The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (36 page)

He had returned to the hospital after disposing of Bizness. He said nothing about it to Rutherford, but he didn’t need to. The story was on the news that night, buried beneath the clamour of the riots, but once the streets had calmed down again, it rose to the top of the bulletins. Bizness, referred to by his given name of Israel Brown, had been murdered by a person or persons unknown. Two of his associates had also been shot and killed. It was quickly dismissed as a gangland argument that had escalated into something more. Bizness was revealed to be a man of many enemies and, when it all came down to it, not many friends. It was difficult to find anyone who was prepared to say that he would be missed.

Milton had been ready to find a hotel, but Rutherford told him there was no need for that: he could stay with him. Eventually, Milton had agreed. There was a long list of things that needed to be done to make the hall more suitable for the club’s business and staying nearby enabled him to start earlier and finish later. Rutherford had a small house with two bedrooms, the second used as the office from where he ran the club. There was a sofa bed, and once the desk was pushed to the wall, there was enough space for Milton and the handful of things he had rescued from the rented house. They had spoken about Elijah, and once he was ready to leave the hospital, Rutherford had promised that he would be able to stay, too. Milton doubted that there would be space for all three of them, but he knew that that was moot: he didn’t plan to stay for much longer.

Milton had quickly settled into a routine: he would rise early, at half-five, and go for his run. He would work until eight, and then, after showering at the club, he would drive across to the hospital to see Elijah and Sharon. After an hour with them, he would return to Hackney and work through until five, stopping only to buy his lunch from the arcade of takeaways at the end of the road. He stayed at the hospital for a second time until visiting closed for the night, worked until nine or ten and then, finally, returned to the house for something to eat. Rutherford would usually be watching the television, and he would join him for half an hour before calling it a day.

It was a hard schedule, but it had allowed him to get a lot done. He had fixed the roof properly, replacing the tiles that had been dislodged. He had given the equipment a thorough cleanse, scrubbing the canvasses in both rings until the stains that had been trodden in over years of use had been mostly scoured away. He had whitewashed the walls and mended the damaged fixtures in the toilets.

Rutherford approached him. “You coming?”

“In a couple of hours? I want to finish wiring the plugs.” The biggest task left to do was to renew the wiring, but he had made a start and was keen to press on.

“You work too hard.”

“It’ll get done sooner this way.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re being so good about this.”

“It’s nice to be able to help,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“A’ight,” he said, clapping Milton on the back.

Rutherford went to collect his coat. Milton was about to fetch his tools from the office when Elijah stepped in front of him.

“Hey,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“All right, Elijah?”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Are you kidding? I loved it. I said you’d be cut out for this, didn’t I?”

He paused awkwardly. “I never said thanks.”

Milton smiled at him. “There’s no need.”

“It was—you know…”

“You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t handle things as well as I could have done, either. That’s how things get to be, sometimes.”

Elijah was struggling for the words. “It’s just—I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, that’s all.”

“You’ve done well. That fight, tonight, the way you handled him—I’m telling you, Elijah, that was something. I know a little bit about boxing, and when Rutherford says you’ve got potential, I reckon he’s about right. You keep working hard and stay away from the street, I’d say there’s a very good chance you’re going to end up doing something pretty useful with these.” He tapped the back of the boy’s hands. “That left hook of yours”—he exhaled theatrically—“it’s something, Elijah, it really is. I wouldn’t want to get on the other side of it. Your mother will be proud of you when she sees what you’ve been doing.”

The mention of Sharon quietened him for a moment.

“You know she’ll be all right,” Milton said.

He looked up at him. “Why did you help us? You never said.” His eyes were wet.

Milton didn’t know how to answer that.

“JaJa!” Rutherford called. The three of them were the last people in the hall. “I want a curry. You coming?”

Elijah hadn’t taken his eyes off Milton’s face.

It was his turn to feel discomfited. “Doesn’t have to be a reason, does there?”

Elijah paused for a moment and then reached out his hand. Milton took it and held it for a moment. “See you later, Milton,” the boy said. He self-consciously scrubbed the back of his hand across his damp eyes. “We’re getting take-out curries. What do you want?”

“You choose. I’m not fussed.”

“You like it hot?”

“Not really.”

Elijah grinned. “Pussy.”

Milton watched the boy make his way back to Rutherford. They made their way out, shutting the door behind them. Milton headed to the back and the small office. There was a desk, a filing cabinet and a battered leather sofa. He collected his bag of tools and went over to the plug that he was fitting. A curry with them sounded good. He was planning on leaving tomorrow, and it would be nice to have had an evening with them before he did.

RUTHERFORD AND ELIJAH walked along the perimeter of the park. All the boy wanted to do was recount the fight from earlier, constantly asking Rutherford for his opinion and his suggestions for how he could eliminate his faults. It made him smile to see the boy so animated. The evening had been an escape for him, Rutherford could see that, a distraction that meant that he did not have to think about his mother or the ordeal of the last few days. He was a lively, engaged boy, and in his enthusiasm Rutherford could see the premature aging endowed by the street quickly peeled back. He saw him for what he was: a sweet fifteen-year-old boy full of the usual insecurities, the usual need for encouragement and acceptance. He was a little full of himself at times, but what young boy wasn’t? Rutherford remembered that he had been much worse.

“Damn it,” Rutherford said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I put the alarm on. Milton will set it off if he opens the door.”

“Want me to run back and tell him?”

“I better do it.” He handed over a set of keys and pointed. “No need for you to come too—we’re nearly there. You know my house? Last one on the left. Let yourself in, make yourself at home. I’ll get the takeaway on the way back—what do you want?”

“Curry,” he said. “Milton, too. Chicken korma for him. Beef madras for me.”

“Two chicken kormas and a beef madras, then. There are DVDs in the living room—put one on if you want. Go on, get inside. Don’t hang around outside, you hear? It still ain’t right around here.”

Rutherford waited until Elijah had crossed the road and was at the door to the maisonette. The door opened and closed, the boy disappearing inside. Satisfied, Rutherford turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to the church hall.

MILTON PUT down his screwdriver and concentrated on the aches and pains that registered around his body. His joints throbbed with a dull ague, his muscles felt stiff, and there was a deep-seated fatigue all the way in the marrow of his bones. There was no point in pretending; he was getting old. Old and stiff.

He recognised, dimly, that he needed sleep more than anything else.

He was screwing the cover onto the new socket when he heard a knock on the door from outside. He waited, wondering whether he had misheard, but the knock was repeated. Three times, quite hard, urgent. He stood. His eye fell on his Sig Sauer hanging in the shoulder holster against the back of the nearby chair. There was no need. It was Rutherford or, in the worst case, kids who were mucking about. He tossed it behind the ring, out of sight.

He crossed the wide space to the front door, unlocked it, and pulled it back.

Milton did not recognise the man outside.

The man brought up a gun and pointed it directly at his chest.

“Back inside,” he said.

The gun was a Sig Sauer 9mm, like his own. He knew what that meant.

“About time,” he said.

“Inside.”

“Control sent you?”

The man didn’t answer.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Who are you? Eleven? Twelve?”

“Twelve,” he said. The muzzle was aimed at his heart, unwavering in a steady hand, and the man’s face was blank and inscrutable. There would be no sense in appealing to his better nature. He would have no better nature. Twelve followed him into the hall and pushed the door closed with his foot. Milton assessed him. He looked like an athlete with wide shoulders and a tapered trunk. The eyes stared out coldly from beneath pale lashes. They were opaque, almost dead. The eyes of a drowned man.

“What’s this about?”

“Are you armed?” Twelve said. His voice was flat, the sentence trailing away on a dead note.

“No.”

“Pull up your shirt.”

Milton did as he was told.

“Turn around.”

He did.

“Where is it?”

“In the car.”

“Anyone else here?”

“No. Just me. Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

Again, there was no response. Milton assessed. Was there any way of putting Twelve off his stride? Upsetting his balance? He knew with grim certainty that there was not. Twelve and all the other young agents in Group Fifteen were brutally professional. Milton knew how well he had been trained—he would have gone through the same programme as he had, after all—and he was able to anticipate all of the variables that he would be considering. First, he would assess the threat that Milton posed: significant, but limited as it stood. Second, he would confirm that the surroundings were suitable for an elimination: perfect. Once those quick assessments had been made to his satisfaction, he would carry out his orders. It would be quick and efficient. Milton guessed that he had a handful of seconds. A minute if he was lucky and could muddy the waters.

He would not go down without a fight. If there was a chance, a half-chance, he would take it. He assessed the situation himself. Six feet separated him from Twelve. Another indication that the agent was good; not enough to compromise his aim but enough to make sure that Milton could not attack before he could fire. Milton explored his own body, his posture, tensing his muscles and assessing how quickly he might be able to move. The position of his feet. The angle of his hips, of his shoulders. He would need to be decisive, but even then, he knew that his chances were slim. He would certainly be shot before he could reach him, and even if he was not, he did not fancy his chances in unarmed combat with Twelve. He was younger, his muscles more pliant and less damaged and scarred than Milton’s.

“Control sent you?” he asked again, probing for a weakness, some conversational gambit he could spin out into hesitation, then work the hesitation into doubt.

Nothing. He took a step into the hall. The gun did not waver.

“He doesn’t trust me?”

Nothing.

“Come on, Twelve. I’m owed a reason.”

Finally, he answered the question. “Your mental health is in question.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Twelve’s eyes darted left and right, taking in his surroundings, scanning for threats. “Look at this place! What are you now, a handyman?”

Milton ignored that. “It might have been in question before, but it isn’t now. Ten years doing what we do, it’s enough to make you hate the world. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m finished—I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Twelve turned his gaze back onto Milton. “I used to look up to you,” he said, a cruel smile briefly creasing his alabaster-white skin. “You were a legend. But that was then, wasn’t it? Before whatever it is that’s happened to you.”

“Is that what Control thinks? That I’ve gone mad?”

“I’ve been following you. Moving into that dump of a place down the road. That woman you’ve been seeing. And going to those meetings. You’re saying you’re an alcoholic now, with all the intelligence you’re privy to? Fuck, after what happened in France, what did you think he’d think? How could he possibly let that stand? You’ve been classified as a security risk. ‘Most Urgent, Marked for Death.’ What else did you expect? He can’t have you running around like that, can he? You’re a liability.”

He tried to think of something that might deflect Twelve from his mission, but there was nothing. “There’s no need for this,” he said hopelessly.

“Comes to us all in the end. And I can’t lie—this will be the making of me. I’m the one who gets to retire the famous Number One.”

Behind them, the door handle pressed down. Milton saw it first, an advantage of a second or two that his body spent readying itself for sudden action. Twelve heard it too, and the gun continuing to cover Milton, he took a sideways step and then a quarter turn, allowing him to see both Milton and the doorway at the same time. The door opened inwards.

Rutherford stood there.

Oh no.

A warning caught in Milton’s throat, stifled by the steady gun.

“Forgot to tell you about the alarm—” Rutherford said, the sentence trailing away as he noticed the tension in Milton’s posture. His face creased with confusion as he looked to the right, at Twelve, and then that became anxiety as he saw the gun.

“Come inside, and shut the door,” Twelve instructed him in the same cold, flat voice.

Milton knew Rutherford had seconds to live. He was a witness, and there could be no witnesses. He had to act, right now, but the gun remained where it was, as if held by a statue, pointed implacably at his heart. Rutherford did as he was told, stepping inside and pushing the door behind him. The mechanism closed with a solid click.