Black Sheep (11 page)

“You ain’t my mum, y’get me. What makes you think you can save me – or any of us?”

Ms Walker’s chest was heaving and she looked straight at me. I could see the tears shining behind her glasses. “Because my son was your age when he died,” she said, her voice
all hoarse.

Ms Walker had a son once?

She answered my question before I could ask it. “He was stabbed by another boy. A stupid argument, really, over nothing. But it cost him his life...” Ms Walker took out a piece of
tissue and blew her nose loudly. “You boys don’t realise it, but the choices you make – whether you retaliate or walk away, forgive or seek revenge – have lasting
consequences, for you and everyone else. I don’t want to see you make the same mistake...”

I felt proper bad then. Ms Walker had been through a lot and she still cared so much. It made me feel like a real scumbag. I kept quiet. Ms Walker started walking towards the exit. I followed
her. When I spoke again, my voice was softer. “Did they ever find out who did it, Miss?”

Ms Walker took off her glasses and cleaned them with a piece of tissue. When she looked up, her eyes were tired. I had never seen them like that before. “The police couldn’t
prosecute due to lack of evidence. No one in the community would come forward.”

I was silent. No one ever gave the police information about beef on the estate, not if they wanted to keep living there.

But as we got to the top of the elevator and walked out onto Brixton High Road, Ms Walker started talking again, quieter this time, sounding less like a fierce headteacher and more like one of
the mums on the estate, mine, Jukkie’s, little Lightning’s.

“The house felt so quiet without him. Even with all the relatives and neighbours coming in to talk to me, to offer support, comfort, I could still feel his absence. It felt like I had lost
my right arm.” Ms Walker breathed in deeply and her voice shook.

I knew she wasn’t talking to me any more, not really. I just happened to be there. Part of me was proper embarrassed. Part of me felt sorry for her, guilt running through every vein. Mans
like me had caused this.

She kept talking. “My youngest was only eight at the time. He wanted life to go on as normal, to go out to play with his friends down the street. But I wouldn’t let him. I had
already lost one son; I wasn’t about to lose another.” She looked me straight in the eye. “These streets are the killing fields for young black boys like you, Dwayne.”

Then she walked away quickly, holding her bag close to her side, her high heels tapping on the concrete.

I ran my fingers over my fade – freshly cut for my visit to Misha’s family – and thought to myself, ‘What a mess, man. What a rhated mess.’

MISHA

“Well... that was interesting... I haven’t spoken to one of those in a while.” Auntie Dionne’s voice reached me in the hallway.

Then Mum: “Don’t, Dionne. It may be amusing to you but it isn’t to me. This is my daughter we’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t be so anxious!” said Auntie Dionne, chuckling. “She’ll be over him in no time, once she sees what a loser he is.”

“And in the meantime, what am I supposed to do, stand by and watch her mess up her life? You know what happens when girls hang around with boys like that! That lifestyle is dangerous
– she could get involved in any number of crazy things, things she would never even have reason to
think
about if it were not for him!”

“Why so over-dramatic?” laughed Auntie Loretta. “You were sixteen once; we all were. We all did crazy things. I thought he was quite sweet – reminded me of my first
crush. Misha is no different to how we were, no different from any other sixteen-year-old out there.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Loretta. Misha
is
different. She is made for better things...”

“OK,” sighed Auntie Loretta. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you: you make a big deal out of this, you’ll only fan the flames. Ignore it and it will all go
away, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, you mean like what happened with Keisha?” Mum’s voice turned harsh. Keisha, my cousin who had fallen pregnant at 17: Mum’s poster girl for Brixton parenting gone
wrong. “You ignored that, didn’t you, and look where it got you!”

I heard Auntie Loretta suck in her breath. “I might have known you would bring that up, Dina. You never could let anything go, could you? Thanks for reminding me why I never bother
disagreeing with you. You just can’t take anyone telling you that you’re wrong. You couldn’t handle it with Mum and Dad and you couldn’t handle it with Isaiah...”

My heart leapt when she mentioned my father’s name.

“Don’t you dare bring him into this!” Mum spat out. “No one wants as much for Misha as I do, no one, not even her father! I have given her everything she needs to succeed
– and I won’t allow anything to get in the way of that!”

Auntie Loretta: “Oh Lord, Dina, does it always have to be about you? What about what she wants – have you even thought about that? Have you?”

“I know what is best for my own daughter, thank you very much!”

Their voices rose and rose, and I blinked back tears as I turned away. I was careful not to make a sound as I went upstairs to my room and closed the door softly. My fingers were trembling. I
dreaded hearing Mum call my name. I knew just what she was going to say. There was no doubt about it now.

I changed into my pyjamas quickly. I needed to get into bed, to pull the duvet over my head and sink into sleep, to forget everything. But as I got under the covers, I heard a knock at my door.
It was Mum.

“Misha?” She poked her head round the door. “Are you still awake?”

As my light was on, there was no way I could pretend that I was sleeping. I nodded and she stepped into the room.

“I want to talk to you.” Her voice was hoarse.

I sat up against my pillows and crossed my arms, trying to keep my expression neutral even though I knew what Mum was going to say, even though I knew that I would not be able to change her
mind, and that I was going to cry.

“Misha,” Mum began, “you know how much I love you, don’t you?”

The tears had already started to sting my eyes. I nodded, blinking.

“And that I only want what’s best for you?”

I nodded again.

“Well, as your mother, I am telling you that I don’t want you to see this boy, Dwayne, again. I want you to end it with him.”

I opened my mouth to protest but Mum continued, her voice rising slightly. “I know his type, darling, and believe me, he is not the kind of boy you want to be having anything to do
with.” Mum shook her head and looked away, blinking several times. “Not you, Misha. Not now.”

I finally found words. “So you won’t even give him a chance, then? I mean, you only met him for the first time today!”

“Not at the risk of you getting hurt, Misha, no.” Then Mum looked me straight in the eye. “That kind of boy is trouble, believe me. I don’t want you mixed up with all
that ghetto stuff, d’you hear? I mean, what could you possibly want with a sixteen-year-old ghetto badboy? Why do you think we moved out of Brixton? You’re worth more than that, Misha,
much more! We’re not going back to that life, not after we’ve worked so hard to get out. That boy is bad news. I want you to end it, OK?”

I didn’t say anything; I
couldn’t
say anything. I always agreed with Mum. She knew best, right? This time was no different. I nodded.

Mum smiled, sighing with relief. “I knew you’d understand,” she said, patting my hand. “Don’t be upset, honey. It’s for the best; one day, you’ll thank
me for this...”

I only pretended to listen. My heart felt small and tight inside my chest. This was the first time, the first time I had really wanted something, something that made me sing inside, something
that made me look in the mirror and see a gorgeous being, full of light and love – and Mum had just shut it down. End of discussion.

Later that night, after Mum had gone, I cried bitter tears, thinking of all the things, all the people that I had given up because Mum said they weren’t good enough for me. My heart ached
for afternoons with Gran at her house in Brixton, for my best friend from primary school, Rachel, for our old house with the blackberry bush in the garden. And my heart ached for Dwayne, of
course.

I would have to tell him.

DWAYNE

Misha rang me the next morning. “I need to see you. Meet me at Battersea Park after school.”

I said yes straight away. I felt really bad for hanging up on her the day before. She didn’t deserve that.

But when I saw her, she looked different somehow, small and closed, not her usual smiling self.

“What’s up, girl?” I asked.

She felt different when I held her, brittle, like she might just break if I hugged her too hard.

Misha looked away, into the park. “Can we walk?” she asked. “I don’t have long; I’ve got to get back home.”

“Sure, babes, whatever you want.” We started walking, neither of us saying a word. I was blown away by how different it was from the first time we had been there. I bit my thumbnail,
jiggling my keys in my jean pocket. In the end, I cracked: I just couldn’t take it any more. “Yo, Misha, what’s up with you, man? This is killing me.”

“Look, Dwayne, my mum said that I can’t see you again.” She came out with it, just like that. Then she shrugged, biting her lip. “Yeah, so...”

I should have known her mum would pull a stunt like that. “Yeah, so what? That don’t mean we have to stop seeing each other. We just have to be more careful, innit, on the down low
and ting.”

Misha looked at me. I could see that she really didn’t believe that it was that easy, that she could just do what she liked, no matter what her mum said.

I stopped walking and took her face in my hands. I wanted her to know that I was for real. “Misha, I don’t business that your mum don’t like me. What matters is that you like
me. What matters is that we’re tight. The rest of the world ain’t got nothing to do with it. You know we’ve got something special. Ain’t no one coming in the way of
that.” Then I kissed her like I really meant it.

“Yes,” she murmured, “yes, I’m going to do this. I’m going to do this for me.”

I didn’t know what she was going on about. All I knew was that she was with me, in my arms, and it felt right. The rest of the world could go to hell for all I cared.

“So, who’s this new gyal den?”

“Just some girl, innit,” I mumbled.

I didn’t feel like getting all conversational with Jukkie – I was still vex’ with him. It pissed me off, the way Jukkie kept sucking up to Trigger, trying to get on his good
side. It was obvious that he just wanted a bigger piece of the action.

Jukkie was changing, there was no doubt about it. But maybe I was changing too, just like he said.

“So what, are you bangin’ her?”

“What?” I scowled and turned to him. “Why you in my business, blud?”

“It ain’t no fing,” replied Jukkie, lazily twirling one of his knives in the air. “I just asked if you were mashin’ her, innit.”

“Shut up, man.”

“Nah, you shut up, you know you ain’t mashin’ no one!”

“Shut up, man, you know I done mashed nuff girl, y’get me. Just come out my business, blud. I don’t check for that kind of thing.”

I could feel Jukkie watching me, could hear him laughing quietly to himself as he cleaned his nails with the knife. Then he jumped up and grabbed my phone, flicking until he got to the text
messages. He was the last person I wanted reading my messages to Misha and I grappled with him for the phone but he managed to hold me off long enough to read my last conversation with Misha. He
started creasing up then and threw the phone at me.

“Oh my days!” he hooted, ducking away from me. “That is some pure gay business! What’s this? Date? Battersea Park? What the ...?”

“Ah, shut up, man!” I said, whacking him on the head. He turned and hooked his arm around my neck and tried to hold me down. But I kneed him and landed a sweet left hook on his jaw.
Then he smacked me in the eye.

We weren’t fighting, not really. It was more like wrestling, kidding around, like we used to do when we were younger. But I could feel some of the anger that I felt towards him welling up
and coming out. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t a chief, that he couldn’t disrespect me and get away with it.

In the end, Jukkie managed to get hold of my arms and pin them behind my back. I struggled against him and we stayed locked together like that for a few moments, our feet trampling the
grass.

“You’re going soft, blud,” he hissed in my ear. “Just don’t go forgetting your boy over some gyal, yeah?” Then he pushed me away, letting go of my arms. I
swung around to punch him and he laughed, dodging my fist. “Not bad, Mr Loverman, give me your best shot, go on!”

So I did. And so did he.

By the time we were ready to go home, we were both dusty, with cut lips, leaning on each other. The fight had settled things between us. We were buddies again.