It was intoxicating. The boys seemed special to Elijah. They were cool. They were older, they had money, they weren’t afraid of girls. They talked about dealing drugs and tiefing, the kind of things that Elijah’s favourite rappers rapped about. It was a lifestyle that was glamorous beyond the day-to-day drudgery of school and then helping his mother with the flat. It didn’t seem wrong to want a little bit of it for himself.

The boys Elijah knew could hear them and, eventually, they started to include him in their conversations. It wasn’t long until he opened the window all the way and started talking to them. He asked how he could get his own money. They told him to stand watch for them and he did. When they came back, they gave him a brand new PSP. The week after that they gave him money. He had never seen a fifty-pound note before but they pressed one into his hand. They started to talk to him more often. They offered him his first joint. He spluttered helplessly as he tried to smoke it and they laughed at him as he desperately tried to look cool.

It wasn’t long before they gave him the chance to make more money. He was small, with tiny arms that could fit through car windows that had been left open. He would open the locks from the inside and the boys would tear out the car stereos and steal anything else that had been left behind: GPS devices, handbags. They would steal six or seven a night and Elijah would be given fifty pounds. He put the cash in a shoebox that he hid under his bed. His mother never asked where he got the money for his new clothes. Elijah knew that she wasn’t stupid. She just didn’t want to hear him say it.

He watched as the door opened and the white man stepped outside. Elijah watched him make his way along the walkway and, after descending the stairs, emerge out onto the forecourt. He walked towards a beaten-up old car, pausing at the door and then crouching down at the front wheel. Elijah could tell from the way the car slumped to the side that the tyre had been slashed. He grinned as the man took off his jacket, removed a spare from the boot and started to go about changing it.

A couple of the older boys were smoking joints on the walkway.

“Alright, younger?” The boy’s real name was Dylan, but they called him Fat Boy on account of how big he had been as a young teenager. He had grown out of that now; he was nineteen, six foot tall and full of muscle.

“Is Pops here?”

“He’s inside. What do you want?”

“I need to see him.”

“Alright, bruv. He’s in the back. Knock when you get in.”

The flat had been taken over by the LFB. They had sprayed their tags on every spare wall and a huge, colourful version filled the wall in the lounge. Boys from the Estate lounged around, some playing FIFA on a stolen flatscreen television. Others were listening to the new album from Wretch, arguing that it was better or worse than the new tracks from Newham Generals or Professor Green. Trash was shoved into the corners: empty paper bags from McDonalds, chicken bones that had been sucked clean, empty cigarette packets, cigarette papers. Everyone was toking and Elijah quickly felt dizzy from the dope smoke that rolled slowly through the room. A couple of the boys looked up, clocked him, ignored him again. No-one acknowledged him. The room was hectic and confusing with noise. Elijah felt young and vulnerable but dared not show it.

“Look who it is!” whooped Little Mark.

“Baby JaJa,” Pinky sneered. “It’s late, younger, shouldn’t you be tucked up in bed?”

“Leave him alone,” Kidz chided.

Elijah reluctantly made his way across the room to them. Little Mark’s real name was Edwin, and he lived in a flat on the seventh floor of Blissett House with his dad. Elijah did not know Kidz’s real name, only that he lived in Regis House and had a reputation as the most prolific mugger in the crew. Pinky’s real name was Shaquille, he was usually quiet and surly and had a nasty reputation. Elijah tried to keep his distance whenever he was around.

“What you doing here?” Kidz said as he came alongside them.

“Came to see Pops,” he said.

Pinky nodded to the rucksack across his shoulder. “Afraid your mum finds out what you’ve got in there?”

“I ain’t afraid,” Elijah said.

“That’s from earlier, right? The gear from the train?”

“Yes.”

“What you bring it with you for, then? You stupid or something?”

“I ain’t stupid, either.”

“Look pretty stupid from where I’m sitting.”

Kidz smiled at him indulgently. “How you going to explain it if you get pulled by the Feds?”

Elijah felt himself blush.

“Told you he was stupid,” Pinky said. “A stupid little kid. He ain’t right for LFB.”

“Lucky for him that’s not for you to decide, then, innit? Ignore him, young ‘un. Pops is in the back. Go on through.”

Elijah made his way through the room. The layout of the flat was identical to his own and he guessed that Pops was in the main bedroom. He knocked on the door. A voice called that he could come in.

The room was dark. Pops was standing next to the open window, blowing smoke into the dusky light beyond. He had removed his shirt and his muscular torso glistened with a light film of sweat. He had a tattoo of a dragon across his shoulders and, on his bicep, the letters L, F and B. His heavy gold chain glittered against the darkness of his skin. A white woman sat on the edge of the mattress they had put in the room. She straightened her skirt as she got to her feet. She was older than Pops, looked like she was in her thirties, and dressed like the office-workers from the city who had seeped into the smarter parts of the borough. Elijah had heard about her; the rumour was that she was something in the city and that she had a taste for the crack.

Pops crossed the room and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said. She ran her palm across his cheek, collected her jacket and left the room.

Pops found his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Elijah caught himself wondering how old he was. His brown skin was unmarked, his eyes bright and intense. Elijah guessed he was eighteen or nineteen, but he had a hardness about him that made him seem older. It was a forced maturity, a product of the road, of the things he had seen and done. It had flayed the innocence out of him. “What’s the matter, younger?”

“My Mum caught me with this,” he said, shrugging the rucksack from his shoulder and letting it hang before him. “She’ll nick it off me if I have it in the house.”

Pops laughed. “Don’t fret about it, younger. We’ll look after it here.” He took the bag and tossed it onto the mattress. “Fucking day, I’m all done in.” He took a bag of weed from his pocket and found a packet of rolling papers on the windowsill. “You want a smoke?”

Elijah had never been alone with Pops before. He was talking to him, taking him seriously, and it made him feel special. “Go on, then,” he said, trying to sound older than he felt.

Pops busied himself with making the spliff. “You have fun this afternoon, blood?”

“Yeah.”

“You nervous?”

Elijah took the joint and put it to his lips as Pops sparked it for him. “A bit.”

“That’s OK,” he said. “S’alright to be nervous. Nerves mean adrenaline, and adrenaline is good. Keeps you sharp. You were quick when boi-dem came. Away on your toes.”

“I’ve always been good at running,” he said.

“That’s the thing, younger. That’s gonna be useful. You can’t never let the Feds get hold of you. The thing that keeps me running, even when my lungs are burning like someone’s sparked up a spliff in my chest, even when the stubborn side of me wants to turn around and get ignorant, face them like a man, that’s when I remember I’ve already spent way too many nights sitting on a blue rubber mattress in a cell, who knows how many times it’s been pissed on, that’s when I remember getting caught by boi-dem’s a no-no. You can’t come back to the manor and big up your chest about getting shift by boi-dem. Bad bwoys ain’t supposed to get caught, JaJa. Especially not black boys.” He grinned at him. “It’s all good. You did good.”