memories of his own. Any bad endings.
But no bad endings here, he thought, looking round the cottage and smiling. Took a sip from the big glass of mixedfruit juice at his side. Fruit juice. Who’d have guessed? No drugs, no booze. Living clean, intending to stay that way. And loving it.
Donovan had phoned to say he would be back on Thursday, leaving Jamal on his own. He just hoped Amar had been able to say something, talk some sense into him. Hoped his scheme to get the team back together again had worked.
He hadn’t realized just how lonely it would be, in the cottage by himself. He was used to living alone, on his wits, back in London. But this was different. Everything was different now. His mate Josh was away; there was nothing to do. Couldn’t even get into Newcastle. Not that he wanted to at the moment. Streets weren’t safe if your skin was dark, not since that Asian kid had been set on fire. Too much violence. Too many people looking for easy targets. Even a savvy kid like him was scared.
Jamal stretched out on the sofa, yawned. Thought about going to bed, maybe taking up one of Donovan’s graphic novels. Old-school stuff,
Watchmen
or
V for Vendetta
. Or coolest of the cool,
100 Bullets
.
He stood up, made to cross to the bookshelf.
And stopped.
A noise, coming from beyond the back door.
Something scratching, rooting around.
Jamal froze. Usually when he heard something like that it was a fox foraging in the bin, or a cat on a nocturnal prowl from one of the nearby houses. Nothing to worry about.
He listened. Heard the crash of glass as bottles saved for recycling were knocked over.
Too big for a cat or a fox. Or even a badger.
But cats, foxes and badgers didn’t trip over bottles. And then swear.
Jamal looked round, wished Donovan was there withhim. But he wasn’t and there was nothing he could do about that.
He steeled himself, swallowed hard, cautiously made his way towards the back door. Stopped, scoped the kitchen, looking for some armament, something that would give him an advantage. His baseball bat was propped up against the back door, two tennis balls on the floor beside it. He and some of the boys from the village sometimes went out on the recreation field, played their own version of baseball. Thankfully he had ignored Donovan’s nagging and not put it away. He picked it up and carefully opened the back door.
He looked round, eyes getting accustomed to the darkness. The air was still and warm, even this late. He listened. Heard only his own breath coming harsh and ragged, his heart beating fast as drum ’n’ bass.
He stepped outside, bat raised. Planted his feet away from the broken glass. Stood as still as he could, waited.
A movement; heard more than seen, the bushes by the end of the garden rustling, the shiny, dark leaves catching a moonlight glint.
Jamal turned, ready. ‘You better come out, man. Whoever you are. I’m armed an’ I’m gonna start hittin’ soon, you get me?’
Nothing. The bush remained still.
Jamal cleared his throat. ‘I ain’t jokin’, man.’ He took a step closer to the bush, tried to ignore the damp grass beneath his socked feet. ‘I’m comin’. I mean it.’
He pulled the bat back, all of his strength behind the swing, let it go.
‘Don’t hit me!’ A figure stepped out from behind the bush, cowering, hands before its face.
Jamal, unable to stop, quickly changed direction, bringing the bat down away from the figure, swinging it at theother side of the bush. It hit, sending leaves flying from the impact.
He tried to make out the face of the figure in the leafy shadows.
‘Sorry …’ the figure said. It was a male voice, scared.
Jamal stepped back, bat held ready once more. ‘Step out o’ there,’ he said. ‘Slowly.’
The figure stepped out on to the lawn. In the moonlight Jamal could make out a small frame, undernourished and runty-looking, clothes dirty and dishevelled. Eyes wide like a hunted animal’s. He had no idea who it
But no bad endings here, he thought, looking round the cottage and smiling. Took a sip from the big glass of mixedfruit juice at his side. Fruit juice. Who’d have guessed? No drugs, no booze. Living clean, intending to stay that way. And loving it.
Donovan had phoned to say he would be back on Thursday, leaving Jamal on his own. He just hoped Amar had been able to say something, talk some sense into him. Hoped his scheme to get the team back together again had worked.
He hadn’t realized just how lonely it would be, in the cottage by himself. He was used to living alone, on his wits, back in London. But this was different. Everything was different now. His mate Josh was away; there was nothing to do. Couldn’t even get into Newcastle. Not that he wanted to at the moment. Streets weren’t safe if your skin was dark, not since that Asian kid had been set on fire. Too much violence. Too many people looking for easy targets. Even a savvy kid like him was scared.
Jamal stretched out on the sofa, yawned. Thought about going to bed, maybe taking up one of Donovan’s graphic novels. Old-school stuff,
Watchmen
or
V for Vendetta
. Or coolest of the cool,
100 Bullets
.
He stood up, made to cross to the bookshelf.
And stopped.
A noise, coming from beyond the back door.
Something scratching, rooting around.
Jamal froze. Usually when he heard something like that it was a fox foraging in the bin, or a cat on a nocturnal prowl from one of the nearby houses. Nothing to worry about.
He listened. Heard the crash of glass as bottles saved for recycling were knocked over.
Too big for a cat or a fox. Or even a badger.
But cats, foxes and badgers didn’t trip over bottles. And then swear.
Jamal looked round, wished Donovan was there withhim. But he wasn’t and there was nothing he could do about that.
He steeled himself, swallowed hard, cautiously made his way towards the back door. Stopped, scoped the kitchen, looking for some armament, something that would give him an advantage. His baseball bat was propped up against the back door, two tennis balls on the floor beside it. He and some of the boys from the village sometimes went out on the recreation field, played their own version of baseball. Thankfully he had ignored Donovan’s nagging and not put it away. He picked it up and carefully opened the back door.
He looked round, eyes getting accustomed to the darkness. The air was still and warm, even this late. He listened. Heard only his own breath coming harsh and ragged, his heart beating fast as drum ’n’ bass.
He stepped outside, bat raised. Planted his feet away from the broken glass. Stood as still as he could, waited.
A movement; heard more than seen, the bushes by the end of the garden rustling, the shiny, dark leaves catching a moonlight glint.
Jamal turned, ready. ‘You better come out, man. Whoever you are. I’m armed an’ I’m gonna start hittin’ soon, you get me?’
Nothing. The bush remained still.
Jamal cleared his throat. ‘I ain’t jokin’, man.’ He took a step closer to the bush, tried to ignore the damp grass beneath his socked feet. ‘I’m comin’. I mean it.’
He pulled the bat back, all of his strength behind the swing, let it go.
‘Don’t hit me!’ A figure stepped out from behind the bush, cowering, hands before its face.
Jamal, unable to stop, quickly changed direction, bringing the bat down away from the figure, swinging it at theother side of the bush. It hit, sending leaves flying from the impact.
He tried to make out the face of the figure in the leafy shadows.
‘Sorry …’ the figure said. It was a male voice, scared.
Jamal stepped back, bat held ready once more. ‘Step out o’ there,’ he said. ‘Slowly.’
The figure stepped out on to the lawn. In the moonlight Jamal could make out a small frame, undernourished and runty-looking, clothes dirty and dishevelled. Eyes wide like a hunted animal’s. He had no idea who it
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