I Predict a Riot. Catherine Bruton

let him be in it he’ll try to mess it up for us.’

      ‘Really?’

      He nodded. ‘Yeah. And if he is in it he’ll probably try to sabotage it anyway! So either way he’s bad news.’

      I glanced at Tokes again when he said ‘sabotage’. I liked the way he used words.

      ‘I know kids like him,’ he said. ‘Magnets for trouble. Can’t help it. They ruin all the good stuff that happens to them.’

      ‘Maybe he wants a fresh start,’ I said.

      ‘Maybe,’ said Tokes, but his eyes were clouded with doubt.

      ‘Well, maybe he just wants to be friends. It doesn’t seem like he has any. Except Shiv and the Starfish Gang.’

      ‘And they’re not the kind of friends a kid like that needs,’ said Tokes. ‘Believe me, I know.’

      I wanted to ask him how he knew, but he had the faraway look in his eyes again.

      ‘So can I interview you?’ I said instead.

      His eyes came back to me and he gave me a look, then said, ‘OK. Fine. I’ll try to be heroic!’

      So I pressed a button and the camera beeped into record mode. It looked good: the skinny kid with the sunshine face, sitting on the ripped-up old sofa, with the graffiti and the corrugated iron and the pansies in pots behind him. There was a shaft of dusty sunlight spilling down from the platform above, drawing lines of light through his fuzzy Afro hair.

      I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t.

      ‘So, um, tell me about yourself,’ I said, putting on a voice like one of those chat-show hosts. ‘Er, what are your hobbies?’

      ‘I like football,’ he said, uncomfortable suddenly now that the gaze of the lens was turned on him. So I turned the camera down to focus on his feet. His wrecked Vans fitted in with the broken rubble and rubbish scattered all around the den. In the scorching heat the bits of broken glass glowed and looked like they were ready to combust. I moved round in an arc then brought the camera back to focus on his face again.

      ‘Anything else?’

      ‘Books,’ he said, still self-conscious. ‘I like reading.’

      ‘What sort of books?’

      ‘All sorts,’ he said. ‘Whatever I can get my hands on. My English teacher, Miss Kayacan, she –’ He hesitated like he’d said something he shouldn’t, but then he went on. ‘Anyway, she reckoned I should read some of the classics. Said I should go to the library over the holidays. Only . . .’ He stopped again. ‘Only you saw what happened there because you were following me.’ He shrugged and looked right at the camera.

      ‘What else?’ I asked.

      ‘I like school. I want to get a good education.’ He was more serious now, looking down at the rubble, not at the camera. ‘For my mum, you know? She reckons education gives you choices in life. That’s why we moved –’ He broke off again. It was like he was monitoring everything he said.

      So I took a deep breath before I asked, ‘So, um, are you going to tell me where you were before then?’

      He didn’t jump down my throat this time. ‘Are you gonna put this in the film?’

      ‘I don’t have to,’ I said.

      He looked up at the arches then back at the camera. ‘It’s nowhere really. Just some place in North London, like Pea said.’

      ‘So why did you move to Coronation Road?’

      He sighed then stared hard at me, his face screwed up. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asked.

      I nodded. ‘I don’t have anyone to tell secrets to.’

      He grinned but still looked uncertain. ‘OK, well, if I tell you this, you have to swear to keep it between me and you.’ He looked dead serious as he said, ‘Promise?’

      I nodded quickly.

      ‘And you can’t film it either,’ he said.

      ‘OK.’ I switched off my camera and waited for him to go on.

      ‘So, my dad,’ he said quietly, looking down at his Vans, his face seemed younger suddenly. ‘The thing is that he was in with the wrong crowd. My mum was worried I’d get dragged in too.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘It’s hard to explain,’ he said, a concentrated expression on his face. ‘But basically stuff happened and one day my mum packed up and we left.’

      ‘What did your dad say?’

      ‘He didn’t know,’ said Tokes quickly. ‘We went in the middle of the night so he wouldn’t be able to follow us.’

      I didn’t know what to say so I just kept quiet, let him keep talking.

      ‘My dad’s not a bad man,’ he said, looking up at me now like it was important to him that I believed this. ‘When I was a kid, he taught me how to do keepie-uppies, and how to do wheelies on my bike and all that stuff – he even helped me with my homework when he could, even though he wasn’t too hot on school himself. And he treated my mum good too.’

      ‘Why did she leave him then?’

      I thought of my dad saying, ‘When you’re older, you’ll understand why I’m going, Maggie.’ I wondered if it was the same for Tokes.

      He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this,’ he said.

      ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ I said.

      ‘I kind of do,’ he admitted. ‘It’s sort of a relief to tell someone about it, you know?’

      I nodded because I knew exactly how it felt to have secrets eating away at your insides. And maybe that’s why he told me, because he could tell I got it – sort of.

      ‘OK, so it’s hard to explain. My dad was in this gang. A bit like the Starfish, I suppose.’ He hesitated. ‘He wanted to get out, make a new start. But once you’re into all that it’s hard to break free.’

      ‘Right,’ I said quietly.

      ‘My mum didn’t want that for me.’ He looked like there was a kind of weight on him as he spoke, pressing on his shoulders. ‘She gave up everything so I could make something of my life. Which is why I can’t let her down.’

      I wished I’d still been filming then, so I could have zoomed in on his eyes, focused on the bitter black colour in them as he spoke.

      ‘Do you miss him?’ I said eventually. ‘Your dad?’

      He nodded. ‘Yeah. He was cool. Funny. Kind.’

      I thought of my own dad then: how he could always make me laugh; how he got me in a way my mum never did.

      ‘Every time I hear some black man’s been shot or in hospital I always think it could be him.’ Tokes’s brow was furrowed and he had that ‘Do you understand?’ look in his eyes, so I nodded even though I didn’t understand. Not that bit. Not really.

      ‘You know what the average life expectancy is for a black man involved in gang culture?’ he said suddenly.

      I shook my head.

      ‘Twenty-eight,’ he said. Then he looked down again. ‘My dad’s thirty-two already. He’s been running with the gang since he was fifteen, so he’s already pushed his luck, right?’

      I imagined filming figures. A two and an eight. Maybe cut out of newspaper or on somebody’s front door: 28.

      ‘He’s not a bad person, my dad,’ Tokes said again, like he really wanted to make sure I got it. ‘He just