Sweet sixteen: Part. 13

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Power walking toward Camberwell High Street, something other than Dylan's disappearance began to bother me: my hair.

My dual heritage has given me what my mum calls an 'Irish Afro.' I'd washed it the night before and as always post wash it was big and bouncy. It looked and felt great.

But as my springing coils flew about my head and shoulders with a fragrant bounce, I realised my hair wasn't good: for fighting.

The woman at number 13 had grasped madly for my hair, and if she'd have got it, she'd have got me: not good.

So, I made my way to Poundland and used Joshua's money to purchase hairbands and a guys head cap. In the toilets of Maccy D's I scraped my hair back, real tight, winding it into the tightest of coils, before burying it all underneath the tight skullcap.

The brown cap almost matched my skin tone, giving me a shaven headed, androgynous look. I liked it. But more than that, I liked how it made me feel: powerful.

I pondered: perhaps this was the intended use for Joshua's money, to fund our fight; or my fight if I had to go it alone.

###

The café was empty and the guy behind the counter was reading a newspaper. He put it down as I approached, "You've gone all Skunk Anansie, I like it, it really suits you," he said. I assumed he was referring to my hidden hair, but had no idea who he was comparing me to, so I just smiled and said, "Thanks." Then got back to business.

"Any sign of Granny Grace, since I was last in?" I asked.

He perked up, "Yeah, she came in not long after you left, I told her you was looking for her." His words cheered me, at least I knew she was still around and hadn't done a Dylan and disappeared.

Still, I was desperate to find her, "Where was she going going, do you know?" I asked. He laughed and closed his paper again, "I don't know, I'm not her bleeding secretary," he said.

###

Back on the street my frustration mounted. How could I not have exchanged numbers with these people?

I looked left and right, back and forth, and up and down. Busses, ambulances, cars and bikes all jostled for road space; whilst people of every creed and colour did the same on the pavement.

The burden that Joshua spoke of began to weigh me down. I looked at the crowding chaos that is Camberwell and realised that finding Dylan would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

But I wouldn't, or couldn't give up, that just wasn't an option.

Stepping into a shop front, I tried to think. The possibility that Dylan was being held at 13 Paddock Field was slim, because Joshua had that place under surveillance. What continually kept coming back to me was the dilapidated old party shop, above which The Pastor lived. I was drawn to it, more because it was my only option and I felt I had to visit, if only to dismiss it and move on. And I had another motivation; I had to keep searching, just to keep my mind off two words that haunted me 'incapacitation' and 'decapitation.'

So, I took off, hoping above all else that I might bump into Granny Grace or Joshua on the way.

I didn't.

But Granny Grace's presence made its self-known to me on my journey. I stopped outside a newsagents shop when I saw the sandwich board carrying that evening's headline of the local newspaper, it read: ANOTHER GANGLAND KILLING ON NOTORIOUS SOUTH LONDON ESTATE.

I carried on, thinking to myself 'they've got that so wrong, little do they know it was no Gang Land slaying, it was a Granny Grace special.'

I actually shuddered at how many such killings Granny Grace had carried out. Then I shuddered again at the fact that I knew a Serial killer, and was actually hoping, no, wishing I'd bump into said Serial Killer. In just a few short weeks, my Sweet Sixteen year old life had taken a seriously surreal twist.

###

The party shop was closed, but looking at the living premises above, I saw there was a light on. Whoever lived there was home, and I was going to talk to them, whether they liked it or not.

When the doorbell produced no response, I used my fist to pound it. My pounding fist produced a movement: result.

I stepped protectively back from the door and primed myself.

A black man opened the door: tall, slim, middle aged with a baldhead that glistened by the light of the single bulb that illuminated the narrow hallway, which was strewn with un opened post and old newspapers.

Seeing the anger in his face, I kept my distance, "What do you want?" He asked, in heavily accented English. To gauge his reaction I immediately said, "I've come for my friend, Dylan!" I exclaimed, confidently.

The man immediately began babbling and chanting before becoming trance like, his eyes rolled back until I just saw the whites, and he spoke in different languages, in rapid-fire succession. But through the myriad languages he uttered, one word remained consistent and unchanged: Juju.

I stood transfixed and tensed. But his response to Dylan's name spoke volumes to me: if Dylan wasn't here, then this man knew of his whereabouts.

He stopped suddenly and stared at me. In his hand he held out a small, circular silver object. I wondered if he was giving it to me, but no, with a lightening speed, he began to sprinkle me with it.

I freaked when I felt warm droplets shower my face, and fearing it might be acid, I sprinted over the road to a shop, grabbed a large bottle of water and doused my face and head with the whole bottle.

The shopkeeper began shouting, furiously at me. I ignored him, threw a pound coin on the counter and fled.

Feeling my face, I felt no burn: relief.

Looking back at the party shop, I saw the shadow of the man gesticulating wildly behind the curtains. From his response to Dylan's name, and his sprinkling me with whatever that was, I knew for sure that he had the answer to Dylan's disappearance.

I wondered what to do next, when my phone rang.

It was mum.

"Hi mum," I answered, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. I needed to buy time, to get back at that man and gather more clues as to Dylan's whereabouts.

"Where are you, daughter?" She asked.

"I just came out for a walk, it was a tough day at school. I'll be back soon, I just need to do a bit more revision in the library," I lied.

"No daughter, forget the revision, get back here, now."

I looked back at the window, the man was still raving and I was fearful that if Dylan were in there, he'd hurt him some more.

"Please mum, I've got a test tomorrow." I pleaded.

She was insistent, "Get back home now..." she suddenly lowered her voice to a whisper..."there's someone here, to see you."

"Who?" I asked, surprised.

She paused, then whispered, "Dylan."

My heart jumped, "Are you serious?"

She'd moved into our hallway, I could tell by the change in acoustics and the lift in her voice, "I'm serious. You never told me he was so handsome. And he's so sweet; he's been worried about you, looking for you all day. Now come home, and have a cup of tea with the lad."

###

While sprinting home, I pulled the skullcap off, yanked my hair out of the bands and shook my Irish-Fro free. I couldn't wait to see Dylan, to find out what happened in Petal Road and to apologise for my tantrum.

I bounded along the pavements; buoyed by relief that Dylan was safe, well, and very much alive.

Nearing my house, I slowed, so as not to turn up all sweaty.

###

In my hallway, I heard mum and him chatting in the kitchen. I crept upstairs, to quickly change out of my uniform and into something fresher.

Their laugh filled banter filtered up from the kitchen below, and I could tell they were getting along like a house on fire. I had no doubt mum had exhausted him with her prying questions, so I dressed with haste in order to save Dylan from any further interrogation.

"You took your time," said mum, when I entered the kitchen.

She looked at me with a surprised expression, "You could raise a smile daughter, Dylan's been worried sick about you!" She exclaimed.

I stared at him, and smiled, "Hi," I said.

He smiled back, "Hi, Benita." 

Mum smiled wide, "Ahhhhhh, I get it, you two are still shy around each other, especially with mammy hanging around. Look, I'll leave you's alone, I'm going up for a bath," she said, standing up and making for the door.

At the door she turned, "It's been lovely to meet you Dylan, and you're welcome here, anytime," she said.

"Likewise Mrs Badoe, thank you and have goodnight," he said, politely.

She smiled and replied, "Goodnight, Dylan."

Except it wasn't Dylan, it was Joshua...

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