The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (18 page)

On his return to the house he examined one of his own thick hairs, which still lay undisturbed where he had left it earlier in the evening, stuck between the panel and the jamb of the door to the lounge. Next, he went up to his bedroom and examined the dusting of talcum powder he had spread beneath the wardrobe door. It, too, appeared to be untouched. The routine might have appeared pointless, but it had been driven into him by his training and then ingrained by years of experience. It did not make him feel self-conscious or foolish. It came naturally, an easy habit that he had no interest in quashing, however pointless it might have appeared to someone without the particular experience of his strange profession. He was an assassin, and the observance of small rituals like this one had helped to keep him alive.

He was satisfied that the house had not been disturbed while he was away, and allowing himself to relax, he took off his shirt and stood bare-chested at the open window. He snapped open the jaws of his lighter, put flame to a cigarette, and stared into the hot, humid night. The atmosphere was feverish, as taut as a bowstring. He took a deep lungful of smoke and expelled it between his teeth with a faint hiss. He could hear the sound of children on the street, the buzz of televisions, a siren fading in and out of London’s constant metropolitan hum.

What on earth was he doing here?

Milton blew more smoke into the darkness and tossed the spent dog-end into the garden below.

He undressed and got into bed. The mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable, but he had slept on much worse. He reached one hand up beneath the pillow, his palm resting on the cold steel butt of the Sig Sauer. He calmed his thoughts and went to sleep.

JOHN MILTON had a strict morning regime, and he saw no reason to vary it. He pulled on a vest and a pair of shorts, slipped his feet into his running shoes, and went out for his usual run. It was just after seven, but the sun was already warm. The sky was a perfect blue, deep and dark, and Milton could see that it was going to be another blazing day.

His head had been a little foggy, but the exercise quickly woke him. He ran through the Estate and into Victoria Park, following the same route that he had taken before. The park was quiet now, and the undercurrent of incipient violence was missing. The baleful groups of boys had been replaced by people walking their dogs, and joggers and cyclists passing through the park on their way to work. Milton did two laps around the perimeter, settling into his usual loping stride, and by the time he peeled back onto the road and headed back towards the house, he was damp with sweat.

He followed a different route back through the Estate and came across an old chapel that had evidently found itself an alternative use. A sign above advertised it as Dalston Boxing Club, and posters encouraged local youngsters to join.

He ran back to the house, stripped off his sodden clothes, tentatively stepped into the grimy bath tub, and turned the taps until enough warm water dribbled out of the shower head to make for a serviceable shower. He let the water strike his broad shoulders and run down his back and chest, soothing the aches and pains that were always worse in the morning. He closed his eyes and focussed his attention on the tender spots on his body: the dull throb in his clavicle from a bullet’s entry wound five years ago, the ache in the leg he had broken, the shooting pain in his shoulder from an assassin’s knife. He was not as supple as he had once been, he thought ruefully. There were the undeniable signs of growing old. The toll exacted by his profession was visible, too, in the latticework of scar tissue that had been carved across his skin. The most recent damage had been caused by a kitchen knife that had scraped its point across his right bicep. It had been wielded by a bomb-maker in Helmand, a tailor who assembled suicide vests in a room at the back of his shop.

He stood beneath the water and composed his thoughts, spending ten minutes examining the details of the situation in which he had placed himself. He considered all the various circumstances that he would have to marshal in order to help Sharon and her son.

He dressed in casual clothes, left the house, and made his way back to the boxing club. The door was open, and the repeated, weighty impacts of someone working on a heavy bag were audible from inside. He went inside. The chapel’s pews had been removed, and the interior was dominated by two empty boxing rings that were crammed up against each other, barely fitting in the space. They were old and tatty, the ropes sagging and the canvas torn and stained. Several heavy bags and speed bags had been suspended from the lower ceiling at the edge of the room. A large black man was facing away from him and hadn’t noticed his arrival. Milton watched quietly as the man delivered powerful hooks into the sand-filled canvas bag, propelling it left and right and rattling the chain from which it had been hung. The muscles of his shoulders and back bulged from beneath the sweat-drenched fabric of a plain T-shirt, his black skin glistening, contrasting with the icy white cotton.

Milton waited for him to pause and took the opportunity to clear his throat. “Rutherford?”

He turned, and his face broke into a wide, expressive smile. “Hey! It’s the quiet man.”

“How are you?”

“Very good. It’s John, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. Sorry to disturb you. Could I have a word?”

Rutherford nodded. He reached down for a towel and a plastic water bottle and went over to a pew that had been pushed against the wall at the side of the room. He scrubbed his face with the towel and then drank deeply from the bottle.

“This is impressive,” Milton said.

“Thanks. It’s hard work, but we’re doing good. Been here a year this weekend. Don’t know how much longer we’ll be around, though. Ain’t got much more money. The council do us a decent price on the rent, but they’re not giving it away, and I can’t charge the kids much more than I’m charging at the moment. Something has to happen, or we won’t be here next time this year.”

“Can anyone join?”

“If they’re prepared to behave and work hard. You got someone in mind?”

“I might have.”

The man took another swig from his bottle. “Who is it?”

“He’s the son of a friend. He’s going off the rails a little. He needs some discipline.”

“He wouldn’t be the first boy like that I’ve had through those doors. We’ve got plenty of youngers who used to run in the gangs.” The man spoke simply and inexpressively, but his words were freighted with quiet dignity and an unmistakeable authenticity. Milton couldn’t help but be impressed by him. “Which gang is it?”

“I’m not sure. I met some of them in the park last night.”

“That’ll be the LFB, then. London Fields Boys.”

“What are they like?”

“Been around for a long time—they were running around these ends before I went away, so plenty of years now. I remember we had a beef with them on more than one occasion—big fight in the park this one time, we uprooted all these fence posts and chased ’em off. The members change all the time, but they’ve always had a bad reputation. How deep’s your boy involved?”

“Not very, I think. He’s young.”

“If you’ve caught him early, we’ll have a better chance of straightening him out.”

“So you take new members?”

“Always looking for them. Bring your lad along. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Going to the meeting on Tuesday night?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Might see you then.”

Milton made his way back to the main road.

He went into the café and took a seat.

“Scrambled eggs with cream, two rashers of bacon, and a glass of orange juice,” he said when the girl came to take his order. He was hungry.

He checked his watch. It was a little after eight. The food arrived, and he set about it. When he was finished, it was a quarter past. He opened the newspaper on the table and read it. There was a short story about the killings in France, but no new details. He skipped ahead, turning the pages and reading until half past eight, and then nine. There was no sign of Elijah. Fair enough, he thought, as he went to settle his bill. He hadn’t expected it to be easy. Getting through to the boy was going to take some time.

LITTLE MARK, Kidz and Elijah had met for lunch at the fast-food place nearest to the gates of the school. Elijah had hurried out from double science when he received the text from Pops earlier that morning. He was wearing the white shirt, green blazer and black trousers that made up his uniform, and he felt stupid as he jogged the last few yards down the road to the arcade. Little Mark was wearing his usual low-slung jeans and windcheater, and Kidz was wearing cargo pants and a hoodie.

“You look nice.” They laughed at him as he drew alongside.

“I know,” Elijah said ruefully. “I look stupid.”

“You still going to school?”

“Yeah,” Elijah said. “So?”

“Not saying nothing,” Kidz said, stifling a laugh.

“I don’t go all the time,” he lied.

“What you doing out here anyway? Thought you’d be in the canteen with all the other little squares?”

“Got a text from Pops. He told me to be here.”

Other kids from school started to arrive. The canteen was only ever half full; everyone preferred to come down here for fried chicken and pizza.

“Had an argument with my mums this morning,” Little Mark said.

“Let me guess—you ate everything in the house?”

Little Mark grinned. “Nah, bro, I slept right through my alarm.”

“Probably ate that, too.”

“I’m in bed, right, and it’s eight or something, and my mums is shouting at me to get up, says I’m gonna miss school, and this is the first time I realise, right, she still thinks I
go
to school. I ain’t been for six months.”

“Shows how much she pays attention to you, bro. That’s child abuse, innit? That’s neglect. You ought give that Childline a call.”

The happy laughter paused as they heard the rumbling
thump thump thump
of the bass. It was audible long before they even saw the car, but then the black BMW turned the corner, rolled up to the side of the road, and parked.

“Shit, bruv,” Little Mark said. “You know who that is?”

“What’s he doing here?” Kidz said, unable to hide the quiver of nervousness in his voice.

“Who?” Elijah asked.

“You don’t know shit,” Kidz said sarcastically. “That’s Bizness’s car. You never seen him before?”

Elijah did not answer. He hadn’t, but he didn’t want to admit that in front of the others. He had the new BRAPPPPP! record, and their poster was on the wall of his bedroom, but that all seemed childish now.

The BMW kept its engine running. It was fitted with a powerful sound system, and heavy bass throbbed from the bass bins that had been installed where the boot had been. Elijah looked at the car with wide eyes. He knew it would have cost fifty or sixty thousand, and that was without the cost of the custom paint job, the wheel trims, the sound system and all the other accessories.

The front door of the BMW opened, and a man slid out from the driver’s seat. Elijah recognised him immediately. Risky Bizness was tall and slender, a good deal over six feet, his already impressive height accentuated by an unruly afro that added another three or four inches. His face was striking rather than handsome: his nose was crooked, his forehead a little too large, his skin marked with acne scars. His eyebrows, straight and manicured, sat above cold and impenetrable black eyes. He was wearing a thin designer windcheater, black fingerless gloves, and his white Nike hi-tops were pristine. He wore two chunky gold rings on his fingers, diamond earrings through the lobes of both ears, and a heavy gold chain swung low around his neck.

“A’ight, youngers,” he said.

“A’ight, Bizness?” Kidz said.

“Which one of you is JaJa?”

Elijah felt his stomach flip. “I am.”

Bizness smiled at him, baring three gold teeth. “Don’t worry, younger. I ain’t gonna bite. I got something I want you to do for me. Get in the car. Won’t take a minute.”

Kidz and Little Mark gawped at that, but Elijah did as he was told. The interior of the car was finished in leather, and the bass was so loud it throbbed through his kidneys. Bizness got into the car next to him and closed the door. He leant forwards and counterclockwised the volume so he could speak more easily.

“One of my boys has clocked you, younger. Says you got a lot of fight in you. That right?”

“I don’t know,” he said, trying to stop his voice from trembling.

“He says you do. You hang with Pops’s little crew, right?”

“Yeah,” Elijah said, tripping over the word a little.

“Don’t be so nervous—there ain’t no need to be scared of me.”

“I ain’t scared.”

“That’s good.” Bizness grinned, gold teeth glinting in his mouth. “Good to see a younger with a bit about himself. Says to me that that younger could make something of himself, get a bit of a reputation. Reminds me what I used to be like when I was green, like you, before all this.” He brushed his fingers down his clothes and then extended them to encompass the car. “Get me?”

“Yes.”

“So a friend of a friend says to me he’s heard of a younger who’s just starting running with Pops’s crew, that he’s got some backbone. Sound like anyone you know?”

“I guess.”

Bizness snorted. “You guess.” He looked him up and down. “You’re big for your age.”

“Big enough,” he said defensively.

“That’s right, bruv. Big enough. I like it. It ain’t the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog, that right? You got some balls, younger. I like that. How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen. Just getting started in the world. Getting a name for yourself. Getting some
respect
. That’s what you want, right?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Yeah. You’re at what I’d call a crossroads, right—it’s like
Star Wars
. You watched that, right, that last film?”

“Course,” he replied indignantly.

“And it’s shit, right, for the most part, except there’s that one bit that makes sense, you know where Anakin has that choice where he can either go the good way or the bad way? The light or the dark? He thinks like he’s got a choice, but he ain’t got no choice at all, not really. It’s an illusion. The dark side has him by the balls, and it ain’t never going to let him go. Destiny, all that shit, you know what I mean? That’s where you are, blood. Your teachers, the police, the Social, your mums—they’ll all say you got a choice, you can choose to try hard at school, get your exams, get a job, except that’s all bullshit. Bullshit. Brothers like us, we ain’t never going to get given nothing in this world. Trouble is, a black man loves his new trainers too much. Right? And if we want to get the stuff we like, we gonna have to take it. Right?”