took the force of Neal’s flying body in his midsection. Both of the boys crashed to the ground with their arms swinging. A delighted shout went up from Neal’s crew, and they pressed forward to watch. The boys in the skate bowl joined them, until what Joel saw beyond Neal’s looming rage-ensanguined face was a mass of legs and feet.
Joel wasn’t a fighter. His breath had always come short whenever he was ignited to action, and the only time he’d ever been in an actual dustup, he’d not been able to catch his breath and he’d ended up in Casualty with a plastic mask over his nose and mouth. So what he knew about fighting came from what he saw on television, which consisted of ineffectively swinging his fists and hoping they made contact with some part of Neal’s body. He did manage to land a blow on the other boy’s collarbone, but Neal countered with one that hit Joel squarely on the temple and made his brain start singing.
Joel shook his head to clear it. Neal shifted position and sprawled across Joel’s chest. He put the full force of his weight on Joel’s body, and he used his knees to pin Joel’s arms to the ground. He began punching in earnest. Joel squirmed in an attempt to get him off. He threw his body right and left, but he couldn’t loose the other boy from him.
“Half breed li’tle bastard,” Neal snarled through his crooked teeth and his drooping mouth. “Teach you to disrespeck…” He grabbed Joel’s neck and began to squeeze.
All around him, Joel heard grunting and breathing: not only his own and Neal’s but the other boys’ as well, although theirs was excited and hot with anticipation. Not a film this time. Not a television show. But the real thing. Neal was their man.
“Get ’im,” someone muttered fiercely.
Someone else said, “Yeah. Go f’r it, mon.”
And then someone said, “Got to finish dis, bred. Take it, take it,” and Joel realised that something had been passed to Neal from one of the boys at the edge of the crowd.
He saw the silver streak of it against Neal’s palm: a pocketknife and nicely honed. No one was coming to his rescue, as Joel had hoped, and he knew he was finished. But the certainty of this knowledge swept power into him, born of the human instinct to live. Neal had leaned to take the knife from his cohort; this put him off balance and gave Joel a chance.
He flung his body in the direction of the lean, which threw Neal off him. Joel fell upon him, then, landing blows, pounding against bone and flesh with all the strength he had. He fought like a girl: grabbing Neal’s hair, scratching at his unfortunate face, doing anything he could to stay one step ahead of the other boy’s intention and two steps ahead of his rage. He was fighting not to punish Neal, not to prove something to him, not to establish himself as bigger, better, or more adept. He was fighting simply to stay alive, because he understood with the perfect clarity that comes with terror that the other boy intended to kill him.
He no longer knew where the knife was. He was unable to tell if Neal had it or if it had been knocked from his hands. He did know that this was a fight to the death, though, and so did the other boys, for they had fallen into a tense silence although not one of them had backed away from the brawl.
It was because of this silence that Joel heard a voice, a man calling out, “What’s going on here?” And then, “Get back. Step out of my way. You heard me, Greve Johnson. And you, Dashell Patricks. What are you boys doing?” And immediately after that, “For the love of God!,” which heralded Joel’s being jerked off Neal, hauled to his feet, and thrust to one side.
Joel saw it was Ivan Weatherall, of all people, his mentor from Holland Park School. Ivan said, “Is that a knife over there? Are you out of your minds? Is that yours, Joel Campbell?” and without waiting for a reply, he shouted at the rest of them to clear off.
Despite the fact that Ivan was one and they were many, he exuded such confidence that the boys obeyed, surprised and unused to being troubled when they were in the midst of one of their pursuits. This included Neal, who was nursing a cut lip. As his mates began to pull him from the site, he shouted, “Don’ you fuck with me,” an imperative obviously intended for Joel. “I’ll have you, arse wipe. Yellow-arse roadkill. You and your bruddah. You eat your muddah’s pussy.”
At this, Joel made a move to go after Neal, but Ivan grabbed his arm. To Joel’s surprise, he said under his breath, “Fight me, boy. Fight to get away. Go on. Do it, for the love of God. I’ve got a grip…Good. Right-o…Kick me as well…Yes, yes. Spot on, that…Now I’ll get you in a lovely half nelson”—with a quick movement that imprisoned Joel under his arm—“and we’ll make our way to this bench. Keep fighting me, Joel…I’ll throw you down here…try not to hurt you…Ready? Here we go.”
Joel found himself on the bench as promised, and when he looked around, Neal and his crew had retreated to the spiral stairs, heading up to the Great Western Road. The skateboarders had also dispersed, and he was left with Ivan Weatherall. He couldn’t understand how the miracle had been effected.
“They think I’ve sorted you, which suffices for the moment,” Ivan said in explanation. “It appears I came along just in time. What on earth were you thinking, taking on Neal Wyatt?”
Joel said nothing in reply. He was breathing hard. He didn’t want to end up in Casualty again, so he thought it best not to waste effort on speech. Beyond that, he wanted to be away from Ivan. He needed to find Toby. He needed to get both of them safely home.
“It just happened, did it?” Ivan asked. “Well, that shouldn’t surprise me, and I suppose it doesn’t. Neal Wyatt has issues with most of the planet, I’m afraid, which is what comes from having a father in prison and a mother possessing a predilection for crack cocaine. There is, of course, a way out for what ails him, a cure if you will. But he won’t take it. More’s the pity because he’s actually quite talented at the piano.”
Joel started at this, surprised by this altered vision of Neal Wyatt.
Ivan nodded in understanding. “Shame, isn’t it?” He looked over his shoulder to the bridge, across which the boys had shuffled on their way to whatever next piece of trouble they had in mind. “Well, then, have you caught your breath? Are you ready to go?”
“’M okay.”
“Really? You don’t quite seem it, but I shall take you at your word. I recall you live somewhere nearby but not in Trellick Tower. I shall walk you home.”
“I don’t need—”
“Nonsense. Don’t be foolish. We all need something, and the first step on the path to maturity—not to mention peace of mind—is admitting that. Come along.” He smiled, showing his terrible teeth. “I shall not require you to hold my hand.”
He fetched a parcel from beneath the bench on which they’d been sitting. He tucked it under his arm and affably explained that it contained parts for a clock that he was assembling. He nodded towards Elkstone Road, a short distance away, and led Joel in its direction while beyond and around them Meanwhile Gardens continued to get back to normal.
Ivan chatted amiably, confining his conversation to clocks. Their assembly, he informed Joel, was his hobby and his passion. Did Joel recall the conversation they’d had about creative outlets on the day they’d met? No? Yes? Had he thought about what he wished to do so that his soul could earn its expression?
“Remember,” Ivan said, “we are like machines in this, Joel. Every part of us needs to be oiled and cared for if we are to function to our utmost capacity. So where are you in the decision-making process? What is it you intend to do with your life? Beyond brawling with the Neal Wyatts of our world.”
Joel wasn’t sure that Ivan was serious. Instead of replying, he scanned the area for Toby and said, “I got to fetch my bruvver. He ran when Neal came.”
Ivan hesi
tated. “Ah yes. Of course. Your little brother. That does at least explain…Well. Never mind. Where might he have gone? I shall help you find him and then act as your escort home.”
Joel didn’t want this, but short of being rude, he didn’t know how to tell Ivan he felt best left alone. So he followed the pavement along Elkstone Road, Ivan tagging along, and he checked to see if Toby had run to their aunt’s house. Failing to find him there, he set off between the buildings, towards the duck pond, and there he discovered Toby crouched in the duck blind with his hands over his head.
He’d somehow punctured his life ring. It hung around his waist still, but it was now only partially inflated. He hadn’t lost the bag that Joel had thrust at him, though. It was at his side, and when Joel reached him through the reeds, he saw that the lava lamp had escaped damage. He was thankful for this. At least Toby’s birthday would not be ruined.
He said, “Hey, Tobe. ’S okay now. Le’s go home. This here’s Ivan. He wants to meet you.”
Toby looked up. He’d been crying, and his nose was dripping. He said to Joel, “I di’n’t wee in my pants. I have to go, but I di’n’t wee my pants, Joel.”
“Tha’s real good.” Joel lifted Toby to his feet. He said to Ivan, who remained above them on the path to the pond, “This’s Toby.”
“Delighted,” Ivan said. “And impressed with the wisdom of your apparel as well, Toby. Is that short for Tobias, by the way?”
Joel looked at his brother, dwelling on the word apparel. Then he realised Ivan was talking about the life ring in conjunction with the vicinity of water. The man thought they’d possessed forethought when it came to Toby’s safety.
What Came Before He Shot Her Page 16