Alice Nkata laughed. “Better not. Tha’s my pet name for him cos, obviously, tha’s what he is. But I expect he’d like Winston from you. Now, let me see to that black eye.”
STOKE NEWINGTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
What Tani really wanted to do was sleep. But he knew this could be a very bad thing, considering the force with which his father had smashed his head into the floor over and over again. If he had a concussion from that—and his head was pounding—he needed to stay awake till he got looked at. That couldn’t happen, though, till Simi was safe. So he stood with Sophie and Simi on the platform of Stoke Newington’s railway station. They were waiting for the train that would take them south, in the direction of Whitechapel.
When he’d fled Mayville Estate, he’d made his way back to Sophie, thankful that he’d had the good sense never to tell his parents about her. There were any number of reasons for this, but topping the list was the fact that she was English and, despite having African ancestors, her roots in England were almost three hundred years old, planted at a time when speculative investments in human cargo from Africa sometimes led an Englishman without morals or a conscience to acquire a slave. That sickening fact would not be enough in his father’s eyes—and possibly his mother’s—to make Sophie suitable for him, however. She wasn’t Nigerian, and she definitely wasn’t pure: as defined by tradition and his parents. But the happy result of his parents not knowing about Sophie was that they also had not the first clue where she lived. And this meant that they also did not have the first clue where he’d taken Simisola.
Sophie’s family lived in Evering Road in Stoke Newington, her mum a nutritionist and her dad the sort of tech wizard who invented apps that no one imagined they’d ever need till they started using them. Included in the family were Sophie’s two older brothers and her younger sister, and their house was a semi-detached of four floors with a sumptuous garden at the back and a wall in front that enclosed a sunny area of plants and flowers in pots standing outside the glass doors to the basement. The first time Tani had ever seen the place, he’d been staggered by the sheer size of it. Each child had a bedroom, there appeared to be bathrooms in every corner, and the kitchen seemed large enough to hold an orchestra with space left over for dancing. He’d been so intimidated upon entering that fear overtook him just inside the front door. A sudden movement on his part seemed to be enough to upend a china cabinet or another valuable piece of furniture.
Of the Franklin family, only Sophie was at home with Simi when he returned from Mayville Estate. A single look at his condition, and Sophie had dragged him inside and burst into tears. Her cry brought Simi from the lounge to the front door. She, too, began to weep as she flung herself at him.
“？’S’okay,” he’d said. “Squeak, ’s’okay.”
He didn’t want to say more about what had happened. But he didn’t need to, for Simisola herself cried, “Papa hurt you! I hate him!” and began to sob.
Over Simi’s head, he said to Sophie, “He showed up and saw the protection order.”
“Oh Tani,” she cried. “I’m sorry! It was my idea and—”
He cut in, trying to sound as casual as he could, “Think I need some ice for my head, Soph. Or something else cold if you c’n manage it.”
Sophie said, “Oh God, of course! In there,” and she indicated the lounge. “Lie down, Tani. Simisola, help him,” she went on, before she raced deeper into the house. He heard her heading down to the kitchen as Simisola took his hand in hers and led him gently towards a sofa, still crying. She made him sit and she untied the laces of his trainers. She removed them and sat on a low footstool. He said again, “？’S’okay, Squeak. Really. ’S’okay. It looks worse than it feels,” although he reckoned this probably wasn’t the truth. He hadn’t yet seen a mirror so he didn’t know how bad the damage was, but considering the flow of blood from his face that he hadn’t managed to staunch, the raw ache in his throat and round his neck, the pounding in his head, and the lack of vision he was experiencing from one of his eyes . . . He suspected he was a terrifying sight for an eight-year-old girl. Sophie’s reaction had been bad enough.
She returned with a washing flannel and a towel, a bowl of ice and a large package of frozen peas. She handed the peas to Simisola, saying, “Can you hold this where his head hurts, Simi?” before she raced off again. She brought back a first-aid kit, which she opened, dumped onto the coffee table, and began to sort through in something of a panic.