What Came Before He Shot Her

            Joel doubted it would work, but he was willing to give it a try. He said, “Next time we go, Tobe, we take that skateboard. But you got to learn to ride it first. You get good on it, you c’n show Mum. That’ll take her mind off what’s botherin her and maybe she c’n come home.”

            “You t’ink?” Toby asked, his face bright.

            “Yeah. Dat’s what I think,” Joel lied.

            THE HOPE OF Carole Campbell’s improvement existed in varying degrees within her children. Its presence was largest within Toby, whose limited experience had not yet taught him to be leery of having expectations. In Joel it was a fleeting thought whenever he had to make a decision that involved the care and protection of his family. In Ness, however, Carole was a passing and summarily rejected thought. The girl was too busy to entertain fantasies in which her mother returned to their lives as the whole and functioning human being she had never been.

            Majidah and Sayf al Din were largely responsible for this. As were having a plan for the future and a route to follow in achieving that plan.

            Ness first paid a call upon Fabia Bender at the Youth Offending Team’s offices in Oxford Gardens. There, she told the social worker that she would be pleased and extremely  grateful— these last two words, including the emphasis, were spoken at Majidah’s insistence—to accept the scholarship or grant or charity money or whatever it was that would allow her to take a single millinery course during the next term at college. Fabia declared herself delighted with this information, although she’d been brought into the picture by Majidah every step of the way to this destination. She allowed Ness to lay out the entire plan and she expressed interest, encouragement, and delight as Sayf al Din’s offer of employment was explained to her, along with Majidah’s loan, the manner of repayment, the schedule of work, the reduced hours at the child drop-in centre, and everything else remotely related to Ness’s circumstances. Everything, Fabia Bender told her, would be approved by the magistrate.

            Fabia used Ness’s visit to ask about Joel as well. But on this topic, Ness was not forthcoming. She didn’t trust the social worker that  far and, beyond that, she didn’t really know what was going on with her brother. Joel had become far more watchful and secretive than he’d been in the past.

            Naturally, working for Sayf al Din didn’t unfold the way Ness would have liked it to. In her imagination, she descended upon his studio ablaze with ideas that he embraced, allowing her access to all his supplies and equipment. Her fantasy had it that he accepted a commission from the Royal Opera—or perhaps from a fi lm company producing an enormous costume drama—and that commission proved far too large for one man to design by himself. Casting about for a partner, he chose Ness the way the prince eternally chooses Cinderella. She expressed a suitable amount of humble doubt about her capabilities, all of which he brushed aside. She rose to the occasion, created one masterwork after another in rapid succession, earning herself a reputation, Sayf al Din’s gratitude, and a permanent creative partnership with him.

            The reality was that she began her tenure in the Asian man’s studio with broom in hand, far more like Cinderella’s earlier life than her later days post fairy godmother’s appearance on the scene. She was a oneperson clean-up crew, assigned to keep the studio in order via dustpan, cleaning rags, mops, and the like. She chafed under this assignment, but she gritted her teeth and did it.

            The day Sayf al Din finally allowed her to use a glue gun was thus one of celebration. The assignment was simple enough, involving beads fi xed to a band that was a very small part of the overall headpiece being fashioned. But even though the job was virtually insignificant, it signaled a step forward. So intent was Ness upon doing it perfectly and thus proving her superiority over the other workers, that it took her far longer than it should have done and it placed her in the studio far later than she should have been. There was no danger in her being there, since Sayf al Din was working as well. He even walked her to the underground station when she was finally ready to go home for the day, to make certain she arrived there unmolested. They chatted as they walked; he promised her work of a more advanced nature. She was doing well, she was catching on, she was responsible, and she was the kind of person he wanted working with him. With  him, he said, not for him. Ness burned a little more brightly at the thought of the partnership that with  implied.

Once he’d seen her through the turnstile in the Covent Garden underground station, Sayf al Din returned to his studio to finish up his own work. He had no worries about Ness getting home, since she had only to change lines at King’s Cross Station—which could be accomplished in the light of the underground tunnels—and afterwards, the walk to Edenham Estate from Westbourne Park station was less than ten minutes and closer to five if she was brisk about it. Sayf al Din had done his duty as prescribed by his mother, whose interest in the troublesome teenager was a source of mystification for him.

Because the delights of the day had been just that—delightful— Ness was full of future imaginings as she walked towards home from the underground station. Thus, she crossed over Elkstone Road with her mind somewhat fogged by her success. She walked along the edge of Meanwhile Gardens without the full consciousness required by a wintertime stroll along a dimly lit park in a questionable part of town.

            She saw nothing. But she was seen. From midway down the spiral stairs—and consequently sheltered from view—a group of watchers had long waited for just such a moment. They saw Ness cross over Elkstone Road, and a nod was all they needed to tell them this was the girl they’d been looking for.

            They moved with the silence and grace of cats, down the stairs and along the path. They hurried over the rise of land that marked one of the hillocks inside the garden, and by the time Ness reached the entrance to the place—never locked, for there were no gates—they were there as well.

            “Yellow-skin bitch gonna give us some or wha’?” was the question Ness heard coming from behind her. Because she was feeling good, capable, and equal to anything, she broke the rule that might otherwise have ensured her safety. Rather than call out for help, run, blow a whistle, scream, or otherwise draw attention to her potential danger—which behaviour, it must be admitted, had only a limited possibility of success—she turned. She could tell the voice was young. She thought herself evenly matched to youth.

What she had not counted on was the number of them. What she did not realise was that this was no fortuitous encounter. There were eight boys behind her, and by the time she understood the extent to which she was outnumbered, they were upon her. One face emerged from the pack of them, genetically odd and further contorted by design and by loathing. Before she could put a name to that face, a blow on her back caused her to fall forward. Her arms were grabbed. She was dragged from the pavement into the park. She screamed. A hand clamped over her mouth.

            “You gonna like wha’ we give you, bitch,” Neal Wyatt said.

NEITHER KENDRA NOR Dix was at home when three sharp raps sounded on the front door, followed by an accented male Asian voice. Had it not been for that voice, Joel wouldn’t have answered. As it was, he still hesitated until he heard the man say, “You please must open the door at once, as I fear this poor young lady may be seriously injured.”

            Joel fumbled with the dead bolt and jerked the door open. A familiarlooking older Asian with heavy rimmed glasses, wearing shalwar kamis topped by an overcoat, had both arms around Ness. She was sagging against him, clinging to his coat’s lapel. Her jacket and scarf were missing, and her jersey was torn at the right shoulder and otherwise splattered with filth and blood. Round her jaw were ugly marks, the sort that came from trying to hold someone’s mouth closed or fully open.

            “Where are your parents, young man?” the man asked. He introduced himself as Ubayy Mochi. “This poor girl was set upon in the gardens, I’m afraid.”

            “Ness?” was the only thing Joel could say. “Nessa? Ness?” He was afraid to touch her. He stepped back from the door and heard Toby coming down the stairs from above. He called over his shoulder, “Tobe, you stay upstairs, okay? You watch the telly? ’S only Ness, okay?”

            This was as good as an invitation. Toby descended the rest of the way and came through the kitchen. He stopped short, hugging his skateboard to his chest. He looked at Ness, then at Joel. He began immediately to cry, caught between fear and confusion.

            “Shit,” Joel muttered. He himself was trapped between soothing Toby and doing something to care for their sister. He didn’t know how to accomplish either. He stood like a statue and waited for something to happen next.