The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (16 page)

AT THE END of the meeting a group gathered to talk and smoke cigarettes outside. They smiled at Milton as he climbed the steps from the basement. He knew that their smiles were meant as encouragement for him to stop and speak. They meant well, of course they did, but it was pointless; he couldn’t possibly. He smiled back at them but didn’t stop. He had no idea what he would say. Far better to make a quick exit.

“Hey, man—hey, hey, hold up.”

Milton was at the gate, ready to turn onto the street to start the walk home. He paused and turned back. The man who had been serving the coffee, Rutherford, was jogging across in his direction. Milton took a moment to consider him again. He was big, over six foot tall and solid with it, several stones heavier than he was. He loped across the churchyard, moving with an easy spring that suggested plenty of strength in his legs.

“You don’t hang about,” he said as he reached him. “There’s a café down the road. People stop for coffee or a bite to eat, have a chat. You should come.”

Milton smiled. “Not for me. But thanks.”

“You didn’t speak in the meeting. There’s no point just sitting there, man. You got to get stuck in.”

“Listening’s good enough.”

“Not if you want to really make a difference. I had that problem myself, back when I first started coming. Thought it was crazy, no one was gonna want to listen to my shit. But I got over it in the end. Eventually, the way I saw it, coming along and not doing anything was a waste of my time. That’s why I do the coffees—start small, right, and take it from there? You got to get involved.” Rutherford spoke slowly and deliberately, as if measuring each word. The effect was to imbue each with a persuasive weight. He was an impressive man.

“I suppose so.”

“Which way you headed, man? Back to Hackney?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Come on—you don’t mind, we can walk together.”

“You don’t want to go to the café?”

“Nah, won’t make no difference if I miss it tonight. I’m up at six tomorrow; I should probably get an early night.”

Milton would have preferred to walk alone, but there was something infectious in Rutherford’s bearing that stalled his objections, and besides, it didn’t look like he was going to take no for an answer. They set off together, making their way along Holloway Road towards Highbury Corner.

He started speaking. “What’s your story, then?”

Milton took a breath. “The same as most people, I suppose. I was drinking too much, and I needed help to stop. How about you?”

“Same deal, man. I was in the Forces. Fifteen years. Saw some stuff I never want to see again. I only stopped feeling guilty about it when I was drunk.” He turned to look at him. “Don’t mind me being presumptuous, John, but you’re a soldier too, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You know what it’s like—we got that look. Where did you serve? The Sandpit?”

“For a while.”

“Ireland?”

“Yes.”

“I been all over the place too, man. ‘See the world,’ that’s what they told me when they were trying to get me to sign up, like it’s some glamorous holiday. It was fun for a while, but then I saw what it was really all about. By the time I got wise to it, I was a raging drunk.”

“What happened?”

“Look, I ain’t saying I’m not grateful for what the army did for me. When I was a younger man, ten years ago, I got into all sorts of mess that I didn’t want to be getting involved in. Trouble, man, all kinds of trouble. Got myself in with a bad crowd from around here. Ended up doing plenty of things I regret. Drink and drugs—you know what it’s like. I got friends from around that time, plenty of them got banged up, and a couple of them are dead. Could’ve easily been me. The army was a way to get away from all that.” He spoke fluently, settling comfortably into a story that he had clearly told many times before, probably at the meetings. “And it worked, least for a time. Took me away from here, broadened my horizons, gave me structure and discipline in my life. And those things are good things, things I needed. But they come at a price, right? The things I saw while I was out there doing my thing—” He paused. “Well, shit, it got so bad by the end that I could only live with myself with a drink inside me. You know what I mean?”

He was full of heat and passion. Milton said that he understood.

“I don’t take this life lightly, John. The way I see it, the Fellowship has given me a blessing. The gift of knowledge. I can see what’s wrong with how things are. I know the things that work and the things that don’t. Drink and drugs—they don’t. Not many people get given a chance to make a difference, but I did. And, one day at a time, I ain’t going to throw it away.”

They passed into the busy confluence of traffic and pedestrians circulating around the roundabout at Highbury Corner and moved onto Dalston Lane. Youngsters gathered outside the tube, ready to filter towards the pubs and bars of Islington High Street. Touts offered cheap rides, immigrants pushed burgers and hot dogs, drunken lads spilled out of the pub next to the station.

“How?” Milton asked him.

“How what, man?”

“How are you going to make a difference?”

“Boxing. I used to be a tasty heavyweight when I was a lad. I got to be big early, big and strong, and I had a right hand you didn’t want to get hit by. If I’d stayed with it, who knows? I wouldn’t have got into the trouble I did, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t have gotten into the army, and I reckon I was probably good enough to make a decent career out of it. I’m too old and out of shape for that now, but I’ve still got it all up in here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “So I’ve set up a club for youngsters, see? Amateurs, girls and boys, all ages. They ain’t got nothing to do around here, nothing except run with the gangs and get into mischief, and I know better than most where that road leads. You’re a younger born here, you run with one of them gangs, there are two places for you to go: prison or the crematorium. The military is one way out, but I can’t recommend that no more. So I try to give them another way. Something else to do, some structure, some discipline, and you hope that’s enough. It can be the difference. And the way I see it, if I help a handful of them get away from temptation, that’s good enough. That’s my job done.”

“I used to box,” Milton said, smiling for the first time. “A long time ago.”

Rutherford looked him up and down: tall, lean and hard. “You’ve got the look for it,” he said. “Cruiserweight?”

“Maybe these days.” Milton smiled. “Middleweight back then. Where’s the club?”

“Church hall on Grove Road, near the park. Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights and all day Saturdays. Got about twenty regulars now.” His eyes flashed with passion. “Got some kids who are on the fringes of the gangs. Some of them have potential. This one girl, man, you wouldn’t believe how hard she can hit. Like a piledriver, knocked this lad who was giving her lip into the middle of next week. He never gave her lip after that.” He grinned at the memory of it.

They reached Milton’s turning. “This is me,” he said.

Rutherford cocked an eyebrow in surprise. “You living in the Estate?”

“Yes.”

Rutherford sucked his teeth.

“Not good?”

“You’re in the worst bit of Hackney, and Hackney’s different. You talk about Waltham Forest, you talk about Camden, Southwark, Lambeth, all the rest—sure, they got bad people there. Plenty of serious players. But here? Man, Hackney’s different. You understand? The boys here are more serious than anywhere else. Everyone is banging. I mean,
everyone
. You can’t even compare what it’s like here with them other places. You best be careful, you hear? Don’t matter how big you are; they won’t care about that. They got a knife or a shooter and they think you’re worth rolling, I’m telling you, man, it don’t matter how mean you look, they’ll do it.”

“Nice to meet you, Rutherford.”

“You too, John. You take it easy. Maybe I’ll see you at the meeting next week?”

“Maybe.”

“And say something next time, all right? You look like you got plenty on your mind. You’ll be surprised the difference it makes.”

Milton watched as the big man walked away from him. He turned off the main road and headed into the Estate, stopping at the mini-market to buy another bag of ice. He ignored the sullen aggression of the teenagers who were gathered outside the shop, the silence as he passed through them and then the hoots of derision, the calls of “lighty!” and “batty boy” as he set off again. Most of them were young, barely in their teens. Milton didn’t give them a second look.

It was half-ten by the time he returned to the maisonette. He took the carton of orange juice and poured into one of the newly cleaned glasses. He opened the bag of ice and dropped in three chunks, putting the rest in the freezer. He took off his clothes and put his gun and holster under a pillow. He swilled the juice around to cool. He pulled a chair up to the window, then went and sat down, letting the hot air, the compound smell of baked asphalt and fried food, breathe over his body. He sipped the cool drink, feeling the tang against the back of his throat, felt it slide cold down his throat and into his stomach.

He filled up his glass again, this time with more ice, and sat back down. The bedroom overlooked the front of the house. He looked out onto the street and, beyond that, the looming mass of Blissett House. A group of young boys had gathered at the junction of the road, the glowing red tips of their cigarettes and joints flaring as they inhaled.

Milton felt restless. He went over and took his gun from beneath the pillow, slipped out the magazine, and pumped the single round onto the bed. He tested the spring of the magazine and of the breech and drew a quick bead on various objects round the room. His aim was off, just a little, but detectable nonetheless. It was the tiny tremor in his hand. He had noticed it in France, and it seemed to be getting worse. He snapped the magazine back. He pumped a round into the breech and replaced the gun under the pillow.

He watched the kids outside for another five minutes, the sound of their raucous laughter carrying all the way back to the open window. Then, tired, he closed the curtains, finished undressing, and went to bed.

ELIJAH WATCHED the Vietnamese hassling the shoppers as they came out of Tesco. They were in the car park, far enough away from the entrance to go unnoticed by the security guards. They stepped up to the shoppers with their trolleys full of groceries and held open the satchels that they wore around their shoulders. There were four of them, two men and two women, all of them slim and dark-haired. The satchels were full of pirated DVDs. They were given the brush-off most of the time, but occasionally, someone would stop, rifle through the bags, and hand over a ten-pound note in exchange for a couple of them.

“You ready, younger?” said Pops.

“Yeah,” Elijah said. “Ready.”

“Off you go, then.”

He did exactly as Pops had instructed him. One of the Vietnamese women was distracted by Little Mark, who pretended to be interested in her DVDs. She kept her money in a small shoulder bag that she allowed to hang loosely across her arm. Elijah ran up to her, and her attention diverted, he yanked on the bag as hard as he could. Her arm straightened as he tugged the bag down, her fingers catching it. A second, harder tug broke her grip, and he was away. He sprinted back again, the other boys following after him in close formation. The two men started in pursuit, vaulting the wall that separated the car park from the pavement and the bus stop beyond, but it didn’t take long for them to abandon the chase. They were outnumbered and being led into unfriendly territory. They knew that the money wasn’t worth the risk.

The boys ran down Morning Lane, whooping and hollering, eventually taking a sharp left along the cycle path that ran underneath the East London Line. They sprinted up the shallow incline on the other side of the tunnel and slowed to a jog. Once they were in the Estate, they found a low wall and sat down along it.

Pops held up his fist, and Elijah bumped it with his. He beamed with pride. He knew he ought to keep his cool, hide away the excitement and happiness that he felt, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t care how foolish it made him look.

“How much you get?”

Elijah took the notes from his pocket and fanned through them. “Two hundred,” he reported.

“Not bad.” Pops reached across and took the notes. He counted out fifty and gave it back to Elijah. “Go on, younger, put that towards some new Jordans. You done good.”

Little Mark went into the minimart nearby and returned with a large bottle of cider and a bagful of chocolate. The cider was passed around, each boy taking a long swig of it. Elijah joined in when the plastic bottle reached him, the sickly sweet liquid tasting good as he tipped it down his throat.

“What did you get?” Kidz asked.

Little Mark opened the bag and emptied out the contents. He laid the bars out on the wall. “Twix, KitKat, Mars, Yorkie.”

“Too pikey.”

“Maltesers. Milky Way.”

“Too gay.”

“Got them for you, innit? Galaxy, Caramel—that’s it. You want something else, go get it yourself.”

Pops tossed the chocolate around, and they devoured it.

“I gotta jet,” Pops said eventually, folding the wad of notes and sliding them into his pocket. “My woman wants to see me. I’ll see you boys tomorrow, a’ight?”

“Hold up,” Little Mark said. “I’m going your way.”

“Me, too,” Kidz said.

Elijah was left with Pinky. He wanted to go with the others, but Pinky got up and stretched. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk back with you.”

They set off together, making their way through the Estate and cutting across a scrubby patch of grass. Pinky was a little older and a little taller than Elijah. His face was sharply featured, with a hook nose and prominent cheekbones. He was normally boisterous and brash, full of spiteful remarks, yet now he was quiet and brooding. Elijah quickly felt uncomfortable and wondered if there was a way he could disentangle himself without causing offence. They made their way through the Estate to a children’s playground. The surface was soft and springy beneath their trainers, but the equipment had all been vandalised. The swings had been looped over the frames so that they hung high up, uselessly, and the roundabout had been pulled from its fixings. Vials of crack were crushed underfoot, shards that glittered like diamonds amid the dog mess, discarded newspaper and fast-food wrappers.