Twelve Days Page 2

  Milton watched the bout. A muscular black fighter was schooling his smaller white opponent. He kept him on the end of a long jab, firing it out with metronomic regularity, before softening his body with a nasty right hook into the kidneys. The black man stepped out of range as his opponent tried to counter. The camera zoomed in on the face of the white guy: he was blowing hard, and his cheeks and eyebrows were already reddened. Another caption appeared on the screen: it was still the first round.

  The barman noticed that Milton was watching. “Él es bueno .”

  Milton’s Spanish was average at best, but he nodded his agreement. “He’s very good.”

  The barman ducked and moved with the boxer’s movements. Another counter was slipped, a left jab coming from the black fighter before he swung down to the side and detonated an unorthodox, unexpected and utterly devastating right hook on his opponent’s chin.

  There was a gasp from the other patrons of the bar as the punch landed.

  “Increíble! ” the barman exclaimed.

  The white guy was out before he hit the canvas. The referee stood over him, waving off the count, cradling the boxer’s head and removing his mouthguard. The winner stood on the ropes and saluted the crowd.

  The camera zoomed on his face. Milton’s eyes narrowed. He had a moment of recognition, swiftly replaced by confusion.

  “¡Coño, chico!” the barman swore. Milton raised his glass in reply and nodded his head. The knockout was impressive, but he was still confused.

  The shot changed to a wide angle of the ring. Medical staff gathered around the prone fighter, who was only now showing signs of consciousness. The MC stepped through the ropes and made his way to the centre of the ring, where the victor was waiting.

  “Volumen?” Milton asked, twisting his fingers to indicate that he wanted to listen to what was being said.

  The barman reached under the bar for a remote control.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, referee Tony Gaitskill stops the fight at one minute forty-five seconds into the first round. The winner, by technical knockout—the Sheffield Express, Mustafa ‘Boom Boom’ Muhammad.”

  Milton stared at the screen, a smile on his face.

  The victor moved to the ring apron and sat down. An interviewer, hidden behind the camera, held a microphone in front of the man’s face.

  “Mustafa,” he said, “that was very impressive.”

  “Thank you. I knew I had to get him out of there early. Wanted to make a statement.”

  “You certainly did that,” the interviewer said. “That’s nine fights, nine wins, and all of them by knockout. What’s next?”

  “We move on. Everyone knows what fight I want.”

  “Let’s bring your promoter in now.” A man in a suit shuffled into the shot, sitting down next to his sweaty protégé. “That was some display.”

  The boxer was on his feet and, as the cameraman was jostled backwards by a swell in the crowd around the ring, Milton got a better look at him: taller, more muscular, his black skin offset by the deep gold of his shorts.

  He might have changed his name, but Milton knew exactly who he was.

  Elijah Warriner.

  A caption on the screen identified the promoter as Tommy Porter. “First off,” Porter said, “I just want to say a big thank you to all those who came out to York Hall tonight for a great night of boxing. The fans make this place special, and tonight was no different. But even the best things come to an end, and I don’t think Mustafa will be fighting in somewhere as small as this again. He’s destined for the top, and he only wants the big fights. I mean, come on—this kid just turned nineteen and he’s been knocking out everyone we’ve put in front of him. Nine fights, nine KOs. He needs to move on, probably quicker than any of us ever expected, but that doesn’t matter. He’s a special talent, and people might think we’re rushing him, but you can’t wait around with someone like this. He’s ready.”

  “So who’s next?”

  “It’s the one everyone wants to see. I can announce it now: Christmas Eve at the Copper Box, London, Mustafa Muhammad versus Samuel Connolly. A Christmas cracker for fight fans.”

  Milton raised his eyebrows as the crowd cheered behind the men on screen. He didn’t follow the sport as much as he would have liked, but even he was surprised at the step-up. York Hall held a thousand people at best. The Copper Box was on the Olympic Park and must have held six or seven thousand.

  The interviewer reached out for Elijah’s elbow and brought him back into shot. “Finally, Mustafa, we’ve been reading this week about how you’ve dedicated this to your mum.”

  “Yeah, you know I do all this for my family so they can have a better life. My mum’s the reason I’m where I am today. She’s had to deal with the worst of it, but she’s a fighter. No one can keep her down.”

  Milton remembered Sharon. Elijah’s mother had led a difficult life, and then she had been caught up in the aftermath of his clumsy attempt to wrest her son from the orbit of the man who had threatened to blight his future. It had been more than three years since then. Milton had thought of her often, and about the way he had left without speaking to her or her boy. He had never been happy with it, but there had been nothing else that he could have done. Control had sent a psychopath to kill him, and an innocent man had been murdered in the crossfire. Milton had been shot, too, and had had no choice but to flee. He had reflected on it since, many times, and had never been able to shake the feeling that he had left unfinished business behind him that evening.

  Milton watched as Elijah smiled, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

  Maybe he could draw a line through it. Enough time had passed. He could go to London now; Control’s death had made that possible. He had been living there, working in the cabman’s shelter in Russell Square. He kept a low profile, but there was no need to hide. They weren’t looking for him any longer.

  There was no reason to wait: he would go back to visit the young man he’d once known.

  And saved.

  Part III

  The Tenth Day

  4

  P inky sat with his back against the brick structure on the roof of Blissett House. He loved coming up here. The block was twenty-two storeys tall, seventy metres high, and the view was spectacular: he could see the grid of untidy streets that made up this part of Hackney, the main roads that fed the city, the open space of Victoria Park and, not that far away, the illuminated London Stadium that had hosted the Olympics. Pinky had been coming up here for years, ever since he had taught himself how to pick the padlock on the access door. He had kept the secret to himself. It was his special place, somewhere only he knew about, a place to come when he wanted a moment’s peace, somewhere he could try to silence the voices in his head.

  Pinky’s real name was Shaquille, although only his mum still called him that. He didn’t even think of himself that way anymore. They had called him Pinky ever since he was little. His old man had bought him a knock-off Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey that he had been wanting for months, but when his mum put it into the washing machine for the first time, all the colour had run out of it so that it was more fuchsia than red. He’d wanted to throw it in the rubbish, but his dad had threatened him with a beating for being ungrateful and had made him wear it. The other kids on the block thought it was hilarious, said wearing it meant he must be gay, and that was that; they’d called him Pinky and the name had stuck.

  He had hated it at first, but he didn’t care now. No one would dare to insult him. He’d worked hard to build his reputation, and everyone on the estate knew that to wind him up was a risk not worth taking. They all knew he had blood on his hands. Pops had been his first—four shots into his body as they walked through Victoria Park near the Old Ford Road. There had been others since: a little thief from E7 Crips who had been rolling commuters on the East London line; a dealer from Bethnal Green Massive who thought he could sell his smack to the addicts who usually bought from Pinky’s crew. There had been other demonst
rations of his ruthlessness—he was known for his blades, swiping them across the cheeks of those he wanted to bear witness to his mercilessness—and it had all contributed to his rep.

  Pinky had taken over the LFB in the aftermath of the week that saw Pops’s death and then the murder of Risky Bizness, everything spiralling into the abyss as riots swept out of Tottenham and consumed the capital during that long, hot summer. That was three years ago; he had just been a younger then, but now he was a Face. He was Sol’s man in Hackney. He ran these ends.

  He stood up, his jeans hanging down loose. He felt the heavy weight of his gold chain as it fell back against his chest, and ran his fingers over the chunky links. It had cost him a grand, and he had another one hidden under his bed at home. He put up his hood, patted the bulge of the butterfly knife in his pocket, and made his way to the door that led to the stairs. He had an appointment to keep, and the man he was seeing was not someone you wanted to keep waiting.

  5

  P inky turned down the volume on the fifty-inch widescreen television on the wall—silencing the boxer on the screen talking—then turned to the man sitting next to him.

  “There,” he said. “I told you.”

  Solomon Brown took a drag on the joint he was holding, then blew the smoke in Pinky’s face. Pinky felt his eyes watering, but swallowed back the cough that tickled his throat. The man was almost a foot taller than Pinky, and there was muscle there, too, straining against the fabric of the black T-shirt the man was wearing.

  “You sure?” Brown said, looking at the glowing end of the joint, then blowing softly on it to make it glow a little brighter.

  “It’s him, Sol,” Pinky said. “I grew up with him.”

  Brown took another drag and then offered the joint to Pinky.

  “So, what you saying? He’s been in Sheffield?”

  “That’s what they say,” Pinky replied, taking the joint and sucking hard on it. The weed was smoother than the crap they were pushing on the street now. The cats all wanted skunk these days, weed from unpollinated plants that had more THC than hash or grass. Pinky preferred a smoother smoke and was glad that Sol felt the same way.

  “You did well. Bringing this to me.”

  Pinky relaxed a little. Sol had always freaked him out. He’d spent enough time in his presence to know he had it in him to lose his rag. There wasn’t that much difference between him and his brother in that regard: both of them could go from easy-going to mental at the drop of a hat. Sol contrasted in other ways: he was smart, he had been to college, and he ran the business like it was a company, with accounts and ledgers and a structure that had never been there when Bizness had been in charge. Sol made no secret of the fact that he was smart, and the fact that he wasn’t ashamed of that made his angry outbursts more unsettling.

  There had been a vacuum in the aftermath of his brother’s death, and Sol had filled it. He had steadied the ship and then retrenched their position. Pinky knew of six rivals who had ended up shanked or shot in the week that followed. He had shot one of them himself. Sol had wiped out anyone who might have thought that they could muscle into the borough; he’d eliminated his rivals and laid down an example to everyone else who thought that Bizness’s murder might have signalled a changing of the guard. It didn’t.

  Pinky gestured to the screen. “We can’t let it slide. After what JaJa did? He needs to pay. Can’t have someone like him making a name for himself without paying his dues.”

  “Hush your mouth,” Brown said, snatching the joint back, then crumpling the last third of it into a saucer that was being used for an ashtray. “You think I don’t know that? My blood is dead because of him. He owes me. He’s the reason I’m the only one left. He’s the reason I ain’t got no brother no more.”

  They watched as Elijah lifted himself from the ring apron and walked into the crowd and towards the dressing room.

  “So he’s good?” Sol asked.

  “He’s good. They say if he wins the next fight, he’ll be fighting for a belt.”

  “Boy does that, he’s looking at mad money.”

  “Millions,” Pinky agreed.

  Sol paused the screen with Elijah looking into the camera. “And look at him: pretty boy, come up from the streets, done good for himself; looks after his mum, built himself a life. He’s going to be marketable. Nike and Adidas—man, they’ll be throwing money at him to endorse their shit. Yeah, I think you’re right—he keeps winning, he’s gonna be rich.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Sol raised himself off the sofa and crossed the room to stare out of the window. A light from a streetlamp outside cast his dark skin in a yellow glow. He turned back around and faced Pinky. “I was out of the game—you know that, right? All the gang shit, it was all behind me. I’d done my bit. Fifteen years banging and I was done. Got respectable after that. We had the record label and the clothes and all that shit. Then, what happened to Bizness… I couldn’t let that slide.” He paused. “You know your Bible, younger?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “You should, blood. You don’t have to be religious; still a lot of wisdom there. ‘But if there is any further injury, then you shall appoint as a penalty life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.’ That’s Exodus, man. Old school. That’s the way I look at revenge, right there—you fuck me up, I’m going to fuck you up right back.” Sol reached over and slapped Pinky on the back of the head. “You know I appreciate what you’ve done to help, younger. And you know I’m pleased you’ve brought this to me. This little pussy ran away, and he should’ve stayed hid. But he’s back now, and he owes us.”

  “Course,” Pinky replied, trying not to smirk at what he knew was coming.

  Elijah had always been playing at the back of his mind. He had never liked the little pussy when they had hung out together on the estate, but JaJa had done something unforgivable that had never been paid back. There was that gym that the old man had set up, JaJa working out there like he was some big shot, and Pinky had called him out, told him that he was nothing, a pussy, that he couldn’t fight, that Pinky could dook him out with one hand behind his back. It hadn’t gone that way, though: Elijah had played with him, embarrassed him in front of the others, and, when he was done playing, he had banged him out. The moment was printed in Pinky’s mind: he was on his hands and knees, saliva dripping out of his mouth, his mouth guard on the canvas, and the others all laughing at him. He had found JaJa in the week after Bizness had been killed and had threatened him. JaJa had told his mum, and his mum had called the police. Pinky had been arrested. The police had taken him out of the flat in cuffs. Pinky’s mum had been there; she had had to watch it.

  “When’s he fighting next?” Sol asked, cutting through the toxic memories.

  “Christmas Eve,” Pinky said. “Someone called Connolly.”

  “Samuel Connolly?” he said. “From Tottenham?”

  “You know him?”

  Sol turned back to the darkened window. “A little. I knew his brother better. Tough kids.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Find out where Connolly trains, then come tell me. We need to have a little chat with him before the big night.”

  “And JaJa?”

  “I got an idea for him, too,” he said.

  Pinky grinned. The day-to-day was interesting, but he’d been getting a little bored by how easy it all seemed. No one dared stand up to Sol, and they all knew that Pinky ran the operation around Blissett House. He wanted a challenge, and maybe this would be it. A chance to do something cool again.

  And wipe that smile from the face of Little JaJa once and for all.

  Part IV

  The Ninth Day

  6

  M ilton took his thick jacket down from the overhead bin and put it on. The weather had looked damp as they had circled to land, and now, as the passengers waited to descend the stairs to the tarmac, it felt as if the w
ind was running right through him. Gatwick was busy, with a constant stream of jets taking off and landing. It was just before midday, and the rain that greeted them was a gentle reminder of home.

  Two days had passed since Milton had seen Elijah on the television. His next fight was scheduled for Christmas Eve, a week from now. Milton had dug up as much information on Elijah as he had been able to find. He had looked for an address, but had struck out. He would need to make enquiries in person if he was to pick up the scent.

  Milton had just a single bag with him; it was all he had packed for his trip. He climbed into the transit bus and held onto the strap as the driver ferried them to the terminal. Once through arrivals—an easy thing to do despite the fact that the passport didn’t bear his real name—Milton boarded the train that would take him into central London. He grabbed a free paper and skimmed it during the half-hour journey into Victoria. Christmas was soon, and the paper was full of seasonal advertisements. No one in the carriage with him looked particularly festive. It was cold and damp and the travellers were slumped into their seats, gazing out of the windows as they hurried through busy stations, watching the glum faces of the Londoners waiting for their own trains to arrive.

  They arrived in the station. Milton disembarked and melted into the crowd that was queuing for the tube. Noise, smell and people all around: it was confirmation that he was back in the city. Milton had spent a month in much calmer surroundings, but now it was noise and people at every glance. A band from the Salvation Army had set up around a large Christmas tree, and, as Milton reached the downward escalator, they struck up with ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’