Authors: Cathy MacPhail
And then he saw Cody and his crowd hanging round the corner shop. He had to avoid them. One gang after him was enough.
Mosi thought of this estate as a jungle. It was a jungle for him, with danger behind every bush, in every clearing. He ran into the entrance of the next tower block. These blocks were all built to be the same, identical in every detail. He knew he could run past the lifts, up the stairs and find the back exit, and then run into the open again.
A couple of boys were sitting on the stairs, smoking. One of them tried to grab him as he ran past. ‘What’s the hurry, wee man?’ The boy’s voice was a growl. Mosi pulled away from his grip, kept on running.
He could hear the yells in the distance behind him. Hear the shouts. ‘Where did he go? Where is he?’
Hakim wouldn’t give up. He never had any intention of just letting him go home. Mosi running from him would only make him more determined to catch him. At the boarded-up convenience store, Mosi stopped for a second, pulling in deep breaths. He could hear the thunder of pounding feet coming closer. Cutting him off from the route back to his own flats.
He thought quickly. He would have to go further than he had ever gone. Mosi took the same route to school every day. The same road there, the same road back. A weekly visit with his mother to the shopping centre on the other side of the dual carriageway was the only deviation he ever made. He had no interest in exploring. But he had studied the estate from his tenth-floor window. He knew if he could sweep round the back of the estate and race through the underpass to the other side of the dual carriageway he could escape them. From there he would cross back again, go through the old cemetery and leap the wall into the estate. He would end up behind Hakim and the rest before they had even come out of the underpass. Mosi almost smiled at the thought of it. While Hakim and his gang were running on, searching for him, he would be heading for home. Mosi threw a glance behind him before he took off again. Let them come after me, he was thinking. I can run like a cheetah.
As he stood with Cody and the others, Patrick had caught a glimpse of Mosi in the distance. He had never seen anyone run so fast. A flash of a boy, gone in an instant. He almost pointed him out but stopped himself just in time. Cody hadn’t seen Mosi. Too busy texting some of his friends about the vampire story. Patrick was glad of that. If he did see him, chances were that Cody would want to join in the chase. So Patrick said nothing. Mosi was only there for a second anyway, a blur of movement and then he disappeared silently into one of the other high-rises.
Then he saw Hakim and his friends, after Mosi.
He might have felt sorry for Mosi, wanted to help him. But why should he? Mosi had never done anything for him. Anyway, Mosi was safe. Running like that? He could easily get away from Hakim.
He didn’t need any help.
At least, that’s what Patrick thought.
Mosi kept running. He knew where he was going now. After he’d gone through the underpass, he could double back and head for home.
But why was Hakim always after him? Mosi was always alone, maybe that was why. Or perhaps because he would not join his gang. Yes, Mosi was easy to pick on. But not easy to catch.
Mosi leapt down a flight of steps leading to the path, slipped on some wet leaves. He took a moment to steady himself. He was sure Hakim would never think he would choose to go into the underpass. It was pitch-black in there. The lights were all broken. Lights never lasted in the underpass, the bulbs stoned minutes after they had been replaced. He took a breath, and began to run again.
He was only one step into the darkness of the underpass when he saw the group of figures. They were huddled together. Mosi stopped dead. It was clear from the menacing way they were standing that something was happening here.
There were four of them, young men, but much older than Mosi. He could hear the threatening growl in their voices. There was another figure crouched against the wall, hands clutched around his head as if he was trying to protect it. Mosi saw the flash of steel. One of those boys had a knife, he was lifting it high.
In almost the same second, Mosi saw that it wasn’t a knife at all. It was a machete. The boy was swinging it above his head. His ugly laugh echoed in the underpass.
Mosi couldn’t help it, his first instinct was to run. Yet someone needed help. Someone was in danger. The boy holding the machete moved and Mosi saw his face and recognised him. Grady McManus, one of the worst troublemakers on the estate, who spent most of his time in custody.
Mosi could see a black shadow huddled against the wall, bent over, covering his head, the very image of fear.
Could Mosi help him? Mosi would never know, because in the same second that Grady dragged the man he was threatening into what little light there was, Mosi saw that man’s face.
The man was looking up with huge eyes at McManus. And at the sight of that face and those eyes, Mosi was no longer among the grey tenements of Glasgow. He was back in his own land. He could almost feel the sun’s heat against his face. Nothing else existed but the memory that came back to him like a scene from a film. He was watching this same man striding across the land, tall as a tree. He was in his uniform, medals glittering on his chest, sweat staining his shirt, a machete glinting in his hand. He crossed to a boy, a terrified boy, kneeling on the ground, his hands tied behind him. The boy was sobbing in terror. ‘No, no, no . . . not me, not me,’ he heard the boy cry. And Mosi had begun sobbing silently too. Trying not to watch, but Mosi was forced to watch, another man’s hand forced his face up, so he was made to see. See what was to be done to that boy. ‘I am Papa Blood,’ the man in the uniform was saying, his voice cold as a grave. ‘And this is what happens to those who disobey me.’
Mosi pressed himself against the wall of the underpass and bit against his knuckles. He pushed the memory away. He could not, would not remember that moment. It was too terrifying to remember.
And, now, this man, Papa Blood, was here. Crouching on the ground. Only a few steps from Mosi.
And at that moment he knew that it wasn’t the man who was in danger. It was Grady McManus and his friends. It was all of them.
Hakim bounded into the underpass. He almost knocked Mosi off his feet. But Hakim looked beyond him. Took in what was happening, saw only an old man in danger.
‘Leave him be!’ he yelled. He pushed Mosi aside, began running towards Grady. That was the moment when the man cried out. Mosi heard his voice. Pleading for help. ‘Help me, please . . .’
The voice sent a shard of ice down his spine. Because it was a voice he knew well, the voice of Papa Blood. Though he had never heard him plead before. Others had pleaded with him, and he had shown them no mercy.
Hakim’s gang ran past Mosi; he was forgotten for the moment. Grady was outnumbered. Already his mates were running out of the underpass. Even with his machete Grady was not willing to stand alone. He threw the big man from him, began running backwards, shouting out to Hakim, taking in his face, remembering it. ‘You’re gonny be sorry for this,’ he shouted, and then he and his mates were gone.
The man stumbled against the wall of the underpass. ‘Thank you . . .’ That voice was a murmur. In a moment he would recover. He would stand, he would look across at Mosi and . . .
No! Mosi moved back into the darkness as if he hoped the wall would swallow him up. What if he saw Mosi? Recognised him. He couldn’t let that happen.
Hakim and his friends were helping the man to his feet. No time to lose.
Mosi began to run.
Patrick was on a swing in the park when Mosi ran into view. Cody and the others had all gone home.
‘Hey, you’re some runner, Mosi!’
Mosi ignored him. Patrick jumped from the swing. ‘Hey, Mosi, is something wrong?’
Mosi was heading towards him, but he wasn’t seeing him. His eyes had a wild look in them. ‘Is Hakim still after you?’
He ran straight in front of Mosi, barring his way. And for a moment, Mosi stopped running. Patrick stared at him. There was something in his face that was scary. As if he’d seen something so terrifying he couldn’t handle it. ‘What is wrong, Mosi?’
Mosi didn’t answer. He pushed him aside so roughly Patrick fell to the ground. Still he didn’t stop. It was as if he hadn’t seen Patrick at all, wasn’t aware that Patrick was there. As if he was living in some other world, some other, terrifying world. Patrick called after him, ‘Mosi!’
He wasn’t even annoyed that Mosi ignored him. He could see so much terror in Mosi’s face, in his eyes. Someone, or something, had scared Mosi half to death.
Mosi slammed into his flat, made straight for the bathroom and locked the door. His mother had called out when she heard his pounding feet. ‘Is everything all right, Mosi?’
He took in a deep breath before he spoke. Wanted his voice to sound normal. ‘Desperate to pee.’ He heard her laugh. She laughed so rarely, and in that instant he knew he would not tell her who he had seen, nor would he tell his father. They knew of Papa Blood too, of course they knew of him, though they had never seen him. The memories of this terrible man were too raw for them. It would be his secret, at least till he found out more.
Why had he never seen this man before? Had he only just arrived here? Then, he hadn’t seen Hassan, the man who died, and he had lived on this estate too. But he and his parents kept to themselves, didn’t mix with others. Perhaps that was why he had never seen Papa Blood. How often had Mosi just missed him in the local shop, or almost passed by him on the pavement? And would he have recognised Mosi? Mosi began shaking again. No, his common sense told him, of course he wouldn’t recognise Mosi. There had been too many boys like him.
Yet, in spite of the terror he felt, he slept all night. But his sleep was filled with bad dreams. Dreams that he was back again, with the jungle all around him. He was hiding in the bushes, and he could hear the feet coming closer and closer, hear the machete cutting through the thick undergrowth. Hear that man striding towards him.
The dream was so real that when he woke, shaking, he was sure he was covered not in cold sweat but in blood.
Hakim was quite the hero the next day. He stood in the playground telling anyone who would listen about his great rescue mission. And they were all listening, even Cody. He stood pretending he wasn’t interested, but his head was bent to catch every word.
‘A whole crowd of them were going to attack this old man,’ Hakim was saying.
His friend Rami interrupted him. ‘And one of them had a knife.’
‘It was a machete. It was a machete!’ Hakim quickly corrected him.
There was a gasp from the crowd.
Cody couldn’t keep his mouth shut. ‘You mean it was a big knife.’
Hakim glared at him. ‘It was a huge machete. He was swinging it around like this.’ He began swinging an imaginary weapon around him. ‘Ready to attack this poor old man . . . and I saved him.’
Rami nudged him. Hakim glanced at him, looking annoyed, but he amended his story. ‘Me and my friends, we saved him.’
‘The old man was so grateful,’ Rami said. ‘He was so scared.’
‘I hope you took him straight to the police.’ This was Bliss, right at the front, her arm linked in Ameira’s.
‘No. We wanted to. But he refused. He doesn’t want any trouble,’ Hakim said. ‘I can understand that.’
He said it as if he didn’t understand it at all. Hakim would have loved the publicity, and he would have been even more of a hero.
‘Did you know the old man?’ Bliss asked.
Mosi tensed as he listened to the answer. Hakim shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. But Mohammed did.’ He turned to another of his friends. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘It was Mr Okafor,’ Mohammed said. ‘I’ve seen him around.’
Okafor. The name meant nothing to Mosi.
Ameira let out a dramatic yell. ‘Oh, I know Mr Okafor, he lives in the little houses next to my block. You know, the ones for the old people or the disabled. He’s supposed to be really nice.’
Mosi shuddered as he listened.
Hakim’s eyes flashed. ‘He is a big man, but he walks bent over . . . like this.’ Hakim began walking round the yard bent double. There was a flutter of girlish giggles. He straightened up. Tapped his brow. ‘I think he’s a bit soft in the head.’
Bliss nodded. ‘Yes, something terrible happened to him. Isn’t that what you heard, Ameira?’
Ameira’s expression mirrored Bliss’s. Her big brown eyes wide, her mouth open. Girls, Mosi thought, they were the same all over the world. ‘He was attacked in his old country. He was left with permanent brain damage. But I’ve heard he is such a lovely man. Helps everybody. But keeps to himself. Very quiet.’ She smiled up at Hakim. ‘That was so brave of you to help him, Hakim.’
Hakim grinned back at her.
Mosi listened, and he thought,
Could that be true?
Could this man be so brain damaged that he had changed . . . and in the same second he wondered, and did it matter?
Cody stepped forward. ‘The guy with the machete, Hakim, did you recognise him?’ Cody answered the question himself. ‘I know who it would be, he runs with a machete. Grady McManus.’ He looked right at Hakim, for once not threatening or ready for a fight, but genuinely warning him. ‘If that was Grady McManus, then you’d better watch out. He doesn’t forget something like that. He’ll be after you.’