by Mark Dawson
Pinky grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and shoved him to the ground. He fell atop him, pressing his right arm across his throat, pinning him down, and reached into the inside of his jacket with his left hand. He found the notes and pocketed them.
“Remember your place,” he said. “You ain’t nothing to me. You think you a gangster, but you ain’t shit. Give me lip like that again and I’ll shank you.” He took out a butterfly knife, shook it open and held the blade against Elijah’s cheek. “One jerk of my hand now, bruv, and you marked for life. Know what it’ll say?”
“No,” Elijah said, his voice shaking.
“‘Pinky’s bitch.’”
Elijah lay still as Pinky drew the cold blade slowly down his face. Pinky took a bunched handful of his jacket and pulled his head up and then, with a pivot, slammed him down again. The surface was soft but, even so, the sudden impact was dizzying. Pinky got up and backed away. He pointed at Elijah’s head and laughed. Elijah felt a dampness against the back of his crown and in the nape of his neck. He reached around, gingerly, expecting to find his own blood. He did not. Pinky had pushed him back into dog mess. The shit was in his hair and against his skin, sliding down beneath the collar of his jacket.
“Later, little man,” Pinky laughed at him. He left Elijah on the floor.
He bit his lip until the older boy was out of sight and then, alone, he allowed himself to cry.
* * *
15.
MILTON WAITED until the sun had sunk below the adjacent houses before he went out to scout the area. It was a humid, close evening, the stifling heat of the day had soaked into the Estate and now it was slowly seeping out. Televisions flickered in the front rooms of the houses on his street, most of the neighbours leaving their windows uncovered. Arguments played out of open doors. The atmosphere sparked with the dull electric throb of tension, of barely suppressed aggression and incipient violence.
The area seemed to come alive at night. There were people everywhere. Youngsters gathered on street corners and on weed-strewn playgrounds. Others listlessly tossed basketballs across a pock-marked court while they were watched by girls who laced their painted nails through the wire mesh fence. A lithe youngster faked out his doughty guard and made a stylish lay-up, the move drawing whoops from the spectators. Music played from the open windows of cars and houses. Graffiti was everywhere, one crude mural showing groups of children with guns, killing one another. Milton carried on, further along the road. A railway bridge that bore the track into Liverpool Street cast the arcade of shops below into a pool of murky gloom. A man smoking Turkish cigarettes levered rolls of carpet back into his shop, drivers gathered around a minicab office, the sound of clashing metal from the open windows of a gym with a crude stencil of Charles Atlas on the glass. The arcade carried the sickly smell of kebab meat, fried chicken, and dope.
Milton took it all in, remembering the layout of the streets and the alleyways that linked them. Two streets to the east and he was in an area that bore the unmistakeable marks of gentrification: a gourmet restaurant, a chi-chi coffee shop that would be full of prams in the daytime, a happening pub full of hipsters in drainpipe jeans and fifties’ frocks, an elegant Victorian terrace in perfect repair, beautifully tended front gardens behind painted iron fences. Two streets west and he was back in the guts of the Estate, the ten-storey slabs of housing blocks with the nauseatingly bright orange balconies, festooned with satellite dishes.
Milton crossed into Victoria Park, a wide open space fringed by fume-choked fir trees. A series of paved paths cut through the park, intermittent and unreliable streetlamps providing discreet pools of light that made the darkness in between even deeper and more threatening. The area’s reputation kept it quiet at night save for drunken city boys who used it as a shortcut, easy pickings for the gangs that roamed across it looking for prey.
Milton passed through the gate and walked towards the centre. A group of youngsters had congregated around one of the park benches. One of their number was showing off on his BMX, bouncing off the front wheel as the others laughed at his skill. Milton assessed them coolly. There were eight of them, mid-teens, all dressed in the uniform: caps beneath hoodies, baggy jeans and bright white trainers.
He kept walking. As he drew closer he heard the sound of music being played through the reedy speaker of a mobile phone. It had a fast, thumping beat and aggressive lyrics. The rapper was talking about beefs, and pieces, and merking anyone who got in his way.
One of the group sauntered out from the pack and blocked his path.
“What you want, chi chi man?”
The boy showed no fear. His insolence was practiced, and drew hollers of pleasure from the audience. “I’m a journalist,” he said.
“You BBC? You on the television? Can you get me on the TV?”
“No, I’m working on a book.”
Laughter rang out. “No-one reads books, bro.”
“It’s about police corruption. You know anything about that?”
Milton watched the boy. He was a child, surely no older than fifteen. There was a disturbing aspect to his face, a lack of expression with his eyes constantly flickering to the left and right. Milton had seen that appearance before; soldiers from warzones looked that way, a pathological watchfulness to ward against the threat of sudden attack. Milton knew enough about psychology to know that kind of perpetual vigilance was unhealthy. He knew soldiers who had been constantly on the alert for danger, who equated any show of emotion with violence, and from whom all feeling had been smelted. They became machines.
“The pigs are all bent, man,” the boy told him. “You might as well write about the sky being blue, or water being wet. You ain’t teaching no-one nothing round these ends. No-one’s gonna read that.”
“Do you know Elijah Warriner?”
“What’s he got to do with the Feds?”
“I want to talk to him. I heard he’s around here sometimes. Is he a friend of yours?”
“That little mong ain’t my friend and there’s no point talking to him. He don’t know fuck all. You want, though, we could have a conversation? You and me?”
Milton noticed one of the boys in the group take his phone from his pocket and start to tap out a message. “Fine,” he said. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Wanna know about violence? I shanked a guy last week. Want to know about that?”
“Not really.”
“I could shank you, too. I got a knife, right here in my pocket.” He sauntered forwards, towards Milton, still showing no sign of how outsized he was. He patted the bulge in his hip pocket. “Six inch blade, lighty. I could walk up to you right now, like this, take the knife, shank you right in the guts.” He made a fist and jabbed it towards Milton’s stomach. “Bang, you’d be done for, blood. Finished. I could make you bleed, big man, right in the middle of the park. Ain’t no-one gonna come and help you out here, neither. What you think of that?”
Milton said nothing.
“Man got shook!” one of the others shouted out. “Pinky shook the big man.”
Milton looked down at the boy. He was tall and thin and wiry, couldn’t have been more than nine stone soaking weight. Calling his bluff would provoke the escalation he seemed to want, and there was no point in doing that. He wanted them to think he was a journalist, harmless, a little frightened and out of his depth. The hooting and hollering around them continued, but the atmosphere had become charged.
“I might shank you, the moment you turn your back.” Milton noticed a group of boys cycling across to them from the edge of the park. “Don’t turn your back on me, big man. You don’t mean nothing to me. I might do it, just for a laugh.”
The group on the bikes reached them. There were half a dozen of them. Milton recognised Elijah at the back. The biggest boy––Milton guessed he was seventeen or eighteen––propped his bike against the bench and strutted over to them.
The boy walked across to the group. “Alright, Pinky?” he said to the youngster who
had threatened him. “What’s the beef?”
“Nah,” the boy said. “Ain’t no beef.”
Milton ignored him and addressed the newcomer. “Are you in charge?”
“You could say that.”
Milton pointed over at Elijah. “I want to talk to him.”
“You know this man, Elijah?”
A look of suspicion had fallen across his face. “Yeah,” he said warily. “He was with my Mums.”
“And do you want to talk to him?”
Elijah shook his head.
“Sorry, bro. He don’t want to talk to you.”
“He say he a writer,” one of the boys reported, loading the last word with scorn.
“That right?”
“That’s right. A journalist.”
“Bullshit. You ain’t a journalist, mate. If you’re a journalist then I’m going to win the fucking X Factor. You must think I was born yesterday. What are you? Social?”
“He’s po-po!” one of the other boys cried out. “Look at him.”
“He ain’t a Fed. Feds don’t come into the park unless they’ve got backup.”
The atmosphere was becoming fevered. Milton could see that it had the potential to turn quickly, and dangerously. He concentrated on the older boy. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know my name.”
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then you don’t wanna come walking through our ends late at night, do you, bruv?”
“I’m not police. I’m not social. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
The boy laughed scornfully. “Do I look worried?”
“No, you don’t,” Milton said. He raised his voice so that the others could hear him. “Tell Elijah that I want to talk to him. I’m going to have my breakfast in the café on Dalston Lane every morning from now on. Eight o’clock. Tell him I’ll buy him breakfast, too. Whatever he wants. And if he doesn’t want to meet me, he can call me here instead.” Milton reached into his pocket and took out a card with the number of his mobile printed across it. He gave it to the older boy, staring calmly into his face. A moment of doubt passed across the boy’s face, Milton’s sudden equanimity shaking his confidence. He took the card between thumb and forefinger.
“Thank you,” Milton said.
Milton turned his back on the group and set off. He felt vulnerable but he made a point of not looking back. He felt an itching sensation between his shoulder blades and, as he walked, an empty Coke can bounced off his shoulder and clattered to the pavement. They whooped at their insolent bravado and called out after him but he did not respond. He kept walking until he reached the gate next to the lido. He stopped and looked back. The boys were still gathered in the centre of the park. No-one had followed.
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 bow-string. 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, the palm resting on the cold steel butt of the Sig Sauer. He calmed his thoughts and went to sleep.
* * *
16.
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, 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 showerhead 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 ha
ve 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 occasions––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.”
