The Cleaner

The mention of Sharon quietened him for a moment.

“You know she’ll be alright,” Milton said.

He looked up at him. “Why did you help us? You never said.” His eyes were wet.

Milton didn’t know how to answer that.

“JaJa!” Rutherford called. The three of them were the last people in the hall. “I want a curry. You coming?”

Elijah hadn’t taken his eyes off Milton’s face.

It was his turn to feel discomfited. “Doesn’t have to be a reason, does there?”

Elijah paused for a moment and then reached out his hand. Milton took it and held it for a moment. “See you later, Milton,” the boy said. He self-consciously scrubbed the back of his hand across his damp eyes. “We’re getting take-out curries. What do you want?”

“You choose. I’m not fussed.”

“You like it hot?”

“Not really.”

Elijah gri

Milton watched the boy make his way back to Rutherford. They made their way out, shutting the door behind them. Milton headed to the back and the small office. There was a desk, a filing cabinet and a battered leather sofa. He collected his bag of tools and went over to the plug that he was fitting. A curry with them sounded good. He was pla

53

Rutherford and Elijah walked along the perimeter of the park. All the boy wanted to do was recount the fight from earlier, constantly asking Rutherford for his opinion and his suggestions for how he could eliminate his faults. It made him smile to see the boy so animated. The evening had been an escape for him, Rutherford could see that, a distraction that meant that he did not have to think about his mother or the ordeal of the last few days. He was a lively, engaged boy, and in his enthusiasm Rutherford could see the premature aging endowed by the street quickly peeled back. He saw him for what he was: a sweet fifteen year old boy, full of the usual insecurities, the usual need for encouragement and acceptance. He was a little full of himself at times, but what young boy wasn’t? Rutherford remembered that he had been much worse.

“Damn it,” Rutherford said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I put the alarm on. Milton will set it off if he opens the door.”

“Want me to run back and tell him?”

“I better do it.” He handed over a set of keys and pointed. “No need for you to come too — we’re nearly there. You know my house? Last one on the left. Let yourself in, make yourself at home. I’ll get the takeaway on the way back — what do you want?”

“Curry,” he said. “Milton, too. Chicken korma for him. Beef madras for me.”

“Two chicken kormas and a beef madras, then. There are DVDs in the living room — put one on if you want. Go on, get inside. Don’t hang around outside, you hear? It still ain’t right around here.”

Rutherford waited until Elijah had crossed the road and was at the door to the maisonette. The door opened and closed, the boy disappearing inside. Satisfied, Rutherford turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to the church hall.

54

Milton put down his screwdriver and concentrated on the aches and pains that registered around his body. His joints throbbed with a dull ague, his muscles felt stiff and there was a deep-seated fatigue all the way in the marrow of his bones. There was no point in pretending; he was getting old. Old and stiff.

He recognised, dimly, that he needed sleep more than anything else.

He was screwing the cover onto the new socket when he heard a knock on the door from outside. He waited, wondering whether he had misheard, but the knock was repeated. Three times, quite hard, urgent. He stood. His eye fell on his Sig Sauer, hanging in the shoulder holster against the back of the nearby chair. There was no need. It was Rutherford or, in the worst case, kids who were mucking about. He tossed it behind the ring, out of sight.

He crossed the wide space to the front door, unlocked it and pulled it back.

Milton did not recognise the man outside.

The man brought up a gun and pointed it directly at his chest.

“Back inside,” he said.

The gun was a Sig Sauer 9mm, like his own. He knew what that meant.

“About time,” he said.

“Inside.”

“Control sent you?”

The man didn’t answer.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Who are you? Eleven? Twelve?”

“Twelve,” he said. The muzzle was aimed at his heart, unwavering in a steady hand, and the man’s face was blank and inscrutable. There would be no sense in appealing to his better nature. He would have no better nature. Twelve followed him into the hall and pushed the door closed with his foot. Milton assessed him. He looked like an athlete with wide shoulders and a tapered trunk. The eyes stared out coldly from beneath pale lashes. They were opaque, almost dead. The eyes of a drowned man.

“What’s this about?”

“Are you armed?” Twelve said. His voice was flat, the sentence trailing away on a dead note.

“No.”

“Pull up your shirt.”

Milton did as he was told.

“Turn around.”

He did.

“Where is it?”

“In the car.”

“Anyone else here?”

“No. Just me. Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

Again, there was no response. Milton assessed. Was there any way of putting Twelve off his stride? Upsetting his balance? He knew with grim certainty that there was not. Twelve and all the other young agents in Group Fifteen were brutally professional. Milton knew how well he had been trained — he would have gone through the same programme as he had, after all — and he was able to anticipate all of the variables that he would be considering. First, he would assess the threat that Milton posed: significant, but limited as it stood. Second, he would confirm that the surroundings were suitable for an elimination: perfect. Once those quick assessments had been made to his satisfaction he would carry out his orders. It would be quick and efficient. Milton guessed that he had a handful of seconds. A minute if he was lucky and could muddy the waters.

He would not go down without a fight. If there was a chance, a half-chance, he would take it. He assessed the situation himself. Six feet separating him from Twelve. Another indication that the agent was good; not enough to compromise his aim but enough to make sure that Milton could not attack before he could fire. Milton explored his own body, his posture, tensing his muscles and assessing how quickly he might be able to move. The position of his feet. The angle of his hips, of his shoulders. He would need to be decisive but, even then, he knew that his chances were slim. He would certainly be shot before he could reach him and, even if he was not, he did not fancy his chances in unarmed combat with Twelve. He was younger, his muscles more pliant and less damaged and scarred than Milton’s.

“Control sent you?” he asked again, probing for a weakness, some conversational gambit he could spin out into hesitation, then work the hesitation into doubt.

Nothing. He took a step into the hall. The gun did not waver.

“He doesn’t trust me?”

Nothing.

“Come on, Twelve, I’m owed a reason.”

Finally, he answered the question. “Your mental health is in question.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Twelve’s eyes darted left and right, taking in his surroundings, sca

Milton ignored that. “It might have been in question before, but it isn’t now. Ten years doing what we do, it’s enough to make you hate the world. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m finished — I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Twelve turned his gaze back onto Milton. “I used to look up to you,” he said, a cruel smile briefly creasing his alabaster white skin. “You were a legend. But that was then, wasn’t it? Before whatever it is that’s happened to you.”