by Mark Dawson
Mark Dawson
Salisbury, September 2018
Twelve Days
A John Milton Thriller
Part I
The Twelfth Day
1
Pinky stood outside the door to the house, amped up, ready to do what they had come here to do. There were four of them: Chips was on the other side of the door, a large firework in one hand and a lighter in the other; Kidz was next to Pinky, letting his baseball bat swing to and fro in a loose double-handed grip; Little Mark was next to Kidz, big enough that he didn’t need a weapon.
“Ready?” Pinky asked them.
They nodded. They’d done this before. They were buzzing with anticipation, but none of them were scared. The property was a ‘cuckoo’ house, owned by a man who had slipped out of the reach of social services and who liked a smoke. All the local gangs looked for people like him: easily manipulated by offers of friendship or free gear and then, when their guard was down, exploited for all that they were worth. Remedials or accommodating addicts, it didn’t matter; anyone with a house that the gang could invade and take over was fair game.
This man’s name was Neal. The social had given him a one-bedroom flat in a low-rise in Stoke Newington. Pinky had been inside before and knew the layout: kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom. The last time he had been inside, there had been a group of crackheads smoking on the sofa in the living room and a couple of junkies shooting up in the bedroom. They had watched the flat for a couple of hours today, and they expected to find a similar clientele. More to the point, Lucky was inside, and Pinky had business with him.
“Let’s do it.”
They were each wearing the purple bandana that marked them out as London Fields Boys. Pinky still felt pride when he thought of the gang, what it represented and how he had risen through it in the last three years. He had been a shotter—a low-level drug dealer—and a thief when he had started out, but he was more than that now. He was an elder: nineteen years old and influential, with a reputation to match. He’d built that rep by doing things like this. Today would remind everyone that he was a player, someone serious, someone you didn’t want to mess around with.
Pinky pulled the bandana up so that it covered his nose and mouth, pulled his hood forward so that it rested behind the brim of his Raiders cap, and stepped aside so that Little Mark could face the door.
Pinky reached into his pocket for his piece. It was a Glock 17; he’d stolen it off a dealer who had been foolish enough to try selling his shit in the ends that belonged to the LFB. Pinky had followed him back to his car and knifed him as he was getting inside. He had done it to send a message—Sol had ordered it, and Pinky had been happy to comply—but as he frisked the guy and searched his car, he found five grand and the gun in the glovebox. The cherry on top of the cake.
Pinky turned to Chips and nodded. He had the Catherine wheel in his hand; Pinky had bought ten of them from an online store just before Bonfire Night and had kept them for occasions like this. He had played a lot of Call of Duty and watched a lot of YouTube videos of soldiers busting into buildings, and he knew how important it was to disorient anyone you wanted to get the jump on. He’d used fireworks before. They worked perfectly.
Chips thumbed the lighter and lit the firework, both fuses hissing as the flames trailed up towards the gunpowder. Little Mark took a step back, breathed in, raised his foot and stomped it against the door, aiming for the spot just below the handle. The place wasn’t secure, with no metal grille or entryphone, and the door was just the same thin plywood replacement that had been put in place after the police had used a battering ram to break down the last one. It flew open, bounced off the wall and crashed back into the frame. Little Mark stood aside to give Chips the chance to do his thing.
The door to the living room was open, and Chips’s aim was good. The firework bounced once, then twice, skittering through the door and rolling to a stop inside the room. There was a beat and then it caught light, spewing out multicoloured sparks in all directions as it started to spin.
“Now!” Pinky yelled, his voice muffled by the bandana.
2
They went in: Pinky first, then Kidz, then Little Mark, then Chips. Kidz and Little Mark went into the bedroom, and Pinky and Chips waited at the doorway to the living room. The firework was still spinning, spraying its sparks into all four corners of the room and sending out disorientating whizzes and pops. There were five customers inside, three on an old settee and the other two on the floor. They had been smoking crack, although the distinctive smell of the drug had been overwhelmed by the smell of the gunpowder as the firework completed its revolutions and fizzled out.
Pinky raised the gun and went inside.
Lucky was on the settee, and, as he saw Pinky come inside, he tried to scurry away. There was nowhere for him to go; Pinky reached him and pressed the muzzle of the gun right up against his forehead. Pinky felt the adrenaline, the prickle of excitement that ran up and down his spine, and drank it all in. The sound of Little Mark and Kidz clearing out the bedroom faded as Pinky pressed the gun harder, pushing Lucky back into the cushions of the settee.
Lucky, Pinky thought, sneering. What a joke. You ain’t so lucky now.
“Please,” Lucky begged.
“You fucked me over,” Pinky said. “Fucked us all over. What did you think was gonna happen? You think I’d just lie down and take it like I’m your bitch? You don’t know me that well. You don’t know me at all, blood.”
“I swear I didn’t know they was there, man.” Lucky’s eyes moistened as he started to cry. “I would never do that.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No, man. Never. I ain’t mad, am I? I swear.”
He was called Lucky on account of the fact that he had been pulled by the police with half a key in the back of his car and they had let him go without finding it. He was five years older than Pinky, but he had always deferred to the younger man. Pinky was nineteen, tall and skinny and with acne scars across his face. He had an angular face, with a hook nose and pointed cheekbones that seemed to stretch out his skin. His eyes were flat and deadened, rarely showing emotion. Pinky knew that the others spoke about that, about how his eyes never showed humanity. He knew that they were scared of him, and he made sure it stayed that way. Fear had brought Pinky to the top, and it would keep him there.
“Please,” Lucky begged again. “You ain’t got to do this. I know I fucked up. Let me fix it.”
Pinky leaned forward, pressing harder on the gun. His mouth was right next to Lucky’s ear. “You know what happens when you cross me, right? When you cross the LFB?”
There was history in that name. Meaning. Pinky remembered the young man who used to run the LFB: Pops. He had forgotten that and Pinky had dooked him. Murdered him, cold-blooded, ruthless. Bizness had forgotten it, too, got himself distracted so that the old white guy could take him out that same night as the riots that had torn up the East End. That night might have spelled the end of it all, but Pinky hadn’t been ready to call it quits. He had taken a bag of cocaine and cash from Bizness’s studio and started his own little business. He had done well and had attracted the attention of Bizness’s brother. Solomon Brown had got back in the game and made Pinky his lieutenant. It worked, most of the time.
“Who was it, Lucky? Who took my gear?”
He held the gun steady. All Pinky would need to do was put a little extra pressure on the trigger and Lucky would be gone. This was it, what he lived for, the power over life and death.
“They jumped me. I didn’t see their faces. They said they were going to kill me unless I told them where the gear was. What was I supposed to do, man?”
Pinky leaned in close, saw Lucky’s dark skin glistening under the light bulb hanging above them, watched a bead of sweat as it rolled down from his scalp and slid down his cheek. Lucky scrunched up his face and began to shake. The smell of piss wafted up through the crack and the gunpowder.
“Boy gone and pissed
himself!” Chips said, drawing nervous laughter from the other addicts.
The others knew what would be coming next. They had seen it before. There had to be consequences. Someone crossed you, they had to pay. That was how it was. Pinky didn’t know whether Lucky had been stupid or whether he had betrayed him. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it go. The others stared, eyes wide. Doing nothing wasn’t one of the options. He needed to keep his reputation as someone you didn’t cross. Lucky started crying and begging for his life, but it didn’t make a difference. This was how things were. You were nothing without your rep. It was the law of the jungle. You let yourself get weak and someone would try to take advantage.
“I’m gonna count to three,” Pinky said. “One. Two…”
“It was Bones and Digger,” Lucky whined. “They said they were moving into the neighbourhood, that they were going to take the ends around Blissett House, that I either sold them the gear or they’d kill me and take it. They said they knew where I lived, where my family lives, Tanesha… I didn’t have a choice, man.”
That was all he needed to know. Bones and Digger, part of the Stokey crew, the gang who had started to nibble at the territory that belonged to the LFB. There was a drill MC, Shetty, who had started posting videos on YouTube saying what Stokey was going to do to the LFB. Chips had gone up to Stoke Newington High Street in the summer, and someone had spotted him; he had been stabbed in the bagel shop, almost bleeding to death before the ambulance got to him. The videos had started with Shetty saying that Chips was the first, that they were all going to get done.
And now this.
Fuck this.
Pinky took the gun away, placing it on Lucky’s knee. “Well done,” he said. “But you still got to pay.”
“Pinky!”
Pinky turned. Kidz was standing in the doorway.
“What?”
“Shit, man. Sorry… I didn’t know…”
Pinky loosened his grip on Lucky, allowing him to crumple back against the settee. “What is it?”
“The TV in the other room… You won’t believe it.”
Pinky told Chips to keep an eye on Lucky and followed Kidz into the bedroom. It was a mess: the bed was unmade, a stained mattress visible beneath crumpled sheets. Two addicts were on the floor, leaning against the wall, out of their minds on junk. Sky Sports was on. Pinky watched as a black man appeared on the screen and began to talk. Pinky’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared with anger. The man’s hands were wrapped in white tape, and there was a boxing ring behind him. The name on the screen said Mustafa Muhammad, but that wasn’t his real name. Pinky knew him. They all did. He was bigger than when he was last in these ends, taller now and full of muscle, but it was the same little bitch Pinky remembered.
Elijah.
Pinky listened.
“I’m just working hard, concentrating on my next fight. Connolly’s good, a tough fighter, but he’s never stepped into the ring with someone like me. I’m gonna knock him out, and then we can talk about who’s next.”
The others listened expectantly, waiting for Pinky to react.
“Look at baby JaJa,” he said. “All growed up.”
“Where the fuck’s he been hiding?” Little Mark said.
“Changed his name and everything,” Chips said.
Pinky had looked into what had happened to JaJa. He and his mum had disappeared a month after their flat had been torched and Bizness had been shot. JaJa had betrayed Pinky to the police, and he had ghosted before Pinky could show him what a stupid thing that had been to do. Three years ago, Pinky thought, casting his mind back. Seemed like JaJa had been busy in the meantime.
Pinky found the remote on the bed, wound the footage back, and played it again. JaJa was bigger, with muscle on his shoulders and arms and neatly defined abs that glistened with sweat. Pinky had pushed him around before, but he had stayed thin and slender while JaJa had filled out; it wouldn’t be as easy to push him around today.
“I googled him,” Kidz said. He looked down at his phone and read: “‘As an amateur, Mustafa Muhammad fought for Sheffield City Boxing Club, winning nineteen fights out of twenty. He scored a first-round stoppage over Ben Arnfield in his first professional fight and then won his next seven fights after that, winning by knockout in all of them.’”
Sheffield, Pinky thought. So that’s where he went.
Kidz summarised the rest of the article he had found: “His next fight is in London. They’re saying if he wins, he’ll be fighting for a belt next year. They say he’s going to make mad money.”
Pinky sneered before breaking into a toothy grin. “Little JaJa’s on his way to the big time. Time we said hello to him again.”
Part II
The Eleventh Day
3
The air that drifted in from the sea was warm and almost cloying. There was no wind, but the stillness suited him. Even though it was evening, the temperature was still warm enough that John Milton could sit in shorts and a T-shirt without worrying about shivering in the cold. He sat at the bar waiting for the barman to finish mixing his second virgin cocktail and, as was his habit, glanced around to see who else was here with him. There were a few other people out tonight, but otherwise it was quiet. That was why Milton had chosen the town of Arafo; cheap flights and a consistent climate had made Tenerife popular with tourists all year round, but this was off the beaten track. It would have been busier in Santa Cruz or Puerto de la Cruz, or any of the coastal hotspots that drew in the package tourists, but Milton had selected carefully to avoid them. He was here to surf, to go hiking in the interior, and to enjoy the Christmas season in a pleasant climate.
He had been in Brazil until recently, although his trip to the Rock in Rio festival hadn’t been the relaxing experience that he had expected. He had found himself involved with one of the gangsters who ran the underworld in the favelas, and been forced to respond to the betrayal of an old friend. That was all done now, but Milton had left the country still in need of the relaxation that he had travelled there to find. Arafo had delivered.
The barman placed the drink in front of him, then turned back to the television screen that had been placed on the opposite end of the bar. Milton picked up the drink, removing the umbrella and the fruit before taking a sip and placing it back down. He glanced at the screen. A piece of tinsel had been draped across it in honour of the time of year, the same colour as the decorations on the small artificial tree that had been placed behind the bar. Madrid and Barcelona had fought out a two-two draw earlier, but now the Classico had given way to boxing. A caption on the screen identified the fight as Muhammad v Cantrell and indicated that it was a replay from two months earlier.
Milton watched the bout. A muscular black fighter was schooling his smaller white opponent. He kept him on the end of a long jab, firing it out with metronomic regularity, before softening his body with a nasty right hook into the kidneys. The black man stepped out of range as his opponent tried to counter. The camera zoomed in on the face of the white guy: he was blowing hard, and his cheeks and eyebrows were already reddened. Another caption appeared on the screen: it was still the first round.
The barman noticed that Milton was watching. “Él es bueno.”
Milton’s Spanish was average at best, but he nodded his agreement. “He’s very good.”
The barman ducked and moved with the boxer’s movements. Another counter was slipped, a left jab coming from the black fighter before he swung down to the side and detonated an unorthodox, unexpected and utterly devastating right hook on his opponent’s chin.
There was a gasp from the other patrons of the bar as the punch landed.
“Increíble!” the barman exclaimed.
The white guy was out before he hit the canvas. The referee stood over him, waving off the count, cradling the boxer’s head and removing his mouthguard. The winner stood on the ropes and saluted the crowd.
The camera zoomed on his face. Milton’s eyes narrowed. He had a moment of
recognition, swiftly replaced by confusion.
“¡Coño, chico!” the barman swore. Milton raised his glass in reply and nodded his head. The knockout was impressive, but he was still confused.
The shot changed to a wide angle of the ring. Medical staff gathered around the prone fighter, who was only now showing signs of consciousness. The MC stepped through the ropes and made his way to the centre of the ring, where the victor was waiting.
“Volumen?” Milton asked, twisting his fingers to indicate that he wanted to listen to what was being said.
The barman reached under the bar for a remote control.
“Ladies and gentlemen, referee Tony Gaitskill stops the fight at one minute forty-five seconds into the first round. The winner, by technical knockout—the Sheffield Express, Mustafa ‘Boom Boom’ Muhammad.”
Milton stared at the screen, a smile on his face.
The victor moved to the ring apron and sat down. An interviewer, hidden behind the camera, held a microphone in front of the man’s face.
“Mustafa,” he said, “that was very impressive.”
“Thank you. I knew I had to get him out of there early. Wanted to make a statement.”
“You certainly did that,” the interviewer said. “That’s nine fights, nine wins, and all of them by knockout. What’s next?”
“We move on. Everyone knows what fight I want.”
“Let’s bring your promoter in now.” A man in a suit shuffled into the shot, sitting down next to his sweaty protégé. “That was some display.”
