The Cleaner

“Come on, then, younger, what’s his name.”

“Milton.”

“You know what he does?”

“He never told me,” he replied quietly. “Said he ain’t police, though.”

Bizness sucked his teeth. Police didn’t typically burn down crackhouses, so he was happy that the old man wasn’t lying about that. “If he ain’t police, you know why he’s putting his nose in our business?”

“Du

“He’s been staying with your Mums, though. Right?”

Fear washed over the boy’s face. “Not staying. One night.”

“Like a boyfriend or something?”

“Du

“Is it to do with her some way or another?”

“Du

“Come on, younger, there’s no need to worry. Nothing’s go

“I think maybe she asked him to keep an eye on me. I ain’t told him nothing, though, I swear. I don’t want nothing to do with him.”

“Aight, younger. That’s all I needed to know. That’ll do for now. Stop the car, Mouse — we’ll let him out here.”

They were near Bethnal Green now, nowhere near where they had picked him up. Another big group of hooded kids had gathered, heading along Mare Street towards Hackney’s High Street. They passed the blacked out windows of the Beamer, some of them staring, fire in their eyes. The busses weren’t ru

“You there?” he said.

“Yeah, man,” Tookie said.

“Do it.”

45

Milton stopped to fill up with petrol and then drove across to Blissett House. The traffic was heavy and it had taken him longer than usual. A large crowd of teenagers, their faces covered by bandanas and hoods, suddenly swept across the street, bringing the traffic to a halt. Milton clenched his jaw as he sat waiting for them to clear out of the way. An Audi was three cars behind him; Milton watched in the rear-view mirror as bricks started to bounce off the roof and bo

He banged his fist against the dash. The stakes had been raised and he was suddenly very afraid. He had not expected Bizness to back down but neither had he expected him to do what he had done. He operated without compunction, with no regard for restraint. Milton was concerned that he would do something else, something worse.

He took his mobile and called Aaron. The phone rang five times, then six, before the call co

“Hello?”

Milton did not recognise the voice. “Can I speak to Aaron, please?”

“Who is this?”

He hesitated. “I’m a friend of Aaron’s. Who are you?”

“Detective constable Wilson, Stoke Newington CID. Who is this, please?”

“Where is Aaron?”

“I’m afraid Aaron has been shot, sir.”

“Is he alright?”

“I’m sorry, no, he’s not — he’s dead, sir. Please—”

Milton cut off the call and bounced his mobile across the passenger seat. The lights were still red. He felt a tightening in his gut, a cold knot of fear and dread. He slammed his palms on the steering wheel.

Come on, come on, come on!

The lights changed and he stamped on the accelerator, the rubber shrieking as he took a hard right turn. The traffic thi

He knew something was wrong as soon as he reached the Estate. A thick plume of smoke was rising into the darkening sky. As he got closer, he saw that it was wreathed around the side of the block, lit by the spotlights on the corners of the building as it crawled up and pitched into the sky as a dirty, clotting cloud. He swerved the car onto the forecourt. A crowd had gathered around the foot of the building, their eyes fixed on the sixth floor. Thick smoke was gushing from one of the flats. A window shattered and more spilled out. Milton stared into the source of the smoke and saw the orange-red of the fire.

Sharon’s flat.

He sprinted across the forecourt to the stairwell, shouldered the door aside and took the stairs three at a time. He reached the sixth floor, slammed through the door and onto the walkway. He recognised Sharon’s neighbours among the group that had gathered at the end of the walkway. He grabbed one, the old lady who lived next door, and tugged her to one side. “Is she still in there?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen her come out. Her boy, neither.”

Milton released her arm and ran down the corridor. The heat climbed until it started to singe his eyebrows, a solid wall that washed over him and made it hard to breathe. He took off his coat and wrapped it around his hand, reaching out to the red-hot door handle and twisting it open. The room beyond was an inferno: the carpets, the furniture, even the walls and the ceiling seemed to be on fire. The flames lapped across the ceiling like waves. The smoke was dense and choking, and the sound of the hungry fire was threatening.

Milton heard a single scream for help, quickly choked back.

He draped his coat over his head and shoulders and stepped inside.

46

Rutherford left the house, locking the door behind him. It was another sultry, sticky night. The sound of sirens was audible in the distance, an up-and-down ululation that seemed almost constant, and seemed to be coming from several directions at once. He paused at the door of his car, took off his jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat. There was something else in the atmosphere tonight, an almost tangible edge. He could not define it, but it made him uneasy. This part of Hackney often had the hint of menace to it, especially at night, but this was different. Something was wrong.

Milton had called him five minutes earlier. He had sounded anxious. Rutherford hardly knew him but he was not the sort of man that he would have associated with worry. He had explained that there had been an accident, and that Elijah’s mother was in Homerton hospital. Rutherford asked what had happened but Milton had ignored the question, asking him to find the boy and bring him to the hospital as quickly as he could. Rutherford had been eating a takeaway curry in front of a film but he had put the plate aside at once and put on his shoes.

Rutherford opened the door and settled in the driver’s seat. He had asked Milton where he could find Elijah. Milton said that he wasn’t at home but, save that, he had no idea. That wasn’t helpful, but Rutherford said that he would do his best.

He started the car, put it into gear and drove west.

There were more kids on the streets than usual, gathered in small groups on the corners and outside shops. They wore their hoods up and some had scarves and bandanas around their faces.

He reached for the radio and switched it on. Capital FM would normally have been playing chart music at this hour but, instead, there was a news bulletin. There were serious disturbances across London and Hackney was said to be especially bad. Rutherford had read the reports in the newspaper about the gangbanger who had been shot and killed and it seemed that the protests in Tottenham and Enfield had spread, metastasizing into something much bigger and more dangerous.

As he turned off the main road a bus hurried towards him from the opposite direction, driving quickly and erratically. As it rushed by, Rutherford saw that it had no passengers. All of its windows had been shattered. He drove on until he reached Mare Street; he had to slow to a crawl as the crowd on the pavement started to drift out into the road. Ahead of him, the crowd was a solid mass. He stared in stupefaction as a group of teenagers smashed the window of a parked police car. One of them reached in with a black bin bag and spread it across the passenger seat. He lit the bag, the flames taking at once, the upholstery going up and flames quickly curling back down again from the ceiling. The crowd cheered jubilantly. The windows that had been left intact blackened and then started to crack. Someone marshalled the crowd to stand back and then, on cue, the petrol tank exploded. A hundred mobile phones were held aloft, videoing the scene.