Twelve Days

by Mark Dawson

  The crowd eddied around the four young men, and Milton saw yet more of them. A clutch of them, maybe in their late teens, boisterous and agitated. They wore hooded tops, the hoods up, and bounced with pent-up energy. Milton noticed one thing that they all had in common: the four young men and the teenagers were all wearing purple bandanas, some knotted around their throats, others on their heads. He remembered: it was the uniform of the London Fields Boys.

  He knew: it was about to go down.

  Shit.

  Milton looked back to Pinky and his crew. Kidz and Little Mark were moving away, and the younger boys were going with them. They were coming around the ring, violence in their eyes. It was hard to get an accurate count as they blended through the crowd, but Milton guessed there were ten of them, maybe more. Most of them looked no older than fifteen, but they all looked hardened.

  Milton glanced back to the ring. Elijah had finished his workout. He went to the turnbuckle and climbed up to the second rope, his gloved fist held aloft. The spotlight settled on him, cast him in silhouette, and the crowd roared. He responded by raising both fists above his head.

  That was when they made their move.

  They rushed towards the ring, shouting and screaming, pushing down the people who were in their way. There were security guards on the doors and a couple in the narrow margin between the ring and the crowd, but they were unprepared and they didn’t move.

  Milton moved, crossing the space, as one of the boys clambered over the security barrier and wriggled beneath the rope and into the ring.

  Milton surged ahead.

  The boy in the ring got to his feet and took a swing at Elijah. Milton was intent on moving through the crowd and only just caught what happened; there was a blur of green as Elijah cracked a right hook into the side of the boy’s head. The boy went down, bouncing off the canvas, but two more were struggling over the barrier, ready to take his place.

  “That’s enough,” the promoter called over the PA, his voice tight with anxiety. “Please—get away from the ring.”

  Milton was aware of phones being held up, pointing at the ring, but he ignored them. He came face-to-face with a lad of around sixteen. Milton grabbed him around the shoulders and hauled him back. The boy broke away, stumbled, collected his balance, and drew back his fist to throw a punch, but Milton was too quick. He ducked down, sweeping the lad’s legs from underneath him. The boy slammed to the wooden floor, gasping as the wind was knocked out of him.

  Milton stepped over him and kept moving, spotted another teen with a purple bandana, a security guard holding another one back. A third was trying to get over the barrier, shouting in the face of the guard who was restraining him.

  A cacophony of noise.

  Bedlam.

  And Milton was right in the middle of it.

  The crowd contracted, bodies shoved up together, elbows thrown out, punches fired left and right, the little knot of violence spreading through the crowd like waves from a rock dropped into a pool. Milton heard screams and shouts, someone on the floor, a stomp and a kick, more punches, a young man caught in a headlock by a skin-headed guard in a bomber jacket. Milton looked up into the ring and saw Elijah backing away, looking out across the crowd, his eyes wide.

  Someone grabbed Milton by the shoulders. It was a hard grip, fingers knotting into the fabric of his jacket, trying to yank him to the side. Milton pivoted, broke the grip, ducked under his assailant’s arms, and jammed an elbow into the man’s face. It was an older man, not wearing purple. The violence had started to metastasize, infecting the others in the crowd. Milton moved quickly to the side, creating space for himself. There seemed to be more and more of the purple bandanas getting closer to the ring; the promoter yelled out for calm, said the police had been called. He looked ridiculous in his Santa’s hat and beard.

  Milton remembered the riots from three years earlier, the backdrop for his reckoning with Bizness. He recalled how quickly things had escalated then. Without warning, he found himself in front of a man he recognised: Little Mark. The big guy hadn’t seen him. He was looking over Milton’s head towards the developing melee and smirking.

  “Hey,” Milton said.

  Little Mark looked down, his confusion morphing into recognition and then anger.

  All too late.

  Milton shot out a foot, a sideways kick that terminated in the side of the bigger man’s patella. He felt the crunch through the sole of his boot, felt the give as the tendons ripped, and then the bigger man was suddenly on the floor at his feet.

  Milton didn’t get the chance to admire his handiwork, carried forward by a rush of the crowd.

  27

  P inky loved it. The disturbance quickly spread as members of other local gangs—the Bethnal Green Massive, the Brick Lane Massive, the E3 Bloods, the Whiston Road Boys and all the others—realised from the purple bandanas that the LFB was in the house and on the attack. Scuffles broke out all the way across the room and quickly overwhelmed the security. The police were on their way, but by the time they arrived, the gangs would have caused all the chaos that he could have wanted. It wouldn’t matter then.

  He turned to see a young black kid whom he recognised as a member of the Stepney Posse, one of the young bloods who had come over the border into the park a week ago. There had been a scuffle, and Pinky remembered the younger’s attitude, bigging up for his mates, making threats and promises when they had seen the police driving across the grass and knowing that nothing could have happened. Little pussy . The kid hadn’t seen him and, as he took a quarter turn in Pinky’s direction, Pinky nailed him with a straight right jab. The boy’s nose exploded in a splash of blood and he stumbled back. Pinky felt the buzz in his veins and shook out his knuckles, followed after him and doubled him up with a knee to the groin. He raised his elbow and crashed it down onto the back of the boy’s head, collapsing him onto the floor.

  Fuckin’ A.

  He looked up, over the roiling crowd, and gazed over to the ring. The spotlight shining down from the balcony was still on, and, as Pinky watched, JaJa passed through it. One of the LFB crew—a younger called Bars—had made it into the ring with him and the two of them squared up. JaJa disposed of Bars with brutal efficiency, two hooks into his kidneys and then, his guard demolished, a stinging jab that knocked him down. Pinky almost admired him. He had watched his workout with jealousy; he had to admit that the little pussy had something. His hands moved in blurs and his footwork was fast, but that meant nothing, not really, not in real life. JaJa was a boxer, and the flashy entrance and the confident display wouldn’t mean a thing back on the street.

  Pinky didn’t want to confront him today. That wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t his element; there were others here—witnesses—and security who would get in the way. Things would be different later, when they were back on familiar territory. They’d be alone then, and Pinky would show everyone what happened to those who grassed him up to the police, to those who dissed him, to those who even looked at him the wrong way.

  Pinky’s attention was drawn to Little Mark. The big man was scything his way through the crowd towards the ring, shouldering people out of the way. Pinky saw him stop suddenly, and then watched as a man who was turned away from Pinky kicked down at Little Mark’s legs. He dropped to the floor, hidden from Pinky’s view by the crowd. The man who had felled him turned around, and Pinky, with open mouth, realised that he had seen him before.

  It was the old white guy who had murdered Bizness.

  Pinky froze. He was on the other side of the room, separated from him by fifty onlookers, but he still felt a shiver pass up and down his spine. Pinky had never forgotten that night—what he had seen that man do in Bizness’s studio, and the way that the man’s cold eyes had held him after he’d realised that Pinky had been hiding there.

  He heard a commotion from the entrance and turned to see four big policemen bundle their way inside. He looked back at the ring: JaJa was stepping through the ropes and making his way
back to the rear of the room from where the fighters had emerged. The white guy was on the move, too, pushing through the ruckus and following.

  Pinky backed away.

  Time to jet.

  28

  S ome onlookers were trying to move out of the way of the danger, while others were desperate to get a closer look. Milton found himself being swept towards the front, where the younger gang members were still fighting, but now in smaller factions. More security had arrived, and he heard the yells of the police officers, who were rushing in from the other side of the room.

  Milton reached the security barrier and saw Elijah being shepherded backstage. He vaulted the barrier and rushed after him. He didn’t look like the others and he was wearing a press pass; none of the security tried to stop him as he jogged out of the room and into the backstage area.

  Elijah was with his trainer.

  “Elijah,” Milton shouted, then tried to get closer. His path was blocked by a burly security guard.

  He held up the pass and the man stepped aside. He managed to get closer and called out again.

  Elijah turned, a frown on his face.

  Milton was out of breath. “You all right?”

  People moved aside and Elijah stepped closer. His expression changed again: the frown became wide-eyed recognition and then a scowl of sudden anger.

  “Elijah—it’s me. John. Do you remember me?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Elijah replied, his face inscrutable.

  The punch landed with such velocity that Milton was on the floor almost before he had realised what had happened. He fell down onto his side, pain blasting out of his jaw. He tried to raise himself up, bracing his weight on his forearm, and looked around groggily. Elijah was being ushered out of the way, but he turned and trotted backwards so that he could look at what he had done.

  The young man’s eyes blazed with anger.

  29

  M ilton found an emergency exit at the back of the building, barged the kick plate and stumbled outside. He spat bloody saliva out onto the pavement and groaned at his own naïveté. What did he expect? Elijah had found Rutherford’s body and Milton had disappeared. The police had been looking for him; the media had been running appeals for information as to his whereabouts as he had arrived in Manchester, ready to leave the country. What must Elijah have thought? Milton had blown through his life like a hurricane, leaving his mother scarred, his home burned to the ground, and a man who cared about him dead.

  Milton wondered: had Sharon even told Elijah that he was back?

  He should have guessed that Elijah would not react well. He had told Sharon more about his history when he had first inserted himself into their lives, and she had been prepared to listen to what he had to say yesterday when they had met. Elijah was young and had been suspicious of Milton right from the start. It had taken effort and tact that Milton hadn’t known he possessed to persuade the boy that he could be trusted. It appeared that he would need further convincing, if, indeed, that was even possible at all.

  “Fuck it,” he said through gritted teeth. Pain throbbed from his jaw. He didn’t think it was broken; the wraps on Elijah’s hands had cushioned the blow a little, but his fist had still been more than hard enough to do damage. His jaw would be bruised at the very least. He ran his tongue across his teeth, checking that they were still there. All present and correct.

  He allowed himself a smile, then winced; smiling was painful. Elijah was everything they said he was, and more. He was fast, his footwork was exemplary, and he could hit.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and saw that it was Sharon.

  “Hello, Sharon,” he said.

  “I was watching the workout on the TV. What happened?”

  She was nervous, her words tripping out quickly.

  “There was a bit of a scuffle,” Milton said, downplaying it. “There were some troublemakers there. It got a little unpleasant, but it’s settled down now.”

  “Is Elijah okay?”

  “He’s fine. They got him out of the way pretty quickly. Did you speak to him?”

  “About?”

  “Me coming to see him?”

  “I didn’t get a chance,” she said. “He hasn’t been picking up his phone. Why? Did you see him?”

  “I said hello,” Milton replied.

  “And?” She sounded nervous.

  “And the hype is true. He’s got a punch like a jackhammer.”

  30

  M ilton went to a café on the Old Bethnal Green Road and bought a Coke and a coffee. He fished the ice cubes out of the Coke, put them inside a napkin and pressed it against his jaw. He chuckled to himself. He had let his guard down and paid the price. He didn’t fancy Connolly’s chances if Elijah connected like that on Christmas Eve.

  He felt a buzz from his inside pocket. His own phone was on the table: it wasn’t that. He reached inside and took out the phone that he had taken from Little Mark. The screen showed an inbound message. Milton tapped in the passcode and opened it.

  It was from Pinky.

  >> Where you go, pussy? You ran away.

  Milton tapped out a reply.

  >> Hello Shaquille.

  >> We got beef now. Where you at?

  >> Why?

  >> I want to come see you.

  >> That wouldn’t be a very good idea.

  >> Why? You think I’m scared?

  >> You should be.

  >> U all talk, old man.

  >> Bizness said the same thing. Look what happened to him.

  Milton waited for a reply, but none came. Instead, the screen flashed with a message: ‘Pinky would like to FaceTime.’

  Milton looked around the café. There were other customers there, but no one was paying him any attention. He reached into his pocket for his AirPods, pushed them into his ears, then held his finger over the button to accept the request. He wondered whether it was wise, but decided that he needed to know more.

  The screen went dark for a minute and then displayed an image of a young man’s face. He had a hook nose and pointed cheekbones, his lips were thin and spiteful, and his eyes shone with a steady hatred. Milton remembered him. The last time he had seen him, just after he had disposed of Bizness, he had been frightened: a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boy who had just witnessed a man’s murder.

  He didn’t look frightened now. He looked angry.

  “I was a boy back then,” he said. “I didn’t know shit. I ain’t a boy now.”

  “No,” Milton said quietly. “You’re not a boy. But you’re still out of your depth.”

  He laughed. “Look at yourself! You’re an old white guy in these ends and you say I’m out of my depth? Are you mental? You gonna get dooked! Where is that? Where are you?”

  Pinky moved the phone down a little, and Milton caught a glimpse of a darkened room, the harsh light from a naked bulb smearing across the screen until the exposure adjusted. Milton saw a door and a window, partially covered by curtains with a line of dim light down the middle from where they were parted. There was nothing that would give away his location.

  “I know about you,” Milton said.

  “Don’t chat shit. You don’t. You don’t know nothing about me.”

  “I know your name is Shaquille. I know where you live. I know where you do your business—the houses and flats you use. I know your friends—their names, where they are. How’s Little Mark? How’s his leg?”

  Pinky sneered, but Milton saw a flicker of uncertainty. “You’re full of it, grandad. You must think I’m stupid. Mark told me you took his phone. You think I’m going to accept your request, let you know where I’m at?”

  “Stay away from Elijah, Shaquille. I’m asking nicely. I won’t ask nicely again.”

  Pinky pointed the phone away from his face and moved it back so that he could bring his spare hand into shot. He was holding a Mac-10.

  “You know what this is?”

  “I do,” Milton said.

  Pinky he
ld up the submachine gun. “Tell me what to do again and see what happens.”

  “There’s nothing you can say or do that I haven’t seen before. I—”

  “You all talk, old man!”

  Pinky’s face crumpled with anger, and he ended the call before Milton could speak again.

  Milton stared at the phone. He wondered how the young man—not much more than a boy—could have become so full of hate and spite. Milton did not want to hurt him, but he was starting to think that a confrontation was inevitable. He tried to put himself in Pinky’s shoes, tried to imagine what it must feel like to see a boy like Elijah, someone he had grown up with, doing so well for himself. To think about his potential, the money he might make, the fame, the women. It was easy to see how he would react: with jealousy, rage and frustration. A toxic stew that threatened to boil over, poisoning everything that it touched. Milton felt pity for him, but that would count for nothing if he came at Elijah. Milton would put him down without thinking twice.

  The phone buzzed again with an incoming text.

  >> FU, lighty. I see you next time and…

  The text concluded with an emoji of a gun.

  Milton switched the phone off and put it back in his pocket.

  Events were gaining momentum. He doubted that he would be able to stop them now; he would react to them instead.

  31

  M ilton had told Sharon to stop apologising. That hadn’t really worked and she had insisted that they meet. Milton said that wasn’t necessary, but she had been adamant. She gave him the address of her hotel, and he said that he would come to see her at eight o’clock.

  Milton arrived fifteen minutes early and found an empty table in the bar. It was ten minutes past eight by the time she walked through the door; a blast of winter air rippled through the room and people glanced over at her and frowned at the draught that she had let in.