Page 16 of Crave

Joe shook his head as if I were a lost cause. “How’s Lennon these days? Not seen him about.”

My chest tightened at the name. Lennon. Closest thing I’d ever had to a best mate, if lads our age still had them. The only one who’d ever had a sniff of the real me, and maybe he’d take it, maybe he’d even be fine with it. But I’d never test him. Never wanted to dump that choice on him. Not now. Not after everything I did. But we grew up in the same tower, same skips, same scraps. Bunked school to kick ball across the heath till the floodlights came on. He had a future once, too. A proper one. West Ham scouts, academy boots, whispers of contracts. Until that day.

The day everything bent sideways.

As always, it had been my fault.

And I’d spent the following years hating myself for it.

“He’s alright. Labouring now.” I drained the last of my tea. “His missus’s pregnant. Twins.”

Joe’s face cracked into something almost kind. “Send him my best, will ya? Tell him to come in. I got that bacon he prefers.”

“Yeah.” I pulled a few notes from my roll, slapped them on the table. More than the price of a tea. Call it payment for the counselling session. And everything else Joe kept off my back.

I left Joe’s with nothing settled, which was the worst kind of result. Having answers I couldn’t live with and a problem that kept breathing. If I went to full-blown confrontation, it’d be war. Do nothing and Ghost kept poking, harder. So, I had to be clever. That’s not my natural setting; I’m muscle, not chess. And I sure as fuck didn’t want to drag the heads above me into this. Once they sniffed blood, it turned my patch into their playground and my leadership into question.

I slid back into the Audi, engine ticking, and pulled the burner from the glove box. Tyler answered on the second ring, voice thick and half-lidded as if he’d been up too long and down too young. “Razor.”

He sounded as if he’d been in the flat, on the sofa, porked out or still wasted. Didn’t bother me. I’m not needy for that sort of domestic nonsense. Not anymore. I ruined that chance long ago.

“Do some digging,” I said into the burner. “Trip me everything on Tripper. Who he runs with. His family. Girls. Who’s he fucking? Where does he sleep? Who moves for him? What’s he selling and where’s he pushing it? Any vids, photos, phone numbers, runners’ names. Be methodical. I want a map.”

Tyler swore a little, hefting to get out from tangled around his girl. “What’s on with Tripper?”

“He sent Darren a piece to hold.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. So no need to say this is priority one. And be fucking discreet.”

“On it, boss.”

I reeled off exactly what I needed in bullet-point list form. Not because I didn’t trust his taste, but because there’s work only a second can do: feet on the ground, lads who’ll give up names for the right price, being able to talk friendly to kids at corners while they look the other way. And he needed proper instruction as Tyler thought beyond his means. Was too keen to move up. He needed to earn it first.

“Oh, and find out who told Tripper to hold that piece and why he picked Darren. Was it Tripper himself? Or is he a lackey taking orders?”

“Sure thing, Razor.”

“Call me.”

After I cut him off, Tyler would get to work. Shaking down corners, flashing cash, twisting arms the way a second does. Coward’s work maybe, but necessary. My day unfolded in the usual grind of a line lieutenant: checking runners’ takings and warning short men outside the bookies, swinging by Mum’s under the guise of a takeaway to make sure Keeley and the baby had what she needed while taking the time to fix the shit that never worked in the flat—leaking cistern, lights gone out, hot water gone.

By late afternoon I leant on a fence for scraps about Jax and dock vans, then ran my own rounds. Two drops, one alley, one club door, collecting notes, moving product, keeping faces checked without saying much. Evening meant a shower, clean clothes, then I was back behind the wheel of the Audi, parked up by the club precinct with the engine ticking while Tyler worked his phones.

Waiting is a skill; patience a weapon.

By half nine my burner lit up. “Go.”

Tyler rattled off fast, voice buzzing as if he’d sparked something. “Tripper’s lot are shifting meow down The Yard. Pressed cheap, cut filthy. They’re lacing the door with freebies, letting the kids run it inside. Had one little fucker gurning off his nut, pockets full. They’re flooding the floor, bruv. Hard. And it ain’t staying local. Word is, it’s creeping out the estate to… higher circles. Posh boys getting curious.”

That hit like a hammer.

Meow Meow. Dirty chem gear.

In a place like that, it meant bodies on pavements, blue lights, parents howling in A&E. Ghost wasn’t just trying to pinch my corners, he was setting fire to the whole block. Dragging every copper and camera in London straight to Hackney for the price of a tenner.

I killed the engine, flicked the lighter until the top snapped back, then stared out through the rain-smeared window. Tyler had given me smoke I could follow. A trail. A name. A move. Whether this turned into a quiet cut or a full-on war, that was down to me.