Web of Lies (12 page)

Femi stood, surrounded by black-and-white uniforms, in front of the raised desk at the center of a large room. Every time he shifted his arms, the handcuffs pinched his skin. On one side was a corridor lined with metal doors and, above him, at least two cameras in the ceiling. The custody sergeant behind the desk had his own camera eyes. They kept scanning the room as well as darting back and forth between Femi and the computer. He tapped the keyboard as the policewoman reported the charge. This time Femi heard the words:

“…arrested on suspicion of being involved in a serious assault…”

Once again, instead of listening properly to what followed, his head throbbed.
James was alive.
“Serious assault” meant that James wasn’t dead.

He wanted to retreat into his shell, but there was more
prodding and probing. Hands searched him again. When they found nothing, the handcuffs were removed and he was told to take off his shoes, then empty his pockets. The contents were placed on the desk. There was the money Papa had given him for swimming; a crumpled note Gary had passed him in class; a couple of elastic bands and paper clips; a ballpoint pen and his key. The key for which he had begged so hard. He watched them all dropped into a plastic bag. The final item to be taken was the watch Papa had given him for his last birthday. They were going to let him keep it until someone noticed a stain on the tan leather strap.

The watch was carefully slipped into a separate bag. When he was presented with a long form, he simply signed wherever the finger pointed. When a hand on his shoulder steered him into a cell, he slumped on to the wooden bench. There was nothing in the cell except the bench and a built-in toilet. He sat, dry eyed, his mind incapable of taking in anything beyond the single thought:
James is alive.

The moment Femi saw Papa, however, tears pricked at his eyes. With his gray-specked head slightly bowed, his father looked small next to the officer, who loomed more than a head above him. Papa’s arms hung limply at his sides, one hand holding a plastic bag. His face revealed worry more than anger, making Femi want to throw himself into his father’s arms. But an invisible barrier lay between them. He wanted to tell Papa that he didn’t do it, but his mouth was dry. Instead, he ducked his head and gritted his teeth as he
joined Papa in front of the charge desk.

This time Femi made an effort to follow what was being said. Once again, the custody sergeant explained everything.

“What is the condition of the victim?” Papa asked.

“Critical.” The custody sergeant’s eyes flicked from father to son.

Critical.
Didn’t that mean that James might still die? Were doctors trying to save him? Femi wanted Papa to ask more questions, but he didn’t.

“…I asked your son if he would like a legal adviser, but—”

“I have a solicitor—Mr. Nathan—let me ring him!” Femi thought he heard a quaver in Papa’s voice. It had never trembled when Papa spoke to Mr. Nathan about his asylum case.

“You can telephone him if you wish, sir, but it’s late. I suggest you do it in the morning. The boy is exhausted. He needs to sleep. We shan’t interview tonight.”

“Can I take him home?”

“Afraid not, sir. Bail is out of the question for a serious charge like this.”

“I’ll bring him back first thing in the morning. I promise!” Femi had never heard Papa like this before. Pleading. His voice was rising unsteadily while the custody sergeant’s tone remained calm, unchanged.

“Your son hasn’t talked to us yet. He’s our main suspect, sir.”

“Give me a chance to speak to him. He’ll tell me the truth. He’s not the kind of boy to do this sort of thing!”

“We are not going to interview until the morning, sir. As I said, it’s a serious offense. If the victim dies, the charge could be murder.”

Murder.
They thought he, Femi, could be a murderer! How could they get things so mixed up? Just because someone saw him running away…with a broken armrest they mistook for a gun! How could they think he would try to kill his big brother?

“…have you any reason to believe your son will try to harm himself, sir?”

Did they really think he had the energy to do anything? He couldn’t remember feeling so tired in all his life. All he wanted to do now was to sleep and never wake up.

“…we still need to do a strip search. We’d like you there, sir.”

A strip search.
In front of Papa. He was too worn out even to be indignant.

Two policemen made him take off his clothes, one by one. Papa sat on the bench in the cell. Femi couldn’t bear to look at him. Each item was carefully placed in a separate brown paper bag, including the bloodstained sweatshirt. An officer passed Femi the plastic bag that Papa had been carrying. He struggled to pull on his clean clothes.

“It’s time to go, sir.” The officer was at the door. His colleague had already left with the brown bags. Femi stood in the middle of the cell with his head lowered.

“Femi?” Papa was willing him to look up. Willing him to say something.

“You can see your son in the morning, sir. We need to
leave him to sleep.” It was clear who was in charge of him. The officer. Not Papa. Femi felt his father still hesitating.

“I’m coming, Officer. Just one minute—please.” Papa’s voice sank to just above a whisper. Femi heard the note of desperation. “Tell me, son—please—did you do this? However bad it is, we have to know the truth.”

If only he could release the words screaming inside him.
I didn’t do it, Papa!
His head hung heavily and, although his lips parted, there was no sound. He needed to tell Papa, but instead he was shaking. Suddenly Papa’s arms were around him, hugging him to his chest. For a brief moment they held on to each other.

“I’ll be back in the morning.
O dabo
, my son.”

Papa’s arms slackened and he was gone. The door clanged shut and the key clattered in the lock. Femi lifted himself on to the bench and curled up. Never before had he felt so completely alone.

S
UNDAY
12
TH
O
CTOBER

Femi woke to clanking, rattling, banging, and heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. His cell door would be thrown open any minute. He pulled the sheet and blankets over his ears, trying to dull the sounds. His sleep had been punctured by bad dreams. The only thing he could remember clearly was a hand thrusting down with a knife. The hand was covered with a plastic glove. That confused him. He had seen Errol use a knife with his bare hand. Surgeons wore plastic gloves. Perhaps he had been dreaming about James having an operation. But a surgeon would use a knife carefully. Not stab it.

His mind ached. It almost felt as jumbled as his dreams. He was going to be interviewed this morning and Papa had said “We have to know the truth.” They would ask him what happened at the garage. Then they would
want to know what happened before that…and before that. How could he unravel everything? The stories in his head were a tangle of knots. The only clear thing was that each story linked him to Errol…as if he was at one end and Errol was waiting for him at the other.

Unforgiving.
That was how James had once described Errol. If Errol were arrested, he would know that Femi had talked. If he couldn’t get revenge himself, he had friends who could. How would James advise Femi now? Say nothing? Yet look how Errol had rewarded James for his loyalty! Whatever Femi said—nothing or everything—it was all hopeless.

Femi was still under his blankets with his head facing the wall when he heard a key in the lock. The door cranked open. He expected a police officer to shout at him to get up. Instead, he heard Papa being let in.

“Femi?” Papa called softly.

Femi pretended not to stir. His father had hugged him last night, but by now he must have realized how much Femi had been lying to him. Papa hated liars.

“Worn out from last night. We can leave him another hour or so, sir. Detectives won’t be in until eleven.”

He held his breath until he heard them turn to go. If he didn’t speak quickly, Papa would leave him.

“I’m awake, Papa.” He rolled over slowly, keeping the blanket drawn up close to his face.

Without saying anything, Papa came to sit beside him. He placed his hand on Femi’s shoulder. It was heavy and
warm. The door banged and echoed. They were alone. It seemed an age before Papa spoke. He sounded more grave than severe.

“You can’t keep hiding, Femi. There have to be no more secrets.”

Femi kept silent.

“I’ve spoken to Mr. Nathan and he is prepared to come. But we can only help you if you tell us the truth.”

“They’ll cut me up, Papa!” Femi whimpered.

“Who are these people?” Papa demanded.

Femi cringed. Papa would now be relentless.

“You have to tell the police everything, Femi. It’s their job to deal with these criminals.”

“But Mama was killed because you told the truth, Papa!” he cried. He hadn’t meant to say that. It sounded like an accusation. He didn’t know where the words had come from.

“Femi, the soldiers who govern our country at home are criminals! You are right. They killed Mama because they hated the truth that I wrote about them. But it wasn’t the
truth
that killed her. It was those criminals!”

Papa’s voice rumbled with fury and broke off suddenly. He took a deep breath.

“I should have been much more careful in protecting all of you. That was my fault. But it wasn’t wrong to stand up to them, Femi. If you know something is wrong, you have to do something about it. Mama would have told you that too. Otherwise we let wrongdoers and bullies become dictators.”

Femi closed his eyes. Papa still stood by telling the
truth. Whatever the consequences.

“Come on, Femi. Sit up now. We have to talk.”

Papa’s hand was still resting on his shoulder. It was silently saying,
I’m not deserting you.
He had been expecting Papa’s anger, not this. He wriggled himself up.

“Eh! That’s better,” said Papa. “Now tell me, how did this all begin?”

Where was the beginning? Femi bit his lip.

“Do you know the boy who was stabbed—this James Dalton?”

Femi’s face burned. His mouth was dry again, but he had to make himself speak.

“He was trying to protect me!” he whispered.

“Protect you from whom?” Papa asked bluntly.

Femi winced. His lips parted, but he couldn’t say Errol’s name.

“All right, we’ll come to that later. Let’s start with James. Where did you first meet him? Remember, Femi, you need to tell me the
whole truth
.”

“He goes to my school. He—he—” Femi faltered, “called me his little brother. He asked me to give Sade a message from someone.”

“Sade?” Femi could hear Papa’s surprise. “A message from whom?”

Femi swallowed.

“Errol. Errol Richards.” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“Why couldn’t James give Sade the message himself?”

“I don’t know.” It was true. He had never worked that out.

“Who is Errol Richards?”

“James’s friend. He
was
James’s friend until—” Femi bit his thumb hard. “He’s older than James.”

“Is he also in your school?”

Femi shook his head.

“He got expelled.” He could imagine Papa’s face. He dared not look up.

With Papa’s prodding, Femi began to piece together how he had got involved in the gang. How James had sent him a message to meet him at the Leisure Center. How he had started hanging around with the gang on Saturdays.

“So you didn’t go swimming?”

Femi shook his head.

“What about football?”

“No, Papa.” He hung his head.

“What did you do with the gang?”

The questions were coming faster. Surely Papa could hear his heart thumping?

“Did you steal?”

His head felt too heavy to nod, his eyes fixed to the cell floor. Papa began to ask about Errol. Piece by piece, Papa extracted each bit of information…about Errol waiting outside the school…at the old petrol station…the young men with him…everything except what had happened yesterday. Then Papa suddenly changed direction.

“You knew these boys were doing wrong. Why did you keep going with them?”

“You don’t like me to go out, Papa,” he whispered. “You always say something might happen. A gang is safer.”

“Safer?!” Papa expostulated. “Aren’t you leaving something out?”

This was the beginning of the explosion he had expected.

“Perhaps you are not telling yourself everything, Femi. Things you would rather forget.”

Papa had cut him open like a surgeon. He had been carefully probing, but now he was beginning to jab. Femi’s lips began to quiver. Of course there were things he would rather forget. He felt sobs rising, shaking him. He clenched one hand around the other, trying to hold himself tight. He heard Papa breathe deeply and sigh.

“I just want to understand what was going on among the three of you.” Papa struggled to calm his voice, reining himself in. “James and Errol offered to protect you. But did they ever threaten you?”

Femi hesitated. He dug his nails into his palms.

“Not James so much, Papa.” It was the nearest to the truth he could get without betraying James.

“Loyalty to friends is good, Femi, but it needs to be earned. Now tell me what happened yesterday.”

There was no escape this time. He was being prepared for the detectives.

At first Femi kept to the bare details. James waiting for him outside the Leisure Center. The quick march to the petrol station. The little packet and Errol’s instructions for delivery. The men in the lift at Durrant Court. The brown envelope from the lady. The men waiting for him. The mugging in the lift. Running home…

“I was scared, Papa.” It was the first time he had said
anything about how he had felt.

“Of whom?”

“Errol,” Femi whispered.

“And James?”

Femi wavered and bit his lip before giving a small nod.

“So you went to tell them?”

“I had to, Papa. They would have come for me.”

The images flashed through Femi’s mind as he forced himself on. James’s angry face. Errol grabbing him, twisting him with his hand behind his back, while James looked on. The knife grazing past his face. At last, James trying to stop Errol. A tangle of arms, bodies, and blood. The armchair crashing beneath him. James telling him to run. His hand around the broken armrest. The sentries tearing through the door. One reaching for his pocket…

“They didn’t see me, Papa. I got away—I was running—but then I heard something like a shot. Like—like—” He couldn’t say it, but perhaps Papa guessed.
The shot that killed Mama.
Femi’s voice broke down into sobs. Papa pulled him closer and let him weep.