Chapter 28

NEED TO KNOW

Hallam Buck, dragging thirty-seven bitter, lonely years behind him and looking at decades behind bars if they ever caught him, always poked his nose where it didn’t belong.

It was about wanting to know. It was a fear of being left out.

That had been Hallam’s life—isolation.

Skirting the playground while other kids clustered and gossiped about him. Trudging through Barrowmore, trying to attach himself to various groups, all of them telling him to fuck off, if he was lucky, or kicking his head in.

So knowing what was going on kept him in the loop. He could loiter near tittle-tattle and toss in his two-penneth. He could be part of the conversation; he could be part of life.

As usual, Hallam had woken up at 5:00 am. He dressed and made breakfast. He put on his yellow bib with “Tower Hamlets London Borough Council” written on the back. On the breast it sported the council’s logo, and the motto, From Great Things To Greater.

When he was ready, he’d gone out and traipsed the walkways of Monsell House, picking up glass and wiping up piss, cleaning up vomit and scooping up needles, sweeping up litter and sprucing up stairwells.

It wasn’t hard work. He did it at his own pace. After all, he wasn’t getting paid. The bib he’d nicked off a street cleaner a couple of years ago. The equipment was his own—bin bags, brushes, disinfectant. He mostly focused on the eighth floor, where he lived, and the seventh—where she lived.

Tash. Lovely Tash. Delicious Tash. His Tash.

Should’ve been. Would’ve been had it not been for—

Approaching her door that morning, he went through it all again—hot flushes, racing heartbeat, stiff cock, dry throat, and buckling knees.

He knocked. He wore his smile. He pushed his hips out, his erection pressing against the nylon of his boiler suit with nothing underneath it. Just thin material between todger and Tash.

She opened the door and said, “Hi, Hallam,” and looked him in the face.

Look at my cock, he was thinking. Look at my cock.

But she didn’t flinch. A straight-ahead stare.

She had beautiful eyes. So blue. Like two sapphires.

“I . . . I’ve been busy this morning,” he said.

“Oh, good for you,” she said. “Actually, Hallam, I’m busy . . . ”

Rage flared in his chest. He trembled with shame. He mumbled something and turned, plodding off down the walkway.

Back in his flat, he’d fumed.

He stripped naked and masturbated. And when he came, he screamed her name in anger and imagined himself ramming into her while she could do nothing but beg and cry.

One day, he thought. One day . . .

Sweating, exhausted, he slumped on the floor. The dust and the debris stuck to his sticky body.

He thought about Tash. Had she got a boyfriend, or was it a one-night stand that made her “busy”? His guts churned.

Slag. Tart. Whore.

He got on all fours. He stared at the floor. She was right beneath him in the flat below.

If he put his ear down, he could sometimes hear her when she sang along to the radio and when she called Jasmine.

Get out of the bath, Jasmine.

Jesus. Too much. The thought of them made fire in Hallam’s belly.

He had considered drilling a hole through the floor so he could watch her—watch them both.

But it was risky. His life was risky. It had always been risky.

So easy to get caught. Especially these days with DNA and forensic evidence being so good.

After catching his breath, he got to his feet. His blubber itched. Sweat and dust coated his body. His sperm stained the dusty wooden floor.

He showered and then dressed in his dad’s old shirt, trousers, and shoes before going out.

Scudding clouds spat rain. The gloom weighed heavily. His heart was a lump of lead. His life, worthless.

At the shop, he bought The Sun, two cans of beans, and a Twix.

He munched the chocolate as he trudged back towards the high rises.

Behind him, shouts erupted. Hate in the air. Threats on the breeze.

He’d wheeled and faced them—two charging towards him, fear on their faces.

He knew one by name. Spencer Drake. He knew the other youth’s face.

They barged past him. Hallam reeled. The Twix fell out of his hands. He yelled out and squatted to pick it up.

“You’re going to bleed, Drake. You’re going to fucking bleed.”

Hallam looked up. He froze. The Sharpleys, Paul and Michael, raced past him, and after them—You’re going to bleed, Drake. You’re going to fucking bleed—came Lethal Ellis.

As he raced by, Lethal’s twisted, angry face turned to Hallam and said in a shriek, “What are you fucking looking at, flid?”

Hallam watched as the chase hurtled down the road that swerved around the tower blocks.

Goosepimples raced up his back.

He followed the hunt. He couldn’t help himself. He had to know. He had to be part of life.