Kit de Waal - My Name Is Leon

The smell of smoke is everywhere — seeping through his skin, in the fabric of his pants, on his scalp, his naked back, his hair — and if he was at home, Sylvia would tell him to get changed and have a bath. She would close the windows and light a cigarette, she would put the TV on and give him a bag of potato chips and a drink. Maureen would be worried about where the smoke came from and whose house was on fire but Sylvia wouldn’t.

He runs into the next street. How far is Dovedale Road? What bus is it? How much is it? He stops in front of a shop and takes his map out of his backpack. It’s soaking wet and, as he pulls it, it rips in half. A bottle of soda has smashed in his pack. His map is ruined. His breath comes in short bursts in time with the thrumming of his heart, sudden and sharp. Behind him he hears an explosion and the noise hits him like a fist. He crouches down in case something lands on him from the sky and he scampers to the doorway of a shop with all its windows smashed in.

An angry ghost of black smoke rolls up the street. If Leon stays where he is, it will cover him over, eat him up. He feels the soda dripping out of his pack and running down the back of his legs. It makes him want to pee and then he’s crying again.

“I don’t know where I am,” he says.

Run away from the ghost. Run all the way to Dovedale Road. Knock on the door where Jake lives. Ask them if he can stay. Maybe they do want another boy. No one’s probably asked them. No more stealing. No more lying. No more creeping around, eavesdropping. The TV always on low. Promise.

He turns a corner and sees a car lying on its side. Fat arms of white fire curl out of the broken windows and wave at him. Something in the car is hissing like fat in a frying pan. Leon turns and runs back the other way. The next road is deserted. The streetlights are broken but the lights are on in every house and a woman stands on the corner covering her face and crying. Two men in turbans shout at him.

“Get off the street! Can’t you see? Go home!”

“No! Come with us. Over here.”

Leon takes a few steps toward them. “I’m lost,” he says.

“Take him inside.”

“Get him off the street.”

Leon backs away.

“Dovedale Road!” he shouts.

“Don’t run away,” they say but Leon is too quick. He dashes down an alley, kicking bottles and bricks out of the way. He needs to get back to the allotment and get his bike. He can cycle all the way to Dovedale Road. He’s strong. He can do it. The alley goes on and on forever and right at the end there is a bright light. He runs toward it, stumbling and banging against the brick wall. He can hear himself breathing and words keep coming out of his mouth even though there is no one to hear. He wants to stop talking to himself but he’s too scared.

“I’m lost. I don’t know where I am. Help me.”

He bursts out of the entry into the middle of a wide road and the noise turns itself off like a tap.

The road and the pavements are covered in bricks and bottles and glass and bits of iron. In the middle of the road is a bike on its side. It could take him all the way to Dovedale Road. He takes two steps toward it.

“Down Babylon!”

Something whizzes over his head and when it smashes it explodes into a puddle of fire, the flames jumping high off the street. Leon turns and runs and then he sees them. Crowds and crowds of black men at the end of the street, surging forward and back like one wild lion about to pounce. Leon stares at them but they are looking past him to the other end of the road, where there’s a wide wall of shields and baton, hundreds of policemen lined up across the street.

The words through the loudspeaker are angry.

“Clear the street. Disperse and clear the street.”

Leon wipes his arm across his face. He doesn’t want the policemen to see his tears. He goes to walk away when a brick lands near his feet. He turns to the crowd of men at the other end of the street. They begin shouting all together. Chanting with one voice.

“Justice! Justice! Justice!”

Someone else cuts in.

“Break down Babylon! Break down Sus!”

“Fucking pigs! Police brutality! Murderers!”

“Racists! Killers!”

The same policeman says it again. “Disperse and clear the street.”

Leon cups his hands round his mouth. “Dovedale Road!”

His words are drowned. The voices of the black men rise and snarl together like a monster’s roar that carries right over Leon’s head, all the way over the glass and the bricks and the fire and the bits of metal, all the way over the shields, snapping and biting. No one is looking at Leon. No one is listening. No one ever listens. No one even knows he’s there.

Leon takes his backpack off and puts it down by his feet. He opens the top and takes out Mr. Devlin’s gun. The policemen have batons and shields. The angry men have bricks and swearing. Leon has a gun. He holds it out toward the police. He turns and points it at the black men.

Everything goes quiet. Leon stands tall and raises his head.

“Hey!” he shouts.

The loudspeaker screams.

“Put the weapon down!”

Leon turns back to the police and holds the gun up to eye level, looking down the barrel. Mr. Devlin has done a good job with this gun. The dark wood is oiled and shiny. It has a little trigger and a little sight on the end of the barrel.

“Dovedale Road!” he shouts. “Take me to Dovedale Road!”

The angry men start creeping forward behind Leon.

“He’s got a fucking gun!”

“That kid’s got a gun!”

“Get the fucking gun, man!”

As they get closer, Leon hears scuffling.

“Don’t crowd him!”

“Get him!”

Then Leon hears one voice, clear and sweet over all the others.

“Yo, Star!”

Tufty! It’s Tufty! Waving with both arms.

“Star!”

Leon raises the gun to wave and everyone drops to the ground. Some scatter off to the side, to the dark houses and shops with broken windows.

The police crouch down behind their shields.

Then Mr. Devlin runs out into the middle of the road. He’s waving at the police and the crowd.

“It’s wooden!” he shouts. “It’s not real. It’s wooden!”

He is turning round and round, waving and all the time coming closer and closer to Leon.

He holds his hand out for the gun.

“Good boy,” he says. “Give me the gun. Give it to me. Put it down.”

Leon backs away. He picks up his pack and backs away.

“Give me the gun. You don’t understand. Give it to me.”

He makes a quick and sudden move for Leon and grabs his arm. A bottle smashes at Leon’s feet. Another bottle and brick fly over and something hits Mr. Devlin in the head. Leon sees him stagger.

“Pig!” shouts the crowd. “He’s a pig!”

The bottles come hard and fast, smashing on the ground, shards of glass splintering everywhere. A stone hits Leon on his leg, something scratches past his back. He cries out.

“Run!” says Mr. Devlin, the blood on his forehead trickling down into his eye, then something hits him on his shoulder. He cries out and falls down.

“Run, boy!” he says and pushes Leon away.

Under his feet, Leon feels the thunder of the policemen’s boots. They stamp toward him, crouching behind their shields, and all the angry men run forward, cheering and shouting. They are feet apart.

Tufty grabs Mr. Devlin by the arm.

“Get up, man!”

But Mr. Devlin is swaying and won’t move.

“Help me, Star!” shouts Tufty. “We got to move. Quick!”

But they can’t get Mr. Devlin up and there are people screaming, rushing past them from both sides. Tufty shields Mr. Devlin with his back but all Mr. Devlin does is moan and there’s blood running off his face now, onto his green jacket.