“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 help 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.