The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (19 page)

“Yeah.” Elijah laughed nervously. Bizness was charismatic and funny, but there was a tightness about him that made it impossible to relax. Elijah got the impression that everything would be fine as long as he agreed with him. He was sure that arguing would be a bad idea.

“So we agree that getting busy on the street is the only way for you to get along in this world. It ain’t easy, though, not on your own. Lots of brothers all got the same idea. You want to be successful, you want the kids you hang around with to take you seriously, you need to build up your rep. I can help you with that. You start hanging out with me, your little friends all find out you’re in my crew, how quickly do you think that’s going to happen?”

Elijah could hardly keep the smile from his face. “Quick.”

“No, not quick, blood—instantaneously.” Bizness clicked his fingers. “Just like that. So when I heard there was this new younger on the street, already making a name for himself, getting some respect, I say to myself, that’s the kind of little brother I used to be like, maybe there’s something I can do to help get him started in life. I’ll do it for you, I guarantee it, but first I need you to prove to me that you’re up to it.”

“I’m up to it,” Elijah insisted. “What is it? What do I have to do?”

“Nothing too bad, I just got something I need taking care of for a little while. You reckon that’s the sort of thing you could do for me?”

“Course,” Elijah said.

Bizness took a Tesco carrier bag and dropped it into Elijah’s lap. It was heavy, solid. It felt metallic.

“Take this home and keep it safe. Somewhere your mums won’t find it. You got a place like that?”

Elijah thought of his comic box. “Yeah,” he said, “she don’t never come into my room anyway. I can keep it safe.”

“Nice.”

“What is it?”

Bizness grinned at him. “You know already, right?”

“No,” he said, although he thought that perhaps he did.

“There’s no point me telling you not to look. I know you will as soon as I’m gone. Go on, then—open it.”

Elijah opened the mouth of the bag and took out the newspaper package inside. He unfolded it carefully, gently, as if afraid that a clumsy move might cause an explosion. The gun sat in the middle of the splayed newspaper, nestling amongst the newsprint like a fat, malignant tumour. He tentatively stretched out his fingers and traced them down the barrel, the trigger guard, and then down the butt with its stippled grip. His only knowledge of guns was from his PlayStation, and this looked nothing like the sleek modern weapons you got to use in
Special Ops
. This looked older, like it might be some sort of antique, something from that
Call of Duty
where you were in the war against the Nazis. The barrel was long and thin, with a raised sight at the end. The middle part was round and bulbous, and when Elijah pushed against it, he found that it was hinged and snapped down to reveal six chambers honeycombed inside. A handful of loose bullets gathered in the creases of the newspaper.

“What is it, an antique or something?”

“Don’t matter how old it is, bruv. A gun’s a gun at the end of the day. You get shot, you still gonna die. Go on, it’s not loaded—cock it. You know how to do that?”

The hammer was stiff, and he had to pull hard with both thumbs to bring it back. He pulled the trigger. The hammer struck down with a solid click, and the barrel rotated. The gun suddenly seemed more than just an abstract idea, it seemed real and dangerous, and Elijah was frightened.

“You keep that safe for me, bruv, and be ready—when I call you, you better be there, no hanging around, thirty minutes tops. Alright?”

“Alright,” he said.

“A’ight. I was right about you—someone I can rely on. Yeah. A’ight, out you get, younger. I got to get out of here. Supposed to be seeing my manager, you know what I mean? New record out tomorrow.”

He held out his closed fist for Elijah to bump. Elijah did, everything suddenly seeming surreal. He stepped outside, holding the carrier bag tightly; it was heavy, and the solid weight within bumped up against his thigh. The bass in the BMW cranked back up, and the engine revved loudly.

Kidz and Little Mark were sitting on a wall, waiting for him. They both wore envious expressions, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“What did he want?” Kidz said.

Bizness sounded the horn twice, let off the handbrake, and fishtailed away from the kerb, wheelspinning until the rubber bit on the tarmac.

“Just a chat,” Elijah said.

“What’s that?” Little Mark said, pointing at the bag.

He clasped the bag tightly. “Nothing.”

MILTON WAS IN THE CAFÉ AGAIN at nine o’clock. The proprietor recognised him. “Scrambled eggs with cream, two rashers of bacon and a glass of orange juice?”

Milton nodded with a smile and took the same table as before. He unfolded his copy of the
Times
and turned the pages as he waited. He turned the page to an article on a shooting in Brixton. A young boy, reported to be sixteen years old, had been shot and killed by another boy. He had passed through the territory of a rival gang to see a girl. The story was backed with a comment, the reporter recounting the deaths in what they were calling the Postcode War. Thirty young boys, almost all of them black, killed this year, and it was only halfway through August. Most of them shot or stabbed, one bludgeoned to death with a pipe.

The proprietor brought over his breakfast. “Terrible,” he said, nodding at the open newspaper. He was a Greek, his face grizzled with heavy stubble. He had sad eyes. “When I was growing up, you had an argument with someone you knew and the worse thing that’d happen is you end up having a punch-up, get a black eye or a bloody nose. These days, with them all tooled up like they are, all those guns and knives, you’re lucky if you just end up in hospital. And the only thing most of the victims had done wrong was going out of one area and into another.”

“How many of them were from around here?”

“Three. One of them was just down the road. They shot him. Tried to get into the hardware shop, but they finished him off before he could.”

“The police?”

He laughed bitterly. “They ain’t got a clue half the time.” He sneered at the thought of it. “Don’t get me started on them; your breakfast will be cold by the time I’ve finished. You enjoy it, all right? There’s more tea if you want it.”

Milton saw Elijah Warriner standing in the doorway. He was unmistakeably nervous, and Milton thought he might be about to turn and leave. He smiled and waved at the boy, gesturing that he should come inside. Elijah took a look up and down the street and, satisfied, came inside. He was wearing brand-new trainers. Despite the heat he was wearing a bright orange puffa jacket that was obviously expensive. He had a Dallas Cowboys shirt beneath the jacket, and beneath that, Milton could see a thick gold chain.

“Sit down,” Milton told him, and after another reluctant pause, he did. “I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah,” Elijah grunted.

“What do you fancy?”

The boy said nothing. His eyes darted around the café. A diamond stud shone against the dark skin of his ear. The jewellery looked obscene on such a young child. Milton noticed that he had chosen a chair that faced away from the window. He did not want to be seen.

“Breakfast?”

“Ain’t hungry.”

“Well, I am. I’ll get some extra chips in case you change your mind.”

Elijah slouched back in the chair, trying hard to appear nonchalant. Milton loaded his fork with eggs and put it into his mouth, watching the boy. He made sure he appeared relaxed and said nothing, leaving it for Elijah to speak first. The boy turned the newspaper around and read the short article on the murdered boy. He finished it and shook his head derisively. “Them boys in Brixton ain’t shit. They come up these ends and we’d send ’em back to their mammas.”

“What’s your gang?”

“LFB,” Elijah replied proudly.

“London Fields Boys?”

“S’right.”

“I’ve seen the graffiti on the walls.”

“Yeah, all this round here, this is our ends.”

“Don’t think I’ve seen you in the papers.”

“We are—I mean, we have been.”

“Perhaps you’re not bad enough.”

“What you mean?”

“You need a reputation, don’t you?”

“We’re plenty bad enough.”

“But it looks like you have to kill someone to get into the papers.”

“You don’t think we’ve merked anyone?”

“I don’t know. Some of the boys you’ve been hanging out with—maybe they have. But I know you haven’t.”

“Fuck you know?”

Milton put his knife and fork down and carefully wiped his mouth. He pressed his finger against the photograph of the dead boy. “Do you really think you could do that? You think you could go up to another boy, take out a gun, and pull the trigger?”

Elijah tried to hold his gaze but could not. He looked down at the table.

Milton shook his head. “You don’t have it in you. You don’t have it in you for your own conscience to haunt you for the rest of your whole life, telling you you’ve robbed a wife of her husband, children of their father, brothers, friends, everyone. Look at me—I know if a man has it in him. Do you have it in you?”

Elijah stood up. “I didn’t come here to get lectured.”

“I’m trying to put things into perspective.”

“Don’t need that,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with the back of his hand.

“It’s not a bad thing. Why would anyone choose to be like that?”

“You ain’t got any idea what you’re on about.”

“Sit down, Elijah.”

His words had no effect. “‘Sit down, Elijah?’ Who’d you think you are? You don’t know shit about me. You don’t know shit about anything—about these ends, what it’s like to be here, what we do. You obviously think you do, but you don’t.”

“I’m sorry. Sit down. Let’s talk.”

He was angry now, and Milton could see he wouldn’t be able to calm him down. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here to see you. You can’t help me. You got no idea. I must have been out of my mind.”

He turned and left, the door clattering behind him. Milton rose and followed him into the street. Elijah was heading back towards the Estate, his hood pulled up and his shoulders hunched forwards. Milton was about to set off after him before he thought better of it. He went back inside and sat down again before what was left of his breakfast. He cursed himself. What had he been thinking? He had let his temper get the better of him, and now he had lost his opportunity to get through to the boy. He was stubborn and headstrong, and the direct approach was not going to be successful. He would have to try another way.

POPS AND LAURA had gone to the Nandos on Bethnal Green Road for dinner and then had taken the bus down towards the cinema in Shoreditch. It had been a good evening. Pops was off the Estate, and there was no need for him to impress anyone, or uphold his rep, or put anyone else down. He had an act, and he played it well: hard, impassive, sarcastic. To reveal otherwise would be dangerous, a sign of weakness. He remembered, with vivid clarity, the documentaries his biology teacher had shown them in middle school when she wanted to go off and smoke a fag in the playground. There had been one about the lions in Africa, the Serengeti or whatever the fuck place it was, and it had stuck in his head ever since. Leadership was all about image. The top lion needed to show the others in the pride that he wasn’t to be messed with. If he showed weakness, they’d be on him. They’d fuck him up. Pops knew that there were other Elders in the LFB who would fuck him up, too, if he gave them reason.

It was different with Laura. He could relax and be himself. It was always like that with her. She loved her crack, but Pops knew she was into him for much more than just getting lickey. She was older than him, ten years older, and she had that sense of confidence that older women had. She wasn’t like the skanky goonettes on the Estate, always mouthing off, screeching and pouting and giving attitude. They were just girls where Laura was a woman. She was cool. And, man, was she fine.

The film had been running for thirty minutes when the call came. Pops felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, and he took it out to check the caller ID: it was Bizness. His stomach plummeted, and his chest felt tight. He did not want to answer it, but he knew that there was no choice, not where Bizness was concerned. He had stabbed a boy before who had ignored his calls. He said it was a mark of disrespect. Respect was the most important thing in Bizness’s life, or at least that was what he said.

He took the call, pressing the phone against his ear. “Bizness,” he said quietly.

He could hear the sound of loud music in the background. “Where are you, man?”

“Watching a movie.”

“Nah, bruv, don’t be chatting breeze—what, you forgot the party tonight?”

Pops gritted his teeth. He hadn’t forgotten, far from it. He knew about the new record, and the party to celebrate its launch, and he had decided to ignore it. He had been to the party that launched the collective’s first record, eighteen months ago, and he had not enjoyed himself. The atmosphere was aggressive, feral, and there had been several beefs that had the potential to turn even more unpleasant than they already were. The relationships within the group were built on uncertain foundations. All the talk of being brothers was fine, but talk was just talk, and there was a swirl of jealousy beneath the surface that was always ready to erupt. Pops knew all of the crew, some better than others, and juggling loyalties between them was more effort than it was worth.

Bizness was currently at the top of the tree, and it had been that way for the last six months. He had replaced Lambie once he had been done for possession of a firearm and sent down for four years. There were always pretenders to his crown, and his treatment of them was always the same: constant dissing that turned violent when the dissing didn’t work. Beatings, then stabbings if the beatings didn’t work, and at least two shootings that he knew about. One of those shootings he knew about from close personal experience, close enough for the poor bastard’s blood to land all over his jacket.