Milton smiled. “Not for me. But thanks.”

“You didn’t speak in the meeting. There’s no point just sitting there, man, you got to get stuck in.”

“Listening’s good enough.”

“Not if you want to really make a difference. I had that problem myself, back when I first started coming. Thought it was crazy, no-one was gonna want to listen to my shit. But I got over it in the end. Eventually, the way I saw it, coming along and not doing anything was a waste of my time. That’s why I do the coffees — start small, right, and take it from there? You got to get involved.” Rutherford spoke slowly and deliberately, as if measuring each word. The effect was to imbue each with a persuasive weight. He was an impressive man.

“I suppose so.”

“Which way you headed, man? Back to Hackney?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Come on — you don’t mind, we can walk together.”

“You don’t want to go to the café?”

“Nah, won’t make no difference if I miss it tonight. I’m up at six tomorrow, I should probably get an early night.”

Milton would have preferred to walk alone but there was something infectious in Rutherford’s bearing that stalled his objections and, besides, it didn’t look like he was going to take no for an answer. They set off together, making their way along Holloway Road towards Highbury Corner.

He started speaking. “What’s your story, then?”

Milton took a breath. “The same as most people, I suppose. I was drinking too much and I needed help to stop. How about you?”

“Same deal, man. I was in the Forces. Fifteen years. Saw some stuff I never want to see again. I only stopped feeling guilty about it when I was drunk.” He turned to look at him. “Don’t mind me being presumptuous, John, but you’re a soldier too, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You know what it’s like — we got that look. Where did you serve? The Sandpit?”

“For a while.”

“Ireland?”

“Yes.”

“I been all over the place too, man. ‘See the world’, that’s what they told me when they were trying to get me to sign up, like it’s some glamorous holiday. It was fun for a while but then I saw what it was really all about. By the time I got wise to it I was a raging drunk.”

“What happened?”

“Look, I ain’t saying I’m not grateful for what the Army did for me. When I was a younger man, ten years ago, I got into all sorts of mess that I didn’t want to be getting involved in. Trouble, man, all kinds of trouble. Got myself in with a bad crowd from around here. Ended up doing plenty of things I regret. Drink and drugs — you know what it’s like. I got friends from around that time, plenty of them got banged up and a couple of them are dead. Could’ve easily been me. The army was a way to get away from all that.” He spoke fluently, settling comfortably into a story that he had clearly told many times before, probably at the meetings. “And it worked, least for a time. Took me away from here, broadened my horizons, gave me structure and discipline in my life. And those things are good things, things I needed. But they come at a price, right? The things I saw while I was out there doing my thing—” He paused. “Well, shit, it got so bad by the end that I could only live with myself with a drink inside me. You know what I mean?”

He was full of heat and passion. Milton said that he understood.

“I don’t take this life lightly, John. The way I see it, the Fellowship has given me a blessing. The gift of knowledge. I can see what’s wrong with how things are. I know the things that work and the things that don’t. Drink and drugs — they don’t. Not many people get given a chance to make a difference, but I did. And, one day at a time, I ain’t going to throw it away.”

They passed into the busy confluence of traffic and pedestrians circulating around the roundabout at Highbury Corner and moved onto Dalston Lane. Youngsters gathered outside the tube, ready to filter towards the pubs and bars of Islington High Street. Touts offered cheap rides, immigrants pushed burgers and hot dogs, drunken lads spilled out of the pub next to the station.

“How?” Milton asked him.

“How what, man?”

“How are you going to make a difference?”

“Boxing. I used to be a tasty heavyweight when I was a lad. I got to be big early, big and strong, and I had a right hand you didn’t want to get hit by. If I’d stayed with it, who knows? I wouldn’t have got into the trouble I did, that’s for sure, I wouldn’t have gotten into the army, and I reckon I was probably good enough to make a decent career out of it. I’m too old and out of shape for that now, but I’ve still got it all up in here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “So I’ve set up a club for youngsters, see? Amateurs, girls and boys, all ages. They ain’t got nothing to do around here, nothing except run with the gangs and get into mischief, and I know better than most where that road leads. You’re a younger born here, you run with one of them gangs, there are two places for you to go: prison or the crematorium. The military is one way out, but I can’t recommend that no more. So I try and give them another way. Something else to do, some structure, some discipline, and you hope that’s enough. It can be the difference. And, the way I see it, if I help a handful of them get away from temptation, that’s good enough. That’s my job done.”

“I used to box,” Milton said, smiling for the first time. “A long time ago.”

Rutherford looked him up and down: tall, lean and hard. “You’ve got the look for it,” he said. “Cruiserweight?”

“Maybe these days,” Milton smiled. “Middleweight back then. Where’s the club?”

“Church hall on Grove Road, near the park. Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights and all day Saturdays. Got about twenty regulars now.” His eyes flashed with passion. “Got some kids who are on the fringes of the gangs. Some of them have potential. This one girl, man, you wouldn’t believe how hard she can hit. Like a pile driver, knocked this lad who was giving her lip into the middle of next week. He never gave her lip after that.” He grinned at the memory of it.

They reached Milton’s turning. “This is me,” he said.

Rutherford cocked an eyebrow in surprise. “You living on the Estate?”

“Yes.”

Rutherford sucked his teeth.

“Not good?”

“You’re in the worst bit of Hackney and Hackney’s different. You talk about Waltham Forest, you talk about Camden, Southwark, Lambeth, all the rest — sure, they got bad people there. Plenty of serious players. But here? Man, Hackney’s different. You understand? The boys here are more serious than anywhere else. Everyone is banging. I mean, everyone. You can’t even compare what it’s like here with them other places. You best be careful, you hear? Don’t matter how big you are, they won’t care about that. They got a knife or a shooter and they think you’re worth rolling, I’m telling you, man, it don’t matter how mean you look, they’ll do it.”

“Nice to meet you, Rutherford.”

“You too, John. You take it easy. Maybe I’ll see you at the meeting next week?”

“Maybe.”

“And say something next time, alright? You look like you got plenty on your mind. You’ll be surprised the difference it makes.”

Milton watched as the big man walked away from him. He turned off the main road and headed into the Estate, stopping at the mini-market to buy a bag of ice. He ignored the sullen aggression of the teenagers who were gathered outside the shop, the silence as he passed through them and then the hoots of derision, the calls of “lighty!” and “batty boy”, as he set off again. Most of them were young, barely in their teens. Milton did not give them a second look.

It was half-ten by the time he returned to the maisonette. He took the carton of orange juice and poured into one of the newly cleaned glasses. He opened the bag of ice and dropped in three chunks, putting the rest in the freezer. He took off his clothes and put his gun and holster under a pillow. He swilled the juice around to cool. He pulled a chair up to the window, then went and sat down, letting the hot air, the compound smell of baked asphalt and fried food, breathe over his body. He sipped the cool drink, feeling the tang against the back of his throat, felt it slide cold down his throat and into his stomach.