The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (12 page)

His physical examinations returned strong results. He was fit, with the cardiovascular profile of a man fifteen years younger. He made it his habit to run a marathon every year, and the times had been noted and added to the file; he had never finished the course in more than three and a half hours. Nevertheless, he had suffered a series of injuries in the field that had exerted a toll on his body. Since joining Group Fifteen he had been shot twice, stabbed in the leg and shoulder, and had broken more than a dozen bones. He reported the usual aches and pains, but the physician suggested that he was being stoic for the benefit of the examination and that it was likely that he was in mild to moderate pain most of the time. Blood tests detected the beginning of mild arthritis in his joints, a condition for which there was a familial history. He took a cocktail of drugs: gabapentin for his nerve damage and oxycodone for general pain relief.

Control relit his cigar and picked up his psychological assessment. He stood to stretch his legs and read the report next to the window. As he skimmed through the pages, he realised that missing the warning signs contained within had been his most egregious error. The psychiatrist noted that Milton had complained of sleeplessness and that he had been prescribed promathazine to combat it. There had been a discussion about reasons behind the problem, but Milton had become agitated and then angry, refusing to accept that it was anything other than an inability to quieten a busy mind. The psychiatrist suggested that Milton’s naturally melancholic temperament indicated mild depression and that he seemed to have become introspective and doubting. The report concluded with the recommendation that he be monitored on a more regular basis. Control had ignored it.

Damn it.

Milton was a valuable asset, and he had wilfully ignored the warning signs. He did not want to admit that there might be a problem, and his inaction had allowed it to metastasise.

He put the files back into the storage crate and lit a second cigar. There came a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

Christopher Callan came into the office. He was Number Twelve: the most recent recruit to the Group. He had been transferred from the Special Boat Service after a career every bit as glittering as Milton’s had been. He was tall and slender and impeccably dressed. His jacket was two-buttoned, cut from nine-ounce cloth. The pockets were straight, and the lining was simple and understated. There was a telltale faint bulge beneath his left armpit, where he wore his shoulder holster. He did not wear a tie. The trousers were classically cut, falling down to the back of his shoe. He was strikingly handsome although his head was round and small, supported by a muscular neck. His scalp was covered with tight blond curls that were almost white, reminding Control of the classical hair of the statues of da Vinci. The curls were thickly pressed against each other and against the skull. His skin was a pristine white, and his grooming immaculate. There was a cruelty to his thin-lipped mouth, and the implacability that veiled those pale blue eyes seemed to infect the whole face. It was, Control reflected with a moment of mild revulsion, as if someone had taken a china doll and painted its face to frighten.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he said.

“Yes, Callan. Take a seat.” He inhaled deeply, taking the smoke all the way back into his throat, then blowing it out. “We’ve got a bit of a problem. It’s one of the other agents—do you know Number One?”

“Only by reputation.”

“You’ve never worked with him, though?”

“No, sir. Why?”

“Afraid he’s started to behave a little erratically. I want you to find out everything you can about him—where he’s living, what he does with his time, who he’s seeing. Everything you can.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“No. Start immediately, please.”

“Of course.” Callan stood and straightened his jacket. “Number One was in France, sir? The Iranian scientists?”

“That’s right.”

Callan nodded thoughtfully. “That was unfortunate.”

Control looked at him and knew that he would have followed the rules of engagement to the letter. He would not have left any witnesses. He had the same single-minded ruthlessness as Milton when he joined. He had made a reputation for it in the SBS; that was the characteristic that had appealed to Control when he had recruited him.

“Daily reports, please, Number Twelve. Get started at once. You’re dismissed.”

He turned to face the window again, the door closing softly behind him. He gazed through the cloud of cigar smoke, through his pensive reflection and out into the darkness beyond. Traffic streamed along Millbank on the other side of the river, tail lights leaving a red smear across the tarmac.

He thought of Milton.

Control was a craftsman, too. His agents were his tools. Sometimes, when they got old and unreliable, when their edge grew rusty and could no longer be whetted, they had to be replaced.

Perhaps it was time.

He wondered if that was what he would have to do.

ELIJAH WARRINER was frightened as he waited for the train to pull into the station. They were at Homerton, sitting on one of the metal benches, the red paint peeling away to reveal the scabrous rust beneath, the air heavy with the scent of stale urine and the sweet tang of the joint that was being passed around. Elijah stared across the track at the side of a warehouse marked with the tag that indicated that this was their territory: LFB, in ten-foot-high neon yellow and green letters, the black outline running where rain had mixed with it before it had dried.

LFB.

The London Fields Boys.

They ran things around here.

There were six of them on the platform. Pops, the oldest and the biggest, was in charge of the little crew. The other boys were arrayed around him on the platform: Little Mark was smoking a joint with his back to the wall; Pinky had his headphones pressed against his head, the low drone of the new Plan B record leaking out; Kidz and Chips were eyeing up the girls from the Gascoyne Estate, who were also waiting for the train. They were all dressed in the same way: a baseball cap, a hooded top, low-slung jeans and brand new pairs of Nikes or Reeboks. Some of them had their hoods pulled up, resting against the brim of their caps and casting their faces in dark shadow. They all wore bandanas tied around their necks.

It was just before half past five, and rush hour was just beginning.

Pops put his around Elijah’s shoulders and squeezed him hard, using his other hand to scrub at his head. “JaJa, chill,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

Elijah managed to smile. Pops was wearing the same uniform as all the others, but he had a pair of diamond earrings, a chunky ring on each hand and a heavy golden chain around his neck. They denoted his position as an Elder, and, of course, the fact that he had more money than the rest of them. Elijah watched as Pops took out his bag of weed and his packet of papers. “My grandma taught me to build zoots, get me?” Pops spread a copy of the Metro across his lap and arranged his things: the bag of weed, his papers, his lighter. “This is penging high-grade,” he said, indicating the transparent bag and its green-brown contents. He unsealed it and tipped out a small pile. “You need to get yourself in the right state of mind before something like this. Can’t do no better than a good zoot, know what I’m saying?”

Elijah nodded.

“You blazed before?”

“Course,” Elijah said, trying to be disdainful. He had already been smoking for six months, ever since he had started hanging out with the young LFBs on the gangways and stairwells of Blissett House. That had frightened him, too, at first, and he had found that the first few drags made him retch, his eyes watering. But it was no big thing, though, and he had quickly got used to it. There was always a zoot being passed around, and he always made sure he had some.

Pops laughed at his indignant response. “Trust me, young ’un, you ain’t blazed nothing like this.” He opened a paper and filled it with a thick line of weed. He inserted a roach, brought the packet to his lips, licked the gummed end and sealed it. He lit the end and took a long drag, smacking his lips in appreciation. He toked again and passed the joint to Elijah. “Go on, younger, get some.”

Elijah took the joint and, aware that Pops and the others were watching him, made sure that he didn’t show any nerves as he put it between his lips and sucked down deep. The smoke was acrid and strong, and he spluttered helplessly. The other boys hooted at his discomfort.

“Look at the little joker,” Pinky exclaimed. “He’s gonna die from all that coughing.”

“Hush your gums,” Pops chided. “Let him enjoy himself. What you think, younger?”

“Buzzin’,” Elijah managed.

“Yeah, man—buzzin’. You know what makes it so fine?”

Elijah shook his head, still dizzy.

“Piss. The growers piss on the dirt. Makes it more potent, gives the skunk a kick.”

Elijah spluttered in disgust and almost retched again.

Pops grinned at him as the train rolled towards them. “Get yourself together, younger. Here it comes. This is it. You wanna be with us, you gotta do this. Everyone has to if they want to be mandem. You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Elijah felt a sudden blast of light-headedness. It added to his feeling of fright, and he suddenly felt sick. He turned away from Pops, bent double, and vomited the fried chicken he had eaten ten minutes earlier, half-digested slops splashing between his legs, splattering against the new trainers he had robbed from the shop in Mare Street the previous day.

The others hollered.

“He’s sicked up all over his creps!” Chips exclaimed.

“Come on,” Pops said. “Get yourself together. Train’s here.”

The line was one of the main routes into Olympic Park, and the trains had all been cleaned up for the Games. The doors opened, and commuters working at the big new shopping centre, many still wearing their corporate uniforms, spilled out onto the platform. Pops pulled up his bandana and shrugged his hood up and over his cap until all of his face was obscured, save his eyes. The others did the same and, his hands shaking, so did Elijah. Pops was behind Elijah, and he pushed him into the crowded carriage, the others following behind.

Elijah had seen a train get steamed before, and he knew what to expect. Pushing him further into the carriage, Pops and the others started to hoot and holler, surging down the aisle between the seats. The noise was disorientating and frightening, and none of the passengers seemed able to react. Pops barged into the space between two benches that faced each other and ripped the mobile phone from the hand of a man in a suit. The others did the same, taking phones and tablets, dipping purses from handbags, removing wallets from the inside pockets of jackets and coats, yanking necklaces until they snapped and came free. Elijah followed behind Pops, and as they went from passenger to passenger, he took the items that Pops handed back to him and dropped them into his rucksack. His fright melted away as the adrenaline burned through his body at the thrill of what they were doing, robbing and stealing, and no one was doing a damned thing to stop them.

A young man in a suit stared at them as they advanced along the carriage. He had a Blackberry in his hand.

“What you looking at?” Pops said. “You wanna get slapped up?”

The man didn’t reply.

“You wanna get shanked?” Chips reached into his pocket and took out a knife with a six-inch blade.

Still the man was silent. Elijah looked at him and recognised the fear in his eyes. He wasn’t defying them; he was just too scared to do anything.

“Jack him, younger,” Pops said to Elijah, shoving him forwards.

Elijah stepped up to him. “Give me the phone.”

The man didn’t resist and held it up for Elijah to take. He put it in his rucksack with all the rest. He looked down at the man, into his eyes, and made a quick, sudden movement towards him. The man flinched, expecting a blow that didn’t come. Elijah had never caused that kind of reaction before. He had always been the smallest or the youngest, the butt of the joke. Just being with the LFB made all this difference. People took him seriously. He laughed, not out of malice, but out of disbelief.

Little Mark was standing in the doorway, wedging the door and preventing the train from departing. “Boi-dem!” he yelled.

It had only taken them a few seconds to work their way through the carriage although it had felt like much longer. Pops pushed Elijah ahead of him as the boys surged on, the commuters parting as they piled out of the carriage. Outside, on the platform, Elijah could hear the sound of sirens from the street below. Little Mark dropped down onto the tracks and crossed over the rails to the other side, the others following after him. Elijah clambered back onto the platform, vaulted the wooden fence, and scrambled down the loosely packed earth of the embankment, sprinting down Berger Road and turning onto Wick Road, then across that and into the Estate. They had grown up with the alleys and passageways and knew them all instinctively. The police would have no chance if they tried to follow them.

Elijah jogged in the middle of the group, his rucksack jangling and heavy with their loot. The trepidation had disappeared, its place taken by a pulsing excitement at the audacity of what they had done. They had stormed that train, and the people inside had been scared of them. They had sat there with their posh suits and expensive gadgets and no one had done anything. Elijah was used to being told what to do—his parents, teachers, the police—and this had been a complete reversal. He remembered the look on the face of the man with the BlackBerry. He was a grown man, a professional man, with expensive clothes and things, the kind of man who probably had an expensive flat in Dalston or Hackney or Bethnal Green because those places were cool, and he had been frightened of him. Scared.

Elijah had never experienced what it was like to be feared before.

MILTON DROVE THEM into Hackney. The road was lined on both sides by shops owned by Turks, Albanians and Asians—all trying to sell cheap goods to people who couldn’t afford them—past fried chicken shops, garages, past a tube station, across a bridge over the A12 with cars rushing by below, past pound shops and cafés, a branch of CashConverter, a scruffy pub. The faces of the people who walked the road bore the marks of failure.