Justice for Jayden

by Sinead Amirak

Rafiq stood in the doorway of his family’s convenience store. The atmosphere on the street was tense. By this time on a Saturday, their part of the city should be buzzing with shoppers. Instead, there was an unnerving quiet. The locals had stayed away in anticipation of trouble. Even the usually relentless traffic that blackened his windows with diesel fumes had chosen another route today.

“Come on now; come in. You need to help your mother check the stock,” Dad called out to Rafiq from the back of the store.

“I don’t think Mum should be in the shop today. You know there may be trouble.”

“Trouble? We’ll have no trouble here. People round here respect me too much. Anyway, the police will protect us.”

“Dad, you know it’s not about us. It’s about that kid. You remember.”

“I remember a criminal. That’s what I remember.”

Rafiq didn’t respond. He didn’t want another argument on the subject. He knew that he and his father would never agree. His father’s unwavering belief in authority frustrated him at times. It was typical that his father would take the side of the police. Not that it was clear who was right. Rafiq wasn’t even sure himself: a teenager in a stolen car, showing off to his girlfriend, filled with bravado and beer; an armed response car returning from a shout on the other side of London; mayhem on a warm Friday afternoon when the two met. Who could blame the police for their actions when the driver of a stolen car emerged brandishing a weapon? But the driver of the car was a fifteen-year-old boy, and the weapon was a stapler from his school backpack. The outcome: a dead child and a policeman suspended pending investigation. The police had never been popular in this area and this episode, a year ago today, had done nothing for public relations.

Rafiq turned to go back inside but paused when he spotted Vincent across the street. He raised a hand in greeting. Vincent had obviously decided it was time to cut his losses for the day. Rafiq could see him piling the bowls of bananas and plantain onto others of oranges and sweet potato, moving the street display back into the safety of his greengrocer shop. Seeing Rafiq, Vincent raised his hand in response and jogged across the wide thoroughfare.

“Yo, Raff, you closing up?”

            Rafiq shook his head.

“You know my dad. The world could be ending and he’d be open, just in case someone needs to pop in for a magazine to read on their way to the afterlife.”

            “Well, watch yourselves. The demo will be passing this way. It could get ugly.”

            “I know but try telling them anything.” Rafiq tilted his head indicating his parents behind him in the shop.

            “Ok, but if you need anything, just shout, right?” Vincent ambled back to his shop and carried on closing up. Rafiq looked up and down the street and could see awnings being rolled away and shutters being pulled down. He felt a stab of anxiety. He steeled himself to talk to his father again.

*

Jenna looked at Ryan in disbelief.

“Of course I’m going. You think I’m planning to just sit home, minding the baby? This is for our Jayden. And for Keisha.”

“I know. I know you want to support your sister, but listen babe, there could be trouble down there today. Dan said there will be people out to stir it up and…”

“Too right there will.” Jenna’s anger was palpable. “And there should be. The police have got away with it for too long. It’s time we showed them we won’t take this lying down. No one should ever go through what Keisha has. This year has been hell. You know it has. I’m going to be by her side today, whatever you say.”

“Jen, babe, you know I have to work. Dan needs me there today.”

“I know.”

“So who’ll have Cody?”

“I’ll take him with me. Jayden was his cousin. When he’s old enough, I’ll tell him he was there—that he was a part of it.”

Ryan looked down, shaking his head but he knew when he was beaten. When Jenna made up her mind about something, there was no point in arguing. And this was family. There was nothing he could say that would change her mind. He knew how hard her nephew’s death had hit her. He’d spent the last twelve months supporting her through it—twelve months in which her grief had been replaced by anger. He knew she needed to be there today. His worry was his son being there. His little Cody, his mini-me, only two years old but already filling his heart with pride with every small achievement.

“Well, stay out of trouble, won’t you?” Ryan smiled fondly at Jenna. Jenna didn’t reply. She turned back to the banner she was painting. Ryan lifted Cody out of his highchair and took him through to the bedroom to get him dressed.

“Big day today, Cody. Mamma is taking you out with Auntie Keisha.” Ryan chatted to Cody as he dressed his son, while Cody wriggled and resisted his dad’s efforts to squeeze his limbs into the dungarees that Jenna had laid out. He heard the doorbell ring and Jenna greet her sister in the hall of their apartment.

Dressing completed, Ryan stood at the bedroom window, holding his son and looking out at the city below. He loved the view they got from up here. The city was spread out below them: a myriad of streets and buildings stretching before them in all directions. From the bedroom window they could look down on the green area below their apartment block where Cody liked to play. Beyond that, the railway line cut through the urban sprawl, busy at this time of day with commuter trains bringing the workers to the city. In the distance, the tall geometric shapes of the Canary Wharf, London’s financial district, shaped the skyline—a world away from the vibrant community in which they lived.

“Train.” Cody pointed down at the dirty blue carriages below as they trundled slowly towards the end of the line.

“Yes, a train,” agreed his dad, but already Cody was wriggling in his father’s arms, struggling to be put down. As soon as his feet hit the floor, Cody was off, racing to greet his Auntie in the kitchen.

*

“Thirty years I’ve been here and never a day off. Never have we closed the doors. Why would we close them now? What will the people do? What if someone needs a loaf of bread and they find us closed? What then, eh? You think they’ll come back?”

“I don’t think they’ll come at all today, Dad.”

“No Rafiq, you have no idea about business. One day this will be your store. Until then, I will say when we close. We’ll be busy today. Wait and see. You think all those people won’t want to buy a drink? Marching is thirsty work. Shouting and walking. They’ll need snacks. Water. Juice. This is a business opportunity. So now we must make sure our fridges are stocked. No one will want a warm soda today.”

His dad turned away to check the shelves. Rafiq knew how stubborn his father was, particularly when it came to the business. His parents had run the store since before he was born. The area had changed over the years but the convenience store on the High Street was a fixture known to everyone. His father was a well-known figure amongst locals. Seven days a week the store was open before most of the local residents had wiped the sleep from their eyes, and still serving customers long after the latest revellers had found a bed for the night. Maybe his father was right. Maybe the demonstration would pass by, bringing a wave of friendly customers looking for refreshments. But deep down, Rafiq knew this was unlikely.

*

Jenna and Keisha struggled up the stairs of the underground station, balancing the stroller between them, bowed under the weight of the banners and placards they had prepared at home. Cody sat in the stroller, oblivious to their efforts, kicking his legs and clinging on to his current favourite toy. This was the toy that went everywhere with him: a plywood mask, painted yellow and brown to symbolise a giraffe. Ryan had made it for him, allowing Cody to splash it with blobs of paint and finishing it off with some gold ribbon ties. Jenna had wanted Cody to leave it at home, knowing it might get dropped or lost in the crowds, but he clung on tight.

            “Go on, let him bring it,” Keisha had said. “If he loses it, Ryan can make another one, can’t he?” Jenna gave in, though she knew that a replacement would never be the same. She compromised by tying the ribbon to the frame of the stroller. Now as they struggled up the steps, Jenna noticed that Cody had already pulled the mask loose and was waving it around proudly. Once at street level, the sisters set down the stroller and set off for the meeting point. The demo march was due to leave from the market square at two o’clock and as they arrived, they could already see a throng of people milling around, clutching home-made banners and painted bedsheets. Some were clutching posters showing the picture of Jayden that Keisha had given to the press on the day it happened. It was a photo of him in his school uniform, smiling angelically at the camera, looking far younger than the fourteen years he had been when it was taken. Jenna glanced at Keisha, but she was staring stoically ahead, not meeting anyone’s eye.

“She’s here,” someone shouted, and Keisha was dragged into to the densest part of the crowd. Jenna struggled to follow, the stroller making it hard for her to squeeze though the hordes that obstructed her path. Many of the stall holders had closed early to join the march themselves, yet despite this, the square was as busy as any Saturday afternoon. Someone had set up a makeshift stage in the middle of the square and Jenna could see that Keisha was being led up the steps at the side of the platform. A public address system squealed with feedback. Jenna looked in dismay at the man who stood centre-stage and spoke into the loudhailer. Jenna wished it wasn’t him leading the demo. She had never met him in person—she had been careful not to—but she knew his reputation. Dean had been the boy their mother had warned them about. The one you kept away from, the reason their mother wanted them home before dark.

Growing up, their estate had been friendly by day—full of aunties looking out for them as they played and all their friends as neighbours—but by night, the gangs owned the passages between the apartment blocks. Dean had started as a drug runner for the big boys but now she’d heard he was head of a gang himself. The press had said that Jayden had been running for him, but Jenna couldn’t believe it. Keisha would have stopped that, wouldn’t she? Jenna was sure she would, so why would Keisha let Dean take the lead in organising the march? She couldn’t understand it. This might mean more trouble than they wanted.

Jenna had visualised herself at the head of the demo, standing side by side with her sister and their supporters, leading the procession to the police station where they would demonstrate peacefully, knowing they had right on their side. But seeing Dean standing there changed everything. If the demo was being led by Dean and his boys, there was more likely to be trouble. She knew they’d be tooled up. Even their youngest runners would have at least a kitchen knife in their pocket. They may even be carrying guns. Once the police see Dean at the front, their response will be ramped up. They may even bring in the armed response team. This was the exact opposite of the purpose of their demonstration. What was Keisha thinking? For the first time, she felt uncomfortable about bringing Cody.

Jenna watched as Keisha was pushed into the centre of the stage. Dean handed her the loudhailer. Jenna watcher her older sister start to speak. She sounded hesitant at first, but her confidence grew. At that moment, Jenna was full of pride for her sister; she had been through so much since this day last year.

“A year ago today, my boy…my lovely Jayden…was taken from me. A crime was committed by those who should have been protecting him. It was murder.”

            The crowd cheered, spurring Keisha on.

            “Today, we are going to let them know what we think…how we feel about this.” Another cheer. Dean took the loudhailer back and started to speak but Jenna wasn’t listening. She was pushing through the crowd, trying to reach her sister. Despite her brave words, Jenna could see that Keisha was crumbling.

*

Rafiq heard the demonstration approaching long before he could see them. The marchers would be coming from the market at the end of the High Street, heading for the district police station. The whole route was less than two miles but would take over an hour to pass as they would move so slowly. The chanting was increasing in its intensity. Rafiq stood at the door of his shop watching as the marchers approached. The demonstration was headed by the woman he had seen on the news. He remembered her as the boy’s mother. She was flanked on one side by a petite young woman pushing a small child in a stroller and on the other by a tall man who stared ahead, not joining the chanting himself. Rafiq briefly wondered why anyone would bring a small child to a demonstration like this, but then was immediately distracted by a disturbance at the other end of the street. To his dismay, he saw several armoured police vans arrive and park erratically, obstructing the street. Police with batons and shields poured out of the vehicles. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He’d understood that the protestors would be marching to the police station along an agreed route. So why were the police setting up a roadblock halfway to their destination?

            “Dad, I think there may be trouble. Would you like me to close the shutter? There are police at the end of the street.”

            “You should learn to trust the police, Rafiq. They are here to keep the peace.” His father retreated into the back of the store, leaving Rafiq to man the counter. Rafiq sighed. He knew his father was wrong. The store was so vulnerable. He was glad that his mother had gone back upstairs to their apartment. He prayed she would stay out of the way as the march passed by.

            He noticed that something changed in the mood of the demonstration as it approached his store. The marchers must have seen the police barricade ahead of them as the chanting stopped and was replaced with a loud roar—a cry of anger and frustration as the demonstrators surged forwards, racing towards the police barricade. The police line moved forward as one to meet them. The two sides clashed outside the convenience store as shouts and screams punctuated the air. Police sirens added to the cacophony of sound. Then came the crashing of breaking glass as the shop frontage was broken. The door flew open as people streamed into the shop, grabbing all they could in a moment of lawlessness. Rafiq could do nothing but crouch behind the counter and watch as the shelves were stripped bare.

*

By the first light of dawn, all was quiet. Shouting and looting had continued through the night, spreading to surrounding streets. Police and ambulance sirens had punctuated the darkness, even as the earliest glimmer of daylight turned the black sky to grey. But now, the area was silent. The first of the commuter trains rumbled in the distance as Rafiq took his broom into the street and started to sweep the broken glass off the sidewalk. He thought back to the events of a year ago and realised that the consequences of that afternoon, and of the afternoon just gone, would ripple into the future: more anniversaries created, multiplied exponentially through time. As he swept the debris from the path, his broom became entangled in the gold ribbon of a broken child’s mask. The fragments of shattered plywood mixed with shards of glass and dust from the city. He swept them into the gutter and stepped back into his shop.