The car came to a halt. “Fucking look at this,” Mouse exclaimed. “Shit is mental.”

Bizness couldn’t keep his eyes off the scene before him: a group of boys had gathered along the same side of a Ford Mondeo, heaving it in unison until they had it on two wheels and then, with a final effort, tipped it onto its side. They hooted in satisfaction before moving on to the Vauxhall parked ahead of it. Bizness grinned at it all. “Boydem shoot a brother like they did, what they expect? This was always gonna happen. People got no money, got noting to do. It’s been a riot waiting for an excuse for months round here.”

He craned his neck around so that he could look into the back at Pinky.

“You done good tonight, younger. Did exactly what I told you. Ain’t no way no-one’s going to be able to tie that back to us and, anyway, it’s all gonna get lost in all this nonsense.”

“Yeah,” Pinky said proudly. “Thanks.”

“First time you done that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it?”

“Cool,” Pinky said. “You should’ve seen his face when I pulled the gun on him.” He giggled. “Looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then” — he made the shape of a gun with his forefingers — “blam blam blam blam.”

Bizness looked at the him. There was a smile on his face but there was no emotion in his eyes. They were blank and empty. Boy was a stone-cold killer. It was a little unsettling. He could see he wasn’t the smartest kid and he knew he’d end up getting merked himself eventually, but, until that happened, he’d keep him close. People like him, with no empathy, they were hard to find. They were useful, too. There were plenty of people he could do with having out of the way. Wiley T, for a start. Finish the job that JaJa never even started.

“That’s sorted out your problem, then?”

The boy craved his approval, like they all did. He laughed derisively. “There ain’t no case without Pops. That’s finished.”

“Won’t hurt with the stuff on YouTube, either,” Mouse offered.

Bizness felt his mood curdle just a little. He remembered that someone had recorded the old man standing up to him at the record signing, posting the clip online. There had been traffic on his Facebook page, too, and he had been called out for it. Mouse was right: when word got around that he had put out the hit on Pops, and that he had shot up the old man’s house, things would soon be back the way they were supposed to be again. No-one would be stupid enough to stand up to him now. Bizness wasn’t the things they were saying. He wasn’t a hood-rat. He wasn’t a kid you could just scare off. He was a serious player. A gangster with a reputation to defend. An authentic, one hundred percent OG.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That shit’s gonna be good for business.”

That brought his thinking around. Business. It had been easy to find a replacement for the Dalston Lane crackhouse that the old man had torched. It wasn’t as if Hackney was short of empty properties and Levelz and Tookie had found a new place ten minutes away. They were already setting up again and putting out the word. Bizness hated crackheads, and he hated crackhouses, but they brought in plenty of Ps and he knew how to make the business work. It was like any business; you just needed to advertise, create a little demand, that was all. In this case you let it be known that there was cheap crack to be had and then you waited for your punters to come. Easy. It was like spreading shit and waiting for the fungus to grow.

“No way through here,” Mouse said. “We gonna have to detour.” He edged the Beamer further along the road until they could take a side street. He buried the pedal and they lurched forwards, wheels squealing as the rubber gripped. Bizness stared out of the window as they passed the rows of terraced houses and then the ugly boxes of the Estate.

Youngers were gathered on the street corners, their eyes following the car. Bizness wondered whether they knew who it belonged to. Some of them did, you could tell from their faces; he loved it when they nudged their friends and told them that it was him, loved the open-mouths and their surprise. It made him feel good. He had been one of them, once, stood around on the streets and doing nothing, shotting a little if he could get his hands on any merchandise, getting into beefs with other boys, looking for hype with lads from outside the postcode. He liked to remind himself how far he had come, how far he had left them behind. He was a player now, there was no question about it. He was a Face and everyone knew it. Some had started calling him the God of Hackney. He liked that. Maybe he’d change his name, release a solo record under that next. The God of Hackney. Had a ring to it, for sure. BRAPPPP! couldn’t go on forever and, after all, as far as most people was concerned he was BRAPPPP! anyway.

“We picking up JaJa now?” Pinky said.

“Yeah. You know what to say to him?”

“Just what I saw, innit,” he said. “Ain’t no problem.”

The boy was the last loose end he had to snip. He was waiting for them next to the entrance to the Lido in London Fields. Mouse had BBMed him earlier and told him to wait for them. He slowed the car to a stop. The boy got in next to Pinky, shut the door, and Mouse accelerated away again.

“Aight, younger. How you doing?”

“Alright,” Elijah said hesitantly. Bizness was pleased to see that the boy was still nervous around him. That was good.

“What’s he doing here?” Elijah said, nodding at Pinky.

“He’s in the crew now,” Bizness said. “You heard about Pops?”

He looked down at his new trainers, pressed close together in the footwell of the car. “Yeah,” he said.

“What you hear?”

“He got shot.”

“Other people know, too?”

“People are talking about it.”

Bizness folded his arms. “He had it coming to him, younger. Mandem was up to no good. First rule — you don’t ever, never, grass to the Feds. You do that, you’re worse than a dog. I know you know that, but it pays to keep it at the front of your mind. Pops forgot, see? And so he got what was coming to him. Ain’t no reason to feel bad about it.”

“You did it?”

“Nah. I made it happen.”

“Who, then?”

“You sitting right next to him.”

Elijah gaped at Pinky. “Him?”

“Yeah. Boy did good, just what I told him to do. Put four bullets into him. Ice cold. You want to pay attention. You got a lot to learn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I ain’t forgotten what happened with Wiley T, little man. You still got to make up for that.”

Elijah kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Yeah, Bizness thought, boy was real scared; of him and now of Pinky, too. That was just how he wanted it. You could get someone who was scared to do just about whatever you wanted them to do.

He changed the subject. “Reason you’re here, I want to talk to you about something. This man, the old fassy who burnt down my property — you know what we did to him today?”

He shook his head.

“There’s an AK-47 in the boot. We shot his house up.”

“You killed him?”

“Nah — we saw him come out, but he probably got shot, though, either that or the grenades we tossed in through his window would’ve done him. Messed his place up good. He won’t be bothering us no more.” He grinned at the thought of it. “It’s the same thing as Pops, see? Can’t have people questioning me, disrespecting me. You have to make an example out of people like that. You get me?”

Elijah nodded. It was a small, timid gesture.

“So,” Bizness went on, “the thing is, I heard something that’s troubling me. I heard you know who he is.”

“I—”

“Don’t mess me around on this, younger. It’s important. Pinky?”

“I was outside your Mum’s flat last week, wasn’t I? I saw him coming out. The HMV thing, too, I recognised him from there. I got an eye for faces, know what I mean? It was the same old man, I’m sure of it.”