Street Soldier (11 page)

And suddenly, with a feeling like cold water trickling through his body, he knew that this wasn’t a fake. This thing didn’t fire bits of plastic. He was looking into a chamber that was precision engineered to take standard NATO 9mm Parabellum rounds. This was real. Empty, but real.

‘Uh . . . Corp . . .’

In the mirror, Heaton’s eyes were cold. ‘No one wants to be the next target, right? I’m just being pre-emptive. It saves time and bother if you keep it in a box that says it’s not real, you know?’

‘So . . .’ Sean struggled to think this through. ‘You’ve got a real Glock just knocking around in your car?’

‘It’s all legal and licensed and signed for. Trust your corporal. And put it back in the box.’

Sean did as he was told, quickly.

Club bouncer? No. Whatever it was Heaton was doing, if it required his very own Glock, then he was into something way heavier than that. And Sean was pretty sure Heaton was winding him up, deliberately being mysterious until Sean just
had
to ask what was going on. And then he would be in whether he liked it or not.

Sean didn’t appreciate dancing to other people’s tunes. If Heaton wanted him, Heaton could tell him. In his own time. Badgering him would just sound desperate.

And then they were at the station. Heaton pulled into the drop-off zone. ‘Have a good weekend.’ He held out his hand.

Sean, surprised, reached over and shook it. ‘Will do. And thanks for the ride.’ He pushed the matter of the gun to the back of his mind and took one last look around as he climbed out. ‘Shit, I seriously need this car.’

Heaton winked. ‘Well, maybe we can do something about that, eh?’

Chapter 10

All the familiar smells of home
, thought Sean.
Damp concrete, frying stuff – and do I detect the faintest aroma of stale piss? I believe I do.

God, I used to live here.

He’d got into London at lunch time, and then spent a few hours knocking around the West End before heading east. Part of it was just practical – his mum had told him not to turn up before she ended her shift at the shop. And part of it . . .

Part of it, he had to admit, was that he hadn’t been sure if he would still recognize the place.

He got off the Tube for the familiar five-minute walk to Littern Mills. The estate was basically three large squares, each one surrounded by four tower blocks. The ground level of each block was a row of shops set behind concrete pillars. Above them were levels and levels of open-air balconies, and the front doors of the inhabitants.

The sun was halfway to setting and the tower blocks
cast long shadows over the square where his mum lived. He scanned the shops at the bottom of his block as he slouched his way over, bag slung over his shoulder. They seemed pretty much the same. The laundrette and the chippy – both doing good business on a Saturday evening. Lakhani’s, the small general store where his mum had stacked shelves for as long as he could remember. It was closed, with a metal shutter pulled down over the plate-glass windows. Cool – she would be home.

For some reason he remembered Copper’s dire warnings, eighteen months ago, about the estate.
There’s foreigners moving in, Seany!
Which basically meant
strangers
. Well, Sean didn’t recognize any of the kids clustered around the dry fountain in the middle of the square, knocking back tins of stuff they were way too young for. But he was prepared to be friendly, so he gave the hand sign that identified the Guyz – thumb, forefinger and little finger pressed together, other two fingers outstretched, hand held across his chest. It was meant to be something that could be used anywhere – it could look like a deliberate signal or it could look like you were just scratching your shoulder.

‘Hi, guys.’

Three of them gave him the finger, two of them sniggered, one just rolled his eyes in disgust.

‘Fuck off, pig.’

‘
Pig?
’ Sean exclaimed, half laughing, half horrified. They thought he looked like a cop? Maybe he was just too smartly turned out. Shit. ‘No, mate, you got it all wrong. I was just on my way to shag your mum so I thought I’d be friendly.’

That got their attention. They stood up, and two of them blocked his way.

‘You got a problem?’ the pig boy asked.

‘Nah.’ Sean took the smile off his face and looked at him the same way he looked through an ACOG at something he was about to shoot. He also didn’t break step. ‘You?’

He saw their shoulders square up, their jaws go firm . . . and then give, as it dawned on them that they might match him in height but there was no way they matched him in build or confidence. They stepped aside and he walked between them, shoulders bumping.

‘Twat,’ one of the boys muttered. Sean held a finger up over his shoulder to say goodbye as he walked away.

Now, that was interesting. A bunch of kids who obviously weren’t Guyz, acting like they owned the place. OK.

He didn’t bother to see if the lift was working. Even if it had been, Sean knew from experience that the piss smell would be strongest inside it. He took the steps up
to the fourth level two at a time, long legs falling automatically into the old rhythm that had always helped him keep in trim, even before the army. At least the graffiti was the same – the usual riotous swirl of colours, tags, slogans and misspelled obscenities. He swung onto level four and a grin appeared on his face as the stylized G that had always dominated the far wall came into view.

But the grin stopped, and then faded, as he saw more of it. Only half the G was visible. The rest was covered over. He was pretty sure that at least two of the symbols and glyphs that had replaced it were gang logos, but he didn’t recognize either of them. There were slogans in English, and something foreign with letters he could at least read, and something even more foreign in squiggles that he had no clue about.

OK . . .

The balcony was worn and chipped, with graffiti on the bare concrete. He walked along to the third door and raised his hand to knock. And hesitated, millimetres from the scuffed paint of the door.

Come on. Just knock. Get it done.

He gave the number a last check – like there was any doubt about it being the right one – and knocked a quick rhythm against the wood. Then he stood back and waited.

On the other side, he heard a door open, then footsteps shuffling closer. Sean checked to make sure he looked smart, presentable. He wanted his mum to see that her son was doing OK.

The door opened.

‘Hello, love . . .’

She seemed to say it to his shoulder. She couldn’t lift her head any higher. He stared down at her. He still towered over her, of course. Janice Harker was thirty-three years old, sixteen years older than him, but looked fifty, and the dye didn’t hide the grey. She’d done her hair and put on her best clothes for him – a fading blue dress over an appallingly thin figure. Eh? He had always thought of her as a soppy fat cow. Now she was anything but fat.

And she had clearly spent some time on her make-up, but he didn’t know if that was to impress him, or to hide the bruises on her face. They weren’t visible, but the swelling was.

Sean didn’t wait to be invited in. He stepped into the flat and gently pulled her along with him, shutting the door behind them. He dropped his bag on the floor. ‘Shit, what happened, Mum? Was it PJ?’

‘Oh, don’t you worry about that.’ She waved her hands vaguely in front of her face. ‘Just a little accident, that’s all. PJ never laid a finger on me. Not that way,
anyway. Now, a cup of tea? And I bought your favourite – that syrup cake you love!’

Sean wasn’t listening. ‘An accident? Don’t play me, Mum. Who did it?’

She eased out of his grip and slipped into the tiny kitchen that led off the hallway. He followed her, past the doorway to the lounge. Then he did a double take and shot a look into the other room. Two chairs and a TV, sitting on the floor.

‘Mum . . .’ He ducked into the kitchen and took it in with one glance. The counters were bare. The cooker was scabby with old food but obviously hadn’t been used for a long time.

‘Do you still have one sugar or have you given that up? I mean, you’re all healthy now, aren’t you? All that running and army fun. Oh, Sean, look at you!’ Her eyes actually lingered in his direction, though they still couldn’t quite get as high as his face. ‘You got so big and handsome! You got a girlfriend? I’d love to meet her.’

‘You need to tell me what happened, Mum.’ Sean dropped down to a crouch and opened the fridge. Empty shelves stared back. Without a word, he stood up, checked a few cupboards. A couple of tins of sardines, a stale loaf of bread, and some own-brand tea bags. That was it.

She flicked the kettle on and dropped a tea bag into a mug as it began to warm up. ‘There won’t be any milk, I’m afraid—’

‘No milk?’ said Sean. ‘Mum, there’s no food anywhere!’

‘That’s because I’m waiting for my delivery, love. It’s due later today, I promise.’

‘Delivery?’ Sean said in disbelief. ‘You mean you have food delivered?’

His mum nodded.

‘So you ordered it, right? Through a website?’

She nodded again, smiled.

‘Even though you haven’t got a computer or a smartphone?’

Her face flickered as she sought for an explanation. ‘I used their computer next door,’ she said. ‘You remember Lisa and John? Yes, that’s what I did.’

Sean shook his head, fighting his temper. He should have known it would come to this. Spend a year away from her, and he worried about her. Thirty seconds back in her company and she was pissing him off again.

‘Mum, just tell me—’

‘Let’s talk in the lounge,’ she said. ‘It’s more comfy in there.’

Sean stood his ground. ‘Mum. You need to talk to
me. I can see you’re not spending it on food or booze or smokes or drugs, so where—?’

The flat shook to the sound of a knock on the front door, angry and demanding. Something like a stab of pain shot across his mum’s face.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s no one. Please, love, go to the lounge and I’ll send him away.’

‘Him? Who’s
him
?’

Maybe there was another man in her life, PJ’s replacement – but that hadn’t sounded like a guy coming to meet his girlfriend. Oh shit, she wasn’t getting beaten up again, was she?

She pushed past him, holding her hands to her chest like she didn’t even want to touch him. But it wasn’t that. He could see that her fingers were wrapped around something, trying to hide it from view. He reached out and blocked the door with one arm, stopping her from getting any further. Then, gently, he took her hand in his and opened it, ignoring her weak struggle. Staring back at him was a roll of £10 notes.

‘Mum . . .’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I just need to—’

Sean took the money as another knock shook the door. ‘Stay here.’ He eased his mum gently back into the kitchen. ‘Let me sort this.’ She started to cry. ‘No. Stay,’ he repeated.

Sean closed the kitchen door and took the three steps to the front of the flat.

The door shook again, even more violently.

‘Oh no, Sean, don’t, please . . .’ His mum’s voice rose in a wail of sheer terror.

He pulled the door open.

Chapter 11

Sean found himself staring at a white guy a few years older than him, maybe Heaton’s age, fist clenched and raised to deliver another hammer blow. The guy caught himself just in time, and let his hand down slowly. His skinny frame was bulked out by a massive white shell suit. A gold chain and a baseball cap completed the look.

‘Yes?’ Sean said, staring coldly at the guy.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I was going to ask the same question. I mean, I can see you’re some pranny with his dick where his face ought to be, but that doesn’t tell me
who
you are.’

The guy’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly. ‘Tell Janice Ricky’s here. Collecting her monthlies.’

‘And what exactly are they?’

‘Look, just send her out, will you, bro? I’ve got other people to see, know what I’m saying?’

Sean stepped out through the front door, closing it
behind him. ‘No, I don’t know what Pricky’s saying. So why doesn’t Pricky explain?’

Ricky looked at him appraisingly for a moment. Then he slipped a packet of cigarettes from a pocket and offered Sean one. Sean just stared at him, so he popped it into his own mouth and lit up.

‘New kid on the block? OK, quick update for future reference. Janice makes a monthly payment that guarantees safety—’

‘Thought it was the Littern Guyz who took care of all that.’

Ricky smiled around the end of the cigarette. ‘We got arrangements with the Guyz.’

You say?
Sean thought. Cool fury began to smoulder deep inside him. ‘How did she get the bruises?’

Ricky took a deep draw on the cigarette. ‘The what?’

‘The bruises on her face. Where did she get them?’

A shrug. Another deep draw. ‘Fell over. You know how it is.’

‘So in fact you’re pretty shit at guaranteeing safety.’

‘Like I say, if she don’t pay dues . . . What can you do? Shit happens.’

‘Yeah, it does. In fact . . .’ Sean snatched the cigarette from Ricky’s mouth and flicked it onto the floor. He crushed it beneath his foot. ‘I squeezed one out this morning looked just like you.’

Ricky stared down at the butt. Then his face twisted into a snarl as he looked up at Sean, and his mouth opened. Sean cupped his hand and slapped the guy hard across the right ear, faster than Ricky could react. Ricky’s scream echoed along the landing. He staggered back and dropped to the floor like his legs had snapped.

Sean crouched down. ‘That’s a ruptured eardrum,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll heal in – oh, three months, max. And you’ve got another one.’ He cupped his hand again and made as if to hit the other ear. Ricky recoiled. ‘But I want you to hear me clear so I won’t do that one too, unless you ask real nice.’

Ricky attempted to get up onto his knees, but Sean pushed him back onto his arse.

‘I’m Janice’s son,’ he said. ‘Didn’t she mention me? Aw, now I’m all hurt as well as angry. Doesn’t matter really. What does is that you will never visit her again. Understand?’