What Came Before He Shot Her

of his coins, the shop owner counted it with his eyes not his fi ngers, keeping his hands on whatever it was beneath the counter that was apparently making him feel secure. Joel imagined a big Arab kind of knife, one with a curved blade that could take off someone’s head. He said in reference to the money, “Here it is. C’n I get one, then?”

            “One?”

            “Lava lamp. Tha’s what I come for, innit.”

            The Asian jerked his head towards the window display, saying, “You may have your choice,” and as Joel moved off to pick the lamp he wanted, the man whisked the money off the counter and into the till, slamming the drawer like someone afraid of a secret being seen. Joel picked out the purple and orange lamp that Toby had admired. He unplugged its flex and carried it back to the counter. The lamp wore a patina of dust from the length of time it had been in the window, but that was no matter. Dust could be dealt with easily enough. Joel placed the lamp carefully on the counter. He waited politely for the man to package it. The man did nothing save stare at him until Joel finally said, “C’n you put it in a box or summick? It’s got a box, innit?”

            “There is no box for the lamp,” the Asian man told him, his voice rising as if he were being accused of something. “If you want it, take it. Take it and go at once. If you do not want it, then leave the shop. I have no boxes to give you.”

            “You got a carrier bag, though,” Joel said. “A newspaper or summick to wrap this in?”

            The man’s voice went higher as he saw a plot hatching: this strangelooking boy the vanguard of a crew who meant to raze his shop to the ground. “You are giving me trouble, boy. You and your sort always do. Now I say this to you: Do you want the lamp, because if you do not, you must leave at once or I shall ring the police straightaway.”

            Despite his young age, Joel recognised fear when he saw it, and he knew what fear could prompt people to do. So he said, “I don’t mean you no trouble, y’unnerstan. Just asking for a bag to carry this home.”

            He saw a stack of carrier bags just beyond the till and he dipped his head at them. “One of them’ll do.”

            With his eyes fastened on Joel, the shopkeeper snaked his arm over to the carrier bags and plucked one up. He shoved it across the counter and watched like a cat ready to pounce as Joel shook the bag open and put the lamp inside.

            Joel said, “Cheers,” and retreated from the counter. He was as reluctant to turn his back on the Asian as the Asian was to turn his back on Joel. It was a relief to get back outside.

            When he retraced his steps to Meanwhile Gardens and the duck pond, Joel saw that Cal Hancock had completed his project. His place had been taken by another Rasta wearing a light blanket around his shoulders, squatting in a corner of the football pitch, where he was lighting up. In another corner huddled three sweatshirt- wearing men who looked to be in their twenties. One of them was in the process of removing a handful of small plastic bags from the pouch of his shirt. Joel gave them a glance and hurried off. Some things were better left unseen.

            HE WENT THE back way to the duck pond, around Trellick Tower and through the scent garden instead of weaving through Edenham Estate to reach the spot via the path he and Toby had used earlier. Because of this, his view of the pond was altered, but the spot where he had placed the duck blind was as hidden as it had been from the other angle from which he’d seen it. This was all to the good. He decided he would use it again to tuck Toby away in safety if he needed to do so.

He scurried down towards the dock and worked his way to the hiding spot, calling his brother’s name softly. There was no reply, which caused him to pause for a moment and make sure he was in the right place, something he discovered soon enough when he saw the flattened reeds marking the spot where Toby had lain. The bread was gone and so was Toby.

            Joel murmured, “Shit.” He looked around and called his brother’s name more loudly. He tried to think of all the places Toby might have taken himself to, and he worked his way out of the reeds and up to the main path. It was then that the noise from the skate bowl captured his attention: not only the whooshing of the boards against the concrete sides of the bowl but also the whoops of the riders who were enjoying it.

He picked up speed and made for the skate bowl. Because of the weather, all three of the bowl’s levels were in heavy use, and in addition to the riders and the cyclists in the immediate area, there were a few spectators pausing in their walks on the upper path along the canal to watch the action and others who were lounging on the benches that dotted the garden’s little hills.

            Toby was with neither of these groups. Instead, he was sitting on the edge of the middle skate bowl, his feet dangling and his jeans rucked up so that the duct tape wrapped around his trainers was clearly visible. He was slapping his hands against his life ring as four boys whipped back and forth and up the sides of the bowl on skateboards brightly decorated with transfers. They wore baggy trousers cut to their calves and riding low beneath their crotches. They had on dingy T-shirts with faded band logos and wore knitted ski caps on their heads.

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.