The John Milton Series Boxset 1

by Mark Dawson

  The meeting had been held in the Methodist Hall around the corner. Once again, Milton had sat quietly, keeping his own counsel. Rutherford was on the opposite side of the circle of chairs and had watched him. His face had been impassive throughout; if he had felt any response to the discussion then he had hidden it very well. When the meeting had finished Rutherford had suggested they go to the pub for a drink. He had not expected Milton to agree, but he had.

  Rutherford set the pints down on the table and sat down. “Cheers,” he said as they touched glasses.

  Milton took a long draught. “So how long were you in for?” he asked him.

  “The Army? Sixteen years.”

  He clucked his tongue. “That’s a long stint. Where?”

  “All the usual places: Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan. Lots of fun.”

  “I can imagine. Doing what?”

  “Royal Engineers. Bomb Disposal. I’ve always been decent enough at breaking things down and putting them back together again, it was a pretty obvious move for me once I’d got my feet wet for a couple of years. I was one of the lads they sent to defuse them for the first five years and then when the brass thought I had enough common sense about me they bumped me up to major and put me onto investigations––we’d get sent in when one of them went off to try and work out what it was that had caused it: pressure plate, remote detonation or something new. By the time I’d had enough it was getting silly––the Muj started planting second and third devices in the same place to try and catch us out. A mate of mine I’d been with almost from the start lost both his legs like that. Stepped on a plate next to where they’d blown up another one fifteen minutes earlier. I was right behind him when it happened, first person there to help while they sent for the medics. I didn’t need much encouragement to get out after seeing that.” He looked over the rim of his pint at Milton. “What about you? What did you do? From the looks of it, I’m guessing ex-Special Forces.” When Milton said nothing, Rutherford shrugged. “Well, that’s your business.”

  He noticed that Milton’s hand was shaking a little; drops fell over the lip of the glass and dribbled down the glass.

  “SAS,” he said eventually. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Oh, I don’t know––you stay in long enough and you get to know the signs.”

  “I was hoping it’d wash off eventually.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I haven’t been a soldier for years.”

  “Why’d you get out?”

  “We’ve all got our own stories,” he said. A jet from City airport arced away to the south. A bloated pigeon alighted on the table opposite and was shooed off again. Rutherford could see that Milton had no interest in talking about whatever it was that had happened to him. “What have you been doing since?”

  “Some things I can’t talk about,” he said with a shake of his head. They had both finished their drinks. Milton stood. “How about a coffee? We can work out how I can help you with the club.”

  Rutherford watched him negotiate the crowd gathered at the door. He knew that there was a lot that Milton wasn’t telling him, and he guessed––well, it was pretty obvious, really––that he was still involved in soldiering in some capacity or another. The reticence was not what he would have expected of a grunt who was selling his experience as a mercenary; for his money, the discretion made it more likely that he was involved in something like intelligence. The conclusion led to more questions than it answered: what, for example, was an intelligence agent doing getting involved with a little hoodrat from Hackney? A spook? What sense did that make?

  Rutherford had no idea how to even begin answering that one.

  Milton returned with two cappuccinos.

  “So,” he said. “The boxing club. You’re struggling. How can I help?”

  “I can always do with more hands,” Rutherford said thoughtfully. “There’s a list of what’s wrong with that place that’s as long as my arm, man. The roof leaks, the wiring’s all over the place, the walls need painting, the canvasses are torn and stained with God only knows what––there’s only so much that I can do on my own, you know, with the club to run. If you’re serious––?”

  “I am.”

  “––then I’d say thank you very much. That would make a big difference.”

  “Fine. How about tomorrow morning? See what I can do?”

  Rutherford raised his cup. “You bringing that younger you mentioned?”

  “I’m working on that,” Milton said.

  * * *

  22.

  CHRISTOPHER CALLAN, Number Twelve, drove across town to Hackney, following his satnav to Victoria Park. It was a hot, sticky night, and he drove with the windows open, the warm breeze blowing onto his face. He looked around distastefully. It was a mongrel area: million-pound houses cheek-by-jowl with slum-like high rises. He reversed into a parking space in one of the better streets, locked the car and set off the rest of the way on foot. His destination was marked on his phone’s map, and he followed it across the southern end of the park, alongside a wide boating lake with a fountain throwing water into the air and Polish immigrants fishing for their dinners from the banks. Finally, he turned onto Grove Road.

  Milton had used his phone earlier and HQ had located the signal, triangulating it to the terrace that Callan was approaching. He picked his way along the untidy road until he reached the address, passing by on the other side before turning and passing back again. That side of the road was comprised of cheap terraced housing that might, once, have been pleasant. It was far from pleasant today, with the occasional property that had been well maintained standing out amidst the pitiful neglect of its neighbours.

  Callan wondered what Milton was doing in a place like this. He slowed as came up beside number eleven, taking everything in: the rotting refrigerator in the gutter; the broken staves of the fencing across the road, lashed around with chicken wire; the bars on the doors and ground floor windows. The windows of the house were open and the curtains were drawn, the puce-coloured fabric puffing in and out of the opening, ruffled by the sweaty breeze. A lamp was on inside, the light flickering on and off as the curtains swayed. Callan couldn’t tell if anyone was home.

  A Volvo was parked by the side of the road. Callan recognised it from Milton’s file. The car looked at home among the battered heaps that filled the parking spaces around it. He slowed as he passed the Volvo and, moving quickly and smoothly, dipped down to and slapped a magnetic transmitter inside the wheel arch.

  Callan did not want to tarry. He had no desire to draw attention to himself. He did not think that he had ever met Milton before but he could not completely discount the possibility that he might somehow have known him. No point in taking chances.

  He reached the end of the road, paused for a final look back again, and set off for the main road. He took out his phone and dialled.

  “Callan,” said Control.

  “Hello, sir. Can you talk?”

  “Are you there?”

  “I’m just leaving now. Awful place. Small house in a terrace. Looks like council housing. It’s a sink estate, not a good area, kids out on the street corners, pitbulls, messy, rubbish left out to rot in the gardens––you can picture the scene, I’m sure. God only knows what he’s doing here.”

  “You’ve no idea?”

  “None at all.”

  “What about the house––did you look inside?”

  “Couldn’t. I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t at home. I didn’t try and get any closer than the street. I can come back for that.”

  As he walked back along the fringes of the Estate he noticed that he was being followed. Two older teenagers on BMXs were lazily trailing him, kicking the bikes along on the other side of the road.

  “What about his car?”

  “You can tell Tech that the tracker has been fixed.”

  Callan took a right turn off the main road and watched as the two boys bounced down off the kerb and crossed against the flow of the traffic. The two started to close the d
istance between them.

  “Sorry, sir. I’ll have to call you back.”

  He pressed the toggle on the headphones to end the call. The road turned sharply to the left and Callan stopped to wait for the boys. They rolled up to him. They both wore baseball caps pulled down low with their hoods tugged up so that the fabric sat on the brim. The bottom half of their faces were covered with purple bandanas. Only their eyes were visible. It was impossible to guess their age but they were both large and rangy, their bikes almost comically small for them.

  “Got the time, bruv?” the first boy said with insouciant aggression, putting his foot down and stopping. If he replied to the request, no doubt the next step would have been for him to have been relieved of his watch, together with his phone and wallet.

  “Time you got off home, I reckon.”

  The boy rolled a little closer. “You want to watch who you’re giving lip to, lighty. You could end up in a lot of mess.” The second boy got off his bike and walked forwards. He hawked up a ball of phlegm and spat it at Callan’s feet. “Give me your phone.”

  Callan felt his skin prickle and his muscles tightening. The sensation was familiar to him. The surge of adrenaline. Fight or flight. It was rarely flight with him. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, meekly.

  The second boy took his hand out of the pocket of his jacket. He was holding a kitchen knife in his fist. “Give me your phone and your cash, aight, else you’re gonna get jooked.”

  The boy came closer, and Callan let him. When he was within arm’s reach he lashed out suddenly with his right hand, the fingers held out straight, the thumb bracing them from beneath. The strike landed perfectly, and forcefully, Callan’s hard fingertips jabbing into the boy’s throat, right into the larynx. He dropped the knife and clutched his throat as he staggered back, choking, temporarily unable to draw breath. The first boy tried to hike up his jacket so that he could get to the knife he was carrying in his belt but he was impeded by his bike and was far too slow. Callan closed the distance between them with a quick hop and, bending his arm, struck the boy in the face with the point of his right elbow. The pedals tripped the boy as he staggered away and he fell onto his back, blood already running from his broken nose. The boy Callan had struck in the throat was still gasping for breath, and Callan almost lazily cast him to the floor, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. He crouched down and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his collar. He raised his head six inches from the pavement and then crashed it backwards, slamming his crown against the edge of the kerb, fracturing his skull and knocking him out.

  Callan stood, brushed himself down and set off again.

  * * *

  23.

  ELIJAH RETURNED to Pops and his woman after Bizness had finished talking to him. Pops looked surly, brooding over his JD and casting careful glances out across the room to where Bizness and MC Mafia were talking with two good-looking girls dressed in crop tops and obscenely short skirts. Elijah watched them too, unable to concentrate. He felt a dizzying mixture of emotions: fear, that he had been asked to do something that he did not want to do, but also pride. He knew it was foolish to feel that way, but he could not deny it. Where were his friends tonight? Where were Little Mark and Kidz, Pinky and the others? They weren’t here. Bizness had chosen him for the task. Surely that must mean something. He trusted him. He could not help visualising a future in which he was a member of BRAPPPP!, too. The newest member. The youngest. The one with the reputation, the one no-one would doubt. He thought of the lifestyle, the money. He would drag his family up with him, away from the Estate. His mum would not need to work three jobs to make ends meet. They would buy a little house, with a little garden. Perhaps he could help Jules, too. Rehab, or something. Things would be better than they were now.

  He knew the price for all of this, but he tried not to think about it.

  If he did, he would run.

  A stir of interest rippled through the crowd as a small group of boys passed in through the entrance to the club. There were four of them, and, at their head, Elijah recognised Wiley T. He knew that he was only two years older than him; he was a mixture of youth and experience. His face was fresh, and he still walked with a lazy adolescent lope, but his body language was confident. He punctuated his sentences with exaggerated gestures designed to draw attention to himself and he smiled widely at a nearby group of girls, a confidence that Elijah could not begin to hope to emulate. Elijah knew enough about him from his YouTube profile. He was a street boy, like him, and their education was the same. He recognised the flicker of furtive watchfulness in his eyes. Boy was older than his years.

  Elijah felt a nugget of ice in his gullet as Bizness approached Wiley and offered his hand. The younger man sneered and did not take it. Bizness moved forwards in an attempt to draw Wiley into an embrace but he stepped away, a derisive expression on his face. He said something and then, as Bizness backed away, he threw a punch that rattled against his jaw. The fight that followed flared quickly and viciously, with members of both entourages folding into one another, fists flying.

  Elijah watched from the other side of the room. His rucksack was at his feet, the zip half undone and as he looked down into it the dull metal of the gun sparkled in the light from a glitterball overhead. Bizness separated himself from the melee and glared at Elijah, his face twisted with fury. He mouthed one word: “Now.” Elijah felt his life folding down into that one small, awful point. It was over for him. He picked up his bag and lifted it to his waist, just high enough that he could reach his right hand inside for the gun. His fingers brushed the metal, encircled it so that the cold was pressed into his palm and his finger found the trigger guard and, within it, the subtle give of the trigger.

  The noise of the party seemed to muffle and fade as Elijah started across the room.

  Everything slowed to a crawl.

  He glanced into the faces of the people around him but nothing registered.

  He felt completely alone.

  He closed the distance to the brawl. He squeezed the gun into his palm and started to bring it up to the open mouth of the bag.

  Pops took him by the arm and pulled him aside. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Elijah looked up at him dumbly.

  “Be clever, younger. Do that and your life is finished. You think the Feds won’t find out? You think he won’t rat you out to save his own skin?”

  Elijah was unable to speak.

  “Go home, JaJa. Go on, fuck off, fuck off now, take that bag with you, drop it in the canal and don’t ever tell no-one a word about it.”

  On the other side of the club, the fight was getting worse. A dozen men were brawling now, and, as Elijah watched, one of them fell to the ground. Bizness was onto him quickly, kicking him again and again in the head. Pops gently turned him towards the exit and pushed him on his way.

  Elijah kept going. He did not look back.

  * * *

  24.

  POPS SAT in the front of his car, his forehead resting against the steering wheel. He had driven aimlessly for an hour, trying to arrange his thoughts into some sort of order, and had eventually found his way to Meynell Street, the sickle-shaped road that hugged the edge of Well Street Common. It was a middle-class area with big, wide houses that cost the better part of half a million pounds each. The boys rarely came up here. It wasn’t worth the risk. It was a good distance from the Estate and they knew that if they started causing trouble the police would respond quickly, and in numbers. Far better to stay in their ends, on the streets that they knew, and where their victims were not deemed important enough to demand the same protection.

  He looked out over the small park, pools of lamplight cast down at the junctions of the pathways that cut across it. He had switched off the car’s engine but the dashboard was still lit, casting queasy green light up onto his face, illuminating his reflection on the inside of the windshield. He examined himself, and thought, again, that he looked older than he was. His skin looked almost
grey in the artificial light and his eyes were black and empty, denuded of life, of their sparkle. Pops was nineteen but he felt older. He had seen things that he could not forget, no matter how hard he tried. He gave it big with the others because there was nothing else he could do. You showed weakness, you got eaten, that was the way it was. The rules of the jungle, he thought again. Just like the Serengeti.

  But Pops was different. He was smart. He had a plan and he would leave on his terms, when he was ready. He was careful with his money, saving every month, and he wanted twenty grand in his account before he called it a day. He had been a decent student at school before he had been sucked down into the LFB, and he wanted to finish his education. And then, who knows, maybe he would go to college. You needed paper for that. Until then, until he had enough, there was no choice but to keep up his front. If he let down his guard, even for a minute, there were plenty of youngers who would seize their chance. There would be beef, there would be hype, and it would end up badly for all of them.

  His mind flicked back to the end of the party. The fight had ended almost as quickly as it had begun and yet it had curdled the mood, like poison dripped into an open wound. Wiley and his boys had taken a terrible beating, with one young boy left unconscious on the floor, his face kicked into a mess of blood and mucus. Pops watched as his body jerked and twitched and knew that he needed a doctor, and quickly. He quietly went into the toilets and called 999, leaving an anonymous message that an ambulance was required. By the time he returned outside, the lights had been turned on and people were starting to go. He had heard police sirens in the near distance, too. Definitely time to leave.

  He looked over at the passenger seat. Laura’s handbag was resting against the cushion. Pops had bought her the bag for Christmas after she mentioned that she liked the designer. It had cost plenty but she was worth it. He had searched the club for her but she had already gone. He did not know where she was now, but he knew she was with Bizness. He had known that he wanted her. He made no secret of it, joking with Pops about the fact that one day he’d just take her and that there was nothing he would be able to do about it. Pops would laugh it off most of the time, making sure that he kept his seething anger to himself. As long as he kept her away from him everything would be alright. But that had not been possible tonight. Bizness had suggested before the fight that the party would eventually relocate to his studio and that she should come. The invitation had not been extended to Pops. She had been drunk and high and she knew that Bizness was offering her more of the same. He had lost her. He had always known it would happen, eventually, and now it had. He had gone to his car and driven away.