The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (32 page)

Milton tapped out one of his Russian cigarettes and lit up. He considered Bizness. Last night’s message would have been received, and if he had any sense, it would have been listened to. Perhaps he had taken Milton’s advice and was going to stay away from Elijah. Perhaps. Milton wet an ear bud with cleaning solvent and inserted it into the breech end of the barrel, working it back and forth and swabbing out the chamber and bore. Perhaps not. No, Bizness was not the kind of man who would back down. He had made his point, but he had anticipated that it would be necessary to underline it. Another demonstration would need to be made. Milton looked over at the scrap of paper on the arm of the sofa. Aaron had provided the address for a second crack house. He planned to take it down tonight.

He heard the boom of heavy bass from a car stereo, gradually increasing as it neared the house. The thudding rattled the windows in their frames. He pulled aside the net curtains to look at where it was coming from. A car with blacked-out windows was moving slowly along the side of the road, and as he watched, the passenger-side window rolled down. The car drew up alongside the house. A figure leant out of the window, bringing up a long assault rifle. With something approaching a mixture of professional curiosity and alarm, Milton recognised the distinctive shape of an AK-47. The car passed into the golden cone of light from a streetlamp, and Milton could see Bizness’ face, his features contorted with a grin of excitement that looked feral.

Milton threw himself to the floor as the AK fired. The glass in the window was thrown out by the first few rounds, splashing down around his head and shoulders and shattering against the floorboards. Bullets studded against the thin partition walls, dusty puffs of plaster exhaling from each impact. The mirror above the fireplace was struck, cracking down the middle with each half falling down separately against the mantelpiece. A jagged track was pecked across the ceiling, more plaster shaken out to drift down like the thinnest of snow. The thin door was struck, the cheap MDF torn up and spat out.

Outside, someone screamed. Milton crawled behind the sofa, pressing himself into cover. The table with the pieces of his Sig was out of reach; he dared not make an attempt to retrieve it, and even if he had been able to get it and assemble it, he would have been badly outgunned. The AK had been fitted with a drum, and he knew that it would have around seventy-five rounds if it was full to capacity. At a standard rate of fire the gun would chew through that in fifteen seconds.

As he was considering this, the shooting stopped.

He stayed where he was, waiting. Residual bits of glass fell from the wrecked frame, tinkling as they shattered against the floorboards. Milton’s breath was quick. He did not move.

He heard a loud whoop of exultation, a car door opening, and then—panic spilling into his gut—he saw a small metallic object sail through the smashed window, bounce against the wall and fall back, landing on the sofa with a soft thump. A second followed. Milton knew what they were and scrambled up, desperately trying to find purchase for his feet as he threw himself out of the door and into the hall. The first grenade detonated with an ear-splitting bang, ripping the door from its hinges and sending a thousand razor-sharp fragments of shrapnel around the room. The second exploded seconds later. Shards sliced through the partition wall and into the hall, spiking into the masonry like tiny daggers. Milton shielded his head with his hands, pieces of debris bouncing off him.

He heard a car door slam shut, an engine rev loudly, and then the shriek of rubber as tyres bit into the road. He opened the bullet-shredded front door and stepped out onto the street. The BMW was speeding towards Bethnal Green, turning the corner and disappearing from view. Pedestrians on the other side of the road were staring in open-mouthed stupefaction at the scene before them. Residents of the block opposite were hanging out of their windows. The house had been sprayed with bullets. Most had passed through the window, but others had lodged in the brickwork. Dozens of spent cartridges glittered on the road and the pavement, a host of red-hot slugs, many still rolling down towards the gutter.

Milton was not interested in discussing what had happened with the police, and there was no reason for him to stay. He quickly piled his clothes into his bag, collected the pieces of the gun, shut the door, got into his Volvo and set off.

MOUSE WAS DRIVING the new whip, the BMW. Bizness was in the passenger seat, and Pinky was in the back. Traffic was crawling along Kingsland Road. There were youngers everywhere, hundreds of them, kids from the gangs with their faces covered and white kids you’d never normally see this deep in the heart of Hackney. As he watched, he saw different kinds of people in the crowd: professionals in suits, older people, plenty of girls, not so much watching the boys as involved up to their necks themselves. Ahead, they saw two boys in tracksuits with hoods pulled up over their caps dragging an industrial bin into the middle of the road. Another boy poured something into the bin and then dropped a flame into it. The fire caught quickly, and in seconds, a powerful blaze was reaching up to the roofs of the three-storey buildings on either side of the road. Opposite them, a single hooded boy stood in the middle of a trashed Foot Locker, empty boxes and single, unpaired trainers strewn all about him. An old man, must have been seventy, grabbed a hat and bolted. A kid came out from the warehouse, balancing eight boxes of shoes. Ahead of them, a people carrier with a disabled badge in the window pulled over, and the grown man waiting for it quickly filled it with protein shakes from Holland & Barrett. Two girls pushed a wheelie bin full of the clothes they had taken from one of the local boutiques. Bizness had been following events on Twitter all afternoon: kids were rioting in Tottenham, Brixton, Enfield, Edmonton, Wood Green, all over London. And the feds were nowhere.

The car came to a halt. “Fucking
look
at this,” Mouse exclaimed. “Shit is mental.”

Bizness couldn’t keep his eyes off the scene before him: a group of boys had gathered along the same side of a Ford Mondeo, heaving it in unison until they had it on two wheels and then, with a final effort, tipped it onto its side. They hooted in satisfaction before moving on to the Vauxhall parked ahead of it. Bizness grinned at it all. “Boi-dem shoot a brother like they did, what they expect? This was always gonna happen. People got no money, got nothing to do. It’s been a riot waiting for an excuse for months round here.”

He craned his neck around so that he could look into the back at Pinky.

“You done good tonight, younger. Did exactly what I told you. Ain’t no way no one’s going to be able to tie that back to us, and anyway, it’s all gonna get lost in all this nonsense.”

“Yeah,” Pinky said proudly. “Thanks.”

“First time you done that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it?”

“Cool,” Pinky said. “You should’ve seen his face when I pulled the gun on him.” He giggled. “Looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then”—he made the shape of a gun with his forefingers—“blam, blam, blam, blam.”

Bizness looked at him. There was a smile on his face, but there was no emotion in his eyes. They were blank and empty. Boy was a stone-cold killer. It was a little unsettling. He could see he wasn’t the smartest kid, and he knew he’d end up getting merked himself eventually, but until that happened, he’d keep him close. People like him, with no empathy, they were hard to find. They were useful, too. There were plenty of people he could do with having out of the way. Wiley T, for a start. Finish the job that JaJa never even started.

“That’s sorted out your problem, then?”

The boy craved his approval, like they all did. He laughed derisively. “There ain’t no case without Pops. That’s finished.”

“Won’t hurt with the stuff on YouTube, either,” Mouse offered.

Bizness felt his mood curdle just a little. He remembered that someone had recorded the old man standing up to him at the record signing, posting the clip online. There had been traffic on his Facebook page, too, and he had been called out for it. Mouse was right: when word got around that he had put out the hit on Pops and that he had shot up the old man’s house, things would soon be back the way they were supposed to be again. No one would be stupid enough to stand up to him now. Bizness wasn’t the things they were saying. He wasn’t a hoodrat. He wasn’t a kid you could just scare off. He was a serious player. A gangster with a reputation to defend. An authentic, one hundred percent OG.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That shit’s gonna be good for business.”

That brought his thinking around. Business. It had been easy to find a replacement for the Dalston Lane crack house that the old man had torched. It wasn’t as if Hackney was short of empty properties, and Levelz and Tookie had found a new place ten minutes away. They were already setting up again and putting out the word. Bizness hated crack heads, and he hated crack houses, but they brought in plenty of Ps, and he knew how to make the business work. It was like any business; you just needed to advertise, create a little demand, that was all. In this case you let it be known that there was cheap crack to be had, and then you waited for your punters to come. Easy. It was like spreading shit and waiting for the fungus to grow.

“No way through here,” Mouse said. “We gonna have to detour.” He edged the Beamer further along the road until they could take a side street. He buried the pedal, and they lurched forwards, wheels squealing as the rubber gripped. Bizness stared out of the window as they passed the rows of terraced houses and then the ugly boxes of the Estate.

Youngers were gathered on the street corners, their eyes following the car. Bizness wondered whether they knew who it belonged to. Some of them did, you could tell from their faces; he loved it when they nudged their friends and told them that it was him, loved the open mouths and their surprise. It made him feel good. He had been one of them, once, stood around on the streets and doing nothing, shotting a little if he could get his hands on any merchandise, getting into beefs with other boys, looking for hype with lads from outside the postcode. He liked to remind himself how far he had come, how far he had left them behind. He was a player now; there was no question about it. He was a Face, and everyone knew it. Some had started calling him the God of Hackney. He liked that. Maybe he’d change his name, release a solo record under that next. The God of Hackney. Had a ring to it, for sure. BRAPPPP! couldn’t go on forever, and after all, as far as most people were concerned, he was BRAPPPP!, anyway.

“We picking up JaJa now?” Pinky said.

“Yeah. You know what to say to him?”

“Just what I saw, innit,” he said. “Ain’t no problem.”

The boy was the last loose end he had to snip. He was waiting for them next to the entrance to the lido in London Fields. Mouse had BBMed him earlier and told him to wait for them. He slowed the car to a stop. The boy got in next to Pinky, shut the door, and Mouse accelerated away again.

“A’ight, younger. How you doing?”

“Alright,” Elijah said hesitantly.

Bizness was pleased to see that the boy was still nervous around him. That was good.

“What’s he doing here?” Elijah said, nodding at Pinky.

“He’s in the crew now,” Bizness said. “You heard about Pops?”

He looked down at his new trainers pressed close together in the footwell of the car. “Yeah.”

“What you hear?”

“He got shot.”

“Other people know, too?”

“People are talking about it.”

Bizness folded his arms. “He had it coming to him, younger. Mandem was up to no good. First rule—you don’t ever,
never
, grass to the feds. You do that, you’re worse than a dog. I know you know that, but it pays to keep it at the front of your mind. Pops forgot, see? And so he got what was coming to him. Ain’t no reason to feel bad about it.”

“You did it?”

“Nah. I made it happen.”

“Who, then?”

“You sitting right next to him.”

Elijah gaped at Pinky. “Him?”

“Yeah. Boy did good, just what I told him to do. Put four bullets into him. Ice cold. You want to pay attention. You got a lot to learn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I ain’t forgotten what happened with Wiley T, little man. You still got to make up for that.”

Elijah kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Yeah, Bizness thought, boy was real scared, of him and now of Pinky, too. That was just how he wanted it. You could get someone who was scared to do just about whatever you wanted them to do.

He changed the subject. “Reason you’re here, I want to talk to you about something. This man, the old fassy who burnt down my property—you know what we did to him today?”

He shook his head.

“There’s an AK-47 in the boot. We shot his house up.”

“You killed him?”

“Nah—we saw him come out, but he probably got shot, though, either that or the grenades we tossed in through his window would’ve done him. Messed his place up good. He won’t be bothering us no more.” He grinned at the thought of it. “It’s the same thing as Pops, see? Can’t have people questioning me, disrespecting me. You have to make an example out of people like that. You get me?”

Elijah nodded. It was a small, timid gesture.

“So,” Bizness went on, “the thing is, I heard something that’s troubling me. I heard you know who he is.”

“I—”

“Don’t mess me around on this, younger. It’s important. Pinky?”

“I was outside your mum’s flat last week, wasn’t I? I saw him coming out. The HMV thing, too, I recognised him from there. I got an eye for faces, know what I mean? It was the same old man, I’m sure of it.”

“Come on, then, younger, what’s his name.”

“Milton.”

“You know what he does?”

“He never told me,” he replied quietly. “Said he ain’t police, though.”

Bizness sucked his teeth. Police didn’t typically burn down crack houses, so he was happy that the old man wasn’t lying about that. “If he ain’t police, you know why he’s putting his nose in our business?”