He advanced on him, the Sig aimed at his head.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Bizness gasped out, the words forming between bloody gurgles. Milton kicked away the machine-guns. He crouched down at Bizness’s side. The boy took a ragged, wheezing breath. “You know what you are?” he said. “You people? You’re a bunch of fuckin’ hypocrites.”

A ringing sound danced in Milton’s ears and his eyes stung with sweat. The smell of cordite was acrid and he gagged a little. A trickle of blood, specked with bubbles of breath, dribbled from Bizness’s mouth.

“You sit in your cosy homes… with your soft, comfy lives… nothing bad ever happens…” He coughed, a tearing cough that brought blood to his lips. “You look at us and… you shake your head. You need people like me so you can shake your fuckin’ heads and say, ‘see that guy, he’s bad’, just so you can feel better about yourselves.”

Milton reached down and collected one of the cushions that had scattered away from the sofa.

“And you know why you… people are scared of a proud black man? I’m a threat to the way you see the world to be. The black kid in school… his Mums can’t put food on the table. The black kid who’s got no future… no prospects ‘cept slaving for some fucked-up… system that sees him as a second-class citizen.” He gasped. “You should be scared, bruv… Those kids running around outside tonight… I give them a purpose. I’m proof, man, living proof… that there ain’t no need to bow down to fuckers like you and those fuckers you represent. You want something, it’s aight, you go on and take it. JaJa, you can tell him what you want… but see how he feels this time next year when you’ve fucked off and he’s doing twelve hour shifts in Maccy D’s because that’s the only place that’ll give him a job.” He gasped again; the words were harder and harder to form. “He’ll think about me… the taste I gave him of the life… and he’ll ask himself, ‘why not me? Why can’t I have me some of that good stuff?’ You know I’m right. You’ve seen it in his eyes… same as I have.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. But he’ll see he’s got choices. You can take the short cut or do things properly. You chose the short cut. The easy choice. It hasn’t worked out so well for you.”

“Fuck you, bruv. You don’t know shit.”

“I know he wouldn’t think your life looked so appealing now.”

Bizness tried to retort but he coughed on a mouthful of blood.

Milton took the pillow and placed it over his head, one hand on each side, pressing down. The boy struggled, but Milton had his knees pressed down so that his arms were pinned to his side. His legs thrashed impotently, the kicks becoming less frequent until they subsided to spasms.

The spasms stopped.

Milton gently released the pressure and the cushion, covered in blood, fell aside. Milton had it smeared across his trousers and on the latex gloves, too. He looked up and was suddenly aware that there was another person in the room. He stared into the eyes of a teenage boy, the same age as Elijah. He was tall and skinny, his chin pressed down hard into his chest, just his eyes showing. It took a moment but then he recognised him: it was the boy from the park, the one who had threatened him on his first night in Hackney. He was in the corner of the room, pressed tight against the wall. He had a Makarov revolver in a trembling hand. The gun hung loosely from his fingers, pointed down at the floor. The boy looked young and frightened.

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!”