“Boxing?” Elijah exclaimed.

“That’s right.”

“I ain’t into this,” he said. “You’re having a laugh.”

Milton turned to him. “Give it a chance,” he said. “Just one morning, see how you get on. If you don’t like it, you don’t ever have to come back. But you might surprise yourself.”

Rutherford noticed them, and made his way across the room. “This your boy?” he said.

“I ain’t his boy,” Elijah said dismissively.

“He’s not sure this is for him,” Milton said, patiently ignoring his truculent attitude.

“Wouldn’t be the first lad to say that the first time he comes in here. How old are you, son?”

“Fifteen.”

“Big lad for your age. Reckon you might have something about you. I’m Rutherford. Who are you?”

“JaJa.”

“Alright then, JaJa. Have you got kit?” Elijah gave a sullen shrug. “I’ll take that as a yes. The changing room is out the back. Get yourself sorted out and get back out here. We’ll see what you can do.”

Milton was surprised to see that Elijah did as he was told.

“Leave him with me for a couple of hours,” Rutherford said. “I think he’s going to like this more than he thinks he is.”

28

Milton looked at the jobs that needed doing. As Rutherford had suggested, the hall was in a bit of a state. The walls were peeling in places, large swathes of damp bubbling up beneath the paint and with patches of dark fungus spreading up from the floor. Some of the floorboards were rotting, one of the toilets had been smashed and the roof leaked in several places. Buckets had been placed to catch the falling water and, looking up to fix the position on the roof, Milton took the ladder that Rutherford offered, went outside, braced it against the wall and climbed up to take a better look. Several of the tiles were missing. He climbed back down, went to the small hardware store that served the Estate and bought a wide plastic sheet, a hammer and a handful of nails. He spent the next hour and a half securing the sheet so that it sheltered the missing tiles. It was only a temporary fix, but it would suffice until he could return with the materials to do the job properly.

When Milton returned to the church hall, he found Elijah sparring inside the ring. The boy was wearing a head guard, vest and shorts, his brand new Nikes gleaming against the dirty canvas. His opponent looked to be a year or two older and was a touch taller and heavier, yet Elijah was giving him all he could handle. He was light on his feet and skipped in and out of range, absorbing his opponent’s slow jabs on his gloves and retaliating with quick punches of his own. Milton had been a decent boxer in the Forces and was confident that he knew how to spot raw talent when he saw it. And Elijah had talent; he was sure about that.

Elijah allowed the bigger boy to come onto him, dropping his head so that it was shielded between his shoulders and forearms. The boy dived forward, Elijah turning at the last moment so that his jab bounced off his right shoulder, leaving his guard open and his chin exposed. Elijah fired in a straight right-hand of his own, his gloved fist crumpling into the boy’s headguard with enough force to propel his gumshield from his mouth. He was stood up by the sudden blow, dazed, and Elijah hit him with a left and another right.

The boy was staggering as Rutherford rang the bell to bring the sparring to an end.

Elijah turned to step through the ropes but Rutherford sent him back again with a stern word; he went back to his opponent and they touched gloves. “That’s better,” Rutherford said as he held the ropes open for the two of them. He sent them both to the changing rooms. He saw Milton and came across to him.

“Sorry about that,” Milton said.

“Boy’s keen. Needs to learn some discipline, though.”

“What do you think?”

“There’s potential. He’s got an attitude on him, no doubt, but we can work with that.”

“You’ll have him back, then?”

“For sure. Bring him on Tuesday night, we’ll get to setting him up a regular regime, start training him properly.”

o o o

MILTON OFFERED to buy Elijah dinner, wherever he liked. The boy chose the Nandos on the Bethnal Green Road and led the way there. They took a bus from Dalston Junction, sitting together on the top deck, Milton with his knees pressed tight against the seat in front and Elijah alongside. The restaurant was busy but they found a table towards the back. Milton gave Elijah a twenty pound note and told him to get food for both of them. He returned with a tray laden with chicken, fries and soft drinks. He put the tray on the table, shrugged off his puffer jacket and pushed a plate across the table.

“What is it?” Milton asked.

“You never eaten in Nandos before?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“You got peri peri chicken and fries,” he explained. “If you don’t like that, there’s something wrong with you, innit?”

Milton smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm and took a bite out of the chicken. He looked out around the restaurant: there were tables of youngsters, some with their parents, and groups of older adolescents. There was a raucous atmosphere, loud and vibrant. He noticed a young couple with two children, probably no older than six or seven and, for a moment, his mind started to wander. He caught himself. He had moments of wistfulness now and again but he had abandoned the thought of a family a long time ago. His line of work made that idea impossible, both practically and equitably. He was never in the same place for long enough to put down roots and, even if he did, the risks of his profession would have made it unfair to whoever might have chosen to make her life with him. The state of affairs had been settled for long enough that he had driven daydreams of domesticity from his mind. That kind of life was not for a man like him.

“So where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked him.

He shrugged. “Dunno. The street, I guess. My mums says I got a temper on me. She’s probably right. I get into fights all the time.”

“A temper’s not going to do you any favours. You’ll need to keep it under control.”

Elijah dismissed the advice with a wave of his drumstick. “I know what it was. When I was younger, primary school, I was out playing football in the park when this bigger boy, Malachi, he comes onto me with his screwface on after I scored a goal against his team. He punched me right in the face and I didn’t do nothing about it. I wasn’t crying or nothing, but when I got home my mum saw that I had a cut on my head and she was on at me about how I got it. I told her what happened and she sent me back out again.” He swallowed a mouthful and put on an exaggerated impression of his mother’s voice. “‘Listen good,’ she said, ‘I’m your mum, I protected you in my womb for nine months, I gave birth to you, I didn’t do none of that so other people could just beat on you. Go outside and don’t come back in until you’ve given that boy a good seeing to, and I’m going to be watching you from the balcony.’ So I did what she said and sorted him out. I never let anyone push me around after that.”

Milton couldn’t help laugh and, after a moment, the boy laughed along with him.

“I don’t know anything about you, do I?” he said when they had finished.

“What would you like to know?”

The boy was watching him curiously over his jumbo cup of coke. “What do you do? For a job, I mean?”

“This and that,” he said.

“Because we all knew you ain’t no journalist.”

“No, I’m not. We spoke about this. I’m not—”

“So what is it you do? Come on, man, I’ve told you plenty about me. Only fair. You want to get to know me properly, how you expect that if you got kinds of secrets and shit I don’t know about?”

He said, awkwardly, “It’s a little hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“I’m a” — he fumbled for the right euphemism — “I’m a problem solver. Occasionally, there are situations that require solutions that are a little out of the ordinary. I’m the one who gets asks to sort them out.”