The banging on the door intensifies. Jermaine's mother stiffens, eyes darkening at the sound, lips pressed firmly together as though she's afraid of what might slip from between them if left unguarded. She glances at the lounge window where the lace curtain flutters in the breeze.
Jermaine follows her gaze. He can see the smoke hanging in the sky beyond the window. The black mass hovers, thick and rancid-smelling, against the clear blue of the late afternoon sky. Just the sight of it makes him feels nauseous.
"Open up the door, Jasmine! Hand out that murdering bastard of yours!"
Jermaine knows the voice. It's Billy's father. Every Monday Billy shared stories about his father's drunken weekend. Sometimes the stories would include a display of the various injuries Billy sustained because he hadn't been fast enough getting out of his father's way. Jermaine and his friends would watch, excited, as Billy rolled up the sleeve of his shirt or lifted his jumper to show them the aubergine-coloured bruises that were often as big as apples covering his body. Once he proudly displayed a line of perfectly formed, circular burns that crept up the thin white skin of his inner-arm from wrist to elbow. Seeing the confused looks on his friends' faces, Billy explained that his father was really disappointed when Arsenal lost their match that Sunday. In fact, Billy's father was so upset, he branded his son's arm over and over with the metal tip of his Bic lighter. Billy's delicate body was the canvas on which his father painted his rage. And Billy exhibited the results of this abuse with pride. It got him respect for being tough and hard.
Now Billy's father would have to take his anger out on Belinda, Billy's younger sister. After today, he wasn't going to be able to kick Billy around anymore.
Jasmine grabs Jermaine by his wiry forearms and drags him to the side of the window. She turns to him. "What happened to those boys? I need to know Jermaine Lewis. Tell me you're not like your father."
Her strong fingers bite into the flesh of his upper arms like pincers. He watches the tears roll down her face. "I can't lose you. The Lord knows I can't."
Jermaine realizes she's scared. For the first time ever, he sees his own fear reflected back in his mother's eyes. Fear and deep sorrow. She's never showed fear ever, even when his father was beating her. Her eyes often burned with fury and indignation when his father was around, but she'd made sure he never laid a finger on Jermaine, which couldn't have been easy. His father was hard. He inspired fear throughout the borough. At the moment he was locked away in Belmarsh Prison for attempted murder. Billy's father was nothing like that. He was just a mean-spirited, lazy drunk who liked to bully kids.
"Answer me," Jasmine whispers. Her breath is warm and smells of the anise-flavoured sweets she liked to suck.
Jermaine shakes his head in reply then turns to look out the window again. The car park is full of people scurrying about like a colony of frightened ants. All of them are focused on the twisted heap of smouldering metal. There are hundreds of people. Nearly all of the residents of the housing estate seem to be out there, waiting for the fire brigade. A few of the men had doused out most of the fire with buckets, but flames still licked the edges of the windows, threatening to become full-blown once more.
From where Jermaine stands looking out from the eleventh floor of his tower block, the car looks more like a tin can that's been dropped into the center of a bonfire. Acrid smoke tickles his nostrils.
"You need to answer me! I need to hear you say the word "No" if you didn't kill those poor, innocent babies," Jasmine says, shaking Jermaine back to attention.
"I swear I didn't, Mum." He wasn't sure why his mother was referring to his friends as babies. They were all at least ten years old. His eyes began to water from a combination of fear and the toxic smoke. At least Billy's father seemed to be gone. There'd been no knocking or noise from the hall in the last few minutes.
