What Came Before He Shot Her

insistent upon knowing who had set upon them.

Toby didn’t know their names and Joel wouldn’t say their names. Kendra could tell that Joel knew them, however, and the fact that he wouldn’t tell her infuriated her more. The conclusion she reached was that these were the same nasty little pieces of business who’d been after Joel the day he’d stormed through the charity shop and burst out of the back door into the alley. She’d heard one of them call their obvious leader Neal. It would, she decided, be no difficult task to ask around, find out his surname, and sort him out.

            The only problem with this plan was the sorting-out part of it. Kendra remembered the boy, and he seemed a hateful creature. A talking-to wasn’t going to make any difference to him. He was the kind of yob who only understood the threat of bodily harm.

This called for Dix. Kendra knew she had no choice in the matter. She was going to have to be humble and throw herself upon his essential good nature in order to ask for his help, but she became willing to do that once she saw that Toby was afraid to leave the house and Joel was watching his back at all times, like a millionaire strolling through Peckham.

            The question for her was where to approach Dix so that her approach would not be open to misinterpretation. She couldn’t go to the Falcon where, she assumed correctly, he had taken up residence once again with the two other power lifters. She couldn’t ring him and ask him to come to Edenham Estate lest he think she wanted him to move back in. A chance encounter in the street somewhere seemed the best, but she couldn’t rely upon that. This seemed to leave the gym, where he did his lifting.

            So that was where she went, as soon as she was able to manage it. She made her way to Caird Street, where the Jubilee Sports Centre stretched in a low-slung brick mass just south of the Mozart Estate. She was taking her chances with regard to Dix’s being there, but as it was around lunchtime and as he put in a good six hours at his workout each day, it seemed reasonable to conclude he’d be power lifting.

            He was. In a snowy vest and navy shorts, he was bench pressing what looked to Kendra to be a mind-boggling amount of weight. He was being spotted by a fellow lifter taking a casual approach to his job by discussing low reps versus singles with another lifter who was standing nearby with an upended water bottle, pouring its contents into his mouth.

            These two men saw Kendra before Dix. Aside from the fact that she was a woman entering a largely male world, in her pencil skirt, her ivory blouse, and her heels, she was hardly dressed for the place. Beyond that, she did not have the look of a female bodybuilder or of anyone wishing to become a female bodybuilder. Dix’s near companions ceased their conversation when it became clear that she was approaching them.

Kendra waited until Dix had completed his reps and his spotter had guided the barbell back into position on the stand. The spotter said to him quietly, “Dis yours, mon?,” which directed his attention to Kendra. Dix reached for a white towel and used it as he rose from the bench.

            They faced each other. Kendra would have had to be blind not to see that Dix looked good. She would have had to be insensate not to feel the same stirring for him that she’d felt when they were together. More, she would have had to be demented not to remember how they were together when they’d been together. All of this caused her to hesitate before she spoke.

            So he spoke first, saying, “Ken. Lookin good. How you been?”

            She said, “C’n I have a word?”

            He glanced at the other two men. One shrugged and the other flipped his hand as if to say, Whatever.

            Kendra added hastily, “Or later, if you’re in the middle of something.”

            He clearly was  in the middle of something, but he said, “’S okay. I’m good.” He came to join her. “Happening?” he asked. “Kids okay?”

            “C’n we go . . . ? Not leave here or anything, but is there some place . . . ?” She felt shy with him, on the wrong foot. This had to do with the reason for her visit; nonetheless, she wished she felt more in control of the situation.

            He nodded towards the door through which she’d come, where a vending machine sold bottled water and energy drinks. Four small tables with chairs ran along a window opposite the machine. This was where Dix took her.

            She looked at the machine. She was parched. It was a warm day, and her nerves were in the process of drying out her mouth. She opened her bag and fished out some coins.

            He said, “I c’n get you—”

            She used his own, previous words. “I’m good. I don’t expect you’re carryin any money in those shorts,” and then she felt hot again because it seemed to her that what she’d said was rife with connotations. He chose to ignore them. He said, “Dat would be the truth.”

            “You want something?”

            He shook his head. He waited till she had her water. They both sat and faced each other. He said again, “Lookin good, Ken.”

            She said, “Ta. Yourself. But that’s no surprise.”

            He looked confused by this. He felt judged, her remark reminding him of obsession and of everything that had been off-kilter in their relationship.

            Kendra saw this and hastened to add, “I mean, you always work hard. So it’s no surprise to me you look good. Any more competitions coming up?”

            He thought about this before saying, “Dat’s not why you’re here, innit.”

            She swallowed. “True.”

            She had no real idea how to make her request of him, so she plunged in without prefatory remarks. She told him what had happened to Joel and Toby—she’d put two and two together on the earlier “fall” from a skateboard as well—and once she’d concluded with the Casualty department and Joel’s refusal to name their tormentor, she named him herself and asked for Dix’s help in the matter.

            “Ugly little mixed-race kid with his face half frozen. He’s called Neal. Ask round and you should be able to find him without much trouble. He runs with a crew in the Harrow Road. All I’m asking is that you have a word with him, Dix. A serious  word. Let him see Joel and Toby have a friend who’s willing to do something if they get hurt.”

            Dix didn’t reply. He reached for the bottle from which Kendra had been drinking her water and he took a swig of it. He held onto it afterwards, rolling it between his palms. Kendra said, “These boys . . . They’ve been vexing Joel for a while, evidently, but they didn’t know about Toby till recently. Joel’s afraid they’ll go after him again—Toby, this is—”

            “He sayin that?”

            “No. But I can tell. He hovers. He . . . he gives instructions  to Toby. Stay inside the learning centre and don’t go out on the steps. Don’t wander down to the charity shop. Don’t visit the skate bowl unless I’m with you. That kind of thing. I know why he’s saying it. I’d talk to those boys myself—”

            “Can’t  do that.”

            “I know. They wouldn’t care if a woman—”

            “Ken, that ain’t it.”

            “—was the one trying to sort them. But if it was a man, if it was a man like you, someone they could see  would take them on if he had to and would give them a dose of what they give to helpless little boys, then they’d leave Joel and Toby alone.”

            Dix looked at the bottle in his hands and he kept his eyes on it as he replied. “Ken, ’f I sort dis for the boys, t’ings’ll go worse. Joel and Toby end up havin more trouble’n ever. You don’t want dat and neither do I. You know how t’ings on the street work out.”

            “Yeah, I do know,” Kendra said curtly. “People die is how things in the street work out.”

            He winced. “Not always,” he said. “And we’re not talkin ’bout a drug ring, Ken. We’re talkin about a group of boys.”

            “A group of boys going after Toby. Toby.  You should see him now, how scared he is. He’s had nightmares about it and his days aren’t much better.”

            “It’ll pass. Boy like dis Neal, he’s into posturin, innit. His street creds’re not goin to grow ’f he does some job on an eight-year-old. What he’s doing right now—makin threats ’n’ all dat—you’ll see dat’s the limit of wha’ he’s goin to do an’ he’s doin it to unnerve you lot.”