gentleman who shouted, “Stop! Thief! Help!” in anticipation of whatever was to come as Joel charged by.
A quick glance over his shoulder allowed Joel to see that he’d been momentarily blessed. A bus and two lorries had swerved into view. Neal and his crew were hot to pursue him but not hot to be caught under the wheels of a vehicle, so they had to wait until all three had passed before they crossed the road and took up the chase. By that time and despite his labouring lungs, Joel had gained fifty yards on them. The charity shop was in view, and he flung himself inside, panting like an overheated dog as he slammed the door behind him.
Kendra was in the back, sorting through bags of new donations. She looked up when the door crashed closed, and what was on her tongue was something meant to sort Joel for the way he’d arrived. But when she saw his face, her intention altered. She said, “What’s going on?
Where’s Toby? Aren’t you meant to fetch—”
Joel waved her off, a response so unusual that she was stunned into silence. He peered out of the window and saw Neal on his way, leading his crew like a hound on the scent. Joel glanced back at his aunt, then beyond her to the little room at the back of the shop. There was a door within it and an alley behind it. He made for them both without a word.
Kendra said, “Joel. What’s going on? What’re you doing? Who’s out there?”
He managed, “Blokes,” as he pushed past her. His breath was coming so hard that he was feeling light-headed, and his chest seemed branded with a red-hot iron.
Kendra walked to the window as Joel dived for the back room. Seeing the boys on their way, she said, “Are they vexing you?
I’ll sort them out.” She reached for the door’s handle.
“No!” Joel shouted. He had no time to say more, certainly no time to tell his aunt she would make things worse if she tried to deal with the other boys. No one sorted anyone in this kind of situation, and sometimes an enemy was just an enemy for reasons no one could actually fathom. Joel was Neal Wyatt’s chosen death partner. That’s just how it was. Joel crashed into the back room, where a dim bulb lit the way to the door.
He shoved it open. It slammed against the rear wall of the building. He threw himself out into the alley, and a moment later he was hurtling up it while Kendra shut the door behind him.
Joel pounded along for another thirty yards before he was too winded to continue. He knew he had to catch his breath, but he also knew he had only moments before Neal Wyatt worked out which shop he had gone into and what he’d done when he got there. He looked for a place that was safe to hide in. He found it in a skip that was sprouting rubbish from a building site just behind a block of flats.
With the last of his breath, he heaved himself inside. He had to toss out several cardboard boxes and carrier bags filled with rubbish, but this was something his pursuers were unlikely to notice, given the condition of the rest of the alley.
He ducked down and waited, breathing as shallowly as his aching lungs could manage. In less than two minutes, he was rewarded. He heard the slapping of feet coming in his direction. And then their voices:
“Fuckin yellow arse got away.”
“Nah. He’s round here, innit.”
“Wants sortin, dat cunt.”
“Neal, you see where?”
“Real shit hole, dis.”
“Perfec’ place for likes of him, den.”
Laughter and then Neal Wyatt’s voice saying, “Le’s go. Dat slag is hidin him. Le’s get her.”
The boys moved off, and Joel stayed where he was. Indecision and fear made his bowels pressure downward, demanding release. He concentrated on not letting anything go. Arms wrapped around himself, knees tucked up to his chest, he closed his eyes and listened harder.
He heard a door slam in the distance. He knew it was the back door to the charity shop, with the boys returning there and intent upon damage. He tried to remember how many of them there were—as if this would somehow help the situation—because he knew that his aunt was more than a match for one or two boys, perhaps even three. But more than that in a confrontation would mean trouble for her.
Joel forced himself past the fear, past the rumbling at the bottom of his gut. He rose and lifted himself to the edge of the skip. He was saved by the sirens, which at that point came screaming down the Harrow Road.
When Joel heard them, he knew what his aunt had done. Anticipating the boys, she’d phoned 999 the moment Joel had ducked into the alley. She’d done Lady Muck for them, and her accent, her language, and the term
Joel dropped to the ground and scurried off. Less than five minutes later he was entering the learning centre, where Toby had his meetings with the specialist who’d been assigned to help him.
In the vestibule, Joel stopped to brush himself off. He’d got fairly dirty inside the skip, mostly from having landed on a bag of kitchen rubbish, largely containing discarded baked beans and coffee grounds. His jeans bore the evidence of this, all along one leg, as did his jacket, where his shoulder and arm had ploughed into the remains of what looked like a mustard sandwich. He cleaned himself off as well as he could, pushed open the inner doors, and entered the centre.
Toby was waiting for him on the cracked vinyl sofa that comprised the furnishings of the reception area. He had his lava lamp on his lap, his hands curved around the bottom of it. He wasn’t looking at anything other than the unplugged lamp, but his bottom lip was trembling and his shoulders were hunched.
Joel said cheerfully, “Hey, Tobe. Wha’s going, blood?”
Toby looked up. A bright smile eased the drawn expression on his face. He scooted off the sofa, all eagerness to leave, and it came to Joel that Toby had been frightened, thinking that no one was going to turn up, claim him, and take him home. Joel’s heart grew fiery for his little brother. Toby, he decided, was not intended to feel so scared. He said to him, “Le’s nick off, mon. You ready, or wha’? I’m sorry I’m late. You wa’n’t worried or nuffink?”
Toby shook his head, everything forgotten. He said, “Nah,” then,
“Hey, c’n we get some chips ’long the road before we go home? I got fifty pee. Dix gave it me. I got dat five pounds from Gran as well.”
“You don’t want to be spendin dat money on chips,” Joel pointed out. “It’s birthday money. You got to spend it on somet’ing to remember your birthday by.”
“But if I want chips, how else I get ’em? An’ the fifty pee wa’n’t birthday money anyways.”
Joel was trying to come up with a reply for this, one that would explain—with kindness—that fifty pence would not be enough to buy the chips, no matter that it wasn’t birthday money, when a tall black woman with close-cropped hair and golden earrings the size of hubcaps appeared from one of the centre’s interior offices. This was Luce Chinaka, one of the learning specialists who worked with Toby. She smiled and said, “I thought I heard someone out here talking to my young man. Could I have a word, please?” This last she said to Joel before she went on to Toby, “Did you forget to tell him I wanted to see him when he came to fetch you, Mr. Campbell?”
Toby ducked his head. He clutched his lava lamp closer to his chest. Luce Chinaka touched him lightly on his sparse hair and said, “It’s all right, luv. You’re allowed to forget things. Wait here, won’t you? We won’t be long.”
Toby looked to Joel for guidance, and Joel could see the panic rise in his brother’s face at the idea of being left alone so soon after being rescued. He said, “Hang here, mate,” and he searched the room until he found a Spider-Man comic for Toby to look at. He handed it over and told him to wait, promising that he wouldn’t be long. Toby took the comic under his arm and clambered back onto the sofa. He placed the lava lamp carefully next to him and laid the comic on his lap. He didn’t look at it, however. Instead, he fastened his eyes on Joel. They were simultaneously trusting eyes and eyes of appeal. Only someone with a stone in his chest in place of his heart would have failed to be moved by their expression.
Joel followed Luce Chinaka to a small office crammed with desk, table, chairs, notice boards, white boards, and bookshelves that spilled notebooks, volumes, board games, and folders everywhere. She had a name plate on her desk—brass, with “Luce Chinaka” engraved upon it—and next to it stood a picture of her with her
