city of conspiracy

Chapter 1: Murder Ritual

2010-10-21T02:17:00.000-07:00

Deep inside City Hall the Mayor leant over the girl. She was trembling. His eyes glowed with a zeal he rarely showed on television.

"Silence," he said as he looked through her at the hooded figures at the other end of the chamber. He pushed one of her pigtails to the side of her head, lifeless. The girl lay on the stone table, wrapped in a sheet of brown paper.

"Come here!" She crawled along the table towards him and he bit her, absentmindedly on the back of her neck, she squirmed and began to bleed, her flesh a fresh, punctured apricot.

"On your knees.” She knelt still wrapped in her curious, coarse dress. Then he began to whip her with the belt he had removed from around his waist, Big Ben began to chime in the background. She moaned and exhaled hoarsely with each slash like a masochistic whore.

"Say it!" he ordered. "Say it!"

She began in a hoarse voice, " Our father, who art in heaven" Whack! "Hallowed be thy name" Whack! "thy kingdom come, thy will be done," Whack! Whack! Tears streamed down her painted face "on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses" Whack! Whack! Whack! The hooded figures at the other end of the room sat observing the spectacle "as we forgive those that trespass against us" Whack! She fell but carried on "lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil" Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! The intensity increasing " the power and the glory, for ever and ever, amen."

The girl's skin was a mass of lacerations, black and red. She lay there crying.

"Get rid of her,” said the Mayor to no one in particular. He stood, holding his belt in both hands like a cocked rifle. The girl's sobs broke the silence; her moans gliding through the dank cavern, rivulets of blood ran down her chocolate skin. A flunky scurried towards her with a blanket and carried her through the Oak door at the side of the chamber.

"You have done well," a hooded figure spoke. "Is everything in place?"

"Yes, “said the Mayor. "Now I must go."

The tall blonde in charge of the nation's capital backed towards the open door and bowed to the hooded figures before edging his way back into City Hall, reborn. He rushed to the private office to change his Saville Row shirt and wash the blood from his face. He knew that none of his aides questioned what went on during that one hour when he had no scheduled business yet disappeared from the limelight, he knew that no one could touch him just as surely as if he were invisible.

In less than one hour he was due to play table tennis at a grimy school in Elephant and Castle. As he slipped on another tailored suit jacket and adjusted his antique cufflinks, the badge of his family’s allegiance, Mayor Granville wiped the sweat from his brow and stared at the statesmanlike reflection he saw in the mirror.

"Good afternoon," he practiced and beamed as he applied some gel to his celebrated hair. A knock came to the door, he turned and left.

Across the river in Hackney seems a world away from the scented rooms of City Hall. That morning the aftermath of another murder disrupted the routine of the commuters walking to Clapton train station. The two lions on the Metropolitan Police badge on the sign appealed to witnesses of the last incident that had happened on the road. They eyed the passers by trying to get to work, the people trying to get on with their lives and all of the gawkers who’d heard it all but watched on like zombies with their mouths shut.

Eight hours earlier a dapper white man had rolled onto the Crabtree Estate in an Audi saloon. Former Inspector Hopkins, once the scourge of the notorious Newington Green Police Station, was a wiry man in his fifties. A bloody minded bastard in a tailored suit who managed to seem at home on the Estate, at the golf course at Wentworth, on the Lawn of Buckingham Palace or in a lock up somewhere in the East End. Hopkins would have looked at home in a cell in Wormwood Scrubs. So when this man rolled up in his second best car the local faces kept their distance and watched. As cool as a barracuda and twice as dangerous, Hopkins wound down his window and ordered one of the local youths to go and get Samuel. The youth sensed something about this cocky old geezer in a flash car that stopped him from even giving him any cheek. He just turned on his bike and went to get Samuel. Frozen, ready, waiting, Hopkins sat in the front seat of his Audi smoking a Cohiba.

Along came Samuel, 6 foot 2 of chocolate mayhem, raised halfway between a workaholic religious Nigerian mum and the British Criminal Justice System, he ran Crabtree Estate with his crew LK, Lagos Kings. When he leant over Hopkins open window to listen to what the ex cop had to say, Sam was silent.

“What shall we do?”

“Go get the fucking cunt!” Hopkins ordered. The Nigerian gang boy obeyed this devilish old puppeteer. He knew better than to ramp with the Inspector. “Meet me over there, behind that bin shed. That’ll do.”

Within two twos Hopkins and Sam were standing either side of Tyrell James, who was kneeling on the floor with his face in bad shape. TJ, as he was known, cowered before these two men with tears in his eyes and half of his face bleeding with asphalt still in the wounds. His resistance had worn as thin as the skin left on his nose and forehead. Bang! Samuel cracked Tyrell’s head on the side of the bin shed then dragged him back upright, still kneeling. Hopkins laid into TJ verbally.

"Can you fucking hear me, Tyrell, you monkey bastard? You are going to do exactly what I tell you. Go home and forget you ever saw the bitch, right. Forget me. Forget Samuel here. Forget every fucking thing, you little cunt. What fucking business is it of yours? She wants to take a holiday! You dozy little fucker! Don't tell no one.”

Little TJ’s resistance was still hanging on by a thread . . . like his nose.

“Suck your mumma!” Bang. Then to Samuel. “Informer fi dead! You're working for the Devil and he's gonna kill you.” The Nigerian just smiled showing a gold tooth with diamonds on it arranged in the shape of a dollar sign.

“Let me kill this Jamaican now.” Samuel said this with such excitement you’d think he had a hard on. Tyrell had a mix of tears and blood in his eyes and could barely breathe; he’d taken a kicking which would have killed a lot of people already.

“Kill me. Kill me, you devil. Kill me.” Tyrell’s whisper could be heard across the car park as he pointed at former Inspector Luke Ferris Hopkins casting beams of hatred at the sharply dressed old man. Sam had TJ held down and had already showed him the semi automatic pistol he called his Rusty Dog.

“She’s gone. Right? She’s gone. Don’t ask where, just shut up. It can be hard round here with police, other crews, anything could happen. So take your fucking broken heart and shut up. Shut up. Understand, shut up.” Hopkins is one of those people who can rage without shouting or suddenly turn into a cyclone. “Why are you poking your fucking nose, boy? Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. Understand?”

"Yes." TJ answered when the Inspector took a step towards him. The tailored garms made Hopkins seem gaunt as he pointed at the teenage boy. His face was tanned stretched leather and he began to pace as he spoke playing with the ring on his finger.

"Women are unpredictable boy. They take off on flights of fancy. She's probably found someone else to knock about with. You know what these girls are like. Forget her. She’s gone, no one at the club knows where."

The boy nodded confused at Hopkins attempt to explain his girl’s disappearance.

"Samuel, should he worry about her?"

Sam looked at TJ and then spoke with a broad smile all over his face and shook his head. He smiled the smile that had charmed half the girls in his block. “Don’t love them hos. Come with me, I got bare I can link you. We’ll be balling everyday!” He still had one hand on TJ’s shoulder and the other was ready with the pistol.

“A lad like you could make a lot of money out here with a few friends helping you out.” Hopkins put his arm around TJ. “We need bods who got a bit of nouse who can keep their eye on the ball. Listen boy, let’s talk on the level, life ain’t easy out here. It’s a shithole and I know it. I know you’re trying to look out for this girl but the truth is she’s got herself mixed up with a very prominent man. One of the top guvnors in the city. With this election going on he’s sent her away on a cruise till after election time. That’s why she hasn’t got back to you. This is an important man and we can’t have people sniffing around, making waves. You just went too far. You went too far.”
“I don’t want any trouble, Hopkins. You know I only wanted to check cause you know all the stories . . . . they say The Pig beats all the girls down at the club. They say he had one of those Albanian girls killed for cheating him out of £50. I was scared for her. I just want to know she safe and I’ll walk away.”

“I got her to the airport myself, boy. Brazil; she’s living the life over there. Sunbathing, dancing, and partying. I’ll send her a message from you if you like.”

“Could you tell her I miss her?” Hopkins put his arm around the boy.

“I’ll tell her, you soppy sack of shit. She’ll be back in two weeks. Now if you fucking tell anyone about this, you won’t be around to see her when she gets back, get it? Here’s some money, go and get yourself to Dr Kabir. Here’s his card. Is that gonna be enough for a cab?”

Handing Tyrell a wad of fifty pound notes, Hopkins looked at the boy, almost misty eyed. TJ was stunned but walked away. He knew how many people Hopkins had killed. Hopkins had given him the card, the name of an understanding doctor and left him with the message “keep your nose clean and you’ll be alright” . Sam had even helped him up.

On the morning Tyrell was found dead on the roadside by the East Cross Route. There were no witnesses to the murder and no one mentioned what had happened to him on the estate. The East London papers called it a gang vendetta over a girl and those in Wapping and Fleet Street barely mentioned the death of another young male of colour who wasn’t a footballer, rapper or actor. When the police searched the house of Ms Marsha James they found a Kilo and a half of cocaine and an automatic pistol in his bedroom in his mum's flat. They found the boy pummelled to bits on the road side with bottle and knife marks in his thighs and from his belly to his neck, right next to some grafitti saying “drug dealing nigga scum”, and right on the shutter of the West Indian food shop was a TJ tag that had been crossed out. There were also reports of unidentified skinheads in the area but this didn't raise too many eyebrows, especially since it was election time.

But here nothing is as it seems. The deception in every broadcast, the dishonesty in every report, the myths of this violent city are as numerous as its inhabitants streaming in from all over the country, from all over the globe. On the 12th Floor of Maji House on the Crabtree Estate Adam Sherlock watched the TV disgusted by the politicians grunting some tired old shit about: "investing in the city" and “regeneration”, yet unable to turn away from their pyramid of lies. His landline rang and he ignored it. His mobile rang with an 0800 number and he ignored that too. Hypnotised by this message onscreen, the same message every politician spits when the madness spills out of the hood, out of the ends, into the salubrious suburbs where the affluent voters live in fear of the inner city youths, patronisingly aware of the violence and glad to be separated by a couple of miles of low rent, hi rise housing. When little, white kids get stabbed and when the problems come off the estates, watch the great and the good come down and snatch a photo op with the youths while a gang of cops watch their flash cars. Sherlock knew that within six months there would be a 3 new studios and 2 new football pitches in the ends but would that really stop the murders? Is that all it’s about? Sherlock knew the well meaning brothers that ran these courses: DJing, MCing, producing with Cubase. Half of them were as lost as the kids. He wiped the cold from his eye and built up his first zoot of the morning. The news report segued into a selection of clips of the Mayor bumping fists with inner city kids and shambling about on a pushbike. Then came the soundbite: “every Londoner must be heard and every Londoner matters. My predecessor was content to fiddle while our city burned. I am committed to equality of opportunity and justice for all.” As the news reporter switched onto some news about the upcoming Olympics, Sherlock switched on his laptop and logged onto his Facebook. He saw that many of his friends had changed their status to “R.I.P. TJ”, saying things like “we’ll miss you” and all the other things that you feel when someone you know dies too young. He typed Diamond Princess J into the search bar and a red skinned girl’s photo popped up and he clicked on it. He saw her relationship status had changed from “it's complicated” to “single”.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, babe.” He said out loud and opened up a chat.

“Sorry to hear bout TJ. You alright?” He typed in the instant chat box. He could see she was online but she blanked him. Outside there was a blast of police sirens coming from close by, right in the courtyard. Cops flooded out of the woodwork and started running down the kids that were selling drugs in the tunnel. A small crowd started gathering as they pulled Innocent, Samuel’s little brother, towards the police car. The mousy boy was shitting bricks, a five foot eight geeky kid surrounded by six burly police officers in stab proof vests. Sherlock watched the bust. In the Courtyard women protested and the crowd watched. Sherlock knew that nothing in this city is as it seems. What is happening in Harlem happens in Brixton, then Chateau Rouge and then all across Europe. He knew that the older heads from this area called themselves soldiers, searching for Zion, living in Babylon, fighting a war in which could never be won. The courtyard is a cross shape and he saw Innocent being dragged across it with his hands cuffed behind him. Sherlock clocked Sam watching from a 2nd floor balcony, smiling and shouting: “Hold it down, Innocent! I’ll see you for dinner tonight, man. You gonna be back here before 8, we gonna hit the clubs then.”

Sherlock looked across at Samuel and asked himself what was going on. As the phone rang and rang he wondered why had three of his bredrin been stabbed and still no charges. Why so many murders? Why no prosecutions? What were the police doing arresting Innocent, a fucking accounts student who still lived with his mum? Sherlock took another puff from his spliff and looked at Samuel, who watched the scene from the walkway, looking down at the police, and wondered. The sun was high in the sky and grime music boomed out of one of the first floor flats as the feds packed up in their van and left, the crowds dispersed and Sherlock rolled another one. Good morning.

Chapter 2: The Proposal

2010-10-19T02:13:00.000-07:00

Planes flew high above the city trailing white jets cross the sky as the evening sun bled orange. Ten thousand feet below, a club called the Garden lurked on Selkirk Avenue in a trendy part of East London. A gentleman's sport's bar with a string of strippers from all over the globe and a whole lot of punters who rarely acted like gentlemen. Philippinos and Columbians, Dominicans and Asians, Europeans and Africans: you name the flavour it's been savoured in the Garden. It's twenty pounds a dance and fifteen when the going gets tough and the City boys start running out of money and the girls really shake their stuff. Sherlock knew this place well. He banged on the window where he saw the bouncer ready to open up. The muscly Turk growled then looked round, recognised a friend and smiled.

"We're closed. I swear down. Yo Sherlock, what you want?" Grunted the big man in the booth.

"I just came to say wha blo, Mister Abdul." Sherlock lounged on the pavement waiting. The door opened and they shook hands.

"What’s up, Adam?” Then whispered, “She's out the back. How's you're sister been?" Faizal’s little sister and Sherlock’s had been friends since back in the day as kids. They used to play in the park in front of the block.

"She's ok, back up living with Mum now. Fatima cool?" The bouncer nodded and scratched his shaved head.

"She’s good too...” The bouncer paused. “You remember Daniel Morgan?"

"That horse face bredder in our year? Went out with that girl Chantelle."

"Year above. He lives in the block over the way. He saw some skinheads driving in the ends last night. He reckons they might have something to do with TJ. I swear down, Sam and his crew are fitting to lynch someone. Thought you might want to know. Diamond ain't said nothing about it . . . . "

Sherlock tried to move the conversation away from his girlfriend. "What's 50 saying? They’re trying to pin it on Innocent."

Faizal snorted then shrugged his shoulders. “Different day, same shit.” He looked out on the road where some rowdy football fans were stumbling about town ready for the match tonight.

"You holding? Hook me up nuh, bredrin.” Faizal didn’t drink or chase girls he prayed five time s a day since he turned sixteen but he still worked in a strip club and sold weed. Back when he and Sherlock were at school he used to smoke it too. “The Koran don't say nothing about that, bruv,” was the way he used to justify it.

"Yeah, got the boom sticky ting. Forty a Q"

"Thirty, bruv. Man, a bredrin you're talking to"

The big bouncer just hissed his teeth and said “S, man. She's inside." And let Sherlock in through the door instead. Sherlock walked through and nodded to the DJ, grateful that he could bowl through without hassle while Carmella, a tall Brazilian chick, looked him over. "Not here, darling." Her voice sounded cold even though she smiled.

"Faizal just told me she's in; it’s Wednesday. I’m just getting a drink. Let her know I’m here, Carmella. Please. ” Sherlock stated his case and proceeded to wait.

She looked at him again and saw his pain. He was here to stay and sighed and, pityingly, she said, “I’ll try" as she sashayed away with her swaying behind. Suddenly the DJ let rip a blast of Flo Rida a favourite with the girls and the punters “Get low-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”. A couple of the dancers passed him by, wrapped up in some X-factor chat and going for a smoke outside.

"What's up, Charmaine. You seen Diamond?" Sherlock interrupted and strived to sound casual.

"She nuh work tonight. Later, right.” This beautiful coal black Jamaican girl said staring at Sherlock like he had an alien head, then smiled to the girl by her side, her Estonian lover.

"Later."

The DJ cut suddenly and jacked up a slow 80s jam and Sherlock watched the door in one of the mirrors and thought of the night that he’d met Evelyn Diamond in this very spot. How she’d teased him for coming to the club by himself and because he’d never had a lap dance before and kept asking him if he was a freak. After she’d danced for him she invited him home and that was how they’d got together. He thought about how she was raw while they fucked, yelling and screaming and afterwards he would hold her and she would cling to him like she was drowning. He thought about all this as he waited and Diamond never came.

Faizal walked up. "Bruv, she ain't coming out. You best go. I’ll talk to her and tell her you was here."

"I ain't troubling no one. Just low it, innit and let me wait." Sherlock got up and saw the way his friend was looking at him like a beast with a truncheon and didn't want to be looked at that way. He’d seen Faizal rearrange many a face. Even aged 15 he'd put grown men in intensive care.

“I swear I'm trying to help you, bruv, but don't fuck up my shit, you get me?” said the bouncer a snarl on his mouth, stepping forward. “Bredrin. I'll help you out but you got to just be cool, right?”
.
"Cool." Sherlock looked at his friend and wanted to ask a hundred questions. "Safe. I’m out."

The bouncer gave him a spud and grunted then headed off down the corridor to the office. Sherlock stormed through the empty club ignoring Mikey the DJ as he left. He saw the girls outside talking to Ibrahim the Kosovan mountain they had working security. Sherlock stopped and hollered at him. "Safe, Ibzi."

Ibzi looked at him for a minute and shook his head and the snake tattooed on his neck rippled and Sherlock strode across the road to the pub to get himself a drink, cursing Eve Diamond for being such a hard bitch and cursing himself for letting his dick stir up such trouble with her. His phone rang. Hhe picked up.

“Look, Lilly it's over. It was just that one time.”

“I want to see you. She won't forgive you, you know. She's too much of a martyr. I've got a kid and my ex-man beat me. For god's sake love just shut up.”

“Lilly, I love her.” Sherlock struggled to remember what he ever saw in Lilly. Then he remembered she was a hot chick who'd do anything.

“What's love got to do with it? Come over.”

“Lily.”

“I'm wearing that catsuit.”

“Bye Lilly.” He hung up and was a little dazed when he heard a voice calling him.

"Yo. Yo. Oi. Oi. Oi, Sherlock. Wait up, bruv."

He looked back across the road and saw the smokers going back in and Big Ibrahim on his phone. No one else there.

"Yo. Over here, blood."

Sitting in an Audi TT with blacked out windows wound down just a crack was an Indian youth in a trash track suit top and a New Era Cap turned to the side, Amrit. Sherlock walked back over.

"What you saying, Amrit? What you under?"

"Yeah man, hustling, every ting cool. You know bruv. You?” Amrit's phone beeped. He picked it up and checked the text.

“Cool.”

“Yo I heard about TJ. What's Diamond saying?"

"I don't know, I ain’t seen her, she’s blanking me."

"Is it?"

"Yeah she's mad that I won't get engaged or something." He lied and watched as the hustler took the bait and laughed. He knew that Amrit had asked Diamond out before and would love to step into his shoes and take his place, the kind of brer to stand up behind your girl talking sly with a smile on his face and a hand on her waist. Sniffing for weakness. His phone beeped again. He texted back this time while answering Sherlock.

"Oh it's like that is it, bruv?” The stress was comic. “How's your fam? How's your sister, she cool, she changed her number or she still on that 086?" Amrit could remember any phone number just hearing it once, he knew numbers from when they were kids chasing girls, numbers and the names that connected to them and he never, ever forgot a face.

"She's cool. Same digits. What you doing round here?”

"Working, hustling got dat Peng.” He waited to see if Sherlock wanted any weed.

“You still studying bruv?"

"Yeah" again Sherlock lied.

"You keep on it. You can't be out here grinding like me, paysain."

Amrit always says stuff like that. He ran his drug game like a calculus. A disciplined soldier, genius acting stupid, a dealer with a ghetto PHD, studying the gangs that gave him his chance, the guys that have his back and the ones that want to get him, he never let anyone know what he was really thinking.

"You still pumping?" Sherlock played around, punching Amrit's bicep lightly.

"Yeah, bruv, plus I’m taking them ‘roids. I put on a stone, boy, and lost fat!."

"For real?"

"Yeah. I'm Vin Diesel now bruv" he wasn't lying. Amrit stopped the Drake CD he'd been bumping. “Let’s get a drink, bruv, I'm gasping." For some reason Sherlock felt that he couldn't refuse the invitation. "Let me park up there."

As he got out of the Audi, Amrit scanned the street with the paro gaze of an original bad boy. He ducked into the pub with Sherlock backing him. Inside was quiet.

"What you having? JD and coke, make that 2, doubles. Fourteen pound, you must be having a bubble! Here’s twenty. Keep the change." He smiled at the Barmaid, who made a bored face and motioned Sherlock’s hand away as he went to his pocket.

"Minor ting. You’re bredrin and you know I got dough. So how's your sis, bruv?"

"Diana’s cool, fam. Why don't you call her? I ain't seen her in time, though still. "

Amrit didn't ask why Sherlock hadn't seen his sister in a long time even though they lived on the same estate. "Her number just goes straight to voicemail. She changed it?"

"I think she's got a next one too. Why don't you go to the yard and check her?" Sherlock stirred the pot. This gangster with the scar on his face was actually shy with women.

"Just breeze through? No way, bruv, I can't do that."

"Why not. She's into you, fam. And she ain't got a man. Just breeze through with me next time I reach. I'll bell you innit. She's gonna want to see you now especially now you're tonk."

"You think so?" He sounded genuinely curious.

"She asks about you. She’s always like “where’s Amrit, what’s he on these days, tell him I say what's up”. You know you were like her first real boyfriend, she thinks you and she are linked."

They stood by the bar drinking their drink while some chilled hip hop beats played in the background. Amrit wanted to break the silence. For once he seemed unsure of what to say.

"Before TJ got stabbed I see him at the gym.” Pause. ”He was shook bruv, sweating and everything and talking bare strange, in the sauna . . . ."

Sherlock listened, not sure if he wanted to her Amrit talk about his dead friend.

"He kept asking if I'd seen you, bruv. You and your sister, saying how it was important to tell you something and then he asked how to get hold of a ting. Then he started mouthing off bout the devil. Going on like a crack head and that. I thought he was buzzing; he started chatting about demons coming for him, then kept asking about you . . . . You and your sis, fam! He started going on about how he had trouble in the ends but he wouldn’t say what, he said it was big tings. He said Charmaine was dead. Bruv he was all messed up. I felt sorry for him, truthfully. Oi Darling! Can I get a pack of Salt and Vinegar McCoy’s over here, doll. Keep the change." Amrit could switch on and off just like that.

"What did he want with me?" Asked Sherlock tentatively, skipping over the fact that he'd just seen Charmaine in Club Eden a quarter of an hour ago.

“Another couple dem drinks over here, babes. JD and coke, 2, doubles.” Amrit flashed a bad boy smile at the barmaid. She fixed up the drinks and they both began downing the second round, already kinda lean, looking into the mirror above the bar at the reflection of the scene.

“Come let’s sit.” They walked to the booth. "He said “beware the Baphomet”.”

“What’s Baphomet? That's that bullshit they talk about Jay-Z on the Internet. What else did he say?”

“He said that they're always watching. You know I thought he was buzzing cause he was chatting bare and sweating, talking about Killuminati and secret societies on some bare watch-out-for-666 tip, all paro like Tupac and shit."

"Fuck he’s a wasteman. TJs moist man, he's a pussyhole bruv, he's chatting bare breeze."

"S man. He weren't no pussyhole, you know dat. You know TJ weren’t never no fiend."

"Is he dizzy? Why’s he calling my name? TJ was all twisted up over Charmaine. I bet he was buzzing. He’s lucky them skinheads got him before I got him."

"I heard they cut him up from his dick to his chest but he was calling you out saying Diamond was next."

The name slapped him across the face like some hardcore acid bass.

"TJ said he thought them girls were in danger. He said Charmaine and Diamond had been given some special ting to do by the Pig, that’s why he wanted to talk to you."

The mention of the Pig, the club's manager, was enough to turn Sherlock's stomach. He heard what the guy did to some of the girls there, the ones that got sold by the traffikers. Pig took these girls home and broke them in, all kinds of nasty shit. Amrit leant back watching Sherlock's reaction as if unconcerned by the bombs he'd just dropped.

"Amrit, did he say anything else?"

"Nah man." Amrit seemed to lose interest. "That barmaid's got some nice breasts, you know. Fucking wicked jugs. Alright, Darling, I'll have another JD and coke, and what are you having S man?"

"I gotta go"

"Why?" The stocky Asian boy turned round but Sherlock was already ghost.

Amrit looked across at the door and just saw an Akademiks logo on Sherlock's back. In a flash, Sherlock spied Ibzi was standing outside the club chatting to his missus on the bluetooth. The bouncer turned to him and said. "3 pound tonight, Sir." Although he was brass, Sherlock didn't argue or ask for a squeeze, he paid the money and went in to mingle with the girls trying to hustle up some early dances. Sherlock stood by the bar and waited for Diamond. The girls sidled up to the dudes in suits, brushing them with their boobs and touching their hair extensions and teased jaded erections from the men. Whenever anyone said anything funny they giggled and said “you're terrible darling/love/honey!”. Through the crowd, he saw Eve in one of the booths at the back. Spinning round and slowly lowering herself on the pole, while a guy sat looking at her in the mirror smiling across at his mate, Evelyn Diamond earned her rent and son’s school fees. Like a statue Sherlock stood by the bar as the girl who was next to dance on the stage came and waved her cup in front of him. He fished in his pocket for a handful of change and dropped it in. She looked disgusted.

"It's a pound" he protested, ashamed and angry at her feisty face. At that moment Sherlock felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his friend Faizal, looking stone cold serious.

“Come with me, brother.”

“Where?”

“Meet The Pig.”

The Pig lived at the back of the strip club, hoovering up money and supervising the girls. He'd audition them personally and would break in the young ones, his was definitely not one of those clubs where the girls were treated as valued employees. He was a racist, sexist, narcissistic prick with a huge chip on his shoulder. However, he was also an old school charmer and could turn it on whenever he wanted to. He in fact gave himself the nickname the Pig because he said it meant something different in his language, something honourable. For the girls in the club going to see the Pig was only pleasant when it was business. The girls he chose to help out at private parties could earn a couple grand in a night for entertaining his more upmarket clients. He also sent Ibzi or Faizal with them to make sure they were safe. When girls went to see him for his pleasure they usually weren't seen out and about for a couple of days. Sherlock processed this as he stepped into the office, which had a wall full of CCTV monitors: the front entrance, side alley, the back, the bar, the main stage, the private area behind the curtain where you can get hour long dances if you got a couple fifty pound notes to spare, the booths at the back, the dressing rooms and a couple of dark chambers Sherlock couldn't recognise. The Pig was staring at the bank of monitors, rank breathed, red faced with permatanned lobster hands and he had his snout into everything. Everyfriggingthing going.

"Well haven't you grown up to be a big boy. Adam, sit!"

In the two years he'd been seeing Diamond and been coming to the club Sherlock had never seen or spoken to the Pig yet the older man's tone was more familiar than that of a visiting uncle. He was a huge waxy man. The Pig stood a full six foot seven, red faced and suited up in an aquamarine that did him no favours. He wasn't just a head taller than Sherlock, he was three times as wide and each of his fingers shone with a ring, a diamond or ruby on a plain gold band. His presence was so awe inspiring, so attractive that Sherlock was in the room for a minute before he noticed a short, thick set man he'd never seen before. Sherlock was wrong footed.

"How are your the family? Your mother she still got the shop? She's a fantastic lady, you know, I remember her from the old days, great. Tell her I said hi." Sherlock nodded he always wanted to keep clear of the dark parts of his mum's past and he reckoned her connection to the Pig must stem from some very dark place indeed. "I hear young Diana is going off the path. I used to see her when your Dad passed. Growing pains, my boy, she'll pull through all that just look at you, what are you doing now: youth work? Saving the planet?. How old are you now, twenty two? You want coffee?" He poured coffees from the cafetiere.

"No.” Sherlock took a deep breath, aware that he'd walked into some kind of a set up. This man knew all about him and he'd never met him. He tried to play it cool. “She's ok. Look. I didn't know how you know me or my family man. We've never even spoken like that, bruv, so I don't know why you're even calling people's name's like that." He couldn't help himself. Every time Sherlock came into contact with someone who exuded authority it made him that little bit more edgy, made him want to threaten the man that loomed over him. Faizal looked at him and then at the Pig and smiled and the club owner waved a hand.

"Sit. Two things. One: don't bother Evelyn, not here, not at home. Faizal here could take care of the situation, or Ibzi even, but I thought it best to talk to you since, even though you don't know it, we have some history." Nobody ever called Diamond her birth name, not even her Mum. "Such a shame because these girls all need a good fella. She's had a rough time of it. Maybe some time apart might . . .”

Sherlock interrupted. "It's not your business, man. We're trying to work it out. What’s this about?"

The Pig smiled. “I’m afraid it is my business and you will find out why. Two: I'm offering you a job. Two grand a week, just need you to find out a few things in some circles that I know you move in and this requires degree of finesse. Faisal here speaks highly of you. You'll report to me directly.”

The money had Sherlock hooked. “What do I have to do?”

“I want you to find out who killed Tyrell James.”

Sherlock did a double take.

“I can't do that.”

“Yes you can. You can and you will.”

“How can I? Why me?”

“Really. You are a smart boy. I know all about the scams you and Faizal used to pull. I've known you for a long time, even before you knew Evelyn, I've heard about you. Look, all I'm asking is for you to find out who killed TJ. Do you think the cops care about another dead wog right now? Do you think they're gonna find the killer with this Olympic thing happening? This is Evelyn's little brother here, Adam. Call me with your answer. Here's my card. I sleep at daybreak.”

The Business Card was simple, black letters on thick, creamy-white card: The Pig 07968629011.

"Look, I can see she cares for you, boy. You should see the money these guys offer to sleep with the girls here! Filthy. Some of them want to set em up as mistresses. Perverts! She's had it all laid dow in front of her to take but she never....Shame about you two. Shouldn't have been caught with your pants down eh, boy? All the best to your mother."

Sherlock exited the office in a daze back into the dark club where the music was pumping at full volume. At the bar, he got Mel, the sexy disinterested bar girl to give him an overpriced vodka and coke. He was about to leave when he saw Diamond and moved to her.
"Diamond. Baby, I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you, it just happened because you know I was stressed out, I was.... I'm sorry. We never got to see each other and you said you wanted a break and I couldn't ever speak to you."

"I'm working, go away. I don't want to see you no more, just go away. I got to look after my son."

"Evie."

"No, Adam...I'm here to work." Ibzi passed and looked at the two of them, Diamond motioned that Sherlock was not giving her too much trouble.

"Alright then, how much for a dance.”

She looked at him, unsure what he wanted. She looked at him for a good 5 seconds before replying.

“Thirty five.”

"Here." Sherlock gave her his forty quid weed money, she didn't offer to sort out change. She took him by the hand and led him to the booths. "Come on then." And she switched into work mode, should be called work-it mode. She started dancing in front of him at the table as he gazed at her nude body in her black bodice and stockings and contemplated her: 5 foot 3 not tall or busty, long dreadlocks, no weave or straightened hair. Now she was on the pole upside down, looking down at him. She slid down the pole and writhed next to him then squatted, rubbing herself on his crotch, glancing over his shoulder. His cock stirred.

"I got to talk to you it's.." he whispered but she put her hands to her lips and made a ssshh! gesture. And turned around grinding on his lap, her hand reaching around slipping over his groin, squeezing gently as she did. The song stopped.

“Now fuck off.”

"Diamond, hear me out. It's important."

She started walking away and he grabbed her arm and before he knew it Ibzi was behind him saying. “Leave.” Sherlock stepped back and saw Ibzi standing right by him.

“No.” Sherlock spat defiantly.

“Leave. Now”

“You fuck, I know ku here.” Sherlock jabbed a finger in Ibrahim's chest. “Why are you telling me to leave? Ibzi, fuck . . “

As soon as Ibzi heard the F of whatever Sherlock was going to say he moved and had Sherlock's hands behind him in a lock. He moved the lighter man through the bodies which, generally, parted Red sea style and pushed him through the front door. Outside Sherlock struggled to get back in till the bouncer struck him with a good right hand punch on the side of his head. The pain rang around dominating his boozy brain and he went back at Ibrahim: he swung and caught the doorman's shoulder and Ibzi, sighed a little and then picked up the metal pole that held the guest list rope in place. He began to hit Sherlock around the waist, around the chest and shoulders with it.
The edges of it cut and bruised the drunken boy till he bled and Ibzi was picking the pole up above his head ready to bring it down on Sherlock's foot as Faizal ran out saying “no, Ibzi, no!” Ibzi stopped, threw the pole down and walked back into the club. Out of the crowd of bystanders walked a tall blonde chick wearing spiky heels and a black leather outfit. She pushed past Faizal who was hauling Sherlock up and looking like he'd kick his head in.

“This is what you do?” Faizal asked. “In my club!”

“I believe you got something of mine.” The girl said as she pointed at Sherlock. “My car's over there can you help him in.” The sound of sirens came closer and closer.

“Hurry up, Faizal.”

Faizal looked at Sherlock and the girl and heard the policeman coming. He took his friend over to the car and said “Sherlock, you fucking idiot, man.”

Sherlock looked at her and said. “Lilly?”

Chapter 3: Bloodlines

2010-10-10T02:06:00.000-07:00

Sherlock woke up with Lilly kissing the bruises on his face and tonguing her way down his chiselled torso till she was playing with his cock, sucking him seductively in her hot red mouth. His head was kicking, he felt the front of his skull grumbling and thought to himself: You've done it again. You've don't it again. It'll be the same as that time in Finchley. You better get checked out again. The men in his head grumbled and they stamped above his eyes, pressing his eyeballs.

“Shuhhuh!” He groaned. Lilly looked up for a second, ignored him and went back to resurrecting his fallen erection.

Saturday morning TV presenters with white skins and black tongues lied to the kids about a american sell out rapper. Gangster shit rules the airwaves and this thug was acting hard while singing a song called “Sugar girl”. The presenter then began interviewing a UK teenage rap sensation, Sherlock scowled as this kid strutted up and down wearing a £10,000 watch, spitting about his diamond rings while making pyramid signs.

“I hope that kid gets robbed. I don't want to to hear this shit.”

“Can't you see what I'm doing here!” Lilly was momentarily stunned by his under appreciation of her tongue's virtuosity.

“Turn it off, will you? I'm leaving. Lilly, I don't remember what happened last night but it doesn't matter cause I'm leaving.”

“Are you?” As she bit lightly at the top of his head she turned the TV up. Sherlock pulled at the rope that'd been used to tie his hands.

“Lilly, untie me.”

“What are you gonna do for me?

“Nothing. Fuck you”

“Promises, promises.”

Sherlock sighed as she straddled him and stroked his chest, teasing his hard dick. His eyes strayed back to the rapper on screen and he tried to push her off. She paused with him still inside her and kissed his neck.

“Why don't you like him, are you jealous? I think he's cute.”

“He's a snake. He's sold his soul.” She rode him faster and faster till she came with a whole lot of noise and kept going till he squirted inside her. Sherlock turned round and she nibbled his shoulders as she untied his hands. As she slid down beside him the TV station jolted to an 24 hour news broadcast. The news reporter began:

“Reports are coming in of a bomb attack on South London Estate. The Pathname House tower block on the Cranfield Estate has collapsed due to what seems to be a bomb. We go live to the scene to Michael Undone, Michael what's happening down there?”

“The situation is very confused. There are reports of several explosions at the ground level of the 12 story building. The violence has been attributed to a group calling themselves VEL, the Voice Of English Liberation, who have claimed responsibility for many acts of racially aggravated violence over the past three months. We have yet to receive much more information than that. The TV showed pictures of rubble and fire engines. There were crowds of onlookers standing behind safety lines.”

“Are there reports of any casualties?”

“Well. As in all of the other bombings the VEL issued a warning before the bomb was detonated and this warning was received by a warden who happens to live in the block and managed to evacuate the residents. All but three of the block's residents have been accounted for.”

The studio anchor looked suitably serious and carried on “Thanks Michael. London Mayor Granville Hayes has just issued a statement regarding the official response to the bombing.” The mayor flashed up on the screen, his skin strangely smooth and blue eyes steely.

“The time has come for us to stand firm against our enemies within. Even those from the most disaffected communities must now agree, it is time for change. Our city must be safe. From today I am invoking the special powers approved under the 2006 Terrorism act. We are not going to allow these terrorists to endanger our citizens or visitors to our city at this or any time. London will be safe for the Olympics this Summer.” This Mayor who had seemed a figure of fun months earlier stood tall and spoke slowly and with dignity, a hero.

“I got to go.” Sherlock's tone was urgent.

“Baby, stay.” Pleaded the redhead.

“TJ's dead man. Diamond won't speak to me cause of you. Now this. This ain't the time.” He turned away from her.

“You can't help her today. She won't see you.”

“Someone told her about us.”

“Look, you're still beat up from last night. Ibzi kicked the shit out of you.”

“This shit means something. Diamond, now this. You wouldn't understand, you're just slumming it here. You don't have to live with this shit. They killed TJ. Diamond’s in danger. You don't understand.”

“What don't I understand, Adam? I know more about this than you do.”

“Don't fuck about with me, Lilly. I'm leaving.” Adam pulled on his Phat Farm jeans and hoodie and sprayed a little of the man's deodorant she had on her dresser. “Where are my socks? Never mind. Don't speak to me again, Lilly. You fucked up my life, now I can't even be with her when she needs me. I'm just a bit of fun to you.”

“You are a lot of fun, baby.” She laughed. “Don't go!” She moved in front of the door, standing naked with her foot up on a vintage shoe rack, then her voice changed. “I know what happened to TJ before he died.”

Sherlock paused listening to whatever lsh she would say next. He snapped at her and gripped her shoulder. “Don't fuck with me, Lilly. I got to find who did this.”

“Get your hands off me or you won't live another day.” She said it cooly and Sherlock backed down. She relaxed.

“Shola beat him up. Shola beat him up the night he got killed but Shola left TJ alive.”
Sherlock flinched to hear her mention his former friend Shola, now the big man on the Estate, had beaten his girl's little brother just before he was murdered. He shuddered.
“How do you know?” He was screaming inside, his eyes bugging out. That sick feeling took hold of his stomach again.

“Shola told me.”

“What? When?”

“Shola told me the night it happened.”

It sunk in. Lilly was playing him. She was fucking Shola, she was knocking boots with the Nigerian thug. He wanted to smack her across the face but knew he had no right to even be angry with her, she was his mistake. He felt his cheeks burning.
“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you don't go. You don't know what you're doing. The people that got TJ were serious people, Adam.” He thought back to what Amrit had said to him.
“Do you want to know how I met Shola? He was the first one to bring me round here. To this area.”

“How?” Sherlock's pride rankled him.

“My Dad.” She spoke calmly and Sherlock let out an audible squeal of surprise.

“I thought your Dad was an MP.”

“Used to be. But he introduced me to Shola years ago, when I was in sixth form, before I ever spoke to you or Faisal properly. Shola worked for my Dad's constituency office as an errand boy. That's what Dad called him. Shola slept at my house. My Dad's house. That's where I first met Shola.”

Sherlock was wrong footed. He didn't know what to think.

“Do you remember a girl in my year called Sinead Green? That Irish girl that kept running away from her foster home. She needed money once and Shola fixed her up to go to a party for one of my Dad's friends, a judge. A private party. The next day she woke up feeling groggy like she'd been drugged and all she could remember was seeing all these different guys. He let them all tie her up and rape her. She tried to go to the police, they took a statement but nothing happened and the one cop that listened to her and tried to investigate the case ended up in prison, done for corruption. And she ended up getting sectioned. She got sectioned!”
“Why?”
“Because these people are untouchable.”
“Who are they? Masons?”
“Yes they are Masons, Druids, Rosicrucians, the Churches, Witches, Warlocks. They are policemen, judges, politicians, bishops, councillors and CEOs. They're in every secret society and every Old Boys Club there is and they're a bunch of fucking crooks. They are the people that run the country. They are part of a secret society called the Brotherhood of the Snake.”

“What's this got to do with TJ?”

“I heard Shola on the phone the night that TJ died. He was talking about someone called The Inspector. He was saying “they want blood” he kept talking about how they weren't gonna let it lie. He said that he just banged TJ up but that was it. I washed TJ's blood off his clothes. If it was the Brotherhood you don't want to get involved. I don't want to lose you. I care about you. How long have I known you?”

“Five years.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Sherlock thought about it smiled and said “I've got to go.” She pulled a coat on and stood aside opening the door. As he walked past her she grabbed his hand and pulled him back then kissed him long and hard. “Be careful. You're too sexy to die.” As he jogged down the stairs he checked his phone, looking through the missed calls. 10 from private numbers, 3 from a number he didn't recognise and one from his Mum. He checked the voicemail and heard his Mum's voice . . .

“Adam, call me please. It's important, call me please, answer your phone.” His shoulders sank. He called her back. He walked past a billboard showing a political chinless wonder, the guy with his face plastered all over the nation. As the phone rang he wondered how he would break the news of TJ's murder to his Mum and sighed. The bus he wanted had just pulled up to the stop and the wind whipped up and blew the pages of the freesheets and daily rags along the high street into rustling grime flows, rattling bottles and cans like a beat pattern.
“Adam, how come you don't call?” Her breath seemed laboured.

“Mum, I've been busy. My course is getting hectic, Ma.” His Mum stayed silent for what seemed like an eternity.

“How's Di?” Sherlock asked.

“You're sister's run away again. I haven't seen her since Thursday, she never came home from College.” The tears welled up in her voice. Sherlock felt that today could not get any worse. “Where did I go wrong with you two? Where did I go wrong? You are a drug addict and you're sister is a slut! This family is cursed.” She sobbed pathetically and he wondered whether she'd been drinking.

“Mum.”

“Pastor Donald asks about you. He wants to know how you're getting on with your course. Diana's running with the guys on the block. She needs her big brother. Why don't we ever see you? It's not like you live far. Have we done you something? Am I such a bad person? You need your family in life Adam. Your family.”

“ So you're OK, Mum. I'll ask around about Di and call some of her friends. She's just going through a hard time. Bye.”

“You're father called. Do you want to talk to him?”

“You know I do. When did he call.”

“Yesterday evening. He's in town and he wants to meet you.”

“Where is he?”

“Ten years is a long time. You need to let go of him, Adam. He's no good.”

“Mum, don't . . . “

“Are you sure you want to meet up? I gave him your number.”

“Mum, thanks. Is he here for long?”

“You know him. He's got your number. He said he'd call you. Don't wait for him though. Remember last time he was here. What has he ever done for you? A damn evil man and I must have been a fool to let him leave us like this when he had all that money. Me struggling with you and your sister. Remember who raised you! Don't go and pally pally round him cause he comes back bearing gifts. You just gonna get hurt by him, that's all he does. He doesn't care about you.”

“Mum, you got his number?”

“No. He didn't leave my number but he called you while he was here. He said he'd call you again.”

“Mum, I've got to see him. I've got to talk to him.”

“Suit yourself. Bye.” She hung up.

“I love you, Mum.” Sherlock spoke down the empty line and sat at the bus stop at the roundabout. As the wind whipped the newspapers and rubbish round and round he thought about the last couple of days. He wondered if he'd ever get back with Diamond, what had happened to TJ after Shola had left him, whether Lilly had even been telling the truth. In his heart he knew his Mum was right, going to meet his Dad would only bring up pain but he felt that he had to. The sun shone but Sherlock still shivered. The Blackberry Curve that he held in his hand felt heavy as rock. He dialled the number that had called him 3 times and the phone rang and went to voicemail.

“You have reached the voicemail service for 0796857463222 Robert is not available to take your call right now. Please leave your message after the tone.” The voicemail was a standard female robot voice but the word “Robert” was his Dad's. He hung up.

“There I called you. I called you. When are you gonna call me?” A woman walked past the bus stop and could see Adam talking to himself. She sidled back to the shops.
He sat waiting for an answer. The kids in the playground opposite were running jokes a boy teasing a couple of girls while showing off with a football. The 78 came to the stop and the woman got on. Sherlock tried to write a rhyme:
Dear Dad, why did you leave us all alone
Broke on the block with no hope and no dough
Did you stop for a second did you even think
Mum couldn't handle two kids that's why she drinks

but he couldn't finish it. So he wrote
Fuck you dad
deleted it then wrote
Fuck you Robert Aldwyn Sherlock.
Suddenly he felt a rush of rage and turned and began kicking the bus shelter. Kicking the shit out of the toughened plexiglass. He smacked it with his iron fist not caring about anything. “I'm sick of it you bastard. Sick of sticking up for you. Fuck you, dad. Fuck Mum. Fuck Diamond. Fuck you God.” Then his phone rang. His Dad's number flashed up.

“Adam. Good to hear from you, boy. You ok?

“Yeh, I'm cool.” Robert Sherlock paused.

“We need to talk. Come meet me. I'm staying at a Hotel in Knightsbridge area. I'm at the Hilton, overlooking Hyde Park, do you know it? In Room 341. We need to talk, today. Can you come?”

“Yes.”

“See you when you can get here.”

“See you.”