The Cleaner (28 page)

For a moment, Milton was back in France again, on the road in the mountains

He stood and walked across the room, reaching down for the Makarov. The boy released it without speaking. He located the spent cartridges from the shotgun and pocketed them. He collected the sawn-off and put it, the Sig and the revolver into a Nike holdall he found in a cupboard. The boy’s eyes followed him about the room, wide and timid, but he stayed where he was against the wall. He checked the room one final time to make sure that he had not left anything behind and, satisfied that he had not, he closed the door behind him and descended to the chaotic street below.

PART FIVE

Group Fifteen

51.

NUMBER TWELVE SAT IN HIS CAR. He was parked on the opposite side of the road to the church hall. The street was eerily quiet. A battered old minibus was parked directly in front of him, the stencilled sign on its dirty flanks advertising a Camden gym. He had watched the dozen youngsters pile out of the bus and file into the hall, different sizes and ages, all of them carrying sports bags. The local kids had arrived within the space of half an hour, all similarly equipped. Milton’s car was parked fifty yards away; Callan had followed the tracking beacon from across London. He had not seen him, and assumed that he was inside.

His mobile chirped.

“I have orders for you.”

Callan recognised Control’s voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where Number One is?”

“He’s in the East End. I have him under surveillance now. What do you want me to do?”

“The Committee has reviewed your report. It’s been decided that he is a risk we cannot take. His behaviour, his likely mental condition––national security is at risk. We have decided that he needs to be retired.”

Callan kept his voice calm and implacable. “Yes, sir. When?”

“Quickly.”

“Tonight should be possible.”

“Very good, Twelve. Let me know when it is done.”

The line went dead.

Callan put the phone back into his pocket. He would have preferred a little longer to plan an operation like this, against a target of Number One’s pedigree, but he did not think it an impediment that need detain him. Number One had no idea that he had been marked for death. Callan had the benefit of the element of surprise, and that would be the only advantage that he would need.

He opened the door, went around to the boot of the car and popped it open. He pulled up the false floor and ran his gaze across the row of neatly arranged weapons. He reached down and stroked his fingers across the cold metal stock of a combat shotgun. He pulled a bandolier over his shoulder and filled the pouches with shells. He didn’t think he’d need more than the two that were already loaded but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. He shut the boot and locked it and got back into the car again. All he needed to do was wait for the right moment.

52.

MILTON STOOD with Rutherford next to the ring, both of them watching the action. Elijah was fighting one of the boys from the Tottenham club. The two of them were well matched: the Tottenham boy was a year older and a little bigger, but Elijah was faster and his punches were crisper, with a natural technique that couldn’t be taught. “Boy’s doing good,” Rutherford said, his eyes fixed on the action. “Landing everything he throws. If he don’t knock him out he’ll take him on points, easy.”

Milton thought that was probably right but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t nervous. His own fists jerked a little with each punch and he caught himself holding his breath as the other boy moved in tight and clinched, snagging Elijah around the shoulders and hugging him. Elijah tried to struggle free but the Tottenham boy was strong. The referee called for the break but before he could step in the boy released his right hand and punched, twice, into Elijah’s groin.

The bell sounded.

Elijah spat out his mouthguard. “You hit me low!” he yelled at him.

“Yeah?” the boy called back across the ring at him. “What you gonna do about it, Hackney?”

Rutherford stepped between the ropes. “Elijah!”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ dook you!”

Rutherford reached out a long arm, snagged the collar of Elijah’s singlet and dragged him back to the corner. “Deep breath, younger.”

“He hit me in the nuts!”

Rutherford put one big hand on each shoulder and turned him away. “Yeah, he did, and you lose your temper like you’re fixing to do, chances are this boy ain’t got what it takes to hold you off, and you’ll probably knock him out. But losing your temper like that gets to be a bad habit and, eventually, you’ll come up against someone who’s good enough to get you all fired up and take advantage of it. You’re good enough to go a long way, younger, maybe even make a nice career out of it. You don’t want to get into bad habits that’ll get you in trouble in a fight that really means something––like for your future, you hear what I’m saying?”

Elijah scowled down at the canvas. “Yeah,” he said.

“Now then––you know why he hit you low?”

“Cos I’m better than him.”

“That’s right, younger. Better than him. Much better than he’ll ever get to be, too. There’s one more round coming, aight? I’m going to let you go and you’re going to get back out there, touch his gloves in the middle of the ring like you respect him even though we know you don’t, and then you’re going to box him. You keep your cool, follow the plan we talked about, and wait for the opening. When he gives it to you,
then
you punish him for hitting you low––you got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.” Rutherford pushed the mouthguard back into Elijah’s mouth and let go of his shoulder. “Touch his gloves and away you go.” The bell was rung to signal the start of the third round and the two boys met in the centre of the ring again. They tapped gloves and then sprang apart. Elijah did exactly as Rutherford had instructed: he kept his opponent at arm’s length, stinging him with his jab whenever he tried to get in too close. The older boy tried to rush him but Elijah skipped out of the way, banging in straight rights and lefts into the side of the boy’s face as he sailed harmlessly past. As the seconds wound down he stepped back and lowered his guard, indicating his chin with a clumsy touch of his glove. He’s showboating, Milton thought, a grin breaking out across his face. The other boy swore at the goading, his words muffled by his guard, and rushed in again. Elijah took a step to the side, pivoted on his right foot, and swung a strong right hook into the boy’s guts. His momentum was stopped at once and, his guard dropping to shield his stinging ribs, Elijah powered a left hook that knocked him backwards and, after a comical stumble, he landed on his behind.

The bell sounded and the fight came to an end.

That’s my boy, Milton thought, before he caught himself. Elijah ducked his head to the referee and bumped his right fist against Rutherford’s. He turned to look at Milton but looked away again quickly. Milton nodded at that. Fair enough, he thought. He didn’t know anything about what had happened and, as far as he was concerned, he had caught Milton in bed with his mother. All things considered, he deserved his mistrust.

A week had passed since the riots. Milton had spent most of the time with Elijah in the hospital. Sharon’s condition had stabilised to the extent that the doctors were happy to plan the skin grafts that would fix some of the damage that had been done to her face and the rest of her body. Elijah had refused to leave her side and so Milton had arranged for him to have a spare bed in a suite that was held back for relatives. He made sure that the boy ate and did whatever he could to reassure him that his mother would make a recovery, although he kept some of the information to himself. The doctors were confident that they would be able to help but she had been very badly burnt, they said, and she was always going to be badly scarred. On the sixth day, Sharon was moved from the Burns Unit to a general ward and Milton started to feel more confident that things would start to improve.

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 the 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.”

“Aight,” 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.

“Alright, 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 alright,” 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,” he said.

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.

53.

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.