The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  McCauley kept pace with Elijah and Alesha as they were ushered around the queue to a VIP entrance.

  “Be on your best behaviour,” McCauley said.

  “You know me.”

  “I just heard. A couple of executives from HBO were over to watch the fights. You impressed them. They want to say hi.”

  Elijah led the way into the venue. The roof soared overhead, and the pulse and throb of bass rippled the canvas. Lasers whirled up and around, and strobes exploded over the dance floor, freezing the men and women on the floor in staccato poses.

  “Mustafa!”

  Elijah stopped as the promoter muscled his way through the crowd.

  “Happy Christmas!” he said. “You were amazing.” He turned to Alesha and put out his hand. “Tommy Porter.”

  “This is Alesha,” Elijah said, feeling awkwardly possessive.

  “Nice to meet you, Alesha. What are you three doing out here? The party’s in the VIP room. Your tickets will get you in.” He pointed to a roped-off area on the other side of the dance floor. “There’s food and a free bar. I’ll be over in a minute—see you then? We need to chat.”

  “See you there,” McCauley said, stepping up between the two of them.

  He nudged Elijah forward. Alesha reached for his hand and he gave it a squeeze.

  “Be careful with him,” McCauley warned. “He’s as bent as a nine-bob note. If he starts talking about the next fight, tell him to come and talk to me.”

  “A’ight,” Elijah said.

  He wasn’t really paying attention, not to Porter nor McCauley. He was adrift in a delicious sensation of euphoria: the fight, the music, the softness of Alesha’s skin against the calluses that had toughened up his palm.

  Tonight was going to be a good night.

  43

  The VIP area was behind a velvet rope. They approached the bouncer who was guarding it and showed them their tickets.

  The man didn’t even look at them. “It’s okay,” he said. “I know who you are. You looked good tonight, son.”

  Elijah couldn’t stop grinning. This was unreal: people he had never met before knew who he was. They respected him and what he could do.

  He turned to Alesha and saw that she was smiling, too.

  “Get used to it,” she said. “You’re prime time now.”

  Elijah looked around to see if his mum was here, but there was no sign of her. He thought about texting her to see where she was, but Alesha gripped his hand and dragged him to the bar.

  She aimed away from it, heading towards a pair of plain double doors.

  “Where are we going?” he asked her.

  She turned back and smiled at him. “I’ve got something for you.”

  Milton walked from Bethnal Green station to the venue. The road was busy with people enjoying a night of entertainment before the reality of Christmas set in. Groups of men and women made their way from venue to venue; Milton saw a young woman in a party dress slumped on one of the benches that lined the grassy margin of Paradise Row. He passed York Hall and thought of how much had changed for Elijah since the workout there just a few days earlier. He had done everything that he needed to do in the ring. His fate was in the hands of his trainer and promoter now. He was too young to understand the business and the politics that drove it. Milton hoped that he had surrounded himself with competent people, but then remembered Sharon; his mother was smart and wouldn’t let her son be exploited. Elijah was in good hands.

  He passed his hotel and kept going, turning left onto the narrow one-lane road beyond The Hare pub and continuing beneath a railway bridge as a late-running train rumbled overhead, the golden lights from the carriage casting their glow down onto the cobbles. This was an old industrial area, with warehouses and manufacturing businesses occupying the buildings that shouldered up against the banks of the Regent’s Canal. He heard the thud of bass and followed the noise to a warehouse, newly refurbished, that bore a sign announcing it as Oval Space. The road was The Oval, its name derived from the island around which it split, cars parked tight up against each other atop it. There was a queue of men and women outside a flight of steps that led up, Milton presumed, to the entrance. Taxis and luxury cars fought for space along the narrow road, disgorging their passengers and then crawling away. The people were dressed in suits and cocktail dresses, many of them evidently brought here directly from the fight.

  Milton continued on, scouting the street. The opulence and luxury were at odds with the surroundings: the cobbles, the derelict buildings with weeds spilling down from the roofs, the graffiti on the walls. Someone had tagged a large expanse of brick with BLACK AND WHITE UNITE—SMASH THE NATIONAL FRONT and another had added EAT THE RICH. It was new money butting hard against the area’s old industrial heritage. He continued to the end of the road and a stretch of rusting iron railings that protected against the drop down to the canal. Colourful narrowboats had been moored there, lights glowing in their windows indicating that their owners were aboard. One of the boats had a Christmas tree on the roof, the branches swaying in the breeze, baubles clanking as they bumped up against each other.

  Milton dialled Hicks’s number, then added Ziggy to the call.

  “Where are you?”

  “Hit a bit of traffic,” Hicks reported. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Milton opened a map on his phone. “It’s busy,” Milton said. “Come off the road opposite Vyner Street, go under the bridge and park there. There’s a barrier there—it’s the closest you’ll be able to get to the venue without getting boxed in.”

  “Will do. I’ll let you know when we get there. What do you want us to do?”

  “Stay outside and keep your eyes open.”

  Milton ended the call and went back to the venue.

  44

  Alesha didn’t let go of his hand. She tugged him with her, leading the way through the VIP area, through a pair of double doors, and then into a large kitchen.

  “Where we going?” he asked her again.

  “Somewhere quiet,” she said, smiling at him. “Can you spare ten minutes?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to show you how impressed I am with what you did tonight.”

  She pulled him on and he didn’t resist. He knew what she was suggesting, and his heart quickened. The whole night had been ridiculous: the fight, the party, a girl like Alesha showing interest in him. She was peng—banging hot—and the thought that she would want to spend time with him was something that Elijah was struggling to get straight in his head. His mum and McCauley had told him to be careful, that there would be gold-diggers who wanted a part of him now, who might think he could make them rich or famous, but he didn’t think that Alesha was like that. She had been interested in him before tonight, before he had knocked out Connolly and guaranteed his future. Maybe she actually liked him; maybe it was time he allowed himself to think that that might be possible.

  She pushed open the doors on the other side of the kitchen and led him into a corridor.

  Elijah saw him, but it was too late.

  Pinky.

  “A’ight, JaJa?” Pinky said.

  He turned back to the door. Kidz had been there, hiding against the wall, and now he was blocking the way back to the club. Elijah turned in the other direction and saw another man—Chips?—standing in an open doorway that led outside.

  Pinky reached into the pocket of his padded jacket and brought out a pistol. He held it up, then lazily levelled it so that it was pointed straight into Elijah’s gut. “You’re coming with us.”

  Elijah swallowed down a gulp of fear. “No, I’m not.”

  Pinky lurched at Elijah, bringing the butt of the pistol across his cheek. The metal clashed against his cheekbone, and, with his head ringing, he reached up and saw fresh blood on his fingertips.

  Pinky took his advantage, pressing the gun against Elijah’s head. “I’ll do you now, right here, you diss me again. Don’t fuck me around, blood. You’re coming outside
with us.”

  He felt the swoon of dizziness, leaned down and spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floor. There was a flash of white amid the red. It was funny, and he almost laughed at the foolishness of it: he’d been in the ring with Connolly, but it was now, afterwards, that a tooth had been knocked out. He put out his hand and supported himself against the wall of the corridor.

  He looked back for Alesha. He didn’t know what to say, whether he should tell Pinky to leave her alone or just say nothing and hope that whatever it was he was going to do, he would do it and forget about her. His concern curdled when he saw her face.

  “What?” she said, her arms spread. The warm smile and the playful tone in her voice were gone.

  “What’s going on?” he said through a bloodied mouth.

  “Payback,” she replied.

  “What?”

  “You gonna pay for what you did. For what you took from me. From me and my family.”

  She stepped forward and spat in his face. He wiped it away, his fingers covered with commingled blood and saliva.

  Pinky grabbed him by the collar and yanked, sending him towards the open door. He followed close behind, and Elijah could feel the muzzle of the pistol in the small of his back. They exited the building and made their way around a narrow passage between the wall on the left and a wooden fence on the right. The venue butted up against a larger square building, and to Elijah the path looked like a dead end. He was almost sick with the fear that he was going to be put up against the wall and shot. But it wasn’t a dead end; there was a gate in the fence and Chips opened it, leading the way into a space between the buildings that had been used to park cars.

  One of the cars had its engine running, its headlights glowing against the side of the building opposite. The lid of the boot was open.

  Pinky kicked him on the backside. “In.”

  Elijah went to the car and turned around, his eyes on the tiny black hole in the muzzle of the pistol, his mind spooling up his memories of Pinky, of what he had been capable of as a boy.

  “Get in the car, JaJa. I don’t wanna ask you again.”

  Elijah hooked his leg over the lip of the boot and hopped up, lying flat and drawing his knees up to his chest.

  Pinky and Alesha stepped up to the back of the car, looking down at him.

  “You gonna get proper dooked, bro,” Pinky said, grinning at him.

  The boot slammed shut.

  45

  Milton ignored the grumbles of those waiting in the queue as he made his way up the stairs to the front of the line and told the bouncer that his name had been left at the door. The man grunted, nodding to a woman with a clipboard who was standing by a smaller, secondary door.

  “My name is Milton,” he said. “I should be on the list.”

  She ran her finger down a piece of paper until she found his name. “There you are,” she said. “In you go.”

  The venue was large. The room had been cordoned off halfway down its length, but it was still a big space. There was a dance floor, a DJ booth and several bars. A projector hung down from a scaffold, and it was projecting the bouts onto a large screen. Milton looked up to see a ten-foot-tall Elijah covering up and then uncorking the big uppercut that had nearly knocked Connolly out of his boots.

  Milton heard Ziggy’s voice in his ear. “Milton—you there?”

  “I’m inside,” he said. “What is it?”

  “I got a hit.”

  Milton felt a shiver pass down his back; he found a corridor and made his way through a pair of double doors and into the gents, the sound of the PA fading just a little. “Go on.”

  “You sent me a picture—a girl coming out of the dressing room? I only just got it.”

  “I sent it two hours ago—”

  “There was limited capacity in the park. Look—it doesn’t matter. You need to know this. You know the girl?”

  “I don’t know anything save that I think she’s involved with Elijah.”

  “Her name’s Tiffany Brown. Currently unemployed, but was taking a media degree before she was expelled six months ago. She was interning at Vice, but something happened and they sent her back. She has a criminal record for wounding, theft and possession. She’s also the sister of Solomon Brown and Israel Brown—”

  “Oh shit,” Milton said. “Oh shit.”

  He turned back, pushed the door, and went back out into the noise of the club.

  “Milton—you still there?”

  Milton scoured left and right, looking for Elijah.

  “Milton?”

  “I’m here,” he said, only half listening.

  “Israel Brown was the real name of Risky Bizness, shot dead in Hackney three years ago. Solomon Brown is Tiffany’s older brother. He’s never been convicted of anything, but the Met police have a file on him as long as your arm. He’s suspected of running a local drugs syndicate, and he’s been implicated in at least three murders. He’s—”

  Milton saw Sharon. He ended the call and intercepted her on her way to the bathroom.

  “Hi, John,” she said with a wide, happy smile. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, working hard to keep the edge of panic from his voice. “Have you seen Elijah?”

  “He was in the VIP room,” she said. “Why? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” he said, forcing out a smile of his own. “I just wanted to check up on him. Where is it?”

  She pointed behind her. “Over there. What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “I mentioned you were there tonight. He said to say thanks.”

  Milton wanted to get over to the room, to check that Elijah was okay, but he didn’t want to frighten Sharon unnecessarily, either. “That’s great,” he said, starting to move to the side so that he could get around her.

  She reached out and took his elbow. “He asked if you’d like to see him tomorrow. I think he wants to apologise.”

  “I’d love to,” he said, gently removing her hand and sliding around her. “Tell him that’d be great. I’m just going to the bar. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  He walked away from her before she could stop him. He dialled Hicks again, the call connecting as he circumnavigated the dance floor.

  “Yes?” Hicks said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Outside,” he said.

  “Have you seen anyone leave?”

  “There’s a crowd here. Who are you looking for?”

  “Elijah. He might be with a woman—black, mid-twenties, pretty.”

  “Ziggy sent me her picture,” Hicks said. “I haven’t seen her. Not out the front, anyway.”

  “They won’t go out the front.” He opened the map on his phone. The club was bordered to the east by the patch of land with the derelict gasholders and to the south by the canal. There was no way out by car in either direction. The main entrance was to the west and would be too busy. If they could get out to the north, they could get onto Hackney Road and be gone. “Go north,” he said. “Up to Emma Street.”

  Milton reached the private area. A large bouncer was guarding the entrance, his hand resting around the end of a velvet rope that was strung between two chrome poles. The VIP room was around a short corner, and Milton couldn’t see inside it from where he was standing.

  “You can’t come in here,” the man said.

  “I need to go through,” he insisted.

  “And I told you that you can’t. Step back, please, sir.”

  Milton took a step back, watched the man’s posture loosen, and then drilled him in the face with a straight right. The man was big, but his chin was soft; he staggered back, the rope catching around him as he fell down to his backside, both poles clattering into his lap. Milton knew that he had a limited window; the other bouncers would be called over.

  It didn’t matter: he had to make sure that Elijah was safe.

  Milton made his way into the VIP room. He took it in, appraising it quickly and professionally:
thirty guests, two members of staff with canapés, a bar with a bartender working behind it. He could see Elijah’s trainer and the young promoter, Porter.

  He couldn’t see Elijah.

  He heard the sound of a commotion behind him and knew that he didn’t have long before the security arrived to take him out. He stepped forward, between the trainer and Porter.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The trainer frowned. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Elijah.”

  “Elijah?”

  Milton gritted his teeth in frustration. “Sorry—Mustafa. Do you know where he is?”

  “I don’t know you. How do you know him?”

  “Milton,” Hicks said, “there’s a yard on the other side of the building. There was a car, lights on.”

  Fuck.

  “Can you stop it?”

  “What?” the trainer said, thinking Milton was talking to him.

  “It’s gone,” Hicks said. “Headed west on Emma Street, then left, up to Hackney Road. What do you want me to do?”

  “Can you follow it?”

  “Ziggy’s only just brought the car around.”

  The trainer rested a hand on Milton’s shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  He turned back to the man. He was frowning, evidently confused by Milton’s behaviour.

  “Who are you?” the trainer said.

  “I’m a friend of Mustafa’s mother. Just wanted to say congratulations to him. Do you know where he is?”

  “He was here. Last I saw him he was over by the bar.”

  “Thank you.”

  Milton went to the bar and saw the door to the side of it. He knew what had happened.