The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (24 page)

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?”

“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.”

“All right 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.”

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 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 mouthguard 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.”

MILTON OFFERED to buy Elijah dinner wherever he liked. The boy chose the Nando’s on 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 puffa jacket, and pushed a plate across the table.

“What is it?” Milton asked.

“You never eaten in Nando’s 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 asked 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, all right?”

They ate quietly for a moment. Elijah concentrated on his chicken, dipping it into the sauce, nibbling right up to the bone. He 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.

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 didn’t 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, 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.

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.