Chapter Twenty
That Night
The house party had been abandoned, it seemed. Only a few stragglers remained.
‘What’s happening?’ Anika called after Kwame, whose phone was still gripped tightly in his fist. He moved quickly to the front door without acknowledging her and jogged out into the night looking left and right, barking into the phone now pressed to his ear.
‘Where are you lot? I don’t fucking care, Eni.
Where are you?’ When he got his answer, he turned on his heel, nearly bumping into Anika on the pavement where she’d followed him, the murky night sky an oppressive weight above them.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, and broke into a jog, heading down the street towards an area of grass surrounded by low, rusting fencing and overflowing industrial bins at the end of the road.
Anika watched Kwame ignore the open gate, instead jumping nimbly over the metal fence without breaking his rapid stride.
His figure receded into the darkness and she remained rooted to the spot.
What the hell had any of this been? Her lips still felt the unexpected, sensual press of Kwame’s back in that laundry room.
Now he was gone, like the whole thing had been an illusion.
Looking away in the direction of home, then back towards the park, Anika felt a small war in her body.
The sensible obligation of returning home fought against the urgent instinct to follow Kwame into the unknown.
Turning quickly, Anika let her feet lead the way.
Moving into the road, she gasped as headlights rounded the corner towards her and she skittered back as the car passed.
Her breath came in puffs as she then raced to the end of the street after Kwame, her steps quickening in the direction of the sound of voices – shouts tangling with one another – as she approached the park.
She could make out Kwame’s voice, usually so low and teasing, now raw and loud, urging calm.
Heading through the gate, the light from the sparse streetlamps cast weak intermittent pools of light, by which she could just about see a concrete path snake through the darkness of the small green space.
Deeper in, there was a set of metallic play equipment designed for children younger than the teenagers now gathered around it.
Anika thought suddenly of the games of chess her father would set up for them – another awkward attempt at interaction – despite her rudimentary knowledge of the rules.
Each of their pieces would edge slowly inwards on the board before being picked off by the opposing side.
That was how the scene in front of her looked: a semi-frozen moment, a tableau of conflict.
On one side of the playground, Eni was holding what seemed to be both her handbag and Zaya’s drawstring Nike one, weakly urging Zaya to ‘leave it’, but hovering close by with the readiness of one tethered to another.
Zaya’s whole body leant forward as though her toes weren’t meant to cross an invisible line, her arm outstretched and concluding in fingers shaped like a gun.
‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’ she shouted over and again, her words aimed like darts towards a scraggle of four white girls who were openly laughing.
Just a few steps beyond them Anika could see Kwame, who sighed and rushed forward, reaching out to grip Zaya’s arm.
His sister’s brow was lowered in menacing intent towards the girls, coiled and gathering energy to attack.
Despite Zaya’s smaller size, there was something about the way Kwame was holding and talking to her that suggested he was barely containing her rage.
All his energy was concentrated on this, despite the escalating taunts of the girls opposite them.
Anika understood his instinct, bone-deep.
Don’t let this get out of hand; think about who will be blamed .
. . But Zaya was primed to let her long-held beast loose.
Anika understood that, too.
In a blink, the scene activated into motion again. The girl nearest to Zaya, her skinny body half turned towards her friends, said, ‘Fuck off, bitch. It’s a free country. Go fuck your girlie somewhere else, innit. Fucking monkey bitch!’
The girl’s last comment was aimed towards her own pack as she turned away, but the words daggered into Anika even several feet away. She could sense Kwame’s hold on Zaya slacken, ever so slightly. And she was away.
Zaya’s short locs whipped behind her as she ran at the girl, her fist a powerful brown knot as it connected hard with a ruddy cheek, as though to knock the violent words out of the girl’s mouth.
Eni was right on her heels, shoving a dirty-blonde girl who had loomed in to try to defend her friend.
The blonde fell back on her bum and the other two white girls attempted to lift her up to rush Eni and Zaya again.
Anika felt herself drawing closer, as though locked in a tractor beam.
She could see Kwame’s eyes flashing as he swore and shouted at the white girls, attempting to pick Zaya up off the initial verbal attacker.
Zaya flailed, her formerly pristine black Nike trainers now smudged with mud, the knees of her Carhartt khakis dampened with it, too.
Eni was slapping and kicking at the other girls, her Lycra skirt climbing her thighs while she cursed all their mothers, her voice hoarse.
Suddenly Zaya managed to break free from Kwame’s grip again, spinning back towards the melee.
She body-slammed against the skinny white girl, but then stumbled back, a stunned look on her face.
Anika rushed over, her eyes locked on to the white girl’s expression.
Her pink mouth was twisted into a gleeful smirk, her arm aimed out at a rigid right angle for a moment.
‘Stupid bitch.’ The skinny girl spat once on the rubber flooring of the playground, then turned back to her friends. ‘Fuck it, let’s get out of here.’
The dirty blonde landed a final punch that knocked Eni backwards, sending her stumbling into Zaya, who seemed frozen for a moment before crumpling to the ground.