When I Was Joe

When I Was
Joe

Keren David

 

 

When I Was Joe
copyright © Keren David 2010
The right of Keren David to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988 (United Kingdom).

First published in Great Britain and in the USA in 2010 by
Frances Lincoln Children's Books, 4 Torriano Mews,
Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ
www.franceslincoln.com

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-84780-100-5

Set in Palatino

Printed in Croydon, Surrey, UK by CPI Bookmarque in November 2009

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

 

For Laurence, Phoebe and Judah
Remembering Daniel with love and sorrow

It's one thing watching someone get killed. It's quite another talking about it. When it happened I didn't even realise exactly what I was seeing, and my heart was thumping so loud I couldn't hear anything else. My mind was whizzing around at hyperdrive speed – trying to work out what to do, trying to sort out what was going on. And I ran away as fast as I could.

But now I'm sitting in the police station telling three officers what happened and they're asking so many questions about every detail that it's as if they've put the whole thing into slow-mo. It's like being trapped watching a really sick horror film and not being able to close your eyes. And I can't run away this time.

Twice – when I tell them how the blood splashed into the mud, and then about the tangle of bodies on the ground – I think I'm going to vomit, and Nicki – that's my mum – has to ask them to stop their tape while I lean
forward and try and gulp it back.

She puts her hand on my back and uses her best lawyer-in-training voice: ‘Is this really necessary? He's here to help you. He's just a kid of fourteen.' And the main guy asking questions says, ‘So was the boy who died, Miss Lewis.' They get me a glass of water and then they start again. I'm wondering if they'll ever let me leave.

They make me look at loads of photographs. Some are just faces and it's easy to pick out the ones I've told them about. Some are close-ups of the cuts and wounds that I've already seen. But they look different in pictures than they did at the park yesterday – was it only yesterday?

At the park it was nearly dark, and I got a quick glimpse, and looked away. Now they make me look and look at the way the flesh is split and curved and meat-like, and it's been photographed in bright white light and I know I'm never going to forget it. I think they're trying to shock me into confessing something. They warn me that I might get charged, tell me that I can stay silent. Nicki says again, ‘Is this really necessary? He's here to help you.'

The police officers change around, but one guy always stays. He's called Detective Inspector Morris and he's the only one that's black and he's older than the rest.
He's quiet, hardly says anything and leaves it to the others to ask me again and again, louder and louder: was I involved? Was I fighting? Did I know what was going to happen? How near was I when the knife went in? Was I the lookout?

No, I say, keeping my voice steady. No, not very close, no. I was just watching, not involved, just a witness. All the time, every question they ask, I'm trying to focus. I'm trying to think only about those boys fighting – who pushed, who hit, which knife went where.

After hours of questions, after taking my fingerprints and scraping my mouth – ‘for DNA' – they leave Nicki and me alone. She's looking completely knackered, her eyes are puffy and I feel incredibly guilty that she has to sit through all this. ‘I'm really sorry Nic,' I say, and she says, ‘Don't worry about me, you're doing the right thing.' But she doesn't look very sure.

Then one of the policemen shows us the canteen. ‘I'll bet you're hungry,' he says, but when we get there the hatches are closed and we have to make do with what's in the vending machines. So my supper is hot chocolate and crisps and stale custard creams. It's about midnight. Eventually I fall asleep, head cushioned on my crossed arms, slumped forward over the table.

When I wake up, DI Morris is sitting at the table, talking to Nicki. I keep my head down while I work out
if they are saying anything interesting.

‘We're satisfied with his story,' says DI Morris.

Nicki asks, ‘Can I take him home now? He's got school in the morning.'

‘We're going to have to think very carefully about whether you can go home,' he says. ‘It may be safer for you not to.'

She frowns. ‘What do you mean? We can't stay here.'

‘We'll take care of you,' he says. ‘Ty's named some dangerous people in his statement and we don't want them trying to silence him.'

I sit up, shivering and blinking in the fluorescent light of the canteen. ‘Where would we go?' I ask. I'm hoping that wherever it is it won't involve crossing London to get to school for 8.30 am, although it would be typical of my mum to make me go. She's bonkers about my education.

‘We'll take you to a hotel, and assess the situation,' he says. ‘It may be necessary to take you into our witness protection programme.'

‘What do you mean. . . What's that?' asks Nicki. I don't like that word
protection
. It brings back bad memories.

‘We rehouse vulnerable witnesses; give them a new identity, a new home, a lump sum to start a new life.
We'll do our utmost to keep you safe.'

‘No way,' she says. ‘Absolutely not. I'm sure that won't be necessary.'

‘Well, maybe we should just take you to a hotel for a few days and see how things go,' he says, finishing his tea and getting up. He reaches out and shakes our hands. ‘Good to meet you, Ty,' he says to me. ‘We very much appreciate your co-operation.'

Next they bring me my statement all written out. I don't want to read it. I don't want to think about what did and didn't happen in that park. But they make me read every word and initial all the pages and sign it at the bottom.

A uniformed policeman drives us back to our flat through dark and empty streets in an unmarked police car. ‘You've got half an hour to pack some bags,' he says. ‘You'd better pack carefully because you may not be able to come back again.' Nicki starts protesting that we're only going to a hotel for a few days but I look at his face and I can see that he thinks she's kidding herself.

How do you choose what to take when you've just been told you may never see your home again? I think about people who lose their homes in floods and tsunamis and earthquakes, people you see on the news living in refugee camps because their country is at war. You think their troubles are so huge they probably don't have much
time to worry about losing the odd photograph or old toy. You imagine that in a crisis the little things don't matter any more.

I pretend we're surrounded by rising flood waters, grabbing a few things before helicopter evacuation. It makes it slightly less real. But it doesn't help much when it comes to leaving stuff like the desk that my grandad made for my mum before I was even born.

I zip my laptop into its case, but the policeman says, ‘You'll have to leave that. We're going to want to have a look at it.'

‘But it's mine. . .' It's the most precious thing I own. Gran had to save up for ages to get it as a present when I went to secondary school. He shakes his head: ‘We'll be getting a warrant and we'll have to check the hard drive. What about the clothes you were wearing yesterday? I'd better take them.' I search through the dirty washing pile and pull out some jeans and a grey hoodie. Luckily I have lots of pairs of jeans and Gran bought the hoodie in a three-pack at Asda.

I pack my iPod. I pack my Manchester United scarf, which is the only thing I have from my dad. I pack my school uniform and books because I reckon Nicki will probably wangle it somehow so I'll be going back to school. And I take some clothes and stuff as well. I root around under my bed and pull out the Tesco bag which
I need to sort out somehow. But the main things I want to take – they can't be packed.

Nicki and I live in a little flat above a newsagent's on a main road. It's not so special, and when the windows are open the noise of traffic means we have to shout to be heard. But I like having my own room, even if it's tiny, and we've painted it a cool purple-blue colour and plastered it with football posters. And I like the way the sunlight comes into my room in the evening so I can sit on the windowsill and watch whatever's going on.

I never feel lonely because there are shops and people all around, and I love hearing all their different languages. It makes me feel like all the world's represented on our street, and East London must be a great place if everyone came so far to live here.

Nicki shoves some stuff into a bag, pretty much at random, and then starts arguing with the policeman again. ‘We're not leaving here forever,' she says. ‘I have a job and Ty's at a very good school.'

‘It's not up to me,' he says. And then, ‘What's that?'

We can all hear it . . . a crashing noise. The tinkle of glass breaking. It's a pretty rough area that we live in, but this is really close. It's downstairs. Then I sniff something sweet and metallic . . . not perfume . . . I know that smell but I can't think what it is.

‘Come on,' he yells. ‘Quickly, down the stairs.'

We tumble down the steep steps that lead up to our flat, dragging our bags with us. Halfway down there's a huge bang – I miss a step, the building seems to shake – a crackling noise, and a choking smell . . . and there's smoke . . . smoke in the air of the stairwell . . . but we're out of our door and into the night.

Mr Patel's shop is on fire. The newsagent's that he's so proud of, and spends so long cleaning. Flames are eating up all the sweets and magazines. There's a huge hole in the front window and glass all over the pavement. Nicki's screaming and bashing on doors, ringing bells, yelling, ‘You've got to get out!' to all the people who live in the flats above the shops.

I'm just standing still among the glass on the pavement, staring at the flames. Did whoever did this know that we had our own front door? If we hadn't . . . could we have escaped?

Our policeman is on his radio, calling for help. ‘Petrol bomb, newsagent's shop . . . we need to evacuate, urgently. . .' And then he grabs Nicki as she's about to run further up the road and says, ‘No, stop, we need to move you now.' And he bundles our bags into his car, and we jump in the back and he's driving us away, just as our neighbours start to come out on to the pavement.

‘Oh my God,' says Nicki. ‘What the hell was that?' She's crying. ‘Will they get everyone out? Poor Mr Patel.
That shop is everything to him. What about Mrs Papadopoulos? She's deaf, she won't have heard. . . Some of those flats have a lot of people stuffed into a few rooms. . .'

She puts her arms around me and we sit huddled together. I can hardly believe what I've just seen. I love that shop. I hang out there a lot, especially when Nicki has friends round to drink wine and watch soppy DVDs.

Mr Patel's a really nice man. He teaches me Urdu and he lets me borrow any magazine I want, apart from the ones on the top shelf. He gave me my pick of the paper round routes, and when I need man-to-man advice on stuff, he's the person I ask.