Читать книгу I Predict a Riot - Catherine Bruton - Страница 8

I’ve always loved films. I love the stories and the music, but most of all I love the pictures: the close-ups, the long panoramic shots, the follow shots, even the blurry hand-held ones. I love the way the pictures tell the story, more than the words themselves. Me and words don’t always get on very well. Like me and real life.

My dad got me a little digital video camera just before he and my mum split up. I think he knew he was going to leave; maybe that’s why he bought it. Anyway, it was the best present ever. It was tiny – looked a bit like a smartphone and fitted into my pocket – but I could make proper movies with it. I don’t think I went out anywhere without it since the day he gave it to me. He said I’d be the next Spielberg. My mum said it was just another thing for me to hide behind. I think they had a row about that as well. Two weeks later he left.

That’s when I started filming everything. It felt like my life had fallen to pieces, so I started watching the world second hand through the lens instead. I filmed meals, train journeys, my feet on the pavement, the leaves in the garden. I even filmed the TV while I was watching it. I stopped looking directly at anything. And it made life so much less sharp, less painful. And more beautiful.

At school it meant I didn’t have to talk to anyone. There’s not much to make a film about at boarding school so mainly it kept me safe, cut off. But in the holidays, when I came back to London, my mum worked all the time and my dad had moved to New York so there was nothing for me to do but make movies.

I saw the New Kid the next day, down at the library. He was in the teenage books section, curled up on one of the big armchairs with a pile of books a mile high stacked up next to him. I could see one of the librarians giving him a funny look, like he shouldn’t be there, like he didn’t belong. But he was so deeply engrossed in what he was reading he didn’t even notice.

It was funny, running into him like that – the sort of thing that normally only happens in the movies – especially since I realised I’d been hoping I’d see him again, the hero kid with the death wish.

I watched him for a bit, and it made me smile. He looked like he was miles away in his head, like he’d totally forgotten real life even existed. I don’t get that with books. Films, yes, but I’m dyslexic so words on a page jump around and won’t stick in my head.

The New Kid didn’t even notice when a group of mums and toddlers started gathering for a storytelling session nearby, until the librarian lady went over and asked him to move. Then he looked up like he’d just resurfaced from a deep-sea dive. His brown eyes were like wet, faraway pebbles.

‘Oh, yeah, right,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He scrambled up, gathered his books and made his way over to the front desk.

So I followed him. I didn’t film him, but I just sort of hung out nearby while he tried to check out his books.

‘I’m sorry, but if you want to register for the library you need to bring your parent or guardian with you,’ the lady behind the desk was saying in a posh, crinkly voice that didn’t really fit with the way she looked – lumpy cardigan, hair the colour of mildew, tired eyes.

‘But my mum works,’ the New Kid was saying. ‘She works, like, all the time.’

‘Your father then?’

The New Kid frowned when she said this. His pebble eyes went blank and I wished I’d been filming then so I could catch his expression.

‘No worries,’ he said, putting the books down on the desk and pulling his massive earphones back on to his head. ‘I’ll just leave it.’

He went out into the lobby then and called the lift. I kept following him, because he had somehow become the hero of my film and I needed to see how his story panned out.

The lift doors hovered open and I jumped in just before they closed. I stared at the New Kid’s feet, and his hands which seemed empty without a book in them.

‘Are you following me?’

I jumped. He was looking at me and I felt myself go bright red. The lift was probably halfway down. ‘No,’ I murmured.

He tugged his earphones off and looked at me even harder than before.

‘I saw you in the park yesterday, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘When it all kicked off. You were there.’

I could feel myself going pinker by the minute. I gave a sort of shrug.

The lift doors opened. We both hesitated, then the New Kid stepped back to let me go out first, like my dad always does. Did.

‘Thanks,’ I said quietly, avoiding his eye as we both stepped out into the lobby and headed towards the exit.

‘Seriously, are you some kind of spy or what?’ said the New Kid, when we reached the glass doors. He had a look in his eyes that might have been a challenge or might have been amusement.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. The words came out way posher sounding than I meant them to.

The New Kid gave me another weird look then turned round and shrugged as he stepped out on to the concrete outside.

Coronation Road Library is an award-winning design, my dad told me once. It’s built in the shape of a C – for Coronation Road – and it’s all multicoloured glass and chrome. Outside, in the curve of the C, is a courtyard scattered with these giant stone globes, some half submerged in the concrete, some barely rising out of the surface, and all covered in tiny multicoloured tiles. There are some strange metal benches that look more like sculptures than seats, and they’re dead uncomfortable. Some people hate that library – my mum included – but my dad and I like the shapes, the way they intersect with the sky and the rubble and the estate that runs for miles behind them.

The New Kid plonked himself down on one of the funny sculpture benches. ‘You want to join me?’ he asked, looking up and staring me right in the eye.

I hesitated for a second before I said, ‘Um, OK.’

So I perched next to him and we sat there, watching the pigeons and not saying much. He definitely wasn’t your typical hero, this skinny, smiley-faced bookworm, who went around saving kids from being stabbed in the park. But there was something about him, some kind of quality which seemed to shine out of him, even here, surrounded by litter and concrete.

‘Why did you do it?’ I asked.

‘Do what?’ said the New Kid.

I bit my lip nervously. ‘Um, help Little Pea in the park yesterday.’

‘Is Little Pea the boy with the big shoes?’

I nodded and waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, so I said, ‘So why did you then? Do it?’

He shrugged and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. It had been one of the hottest summers on record. There had been no rain for so many weeks that everyone had forgotten what a cloudy sky looked like. ‘Probably cos I’m an idiot,’ he said.

‘I thought you were brave,’ I said, feeling my cheeks burning again. ‘I never saw anyone stand up to the Starfish Gang before.’

‘Maybe. It was still stupid,’ he said. Then he sighed. ‘I promised my mum two things: to stay out of trouble and always brush my teeth.’ He turned to me with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘And what do I go and do? Get myself in a whole heap of trouble first week of the school holidays.’

I wanted to ask him why his mum made him promise to stay out of trouble, but I didn’t want him to think I was prying into his business, so I just said, ‘Your teeth look OK.’

He grinned with his big sunshine smile, properly this time, and I found myself smiling back.

‘Who did you say those other kids were anyway?’ he asked. ‘The ones who were beating on Pea or whatever you say his name is?’

‘The Starfish Gang?’ I said, staring down at my thin, grubby fingers. ‘And the boy with the knife is called Shiv. Shiv Karunga.’

The New Kid looked down at the tatty Vans on his feet and frowned.

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ I said.

A shadow passed over his eyes and he said quickly, ‘It’s none of your business where I’m from.’

‘Sorry,’ I said quietly.

He sighed again. ‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just . . .’ He hesitated, then said something I wasn’t expecting. ‘You filmed it all, right?’

My fingers curled tightly round the camera in my pocket.

‘I saw you with a camera so I figured maybe you filmed what happened.’

He was looking me up and down and I wondered what I looked like to him: a skinny, purple-haired girl with a face like a freckly elf, wearing an ET T-shirt, boys’ surfing shorts and massive cherry-red boots.

He had the kind of face you couldn’t lie to, so I just nodded.

‘You got it with you then?’

I pulled my camera out of my pocket and passed it to him, looking down at my hands again.

‘Cool,’ he said, checking it out. He flicked it on and pressed the play button. The footage I’d taken in the park yesterday appeared on the tiny screen and his own face came into view – close up, with that gutted-and-something-else expression I couldn’t make out.

His brow furrowed as he watched, but he didn’t say anything. He let it play for another thirty seconds or so then turned it off.

‘Yup, I’m an idiot!’ he said, handing it back to me. ‘So do you always go around filming people when they’re not looking?’

‘I didn’t exactly mean to,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I’m sort of making a movie.’

‘Serious?’ He looked genuinely interested.

‘There’s this competition,’ I found myself saying, ‘for young film-makers, and I want to enter it.’

I shrugged and looked down at my beloved cherry-red, steel-cap DM boots, with a sad face Tippexed on one foot and a happy face on the other. My mum hated those boots so I wore them every single day, even when it was blisteringly hot and my feet were totally boiling like they were that day. I think I’d have worn them in bed if I could.

‘What’s it about?’ he asked. ‘Your film.’

‘I’m not exactly sure yet,’ I said. My face felt as red as my boots. ‘I don’t really have a story. I just film stuff.’

‘What sort of stuff ?’

My toes wiggled uncomfortably. ‘Just stuff around here. The Coronation Road, the Starfish Estate. Inner-city kids living in parallel universes. That kind of thing.’

‘Right,’ he said, looking at me curiously for a second. ‘Um – why?’

I scrunched up my toes some more. If I told him the whole story, I’d have to tell him about my mum, and about dad leaving and everything. So I just said, ‘I don’t know really. It’s just what there is around here.’

He grinned again unexpectedly. I figured if anyone’d been filming us right then we’d have looked an odd couple. Then he said something else I wasn’t expecting. ‘I could help, you know?’

I tried not to look as freaked out as I felt when I said, ‘Really?’ But I don’t think I exactly managed it.

‘Yeah. I like stories. Words, you know? Maybe I could help with that bit.’

‘Right,’ I said, chewing my lip some more.

‘And my mum said to keep out of trouble,’ he went on. ‘So maybe I can help you keep out of trouble too? Cos, you know, it’s really not a good idea to go around filming guys like Shiv.’ His eyes clouded a little as he said the last bit.

The Tippex faces on the toes of my boots seemed to wink up at me. ‘My dad reckons filming keeps me out of mischief,’ I said.

And I remembered the ‘chat’ we had on the day he walked out. ‘Keep filming. Keep out of mischief. Look after your mother for me,’ he’d said, like he was just going away on holiday, not leaving us for good. Then he’d given me one of his big hugs and walked out of the door.

‘Yeah?’ the New Kid said, giving me a funny look like he was trying to read the thoughts in my head. ‘Well, maybe we can do it together. Look out for each other, you know? And make a movie at the same time.’

I looked really hard at him, disbelieving suddenly. Why did someone like him want to hang out with me? ‘Seriously?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You do the pictures, I do the words and we both do the film-star bit!’

I smiled and twisted my fingers tightly round the camera. The sun was shining on the New Kid’s face, making his chocolate skin glow and his Afro hair look like a halo round his head.

‘So what’s your name, director girl?’ he asked.

‘Maggie,’ I said. Then I added quickly, ‘Only that’s not my real name.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘OK . . . um, what’s your real name then?’

‘Emmeline Margaret,’ I said quickly. ‘My mum thought I might be the pioneering type. You know, like Margaret Thatcher or Emmeline Pankhurst, the suffragette lady. Only nobody’s ever called me that. They just call me Maggie.’

‘Right. Well, Maggie’s a good name. Suits you.’

‘Thanks,’ I nodded.

‘I’m Tokes,’ he said. ‘Just Tokes.’

And then the New Kid – who was called Tokes, just Tokes – smiled. And I think maybe that’s when we first became friends.