The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  Milton put the fork into the pot, loaded it with noodles, and slotted it into his mouth. He had eaten earlier, and this snack was just to take the edge off his hunger before he went out for his second run of the day.

  The promoter, noted on screen as Tommy Porter, tapped the microphone and brought the proceedings to order.

  “Good evening, everyone,” he said. “Thanks for coming down to Shoreditch in London today. So—this card, announced last month, is going to be a Christmas cracker. It’s almost sold out, but the good news is that it’ll be live and exclusive on Sky Sports. Five great fights, all complete fifty-fifties, televised from eight o’clock and then going on through the night. We’ll get to the mouth-watering super-middleweight contest at the top of the bill last of all, but, before then, we’re going to hear from these young men around me, all of them electrifying prospects, from featherweights to heavyweights. We’re going to start with Dwayne Craig, who, for my money, is the best cruiserweight prospect I’ve seen in this country for ten years. Dwayne—you’re licking your lips after seeing a brilliant cruiserweight fight last week between Bruce and Hadley.”

  The cruiserweight to Elijah’s left started to talk about how he was looking forward to getting in the ring, how his rivals had been hiding from him for too long, and how he was going to knock out his opponent within three rounds, the usual flannel that was a stock-in-trade of these kinds of events.

  Milton tuned it out, watching Elijah instead.

  17

  Pinky was in one of the LFB flats in Blissett House. The usual crew was there, smoking and drinking and jawing about the old guy who had robbed Little Mark of his phone outside JaJa’s burned-out old flat the day before. Pinky had sat down with Little Mark and the other boys and had got him to describe exactly what had happened. Mark was embarrassed; he was big, and his whole rep was built on how hard he was. From what Pinky had been told, he had been manhandled by the older guy, had his phone nicked, and then been forced to give up the passcode. All four of them had gotten a good look at the old guy: he was average looking, around six feet tall, wiry. His hair was messy, needing a cut, a frond curling across his forehead. There was a scar across his face, so faint as to be almost impossible to see. They had all commented on his eyes: icy blue, cold, and frightening.

  Pinky had paused at that, remembering the man with freaky blue eyes who had taken out Bizness on the night of the riots. He remembered him, and he wondered: JaJa was coming back, and maybe that man was back, too. He thought about it, thought about telling Sol, but he decided against it. It couldn’t be him.

  “Hey!” Kidz called out. “Look at this!”

  The flat-screen TV that they had fixed to the wall was showing a YouTube stream of a live event. Pinky looked: ten young men, mostly black, and a well-dressed white guy, all sitting before a big canvas with their pictures on it. The caption at the bottom of the screen said that it was a press conference, and that it was broadcasting from London.

  “Is this on now?” Pinky asked.

  “It’s live,” Kidz said. “It’s him, isn’t it? It’s JaJa.”

  There was no question about it. The nameplate before him read Mustafa Muhammad, but it was Elijah. Pinky would have recognised him anywhere.

  “Why’d he change his name?” Little Mark said.

  “Religion. He’s a Muslim now.”

  “Bullshit,” Pinky sneered. “He changed his name because he didn’t want to be found; same reason he disappeared.”

  The younger in the corner turned up the Bluetooth speaker so that the new 1011 tune boomed through the flat.

  “Turn that shit down,” Pinky yelled.

  The younger did as he was told, and Kidz found the remote and increased the volume on the TV. The white man in the expensive suit and the open-necked shirt was speaking.

  “Before we get to the championship fight, we’ve got a ten-round match featuring one of the hottest prospects in the sport of boxing. It might be the fight I’m looking forward to most of all. Mustafa Muhammad is British boxing’s best-kept secret. He’s nineteen years old, and he’s already fought nine times since he turned pro. The reason he’s managed to fit that many fights into his young career is because no one’s got past the third round with him, and practically no one has landed a glove on him. He’s got his biggest test on Christmas Eve, putting his record on the line against Tottenham’s Samuel Connolly. We’ll hear from Samuel in a moment, but, Mustafa, first of all, tell us how you see the fight going for you. What’s the difference between the two of you?”

  “There’s one big difference,” Elijah said. “When he hits someone, they get up. When I hit someone, they’re unconscious. There’s a big difference between my punching power and his.” He closed his fist. “He’s got rockets. I got nuclear bombs.”

  One of the youngers whooped as Elijah looked into the camera and kissed his closed fist.

  “Look at that little pussy,” Pinky said. “Thinks he’s better than all the rest of them.”

  “That’s because he is,” Kidz said. “You watched any of his fights?”

  “Some,” Pinky said. “There’s highlights on YouTube.”

  “They’re all there,” he said. “The full fights. Check them out. I know you don’t like him, Pinky, but, seriously, he’s got mad skills.”

  The younger came up closer to the TV, edging next to Pinky. “I watched them,” he said. “There’s this one fight, this dude from Brixton, Mustafa just nailed him with—”

  “His name’s JaJa,” Pinky spat, cuffing the boy around the head with the back of his hand. “And, anyway, shut the fuck up. You speak when you’re spoken to, a’ight?”

  The younger frowned, biting down on his lip, and Pinky wondered if he was going to cry. He ignored him. He stared at JaJa and felt the familiar flickering of his temper. There was no forgetting and no forgiving what he had done. Seeing Elijah there—on the TV, doing well for himself, people fawning over him—just brought it all back again. Pinky would see that Elijah paid for what he had done. He hadn’t had the chance before, but now he was someone, too.

  This time it would be different.

  18

  Elijah was told by someone from Tommy Porter’s team that he would have to stick around after the conference to have his photo taken. He waited in line as the other fighters were arranged on a platform, standing face-to-face as the assembled press photographers did their work. Most of the fighters were respectful of each other, shaking hands or pumping fists as they went about their business. Elijah thought about what McCauley had told him and made an effort to rein back the braggadocio that he had allowed to get the better of him during the conference. He thought of what his mother would say, and how she would have told him to treat his opponent with the respect that he would want to be treated with himself.

  Connolly hopped up onto the platform and waited for Elijah to join him. Porter came forward, offering Elijah his hand.

  “That was great,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of charisma. They’ll love that.”

  Elijah nodded and climbed up onto the platform. Connolly looked at him, but, as Elijah held his gaze, the older man looked away. Elijah frowned; that wasn’t what he had expected. Connolly was well known as a hard man, and McCauley had warned him that he would try to make him feel small. That hadn’t happened at all.

  “Let’s have some attitude,” Porter urged.

  Elijah felt uncomfortable, but he knew that boxing was show business, and he was in the business of putting on a show. He raised both fists and stared at Connolly and frowned again at his reluctance to reciprocate.

  “Come on, Sam,” Porter said. “Give it some.”

  Connolly looked up, closed his own fists and held them in a loose guard. Elijah stared at him, but Connolly still would not hold his eye.

  The cameras flashed, the glare enough to make Elijah blink.

  Porter hurried them both down from the platform so that the fighters at the top of the bill could take their turn. He put his hand on Conno
lly’s shoulder and started to berate him; Elijah couldn’t hear what he said, and quickly moved away as the press called out to the remaining fighters for their thoughts on the upcoming bout and what they were going to do to each other.

  He saw her waiting at the edge of the room. She was older than him—Elijah guessed twenty-five or twenty-six—and stunning. She was tall and slender, with prominent cheekbones and long black hair that glistened in the artificial light. She was looking at him, too, and, as he made his way to the exit, she moved to intercept him. Elijah found that his mouth was dry as she drew closer, a smile on her face that exposed perfectly white teeth.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  “That was brilliant,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said, feeling the heat in his cheeks.

  “You got in his head.”

  “You think?”

  “He couldn’t even look you in the eye,” she said. “Yeah, you’re in his head.”

  “He’s good,” he said, surprising himself at the need to defend his opponent.

  “I know he is,” she said. “You’re better. What round?”

  “Sorry?”

  “What round are you going to knock him out?”

  He found himself smiling at her. “My trainer says he won’t go down easy,” he said. “He’s never been stopped before.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Second round.” He grinned.

  “Is that worth a bet?”

  “Take it to the bank,” he said, his confidence returning.

  “I’m Alesha.”

  “Mustafa,” he said, only just remembering that he couldn’t introduce himself as Elijah.

  She put a hand on his arm and nodded her head. “I think someone wants you.”

  Elijah looked to the exit and saw McCauley waiting for him there. Shit.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s my trainer. He says he has to keep me on a tight leash.”

  “Does that mean you can’t go out and get dinner?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I should’ve said—I’m a journalist. I write for Vice. My editor sent me down here to report on Yankovich and Cullum, but I’m much more interested in you.” She smiled and reached out with her hand to touch his arm. “I was wondering, if it’s okay with you and him”—she gestured over to McCauley—“maybe we could get something to eat? I could interview you. Is that possible before a fight?”

  Elijah’s brain seemed to be stuck in neutral: it was the smile she had given him. She wasn’t just asking him out for an interview, even though that, alone, would have been flattering enough. She was asking him out. He couldn’t believe that someone as gorgeous as she was—older than him, more sophisticated—could be interested in him.

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  “No,” Elijah said. “We could go to Nando’s or something?”

  She took out her phone. “What’s your number?”

  Elijah gave it to her and watched as she tapped it onto the keypad.

  “There,” she said as Elijah’s phone buzzed in his pocket. “You’ve got mine now, too. Give me a call when you know if you’re free. I’m not doing anything the night after tomorrow.” She leaned in, put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “Good luck,” she said, her lips brushing his ear.

  “Thanks.” He swallowed, backing away and bumping into one of the photographers, who was just in the process of putting away his tripod. The equipment clattered to the floor. “Sorry,” Elijah said, stepping to the side. Then, with a bashful smile at the girl, he made his way to where McCauley was waiting for him.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Journalist.”

  “What did she want?”

  “What do you think? Wants to interview me.”

  McCauley put his hand on Elijah’s shoulder and guided him into the hotel lobby. Some of the other fighters were there, mixing with their entourages, some of them speaking to the press and the fans who had come to watch the conference.

  “You’re a great fighter, Mustafa, but you’re naïve.”

  “No, I ain’t!”

  “You’re going to get a lot of attention now. Girls are going to want to get to know you—you’re going to have to be careful.”

  “She’s a journalist.”

  “That’s it? Nothing else? I saw how she was stroking your arm.”

  “You think?”

  McCauley rolled his eyes. “Some of them will just want a bit of the action. They’ll think that getting to know you will mean they’ll be on their way to the big time. They’ll want you to think that they like you—some will, but most of them won’t. You’ll be a means to an end. It won’t just be women, either. Promoters. Other trainers who’ll say they can do a better job than me.”

  Elijah put his arm around the older man. “Don’t be a dick,” he said. “I’m not trading you in.”

  McCauley removed Elijah’s arm and gently moved him into a quieter antechamber. “I know that,” he said. “And I don’t want to lecture you, either, but I’ve been here before. If you win, things are going to go up a notch. If you win a belt, it’ll get crazy. Not everyone can handle it. The temptation. Women. Money. Parties. The great ones know that they need to dedicate themselves to their sport. Those who don’t… Well,” he went on, “you don’t hear anything else about those ones.”

  “Buzzkill…”

  “Mustafa.” He sighed.

  “I’m kidding,” Elijah said. “I know. I’ll be careful. And I’ll always listen to your advice.”

  “No, you won’t,” McCauley said wryly.

  “Fine—but can I buy her dinner?”

  McCauley reached out and squeezed his arm. “She’s a good-looking woman,” he said. “Would you listen if I said no?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then you don’t need my blessing, do you?”

  Elijah grinned at McCauley. They had worked together for years, and now he knew him too well.

  “Come on,” McCauley said. “Let’s go and get something to eat.”

  Part VII

  The Sixth Day

  19

  Milton rose early and went for another run in Victoria Park. He pushed himself hard, feeling the jackhammer beat of his heart and feeling the bracing sting of the cold air in his lungs. He was dripping with sweat as he slowly jogged back to the hotel, and drew a slightly disapproving look from the smartly dressed woman who stepped out of the lift as he waited to descend. There was a pool in the basement; Milton showered off the sweat, changed into a pair of swimming trunks, stepped into the warm atrium in which the pool had been built, and lowered himself into the water. He swam for thirty minutes, five strokes for every lap, and then took a sauna to ease his muscles. He showered and went back to his room.

  He took out his phone and checked for messages. Ziggy had sent Milton a link to a web page that he had built, together with an explanation of what he had done that Milton did not entirely understand. It appeared that he had taken the tools that Google made available for developers who wanted to work with their map products and then had incorporated the tracking data that he had purloined from the phones registered to Sharon and Elijah Warriner. The result was a dynamically updated map that showed where both phones were at all times. Milton opened the link on his own phone and checked to see where they both were: Elijah was on Hampstead Heath and, judging by the route that he followed and the steady updating of the phone’s location, he had gone out for a run; Sharon was nearer by, in London Fields.

  That was convenient. Milton wasn’t sure how Elijah would react to seeing him again. He would test the ground with his mother first.

  It was a mile to London Fields. Milton grabbed a bagel from the breakfast bar and ate it on the way, heading north along Mare Street. Tired Christmas decorations were hanging from lampposts, and a few of the shops had made the effort to brighten up their displays for the festive season.

  Milton checked Ziggy’s
map; Sharon was near the lido on the northwest side of the park. He set out, sharing the path with mothers pushing their babies in prams, joggers pounding the pavement, and dog owners exercising their pets. No one paid him any mind; everyone else was busy with their own lives, and he looked like just another pedestrian out for a morning walk.

  He saw her sitting on a bench inside the railings that marked the boundary of the lido. She had a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the table in front of her and was warming her hands around it. She was wearing a headscarf that obscured most of her head and face, a thick coat and jeans, but her hands were unclothed; he was still a distance away, but he thought he could see white streaks across the black skin.

  Milton took a deep breath. Sharon had been badly burned after her flat had been torched. Milton had gone in to get her out, and remembered it as if it were yesterday: how he had wrapped his coat around his hand so that he could touch the red-hot handle, the hungry roar of the fire as it consumed everything, the panic on the faces of the neighbours, the screams that he had heard from inside. He had gone into the blaze and brought her out. He remembered the aftermath too well: her body wrapped in bandages, the stubble on her head from where her hair had been burned off, the puckered skin on her face and body, and the wheeze of her breathing through the tube that had been fitted into her mouth. Rutherford had brought Elijah to the hospital; Milton had made him promise to look after the boy as he had left to exact vengeance for the unforgivable escalation of the violence by Bizness and his crew.

  He had done that, but his anger had blinded him to the threat that Control still posed. Twelve had found him, and Rutherford had died because Milton had allowed himself to be distracted.

  He took a breath, trying to put the memory aside. He went through the gates and stopped next to the table.

  “Hello, Sharon.”

  She looked up at him and, for a moment, he thought that she wouldn’t recognise him.