Authors: Mark Dawson
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Might see you then.”
Milton made his way back to the main road.
He went into the café and took a seat.
“Scrambled eggs with cream, two rashers of bacon and a glass of orange juice,” he said when the girl came to take his order. He was hungry.
He checked his watch. It was a little after eight. The food arrived and he set about it. When he was finished it was a quarter past. He opened the newspaper on the table and read it. There was a short story about the killings in France, but no new details. He skipped ahead, turning the pages and reading until half past eight, and then nine. There was no sign of Elijah. Fair enough, he thought, as he went to settle his bill. He hadn’t expected it to be easy. Getting through to the boy was going to take some time.
17.
LITTLE MARK, Kidz and Elijah had met for lunch at the fast food place nearest to the gates of the school. Elijah had hurried out from double science when he received the text from Pops earlier that morning. He was wearing the white shirt, green blazer and black trousers that made up his uniform and he felt stupid as he jogged the last few yards down the road to the arcade. Little Mark was wearing his usual low-slung jeans and windcheater and Kidz was wearing cargo pants and a hoodie.
“You look nice,” they laughed at him as he drew alongside.
“I know,” Elijah said ruefully. “I look stupid.”
“You still going to school?”
“Yeah,” Elijah said. “So?”
“Not saying nothing,” Kidz said, stifling a laugh.
“I don’t go all the time,” he lied.
“What you doing out here anywhere? Thought you’d be in the canteen with all the other little squares?”
“Got a text from Pops. He told me to be here.”
Other kids from school started to arrive. The canteen was only ever half full; everyone preferred to come down here for fried chicken and pizza.
“Had an argument with my Mums this morning,” Little Mark said.
“Let me guess––you ate everything in the house?”
Little Mark grinned. “Nah, bro, I slept right through my alarm.”
“Probably ate that, too.”
“I’m in bed, right, and it’s eight or something and my Mums is shouting at me to get up, says I’m gonna miss school, and this is the first time I realise, right, she still thinks I
go
to school. I ain’t been for six months.”
“Shows how much she pays attention to you, bro. That’s child abuse, innit? That’s neglect. You ought give that Childline a call.”
The happy laughter paused as they heard the rumbling
thump thump thump
of the bass. It was audible long before they even saw the car but then the black BMW turned the corner, rolled up to the side of the road and parked.
“Shit, bruv,” Little Mark said. “You know who that is?”
“What’s he doing here?” Kidz said, unable to hide the quiver of nervousness in his voice.
“Who?” Elijah asked.
“You don’t know shit,” Kidz said, sarcastically. “That’s Bizness’s car. You never seen him before?”
Elijah did not answer. He hadn’t, but he didn’t want to admit that in front of the others. He had the new BRAPPPPP! record, and their poster was on the wall of his bedroom, but that all seemed childish now.
The BMW kept its engine running. It was fitted with a powerful sound system, and heavy bass throbbed from the bass bins that had been installed where the boot had been. Elijah looked at the car with wide eyes. He knew it would have cost fifty or sixty thousand, and that was without the cost of the custom paint job, the wheel trims, the sound system and all the other accessories.
The front door of the BMW opened and a man slid out from the driver’s seat. Elijah recognised him immediately. Risky Bizness was tall and slender, a good deal over six feet, his already impressive height accentuated by an unruly afro that added another three or four inches. His face was striking rather than handsome: his nose was crooked, his forehead a little too large, his skin marked with acne scars. His eyebrows, straight and manicured, sat above cold and impenetrable black eyes. He was wearing a thin designer windcheater, black fingerless gloves and his white Nike hi-tops were pristine. He wore two chunky gold rings on his fingers, diamond earrings through the lobes of both ears and a heavy gold chain swung low around his neck.
“Aight, youngers,” he said.
“Aight, Bizness?” Kidz said.
“Which one of you is JaJa?”
Elijah felt his stomach flip. “I am,” he said.
Bizness smiled at him, baring two gold teeth. “Don’t worry, younger, I ain’t gonna bite. I got something I want you to do for me. Get in the car. Won’t take a minute.”
Kidz and Little Mark gawped at that but Elijah did as he was told. The interior of the car was finished in leather and the bass was so loud it throbbed through his kidneys. Bizness got into the car next to him and closed the door. He leant forwards and counter-clockwised the volume so he could speak more easily.
“One of my boys has clocked you, younger. Says you got a lot of fight in you. That right?”
“I don’t know,” he said, trying to stop his voice from trembling.
“He says you do. You hang with Pops’s little crew, right?
“Yeah,” Elijah said, tripping over the word a little.
“Don’t be so nervous––there ain’t no need to be scared of me.”
“I ain’t scared.”
“That’s good,” Bizness grinned, gold teeth glinting in his mouth. “Good to see a younger with a bit about himself. Says to me that that younger could make something of himself, get a bit of a reputation. Reminds me what I used to be like when I was green, like you, before all this.” He brushed his fingers down his clothes and then extended them to encompass the car. “Get me?”
“Yes.”
“So a friend of a friend says to me he’s heard of a younger who’s just starting running with Pops’s crew, that he’s got some backbone. Sound like anyone you know?”
“I guess.”
Bizness snorted. “You guess.” He looked him up and down. “You’re big for your age.”
“Big enough,” he said defensively.
“That’s right, bruv. Big enough. I like it. It ain’t the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog, that right? You got some balls, younger. I like that. How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen. Just getting started in the world. Getting a name for yourself. Getting some
respect
. That’s what you want, right?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Yeah. You’re at what I’d call a crossroads, right––it’s like Star Wars. You watched that, right, that last film?”
“Course,” he replied indignantly.
“And it’s shit, right, for the most part, except there’s that one bit that makes sense, you know where Anakin has that choice where he can either go the good way or the bad way? The light or the dark? He thinks like he’s got a choice, but he ain’t got no choice at all, not really. It’s an illusion. The dark side has him by the balls and it ain’t never going to let him go. Destiny, all that shit, you know what I mean? That’s where you are, blood. Your teachers, the police, the social, your Mums––they’ll all say you got a choice, you can choose to try hard at school, get your exams, get a job, except that’s all bullshit. Bullshit. Brothers like us, we ain’t never going to get given nothing in this world. Trouble is, a black man loves his new trainers too much. Right? And if we want to get the stuff we like, we gonna have to take it. Right?”
“Yeah.” Elijah laughed, nervously. Bizness was charismatic and funny, but there was a tightness about him that made it impossible to relax. Elijah got the impression that everything would be fine as long as he agreed with him. He was sure that arguing would be a bad idea.
“So we agree that getting busy on the street is the only way for you to get along in this world. It ain’t easy, though, not on your own. Lots of brothers all got the same idea. You want to be successful, you want the kids you hang around with to take you seriously, you need to build up your rep. I can help you with that. You start hanging out with me, your little friends all find out you’re in my crew, how quickly do you think that’s going to happen?”
Elijah could hardly keep the smile from his face. “Quick,” he said.
“No, not quick, blood––instantaneously.” Bizness clicked his fingers. “Just like that. So when I heard that was this new younger on the street, already making a name for himself, getting some respect, I say to myself, that’s the kind of little brother I used to be like, maybe there’s something I can do to help get himself started in life. I’ll do it for you, I guarantee it, but first I need you to prove to me that you’re up to it.”
“I’m up to it,” Elijah insisted. “What is it? What do I have to do?”
“Nothing too bad, I just got something I need taking care of for a little while. You reckon that’s the sort of thing you could do for me?”
“Course,” Elijah said.
Bizness took a Tesco carrier bag and dropped it into Elijah’s lap. It was heavy, solid. It felt metallic.
“Take this home and keep it safe. Somewhere your Mums won’t find it. You got a place like that?”
Elijah thought of his comic box. “Yeah,” he said, “she don’t never come into my room anyway, I can keep it safe.”
“Nice.”
“What is it?”
Bizness grinned at him. “You know already, right?”
“No,” he said, although he thought that perhaps he did.
“There’s no point me telling you not to look, I know you will as soon as I’m gone. Go on, then––open it.”
Elijah opened the mouth of the bag and took out the newspaper package inside. He unfolded it carefully, gently, as if afraid that a clumsy move might cause an explosion. The gun sat in the middle of the splayed newspaper, nestling amongst the newsprint like a fat, malignant tumour. He tentatively stretched out his fingers and traced them down the barrel, the trigger-guard, and then down the butt with its stippled grip. His only knowledge of guns was from his PlayStation, and this looked nothing like the sleek modern weapons you got to use in Special Ops. This looked older, like it might be some sort of antique, something from that Call of Duty where you were in the war against the Nazis. The barrel was long and thin, with a raised sight at the end. The middle part was round and bulbous and, when Elijah pushed against it, he found that it was hinged, and snapped down to reveal six chambers honeycombed inside. A handful of loose bullets gathered in the creases of the newspaper.
“What is it, an antique or something?”
“Don’t matter how old it is, bruv. A gun’s a gun at the end of the day. You get shot, you still gonna die. Go on, it’s not loaded––cock it. You know how to do that?”
The hammer was stiff and he had to pull hard with both thumbs to bring it back. He pulled the trigger. The hammer struck down with a solid click and the barrel rotated. The gun suddenly seemed more than just an abstract idea; it seemed real, and dangerous, and Elijah was frightened.
“You keep that safe for me, bruv, and be ready––when I call you, you better be there, no hanging around, thirty minutes tops. Alright?”
“Alright,” he said.
“Aight. I was right about you––someone I can rely on. Yeah. Aight, out you get, younger. I got to get out of here. Supposed to be seeing my manager, you know what I mean? New record out tomorrow.”
He held out his closed fist for Elijah to bump. Elijah did, everything suddenly seeming surreal. He stepped outside, holding the carrier bag tightly; it was heavy, and the solid weight within bumped up against his thigh. The bass in the BMW cranked back up and the engine revved loudly.
Kidz and Little Mark were sitting on a wall waiting for him. They both wore envious expressions, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
“What did he want?” Kidz said.
Bizness sounded the horn twice, let off the handbrake and fish-tailed away from the kerb, wheelspinning until the rubber bit on the tarmac.
“Just a chat,” Elijah said.
“What’s that?” Little Mark said pointing at the bag.
He clasped the bag tightly. “Nothing.”
18.
MILTON WAS IN THE CAFÉ AGAIN at nine o’clock. The proprietor recognised him. “Scrambled eggs with cream, two rashers of bacon and a glass of orange juice?” Milton nodded with a smile and took the same table as before. He unfolded his copy of the
Times
and turned the pages as he waited. He turned the page to an article on a shooting in Brixton. A young boy, reported to be sixteen years old, had been shot and killed by another boy. He had passed through the territory of a rival gang to see a girl. The story was backed with a comment, the reporter recouping the deaths in what they were calling the Postcode War. Thirty young boys, almost all of them black, killed this year and it was only halfway through August. Most of them shot or stabbed, one bludgeoned to death with a pipe.
The proprietor brought over his breakfast. “Terrible,” he said, nodding at the open newspaper. He was a Greek, his face grizzled with heavy stubble. He had sad eyes. “When I was growing up, you had an argument with someone you knew and the worse thing that’d happen is you end up having a punch-up, get a black eye or a bloody nose. These days, with them all tooled up like they are, all those guns and knives, you’re lucky if you just end up in hospital. And the only thing most of the victims had done wrong was going out of one area and into another.”
“How many of them were from around here?”
“Three. One of them was just down the road. They shot him. Tried to get into the hardware shop but they finished him off before he could.”
“The police?”
He laughed bitterly. “They ain’t got a clue half the time.” He sneered at the thought of it. “Don’t get me started on them, your breakfast will be cold by the time I’ve finished. You enjoy it, alright? There’s more tea if you want it.”
Milton saw Elijah Warriner standing in the doorway. He was unmistakeably nervous, and Milton thought he might be about to turn and leave. He smiled and waved at the boy, gesturing that he should come inside. Elijah took a look up and down the street and, satisfied, came inside. He was wearing brand new trainers. Despite the heat he was wearing a bright orange puffa jacket that was obviously expensive. He had a Dallas Cowboys shirt beneath the jacket and, beneath that, Milton could see a thick gold chain.