The John Milton Series Boxset 1

by Mark Dawson

  “Go on,” Bizness said sceptically.

  “I been thinking,” Pinky said, “I know you asked JaJa to do some things for you.” He left the “things” vague but he knew all about the incident at the launch party. “Between you and me, boy ain’t up to much. He’s just a little kid, gets scared about things.”

  “You ain’t that much older yourself, younger.”

  “Nah, true enough, but me and him ain’t got nothing in common. There ain’t nothing you could ask me to do for you that I wouldn’t get done. You know what I’m saying? You want to ask around, people will tell you. I’m reliable. I don’t mess no-one about. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. You don’t need to worry about it, it gets sorted, you know what I’m saying?”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thing is, I’m looking for a change. I’m ambitious, man, and I’m getting bored hanging around in the same old crew. I want to do mad shit but Pops don’t have his heart in it no more, we just hang around these ends doing the same tired old shit day after day. The way I see it, I could do that kind of stuff with you.”

  Bizness looked over at Mouse and grinned. “The balls on this one, eh? Reminds me of what I used to be like.”

  “All you need to do is give me a chance––I promise I won’t let you down.”

  “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

  Pinky shook his head.

  “Aight, I’ll tell you what, younger, there is something you could do for me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled ten pound note. “First of all, though, I’m hungry––go down to Maccy D’s and get me a Ready Meal, aight? Here.” He handed him the note as the other boys started to laugh.

  Pinky felt the colour running into his cheeks. He pretended he wasn’t bothered. “Alright,” he said.

  “Big Mac and a Coke. And be quick. I ain’t eaten all day.”

  * * *

  41.

  POPS CAME out of the takeaway with a bucket of fried chicken. The boys were waiting outside, arranged around a bench opposite the parade of shops. Little Mark was cleaning his new Nikes with a piece of tissue; Kidz, Chips and Pinky were hooting at a couple of pretty girls outside the launderette; and JaJa was sitting facing half away from them, a scowl on his face. They were drinking a six-pack of beer that Little Mark had stuffed down the front of his jacket in the mini-market when they went in for chocolate earlier. Pops put the bucket down on the seat and took off the lid. He helped himself to a breast and bit into it. It was crisp, with just the right amount of grease to it. The others helped themselves.

  “I’m hungry,” Little Mark said.

  “You’re fat,” Chips retorted.

  “Piss off,” he said, but his eyes shone. Little Mark didn’t care if they teased him about his weight. He knew he was fat; he couldn’t deny it, and he didn’t care. He liked being the centre of attention.

  “I’m bored,” Chips said.

  Kidz looked up. “What we gonna do then?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Go see a film?”

  “Nah. Nothing on. All shit.”

  “What then?”

  Chips raised his voice. “See if those fine girls fancy hanging out?”

  The girls heard him, snorted with derision, and disappeared into the launderette.

  “Something else, then.”

  “Dunno.”

  Pops looked at Elijah. He glared back at him sullenly. His eyes were piercing and, for a moment, he wondered if there could have been anyway that he could have found out about his visit to the station. No, he thought after a moment of worried consideration. No, there couldn’t be. He had been careful. They would all know, eventually, but not yet.

  Little Mark spoke through a mouthful of chicken. “We could go and look at that crackhouse––you seen that shit?”

  “That place Bizness had?”

  “So they say,” Chips said.

  “In Dalston?” Kidz asked. Chips nodded. “What happened?”

  “Burned to the ground,” Little Mark replied, fragments of fried chicken spilling out of the corner of his mouth. “Some guy turns up, beats the shit out of the two boys who were there to look after the place, pours petrol around the place and sets it off.” He spread his fingers wide. “Whoosh.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Fuck knows. Some cat, probably, didn’t have any money for his fix and went mental or something.”

  “Whoever that cat is, man, I would not want to be him when Bizness gets hold of him.”

  “That shit’s going to be epic.”

  “Medieval.”

  “He should film it, stick it on YouTube. That’s viral, innit.”

  “Stop it happening again.”

  “Nah,” Little Mark decided. “Can’t be bothered. Dalston’s too far and I’m still hungry.”

  “You always hungry, fatman.”

  “It wasn’t no cat who did it,” Chips said. “You hear what happened at the BRAPPPP! signing? Some old guy, like in his forties or some shit like that, he turns up in the queue and basically calls Bizness out.”

  “You see it?”

  “Someone put it on YouTube. The old man goes toe-to-toe with him, stone cold, they have words and he does this ninja death grip on his hand. Bizness ends up on his arse in front of everyone. What I heard, they reckon the guy who did that is the same guy who burned down the crackhouse.”

  “He’s a dead man,” Kidz said.

  “You ain’t wrong.”

  Elijah gave out an exasperated sigh.

  “You hear about it, JaJa?” Chips said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What you reckon?”

  “I reckon none of you know what you’re talking about.”

  Pops watched the five of them, the easy banter that passed between them. Only JaJa was quiet, the rest joshing and ribbing each other without affectation or agenda. They were what they were: young boys, caught in the awkward hinterland between being children and men. He felt a moment of mawkishness. He had grown up with them. They were his boys, yet his days as one of them were limited now. When they learned that he was going to give evidence against Bizness they would shun him as surely as if he had thumbed his nose at them personally. He would be a grass and there would be beef between them, serious hype, and things could never be the same after that.

  “Pops, man,” Kidz said as he started on his second breast, grease smeared around his mouth. “What we gonna do?”

  His train of thought depressed him. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice blank. “Do what you want.”

  “We could steam a bus?”

  “Up to you, innit.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Stuff.”

  Little Mark looked at his BlackBerry. “Get this,” he said. “Just got a message from my boy in Hackney. You know all that rioting and shit in Tottenham?”

  “And Brixton.”

  “Yeah, now it’s spreading all over. There’s a big crowd getting together on the High Street. Hundred kids already and no sign of boydem anywhere. It’s kicking off.”

  “Fuck we waiting here for?” Chips said. “That’s what we doing tonight, right? Let’s breeze.”

  They all rose.

  “You coming, Pops?” Little Mark asked.

  “Nah, bruv. I got things to do.”

  Pinky stopped and looked at him quizzically. “Where you heading?”

  “Homerton.”

  “Going through the park?”

  Pops said he was.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “You’re not going with the others?”

  “Nah, bruv. I’m not into rioting and shit. Waste of time.”

  Pops shrugged. He would have preferred to walk to college on his own but he wasn’t ashamed of it any more. Who cared if they knew? And Pinky, more than the rest of them, needed to see that there were other alternatives to the street. Perhaps it would h
elp give him a nudge to do something else. And if it didn’t, if he thought worse of him, well, Pops didn’t care about that any longer.

  “Aight,” he said to the others. “Laters.”

  They bumped fists and Pops had another moment of sentimental affection for them all. He quickly recalled some of the things they had done together. Long, hot summer nights, smoking weed in the park, watching the world go by. He smiled at the memories. Another world. It was all finished and gone now.

  With Pinky loping along beside him, he set off towards the park.

  * * *

  42.

  IT WAS SEVEN O’CLOCK and still bright and warm.

  “Where you going, then?” Pinky asked him.

  “Like I said, I got an appointment.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who with?”

  Pops sighed. “No-one, Pinky. I’m going to college.”

  “Course you are,” Pinky replied, managing a wide grin.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Bollocks, man.”

  “Twice a week. Night classes.”

  “Serious?”

  Pinky was about to laugh again but he saw that Pops was staring at him darkly and stifled it.

  College, he thought. What was the point of that? Studying, books, teachers; he had no interest in any of it. Pinky had always been a little slow in school. It wasn’t as if he had never tried. He had given it a go when he was younger but it didn’t seem to matter what he did; the others were always better at reading and numbers and shit and coming bottom of the class again and again got to him eventually. In the end, he had just stopped bothering. Stopped going. The school did nothing about it, his mums didn’t care either way and no-one seemed to miss him. Might as well just be philosophical about it. You couldn’t be good at everything. He’d concentrate on the stuff he knew he was good at: robbing, tiefing, shotting, frightening people. Those were his skills. He’d work on them, get better at it. That was where the money was. That was where the power and respect were, too.

  “Why’s it so funny?” Pops asked him.

  “Dunno. It’s just––well, it’s just not something I can imagine any of the others being interested in, that’s all.”

  Pops snapped, “Because they’re not interested means it’s a bad idea?”

  “Dunno,” he said, surprised at the heat in Pops’s voice.

  “So what’s your plan? You must have one. Or you planning on being on the street all your life?”

  “Hadn’t really thought about it,” he said. “It’s not so bad, though, is it? I get to hang out with my mates and I still make more money in a week than my Mums does in a month.”

  Pinky could see that Pops was about to say something else but he sighed and shook his head instead. “Never mind,” he sighed. “You’re right. School isn’t for everyone.”

  They walked along the Old Ford Road and crossed at the shops. A police car, its lights flashing and siren wailing, rushed by at high speed. They walked up to the roundabout and crossed there, too, passing through the park gates and heading north. There were fewer people in the park than on the street. Pinky looked around. It was quiet. He felt his fingers start to tremble.

  “You can disagree if you want, but if you want to get on in life you need to have the grades.”

  “That’s what you’re doing? Exams and shit?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “For a job. Work.”

  Pinky gestured around at the park, and the streets beyond. “You don’t want to do this no more?”

  “Everything comes to an end.”

  Pinky had looked up to Pops when he started to make his way on the street. He had been a powerful figure, successful and feared, not afraid to get stuck in so that he could get what he wanted. He was what Pinky would have considered a role model. He couldn’t believe how wrong he’d been about that. Bizness had shown him. Pops was nothing to look up to. He wanted out. He couldn’t hold on to his woman. He was a fassy. A sell-out, a fraud who didn’t deserve anyone’s respect. Choosing to go back to school was just another example. And if what Bizness had said was true: going to the police? He felt sick when he thought about the way he had aspired to be like him. How could he have got it so wrong? He was nothing to look up. He was nothing at all.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

  “What are you going to do with your life?”

  “Smoke a lot of weed,” he laughed. “Work on my rep, make sure everyone knows who I am.”

  “Can’t do this forever, man.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just can’t.”

  “Nah,” Pinky said, suddenly overcome with the urge to put Pops in his place. “You’re talking shit, man. Just because you ain’t got the stomach for it no more don’t mean the rest of us have to feel the same way.”

  He had never spoken to Pops like that before. A week ago, he would not have had the nerve, but he knew more now. There was no reason to fear him. And he didn’t need to listen to his sanctimonious nonsense.

  Pops gave a gentle shake of his head but did not rise to it.

  They walked on.

  Pinky’s bag bounced against his hip as he walked. He held it in place with his right hand; it was heavy, and it felt solid.

  “Where you going, anyway?” Pops said. “Following me around like a bad smell.”

  “Just fancied a walk,” he said. “Nice night, innit?”

  He stopped, letting Pops take several steps forward until he was next to a park bench.

  He opened the bag and reached inside. He took out the gun that Bizness had given him. It was a Russian gun, a old Makarov. He had practiced with it in the quieter part of the park, getting used to the weight of it, how it felt in his hand.

  “Oi,” he said. “Pops.”

  Pops stopped and turned. “What is it?”

  Pinky pulled the gun up and levelled his arm, bracing his shoulder for the recoil.

  “This is from Bizness,” he said, just as he had been told.

  Pops started to say something but he didn’t, his voice just tailing off. Perhaps he was going to explain, to apologize, to beg for his life, but what he must have seen in Pinky’s dead eyes made it all useless. Maybe he just accepted it. The gun cracked viciously again and again—four times—and then fell silent. Pops fell back against the bench and sat for a moment, looking up at the darkening sky. His fingers opened in a spasm as he clutched at his chest. Then his head fell sideways and then the right shoulder and finally the whole upper part of his body lurched over the arm of the bench as if he were going to be sick. But there was only a short scrape of his heels on the ground and then no other movement.

  Pinky looked around. There was no-one near them. He started to giggle, nervous at first and then faster and faster, unable to control it. He tugged his hood down low over his face and set off, crossing the wide open space at a jog and then cutting through a straggled hedge and into a patch of scrub beyond. He paused there, taking a moment to catch his breath.

  His heart was racing. He had done it. He had lost his cherry, killed a man.

  Breathing deep and even, but trembling with adrenaline, he clambered over a wall and dropped down onto the pavement beyond. As he set off back towards the Estate he heard the sound of police sirens in the distance.

  * * *

  43.

  MILTON SAT in the front room with the pieces of his Sig Sauer arranged on the table before him. He often stripped and cleaned the gun whenever he needed to think; there was something meditative about the process. He removed the magazine and racked the slide, ejecting the chambered round. He disassembled the gun, removing the slide, barrel, recoil spring and receiver, wiping away the dust from the barrel with a bore brush before squeezing tiny drops of oil onto the moving parts. The routine had been driven into him over the course of long years. He had seen men who had been shot after their weapons jammed; two of his own victims had been damned by their b
ad habits when they might otherwise have held an advantage over him.

  He had piggy-backed next door’s wifi and was streaming the radio through his phone. The riots had spread to Hackney now, too, and there were reports of disturbances in Birmingham and Manchester. Milton thought of Elijah and hoped that he was sensible enough to stay out of the way. Aaron had left him a message earlier in the day: he had not noticed any real change in the boy, he was still hanging out with the other boys although he was, Aaron thought, quieter than usual. He said that he seemed to be angry about something but that he had not spoken with him to confirm it. As far as he knew, there had been no new contact with Bizness.

  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 crackhouse. 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.