Catherine Bruton - I Predict a Riot

‘Anything else?’

‘Books,’ he said, still self-conscious. ‘I like reading.’

‘What sort of books?’

‘All sorts,’ he said. ‘Whatever I can get my hands on. My English teacher, Miss Kayacan, she –’ He hesitated like he’d said something he shouldn’t, but then he went on. ‘Anyway, she reckoned I should read some of the classics. Said I should go to the library over the holidays. Only . . .’ He stopped again. ‘Only you saw what happened there because you were following me.’ He shrugged and looked right at the camera.

‘What else?’ I asked.

‘I like school. I want to get a good education.’ He was more serious now, looking down at the rubble, not at the camera. ‘For my mum, you know? She reckons education gives you choices in life. That’s why we moved –’ He broke off again. It was like he was monitoring everything he said.

So I took a deep breath before I asked, ‘So, um, are you going to tell me where you were before then?’

He didn’t jump down my throat this time. ‘Are you gonna put this in the film?’

‘I don’t have to,’ I said.

He looked up at the arches then back at the camera. ‘It’s nowhere really. Just some place in North London, like Pea said.’

‘So why did you move to Coronation Road?’

He sighed then stared hard at me, his face screwed up. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘I don’t have anyone to tell secrets to.’

He grinned but still looked uncertain. ‘OK, well, if I tell you this, you have to swear to keep it between me and you.’ He looked dead serious as he said, ‘Promise?’

I nodded quickly.

‘And you can’t film it either,’ he said.

‘OK.’ I switched off my camera and waited for him to go on.

‘So, my dad,’ he said quietly, looking down at his Vans, his face seemed younger suddenly. ‘The thing is that he was in with the wrong crowd. My mum was worried I’d get dragged in too.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s hard to explain,’ he said, a concentrated expression on his face. ‘But basically stuff happened and one day my mum packed up and we left.’

‘What did your dad say?’

‘He didn’t know,’ said Tokes quickly. ‘We went in the middle of the night so he wouldn’t be able to follow us.’

I didn’t know what to say so I just kept quiet, let him keep talking.

‘My dad’s not a bad man,’ he said, looking up at me now like it was important to him that I believed this. ‘When I was a kid, he taught me how to do keepie-uppies, and how to do wheelies on my bike and all that stuff – he even helped me with my homework when he could, even though he wasn’t too hot on school himself. And he treated my mum good too.’

‘Why did she leave him then?’

I thought of my dad saying, ‘When you’re older, you’ll understand why I’m going, Maggie.’ I wondered if it was the same for Tokes.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this,’ he said.

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ I said.

‘I kind of do,’ he admitted. ‘It’s sort of a relief to tell someone about it, you know?’

I nodded because I knew exactly how it felt to have secrets eating away at your insides. And maybe that’s why he told me, because he could tell I got it – sort of.

‘OK, so it’s hard to explain. My dad was in this gang. A bit like the Starfish, I suppose.’ He hesitated. ‘He wanted to get out, make a new start. But once you’re into all that it’s hard to break free.’

‘Right,’ I said quietly.

‘My mum didn’t want that for me.’ He looked like there was a kind of weight on him as he spoke, pressing on his shoulders. ‘She gave up everything so I could make something of my life. Which is why I can’t let her down.’

I wished I’d still been filming then, so I could have zoomed in on his eyes, focused on the bitter black colour in them as he spoke.

‘Do you miss him?’ I said eventually. ‘Your dad?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. He was cool. Funny. Kind.’

I thought of my own dad then: how he could always make me laugh; how he got me in a way my mum never did.

‘Every time I hear some black man’s been shot or in hospital I always think it could be him.’ Tokes’s brow was furrowed and he had that ‘Do you understand?’ look in his eyes, so I nodded even though I didn’t understand. Not that bit. Not really.

‘You know what the average life expectancy is for a black man involved in gang culture?’ he said suddenly.

I shook my head.

‘Twenty-eight,’ he said. Then he looked down again. ‘My dad’s thirty-two already. He’s been running with the gang since he was fifteen, so he’s already pushed his luck, right?’

I imagined filming figures. A two and an eight. Maybe cut out of newspaper or on somebody’s front door: 28.

‘He’s not a bad person, my dad,’ Tokes said again, like he really wanted to make sure I got it. ‘He just got in with the wrong crowd. Like Pea, I suppose.’

‘So do you think he’ll come looking for you?’

Tokes nodded his head. ‘Probably. It’s not really such a big city. He’s gonna find us sooner or later, isn’t he?’

I looked at him through the viewfinder. His pebble eyes were dark and thoughtful.

‘What’ll happen then?’

Tokes face puckered, like he was holding something inside. ‘I don’t know.’

‘And that’s why you want to stay away from Shiv and the Starfish Gang,’ I said.

He looked up and caught my eye, his face clearing as he said, ‘I’ve got to stay out of trouble. Otherwise my mum’s done all this for nothing.’

I remember him saying that, as clear as if I had it on camera.

Just as if he knew what would happen all along.

Tokes said we needed to film at my house. ‘Contrasts,’ he said. ‘Miss Kayacan reckons you need contrasts in stories because it makes people really notice stuff. I reckon it must be the same in films too.’

So I took him back to my house, but as soon as we got there I wished I hadn’t because I could see right away what he was thinking. We live in this massive, white, double-fronted Georgian mansion with electric gates and a Range Rover parked on a perfect gravel drive out front. Tokes’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he took it all in.

‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked, pausing by the front door, my face flame-red.

‘Um, yeah – sure,’ he said.

I let us in. ‘Hi. It’s only me,’ I called as we stepped into the hallway.

‘Is someone home?’ he asked, looking around nervously like we were in some kind of museum.

‘Only the au pair.’

‘Au pair?’

‘She sort of looks after me,’ I said awkwardly. ‘We get a different one practically every holiday. This one’s called Petra.’

‘Will she mind me being here?’ he asked, talking in a whisper.

‘Petra doesn’t care much what I do,’ I said. ‘She spends most of her time on Skype to the Czech Republic.’

‘Oh,’ he said again. He was acting totally different in our house; even his voice had changed. He was still standing motionless on the doormat. ‘Should I take my shoes off ?’ he asked, glancing at the polished wood flooring.

No shoes in the house – that’s one of my mum’s favourite rules.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Keep them on.’

I led the way into the kitchen which is a huge room at the back of the house with a glass roof and chrome surfaces and a big island in the middle, covered with gleaming appliances.

Tokes let out a little laugh when we stepped into it.

‘What’s funny?’ I asked.