by Mark Dawson
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.
“Wait for me down there,” he said to Hicks.
“Copy that.”
Milton opened the double doors and went through into the kitchen beyond. It was empty. Milton moved inside and, as he did, a second set of doors opened on the other side of the room.
A woman came through them.
46
M ilton ducked down behind the stainless-steel counter. It was the girl: Tiffany Brown. She was on her phone and distracted. Milton had been shielded by a tall set of shelves that held pots and pans; she hadn’t seen him.
“It’s done,” she said. “Nah—easy. He had no idea, man. The kid put him in the car. They’ll be there soon.” She paused, leaning back against the counter on the other side of where Milton was hiding. “I know—gonna be a nice Christmas present. Love you, bruv.”
It was quiet as she ended the call. Milton waited for her to walk around the counter and then moved, much too fast for her to do anything about it. He raised himself up, slipped an arm around her slender body, and clamped his hand over her mouth. He wrapped the other arm around her, too, and then dragged her back to the door through which she had entered the room.
“Not a sound,” he whispered into her ear as he dragged her, one of her heels falling off her foot.
She was light, but, as Milton forced her through the door, she fought back. She wriggled and tried to scrape her remaining heel down his shin; the point of the heel was sharp, and it gouged a scratch through his trouser leg. Milton tightened his grip, holding her still, but she didn’t give up. She forced her head up and, before Milton could stop her, she bit down on his index finger. Pain shot up his arm; his grip loosened and she slid out of his grasp.
He was in the way, preventing her from making her way back to the club. She backed away and, before Milton could get to her, she let out an ear-splitting scream. The music was loud in the club, and he doubted that anyone would hear, but Milton was left with no choice; he closed in and, as she raked her nails up at his face, he swept her hand away and then punched her flush in the face.
She staggered backwards, dazed, and Milton moved to take advantage. He hoisted her up into a fireman’s carry, wrapping his right arm around her torso to pin her left arm and angling her so that her right arm was trapped against his shoulder. He was able to manhandle her easily through the door and into the corridor beyond. It was lit by a strip light, and there was enough light for him to see the blood on the floor. He felt the familiar twinge of anger, the buzz of violence, his darker nature shucking off its shackles and baring its teeth, and concentrated on keeping it tamped down so that he could do what he had to do.
There was a door to the outside and a passage beyond that. Milton carried the woman to the end of the passage and the open gate into the yard beyond. Hicks’s Range Rover was parked there, backed in, the rear lights glowing blood red. Milton hurried, opening the door and dumping the woman inside and over the seats. He got in next to her and closed the door. Hicks was in the passenger seat, and Ziggy was driving.
“Go,” Milton said.
47
E lijah had his knees drawn up to his chest with no space to move. He was lying on his right shoulder and, as the car continued on its journey, he started to feel the first painful stabs of cramp. His face was sore from where Pinky had pistol-whipped him. With his tongue, he probed the gap where the tooth had been knocked out, the taste of blood lingering in his mouth.
It was completely dark and he could hear the sound of the tyres against the surface of the road. He occasionally thought he heard muffled conversation and then a gale of what was unmistakably laughter.
He knew that he was in trouble.
Pinky had always been frightening. Elijah remembered him from the years he had spent on the estate. He’d had a bad reputation; Elijah had heard stories that Pinky used to entertain himself by shooting the neighbourhood cats with his air rifle. The recollection of that stirred another memory that he had long since buried; he remembered watching the video that Pinky had taken of himself stealing a dog from one of the old women who lived in the sheltered accommodation around the corner from Blissett House. He had used a kitchen knife to cut the dog’s throat. Pinky had posted it on YouTube; Elijah remembered the snicker of his laughter behind the camera as the animal had choked on its own blood.
And Elijah’s mum had grassed Pinky up to the police. What happened next was talked about incessantly at school: Pinky had
been arrested and taken to the police station for questioning. His mother had been disgusted with him and had threatened to kick him out of the house if he didn’t change his ways. Pinky was a proud boy, and Elijah had known that it would have cut him up to know that the kids at school were laughing at him. Elijah’s mum had suggested shortly afterwards that they should move away from the city—away from the temptations that had so nearly ruined his life—and he had been glad to find that he agreed with her.
He hadn’t expected to see Pinky ever again.
It seemed he had been wrong about that, and the consequences could only be bad.
The car continued. Elijah found it difficult to gauge how long they had been travelling, and had no idea at all where they were. The car slowed down and he felt the rattle and bump as the wheels passed over rough ground. The engine idled and then was switched off.
The cramping was really bad now, throbbing in his shoulder and in both thighs. He heard the sound of doors opening and closing, and then footsteps crunching across uneven ground.
The lid of the boot opened, and artificial light shone inside. It was a torch; Elijah looked away.
“Get out,” said Pinky.
Elijah sat up, wincing from the sudden aches and pains that were stirred by his movement. Hands reached for him, two pairs, and Elijah saw that Kidz was there, too. He and Pinky dragged him out of the boot and dumped him on the ground next to the back of the car. He was on his hands and knees and could smell the fumes from the exhaust. He glanced around. The car had been parked on a patch of rough ground with a row of garages on either side and a track leading into what looked like a council estate. He could hear the sound of passing cars on a major road nearby, but there was nothing else to tell him where they might be. The sky above was dark, a vault of cloud obscuring the moon and stars. The only light was from the torch and the glow of the car’s lights. Snow was falling.
He saw Pinky take a run up but wasn’t able to defend himself as he booted him in the ribs. The impact was sudden and shocking, punching the air out of his lungs and blasting a sharp pain up and down his body. He slumped to the ground, his cheek scraping against pebbles and stones.
“Get him up.”
Kidz was on one side and Chips was on the other. They grabbed him, hauling him onto his feet. He looked up: the garages looked as if they were derelict and unused, save for one that leaked a little light from a crack between its double doors.
“Where are we?” Elijah said.
“Somewhere no one will be able to find you,” Pinky said.
“Why?”
“Friend of mine wants to meet you,” he said.
48
P inky led the way with the other two half-carrying, half-dragging Elijah across the rough ground. He went up to the garage and opened the doors, letting more of the light spill outside. Elijah looked up as they marched him inside. The garage was dilapidated, with leaks in the roof that had allowed pools of rainwater to gather on the floor and lichen growing up the walls. It was larger than he had expected, and looked as if two garages had been knocked together to form a bigger space. Two-thirds of the interior had been given over to what Elijah could see was a sophisticated cannabis farm. The garage had been converted for a hydroponic set-up, with electrical cables snaking down from the ceiling to a series of powerful overhead lights and an elaborate irrigation system. Ducted air-conditioning units had been installed, the motors whirring constantly, with plastic sheeting separating the farm from the remaining third of the space. That part was empty, save for a wooden chair that had been placed beneath the single bulb that hung overhead.
Elijah was taken to the chair and forced onto it. Kidz went over to a table and picked up a handful of cable ties. Chips took Elijah by the left elbow and wrist and held his arm against the arm of the chair; Kidz looped two of the ties around his arm and zipped them up until they were tight. They repeated the trick with Elijah’s right arm. He didn’t struggle; there were three of them, and Pinky had a gun. What would have been the point?
“Come on,” Elijah protested. “You don’t need to do this.”
A radio was playing on a bench at the side of the room; he could hear an old Christmas song: ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ He noticed Kidz looking over to the cannabis farm and followed his eye. He could see the outline of a man through the translucent plastic sheeting; two sheets were parted and the man stepped into the light. He was black, tall, and had a well-trimmed beard. He was wearing a black Adidas tracksuit top, a pair of Levi’s and pristine white trainers.
“Hello,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Sol,” he said. “What do you prefer? Elijah or Mustafa?”
“Elijah,” he said.
“You’re a pretty shit Muslim, blood,” the man said, grinning. He had a gold tooth; it glittered in the light.
“I don’t know who you are,” Elijah said.
“Nah,” the man replied. “I stay under the radar. My brother was different—you know Bizness, right?”
Elijah swallowed down a mouthful of bilious fear.
“Yeah,” Sol said, “I see you do. He was always all about getting props for himself, always wanted to be famous, right from when he was a younger hanging around the blocks. Never saw the point in it myself. The kind of business we do, it don’t make too much sense to draw attention to yourself. Israel was a good rapper, right, but as a businessman?” Sol sucked his teeth. “Man was poor.”
The song on the radio faded out and was replaced with another. Sol paused, cocking his head, and then grinned. “‘Blue Christmas,’” he said. “You like Elvis?”
Elijah didn’t know what to say. “I suppose.”
“Nah,” he said. “White man pretending to be black. I studied that shit at school. Been happening since time began. Still happening today. Your promoter—he’s a white boy, right? I seen him on the TV.”
“Yeah,” Elijah said.
“You ask me, you need to work with another brother. I’m from these ends, too. Just like you.”
Elijah flexed his arms, felt the plastic cable ties pull tight against his flesh. There was no give there.
Sol noticed. “I’ll let you out in a minute,” he said. “Once I’ve said my piece, you can show me that I can trust you.”
“What do you want?”
“First up? I want to tell you about me. I’m a professional, Elijah. I’m all about making my Ps.” He pointed at the farm. “You see that? Two hundred cannabis plants, right there. The unit next to this one is a drying room. We got another unit with mature plants, ready to be cropped. I own all of these garages. Paid fifty grand for them last year. Made that last week. We grow a lot of dope here, make a lot of money.”
He moved closer to where Pinky was standing and put an arm around his shoulders. “My boy Shaquille, here, he’s all for taking a knife to your pretty face. That right, younger?”
Elijah knew that Pinky hated his given name; he saw him stiffen from the use of it, and then the derogative reference to his status.
“That’s what we agreed,” Pinky said through gritted teeth. “I bring him; then we teach him not to diss us. You said we was gonna shank him. That’s what—”
“Hush your gums,” Sol snapped.
“Sol?”
The man turned and cuffed Pinky across the face with the back of his hand. “What’s wrong with you, younger? You forget your place? Shut the fuck up or we’re going to have a beef.”
Sol turned back to Elijah, dismissing Pinky with a flick of his wrist. “I ain’t a barbarian. No one’s shanking anyone. I want to talk to you about a business proposition. You know I helped you tonight, right?”
Elijah saw the way Pinky was looking at the older man and knew that things were about to get much, much worse.
“Come on,” Sol was saying. “You didn’t notice? Connolly went down because I told him to go down. I made good money on that fight, but the way I see it, that’s just a starter. I want mad money out of you, Elijah, no
pocket change. That’s what we gonna talk about. You and me, blood—we’re going to go into business together.”
Sol was compelling, and frightening, but Elijah couldn’t take his eyes off Pinky. He was behind Sol, staring at him, his eyes burning with hate and anger. Elijah watched as Pinky reached into his pocket. His eyes flashed with hot enmity, and his lips were pulled back to show his white teeth clenched together in an ugly grin of anticipation.
“Don’t,” Elijah said to him.
Sol turned around.
49
H icks drove them out of Bethnal Green and deeper into East London. They had changed drivers so that Ziggy could work on finding Elijah. The young man’s phone was dead, so Ziggy had started to excavate the data from Tiffany’s phone instead. The device was locked, but it was equipped with a fingerprint scanner, and Milton held the girl’s finger over it until the screen came to life. Ziggy plugged it into his laptop and set to work, his fingers flashing across the keyboard, information scrolling quickly down the screen.
Milton had secured the girl’s wrists with a length of rope that Hicks kept in the back of the car and, to forestall any possibility of her screams, he had balled up a chamois leather and pushed it into her mouth. She had decided that it was pointless to resist and, for the last ten minutes, she had stared out of the window, occasionally glaring at him in the reflection in the glass. Milton didn’t care about that. She had conspired in the plot to kidnap Elijah, and he would give her reason to be sullen if she didn’t help them fix the mess that she had helped create.
“They’re in Woodford,” Ziggy said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. They both have Android, and they’ve given each other Trusted Contact status. His phone shares its position with hers.”
“Where in Woodford?”
“Look.”
Ziggy held his laptop so that Milton could see the Google Map on the screen. A blue dot was dead centre of a residential district. Ziggy switched to a satellite image and zoomed in: Milton saw the curve of the M11, the oval of a running track, playing fields and a grid of streets. The dot was hovering over a small area of cleared ground in the middle of the housing estate.