The Cleaner

Laughter, and then something else. A low drone. His stomach knotted. No. The plane was still a dot on the horizon but it was closing quickly. Beneath the radar. A Warthog, onion-shaped bombs hanging beneath its wings. He threw his rifle aside and scrambled down the escarpment, the loose sand sliding down with him, his boots struggling for purchase, failing, and he was tumbling down the last few metres, landing at the bottom with a heavy thump that drove the air from his lungs. He got to his knees and then to his feet, his boots skidding off the dirt and scrub as he pushed off, his arm sinking down to the wrist as he tried to keep upright. He ran towards the village. Five hundred yards, four hundred. The sound of the Warthog’s engines was louder now; it was coming in low, a thousand feet up, not rushing, the pilot taking his time. Three hundred. He ran, boots sinking up to the laces with each step, thighs pumping until they burned. He gasped in and out, his lungs so full of the scorched air that he felt like they were alight. Two hundred. He was close enough to yell out now and he did, screaming that they had to take cover, that they had to get inside. One hundred, and he was close enough to see the faces of the children outside the madrasa. The cheap plastic ball had sailed in his direction and he could see the confusion and fear in the face of the boy who had been sent to fetch it. Five years old? Surely no older. He yelled at him to get down but it was too late, it had always been too late, it would not have mattered if he had been able to get to them sooner, the decision had already been taken. The Warthog’s engines boomed. The boy turned away from him to face it. The ball rolled away on the breeze. A blinding flash of white light. The deafening crack of a terrible explosion. He was picked up and thrown back twenty feet in the direction that he had come. He was slammed down onto the ground by a bolt of hot air which dented his cheeks and stomach as if they had been made of paper. A second and third explosion seemed to bend the world of its axis, the noise blending from a roar into a continuous, high-pitched whine. He lay, staring up into the sun, while the air around him seemed to vibrate as if someone had smashed a cello with a sledgehammer. He rolled over and pushed his head up, working his arm around until he could prop himself against his elbow. A ghastly rain of pieces of flesh and blood soaked clothing fell onto him and all around him. Then bits of rubble and metal. Above, slowly unfurling, was a dark cloud of black smoke that rose and shifted until it had obscured the sun. He smelt burning flesh and the unmistakeable acrid tang of high explosive. His hearing resolved as the Warthog swooped over and away. He pushed himself up until he was on his knees. A huge crater was in the centre of the village. The launcher was gone. The madrasa was gone. The children were gone, too, or so he would have thought until his eyes tracked around to the right and he saw red splashes of colour on the ground and glistening red ribbons of flesh suspended from the bare branches of a nearby tree.

Fifty feet away, in the open desert, the plastic ball rolled with the wind.

27

The nightmare was as bad as Milton could remember it. When he awoke, the sheets were a bunched-up pile on the floor, soaked through with sweat. His brain was fogged and unclear. He rose and went for his usual run, the best thing he knew to chase it away. The streets were quiet and the park was empty. He ran two laps, following the line of trees, pushing himself harder on the second so that by the time he returned to the road he was sweating and breathing heavily. He chose a return route that took him past the boxing club. The door was open, the slapping of a skipping rope audible from inside. He didn’t stop, and returned to the house where he showered and dressed. He stood before the mirror again and checked that the outline of his pistol was not obvious against the cut of his jacket. He locked the door and went to the café for his breakfast. Elijah was already waiting for him. The boy was sitting in a booth.

“This better be good,” he said, a little surly.

“Get any sleep?”

“Nah, not much. I’m knackered.”

“Where’s your kit?”

Elijah nodded at the black Nike sports bag resting on the chair next to him.

“Good lad. You hungry?”

“A bit,” he conceded.

“Alright, then. You’ll need to eat. You’re going to be working hard this morning.”

“What are we doing?”

“You’ll see,” Milton said. The proprietor came over to take their order. Milton ordered two plates of scrambled eggs and bacon, a portion of chips and a two glasses of orange juice.

“Is your mother alright?”

“What you mean — about me getting nicked? Yeah, she’s alright.”

“She worries about you, you know.”

“I know,” Elijah said. “I don’t mean to upset her.”

“I know you don’t.” The boy seemed more disposed to speak this morning, and Milton decided to take advantage of the boy’s mood. “How are things at home?”

“How you mean?”

“How does your mum manage?”

“What you think it’s like? We got no Dad, Mum works three jobs and there’s still hardly enough money coming in to feed us, buy clothes. Me and my brother — you get into a situation like that and you do what you got to do, innit? My mum knows what I’ve been doing — she just don’t wanna ask.”

“Would you have listened to her?”

The food arrived before he could answer. The proprietor handed them each a plate of eggs and bacon and left the chips in the middle of the table. “You know about Jules?” Elijah said when he had left them. “My brother?”

“Not really.”

“He’s five years older than me. Me and him, we grew up with nothing. You go to school and you’re the ones with the uniform with the holes in it. I never got no new shirts or trousers or nothing like that — all I got was his hand-me-downs, mum would find the holes and just keep patching them up. There were patches on the patches eventually. You know how that makes you feel?”

Again, Milton shook his head.

“Makes you feel like a tramp, bruv. The other kids laugh at you like you’re some kind of special case.” Elijah took a chip, smeared it with ketchup and put it into his mouth. He chewed, a little nervously, still unsure whether he was doing the right thing in talking to Milton. “Then you see the brothers with their new clothes, parking their flash cars outside their mommas’ flats, you see them things and you know what’s possible. They ain’t got no patched-up uniforms. Their shoes don’t have holes in them. Jules saw it. He was in the LFB before me. He came back with new trainers one day and I knew. Then he bought himself new clothes for school, more trainers, a phone, nice jewellery. He started to make a name for himself. Kids at school who used to take the piss out of him didn’t do that no more. He got some respect. One day, he comes back and he tells me that I have to come down to the road with him. I do like he says and there it is, he shows me this car he’s bought. It ain’t nothing special, just this second-hand Nissan, beaten up to shit, but he’s bought it with his own money and it’s his. The way I see it, there ain’t nothing wrong with that. It don’t matter where he’s got it from, he’s entitled.”

“There are other ways to get the things you want,” Milton said.

“What? School?” He laughed at that. “You think I can get out of here by getting an education? How many kids in my ends you think get through school with an education?” He spat out the word disdainfully. Just for a moment, his eyes stopped flicking back and forth and he stared straight at Milton. “I ain’t gonna get the kind of education that can help me by sitting in the classroom listening to some teacher going on about history or geography. Teachers don’t give a shit about me. Let’s say I did pay attention, and I get good grades so I could can go to university. You have to pay thousands for that these days — so how do we afford that?” He shook his head with an expression of clear and total certainty. “Education ain’t for people like me, not round here. Let me make this simple for you: my … brother … was … my … education. All I saw was guys with their cars and their clothes. His Nissan taught me more than anything I ever learned in school. Exam grades ain’t gonna get me any of that. All they’ll get me is a job flipping burgers in Maccy D’s and that ain’t never going to happen. I know what you can get if you play the game.”

Milton detected a weak spot, and pressed. “Where’s Jules now?”

A flicker of discomfort passed across his face. “He was shotting drugs, right — the crack, selling it to the cats — then he started doing it himself. Couldn’t deal with it. He got into trouble, didn’t kick up the paper like he was supposed to do, he had some beef with the Elders and he ended up getting a proper beating. Nothing he didn’t deserve, mind — there are rules you got to follow, and if you don’t you get what you get. Anyway, one day he never came back home. My mums spoke to him on the phone and he said he had to get away. I’ve seen him a few times since — this one time, I was in town, going to buy some new trainers from JJB, and I see him there on Oxford Street, sitting against a shop with a cap on the floor in front of him begging for change. He’s an addict now. It’s disgusting. I just kept walking. Didn’t say nothing to him. We don’t see him no more.”

“And you look up to him?”

“Not any more, man, not how he is now. But before that? Yeah — course, he’s my brother, course I looked up to him. I seen how he got what he wanted and I seen how it works better than your schools and books. I just ain’t gonna make the same mistakes he did.”

Milton paid after they had finished their food and they set off. The club was a fifteen minute walk from the main road and Milton took the opportunity to continue the conversation. Milton sketched in the lines of a meagre, uninspiring life, and quickly came to understand how the excitement and the camaraderie of the street had proven to be so attractive to the boy. He inevitably thought of his own peripatetic childhood, dragged around the Embassies and Consulates of Europe and the Middle East as his father followed a string of different postings. Money had never been a problem for the Miltons, but there were still comparisons to be drawn between Elijah’s early years and his own. Loneliness, a lack of roots, no foundations to build on. The army had become Milton’s family, and then the Group. But even that had come to an end. Now, he thought, he was on his own again. Perhaps that was for the best. Some people, people like him; perhaps that was the natural way of things.

The doors of the church hall were thrown wide and the sound of activity was loud, spilling out into the tree-lined street. Milton led the way inside, Elijah trailing a little cautiously behind. There were two dozen boys at the club this morning, spread between the ring and the exercise equipment. Two pairs were squeezed into the ring together, sparring with one another. The heavy bag resounded with the pummelling blows of a big, muscled elder boy and the speed bag spat out a rat-tat-tat as a wiry, sharp-elbowed girl hit it, her gloved fists rolling with the fast, repetitive rhythm. Others jumped rope or shadow-boxed, and two older boys were busy with rollers on the far side of the room, whitewashing the wall.

“Boxing?” Elijah exclaimed.

“That’s right.”

“I ain’t into this,” he said. “You’re having a laugh.”

Milton turned to him. “Give it a chance,” he said. “Just one morning, see how you get on. If you don’t like it, you don’t ever have to come back. But you might surprise yourself.”

Rutherford noticed them, and made his way across the room. “This your boy?” he said.

“I ain’t his boy,” Elijah said dismissively.

“He’s not sure this is for him,” Milton said, patiently ignoring his truculent attitude.

“Wouldn’t be the first lad to say that the first time he comes in here. How old are you, son?”

“Fifteen.”

“Big lad for your age. Reckon you might have something about you. I’m Rutherford. Who are you?”

“JaJa.”

“Alright then, JaJa. Have you got kit?” Elijah gave a sullen shrug. “I’ll take that as a yes. The changing room is out the back. Get yourself sorted out and get back out here. We’ll see what you can do.”

Milton was surprised to see that Elijah did as he was told.

“Leave him with me for a couple of hours,” Rutherford said. “I think he’s going to like this more than he thinks he is.”

28

Milton looked at the jobs that needed doing. As Rutherford had suggested, the hall was in a bit of a state. The walls were peeling in places, large swathes of damp bubbling up beneath the paint and with patches of dark fungus spreading up from the floor. Some of the floorboards were rotting, one of the toilets had been smashed and the roof leaked in several places. Buckets had been placed to catch the falling water and, looking up to fix the position on the roof, Milton took the ladder that Rutherford offered, went outside, braced it against the wall and climbed up to take a better look. Several of the tiles were missing. He climbed back down, went to the small hardware store that served the Estate and bought a wide plastic sheet, a hammer and a handful of nails. He spent the next hour and a half securing the sheet so that it sheltered the missing tiles. It was only a temporary fix, but it would suffice until he could return with the materials to do the job properly.

When Milton returned to the church hall, he found Elijah sparring inside the ring. The boy was wearing a head guard, vest and shorts, his brand new Nikes gleaming against the dirty canvas. His opponent looked to be a year or two older and was a touch taller and heavier, yet Elijah was giving him all he could handle. He was light on his feet and skipped in and out of range, absorbing his opponent’s slow jabs on his gloves and retaliating with quick punches of his own. Milton had been a decent boxer in the Forces and was confident that he knew how to spot raw talent when he saw it. And Elijah had talent; he was sure about that.

Elijah allowed the bigger boy to come onto him, dropping his head so that it was shielded between his shoulders and forearms. The boy dived forward, Elijah turning at the last moment so that his jab bounced off his right shoulder, leaving his guard open and his chin exposed. Elijah fired in a straight right-hand of his own, his gloved fist crumpling into the boy’s headguard with enough force to propel his gumshield from his mouth. He was stood up by the sudden blow, dazed, and Elijah hit him with a left and another right.

The boy was staggering as Rutherford rang the bell to bring the sparring to an end.

Elijah turned to step through the ropes but Rutherford sent him back again with a stern word; he went back to his opponent and they touched gloves. “That’s better,” Rutherford said as he held the ropes open for the two of them. He sent them both to the changing rooms. He saw Milton and came across to him.

“Sorry about that,” Milton said.

“Boy’s keen. Needs to learn some discipline, though.”

“What do you think?”

“There’s potential. He’s got an attitude on him, no doubt, but we can work with that.”

“You’ll have him back, then?”

“For sure. Bring him on Tuesday night, we’ll get to setting him up a regular regime, start training him properly.”

o o o

MILTON OFFERED to buy Elijah dinner, wherever he liked. The boy chose the Nandos on the Bethnal Green Road and led the way there. They took a bus from Dalston Junction, sitting together on the top deck, Milton with his knees pressed tight against the seat in front and Elijah alongside. The restaurant was busy but they found a table towards the back. Milton gave Elijah a twenty pound note and told him to get food for both of them. He returned with a tray laden with chicken, fries and soft drinks. He put the tray on the table, shrugged off his puffer jacket and pushed a plate across the table.

“What is it?” Milton asked.

“You never eaten in Nandos before?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“You got peri peri chicken and fries,” he explained. “If you don’t like that, there’s something wrong with you, innit?”

Milton smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm and took a bite out of the chicken. He looked out around the restaurant: there were tables of youngsters, some with their parents, and groups of older adolescents. There was a raucous atmosphere, loud and vibrant. He noticed a young couple with two children, probably no older than six or seven and, for a moment, his mind started to wander. He caught himself. He had moments of wistfulness now and again but he had abandoned the thought of a family a long time ago. His line of work made that idea impossible, both practically and equitably. He was never in the same place for long enough to put down roots and, even if he did, the risks of his profession would have made it unfair to whoever might have chosen to make her life with him. The state of affairs had been settled for long enough that he had driven daydreams of domesticity from his mind. That kind of life was not for a man like him.

“So where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked him.

He shrugged. “Dunno. The street, I guess. My mums says I got a temper on me. She’s probably right. I get into fights all the time.”

“A temper’s not going to do you any favours. You’ll need to keep it under control.”

Elijah dismissed the advice with a wave of his drumstick. “I know what it was. When I was younger, primary school, I was out playing football in the park when this bigger boy, Malachi, he comes onto me with his screwface on after I scored a goal against his team. He punched me right in the face and I didn’t do nothing about it. I wasn’t crying or nothing, but when I got home my mum saw that I had a cut on my head and she was on at me about how I got it. I told her what happened and she sent me back out again.” He swallowed a mouthful and put on an exaggerated impression of his mother’s voice. “‘Listen good,’ she said, ‘I’m your mum, I protected you in my womb for nine months, I gave birth to you, I didn’t do none of that so other people could just beat on you. Go outside and don’t come back in until you’ve given that boy a good seeing to, and I’m going to be watching you from the balcony.’ So I did what she said and sorted him out. I never let anyone push me around after that.”

Milton couldn’t help laugh and, after a moment, the boy laughed along with him.

“I don’t know anything about you, do I?” he said when they had finished.

“What would you like to know?”

The boy was watching him curiously over his jumbo cup of coke. “What do you do? For a job, I mean?”

“This and that,” he said.

“Because we all knew you ain’t no journalist.”

“No, I’m not. We spoke about this. I’m not—”

“So what is it you do? Come on, man, I’ve told you plenty about me. Only fair. You want to get to know me properly, how you expect that if you got kinds of secrets and shit I don’t know about?”

He said, awkwardly, “It’s a little hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“I’m a” — he fumbled for the right euphemism — “I’m a problem solver. Occasionally, there are situations that require solutions that are a little out of the ordinary. I’m the one who gets asks to sort them out.”

“This ain’t one of those situations?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Me, I mean. This ain’t work?”

“No. I told you, it’s nothing like that.”

“So what, then? What kind of situations?”

“I can’t really say anything else.”

“So you’re saying it’s secret?”

“Something like that.”

Elijah grinned at him. “Cool. What are you, some kind of secret agent?”

“Hardly.”

“Some kind of James Bond shit, right?” He was grinning.

“Come on,” Milton said, “Look at me — do I look like James Bond?”

“Nah,” he said, “You way too old for that.”

Milton smiled as he finished one of his chicken wings.

“So tell me what it is you do.”

“Elijah, I can’t tell you anything else. Give me a break, alright?”

They ate quietly for a moment. Elijah concentrated on his chicken, dipping it into the sauce, nibbling right the way up to the bone. He put it down on the plate and wiped his fingers on a napkin. A thoughtful look passed across his face.

“What is it?”

“Why are you helping me and my mum?”

“Because she needed it. You both did.”

“She manages fine,” he said, waving the chicken leg dismissively. Milton realised that Sharon had not explained to her son the circumstances of how they had met. That was probably the right thing to do; there was no sense in worrying him but, at the same time, if he knew how desperate he had made her feel then perhaps he would have corrected his course more readily, without the need for help. It didn’t really matter. He was making good progress now and it was up to Sharon what she told her son. Milton was not about to abuse her trust.

Elijah was still regarding him carefully. Milton realised that the boy was shrewder than he looked. “No other reason?”

“Such as?”

“Such as you want to be with my mum.”

Milton shook his head. “No.”

“She’s had boyfriends,” Elijah said, discursively, “not many, but some. None of them were any good. They all give it the talk until they get what they want but when it comes down to it, when they need to back it up, they’re all full of shit. It breaks her up when they leave. It’s just me and her most of the time. It’s better that way.”

“You don’t think she’s lonely?”

“Not when I’m there.”

“She’ll find someone eventually.”

Elijah wrinkled his nose. “Nah,” he said. “She don’t need no-one else. She’s got me.”

Milton felt a flicker of encouragement. The boy’s attitude was changing, the hardened carapace slowly falling away. He watched him enthusiastically finishing the chicken, the sauce smearing around the corners of his mouth, and for that moment he looked exactly what he was: a fifteen year old boy, bravado masking a deep well of insecurity, anxiously trying to find his place in the world. Milton realised that he had started to warm towards him.

29

Callan walked purposefully up the street, the row of terraced houses on his left. He passed the house that Milton had taken and slowed, glancing quickly through the single window. A net curtain obscured the view inside but it did not appear that the house was occupied. He continued fifty yards up the road, turned, and paused. Traffic hurried busily along the road, a few youngsters loitered aimlessly in front of the arcade of shops at the distant junction, the blocks of 1950s’ social housing loomed heavily behind their iron railings and scrappy lawns.

He watched carefully, assessing.

He started back towards the house, reaching into his pocket for his lock picks as he did so. A couple walked towards him, hand in hand, and Callan slowed his pace, timing his approach carefully so that the couple had passed the door to Milton’s house before he reached it.

He took out his lock pick and knelt before the door. He slid the pick and a small tension wrench into the lock and lifted the pins one by one until they clicked. It had taken him less than five seconds. He turned the doorknob and passed quickly, and quietly, inside.

He took out his Sig Sauer and held it in both hands, his stance loose and easy. He held his breath and listened. The house was quiet.

He did not know how long he had before Milton returned and so he worked quickly. He pulled a pair of latex gloves onto his hands and, with his gun still held ready before him, he went from room to room.

The house was cheaply furnished and in need of repair and decoration. Milton had brought hardly anything with him. Callan found a rucksack, a handful of clothes hung carefully in a rickety cupboard, some toiletries in the bathroom, but little else. There were pints of milk and orange juice in the fridge and a half eaten loaf of bread, but nothing else.

The investigation posed more questions than it answered. What was Milton doing here, in a place like this?

He went into the front room and shuffled through the envelopes on the table. They were old bills, addressed to a person whom Callan assumed was the previous occupier. He turned a gas bill over and saw that a note had been scribbled on the back.

He took out his phone and took a photograph of the address. He slid the envelope back into the pile and left the room as he had found it.

He holstered the Sig Sauer, opened the door to the street and stepped outside. The road was clear. He closed the door and stuffed the latex gloves into his pockets. He set off in the direction of the tube station.

30

Elijah had been working on the heavy bag and was sweating hard as he sat down on the bench. He took off his gloves and the wraps that had been wound tightly around his fists. His knuckles had cut and blistered during the session and blood had stained the white fabric. He screwed the bandages into a tight ball and dropped them into the dustbin. The hall was busy. Two boys were sparring in the ring and another was firing combinations into the pads that one of the men who helped Rutherford was wearing. The man moved them up and down and side to side, changing the target, barking out left and right, the boy doing his best to keep pace. Other boys skipped rope, lifted weights or shadow-boxed in the space around the ring.

Rutherford came over to him and sat down.

“How you feeling, younger?”

“I feel good.”

“Looking good, too. That was a good session.”

“How did I do?”

“You did good. You got to work on your guard a little, you leave your chin open like that and it don’t matter how slippery and quick you are, someone’ll eventually get lucky and stitch you and that’ll be that — but we can sort that for you. You got a lot of potential. You work hard at this, who knows?”

“What you mean? I could make something of it?”

“It’s too early to say that, younger. But you got potential, like I said.” Rutherford paused for a moment, his eyes drifting across the room. “You’re running with the LFB, right?”

Elijah said that he was.

“That’s right. Your friend told me. You know we don’t have none of that in here, right? No colours, no beefs, nothing. You alright with that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not like I’m tight with them or anything. It’s a recent thing. I know some of the boys, that’s it.”

“Then we ain’t going to have a problem then. That’s good.”

“You were involved, weren’t you? The streets, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Rutherford said. “Long time ago. Is it obvious?”

“I see the way the other boys look at you. It’s not hard to guess. Who were you with?”

“LFB.”

“What did you do?”

“The usual — rolled people, shotted drugs, tiefed stuff. But my speciality was robbing dealers.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not? You know they’ve got to be carrying plenty of Ps and if you take it, what they going to do? I know they ain’t going to the Feds.” He sat down on the bench next to Elijah. “Some days,” he said, “we’d head down onto the Pembury or into the park and we’d rob the shotters. Same guys, every day. They’d never see us coming. You put them up against the wall, and it’s ‘give me your money, nigger.’ They know I’m strapped, they ain’t going to risk getting shot. Day in, day out, gimme the money, your jewellery, your phone — anything they had. Who they gonna tell? If we knew where there was a crack house, we’d go in there and clear the place out too. No-one’s packing in a crack house, see — no-one wants to be caught with drugs and a gun for no reason, so you just stroll in, get your blammer out, and everyone’s too wasted too argue. But you got to be strapped. Always knew that — you got to be strapped. You turn up to a place like that with a knife, man, you’re gambling with your life. And you got to be strapped all the time, because when you rob another gang’s crack house, the cats’ll stop going, and that costs money. When the crew ask around they’ll find out who’s done what they done and they’re gonna want to take action to make sure it don’t happen again.”

“Didn’t you feel bad?”

“Sometimes, when I was lying in bed thinking about the way my life was going, course I did. But then you think about it some more and you got money and power, so in the end you persuade yourself there was nothing in it. You tell yourself it’s the law of the jungle, the strong against the weak. And I was strong, that’s the way I saw it then. But I wasn’t strong. I was a bully, hiding behind a 2–2, and I was foolish. Young, proud, full of shit and foolish. But the way I saw it, I knew the players we was going after was doing the same shit to other people. It’s kind of like — this is the road — this is how it is. If you don’t like it, get off the road.”

“What happened?”

“In the end?” He shook his head and sucked on his teeth. “In the end, younger, it happened like it was always gonna happen. We rolled a crack house only this time the Tottenham boys were wise to it. They had a couple of mash men with blammers there themselves, waiting for us. Soon as we got in there they pulled them out and started shooting the place up. I took out my strap and fired back. Didn’t know who I was shooting at. Bad things happened.”

“You killed someone?”

“Like I said, bad things happened. I had to get away, so I signed up for the Army.”

“How old were you?”

He turned the question around. “How old you say you are?”

“Fifteen.”

“That’s right. I had just five short years on you, younger. I’m thirty-six now. I got out six months ago. I did sixteen years in the Army. Two wars. Longer than you been around in this world.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, that’s right — shit. You see why I do what I do now, JaJa? I know where the road is gonna take youngsters like you if you don’t pay attention. There ain’t no chance it can go anywhere else. I know I probably sound like it sometimes, but I ain’t trying to patronise. I just know. You follow the road you’re on for too much longer, you’ll get in so deep you don’t even know how to begin getting out. And then, one day, the road will take you, too. You’ll get shot, or shanked, or you’ll do it to someone else and the Trident will lock you up. And, either way, that’ll be it — the end of your life. If I can help a couple of you boys get straight, get off the road, then, the way I look at it, I’m starting to give back a little, pay back the debt I owe.”

The door to the street opened and Pinky came inside. Elijah stiffened.

“You know him?” Rutherford said.

“Yeah. Does he come here, too?”

“Used to, but I haven’t seen him for a while. You two get on?”

“Not really.”

“No, I bet — he’s not an easy one to get along with. He’s got a whole lot of troubles.” Rutherford got up as Pinky approached them. “Easy, younger,” he said. “How’s it going? Ain’t seen you for a couple of weeks.”

“Been busy.” The boy said it proudly, and Elijah knew exactly what he meant.

“That right? How much you made this week, playa?”

“Huh?”

“Your Ps. I know you been shotting. I saw you, up on the balcony at Blissett House. How much?”

Pinky stared at Elijah and grinned as he said, “Five-o-o.”

Rutherford sucked his teeth. “Five hundred,” he said. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? Better than you’ll make all month.”

“Probably right,” he conceded with an equable duck of his head. “So, let me get that straight… five hundred a week, over a whole year, you keep taking that you’re gonna end up with what, twenty-five thousand? What you gonna do with that much money?”

“I’m gonna buy me a big-screen TV, a new laptop, some games, some clothes and shoes and then I’m gonna save the rest. I got plans, get me?”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little aggression laced in the reply. “What about it?”

“Where you gonna save it?”

“What you mean? In a bank — where else?”

Rutherford shook his head. “You’re sixteen years old. You telling me you’re going to walk into the NatWest and give them twenty grand and tell them to stick it in your account? Really? That’s your plan?”

“Yeah.”

“No you ain’t.”

“Fuck you!” he said. “It’s my money. Mine. They can’t take it off me. No-one can.”

“You take it into a bank and I’ll tell you exactly what’s gonna happen — they’ll be onto the Feds before you’re halfway out the door, next thing you know you’re on the deck eating pavement and then you’ll do time. That’s if you last that long. Because what’ll most likely happen is some brother will nick it off you. And while they’re at it, they’ll probably merk you, too. And it’s no good being rich when you’re dead.”

“Fuck you man,” he spat. “Fuck you know?”

Rutherford absorbed his invective and stared back at the boy with a cold hardness in his eyes that Elijah had not seen before. For a moment, it was easy to imagine the intimidating effect he must have had when he was younger. “What do you mean, what the fuck do I know? You know where I’ve come from. You know what I been, what I’ve done. I don’t have to put up with your shit, either. Go on, you don’t want to listen to me, fuck off. Go on. If you want to stay, then stay. I’ll tell you how you can make that kind of money, but legit so you can put it in a bank account, so no-one’s gonna take it off you and drop you stone dead.”

Pinky squared up, and, for a moment, Elijah expected him to fire back with more lip. Rutherford stood before the boy implacably, calm certainty written across his face. He was not going to back down.

“Aight,” Pinky said, and the tension dissipated in a sudden exhale. He forced a grin across his face. “Cotch, man. I’m just creasing you.”

“Get your kit on if you want to stay,” Rutherford told him sternly. “You’ve gotten all flabby, all this time you been taking off. You got some catching up to do.”

“Funny man.” Pinky hiked up his Raiders t-shirt. He was thin and wiry, the muscles standing out on his abdomen in neat, compact lines. “Don’t chat grease. Flabby? Look at this — I’m ripped, playa.”

“Get yourself in the ring. I got someone who’ll see whether you still got what it takes.”

“That right? Who’s that?”

Rutherford turned to Elijah. “You up, younger. Get new wraps on. The two of you can spar. Three rounds.”

Pinky looked at Elijah and laughed. “Him?” he said derisively. “Seriously?”

“Talk’s cheap, bruv. You think you can take him, let’s see it in the ring.”

“I’m on that,” he said, firing out a quick combination, right-left-right. “This little mandem gonna get himself proper sparked.”

Pinky went back to the changing room and, when he returned, he had changed into a pair of baggy shorts that emphasised his thin legs. Elijah wrapped his fists again and laced up his gloves. The two boys stepped through the ropes and, at Rutherford’s insistence, touched gloves. Pinky was older than Elijah but they were similar in physique. He came forward aggressively, fighting behind a low guard and firing out a barrage of wild combinations. He was quick but not particularly powerful or accurate, and Elijah was able to absorb the onslaught without difficulty, taking it on his arms or dodging away. He spent the first round that way, absorbing his attacks and firing back with stiff punches that beat Pinky’s absent guard, flashing into his nose or against his chin. Elijah knew that his punches were crisp rather than powerful, but that was alright. He was not trying to hurt Pinky, not yet. Each successful blow riled the older boy and he came forward with redoubled intent. Elijah let him, dancing away or smothering the blows when he could not, letting Pinky wear himself out.

Rutherford rang the bell as the first two-minute round expired and the two boys broke to separate corners to take a drink.

“I’m gonna dook you up, younger” Pinky called across the ring, lisping around his mouthguard.

“Didn’t do nothing first round,” Elijah retorted. “Look at me — I’m hardly even sweating.”

The other boys had stopped to watch the action. A couple had wandered across to stand next to Rutherford, and others were idling across to join them.

Rutherford rang the bell.

They set off again. Pinky moved in aggressively, firing out another wild combination, rights and lefts that Elijah disposed of with ease. Rutherford was watching him from the side of the ring, and Elijah decided that it was time to give him his demonstration. He stepped it up a gear. Pinky moved forward again and Elijah side-stepped his first flurry, firing in a strong right jab that stood him up, a left and a right into the kidneys and then, his guard dropped, a heavy right cross. Pinky fell back but Elijah did not stop. He followed the boy backwards across the ring, firing hooks into the body. Pinky fell back against the ropes and Elijah pivoted on his left foot and delivered a right cross with all of his weight behind it. Pinky took the punch square on the jaw and fell back onto his back.

Rutherford rang the bell and clambered into the ring. Pinky was on his hands and knees, his mouthguard on the canvas before him, trailers of spit draping down to it from his gasping mouth. Rutherford helped him to his feet and held the ropes open for him. He said nothing, barely even looking at Elijah as he slipped down to the floor and went back to the changing rooms. The watching boys were hooting and hollering, impressed with the show that Elijah had put on. One of the older boys declared that Elijah had banged Pinky out. Elijah could not prevent the grin that spread across his face.

Rutherford drew Elijah to one side and helped him to unlace his gloves. “Listen here, younger,” he said. “You’ve got skills. You let him wear himself out there, didn’t you?”

Elijah shrugged. “Didn’t seem no point to get into it with him. He’s bigger than me. Would’ve been too strong, I come onto him straight up. Seemed like a better idea to let him work himself out, let him get weak then come in and spark him.”

Rutherford smiled as he explained his tactics. “You thought all that out for yourself?”

“I used to play that way on my PlayStation. Ali and Foreman, innit? Rope-a-dope.”

“You learned that from a videogame?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Why not,” Rutherford laughed. “Look, little man, I know you’ve only just starting out, been here just a handful of times and all, but I think you’re ready to step it up. We’ve got a night coming up with a club in Tottenham. It’s like we got here, a friend of mine runs it, he’s gonna bring his boys down so we can see what’s what. He’ll have five of his best lads, I’ll pick five of mine. I’d like to put you in the team. What you say? Sound like something you might be interested in?”

Elijah’s heart filled with pride. No-one had ever said he was any good at anything. None of his teachers, none of his friends, not even his mum, not really. “Course,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.

Rutherford put one of his big hands on his shoulder. “Good lad. Thought you’d be up for it. It’s Thursday night. Speak to the fellow who brought you down. Mr Milton. See if he wants to come?”

Elijah thought of Milton. Would he come if he asked him? Elijah was surprised to find that he half hoped that he would. “Aight,” he said. “I’ll tell him about it.”

31

Milton looked at the window of the Sharon’s flat. It was barred but, somehow, it had still been broken. The window faced into the sitting room and a wide, jagged hole had been smashed in the centre. The wind had sucked the curtains out and now they flapped uselessly, snagged on the sharp edges of the glass. Fragments had fallen out onto the walkway and now they crunched underfoot, like ice.

He had called Sharon half an hour earlier to ask after Elijah. She had been upset, barely able to stifle the sobs, and he come straight across. A brick was lying incongruously on the cushion of the sofa, glass splinters sparkling all around it. Someone had pushed it through the glass.

“Just kids mucking about,” Sharon said miserably. “They don’t mean anything by it.”

“Has it happened before?”

She shrugged, a little awkwardly. “Sometimes.”

“You’ll need to get it fixed.”

“I spoke to the council. They say they can’t do it until next week.”

“You can’t leave it like that until then. Let me take care of it.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“It’s not a problem. Simple job. I just need to get some bits and pieces. It’ll take me half an hour.”

She smiled shyly at him. “On one condition — you let me cook you dinner.”

“Deal,” Milton said.

Milton sized up the job and then visited the hardware store in the centre of Hackney to collect the equipment and materials that he would need.

A handful of lazy youngsters had gathered by the time he returned, leaning against the balustrade at the end of the balcony. They stared at him with dull aggression as he set his purchases down and removed his jacket. He unscrewed the cage that contained the metal bars and stood it carefully against the wall. He spread an old sheet on the balcony outside the window and knocked out the largest fragments of glass, using a hammer and chisel to remove the smaller pieces. He chipped out the putty from the groove in the frame and plucked out old glazing sprigs with a pair of pliers. He sanded the rough patches, applied a primer and then filled in the holes and cracks. He kneaded putty into a thin roll and pressed it into the frame, then carefully lowered the new pane of glass into place, pressing carefully so that the putty squeezed out to form a seal. He added new sprigs to hold the glass in place and pressed more putty into the join between the panel and the frame, trimming away the excess with the edge of his chisel. He heaved the metal cage up to the window and screwed it back into place. Finally, he stepped back against the balustrade and admired his handiwork. The job was well done.

“You wasting your time,” one of the kids called over to him. “No-one likes her. She ain’t from round these ends. She should get the hint, innit, go somewhere else?”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Milton said.

“It gonna get broke again, soon as you gone.”

“Leave her alone. Alright?”

“What you gonna do about it, old man?”

All Milton could think about was going over to teach them some manners, but he knew that that would be just be for his own gratification. It would not do Sharon any good. He could not be with her all the time and, as soon as he was gone, she would be punished. It was better to bite his tongue.

The boys stayed for another ten minutes, hooting at him to try and get a response but, when they realised he was ignoring them, they fired off another volley of abuse and slouched all the way down to the bottom of the stairs. Milton watched them go.

It was a little past seven when he had finished with the window to his satisfaction. He tidied away his tools and went inside. The television in the lounge was tuned to the BBC’s news channel. A man in Tottenham had been shot dead by police. The presenter said he was a drug dealer, and that the police were reporting that he had been armed. Milton watched it for a moment, not really paying attention, and then found the remote control and switched it off.

Sharon had pulled the table away from the wall and laid it for dinner. She had prepared a traditional Jamaican dish of mutton curry. Milton helped her to clear the table when they had finished. He took out his cigarettes. “Do you mind?” he asked her.

“What are they?” she said, looking at the unfamiliar black, blue and gold packet.

“Arktika. They’re Russian.”

“I’ve never seen them before. Where do you get them?”

“Internet,” he said. “Every man needs a least one vice.”

“Russian fags?”

“I met a man once, a long time ago. He was Russian. We found ourselves in a spot of bother and these were all we had. Three packets. We made them last four days. I’d developed a bit of a taste for them by the end. Vodka too, but only the good stuff.”

He opened the carton and offered it to Sharon. She took a cigarette and allowed Milton to light it for her. He lit his and watched as she took a deep lungful of smoke, letting it escape from between her lips in a long sigh.

“You’ve been so good to me,” she began after a quiet moment. “I don’t know why.”

Milton inhaled himself, the tobacco crackling as the flame burned higher. “You’ve had some bad luck,” he said. “Things aren’t always fair. You work hard with Elijah, you deserve some help. I’m just glad I can do that.”

“But why me?”

“Why not you?” he retorted. He let the peacefulness fall between them again, his thoughts gently turning on her question. Why her? Had it just been a case of his being there at just the right time, or was there something else, something about Sharon that drew him toward her? Her vulnerability? Her helplessness? Or had he recognised in her some way to make amends for the things that he had done?

The sons that he had orphaned.

The wives that he had widowed.

He didn’t know the answer to that, and he didn’t think it wouldn’t serve to dwell upon it.

He drew down on the cigarette again.

“Can I get you a drink? Don’t have any vodka but I think I have some gin, and some tonic, maybe.”

“I don’t drink any more,” he said. “A glass of water is fine.”

She went through into the kitchen. Milton stood alone in the sitting room and examined it more carefully than he had before. He noticed the small details that Sharon had included in an attempt to make the blandly square box more homely: the embroidered cushions on the sofa; the box of second-hand children’s toys pushed against the wall; the Ikea curtains that hid the bars on the windows outside. He went over to the sideboard. Sharon had arranged a collection of framed pictures of her children, the two boys at various stages of their lives. He picked one up and studied it; it was a professional shot, the sort that could be bought cheaply in malls, with Sharon pictured on a chair with the children arranged around her. Milton guessed it was taken four or five years ago. Sharon’s hair was cut in a different shape and her face was absent the perpetual frown of worry that must have sunk across it in the interim. Elijah was a sweet-looking ten year old, chubby, beaming a happy smile and without the wariness in his eyes. His older brother, Jules, looked very much like him. He had an open, honest face. He must have been the same age as Elijah was now. There was nothing to suggest a predisposition towards self-destruction but Milton guessed that he must already have started along the path that would eventually lead him to ruin.

Sharon emerged from the kitchen with two glasses in her hands. “My boys,” she said simply. “I failed with Jules. I’m not going to let the same thing happen to Elijah.”

“You won’t.”

She smiled sadly, resting both glasses on the table. Milton watched as a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek and he went to her, drawing her into his body and holding her there, his right hand reaching around to stroke her hair.

She gently pulled back and looked up into his face. Her eyes were wet and bright. Milton pushed her against the wall and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. She pulled away and Milton took a step back to give her room. “I’m sorry,” he said, but her hands came up, the fingers circling his wrists, and she drew him back towards her until their bodies touched. She moved his hands downwards until they were around her slender waist and angled her head to kiss him, her mouth open hungrily. Milton embraced her passionately, his tongue forcing her teeth apart, her own tongue working shyly at first and then more passionately. Milton pulled her even more tightly into his body, crushing her breasts against his chest. She gasped, disengaging her mouth and pressing her cheek against his, her mouth nuzzling his neck. They stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, Milton feeling her hard breasts against his sternum, his hands sliding down into the small of her back.

She leant back a little so that she could look up into his face. She gently brushed aside the lock of black hair that had fallen across his damp forehead. Her hand slid into his, the fingers interlacing, and then she pulled him after her, leading the way across the sitting room to the door that led to her bedroom.

32

Elijah awoke at eight, just as usual, and got straight out of bed. His body felt sore from exercise but it was a good pain, a steady ache that told him he had worked hard. He thought of his muscles, the little tears and rips that would regenerate and thicken, making him stronger. He thought of Pinky, and the session in the ring. He had dreamt about that in the night, replaying the two rounds over and over again. It was one of those good dreams where it made him feel happy at the end, not the nightmares that he usually had. He thought of the boys who had been watching. “He banged Pinky out,” one of them called, and there had been something different in the way that he looked at him, the way that they all looked at him. He felt a warmth in his chest as he thought about it again.

He took off his shirt, opened his cupboard door and looked at his torso in the full-length mirror. He was lean and strong, the muscles in his stomach starting to develop, his arms thickening, his shoulders growing heavier. His puppy fat was disappearing. He knew from the few pictures he had found in his mother’s room that his father had been a big man, powerfully built, and he had always hoped that he might inherit that from him. He wanted to be like Rutherford. A man that size, who was going to mess around with him?

He found a clean t-shirt and pulled on his jeans. He threw his duvet back across his bed, straightened it out and went into the sitting room. It was empty. That was strange; his mother was normally up well before him, preparing his breakfast before she went off to work.

“Mums,” he called.

There was no reply.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself an orange juice. He went and stood before the door to her bedroom. It was closed.

“Mums,” he said again, “I can’t find my iPod. You awake?”

He heard the sound of hasty movement from inside and, without thinking, reached for the door handle and opened it. His mother was half out of bed, fastening the belt of her dressing gown around her waist. She was not alone. Milton was sitting in her bed, the covers pulled down to reveal his hard, muscular chest.

Elijah felt his stomach drop away. He felt sick.

“Oh no,” he said.

“Elijah,” his mother said helplessly.

“What? What’s going on?”

“Elijah.”

He backed out of the room.

His mother followed him, stammering something about him needing to be calm, about how he shouldn’t lose his temper, how he should listen, but he hardly heard her. She came into the sitting room as he scrabbled on the floor for the trainers he had left there after he came in last night. Milton came out of the bedroom, his trousers halfway undone and hastily doing up the buttons of his shirt.

“Come on, Elijah,” he said. “Let me talk to you.”

“You said you weren’t like the others.”

“I’m not.”

“I thought you wanted to help me?”

“I do.”

“No you don’t. You just want her to think you do so you can get with her. What’s wrong with me? You must think I’m an idiot. I can’t believe I fell for it.”

“You’re not an idiot, and that’s not how it is. I do want to help you. It’s very important to me. What happens between me and your mum doesn’t make any difference to that.”

“You can fool her if you want, but you ain’t fooling me, not any more.”

He stamped his feet into his trainers and laced them hurriedly.

“Elijah…” Sharon said.

“I’ll see you later, mum.”

She called after him as he slammed the door behind him. He stood on the balcony in the fresh morning air. The kids at the end of the balcony sniggered and, as he turned back, he saw why: someone had sprayed graffiti across the front door and the paint, still wet, said SLUT.

Elijah went across to the boys. Elijah knew them by reputation; they were a year or two older than him with a bit of a reputation, occasionally passing through the Estate to sell Bizness’s gear.

“You think that’s funny?” he said.

“Look at the little chi-chi man,” the oldest of the three said. “Hush your gums, younger, you know it’s true.”

“Wouldn’t be so touchy about it if he didn’t, would he? Your mum’s a grimey skank, bruv, you know she is.”

Elijah was blinded by a sudden, unquenchable flash of anger. He flung his arm out in a powerful right cross, catching the boy flush on the chin. He dropped to the concrete, his head bouncing back off the balustrade, and lay still. He turned to face the other two. They gaped and then, as they saw the ire that had distorted Elijah’s face, they both backed away. Elijah’s fist burned from the impact and, as he opened and closed his hand he saw that his knuckles had been painted with the boy’s blood.

The door to the flat opened behind him. He turned back to see Milton emerging, barefoot. “Elijah,” he called out. “Please — let me talk to you.”

He leapt over the boy and made for the stairs, kicking the door open and taking them two at a time. He was crying by the time he reached the bottom; hot, gasping sobs of disappointment and disenchantment and the sure knowledge that any chance he had of striking out on a different path was gone. He could not trust Milton. He had used him and, like a callow little boy, he had given himself away cheaply and unquestioning. He could not trust him and there was no-one else. He had always known he was alone. This had been just another false hope. He would not fall for them so easily again.

He found his phone in his pocket and swiped through his contacts until he found Bizness’s number.

33

Pops drove his car into Dalston and parked next to a Turkish restaurant on Kingsland Road. He killed the engine and sat quietly, watching the pedestrians passing next to him. Bizness had called him thirty minutes earlier and told him to come to his studio. He made no mention of Laura, nor did Pops expect him to. He would feel no guilt for what he had done. The way he would see it, he was entitled to take whatever he wanted. A woman was no different to money, time, or possessions. If Bizness wanted it, then it was his.

Elijah was in the passenger seat. Bizness had told him to collect him and bring him along. Pops tried to engage him in conversation when he picked him up but the youngster did not respond. His face was clouded with anger and he was completely closed off. Something had happened to him, that much was obvious.

“Here we are, younger,” he said to him. “I don’t know what Bizness wants with you, but be careful, alright?”

Elijah grunted, but, other than that, he did not respond.

Pops tried again. “Listen to me, JaJa. You don’t have to do nothing you don’t want to do. Nothing’s changed from before. If you’d gone through with what he wanted, you’d either be dead or in prison now. You hear me?”

Once again, Elijah said nothing. Pops hardly knew the boy, but he had never seen him like this. He looked older, more severe, his lack of emotion even a little frightening. Pops realised with a sudden flash of insight that the boy reminded him of himself, five years earlier. Anger throbbed out of him. He was frightened for him.

Elijah pulled back the handle and pushed the door open. He got out, slammed it behind him and crossed the pavement to the door of the studio.

“Alright, then,” Pops said in his wake. He got out, locked the car and followed.

The studio was on the first floor of the building, above the restaurant. Pops held his thumb against the buzzer and spoke into the intercom. The lock popped open and he went inside. Pops knew the history of the place. Bizness had bought the two flats that had been here before and spent fifty thousand knocking them through into one large space. He followed the dingy flight of steps upwards, frayed squares of carpet on the treads and framed posters of BRAPPPP! hung on the walls on either side of him. They were ordered chronologically, and the pictures nearer the ground floor, before the collective discovered that popularity was inextricably tied to notoriety, even seemed a little naïve. The final poster before the door at the top of the stairs was of Bizness, standing alone, bare chested, holding a semi-automatic MAC-10 pistol in one hand and smoking a joint with the other. Pops remembered the first time he had seen the poster. He had been awed, then, a black man with power who was unafraid of putting a finger up at society’s conventions; now, he found it all predictable and depressing. There was no message there, no purpose. The power was illusory. It was all about the money.

The sound of heavy bass thudded from the room at the stop of the stairs. The interior door was open and Pops pushed it aside. The rooms beyond comprised a small kitchen strewn with takeaway packaging and an area laid out with plush sofas and a low coffee table. At the other side of the building was the studio itself, sealed off behind a glass screen with its recording booth and mixing suite. The rest area was busy with people and the noise was cacophonous; the latest BRAPPPP! record was playing through the studio’s PA, the repetitive drone blending with the shouts and whoops of the people in the room, everyone struggling to make themselves heard. Pops recognised several members of the collective and the hangers-on who trailed them wherever they went. Bizness was sitting with his back against the arm of the sofa, his legs stretched out across it, his feet resting in Laura’s lap. He was shirtless, exposing the litany of tattoos that stretched across his skin. The word GANGSTER had been tattooed across his stomach in gothic cursive, the letters describing a long, lazy arc above his navel. IN GUNS WE TRUST was written, two words apiece, across the backs of his hands.

Laura looked up as Pops entered, her eyes flickering to his face for a moment. There was barely a moment of recognition before her unfocussed gaze washed over him. The muscles in her face were loose, flaccid. He tried to hold her attention but it was a waste of time. She turned her face to the low table in front of her where several lines of cocaine had been arranged across the surface. She ignored them, languidly reaching her fingers for the crack pipe that trailed tendrils of smoke up towards the ceiling. She grasped it and put it to her lips, inhaled and then closed her eyes. Pops’s heart sank. She toked, the smoke uncurling from her nostrils and rolling up past her cheeks, obscuring her blank eyes. She ignored him completely. It was as if he was not there.

Bizness grinned at them both, displaying his gold teeth. He reached over for a remote control and quietened the music so he could more easily be heard. “Look who it is, my two best bredderz. Big Pops and little JaJa. Aight, bruv?”

Pops felt his hands curling into fists. “Bizness,” he said, forcing himself to smile. He could not stop himself from looking over at Laura again, just for an instant, and Bizness noticed. He said nothing — there was no need for it — but his lips curled up in a derisive grin, the light glittering off the gold caps. Everyone in the room knew what had happened, that Bizness had clicked his fingers and taken her from him, doing it without compunction, like it was no big thing. Not even acknowledging it to his face was the biggest dis of all. It said Bizness didn’t care. That Pops’ reaction was irrelevant, and that there was nothing he could do about any of it. Pops felt his anger flare but he forced himself to suppress it. There was no move for him to play. Laura was gone. She was with Bizness now, for however long he wanted her. If he showed his anger there would be hype, and there could only be one outcome after that.

Bizness turned to Elijah. “And my little soldier, how are you doing, younger?”

“I’m good,” Elijah said. He went over to Bizness and held up his closed fist.

Bizness looked around the room, his mouth open in an expression of delighted surprise. “Look at the little hoodrat,” he exclaimed. Elijah ducked his head and shrugged his shoulders. “He got some serious attitude, innit?” Bizness bumped fists with him. “So what happened to you the other night, soldier?”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Elijah said. He angled his face a fraction, enough to turn his gaze onto Pops, and it was clear from his expression that he blamed him for not carrying out his instructions. “The fight — I lost my nerve. Won’t happen again.”

“That right? You still wanna get involved?”

“Yeah. For definite.”

“Because that problem ain’t gone away. We made our point but the little fassy ain’t listening. Put up another message for us last night. You see it?”

Elijah shrugged again. There was a open laptop resting on the table. Bizness stretched across and tabbed through the open windows to YouTube. The video he wanted had already been selected and he dragged the cursor across and set it to play. Pops had seen Wiley T’s uploads before and this met the usual pattern. The boy was rapping on the streets of Camden as a friend filmed him with a handheld camera. The bars he was dropping were all about Bizness and the brawl at the party. Bizness was right: Wiley was not backing down, and, if anything, the incident had made him even more brazen. It was an escalation, a direct and unambiguous dis. He questioned Bizness’s heritage, his legitimacy and the size of his manhood, all in artfully rhymed couplets. He ended by calling him out for a battle, doubting that the invitation would be taken up. Wiley was good, much better than Bizness, and it was that, Pops knew, rather than the content of his bars, that had upset him so badly.

Elijah watched the video, his face darkening. “He’s got some front,” he said when it came to an end, “don’t he?”

“Fucking right he got some front. Everyone knows I’d take him down if we battled, aight, so what’s the point? Nah, bruv. There ain’t nothing else for it — he’s got to get merked. Can I count on you, young ‘un? You ready to stand up?”

He turned to Pops again, his eyes blazing with purpose. “Yeah,” he said. “Man needs to get dooked, innit. Be my pleasure to do it for you.”

Bizness laughed harshly and, following their cue, the others in the room quickly followed suit. “Little man found his balls, eh? Good for you — good for you. You still got the piece?”

“In my bedroom.”

Bizness extracted himself from the sofa, stretching himself out to his full height. He took a joint from the boy next to him and inhaled deeply. He knelt down, taking Elijah by both shoulders, and breathed the smoke into his face. “We’ll make a rude boy out of you, JaJa. A good little soldier.”

34

John Milton sat in the threadbare armchair in the front room of the house, staring at the stains on the wall and thinking. He had left Blissett House soon after Elijah. Sharon had been upset at the confrontation and, apologising as she did so, told him that it was probably better if he left. She said that what had happened had been a good thing, and that she didn’t regret it, but that she had to put her child first. Milton understood. He had not planned for the night to develop as it had, and he had been surprised at his reaction. There was something about her that drew him in, her endearing combination of quiet dignity and vulnerability, perhaps. She was attractive but he wished he had shown more restraint. Elijah had been making progress and now he did not know how much damage had been done.

His mobile was on the table. It started to ring. Milton picked it up and checked the display. He did not recognise the number.

“Yes?” he said.

“Hello?” said the caller.

“Who’s this?”

“You the man? The man in the park?”

“Who’s this?”

“I met you a week ago. You were looking for Elijah.”

“Which one are you?”

“You gave me your number.”

Milton remembered the boy: older than the others, bigger, a strange mixture of tranquillity and threat in his expression. “I remember,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Pops.”

“No — your real name.”

There was a pause as the boy weighed up whether he should say. “Aaron,” he said eventually.

“Alright, then, Aaron. I’m John. How can I help you?”

The boy’s voice was tight, tense. “You were looking out for JaJa, weren’t you? You wanted to help him.”

There was something in the boy’s tone that made him fearful. “What about him?”

“He’s in trouble. He’s in real trouble, man. Serious.” There was a pause. “Shit, I’m in trouble too. Both of us.”

“You better tell me about it. What’s the matter?”

“Just so I know, you ain’t a journalist, are you?”

“No.”

“And you ain’t no police, neither?”

“No.”

“What do you do, then, you so sure you can help?”

“I can’t tell you that. But all you need to know is that I have a particular set of skills, and that if you’re in trouble, then I can help you. Beyond that you’ll have to trust me.” There was a pause on the line and Milton noticed that he was holding his breath. “Are you still there?” he said.

“Yeah,” the boy said. “I’m here.”

“It sounds like we need to talk.”

“Yeah. Can we meet?”

“Of course.”

“Now? I’m in the park, next to the fountains. You around?”

“I can be.”

“I’ll be here for another thirty minutes, then.”

The boy ended the call without saying anything else.

Milton walked the short distance to Victoria Park and made his way to the fountain. It had been another stifling day, and the grass was parched and flattened in squares from where picnic blankets had been stretched across it. The night was darkening, the wide expanses gloomy between the amber cones from the occasional streetlamp. A jumbo jet slid across the gloaming, its lights winking red as it curled away to the west. The big estate buildings on the southern edges of the park hunched over the fringe of trees and railings, twenty storey blocks of concrete, depressingly stolid, oppressive. It was a changing of the guard: the last joggers, cyclists and dog walkers passed around the outer circle as groups of youngsters gathered on the benches beneath the streetlamps to smoke and joke with one another. Milton noticed all of them, a habitual caution so ingrained that he did not even realise it, but he paid them no heed. He followed the outer circle around from the pub and then took the diagonal path that cut straight to the memorial and the glassy squares of water that attended it. A homeless man sat at one of the benches, massaging the ears of the thin greyhound huddling next to him. There was no-one else. Milton walked slowly around the monument, making a show of examining it, before sitting at one of the empty benches to fuss with a lace that did not need tying. The water was still and flat and perfectly reflective, a rind of moon floating in the shallow depth. He set to waiting.

Twenty minutes passed before he looked up to see someone else turn off the outer path and head towards the monument. Despite the late heat, the figure was wearing a bomber jacket over the top of a hoodie, the hood pulled over the head like a cowl. Pristine white trainers almost shone in the gloom.

Milton got up from the bench and idled towards the monument. As the boy got closer he recognised the face beneath the hood. His skin was black and perfectly smooth, his eyes and teeth shining.

“Aight,” the boy said in a low monotone, angling his head in greeting.

“Hello, Aaron.”

“We can head towards the pond, over there. Ain’t no-one there this time of the day.”

They set off side-by-side. Milton studied the boy through the corner of his eye. He was large, not much shorter than Milton but heavier, and he walked with a roll to his step, his head and shoulders slouched forwards. He dressed like all the others: hooded jacket, low-slung jeans with the crotch somewhere between his knees, the brand new trainers, pieces of expensive jewellery. It was the uniform of the gang, topped off by the purple bandana knotted around his throat. He wore it all naturally. He was quiet and predisposed, his eyes on the path. They continued that way for a minute, Milton happy to wait until the boy was ready to speak.

They were approaching the pond when he finally spoke. “JaJa needs help,” he said. “He’s got in with a bad man. I tried to keep him out of it but he ain’t listening to me any more. Ain’t nothing else I can do for him.”

“Is it Bizness?”

“You know him?”

“Elijah spoke to me after he was arrested. I know a little about him. Is he dangerous?”

“What, man, are you fucking high? Is he dangerous? Seriously? Bizness’s a psycho, innit? He was always bad, but since his ego got to be like it is now, he’s turned into a monster.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You said you needed help, too.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Bizness’s the same age as I am. We were at school together. We used to be tight but we ain’t no more and he’s finished with me. I dunno, the last few weeks it’s as if he’s been provoking me, starting hype like he wants to get a reaction. I seen it happen before. He don’t let anyone get too influential, start taking his thunder, see, and then when they do, when he thinks they might be getting to be a threat” — he clicked his fingers — “then he gets rid of them. One way or another.”

“And you’re a threat.”

“Nah, man. I ain’t like that. I want out, but he don’t know that.”

“So tell him.”

He laughed bitterly. “Don’t work that way, man. You get in, you’re all the way in. You ain’t done until he tells you you’re done. And there ain’t no talking with him.”

Milton reflected that he knew what that felt like. He said nothing.

“Look, it ain’t about me, not really. I am getting out, whether he likes it or not. It’s the younger who needs help.”

They reached the pond. A sign describing the nearby flora and fauna had been defaced with graffiti — Milton guessed that the 925 was a rival gang tag — and the bracket that should have held the buoyancy aid had been vandalised, snapped wood showing white through the creosote like splintered bone. Pops sat down on the bench and took a joint from his pocket. “I come down here now and again,” he said, lighting the joint with his lighter. “I know it sounds pathetic, but I used to be in the Scouts, when I was younger. The fucking Scouts. We used to come down here once a year and dredge the whole lot. You wouldn’t believe the things people used to dump — washing machines, shopping trolleys, every thing covered in sludge and weeds. We always joked we’d pull out a dead body one day. What I know now, I’m half surprised we never did. There are guns and shanks in there, I know that for a fact.”

The boy offered the joint to Milton. He shook his head. The boy shrugged and smoked hard on it instead.

“So tell me about Elijah.”

“You know about what happened at the party?”

“He told me.”

“There’s a man Bizness wants to have shot. JaJa mention Wiley?

“A little.”

“Bizness’s got beef with him. Wants him gone. That was what the club was all about. He wants JaJa to do it. He had the gun that night. I thought I’d got through to him. I sent him home when I saw what was happening. I thought he’d listen to me. Something must’ve happened since.” His voice trailed off. Milton said nothing. “So then I got a call from Bizness yesterday to say I had to pick JaJa up and bring him to his studio. I never seen the younger like that before — he was angry, man, he had this proper screwface on like he was ready to fucking explode. Bizness loves that, course, and he asks him whether he’s ready to do what he wants him to do with Wiley.”

A dog walker skirted the far side of the pond. His dog, a pitbull heavy with a fat collar of muscle, chased the ducks into the water.

“And Elijah said he’d do it?”

Pops nodded.

Milton felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

“When?”

“I don’t know the details. Bizness won’t tell me. I’m not that close to him and I don’t think he trusts me no more, anyway.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Can’t think of nothing.” He paused. “Except—”

“Go on.”

The boy clenched his teeth so hard that the strong line of his jaw jutted from his face. “My girl’s got involved with him, too. She’s vulnerable. Got a weakness for drugs and he won’t look out for her like I did. Last time I saw her, she was smoking crack with him. It’ll be skag next. She’ll end up on the streets for him, I seen that before, too. Or she’ll end up raped, or dead.”

Milton sat quietly.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Milton said.

“You said you could help me, man.”

“I will. But you have to work with me.”

“How?”

“First things first: you have to speak to the police.”

Pops kissed his teeth. “Go to the Feds? You know what would happen to me if Bizness found out I’d been grassing? I’d end up in that fucking pond with a bullet between my eyes.” Pops stood abruptly. “If that’s the best you can do, we’re finished. Police aren’t going to do nothing until JaJa’s got blood on his hands and my girl is fucking dead. I’m wasting my time with this bullshit.”

“Grow up, Aaron,” Milton said. His voice was emotionless, iron-hard and utterly authoritative. “Sit down.”

He did as he was told, adding, self-pityingly, “What’s the point?”

“Because I’m going to take him out of the picture,” Milton said. “Tell them what happened at the club. The boy who got beaten, you saw all that.”

Pops looked down at his feet. “Yeah, man, I saw it.”

“That’s good,” Milton said. “They’ll have to take that seriously.”

“What you gonna to do?”

“I’m going to have a word with Bizness.”

He laughed. “A word? No offence, man, but he ain’t gonna listen to you.”

“He’ll listen to me,” Milton said. “You’ll have to trust me about that.”

Milton stood and they started back towards the main road. “This is what we’re going to do — you’re going to go to the police and tell them about what happened at the club. Leave Elijah out of it, but tell them everything else.”

“It won’t do nothing. It’ll my word against theirs.”

“Maybe. But it will be a useful distraction.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll get your friend off balance just as I give him something else to think about. I want him to take me seriously when we speak. I’m going to need some information from you about how his operation is put together — who works for him, how he makes his money, where he keeps it. Can you help me with that?”

“Yeah.”

Milton asked a series of questions and Pops provided awkward, but reasonably comprehensive, answers. Milton memorised the information, filtering it and arranging it as he built a picture of Bizness’s business. The man had numerous interests in the local underworld, his malign influence stretching from drugs to prostitution and robbery. His music was clearly lucrative but it would be as nothing compared to the profit he was turning from his illegal businesses. It was good that he was spread among different businesses, and areas. That would mean that there would be plenty of vulnerable spots that Milton would be able to exploit.

“How does he communicate with everyone?”

Pops looked at him derisively. “How’d you think, man? Smoke signals? Homing pigeons? Facebook, BBM, texts. Pay-As-You-Go phones. Nothing he could ever get nailed with by the Feds if they got hold of it. If he needs to meet to talk business, he’ll get someone else to make the call to set it up and then arrange the meet somewhere, in the open, where it’s impossible for the boydem to bug him. He’s careful, man. Precise. Plans everything like he’s in the military or something. Police think their old ways still work, but people — the real players like him — man, they been around long enough to have seen brothers get nicked all sorts of different ways and they remember all of them. You got to get up early to pull a fast one on him.”

They reached the fringe of trees that provided a canopy of leaves over the path at the outer edge of the park. The pub at the junction was growing busier, with loud customers spilling into a beer garden decorated with fairy lights.

“Alright,” Milton said. “That’s enough for now. Go to the police tomorrow. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Pops said sullenly.

“Don’t let me down. It’s important.”

“Aight,” he conceded. “Tomorrow. When will I know you’ve done something.”

“You’ll know.”

35

Milton took the underground to Oxford Circus and emerged, blinking, into the hard bright light of another stifling summer’s day. The temperature had continued its inexorable uptick into the mid-thirties but now it had become damply humid, a wetness that quickly gathered beneath Milton’s armpits and seeped down the middle of his back. The atmosphere lay heavy over the city, a woozy stupor that could only be alleviated with the inevitable thunderstorm that the forecast was predicting for later.

The Sig Sauer in its chamois holster was a heavy, warm lump beneath Milton’s shoulder. The air in the tube had been cloying and dense and Milton was pleased to have left it behind him. The confluence of Regent Street and Oxford Street was a busy scrum of sluggish tourists and frustrated office workers on their lunch breaks. Traffic jammed at the lights, taxi-drivers leaning on their horns to chivvy along the busses that tarried to embark passengers. Tempers were stretched as tight as piano wire, arguments flaring and confrontations held just beneath the surface.

Milton’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Hello?” he said.

“Is that John?”

“Who’s this?”

“Rutherford. Is everything alright?”

“I’m a little busy.”

“It’s Saturday afternoon, I’ve been expecting your boy to come for training but there ain’t no sign of him. What’s happening?”

“There’s been a setback,” Milton said as he crossed the road at the lights. “I’m taking care of it. I have to go.”

Milton ended the call. He turned in the direction of the tall, crenulated finger of Centre Point. HMV was fifty yards along the road, the sound of heavy bass throbbing from the wide open doorway into the cavernous space beyond. Milton surveyed the interior: racks of music and films; t-shirts; magazines; and, on a stage that had been erected in middle of the shop, a table and a tall stack of CDs. A long queue of youngsters — mostly young boys, but also a handful of girls — snaked back from the table around the aisles and back almost to the entrance. Behind the table sat six members of BRAPPPP! The collection comprised the better known members of the collective: MC Mafia, Merlin, Icarus, Bredren. The female singer, Loletta, sat in the middle, haughty with her strikingly good looks, a highlight for the hormonal teenage boys who waited to be presented to her.

Milton recognised Bizness from the pictures on his Facebook and Twitter profiles. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls singlet, the top revealing an angular torso: long, skinny arms with the sharp points of his elbows and shoulders. His skin was extensively tattooed, and gold teeth glittered on the rare occasion when he disturbed the studied blankness of his expression to smile. He sat at the head of the table, the last member of the collective to receive the fans, like a king or a mafia don accepting the fealty of his subjects. They came to him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, their CDs passed along the table with him finally adding his mark and sending them on their way. He spoke with some, bumped fists with others, but all left elated by their encounter with their hero. Milton could see, quite clearly, the power that the man — and the lifestyle he typified — had on them. He was an aspirational figure, living proof that the success he rapped about was possible to have. Milton did not respect him for this, but he recognised it, and its influence, and filed it away for future reference.

A large display had been erected at the front of the shop, loaded with the collective’s new album and an assortment of other merchandise. Milton took a copy of the record and a t-shirt and joined the end of the queue. It was moving slowly, and Milton guessed it would take half an hour to get to the front. He did not have the patience to wait for that and, taking advantage of the fact that it would have been difficult to imagine anyone less likely to jump the queue, he made his way to the front. “One minute,” he said to the two young boys who were about to go forwards. “I just need a quick word with him. Won’t hold you up long.”

The table was fenced in by crowd control barriers and two large bouncers stood guard at the entrance to the enclosure. They glared at him as he passed between them. Milton passed along the table, ignoring the others and making his way directly to Bizness.

He stopped in front of him. “Good afternoon,” he said.

Bizness bared his teeth in feral grin, the golden caps sparkling. “Look at this,” he laughed, jutting his chin towards Milton. The others laughed, too. “You in the wrong section, man. Old folks’ music is over there.”

“No, it’s you I want to see.”

Bizness threw up his hands and chuckled again. “Fine, bruv, where’s your record, then? Give it here. What you want me to say?”

“I’m not here about your music.”

“Come on, man, enough of this bullshit. If you ain’t got nothing to sign, get the fuck out the way. Lot of brothers and sisters here been queuing hours see us, you gonna end up causing a motherfucking riot you don’t stop slowing the queue down.”

“I need to talk to you. And you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

“The fuck —?”

Milton ignored him. He stared at Bizness, his eyes icy and unblinking, with no life or empathy in them, until the confusion on the younger man’s face faded and a cloud of anger replaced it. “I’m going to ask you nicely for two things,” Milton said. “First, a woman named Laura has been associating with you. You are going to stop seeing her. If she comes to visit you, you are going to send her away.”

“That’s your first thing? Aight, go on, you’re an entertaining fucker. What’s the second thing?”

“I know what you’re planning for a young lad I know. Elijah Warriner. You call him JaJa. That is not going to happen. You are to stop seeing him, too. If I hear that you’ve been seen with him there is going to be trouble. If just one hair on his head is hurt, we’re going to have another conversation. But it won’t be as civil as this one.”

“You hear this motherfucker?” Bizness hooted at the others. They were all watching the exchange. “You asking me nicely, right? You better tell me, old man, just so I know, what you gonna do if I tell you to take your requests and shove them right up your arse? Tell me not-so-nicely? Raise your voice? Get out of here, before you make me lose my temper. I ain’t got time for this.”

The bouncers took a step towards Milton but Bizness stayed them with an impatient wave of his hand.

Milton did not look at them. He did not move away from the table. “You won’t take me seriously now, but I’m going to give you a demonstration tonight of what will happen if you ignore my instructions. Something is going to happen to your interests and I want you to think of me and what I’ve told you when you hear about it. Do you understand?”

Bizness surged up from his chair so quickly that it clattered behind him. “Do I understand?” Any vestige of his previous joviality was banished now, his eyes blazing with anger. “You come in here, with my bredderz around me, and you start making threats? Shit, man, you the dumbest motherfucker I ever met. I’m going to tell you one more time — get the fuck out of this shop before I throw you out my goddamn self. Do you understand?”

Bizness stepped around the table and took a step towards Milton. He did not flinch and, instead, fixed his pitiless stare on Bizness’s face. “I’ve said what I needed to say. I hope you understand. I hope you remember. Do what I’ve told you or the next time won’t be so pleasant.”

Bizness drew his fist back. Milton caught it around his ear before he could throw a punch and dug his thumb and index finger into the pressure point. Bizness yelped at the abrupt stab of white-hot pain and stumbled backwards, bouncing against the trestle table. The pile of posters tipped over, a glossy tide of paper that fanned out across the floor.

“Tonight,” Milton said, smiling down at Bizness, a cold smile that was completely without humour. “Pay attention tonight. I want you to think of me.”

He made his way to the front of the shop.