I Predict a Riot - Catherine Bruton

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The New Kid was offering a hand to Pea, who was still sprawled on the floor among the broken glass and the empty crisp packets and old tin cans.

      But Little Pea looked up at him and gave him this weird grin. He glanced at Shiv then back at the New Kid’s outstretched hand. Then he shook his head and giggled in his strange, tinny way. ‘No way, crazy boy!’

      The New Kid sighed, like he hadn’t expected Pea to take his hand anyway. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said with a shrug.

      Shiv started to laugh. His pale eyes were glinting and his laughter was hard and angry. ‘Hey, come on, Little Pea,’ he crooned. ‘Come to mamma!’

      In the movies the little guy never goes running back to the villain. Not after the hero has rescued him from mortal peril. But Little Pea seemed to have forgotten that Shiv had been about to stick him with a knife two minutes before. He just jumped up and trotted over obediently. Shiv stood up and brushed down his long leather coat, staring the whole time at the New Kid, who stared right back.

      The rest of the Starfish Gang were still lined up a few metres away. Tad looked like a dog straining on a leash, waiting for a nod from Shiv to tell him to rip the New Kid’s throat out.

      And Pea? He was jiggling on the spot like he needed a wee, and that was when he glanced in my direction and noticed my camera. I quickly pretended to send a text again, but not before I saw his beady eyes widen, just a fraction. Then he looked me right in the eye and grinned. And I could tell he knew.

      The New Kid was pulling his earphones back on to his head and walking backwards in the direction of the park gates, his eyes all the time on Shiv.

      From over by the swings Tad grunted, ‘You gonna jus’ let him walk away, Shiv? You gonna let him disrespec’ you like that and walk outta here with his head still on his shoulders?’ He was pumped up, ready for a fight, although his luminous white skin and pale eyelashes made him look a bit like a ghost.

      But Shiv just stood there, watching the New Kid until he reached the gate. Then he called after him. ‘Bes’ watch your back from now on, boy!’

      When you watch that bit of film you can tell – just like everyone in the park could tell – that the New Kid was dead meat. A marked man. Kaboom.

      I’ve always loved films. I love the stories and the music, but most of all I love the pictures: the close-ups, the long panoramic shots, the follow shots, even the blurry hand-held ones. I love the way the pictures tell the story, more than the words themselves. Me and words don’t always get on very well. Like me and real life.

      My dad got me a little digital video camera just before he and my mum split up. I think he knew he was going to leave; maybe that’s why he bought it. Anyway, it was the best present ever. It was tiny – looked a bit like a smartphone and fitted into my pocket – but I could make proper movies with it. I don’t think I went out anywhere without it since the day he gave it to me. He said I’d be the next Spielberg. My mum said it was just another thing for me to hide behind. I think they had a row about that as well. Two weeks later he left.

      That’s when I started filming everything. It felt like my life had fallen to pieces, so I started watching the world second hand through the lens instead. I filmed meals, train journeys, my feet on the pavement, the leaves in the garden. I even filmed the TV while I was watching it. I stopped looking directly at anything. And it made life so much less sharp, less painful. And more beautiful.

      At school it meant I didn’t have to talk to anyone. There’s not much to make a film about at boarding school so mainly it kept me safe, cut off. But in the holidays, when I came back to London, my mum worked all the time and my dad had moved to New York so there was nothing for me to do but make movies.

      I saw the New Kid the next day, down at the library. He was in the teenage books section, curled up on one of the big armchairs with a pile of books a mile high stacked up next to him. I could see one of the librarians giving him a funny look, like he shouldn’t be there, like he didn’t belong. But he was so deeply engrossed in what he was reading he didn’t even notice.

      It was funny, running into him like that – the sort of thing that normally only happens in the movies – especially since I realised I’d been hoping I’d see him again, the hero kid with the death wish.

      I watched him for a bit, and it made me smile. He looked like he was miles away in his head, like he’d totally forgotten real life even existed. I don’t get that with books. Films, yes, but I’m dyslexic so words on a page jump around and won’t stick in my head.

      The New Kid didn’t even notice when a group of mums and toddlers started gathering for a storytelling session nearby, until the librarian lady went over and asked him to move. Then he looked up like he’d just resurfaced from a deep-sea dive. His brown eyes were like wet, faraway pebbles.

      ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He scrambled up, gathered his books and made his way over to the front desk.

      So I followed him. I didn’t film him, but I just sort of hung out nearby while he tried to check out his books.

      ‘I’m sorry, but if you want to register for the library you need to bring your parent or guardian with you,’ the lady behind the desk was saying in a posh, crinkly voice that didn’t really fit with the way she looked – lumpy cardigan, hair the colour of mildew, tired eyes.

      ‘But my mum works,’ the New Kid was saying. ‘She works, like, all the time.’

      ‘Your father then?’

      The New Kid frowned when she said this. His pebble eyes went blank and I wished I’d been filming then so I could catch his expression.

      ‘No worries,’ he said, putting the books down on the desk and pulling his massive earphones back on to his head. ‘I’ll just leave it.’

      He went out into the lobby then and called the lift. I kept following him, because he had somehow become the hero of my film and I needed to see how his story panned out.

      The lift doors hovered open and I jumped in just before they closed. I stared at the New Kid’s feet, and his hands which seemed empty without a book in them.

      ‘Are you following me?’

      I jumped. He was looking at me and I felt myself go bright red. The lift was probably halfway down. ‘No,’ I murmured.

      He tugged his earphones off and looked at me even harder than before.

      ‘I saw you in the park yesterday, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘When it all kicked off. You were there.’

      I could feel myself going pinker by the minute. I gave a sort of shrug.

      The lift doors opened. We both hesitated, then the New Kid stepped back to let me go out first, like my dad always does. Did.

      ‘Thanks,’ I said quietly, avoiding his eye as we both stepped out into the lobby and headed towards the exit.

      ‘Seriously, are you some kind of spy or what?’ said the New Kid, when we reached the glass doors. He had a look in his eyes that might have been a challenge or might have been amusement.

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. The words came out way posher sounding than I meant them to.

      The New Kid gave me another weird look then turned round and shrugged as he stepped out on to the concrete outside.

      Coronation Road Library is an award-winning design, my dad told me once. It’s built in the shape of a C – for Coronation Road – and it’s all multicoloured glass and chrome. Outside, in the curve of the C, is a courtyard scattered with these giant stone globes, some half submerged in the concrete, some barely rising out of the surface, and all covered in tiny multicoloured tiles. There are some strange metal benches that look more like sculptures than seats, and they’re dead uncomfortable.

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