What Came Before He Shot Her

handed the entries to Ivan Weatherall, who looked them over and nodded happily as he read them.

When the time arrived to announce the winner of Walk the Word, recognition went in reverse order, with honourable mentions first. Their poems were read, and the poets identified themselves, were applauded, and were given certificates stamped in gold along with a coupon for a free video from Apollo Video. Third place went to the elderly lady who’d given Joel advice, and she got a certificate, five pounds, and a coupon for a takeaway curry from Spicy Joe’s. Second place went to an Asian girl in a headscarf—Joel checked to see if she was Hibah, but she was not—and then a hush fell over the group for the announcement of first place and fifty pounds.

            Joel told himself that he couldn’t really win. He didn’t know poems, and he didn’t know words. Still, he couldn’t help thinking about the fifty pounds prize money, and what he could do with fifty pounds if a miracle happened and he turned out to be—

            The winner was Adam Whitburn.

            “Step up here, collect your prize, and accept the adulation of your peers, my man,” Ivan told him.

            The Rasta bounded forward, all smiles. He swept off his cap and bowed, and his dreadlocks poured around his shoulders. When the applause died down, he took the mike for the second time that evening, and he read his poem. Joel tried to listen, but he couldn’t hear. He had the distinct feeling of floodwater rising around him.

He wished for a quick escape, but his seat was in the middle of the row and there was no route that did not involve stepping over people and pushchairs. Thus, he had to endure Adam Whitburn’s triumph, and he agonised for the moment when the evening would come to an end and he could go home. But as Adam returned to his seat, Ivan Weatherall went back to the mike. He had a last announcement, he said, because the judges had also made a selection of a Poet of Promise, and this was the first time such an honour had been bestowed upon anyone since Adam Whitburn had himself been so designated five years earlier. They wanted to give this individual a special nod, Ivan declared. Then he read the poem, and Joel heard his own words.

            “Take a bow,” Ivan said, “whoever wrote this one.”

            Chapter

      14 Poet of Promise. Even after Wield Words Not Weapons was over, Joel was still able to summon up the pleasure he felt at the slaps on his back and the congratulations. He could still see the smiles on the faces of the audience as he faced them from the dais, and it would be a long time before the sound of their applause entirely faded from his ears. As the crowd began to disperse, Adam Whitburn sought Joel out. He said, “How old are you, bred?” and then with a grin when Joel said his age, “ Twelve?  Shit. You not half, speck.” He slapped Joel’s palm. “I di’n’t put words together like dat ’fore I was seventeen. You got summick special.”

            A frisson of pleasure tingled Joel’s spine. Having never been told he was special at anything, he wasn’t sure how he was meant to answer, so he nodded and said, “Cool.”

            He found that he didn’t want to leave the Basement Activities Centre, which would mean putting an end to the evening, so he stayed behind and helped stack the plastic chairs and bag the remaining refreshments. When these small tasks were completed, he remained by the door, prolonging the sensation of having actually been part of something for the first time in his life. He watched Ivan Weatherall and several other hangers-on like himself making sure the basement was put back in order. When it seemed that everything was in its proper place, someone switched off the lights and it was time to leave.

Ivan came to him then, whistling softly and looking what he was, which was extremely pleased at the end of a successful evening. He called out good nights to those who were leaving and he turned down an offer of a post- event coffee, saying, “Another time perhaps? I’d like to speak to our poet of promise,” and offering Joel a friendly smile.

Joel smiled back in reflex. He felt charged up with a kind of energy he could not identify. This was the energy of a creator, the rush of renewal and sheer aliveness experienced by the artist, but he did not know that yet.

Ivan locked the basement door. Together he and Joel climbed to the street. He said, “So. You’ve had a triumph at your very first Wield. Well worth stopping in to try your hand, I’d say. This lot don’t give out that title often, by the way, should you be thinking of dismissing it. And they’ve never given it to someone your age. I was . . . Well, to be honest, I was quite astonished although I assure you that’s no reflection on you. Still and all, it should give you something to consider, and I hope you do that. But forgive me for preaching. Shall we walk home together? We’re going in the same direction.”

            “Consider what?” Joel asked.

            “Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, writing. Poetry. The written word in any form. You’ve been given the power to wield, and I suggest you wield it. At your age, to be able to put words together in such a way as to move a reader naturally . . . no manipulative devices, no clever traps . . . Just emotion that’s raw and real . . . But I am running on. Let’s get you home safely before we map out your future, shall we?”

            Ivan headed them in the general direction of Portobello Road, and he chatted amiably as they walked. What Joel had, he explained, was a facility for language, and this was a gift from God. It meant that he possessed a rare but inherent talent for using words in such a way as to demonstrate their metric power.

            To a boy whose knowledge of poetry was limited to what was written on the inside of sentimental birthday cards, all of this was Greek. But that didn’t present a problem to Ivan, who simply went on.

By fostering this facility, he explained, Joel would have myriad options as his life unfolded. For being able to use language was a critical skill that could carry one far. One could use it professionally, as a crafter of everything from political speeches to modern novels. One could use it personally, as a tool of discovery or a means of staying connected to others. One could use it as an outlet that would feed the artistic spirit of the creator, which existed in everyone.

            Joel trotted along at Ivan’s side, and he tried to digest all of this. Himself as a writer. Poet, playwright, novelist, lyricist, speechwriter, journalist, giant of the biro. Most of it felt like a very large suit of clothes handed down to Joel by someone who had no idea of his proper size. The rest of it felt like forgetting the single and most important fact directly related to his responsibility to his family. He was thus silent. He was very glad that he’d been called a poet of promise, but the truth was that it didn’t change anything.

            “I want to help people,” he finally said, not so much because he actually did want this but because his entire life to this moment indicated to Joel that helping people was what he was intended to do. He could hardly have been given the mother he had and the brother he had if there was another calling to which he was supposed to be drawn.

            “Ah, yes. The plan. Psychiatry.” Ivan turned them up Golborne Road, where shops were closed for the night and unwashed cars crouched along the kerb. “Even if you settle upon that permanently, you must still find a creative outlet for yourself. You see, where people go wrong when they set out in life is in not exploring that part of themselves that feeds their spirit. Without that food, the spirit dies, and it’s a large part of our responsibility to ourselves not to allow that to happen. In fact, consider how few psychiatric problems there might be if every individual actually knew what to do to keep alive in himself something that could affirm the very essence of who he is. That’s what the creative act does, Joel. Blessed is the man or woman who knows this at a young age like yours.”

            Joel thought about this, attaching the thought quite naturally to his mother. He wondered if this was the answer for her, beyond the hospital, the doctor, and the drugs. Something to do with herself to take her away from herself, something to make her spirit whole, something to make her psyche heal. It seemed unlikely.

            Still, he said, “Maybe . . . ,” and without realising what he was admitting to or to whom he was speaking, he mused aloud, “I got to help my mum, though. She’s in hospital.”

            Ivan’s steps slowed. He said, “I see. How long has she been . . . Where is she, exactly?”

            The question served to bring Joel around, depositing him in a more wakened state. He felt marked by the immensity of the betrayal he’d committed. Certainly, he could not say more about his mother: nothing about the locked doors and barred windows and the myriad failed attempts to make Carole Campbell better.

            Up the street from them, then, a small group came from the direction of Portobello Bridge. They comprised three people, and Joel recognised them at once. He took a sharp breath and looked at Ivan, knowing that it would be wise for them to cross the road and hope not to be seen. For to be seen by the Blade in daylight was