Forest Gate (11 page)

'Come in,' Meina said, gently tugging at his arm. 'I've made you something to eat.' She turned and led him through the flat.

Something happened in that moment. As James walked through the hall everything behind him turned into a blur. Later he told her that it was the first time in a long while that he had felt safe. He let go of a deep breath – as though he had sucked in all the air in the world.

Meina's was a smaller version of the flat James shared with his mother and brothers. The same as all council-sponsored flats: all new fixtures and paper-thin walls, hidden radiators, low ceilings and carpet throughout except in the kitchen where there was always lino.

'It smells nice,' he said. He had removed his shoes but seemed unsure about stepping on the rug in the centre of the room.

'It's a cinnamon and apple plug-in air-freshener thing. I turned it on full blast to drown out the smell of my lamb.'

'You have a lamb?'

'No. I
cooked
lamb, silly.' Meina laughed, still nervous but visibly relaxing.

James's hand went up to the scar on his neck; he tried to clear his throat.

'Are you tired?' she asked.

'A little.'

Meina searched his face, wondering if bad intent would show. She felt a stirring of anticipation, of danger. She had thought it would feel different being with a man, on her own terms and with no one else around. Where she came from, not all women observed purdah, but she had often thought that she might as well have. Being with James felt wrong, forbidden – as though anything could happen. Being alone with a man not related to her was a disgrace; at home she would have been considered loose, out of control – if something had happened they would have said she'd asked for it since she had invited him into her home. Meina wanted to act like a typical British eighteen-year-old but she did not know how. She was far from home but felt as though she had brought all the old rules with her. In Somalia there were so many rules to protect tradition. But none to protect them from the armed gangs on every street.

They sat on the couch and ate together, watching a DVD. It was a love story with an all-white cast. Meina didn't say anything about her letter and neither did James. Although he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked embarrassed during the sex scenes in the movie, he felt like an adult sitting with her, alone in the flat. Although she saw him casting surreptitious glances, Meina pretended not to notice him watching the slender curves of her neck and her arms. Embarrassed when she looked up and caught his eye, James turned to look at a picture on the bookshelf. It was of Meina, her parents and Ashvin who looked about six years old.

'Where was that picture taken?' he asked.

Meina reclined into her seat on the couch, tilted her head and sighed. 'In our garden in Baidoa. Ashvin and my father had just returned from a fishing trip.' Her voice was slightly strained. 'I know that must sound weird, going on a fishing trip in the middle of a war, but it's not like fishing here in England. In Somalia we fish when there is nothing else to eat. Mostly we were trapped in our homes because the guns and tanks ruled the streets. But we still tried not to worry constantly about war or whether we'd ever have a government again. That's the strange thing about the place, people trying to live normal lives. Mostly we needed permission to go out from "someone who knew someone" who was a member of an armed gang. But not my father. He said he'd never give in to bullies. He said he would always go where he pleased. But my mother would arrange things for us in secret.'

Meina gave a tentative smile as she got up. Her eyes flitted over the picture, then she drew the curtains and positioned her back against the wall.

James was still staring at the picture. He couldn't remember Ashvin having such a wide grin. He looked so innocent and happy. Time had diminished that smile, stilled his spirit.

'For a moment I forgot Ashvin was dead,' he said.

Meina moved back to her seat. 'There is nothing you can do to bring him back.'

In the tense silence Meina thought of the way life presented whole new storylines without permission. James tried to suppress the urge to cry but a tear trickled out and she saw. He used his palm to wipe his eyes.

'It will be all right,' she said.

He didn't respond. He just sat back and faced the screen, unblinking, pretending to be lost in the film.

'Your lamb was good,' he said. 'I haven't tasted it cooked like that before.'

'Should I run you a bath?' Meina regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. It was something her mother always asked her father after he ate.

'No. It's OK,' he answered but he couldn't meet her eyes.

Meina had showed him to her brother's room, but when he got into the bed, under the sheets, James was too anxious to fall asleep. Through the window the moon looked depressed, stuck between heaven and earth. Its sombre, almost tentative light spilled down listlessly. The room smelled of Ashvin. For a while James listened to the couple next door arguing, their voices easily penetrating the thin dividing wall. Eavesdropping on the intimate conversation was interesting at first but after an hour of their cursing he was ready to go and kick down their door.

He woke long before dawn, soaked in his own sweat and overwhelmed with the feeling that he had failed. He had let Ashvin down. He had wanted to die at the time but now, after getting so close, he wasn't so sure what he wanted. The shame he felt shut out everything else. He tried to pray but ended in frustrated tears because he didn't believe in the things he was saying. Meina heard his sobs from her room and got up, knocking gently on his door. But James quietened, remembering where he was.

When he got up in the morning he could hear Meina in the kitchen and smelled coffee. With a forced energy, borne of despair, he lifted half of his body out of bed but his head wouldn't follow. His neck burned, every bit of him was too heavy and his eyes felt as if they had been cemented shut during the night. It was like the worst type of hangover. Meina had left him a towel in the bathroom and he washed and dressed before joining her.

'How was your night?' she said.

'Pretty shitty.'

'Pretty shitty?'

'I couldn't sleep.'

'Me neither.'

James stretched his arms up, 'I'd better get home in time for breakfast. I'll pack all my stuff then I'll come back.' He turned to her, uncertain. 'That is, if you still want me to stay here.'

'Can I come with you?' she asked.

James was caught off guard. To answer quickly would have revealed his excitement. He turned to look out of the window but when he allowed himself a small smile Meina caught it. He shrugged. 'If you want.'

They stepped out of the house holding hands. Meina looked at James, wondering if he had any idea how much such a casual gesture meant to her. The boys gathered at the corner all turned to stare.

'Let's cross,' Meina said nervously, trying to pick up the pace. James followed.

Some of the boys also crossed and walked towards them. A tall, light-skinned boy who must have been in his early twenties, with a square face and bulging arm muscles, spoke first, his eyes shining.

'Are you one of them Morrison brothers?' Half his hair was in dreads and he wore an old-fashioned black goose-down gilet with a fur hood. He smiled, showing off discoloured teeth.

'Yes.' James nodded, and kept hold of Meina's hand.

'Respect.' The boy offered James a rough fist, covered with cuts.

James didn't acknowledge the greeting – his brothers had taught him never to look like he was begging for friends.

'My name's Ratchet.' The young man lowered his hand, seeming not to notice the snub. 'So what, you livin' up these ends now?' he continued.

James exchanged his wily stare for Ratchet's strong one.

'Yeah, maybe.' Meina could tell James was nervous; she squeezed his hand but he continued to stare at Ratchet.

Ratchet turned to his friends. 'See I told you.' He beckoned to one of the boys; as he came close, James recognised him. He had lost all the menace of the night before. He stood next to Ratchet, raising his head sheepishly.

'One of my boys spoke out of turn to your missus, and another one pulled a knife. They didn't know. No disrespect.' Ratchet's tone was severe.

'It's cool,' said James. 'It's your manor.' He gave a gentle nod towards the boy but he would not meet James's eye.

'He says he didn't know. My boys are normally clear-headed. I don't know what's got into them recently – they been dragging their feet. I got to get 'em something to do. If your family need anything doing, let me know.' Ratchet tensed his lips as though he wanted to say something else, but then thought better of it. He raised his right hand again and balled it into a fist twice the size of James's. This time James touched Ratchet's fist solemnly with his own.

'Respect,' Ratchet said and thumped his heart three times. 'I've got a car. I can drop you off somewheres.'

'No, we're good. But thanks.'

Meina was surprised by the encounter. She had not realised that the streets of London were carved out into territories just as they had been at home. But here it was not by clans but by class, education, wealth and, she guessed, strength. Each group had its own rules, its own village mentality. She imagined the same wars taking place among the poor all over the world. War has a gender, she thought, and it's male.

'I'm not sure I understand what just happened,' she said to James as they walked out of the estate.

'It's complicated,' he said, looking down at the ground and letting go of her hand.

'Are you in a gang?'

'No.'

'So who are the Morrison Brothers?'

'Well, my brothers. It's hard to describe – it's like a family business. They're my brothers but I'm not like them, they're different.' He stopped and turned to face her. 'They're drug dealers. You need to know that. And they're ruthless. They don't really care who they hurt. But they don't mean it . . . I mean, they don't mean it all the time.'

Meina put her hand on his shoulder. 'I'll be fine,' she said, 'this isn't about me.'

'Am I going on?' asked James.

'No. Not at all.'

They smiled at one another and then Meina slowed, walking just behind James. He didn't turn to look at her as he spoke. 'They don't sell drugs themselves any more,' he said, 'they use young people, shottas, kids who they think have nothing to lose. They're not really tough; it's like a front they use to keep control. I'm not making sense, am I? What I mean is, they're all trying to act tough, be like my dad. Or at least what they've been told he was like. He got shot for selling drugs. Everyone knows. But when you meet them just try to remember, I am not like them, OK?'

James spoke almost as if to himself – as though airing thoughts that had been on his mind for a while. Finally he turned to look at Meina. At first she thought he was just looking to see if she was there or still listening. But for a moment he frowned and she saw something else and thought perhaps he was checking for understanding or trust. Her pulse quickened and she blushed, pursing her lips in concentration and nodding confirmation. He walked ahead and she followed. At that point she would have followed him anywhere. They walked at an easy pace through the churchyard towards the Romford road. Voices from traders on Stratford Broadway echoed around offering King Edward potatoes and Granny Smith apples and the air was a confusion of the mingling smells of McDonald's, Pizza Hut and KFC. Groups of teenagers were hanging about, shouting to each other above the din of afternoon traffic. Meina noticed a few people looking at them from the corners of their eyes and twice heard someone say James's name as they passed. James, in silence, maintained a steady pace, eyes scanning some distant thing. To Meina, everything in London had always looked oversized: the church spire, the supermarket windows, the gigantic doors to the bank and office buildings, the buses. It was damp, the greying clouds and the creeping stillness promising rain. James led them off the main road and on to a quiet backstreet. There was a strong odour of hot piss and alcohol and the only sounds were a gentle swishing from the rubbing of fabric on James's jacket and the thud of their steps on the concrete. A girl walked by, fifteen years old at the most and pushing a baby in a three-wheeled pram. She stopped, recognising James.

'S'up, James,' she said, immediately mesmerised by James's scar. 'What you doing out?' Her hair was slicked down on her face and spots of blue gel were visible on her temple.

'S'up, Tammy,' said James. Meina had hesitated but he pulled her along and didn't stop walking.

'Who's she?' Meina asked.

James shook his head. 'She tells people we're related because my dad used to sleep with her mum. This place never lets you go, even if you don't wanna belong.'

'But are you well protected? Like a warlord?' she asked.

'Warlord? Not really.' James was thoughtful. 'I always think about what will happen when I meet one of their enemies, someone who doesn't show respect. You can't imagine what it's like to walk around like an open target your whole life.'

'Yes I can.'

As they walked towards the train station, Meina watched James, thinking about men and war and the satisfaction of fighting. James hadn't gloated over Ratchet's apology, the way the boys had been fearful of his brothers. James didn't look seventeen. He was not much taller than Meina and his features were a sculpted, pure-charcoal black. He had a gentle presence, a tenderness that reminded Meina of her father. She thought of her parents, the love they had shared. As a girl she had prayed for a love like theirs. But after their murder she understood that love was just a game for the gods. It was an unattainable dream, like African unity or world peace. The night before she had lain in bed listening to James crying, wanting to hold and protect him. Her mind drifted. What would it be like to have sex with him? He was young – a baby – but she could feel part of herself already connected to him. It wasn't lust. Not really. It was some-thing else. Up until then Meina had had a built-in disgust for British men, their style of dress, their untidy hair, their vulgarity. James was different. She wanted to know him and have him know her.