The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (25 page)

Rutherford came over to him and sat down. “How you feeling, younger?”

“I feel good.”

“Looking good, too. That was a good session.”

“How did I do?”

“You did good. You got to work on your guard a little. You leave your chin open like that and it don’t matter how slippery and quick you are, someone’ll eventually get lucky and stitch you, and that’ll be that—but we can sort that for you. You got a lot of potential. You work hard at this, who knows?”

“What you mean? I could make something of it?”

“It’s too early to say that, younger. But you got potential, like I said.” Rutherford paused for a moment, his eyes drifting across the room. “You’re running with the LFB, right?”

Elijah said that he was.

“That’s right. Your friend told me. You know we don’t have none of that in here, right? No colours, no beefs, nothing. You all right with that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not like I’m tight with them or anything. It’s a recent thing. I know some of the boys, that’s it.”

“Then we ain’t going to have a problem, then. That’s good.”

“You were involved, weren’t you? The streets, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Rutherford said. “Long time ago. Is it obvious?”

“I see the way the other boys look at you. It’s not hard to guess. Who were you with?”

“LFB.”

“What did you do?”

“The usual—rolled people, shotted drugs, tiefed stuff. But my speciality was robbing dealers.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not? You know they’ve got to be carrying plenty of Ps, and if you take it, what they going to do? I know they ain’t going to the feds.” He sat down on the bench next to Elijah. “Some days,” he said, “we’d head down onto the Pembury or into the park and we’d rob the shotters. Same guys, every day. They’d never see us coming. You put them up against the wall, and it’s ‘give me your money, nigger.’ They know I’m strapped; they ain’t going to risk getting shot. Day in, day out, gimme the money, your jewellery, your phone—anything they had. Who they gonna tell? If we knew where there was a crack house, we’d go in there and clear the place out too. No one’s packing in a crack house, see—no one wants to be caught with drugs and a gun for no reason, so you just stroll in, get your blammer out, and everyone’s too wasted too argue. But you got to be strapped. Always knew that—you got to be strapped. You turn up to a place like that with a knife, man, you’re gambling with your life. And you got to be strapped all the time, because when you rob another gang’s crack house, the cats’ll stop going, and that costs money. When the crew ask around, they’ll find out who’s done what they done, and they’re gonna want to take action to make sure it don’t happen again.”

“Didn’t you feel bad?”

“Sometimes, when I was lying in bed thinking about the way my life was going, course I did. But then you think about it some more, and you got money and power, so in the end you persuade yourself there was nothing in it. You tell yourself it’s the law of the jungle, the strong against the weak. And I was strong, that’s the way I saw it then. But I wasn’t strong. I was a bully hiding behind a 2-2, and I was foolish. Young, proud, full of shit and foolish. But the way I saw it, I knew the players we was going after was doing the same shit to other people. It’s kind of like—this is the road—this is how it is. If you don’t like it, get off the road.”

“What happened?”

“In the end?” He shook his head and sucked on his teeth. “In the end, younger, it happened like it was always gonna happen. We rolled a crack house, only this time the Tottenham boys were wise to it. They had a couple of mash men with blammers there themselves, waiting for us. Soon as we got in there, they pulled them out and started shooting the place up. I took out my strap and fired back. Didn’t know who I was shooting at. Bad things happened.”

“You killed someone?”

“Like I said, bad things happened. I had to get away, so I signed up for the army.”

“How old were you?”

He turned the question around. “How old you say you are?”

“Fifteen.”

“That’s right. I had just five short years on you, younger. I’m thirty-six now. I got out six months ago. I did sixteen years in the army. Two wars. Longer than you been around in this world.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, that’s right—shit. You see why I do what I do now, JaJa? I know where the road is gonna take youngsters like you if you don’t pay attention. There ain’t no chance it can go anywhere else. I know I probably sound like it sometimes, but I ain’t trying to patronise. I just
know
. You follow the road you’re on for too much longer, you’ll get in so deep you don’t even know how to begin getting out. And then, one day, the road will take you, too. You’ll get shot or shanked, or you’ll do it to someone else, and the Trident will lock you up. And either way, that’ll be it—the end of your life. If I can help a couple of you boys get straight, get off the road, then, the way I look at it, I’m starting to give back a little, pay back the debt I owe.”

The door to the street opened, and Pinky came inside. Elijah stiffened.

“You know him?” Rutherford said.

“Yeah. Does he come here, too?”

“Used to, but I haven’t seen him for a while. You two get on?”

“Not really.”

“No, I bet—he’s not an easy one to get along with. He’s got a whole lot of troubles.” Rutherford got up as Pinky approached them. “Easy, younger,” he said. “How’s it going? Ain’t seen you for a couple of weeks.”

“Been busy.” The boy said it proudly, and Elijah knew exactly what he meant.

“That right? How much you made this week, playa?”

“Huh?”

“Your Ps. I know you been shotting. I saw you, up on the balcony at Blissett House. How much?”

Pinky stared at Elijah and grinned as he said, “Five-o-o.”

Rutherford sucked his teeth. “Five hundred,” he said. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? Better than you’ll make all month.”

“Probably right,” he conceded with an equable duck of his head. “So let me get that straight… five hundred a week, over a whole year, you keep taking that you’re gonna end up with what, twenty-five thousand? What you gonna do with that much money?”

“I’m gonna buy me a big-screen TV, a new laptop, some games, some clothes and shoes, and then I’m gonna save the rest. I got plans, get me?”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little aggression laced in the reply. “What about it?”

“Where you gonna save it?”

“What you mean? In a bank—where else?”

Rutherford shook his head. “You’re sixteen years old. You telling me you’re going to walk into the NatWest and give them twenty grand and tell them to stick it in your account? Really? That’s your plan?”

“Yeah.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“Fuck you!” he said. “It’s my money. Mine. They can’t take it off me. No one can.”

“You take it into a bank, and I’ll tell you exactly what’s gonna happen—they’ll be onto the feds before you’re halfway out the door. Next thing you know you’re on the deck eating pavement, and then you’ll do time. That’s if you last that long. Because what’ll most likely happen is some brother will nick it off you. And while they’re at it, they’ll probably merk you, too. And it’s no good being rich when you’re dead.”

“Fuck you, man,” he spat. “Fuck you know?”

Rutherford absorbed his invective and stared back at the boy with a cold hardness in his eyes that Elijah had not seen before. For a moment, it was easy to imagine the intimidating effect he must have had when he was younger. “What do you mean, what the fuck do I know? You know where I’ve come from. You know what I been, what I’ve done. I don’t have to put up with your shit, either. Go on, you don’t want to listen to me, fuck off. Go on. If you want to stay, then stay. I’ll tell you how you can make that kind of money, but legit so you
can
put it in a bank account, so no one’s gonna take it off you and drop you stone dead.”

Pinky squared up, and for a moment, Elijah expected him to fire back with more lip. Rutherford stood before the boy implacably, calm certainty written across his face. He was not going to back down.

“A’ight,” Pinky said, and the tension dissipated in a sudden exhale. He forced a grin across his face. “Cotch, man. I’m just creasing you.”

“Get your kit on if you want to stay,” Rutherford told him sternly. “You’ve gotten all flabby, all this time you been taking off. You got some catching up to do.”

“Funny man.” Pinky hiked up his Raiders T-shirt. He was thin and wiry, the muscles standing out on his abdomen in neat, compact lines. “Don’t chat grease. Flabby? Look at this—I’m ripped, playa.”

“Get yourself in the ring. I got someone who’ll see whether you still got what it takes.”

“That right? Who’s that?”

Rutherford turned to Elijah. “You up, younger. Get new wraps on. The two of you can spar. Three rounds.”

Pinky looked at Elijah and laughed. “Him?” he said derisively. “Seriously?”

“Talk’s cheap, bruv. You think you can take him? Let’s see it in the ring.”

“I’m on that,” he said, firing out a quick combination, right-left-right. “This little mandem gonna get himself proper sparked.”

Pinky went back to the changing room, and when he returned, he had changed into a pair of baggy shorts that emphasised his thin legs. Elijah wrapped his fists again and laced up his gloves. The two boys stepped through the ropes and, at Rutherford’s insistence, touched gloves.

Pinky was older than Elijah, but they were similar in physique. He came forward aggressively, fighting behind a low guard and firing out a barrage of wild combinations. He was quick but not particularly powerful or accurate, and Elijah was able to absorb the onslaught without difficulty, taking it on his arms or dodging away. He spent the first round that way, absorbing his attacks and firing back with stiff punches that beat Pinky’s absent guard, flashing into his nose or against his chin. Elijah knew that his punches were crisp rather than powerful, but that was all right. He was not trying to hurt Pinky, not yet. Each successful blow riled the older boy, and he came forward with redoubled intent. Elijah let him, dancing away or smothering the blows when he could not, letting Pinky wear himself out.

Rutherford rang the bell as the first two-minute round expired, and the two boys broke to separate corners to take a drink.

“I’m gonna dook you up, younger” Pinky called across the ring, lisping around his mouthguard.

“Didn’t do nothing first round,” Elijah retorted. “Look at me—I’m hardly even sweating.”

The other boys had stopped to watch the action. A couple had wandered across to stand next to Rutherford, and others were idling across to join them.

Rutherford rang the bell.

They set off again. Pinky moved in aggressively, firing out another wild combination, rights and lefts that Elijah disposed of with ease. Rutherford was watching him from the side of the ring, and Elijah decided that it was time to give him his demonstration. He stepped it up a gear. Pinky moved forward again, and Elijah sidestepped his first flurry, firing in a strong right jab that stood him up, a left and a right into the kidneys and then, his guard dropped, a heavy right cross. Pinky fell back, but Elijah did not stop. He followed the boy backwards across the ring, firing hooks into the body. Pinky fell back against the ropes, and Elijah pivoted on his left foot and delivered a right cross with all of his weight behind it. Pinky took the punch square on the jaw and fell onto his back.

Rutherford rang the bell and clambered into the ring. Pinky was on his hands and knees, his mouthguard on the canvas before him, trails of spit draping down to it from his gasping mouth. Rutherford helped him to his feet and held the ropes open for him. He said nothing, barely even looking at Elijah as he slipped down to the floor and went back to the changing rooms. The watching boys were hooting and hollering, impressed with the show that Elijah had put on. One of the older boys declared that Elijah had banged Pinky out. Elijah could not prevent the grin that spread across his face.

Rutherford drew Elijah to one side and helped him to unlace his gloves. “Listen here, younger,” he said. “You’ve got skills. You let him wear himself out there, didn’t you?”

Elijah shrugged. “Didn’t seem no point to get into it with him. He’s bigger than me. Would’ve been too strong, I come onto him straight up. Seemed like a better idea to let him work himself out, let him get weak, then come in and spark him.”

Rutherford smiled as he explained his tactics. “You thought all that out for yourself?”

“I used to play that way on my PlayStation. Ali and Foreman, innit? Rope-a-dope.”

“You learned that from a videogame?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Why not?” Rutherford laughed. “Look, little man, I know you’re only just starting out, been here just a handful of times and all, but I think you’re ready to step it up. We’ve got a night coming up with a club in Tottenham. It’s like we got here; a friend of mine runs it. He’s gonna bring his boys down so we can see what’s what. He’ll have five of his best lads; I’ll pick five of mine. I’d like to put you in the team. What you say? Sound like something you might be interested in?”

Elijah’s heart filled with pride. No one had ever said he was any good at anything. None of his teachers, none of his friends, not even his mum, not really. “Course,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.

Rutherford put one of his big hands on his shoulder. “Good lad. Thought you’d be up for it. It’s Thursday night. Speak to the fellow who brought you down. Mr Milton. See if he wants to come?”

Elijah thought of Milton. Would he come if he asked him? Elijah was surprised to find that he half hoped that he would. “A’ight,” he said. “I’ll tell him about it.”

MILTON LOOKED at the window of Sharon’s flat. It was barred, but somehow, it had still been broken. The window faced into the sitting room, and a wide, jagged hole had been smashed in the centre. The wind had sucked the curtains out, and now they flapped uselessly, snagged on the sharp edges of the glass. Fragments had fallen out onto the walkway, and now they crunched underfoot, like ice.

He had called Sharon half an hour earlier to ask after Elijah. She had been upset, barely able to stifle the sobs, and he came straight across. A brick was lying incongruously on the cushion of the sofa, glass splinters sparkling all around it. Someone had pushed it through the glass.