I Predict a Riot. Catherine Bruton

looked at him through the viewfinder. His pebble eyes were dark and thoughtful.

      ‘What’ll happen then?’

      Tokes face puckered, like he was holding something inside. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘And that’s why you want to stay away from Shiv and the Starfish Gang,’ I said.

      He looked up and caught my eye, his face clearing as he said, ‘I’ve got to stay out of trouble. Otherwise my mum’s done all this for nothing.’

      I remember him saying that, as clear as if I had it on camera.

      Just as if he knew what would happen all along.

SCENE 7: MAGGIE’S HOUSE

      Tokes said we needed to film at my house. ‘Contrasts,’ he said. ‘Miss Kayacan reckons you need contrasts in stories because it makes people really notice stuff. I reckon it must be the same in films too.’

      So I took him back to my house, but as soon as we got there I wished I hadn’t because I could see right away what he was thinking. We live in this massive, white, double-fronted Georgian mansion with electric gates and a Range Rover parked on a perfect gravel drive out front. Tokes’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he took it all in.

      ‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked, pausing by the front door, my face flame-red.

      ‘Um, yeah – sure,’ he said.

      I let us in. ‘Hi. It’s only me,’ I called as we stepped into the hallway.

      ‘Is someone home?’ he asked, looking around nervously like we were in some kind of museum.

      ‘Only the au pair.’

      ‘Au pair?’

      ‘She sort of looks after me,’ I said awkwardly. ‘We get a different one practically every holiday. This one’s called Petra.’

      ‘Will she mind me being here?’ he asked, talking in a whisper.

      ‘Petra doesn’t care much what I do,’ I said. ‘She spends most of her time on Skype to the Czech Republic.’

      ‘Oh,’ he said again. He was acting totally different in our house; even his voice had changed. He was still standing motionless on the doormat. ‘Should I take my shoes off ?’ he asked, glancing at the polished wood flooring.

      No shoes in the house – that’s one of my mum’s favourite rules.

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘Keep them on.’

      I led the way into the kitchen which is a huge room at the back of the house with a glass roof and chrome surfaces and a big island in the middle, covered with gleaming appliances.

      Tokes let out a little laugh when we stepped into it.

      ‘What’s funny?’ I asked.

      ‘It’s just . . . this is twice as big as our whole bedsit.’

      ‘Oh, right,’ I said, wishing again that I hadn’t brought him. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ I asked. ‘I can get Petra to make a sandwich if you like.’

      He was staring at the shiny red fridge with an expression on his face like he was really hungry, but he just said, ‘Nah, I’m good.’

      ‘You sure?’

      ‘I said I’m good.’ He looked odd when he said that, like he was suddenly mad at me or something.

      ‘You’ve got to have a Krispy Kreme doughnut then.’ I grabbed a box out of the fridge and put it down on the kitchen island. ‘My dad sends me a dozen every week.’

      Tokes had been gazing up at the glass roof of the kitchen, and out at the garden, but he turned round and stared at the tray of multicoloured glazed doughnuts – pink ones and white ones and one with sprinkles and toffee cubes. ‘Seriously?’ he said. ‘A whole box?’

      I shrugged and tried to explain. ‘It’s because I loved them when I was little. Once I ate so many, I was sick.’ I paused, remembering the smell of vomit and doughnuts and shame. Then I said, ‘I think they’re to make up for him not being around, you know?’

      ‘So do you eat them all?’

      I shook my head. ‘I usually end up throwing half of them away.’

      ‘In that case . . .’ Tokes took a doughnut and bit into it like he hadn’t eaten properly for days. ‘Seems silly to waste them!’ he said, his mouth full of chewy dough. He was looking round the kitchen again, taking in all the framed photos on the walls.

      ‘It feels like we’re a million miles from Coronation Road in here,’ he said. ‘Shiv and the Starfish Gang and Little Pea – it’s like none of that other stuff even exists. Like it can’t touch you.’

      ‘I suppose,’ I said.

      ‘Is this your mum?’ he asked, pointing at a picture of a tall, dark-haired woman in a striking red suit, shaking hands with Tony Blair.

      ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And that one.’ I pointed at a picture of my mum talking to the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh. She loves that photo.

      ‘It is pretty cool, you’ve got to admit,’ said Tokes, looking impressed.

      ‘I told you. There is nothing cool about my mum,’ I said quietly. The sad face on my right boot seemed to glower up at me as I said it. Like it was accusing me of lying.

      Just then the kitchen door opened and a young woman with dark black eye make-up and blonde hair with black roots stuck her head round the door.

      ‘Hi, Petra,’ I muttered.

      She didn’t seem that interested. She just nodded, taking in the sight of Tokes and me and the box of doughnuts without comment. ‘Your mother call,’ she said in heavily accented English.

      ‘What did she want?’

      ‘She not home till late tonight. She say eat without her.’

      I shot Tokes a look as Petra made her way over to the fridge and started pulling stuff out. I’ve filmed her quite a bit without her knowing it, but she’s one of those people who don’t give much away. She looked up with lazy eyes and said, ‘Your friend want to stay for dinner?’

      ‘No,’ said Tokes quickly.

      I glanced at him. He was looking uncomfortable again. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s find somewhere else to film.’

      I filmed Tokes as he checked out our house. I’ve got footage of him pushing open doors and peeking into other rooms. The toilet made him laugh. ‘It’s the size of a footie pitch,’ he said, taking in the golden taps and the black-and-white pictures all over the crimson red walls. ‘Who needs a loo this big?’

      He reckoned my mum’s office looked like something from a stately home. Then he opened the door to the sitting room, which is all leather sofas and glass tables and two walls covered from floor to ceiling in books. ‘Whoa!’ He stood staring at the bookshelves. I caught his face on camera – eyes lit up like the words were pouring out of the books and making his skin tingle. ‘It’s like having a library in your own house.’

      ‘My mum gets mad because I never read them,’ I said as he ran his hands up and down the leather spines.

      ‘You don’t like reading?’ He pulled his eyes away from the books for a second to look at me.

      I shrugged. ‘I don’t get on so well with books.’

      ‘My dad is like that,’ he said. ‘Me, I love them. Better even than doughnuts, you know!’ He grinned.

      ‘You want to borrow one?’ I asked quickly.

      He glanced