Twelve Days Page 8

  “I’ve heard the names,” Milton said.

  “No voicemails apart from his mum. I looked at the phone’s location data—that was more useful. Apart from his home address, the place that comes up most often is a terraced house on Langford Close. I ran a check on the police national database—officers have been called out there five times in the last six months. Complaints from the neighbours mostly, but the anti-drugs team think it’s being used as a crack house.”

  Milton nodded and wondered whether he might need to pay a visit to the address. “This is good, Ziggy,” he said, knowing from long experience that Ziggy was insecure and worked best when his ego was flattered.

  “I’m not finished,” he said. “I was able to get into all his social accounts. I’ve pulled the last week’s worth of updates and private messages and put them into a Dropbox folder. I’ll email you the link. There’s a gig’s worth of data for you to look through—some light reading for later. They message each other most often on Telegram, probably because the encryption is tough to crack. Not hard at all if you have the phone they use, of course. I’ve dumped the recent messages into the folder, but I thought you might want to see this straight away.”

  Ziggy turned the screen around so that Milton could read it.

  PINKY >> The little pussy is on our turf tomorrow.

  KIDZ >> What you wanna do?

  PINKY >> What you think? He’s gonna get smoked.

  CHIPS >> You told Sol?

  PINKY >> Don’t worry about Sol.

  Milton skimmed the rest of the exchange. It was mostly boasting and showing off, with Pinky telling the others that the ‘pussy’—Milton took that to be Elijah—was going to be working out at York Hall, that it was open to the public, and that they should go down and let him know that he was going to get ‘merked.’

  “Great.” Milton sighed.

  “Trouble?”

  “Always. Do you know who Sol is?”

  Ziggy shook his head. “A couple of other references to him, but no phone number or much of anything else.”

  “Keep looking.”

  “There’s one thing we could do,” he said. “We can send a location-sharing request to all three of them. If they accept it, we’ll be able to track where they are.”

  Milton thought about that. “But if they know that this phone was taken?”

  “Then they’ll know someone is looking into them.”

  “Do it.”

  “All right,” Ziggy said. He took Little Mark’s phone, and his fingers flashed across the screen. “Done.”

  Milton took the phone and put it into his pocket. He stood up. “Thanks, Ziggy.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said.

  “I will.”

  22

  M ilton took his time as he made his way to the café where he had agreed to meet Sharon. He headed east, walked up Approach Road, and passed between the tall stone gates into the park. Joggers and cyclists passed him in both directions as he strolled along the path; he was early, so he sat down on a bench and watched the swans and ducks that had gathered around the Chinese pagoda that was a rather incongruous addition to the island in the middle of the lake.

  He wondered what Sharon would say to him. It was obvious that something had been on her mind when they had spoken yesterday, and he didn’t know whether she would want to raise it. He determined that he wouldn’t push her to talk if she didn’t want to; he was there to help if she asked, but he was less arrogant now than he had been before, less certain that his intervention in her life could bring only good things. He wondered about Elijah, too, and whether she had told the boy that he was back. Milton had a ticket to the fight and hoped that he would be able to see it, at least; he would have liked to have the chance to speak to Elijah, but that was out of his hands. There was no sense in worrying about something that he could not control.

  The Pavilion Café was on the edge of the water. It was a small, domed building with seating inside and out. A platform reached out a short distance over the water and allowed additional tables with pleasing views. Milton went inside. It was busy, but the staff were administering the lengthy queue with good humour. Milton saw Sharon sitting in a corner and made his way across the room to her.

  “Hello again,” she said.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m good. Thanks for coming. I got you a coffee—I hope that’s all right?”

  “Perfect,” he said, sitting down in the seat opposite hers.

  He sipped the drink and looked across the table at Sharon. She had taken off her heavy coat and slung it across the back of the chair. He could see the burns on her neck now, running up to her ears on both sides of her head. She was wearing an open shirt, and she had rolled up her sleeves so that Milton could see the scars on her arms, too. She wasn’t ashamed of them; to the contrary, it appeared that she barely gave them a moment’s thought. She was an impressive woman; Milton had always thought that and was reminded of it now.

  “How’s everything else?” Milton asked her.

  “What do you mean? Family?”

  Milton nodded.

  “My husband is still in prison. There was talk of him getting out, but something happened inside—some fight or something like that—and his sentence was increased. He’s got another five years to serve.”

  “Has he ever been in touch?”

  “As soon as he found out that Elijah was doing well.” She laughed bitterly. “He started sending birthday cards and letters. He was trying to get Elijah to go and visit him, but he’s not interested. He’s never been in Elijah’s life and Elijah is smart . He knows exactly why he’s got in touch again. No.” She shook her head. “He’s wasting his time.”

  “What about your other son? I’m sorry—I can’t remember his name.”

  “Jules?” she said. “I’m afraid he’s not with us anymore.”

  “I’m sorry…” Milton began.

  “Don’t,” she said. “It was sad, but it was inevitable. He wasn’t interested in getting well.”

  “What happened?”

  “He overdosed,” she said matter-of-factly. “They found him near Waterloo station. It’s been a couple of years now. Elijah was angry for the first few months, but he’s been able to deal with it, just like I did. It’s just me and him now.”

  Milton sipped his coffee and waited as Sharon did the same.

  “There was something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Milton said.

  “I think I can probably guess,” she said. “Why did we change our names?”

  “Yes,” he said, laughing.

  “It’s a long story. There was a mosque when we were down in Margate. We started going to it, must have been a month or two after Jules died. We were both looking for something, I suppose, and I had a friend who went there. Elijah came home one day and said that his name had a bad meaning, that he had taken shahada , and that was that. He was Mustafa. I changed my name, too.”

  “Adara?”

  “Yes,” she said. “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve got a friend who’s very good at finding things out,” he said.

  Sharon smiled at something. “He kept it up for a month, and then he said he didn’t mind if I called him Elijah again.”

  “Is he still religious?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. More spiritual, perhaps. He says it’s helped him. I think it did. He’s calmer, at least most of the time.”

  “What about you?”

  “Religion?” She laughed sadly. “I don’t know why I thought it would help me—I’ve seen too much in my life to have any time for that. I changed my name for practical reasons. I thought it would make it more difficult to find us if anyone started to look.”

  They drank their coffees quietly for a moment. Milton looked out onto the boating lake as a swan splashed down onto the glassy surface.

  “Did you see Elijah yesterday?” Milton asked.

  “Briefly. He looks ready. I said he must
be nervous, but he said he wasn’t. He knows how good he is; that’s the problem.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “His trainer says his only weakness is arrogance. Elijah says it’s not arrogance if he backs it up.” She smiled and shook her head. “He’s always been like that, even back when you knew him. He’s shy, underneath it all, but he won’t ever let you see that. It’s all about attitude, what he wants you to think. He says that’s why he’s good at boxing—he doesn’t let them see he’s scared.”

  “Did you mention that you’d seen me?”

  “I didn’t have time,” she said. “I will. But there is a place you might be able to see him.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s got a public workout tomorrow at York Hall. Do you know it?”

  Milton said that he did.

  She reached into her handbag and took out an embossed pass that hung from a lanyard. “It’s at midday. This’ll get you through security.”

  Milton took it, turned it over and looked at it. ‘Muhammad v Connolly’ was written across it in bold type and, beneath that, PRESS. He put it in his pocket.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She frowned, just like she had yesterday.

  “What is it?” he asked her.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Something’s worrying you.”

  She sighed. “I was over at the estate before I saw you yesterday. I still have a couple of friends there, girls who had kids the same time I did. They all know about Elijah now. I knew it was coming, but it seemed to take forever. Every time he was on the television, I was sure someone would see him. His new name helped, I suppose; people could read about him in the papers without realising it was him. And he’s bigger now—he looks different from when he was fifteen. All those other fights were small, and if they got on the TV, it was late at night when the only people who’d be watching were real fans, people who loved boxing, not random people who live down on the estate. But he’s second on the bill for this fight. They’re making all these predictions about what’ll happen if he wins, how much money he might make, all that. There’s a lot of hype.”

  “That’s the business,” Milton said.

  “I know. But it worries me.”

  “You think some of the boys he used to hang out with might find out?”

  “They will find out,” she said. “They probably already have. I’m worried about what they might try to do. Well, one of them, anyway—Pinky. You probably didn’t meet him when you were here, but there was always something about him that frightened me. His eyes—there was nothing there. Lifeless, like he had no soul.”

  “I remember him,” he said.

  Milton considered his own role in what had happened and knew that he wouldn’t be able to walk away. He remembered the kids in the gang from before. They had been young boys then, but that was three years ago. Elijah had grown into a man; they would have, too. They would see one of their own doing well, and it would grate on them that they hadn’t had the same good fortune. He wasn’t about to say it to Sharon, but he agreed with her: she was right to be nervous.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said with a wave of a hand. “It’s just me worrying about nothing. We’ve never had much luck before. Everything’s going so well now; part of me says we don’t deserve it and it’s all going to come crashing down.”

  “It’s not,” Milton said. “You deserve to be happy.”

  Sharon’s eyes were filmy and her lip quivered. Milton was reminded of the things that kept him awake at night. He was always going to be behind on the ledger of good against bad. He thought about the ninth step and the atonement that he would never be able to make. He had too much ground to make up, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

  “Look,” Milton said, placing his hands on the table palm down. “I’m going to make myself useful while I’m here.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  Milton laid his hand on hers and gently interrupted her. “I’ll be there tomorrow. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

  23

  T here was a branch of Nando’s just a short walk from Bethnal Green station. The road was busy here, with businesses on either side and the stalls from the market set up next to the kerbs. It was six and darkness had fallen two hours ago; the stalls were lit by artificial lights that had been fitted above, cables trailing to small portable generators that chugged away in the background. The trading day was drawing to a close, and the stallholders were trying to offload whatever they had left, calling out knock-down prices in an attempt to attract those passers-by who might be tempted by a bargain. There was a pub opposite the restaurant—The Star of Bethnal Green—and a sign in the window suggested it was suitable for GROWN-UP RAVERS and BOOZERS OF CHOICE. Hipster irony, Elijah thought. It was everywhere.

  He was there early and, as he waited, he wondered whether he should have suggested somewhere else. The restaurant was busy, the clientele young and noisy. Alesha was a good five years older than he was, and, he thought, more sophisticated than this. He didn’t know anything about clothes and make-up, but even he could tell that the stuff she had been wearing at the press conference was expensive. He wanted to impress her, and he realised, with a dose of embarrassment, that his suggestion might not deliver the right impression. Elijah looked across the road to the pub; he wondered if he had time to stop in for a shot of Dutch courage.

  But he didn’t; he turned and saw her making her way along the pavement from the direction of the station.

  “Hello,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not,” he said, hurrying to absolve her.

  “I am. Ten minutes. The trains.”

  “I only just got here,” he said.

  “You’re too kind.” She stepped in closer, put her hand on his shoulder, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’m pleased we could do this. I thought—you know, with the fight and everything…”

  “I can still go out for dinner,” he said.

  “Can you have a drink?”

  “Course,” he said.

  “I was thinking we could go over there first,” she said, nodding over the road to the pub. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of mulled wine before we eat.”

  * * *

  They found a table at the front of the pub’s main room. Alesha took off her coat and draped it over the back of the chair. She was wearing leather trousers, a denim shirt and a chunky cable-knit sweater.

  “What do you want?” she asked him.

  “No,” he said, raising a hand. “I’ll get them.”

  “You can get the next round.”

  “You don’t want to eat?”

  “No rush. What do you want?”

  “Orange juice,” he said sheepishly.

  “Sure?”

  He thought of McCauley; he wouldn’t be impressed if he drank alcohol before the fight. “I’d better not.”

  “Look after the table,” she said, taking her purse and making her way to the bar.

  He sat down and watched as Alesha placed her order. She was fine : tall and slender, dressed better than the other girls in the pub, and with an air about her that Elijah found both intimidating and attractive. He still felt weird that she would want to spend time with him, even though he knew, from what McCauley had said, that he could expect more attention as he became better known. That was fine in theory, but it was still difficult to wrap his head around it. He was just a kid from around these ends, a hood rat who had never been much good at school, had never had the confidence to talk to girls, only given a chance to be someone because he could fight.

  Alesha came back with the drinks: an orange juice for Elijah and a large glass of mulled wine for her. She put the glasses on the table and sat down. Her right wrist was heavy with an assortment of colourful bracelets that rattled as she took her drink and held it up for a toast.

  “Good luck for the fight,” she said. “Not that I think you’ll need it.”

 
Elijah took his orange juice and self-consciously touched it against her glass. He drank; she was looking at him with a mischievous smile.

  “Vodka and orange?” he said, looking at the drink.

  “Might have slipped a shot in there. That all right?”

  Elijah couldn’t help but laugh. “If my trainer finds out…”

  “I’m not going to tell him,” she said.

  He put the glass to his lips again and took another sip. He watched her as she sipped at her wine, then put her glass down on the table and ran her fingers through her hair.

  She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her laced fingers. “Are you worried?”

  “About the fight?”

  She nodded.

  “Nah,” he said. “Not really. The training’s gone well.”

  “But Connolly’s good.”

  “So am I.” He grinned, pleased to find a little of his usual pep.

  “I know you are,” she replied. “I’ve watched all your fights on YouTube.”

  “You have?”

  “I told you,” she said, “I’m going to write a piece on you. I’m doing my research.”

  “What was your favourite?”

  “The Adichie fight, I think. Everyone was saying how good he was. Didn’t look like anyone took you seriously.”

  “They did after I knocked him out,” he said.

  She beamed at him, raised her glass and toasted him again. He felt relaxed in her company. She was easy to talk to, and it was difficult not to be flattered by the attention that she was giving him.

  “Who do you write for?” he asked. “I know you said, but I can’t remember.”

  “Vice.”

  “What’s that—online?”

  She sipped her wine and nodded. “And TV.”

  “And why do you want to write about me?”

  “Why?” she said, smiling at him. “Seriously? Because you’re going to be famous. I want to get to know you before that happens—you won’t talk to people like me after that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You won’t be coming out to places like this for much longer. It’ll be Mayfair. Private jets. Magnums of champagne.”