The Cleaner (18 page)

“I’m gonna buy me a big-screen TV, a new laptop, some games, some clothes and shoes and then I’m gonna save the rest. I got plans, get me?”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little aggression laced in the reply. “What about it?”

“Where you gonna save it?”

“What you mean? In a bank––where else?”

Rutherford shook his head. “You’re sixteen years old. You telling me you’re going to walk into the NatWest and give them twenty grand and tell them to stick it in your account? Really? That’s your plan?”

“Yeah.”

“No you ain’t.”

“Fuck you!” he said. “It’s my money. Mine. They can’t take it off me. No-one can.”

“You take it into a bank and I’ll tell you exactly what’s gonna happen––they’ll be onto the Feds before you’re halfway out the door, next thing you know you’re on the deck eating pavement and then you’ll do time. That’s if you last that long. Because what’ll most likely happen is some brother will nick it off you. And while they’re at it, they’ll probably merk you, too. And it’s no good being rich when you’re dead.”

“Fuck you man,” he spat. “Fuck you know?”

Rutherford absorbed his invective and stared back at the boy with a cold hardness in his eyes that Elijah had not seen before. For a moment, it was easy to imagine the intimidating effect he must have had when he was younger. “What do you mean, what the fuck do I know? You know where I’ve come from. You know what I been, what I’ve done. I don’t have to put up with your shit, either. Go on, you don’t want to listen to me, fuck off. Go on. If you want to stay, then stay. I’ll tell you how you can make that kind of money, but legit so you
can
put it in a bank account, so no-one’s gonna take it off you and drop you stone dead.”

Pinky squared up, and, for a moment, Elijah expected him to fire back with more lip. Rutherford stood before the boy implacably, calm certainty written across his face. He was not going to back down.

“Aight,” Pinky said, and the tension dissipated in a sudden exhale. He forced a grin across his face. “Cotch, man. I’m just creasing you.”

“Get your kit on if you want to stay,” Rutherford told him sternly. “You’ve gotten all flabby, all this time you been taking off. You got some catching up to do.”

“Funny man.” Pinky hiked up his Raiders t-shirt. He was thin and wiry, the muscles standing out on his abdomen in neat, compact lines. “Don’t chat grease. Flabby? Look at this––I’m ripped, playa.”

“Get yourself in the ring. I got someone who’ll see whether you still got what it takes.”

“That right? Who’s that?”

Rutherford turned to Elijah. “You up, younger. Get new wraps on. The two of you can spar. Three rounds.”

Pinky looked at Elijah and laughed. “Him?” he said derisively. “Seriously?”

“Talk’s cheap, bruv. You think you can take him, let’s see it in the ring.”

“I’m on that,” he said, firing out a quick combination, right-left-right. “This little mandem gonna get himself proper sparked.”

Pinky went back to the changing room and, when he returned, he had changed into a pair of baggy shorts that emphasised his thin legs. Elijah wrapped his fists again and laced up his gloves. The two boys stepped through the ropes and, at Rutherford’s insistence, touched gloves. Pinky was older than Elijah but they were similar in physique. He came forward aggressively, fighting behind a low guard and firing out a barrage of wild combinations. He was quick but not particularly powerful or accurate, and Elijah was able to absorb the onslaught without difficulty, taking it on his arms or dodging away. He spent the first round that way, absorbing his attacks and firing back with stiff punches that beat Pinky’s absent guard, flashing into his nose or against his chin. Elijah knew that his punches were crisp rather than powerful, but that was alright. He was not trying to hurt Pinky, not yet. Each successful blow riled the older boy and he came forward with redoubled intent. Elijah let him, dancing away or smothering the blows when he could not, letting Pinky wear himself out.

Rutherford rang the bell as the first two-minute round expired and the two boys broke to separate corners to take a drink.

“I’m gonna dook you up, younger” Pinky called across the ring, lisping around his mouthguard.

“Didn’t do nothing first round,” Elijah retorted. “Look at me––I’m hardly even sweating.”

The other boys had stopped to watch the action. A couple had wandered across to stand next to Rutherford, and others were idling across to join them.

Rutherford rang the bell.

They set off again. Pinky moved in aggressively, firing out another wild combination, rights and lefts that Elijah disposed of with ease. Rutherford was watching him from the side of the ring, and Elijah decided that it was time to give him his demonstration. He stepped it up a gear. Pinky moved forward again and Elijah side-stepped his first flurry, firing in a strong right jab that stood him up, a left and a right into the kidneys and then, his guard dropped, a heavy right cross. Pinky fell back but Elijah did not stop. He followed the boy backwards across the ring, firing hooks into the body. Pinky fell back against the ropes and Elijah pivoted on his left foot and delivered a right cross with all of his weight behind it. Pinky took the punch square on the jaw and fell back onto his back.

Rutherford rang the bell and clambered into the ring. Pinky was on his hands and knees, his mouthguard on the canvas before him, trailers of spit draping down to it from his gasping mouth. Rutherford helped him to his feet and held the ropes open for him. He said nothing, barely even looking at Elijah as he slipped down to the floor and went back to the changing rooms. The watching boys were hooting and hollering, impressed with the show that Elijah had put on. One of the older boys declared that Elijah had banged Pinky out. Elijah could not prevent the grin that spread across his face.

Rutherford drew Elijah to one side and helped him to unlace his gloves. “Listen here, younger,” he said. “You’ve got skills. You let him wear himself out there, didn’t you?”

Elijah shrugged. “Didn’t seem no point to get into it with him. He’s bigger than me. Would’ve been too strong, I come onto him straight up. Seemed like a better idea to let him work himself out, let him get weak then come in and spark him.”

Rutherford smiled as he explained his tactics. “You thought all that out for yourself?”

“I used to play that way on my PlayStation. Ali and Foreman, innit? Rope-a-dope.”

“You learned that from a videogame?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Why not,” Rutherford laughed. “Look, little man, I know you’ve only just starting out, been here just a handful of times and all, but I think you’re ready to step it up. We’ve got a night coming up with a club in Tottenham. It’s like we got here, a friend of mine runs it, he’s gonna bring his boys down so we can see what’s what. He’ll have five of his best lads, I’ll pick five of mine. I’d like to put you in the team. What you say? Sound like something you might be interested in?”

Elijah’s heart filled with pride. No-one had ever said he was any good at anything. None of his teachers, none of his friends, not even his mum, not really. “Course,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.

Rutherford put one of his big hands on his shoulder. “Good lad. Thought you’d be up for it. It’s Thursday night. Speak to the fellow who brought you down. Mr Milton. See if he wants to come?”

Elijah thought of Milton. Would he come if he asked him? Elijah was surprised to find that he half hoped that he would. “Aight,” he said. “I’ll tell him about it.”

31.

MILTON LOOKED at the window of the Sharon’s flat. It was barred but, somehow, it had still been broken. The window faced into the sitting room and a wide, jagged hole had been smashed in the centre. The wind had sucked the curtains out and now they flapped uselessly, snagged on the sharp edges of the glass. Fragments had fallen out onto the walkway and now they crunched underfoot, like ice.

He had called Sharon half an hour earlier to ask after Elijah. She had been upset, barely able to stifle the sobs, and he come straight across. A brick was lying incongruously on the cushion of the sofa, glass splinters sparkling all around it. Someone had pushed it through the glass.

“Just kids mucking about,” Sharon said miserably. “They don’t mean anything by it.”

“Has it happened before?”

She shrugged, a little awkwardly. “Sometimes.”

“You’ll need to get it fixed.”

“I spoke to the council. They say they can’t do it until next week.”

“You can’t leave it like that until then. Let me take care of it.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“It’s not a problem. Simple job. I just need to get some bits and pieces. It’ll take me half an hour.”

She smiled shyly at him. “On one condition––you let me cook you dinner.”

“Deal,” Milton said.

Milton sized up the job and then visited the hardware store in the centre of Hackney to collect the equipment and materials that he would need.

A handful of lazy youngsters had gathered by the time he returned, leaning against the balustrade at the end of the balcony. They stared at him with dull aggression as he set his purchases down and removed his jacket. He unscrewed the cage that contained the metal bars and stood it carefully against the wall. He spread an old sheet on the balcony outside the window and knocked out the largest fragments of glass, using a hammer and chisel to remove the smaller pieces. He chipped out the putty from the groove in the frame and plucked out old glazing sprigs with a pair of pliers. He sanded the rough patches, applied a primer and then filled in the holes and cracks. He kneaded putty into a thin roll and pressed it into the frame, then carefully lowered the new pane of glass into place, pressing carefully so that the putty squeezed out to form a seal. He added new sprigs to hold the glass in place and pressed more putty into the join between the panel and the frame, trimming away the excess with the edge of his chisel. He heaved the metal cage up to the window and screwed it back into place. Finally, he stepped back against the balustrade and admired his handiwork. The job was well done.

“You wasting your time,” one of the kids called over to him. “No-one likes her. She ain’t from round these ends. She should get the hint, innit, go somewhere else?”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Milton said.

“It gonna get broke again, soon as you gone.”

“Leave her alone. Alright?”

“What you gonna do about it, old man?”

All Milton could think about was going over to teach them some manners, but he knew that that would be just be for his own gratification. It would not do Sharon any good. He could not be with her all the time and, as soon as he was gone, she would be punished. It was better to bite his tongue.

The boys stayed for another ten minutes, hooting at him to try and get a response but, when they realised he was ignoring them, they fired off another volley of abuse and slouched all the way down to the bottom of the stairs. Milton watched them go.

It was a little past seven when he had finished with the window to his satisfaction. He tidied away his tools and went inside. The television in the lounge was tuned to the BBC’s news channel. A man in Tottenham had been shot dead by police. The presenter said he was a drug dealer, and that the police were reporting that he had been armed. Milton watched it for a moment, not really paying attention, and then found the remote control and switched it off.

Sharon had pulled the table away from the wall and laid it for dinner. She had prepared a traditional Jamaican dish of mutton curry. Milton helped her to clear the table when they had finished. He took out his cigarettes. “Do you mind?” he asked her.

“What are they?” she said, looking at the unfamiliar black, blue and gold packet.

“Arktika. They’re Russian.”

“I’ve never seen them before. Where do you get them?”

“Internet,” he said. “Every man needs a least one vice.”

“Russian fags?”

“I met a man once, a long time ago. He was Russian. We found ourselves in a spot of bother and these were all we had. Three packets. We made them last four days. I’d developed a bit of a taste for them by the end. Vodka too, but only the good stuff.”

He opened the carton and offered it to Sharon. She took a cigarette and allowed Milton to light it for her. He lit his and watched as she took a deep lungful of smoke, letting it escape from between her lips in a long sigh.

“You’ve been so good to me,” she began after a quiet moment. “I don’t know why.”

Milton inhaled himself, the tobacco crackling as the flame burned higher. “You’ve had some bad luck,” he said. “Things aren’t always fair. You work hard with Elijah, you deserve some help. I’m just glad I can do that.”

“But why me?”

“Why not you?” he retorted. He let the peacefulness fall between them again, his thoughts gently turning on her question. Why her? Had it just been a case of his being there at just the right time, or was there something else, something about Sharon that drew him toward her? Her vulnerability? Her helplessness? Or had he recognised in her some way to make amends for the things that he had done?

The sons that he had orphaned.

The wives that he had widowed.

He didn’t know the answer to that, and he didn’t think it wouldn’t serve to dwell upon it.

He drew down on the cigarette again.

“Can I get you a drink? Don’t have any vodka but I think I have some gin, and some tonic, maybe.”

“I don’t drink any more,” he said. “A glass of water is fine.”

She went through into the kitchen. Milton stood alone in the sitting room and examined it more carefully than he had before. He noticed the small details that Sharon had included in an attempt to make the blandly square box more homely: the embroidered cushions on the sofa; the box of second-hand children’s toys pushed against the wall; the Ikea curtains that hid the bars on the windows outside. He went over to the sideboard. Sharon had arranged a collection of framed pictures of her children, the two boys at various stages of their lives. He picked one up and studied it; it was a professional shot, the sort that could be bought cheaply in malls, with Sharon pictured on a chair with the children arranged around her. Milton guessed it was taken four or five years ago. Sharon’s hair was cut in a different shape and her face was absent the perpetual frown of worry that must have sunk across it in the interim. Elijah was a sweet-looking ten year old, chubby, beaming a happy smile and without the wariness in his eyes. His older brother, Jules, looked very much like him. He had an open, honest face. He must have been the same age as Elijah was now. There was nothing to suggest a predisposition towards self-destruction but Milton guessed that he must already have started along the path that would eventually lead him to ruin.