What Came Before He Shot Her

by Elizabeth George

  Ivan nodded. This was something he understood. It was also a subject dear to his heart, an attractor to which his brain automatically veered, dismissing anything else on his mind, whenever the topic came up. He said, “That’s called being blocked. Anxiety is nearly always a block to creativity. No wonder you’ve not been writing poetry. How could you be expected to?”

  “Yeah, well I liked writin poems.”

  “There’s an answer to that.”

  “Which’s what?”

  Ivan shut the folder in which Joel’s information lay. Joel felt a modicum of relief. He felt even more when Ivan warmed to his topic. “You have to work during the anxiety to overcome the anxiety, Joel. It’s a Catch-22 situation. Do you know what that means? No? A contradiction in terms or available fact. Anxiety prevents you from working, but the only way to relieve the anxiety is by doing what it prevents you from doing: working. In your case, writing. Anxiety is thus always a guidepost, telling a person he ought to be engaged in his creative act. In your case, writing. Wise people recognise this and use the guidepost to get back to the work. Others avoid, seeking an external relief to the anxiety, which tempers it only moderately well. Alcohol, for example, or drugs. Something to make them forget they’re anxious.”

  This was so convoluted a concept that all Joel managed to do was nod as if in eager acceptance of its precepts. Ivan, enthused by his own attraction to the subject, took this as comprehension. He said, “You have a real talent, Joel. Turning away from that is like turning away from God. This is essentially what happened to Neal when he turned away from the piano. To be frank, I don’t want that to happen to you, and I’m afraid it will if you don’t get back to your creative source.”

  This was cold mashed potatoes, as far as Joel was concerned, but again he nodded and tried to look thoughtful. If he was anxious—which he agreed that he was—it had very little to do with putting words on paper. No, he was anxious about the Blade and what the Blade would ask of him as a proof of his respect. Joel hadn’t yet heard, and the waiting was torture since, during the waiting, Neal Wyatt still lurked, waiting as well.

  As for Ivan, well-meaning but innocent, he saw what he wanted to believe was a solution to Joel’s problems. He said, “Will you come back to Wield Words, Joel? We miss you there, and I think it will do you a world of good.”

  “Don’t know if Aunt Ken’ll let me out, what wiv my marks in school once she sees ’em.”

  “It’s a simple matter for me to speak to her.”

  Joel considered this. He saw a way that returning to Wield Words might work to his benefit, ultimately. He said, “Okay. I like to do it.”

  Ivan smiled. “Brilliant. And before our next meeting, perhaps you’ll write a bit of verse to share with us? As a way to work through the anxiety, you see. Will you try that for me?”

  He would try, Joel told him.

  SO HE USED Wield Words Not Weapons as a red herring. It was essential that life appear normal while he waited for what the Blade would tell him to do. He found the practice excruciatingly difficult because his mind was so much on other things and he lacked the discipline to focus his thoughts on the creative act while the very antithesis of that act was sitting on his shoulder, waiting to happen. But the sight of him sitting at the kitchen table jotting words in a notebook was enough to alter his aunt’s way of thinking about sorting out Neal Wyatt, and as long as that continued to work, Joel was willing to do it. And she was willing to let him go to Wield Words Not Weapons when the next occasion of the gathering of poets came along.

  Joel saw the people differently this time. He saw the place differently. The Basement Activities Centre in Oxford Gardens seemed overheated, ill-lit, and malodorous. The attendees at the event seemed impotent: men and women of all ages who were inadequate to the challenge of effecting change in their lives. They were what Joel had determined he would never be: victims of the circumstances into which they had been born. Sitting on the sidelines of their own lives, they were passive observers. Things happened to passive observers, and Joel told himself he wasn’t about to become one.

  He had brought three poems, all of which he knew were perfect examples of the wretched depths to which his preoccupation with the Blade had taken him. He didn’t dare take the microphone and read them to the gathering, especially since he’d once been named a Poet of Promise. So he sat and watched others offer their work: Adam Whitburn—embraced, as before, enthusiastically by the crowd—the Chinese girl with blond-streaked hair and purple-framed sparkly glasses, a spotty-faced adolescent girl obviously writing about her passion for a pop singer.

  In his state of mind and nerves, it was something akin to agony for Joel to sit through this first part of the evening. He had nothing to offer the poets in the way of helpful criticism, and the fact that he could not attune himself to the rhythms of the meeting did not help his restless condition. He began to think this restless state would squeeze his heart to a stop if he didn’t do something to quell it.

  That something appeared to be Walk the Word, as nothing else was on offer. When Ivan took the microphone to introduce that portion of the evening’s activities, Joel borrowed a pencil from a toothless old man. He thought, What the bloody hell, and he jotted down the words that Ivan read off: soldier, foundling, anarchy, crimson, whip, and ash. He asked the old man what foundling meant, and while he knew his ignorance didn’t exactly presage success at the contest, he decided to go at it in the manner he’d first been taught, letting the words come from that mysterious place inside, not worrying about how anyone else happened to be putting them together. He wrote:

  Foundling learns fast the crimson

  Way of the street.

  Anarchy marks the whip

  That the soldier holds,

  Where the gun reduces

  All to ash.

  Then he stared at what he’d written, and he wondered at the message contained in his own interpretation of the words. From the mouths of babes, Ivan had said in an earlier time when he’d bent to one of Joel’s poems with his green pencil in hand. You’ve a sagacity beyond your years, my friend. But looking at his latest poem and swallowing hard, Joel knew it wasn’t anything close to innate wisdom that had prompted it. It was his past; it was his present; it was the Blade.

  When the time came for the poems to be collected, he shoved his in with the rest. He went to the back of the room where the refreshment table stood, and he took two pieces of ginger-flavoured shortbread and a cup of coffee, which he’d never drunk before. After a sip, he loaded it up with milk and sugar. He stood to one side and he nodded when Ivan came up to him.

  “I saw you engaging in Walk the Word,” Ivan said, placing a friendly hand on Joel’s shoulder. “How did it feel? More at ease with the process than you were before?”

  “Bit,” Joel said, although he couldn’t tell if this was the truth since what he’d written at home was suitable only for lining the rubbish bin and the piece he’d just created for Walk the Word represented the first time he’d felt spontaneous with language in ages.

  “Excellent,” Ivan said. “Good luck to you. And I’m glad you’re back with us. Perhaps next time, you’ll be willing to take the microphone. Give Adam some competition before his head gets too big for his body.”

  Joel offered the chuckle that was the expected response. “I ain’t likely to do better’n him.”

  “Don’t,” Ivan said, “be so sure of that.” He excused himself with a smile and wandered off, to engage the Chinese girl in conversation.

  Joel remained near the refreshment table until the judges returned with their decision on the Walk the Word offerings. He reckoned the winner would be the Chinese girl since she’d come equipped with a thesaurus and she’d begun jotting frantically in her notebook the moment Ivan had called out the first word. But when Ivan took from the judges the paper on which the winning entry had been written, Joel recognised a diagonal tear he’d created in it when he’d ripped it from his spiral book. His heart began slammi
ng before Ivan read even the first line.

  It came to Joel that he’d defeated Adam Whitburn. He’d defeated everyone who’d made an attempt to Walk the Word. He’d shown himself not only as a Poet of Promise but as the real thing as well.

  At the end of the reading, there was a moment of silence before the crowd began to applaud. It was as if they’d had to pause and take in the passion of the words, in order to feel that passion themselves before they could react to it. And, truth be told, the words did constitute passion this time for Joel. They were fully felt, part of the fabric of who he was.

  When the applause ended, Ivan said, “If the poet will stand and allow us to celebrate with him or with her…?”

  Joel, still by the refreshment table, had no need to stand. He moved forward. He heard the applause once again. All he was able to think in that moment was that he’d beaten all of them at their own game and he’d done it by simply creating as he’d been first told to create: directly from the heart and without censoring his emotions. Just for a moment, he’d been a poet.

  When he reached the dais, he felt Ivan take his hand in congratulations. The man’s expression was one of “You see?” and Joel accepted it for what it was: affection, camaraderie, and affirmation of what Ivan had long declared to be his talent. Then his prizes were pressed upon him. These comprised a leather-bound journal for future poetic endeavours, a winner’s certificate, and fifty pounds.

  Joel stared at the note when it was in his hands. He turned it over and examined both sides, stunned by his sudden fortune. Suddenly, it seemed to him that his world had altered on the edge of a coin.

  Adam Whitburn had no apparent difficulty accepting the situation. He was the first to congratulate Joel when the evening came to an end. There were other congratulations as well, but those that came from Adam Whitburn meant the most to Joel. So did the invitation that Adam extended to him directly after the basement had been cleared and cleaned.

  He said, “Bred, we’re goin for coffee. Ivan’s coming. You join us?”

  “Did Ivan say—”

  “Ivan ain’t told me to invite you, blood,” Adam cut in. “I’m askin cos I’m asking.”

  “Cool.” It was the only word that Joel could think of, and when he said it, he felt idiotic. But if Adam Whitburn wanted to tell him how uncool it was to say something was cool, he didn’t do so. He merely said, “Le’s go, den. It ain’t far. Just over Portobello Road.”

  The coffeehouse was called Caffeine Messiah, less than a ten-minute walk from Oxford Gardens. Its furnishings were entirely religious, mostly given to statues of Jesus and rosary beads hanging from old chandeliers. A group of rickety tables had been pushed together at one end of a room lined with holy cards, which had been enlarged to poster size, featuring the somber images of martyred saints. At banged-up chairs around these tables sat ten of the poets from Wield Words Not Weapons, along with Ivan. They were speaking to each other over the coffeehouse’s choice of music, which was a Gregorian chant played at a nonheavenly volume.

  They were served by a nun, or so she seemed until she came to get Joel’s order and he saw that she had a pierced eyebrow, a ring through her lip, and tears tattooed down her cheek. She was called Map, and everyone appeared to know her and she them since she said, “What’s it to be? Th’ regular or you changing your ways?” to several of them. Coins got tossed into the centre of the table to pay for drinks, and Joel wasn’t sure if he was meant to toss his fifty-pound note into the midst of the money since he had no other means to pay for whatever he ordered. As he made a move to do this, though, Adam Whitburn stopped him. He said, “Winner don’t pay, bred,” and he gave Joel a wink, adding, “Don’t make no habit of it, though, y’unnerstan? I wipe the floor wiv you next time.”

  When Map had returned with their drinks and distributed them, a dark-skinned boy named Damon called them all to order. It turned out that this was no ordinary post-poetry gathering.

  Joel listened and put it all together: The group were not only members of Wield Words Not Weapons, but also pupils of Ivan’s screenwriting class. Their meeting was about the film they were attempting to develop, and as Joel took all of this in, he saw how they’d divided the labour. Adam and two others—Charlie and Daph—had completed a fifth revision of the screenplay. Mark and Vincent had spent several weeks scouting out locations. Penny, Astarte, and Tam had sorted out equipment suppliers. Kayla had contacted the talent agents. Then Ivan made a report on funding, to which everyone listened in dead earnestness as he spoke of the potential investors he’d managed to unearth. From all of this, Joel began to see that making a film was no pipe dream to them. They were actually going to do it, with Ivan organising the experience for them and none of them wondering why a white man with no apparent need to find himself suitable employment would want to spend his time offering them options for a different kind of life than the one to which their circumstances otherwise propelled them.

  Joel sipped his hot chocolate and listened in wonder. He was used to the people around Edenham Estate and other estates. He was used to his grandmother and her hopeless relationship with George Gilbert. These people had always spoken of what they intended to do on a someday that never showed up: fantastic holidays spent in villas in Bermuda or the south of France, cruising around the Mediterranean on a rich man’s yacht, buying a brand-new home on a sparkling housing estate where everything worked and the windows all had double glazing, zooming a fast car through the countryside. Even the youngest of them had impossible dreams of becoming rap singers with mountains of cash, of being cast on a nighttime soap. Everyone talked this sort of rubbish, but no one ever expected to do it. No one even knew where to begin.

  But that was not the case with this group. Joel could see they intended to make things happen, and he could not sit there and not want to be part of that.

  They didn’t ask him. Indeed, once their meeting began, they forgot all about his presence. But he didn’t mind this as it seemed to indicate a dedication to their cause. This dedication to a cause instilled in him a dedication to his own cause. He would join their team and help make the dream become real.

  He determined that he would talk to Ivan about this the next time they met. It would mean more time away from home, more time away from Toby. It would mean relying on Ness to help him care for their little brother. But Joel was confident he could talk her into it. On this night, his life became filled with dreams.

  Chapter

  21

  Joel was not the only person in the Campbell clan to have sudden hope visited upon him. Ness, too, was blessed with it although she did not recognise this at first. Fabia Bender brought it to her at the child drop-in centre, accompanied as always by Castor and Pollux. When the social worker came through the chain-link gate, two separate reactions emanated from Ness and from Majidah. The former felt her back go up, assuming that Fabia was checking up on her. The latter—having never actually met the social worker but having only spoken to her on the phone—took one look at the dogs and raced out into the play area, coatless in the cold, damp weather and waving her arms.

  “No, no, no!” she cried. “These beastly creatures have no place within these confines, madam. Aside from the danger they present to small children, there is the not small matter of defecation and urination, which cannot be tolerated. No, no, no, no.”

  Fabia was surprised by the strength and volume of Majidah’s protest. She said, “Down, dogs,” and turned to reassure the Asian woman. “Castor and Pollux only do their business on command,” she said. “And neither of them will move from this spot until they’re instructed to do so. You must be Majidah, if I may call you by your given name? I’m Fabia Bender.”

  “You?” Majidah clucked in disapproval. She’d had another picture of the social worker entirely, and it had to do with twin sets, pearls, tweed skirts, brogues, and very thick tights. It certainly had nothing to do with blue jeans turned up at the ankles and pristinely white trainers. Not to mention berets, turtlenecked swea
ters, donkey jackets, and cheeks red from the cold.

  “Yes,” Fabia said. “I’ve come to see Ness. She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “Where else would that girl be? Come in, come in. But if those animals move so much as an inch, I must ask you to tie them to the fence. This is a very dangerous business, you know, dogs like that running wild like so many wolves in the street.”

  “I’m afraid they’re far too lazy for running wild,” Fabia said, and to the animals, “Stay, dogs, or you’ll become this lady’s dinner. Does this satisfy, Majidah?”

  The irony was lost. “I do not eat meat that is not halal,” she said.

  Inside the drop-in centre’s cabin, Ness had watched the exchange. Behind her, a group of three-year-olds and their mothers were playing a game of catch-and-fall-over with brightly coloured inflatable balls. Much laughter and squealing accompanied this. Across from them, several five-year-olds were building a stronghold from cardboard boxes painted to look like blocks of stone. Ness’s job in all this was to supervise and to fetch whatever the players required: more balls, more cardboard boxes, rubber mats to prevent excited children from smacking their heads on the lino. They were coming up to a snack time as well, so as Fabia Bender came into the cabin, Ness retreated to the kitchen where she began assembling biscuits and milk on large metal trays.

  Fabia joined her, looking pleased. Ness assumed her expression had to do with finding a subject of probation doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing while on probation. But when Fabia spoke, it was on another subject.

  She said, “Hullo, Ness. I have some good news. Some very good news, if I might add. I think we’ve come up with a solution that’s going to allow you to attend that course at the college.”

  Ness had given up hope of this. Anything other than her dismal music-appreciation course during the autumn term was a long-ago impossibility at this point, and when that had become apparent to her in weeks gone by, she’d dismissed the thought of millinery altogether, bitterly concluding that anything Fabia Bender had said about looking into matters in order to help her finance her dream was just an example of the social worker blowing smoke to placate her.