I Predict a Riot. Catherine Bruton

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      ‘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 got in with the wrong crowd. Like Pea, I suppose.’

      ‘So do you think he’ll come looking for you?’

      Tokes nodded his head. ‘Probably. It’s not really such a big city. He’s gonna find us sooner or later, isn’t he?’

      I 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.

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