off and on for years. James has a half-sister from that relationship. She lives in Cornwall, and sends him birthday cards occasionally. She will be seventeen on her next birthday. Sometimes, he'd try to imagine what she looked like. He planned to send her a birthday card this year. He and Ashvin planned to leave a letter to everyone they loved. In the end they didn't send anything to anyone.
James's brothers, 1, 2, 3 and 4, left school with nothing by way of formal qualification (his eldest brother 5 was the only one to complete school) and over the years he had seen their declining grades, read horrendous school reports and watched their fistfights. During his own schooldays he had a sense that he had lived it all before. Always a fast learner, James decided against going to school in the end. He and Ashvin didn't see the point. 'There isn't even one teacher in my school who could give a shit,' James said. His class teacher of the last six months was Miss Bukolov. She looked like the princess in the first Star Wars movie and made James blush.
'You boys need to start wearing deodorant,' she would say and James made her right. Sixteen-year-old boys had bad habits and they stank like wild goats, especially at 3.20 in the afternoon on summer months.
Brother Number 3 had picked him up from school once that summer, showing off in a stolen sports car (the type with a go-faster spoiler that you only saw in east London). James was livid when 3 and Miss Bukolov exchanged telephone numbers. Turns out Miss Bukolov had a brother, Andrius, a vet by profession, who made his living importing second-hand cars and low-powered Baikal pistols from Lithuania which he converted to discharge live ammunition and sold with Number 3, from an Internet cafe in Leyton. Once she started going out with his brother, James studied his teacher carefully during classes. He said she smiled at him in a peculiar way during lessons and she began to pin all his drawings up on the wonderful-work wall.
One Friday morning, the day the BBC reported a new study released that claimed 600,000 Iraqis had been wiped out since the invasion and the mayor was threatening Londoners with wind turbines, James sat down at the window with his back to his mother, twirling a pencil and a sketch pad while a big white man with cropped blond hair banged on the door like only men with clipboards did. He wore a dark suit and shouted through their letter box.
'Mrs Morrison, I know you're in there,' he said.
James peeked out of the window. Many of the neighbours' curtains twitched too.
'There's another man out there sitting in a white van,' said James.
'Ignore them,' his mother said as she picked at the scab on the nasty cut under her left eye. 'They'll be sorry if they wake your brother, 4.'
'Mum, I'm not going back to school.'
She watched him in silence for a moment, crossed her legs and nodded wordlessly.
'Someone bullying you?' she asked. 'Talk to one of your brothers. They can sort anything.'
James's brothers, especially Number 4, were known as psychopaths with a readiness for violence.
'No.'
'You're my youngest. You know I want the best for you, right?' She kissed him gently on his forehead. 'You have to talk to your brothers, they are . . . well,' she sighed, 'they're your brothers.'
Her mobile phone – the one no one dared touch – sounded, a Jimmy Cliff tune. She looked around trying to locate it. James closed his eyes when he heard the sound fondled leather makes as she plunged the sofa for the phone. She answered, speaking quietly.
'Skeets, give it ten minutes, then come up round the back.'
As she spoke James looked at the black-and-white poster his mum had stuck above the futon on which he'd always slept. There had been four posters once, all black men. James had pulled three of them down but he'd kept this one, not because he trusted in the words, 'by any means necessary', or the symbol of the automatic weapon the man in the poster held firmly in his hand. He
James's brothers, 1, 2, 3 and 4, left school with nothing by way of formal qualification (his eldest brother 5 was the only one to complete school) and over the years he had seen their declining grades, read horrendous school reports and watched their fistfights. During his own schooldays he had a sense that he had lived it all before. Always a fast learner, James decided against going to school in the end. He and Ashvin didn't see the point. 'There isn't even one teacher in my school who could give a shit,' James said. His class teacher of the last six months was Miss Bukolov. She looked like the princess in the first Star Wars movie and made James blush.
'You boys need to start wearing deodorant,' she would say and James made her right. Sixteen-year-old boys had bad habits and they stank like wild goats, especially at 3.20 in the afternoon on summer months.
Brother Number 3 had picked him up from school once that summer, showing off in a stolen sports car (the type with a go-faster spoiler that you only saw in east London). James was livid when 3 and Miss Bukolov exchanged telephone numbers. Turns out Miss Bukolov had a brother, Andrius, a vet by profession, who made his living importing second-hand cars and low-powered Baikal pistols from Lithuania which he converted to discharge live ammunition and sold with Number 3, from an Internet cafe in Leyton. Once she started going out with his brother, James studied his teacher carefully during classes. He said she smiled at him in a peculiar way during lessons and she began to pin all his drawings up on the wonderful-work wall.
One Friday morning, the day the BBC reported a new study released that claimed 600,000 Iraqis had been wiped out since the invasion and the mayor was threatening Londoners with wind turbines, James sat down at the window with his back to his mother, twirling a pencil and a sketch pad while a big white man with cropped blond hair banged on the door like only men with clipboards did. He wore a dark suit and shouted through their letter box.
'Mrs Morrison, I know you're in there,' he said.
James peeked out of the window. Many of the neighbours' curtains twitched too.
'There's another man out there sitting in a white van,' said James.
'Ignore them,' his mother said as she picked at the scab on the nasty cut under her left eye. 'They'll be sorry if they wake your brother, 4.'
'Mum, I'm not going back to school.'
She watched him in silence for a moment, crossed her legs and nodded wordlessly.
'Someone bullying you?' she asked. 'Talk to one of your brothers. They can sort anything.'
James's brothers, especially Number 4, were known as psychopaths with a readiness for violence.
'No.'
'You're my youngest. You know I want the best for you, right?' She kissed him gently on his forehead. 'You have to talk to your brothers, they are . . . well,' she sighed, 'they're your brothers.'
Her mobile phone – the one no one dared touch – sounded, a Jimmy Cliff tune. She looked around trying to locate it. James closed his eyes when he heard the sound fondled leather makes as she plunged the sofa for the phone. She answered, speaking quietly.
'Skeets, give it ten minutes, then come up round the back.'
As she spoke James looked at the black-and-white poster his mum had stuck above the futon on which he'd always slept. There had been four posters once, all black men. James had pulled three of them down but he'd kept this one, not because he trusted in the words, 'by any means necessary', or the symbol of the automatic weapon the man in the poster held firmly in his hand. He
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