Crossing The Whitewash: Boxer Boys, #1

Prologue

THE rat sniffed the air as the kid watched, spellbound.

He’d never seen one running free before.

Some of them could grow as big as cats, he’d been told.

Not this one. This one was so malnourished you could see its ribs. Hungry as it was, though, it wouldn’t go near the decomposing organic lump that lay in that corner of the room.

You think they’re gonna rape you?

The cellmate’s words broke the spell. You’ve been reading too many stories, kid. They ain’t gonna rape you, they’re gonna fucking kill you... That’s what you should be worried about.

If the younger man was concerned, no flicker of emotion crossed his baby face. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, doing a quick inventory of the fat fuck opposite him. The bloke was 18-stone of pure human junk, ugly tattoos plastering the top half of a flabby, uncovered torso. Some sort of snake wrapped itself around his throat, slithered over the jaw and entered his mouth while two mythical dragon-like creatures fought for supremacy across man boobs and an over-nurtured belly. The names Shaun and Wendy could just about be picked out amid the chaotic artwork. Children, or victims?

The snake moved as the older man expelled a burst of staccato laughter. It stopped abruptly, as if the power had been cut to his brain. He stared off into the distance, the only sound that of long, diseased fingernails scratching at the scabs that ran the length of his arm.

The kid checked on the rat. In the tales he had been told they were always black, always big and always dirty. Rats were to be feared. They would eat anything.

A-ny-thing.

Which was why this one was such a disappointment. It wasn’t black for a start but covered in sporadic tufts of grey hair. It certainly wasn’t big and it wasn’t helping itself bulk up by turning down the meal on offer. If it had a family, it was letting them down, too. Dirty? It was about the cleanest thing in the cell. Sniffing the air again it wrinkled its nose and aborted its mission, scurrying out of sight.

Watching the rat reawakened his own sense of smell. He almost gagged. The foul stench reminded him of chicken bones left too long in a dustbin, mixed together with substantial quantities of body odour and raw sewage. He resisted the temptation to squeeze his nostrils shut with his fingers, though, believing it to be a sign of weakness.

They’re offering a good package, said the fat fuck, faulty circuits reconnecting. It was as if he was describing a new private health scheme rather than an invitation to kill a man. Grimy fingers made a pointless attempt to groom a shoulder-length tangle of greying hair. They’re insisting on a proper job. Maximum violence. The client wants someone to ‘rip your head off and piss in the bastard hole’, he made quote marks in the air to frame the vivid description. They might rape you after that, but I doubt you’ll feel a thing.

Though the words were delivered with the expert timing of a stand-up comedian the kid doubted his fellow prisoner had a funny bone in his entire body. He wanted a reaction, but since his arrest the kid had learned to keep his emotions in check. A whole cabal of ‘interested parties’ had been wheeled in to assess him and he had stared blankly at them through eyes of cobalt blue crystal – a human mirror revealing nothing. As a result, evaluation reports put before the judge were useless. With nothing to go on she applied the going rate for crimes of this nature – 12 years. The crown dropped the murder charge to spare the taxpayer the cost of an appeal.

Manslaughter? Murder? Same difference, really.

The kid stretched his wiry frame in the grey jumpsuit which hung off him like an older brother’s hand-me-down. The wonky wooden chair screeched as he transferred his weight and patted away a yawn. You heard about this in the exercise yard? he asked in a cockney accent as thick as London smog. Could someone be blowing up your backside and telling you a hurricane’s on its way?

It’s for real, said the big man. Someone’s offering a lifetime’s worth of Product. Weed, brown, chemicals; people use whatever it takes to make the time go faster in here, you know? Of course you do. That’s your line of business, right? The kid didn’t bite. Anyway, whoever wants you in the ground put feelers out. It got the yard all excited. The psychos talk about nothing else. They’ve been counting the days. You clocked the reception committee? All the fresh meat gets some kind of welcome. When you spend day after day staring at the same bastard walls, it’s nice to see something new. We could have sold tickets for you, though. You’re box office.

Again the laugh, a throaty chuckle as if half the larynx had been stripped away over a lifetime of inhaling noxious chemicals. It grated with the kid but he needed to maintain the dialogue. Things were starting to make sense.

He had entered the main wing earlier to a mind-fucking din, the kind of white noise he imagined they piped into a terrorist’s cell day after day in order to extract a confession. The chink-chink-chink of sharp objects scraping across metal bars, banging and stamping, taunts and abuse, gangster rap lyrics without the tenderness. He chose to keep his gaze on the yellow-white walls in front, knowing that if he raised his eyes to the landings above it would make matters worse.

As he made slow progress through the wing he began to filter out different sounds: wolf whistles, cries of Hello Sweetie and All right Precious, ‘mwaah, mwaah’ kisses, insane whooping. The one shout that settled in his head and stayed there, toying with his imagination, delivered in a baritone growl: Hope you remembered the lube, sweet cheeks!

Reaching his cell he was greeted by this fully signed-up member of the dregs of society, perched on the bottom bunk rearranging his pubic lice with nicotine-stained sausage fingers. Withdrawing them slowly from his trousers he proffered a handshake it would have been rude not to accept.

What the fuck did you do anyway? The cell mate was asking now. They claim you brained a granddad with his walking stick, killed him outright. That’s considered poor form – even by people in here who’ve done despicable things. The psychos will believe they’re doing a public service, offing you.

It ain’t true.

What ain’t true?

It wasn’t a pensioner. It didn’t happen like that.

You don’t have to convince me... I salute you, kid. I’m a big fan of euthanasia...

You’re coming close to getting some, thought the kid. I told you it ain’t true, he said, knuckles forming into fists.

Whatever you say. Still, I’ll give you credit. It’s rare someone’s reputation gets here so much earlier than they do. Respect.

He held out the knuckle of his right hand, which was inked with Hait. Jeez, thought the kid, if you’re going to get your skanky girlfriend to do your tattoos on the cheap, at least make sure she isn’t illiterate. He left it hanging there, unfamiliar with the American gesture of fist bumping.

The hand was withdrawn. Suit yourself.

The younger man couldn’t care less about hurting the slob’s feelings, but needed allies. Sorry, he said. That was rude. I’m just fucking knackered, ain’t slept for weeks.

That won’t change in this shithole, said the cellmate, waving his hand around like a guide at an historic museum. This is Wano mate. Worst prison in Britain. People shout out in the night. The victims. They’re being bullied, beaten up, ass-fucked. It’s too overcrowded man and the lunatics really have taken over the asylum. Sleep with one eye open.

No proper sleep, then, for another eight years, best case scenario. Fuck. So when I doze off you slit my throat?

You don’t doze off, said the big man, unblinking. Then he leaned across and slapped the kid on the knee, laughing again until the cough took over and his face turned crimson. The kid waited for the attack to subside. Ah fuck, sorry, I’m playing with ya, said the cellmate, removing a cigarette paper from his pocket and pulling strands of tobacco from a pouch on the bunk. Shit, I guess you don’t know who I am.

Don’t tell me, thought the kid. Yorkshire Ripper? Ronnie Kray? Rose West after the op? He was tired of playing games.

I’m a mate of your old man’s. A business associate. We done some projects together in the past. When I heard you were on your way I thought I’d best keep an eye on you... even bribed the guards with a bit of weed to get you put in with me.

Why should I believe you? asked the kid, pointing at the older man’s track marks. You’ve got a habit.

Hey, do it your way if it makes life easier for you. Your old man, or old dear for that matter, would vouch for me. When you speak to ’em say you’ve bunked up with Cozza. Anyway, why would I upset your little gang. They’ve got a bit of a reputation. I don’t want a bunch of eager little twats chasing me around in me old age. He sniggered but stopped abruptly as he felt another coughing fit coming on. Look, tell you what I’ll do. Cough. I’ll see if I can find out more. Cough. Ask some subtle questions. Deal?

Sure. Deal. Thanks... Cozza.

No problem. He hauled himself up and headed for the door. Get yourself settled. Unpack your stuff. Sauna’s down there, first on the right, next to the Jacuzzi. He did have a sense of humour, then.

The kid was pretty sure he already knew who had put up the reward. He had fought a long-standing drugs war with one particular crew keen to encroach on the pill-popping East London estate where he conducted his business. It was tactically astute for them to strike now, with him behind bars and his firm in flux. Alone now, he took a closer look at his cell. It was top-of-the-range decrepit; the furniture wooden and distressed, the walls plastered with dark poetry and will-sapping graffiti. Leave hope at the door, one prophet had scrawled in something red. There was a tiny window which, when opened a few inches, struck up against metal bars, obscuring the view of the solid brick wall behind. To his right a separate cubicle housed a seat-less toilet, but any suggestion of privacy had been removed with the door. A dusty portable TV with a cracked screen nestled in the corner by the rotten food, wires exposed and connected to a mobile phone he assumed belonged to Cozza. Tugging the sheet in place on the top bunk, only now did he notice the stains on the mattress which hinted at stories no civilised person would want to hear. It certainly would be a miracle if he could overcome his sleep problems in these surroundings.

As he started to rise, stretching his back, he caught sight of his reflection in the bed frame. He had convinced himself he’d dealt well with the trial and remand; that he was hard, seasoned and prepared for what was to follow. Hollow cheekbones framing eyes sunk into shadow told a different story.

Suddenly, there was a shift in atmosphere – shouting then a pounding of feet. He caught a glimpse of something reflected in the metal bedframe that wasn’t supposed to be there, span around and lifted his arm just in time. A jolt like an electric charge passed through the wrist and warm liquid spread up his sleeve. The sensation wasn’t unlike peeing yourself as a kid, and he felt strangely embarrassed even though he knew it wasn’t urine. It was blood... a fuck of a lot of blood.

He ducked as the attacker came in swinging again, the weapon slicing the air above him. He thought he’d escaped unscathed until the elbow followed through and cracked against his forehead, blurring his vision and jarring like a bitch. His assailant felt the impact, too, cursing loudly. Fuck! Time froze before the noise poured in like water from a jet washer, playground chants of Kill the fucker and Fuck him up flooding the cell. Hazy figures squeezed into the doorway, preventing a quick getaway.

His brain made calculations in fractions of a second, factoring in the audience, the surroundings, the assailant. Huge. Shaved head. Mixed-race. Biceps developed over long hours lifting weights. Ideal for tests of strength, not speed. Unsuited to brawls in confined spaces.

The kid’s arm throbbed – boom, boom, boom – like something was trying to burst out. He reminded himself he’d had worse. Moving quickly, he caught his opponent off balance. Oof! The muscle man expelled air and energy as the head rammed into his gut. Following up quickly the kid grabbed a steroid-enhanced arm and sank teeth deep into the flesh above the wrist, shaking his head like an animal tearing at a tough cut of meat. A high-pitched sound, part-scream, part-moan, pierced the air, followed by the clink of the weapon dropping to the floor.

Fuelled by adrenaline, the kid threaded the meaty, bloody limb through the bed frame before sending his head crashing forward again. It collided with something soft, which buckled and cracked under the force. Still moving, he sank teeth into a tough piece of gristle, twisting and turning, ripping it off and spitting it to the floor, the taste of blood familiar to his pallet.

Snuh, shuh, fuggin cun, you bit off my fuggin ear, said his shocked victim through a broken nose.

Pardon! shouted the kid, having fun. He rendered the other arm useless, grabbing fingers and bending them back on themselves until the crack echoed like a gunshot, quietening the audience for a second. His opponent incapacitated, the kid reached down and retrieved the weapon – a home-made shiv constructed from razor blade and plastic toothbrush moulded together with the flame from a cigarette lighter.

Rising to his toes, he barely noticed his own pain. He felt invigorated, light-headed, triumphant. He loved the blood-pumping, all-consuming rush of the fight and struggled to remember the last one he’d enjoyed this much. Then he chuckled. Idiot. It was the one that had put him in here in the first place. The smile slowly crossed his face, but slipped away before reaching his eyes.

Look, shnuh. I’ll help you, shnuh. Be yo’ bodyguard, shnuh, the beaten thug pleaded, blood in his sinuses making breathing and talking difficult.

Yeah, said the kid. God help me If I need you as my bodyguard you useless piece of scum. You ain’t a hard man. You’re small fry... and my old man says when you got a fish danglin’, you don’t let ’em off the hook.

Behind him there was a scuffle as the screws arrived fashionably late, the fight over. In the background an alarm bell rang incessantly, warning him he didn’t have much time. Moving the weapon’s sharp edge to within a centimetre of the lifer’s right eye he spat out his demand: You want this back, nigger?

In response his victim blinked wildly, realisation spreading across his face. Why don’t you take it then..?

The kid plunged the blade home.

––––––––

AFTER the noise died down, a familiar shape re-entered the cell. The rat wondered where the caged animals had gone, particularly when there was food to be had. Scampering forward, it sank its teeth into the discarded piece of meat.

A bit tough, but better.

Fresher.

Its family could eat tonight.

PART ONE

1996-2006

ONE

GARY MARSHALL would always remember the first time he met his stalker.

Some recalled exactly what they were doing when those planes crashed into the twin towers or Princess Diana died, but world events mean little to 13-year-old boys. Being threatened with a blade for the first time by someone who wished to relieve you of one of your prized possessions, however, is bound to have a lasting effect.

A happy lad, Gary had set about his day-to-day chores that morning in a brighter mood than usual. His joy seemed to be shared by the entire country, too, an outpouring of national pride which he had rarely encountered in his young life. What’s more it was centred around his home, London, and even the tower blocks on the estate where he lived seemed cheerful, their grim exteriors transformed by flags bearing the Cross of St George hanging proudly from windows and red, white and blue bunting trailing across balconies.

He had finished his round later than usual, unable to resist taking a peak at the back pages of those papers he was supposed to be delivering. They told of how England’s new footballing SAS strike force, Shearer and Sheringham, had dismantled the hotly-tipped Dutch 4-1 in Euro 96. Grumpy old Ron, who ran the newsagents, didn’t even complain about his tardiness. Instead he chose to delay his departure even further by discussing the game. Those strikers are something else, ain’t they? he said.

I like Gazza, Gary confided. He’s my favourite.

Aye, he’s a bit of a show-off, though. Can’t be trusted. What about that booze business before the tournament started, eh? You mark my words, he’s a wrong ’un. Still, I can understand why he’d be your favourite. That’s what your mates call you, ain’t it? Gazza? Your old man is always telling me you’re destined for great things.

Yeah, well... Gary blushed. His dad boasted about his football abilities to the point of embarrassment. To be fair, he’d done well for the local Under-14 side as a midfield playmaker, playing in a role not dissimilar to Gazza. That was where the similarities ended. While the footballer was broad shouldered and rumoured to be partial to the odd Mars bar Gary was tall for his age, gangly and lithe. He was also a natural blond as opposed to Gazza, who had dyed his hair. Some kids teased Gary, calling him a ginga. His mum assured him otherwise, compromising with strawberry blond.

You’re a good lad, Gary, said old Ron in a rare moment of tenderness, rubbing his head, now be off with you or your mum with have my guts for garters. Gary laughed, having no idea what garters were.

When school was over his mind turned to going for a kickabout at the local rec. He was bound to find some of his mates taking advantage of the warm afternoon sunshine, but first he had to return home to get changed and dump his bike.

The estate he lived on was known as the Boxers, the flats having been erected sometime in the 1950s, but given a token makeover 30 years later by some council clever clogs who chose ‘inspirational fighters synonymous with the East End’ as a theme. Standing next to the brick monstrosity of Minter Towers, a block named after the former world middleweight champ Alan Minter who staged many of his early fights at the York Hall in Bethnal Green, were identical buildings clad in various shades of insipid pastel known as Walker, Cooper and Stracey. The buildings certainly resembled fighters, but rather than in their prime, these were shabby and punch-drunk, with graffiti like badly-drawn tattoos decorating their exteriors. A big black mark like a bruise crept up one beige wall of Minter, the result of an abandoned car being set on fire.

So what have we here, man? A boy stepped into his path just as he was about to push his way in through the entrance to the lifts. He looked about a year older than Gary, was brown skinned and wore an American basketball vest to emphasise developing biceps. Four of his mates emerged from the shadows.

I live here, said Gary. My flat’s in this building. Excuse me. He tried to edge past, but the boy mirrored his movements like a bulky centre-half barring the route to goal. Gary felt uneasy. He’d heard his mum telling a neighbour that people had been accosted on the estate, mugged and relieved of their valuables and cash. Look, my mum will be out searching for me if I’m not home soon. The excuse sounded weak even to his young ears.

My mum will be worried, mimicked one of the other boys in a whiny voice, his pals laughing. 

You’d better hand over them wheels then, pal, if you don’t want her coming down here to pick up da pieces, said the leader.

Gary inched backwards, the youths following him. He knew he was in trouble but was determined not to give the bike up. It was a racer with gears and his dad had saved up a long time to get it for him, making the purchase from a mate at Walthamstow market. He thought about riding away but couldn’t summon up the guts. His stomach rolled, fear gripping him like that first time he’d been invited to jump in at the deep end during swimming lessons. When the sun glinted off something in the gang leader’s hand he thought he might pee himself. It was a knife, and he was holding it sideways in the way movie gangsters held their guns.

Bike, bredren, or I’ll stick you. There were uneasy chuckles from his mates.

Oi!

Gary physically jumped at the sound. It came from his right and he took his eye off the gang leader for a split second to register the scruffy looking kid in a tracksuit two sizes too big for him standing on a raised area of tarmac a short distance away. Great, he thought. Is he involved, too? That might explain a few things.

The kid’s name was Arnold. He went to Gary’s school and lived in one of the houses just down the road from the Boxers. His dad had money, by all accounts, but people said he had obtained it illegally. The father wasn’t a nice person, anyway, according to the rumour machine. He had a violent reputation and Gary had witnessed this first hand when he had seen the bloke chase his dad across the estate, waving a training shoe above his head and calling Stan Marshall a f’ing cheating cunt!. Not that this was an unusual state of affairs where Gary’s dad was concerned. Thugs regularly turned up at the door to ‘have a word’, only for his mother to send them on a wild goose chase. His mum said people were jealous of their dad’s ability to bring home good money at a time when others were struggling to make ends meet. Gary was happy to accept the explanation, the alternative being that his dad was a rip-off merchant who conned his customers.

It wasn’t just the boy’s thug dad that made Gary uneasy. Arnold seemed to have taken more than a passing interest in him personally. When Gary played football he often caught glimpses of the kid standing among the sparse audience on the sidelines, and he also felt him watching from afar in the school playground. Just like a stalker.

Perhaps the boy was lonely, but if that was the case why didn’t he summon up the courage to say hello? To be truthful, Gary wasn’t sure how he would feel about that. It was a bit off-putting that Arnold always had that heavy-set, squat dog at his side. It was with him now, straining at a metal chain being utilised as a lead. Had Arnold been after his bike all the time? Had he been casing the joint as they said in films?

Who’s dis mug? The leader’s question surprised Gary. It meant that he and Arnold weren’t connected.

Dunno Naj, a couple of his minions replied.

Looks like someone who has a liking for hospital food, yeah? He slapped the hand of his nearest compatriot then looked Gary in the eye. You stay here, bike boy, Ain’t finished with you.

The entourage parted and Naj hobbled, gangster fashion, towards the new arrival, knife tucked against his leg. Why don’t you an’ your little doggie mind your own bidness? he shouted. Rather than running off, though, Arnold Dolan maintained eye contact with the gang leader and started speaking to him quietly. The other boys were distracted, trying to follow the conversation, and Gary realised this was his chance. Cycling away now would be the sensible thing to do, but he didn’t want to be branded a coward at school.

He held his ground as the boy Naj suddenly lunged at Arnold, who lurched backwards then tugged at the chain. Millwall, he shouted and the dog sprang forward, snarling and rearing up on its hind legs, spittle spouting from between sharp teeth. Bundling the gang leader onto his back its mouth closed around the youth’s leg and he screamed, flapping his arms wildly as he tried to manoeuvre into a position where he could use the knife. Advancing, Arnold dragged the dog aside then swung the chain fiercely down on the gang leader’s knife hand. With an exclamation of pain he dropped the weapon and lifted his hands to cover his face. 

The metal links rained down again and again, the other gang members not so sure of their ground now, hesitating in no man’s land as the snarling dog turned to face them. No longer frozen by fear, Gary realised he had to help his surprise ally. He leapt on his bike and rode in the direction of the fight, swinging his school bag like an Olympic hammer thrower. He caught one of the lagging gang members on the side of the head with it and the boy fell to the floor. Two of the others turned too late, Gary administering a well-placed kick to the stomach of the first one, then punching the other in the ear. That was enough to send the fourth gang member legging it for the car park exit. Momentum slowing, Gary skidded to a halt next to Arnold, who showed no sign of tiring as he brought the chain crashing down again and again.

Blood scarred the tarmac and the boy’s face had been disarranged in such a way that he might have been peering at a distorted reflection in a fairground hall of mirrors. One eye was fully shut, caked in blood where the metal links had cut through the eyebrow. Mate... Mate, you’ll bloody kill him! said Gary, tentatively putting his hand on Arnold’s shoulder.

Arnold turned wild eyed to look at Gary and for a moment he thought he might be next in line for a beating. Then the other boy seemed to realise who Gary was, smiled and dropped the chain to his side. Shouldn’t go out armed then, should he? said Arnold. My dad says you must show ‘maximum force’ retaliation, so they know you’re serious. What did you think he was gonna do with that blade, clean your fingernails? The boy called Arnold smiled as he watched the raggle-taggle army head for the car park exit as the dog turned manic circles, barking at them, drool lubricating its muzzle. Lifting their leader by his jacket lapels he spat in his face. Listen here, and listen good, he said. This is our turf – it don’t belong to you mugs. You’ve just made the mistake of tangling with the Boxer Boys. If we see you around here again it won’t end so well for you. Tell your mates they don’t come back here unless they have a death wish. Understand? The boy nodded, his expression vacant, his bloody mouth hanging open. Fuck off with you then! Arnold flung him in the direction of his mates. Then, putting his fingers to his lips, he whistled loudly and the dog trotted up to be treated with a rub behind the ear. Good boy, Stevo, good boy! He turned to Gary. You OK, champ?

Yeah, um, thanks. Thanks a lot. You call your dog Stevo?

I know... funny ain’t it? Named him after the Irish super-middleweight boxer Steve Collins. He’s a real warrior. I met him once, honest. He lives down Southend. You’re Gary, ain’t ya? I seen you about. Everyone talks about you. Bit of a footballer, ain’t ya? You seem all right. Come down Upton Park some time, with me and me brothers, it’ll be good. Oh, I’m Arnie. The words came scattergun, as if he had locked them away for weeks and only now had the chance to release them.

People call me Gazza, said Gary.

Like the footballer?

Gary nodded. You’re West Ham, too? I thought I heard you shout Millwall.

As he said the word, Stevo growled.

Well trained that dog, said Arnie. That’s his attack word, just in case I get in trouble with them south London bastards. Took a bit of training to get him to react to it, but it works a treat.

Gary looked at the dog uneasily. Its tongue was lolling out to the side and its eyes were bright and sparkling. He could hardly believe it was the same animal that had attacked the knife-wielding thug with such ferocity. Don’t you fear he might, um, turn on someone, though? Attack a mate or...

Oh, don’t worry, said Arnie, patting the dog and ordering it to sit. It obeyed immediately. He’s a right softie. Wasn’t always the case, mind. I rescued him from these blokes over the rec, Russians or something. They were training him to be one of them fighting dogs, hanging him from a tree branch by his teeth. It’s meant to toughen the jaws up, y’know? When he fell they laid into him real bad, with sticks an’ all. Bastards! Couldn’t let that carry on, could I?

What did you do?

I followed them to this yard, right, where they had him chained up. I broke in and stole him. He was a bit fierce at first, did this to me. He showed Gary a four-inch scar on his wrist. Bled like a bugger but I won him over with treats and stuff. Now he’s mine. Loyal as fuck. Them blokes did come sniffing around to get him back, but dad caught them snooping and he and some mates taught them a proper lesson. He don’t like foreigners anyway, me dad, so he was happy to do it. They ain’t been back since. He paused, looking lovingly at the dog. Glad I got him, Stevo. He’ll do anything to protect me and if he knows you’re a mate he’ll do the same for you... God knows I need him. It’s getting a bit lairy round here. There are plenty more douches where they came from. He indicated in the direction of the car park entrance, the gang long disappeared. Me and you should stick together.

Arnie’s eyes were attracted by something on the floor which glinted in the sunlight. He bent down to pick it up. It was a knife with a six-inch blade. Looks like that loser left something behind, he said, slashing the air with the weapon. Think it’s about time I started carrying a nice, sharp knife. Stevo’s great, but he ain’t gonna stop a bit of cold steel.

He shoved the blade into his coat pocket and peered off into the distance for a