Free Revenger by Tom Cain Page B

on the shelves were an odd mix of bargain-basement offers and surprisingly upmarket brands. But then, this was a corner of London where great swathes of council flats mixed with terraces where four-bed family houses went for a million quid – or had done until a few years ago, at any rate. The families that lived in places like that wanted to eat sun-dried tomatoes, ciabatta bread and organic avocados. The Lion Market was obviously happy to supply them.
    Sweets and chocolate bars were on display by the checkout, presumably to tempt shoppers into last-second impulse purchases. Carver scanned the racks until he found what he was looking for: two bars of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut. Geneva was filled with fancy confectioners selling the finest Swiss chocolate, but he missed the taste of home. As he paid for the bars he noticed that the man behind the counter looked a little jumpy. There were signs by the door as he came in warning that the shop had full CCTV coverage, never kept more than fifty pounds in the till and was protected by (this handwritten in large black capital letters) ‘FAST-RESPONSE ARMED SECURITY’.
    Carver didn’t blame the owners for being nervous. A place like this was a magnet for crime, from spotty little shoplifters to armed burglars. Still, the average urban lowlife was as cowardly as he was stupid. The lad out front looked big and mean enough to make most would-be perpetrators think twice. Carver thanked the shopkeeper for his change and walked out. Spotting the sign for the Dutchman’s Head fifty metres down the road he licked his lips. Snoopy Schultz should be getting the drinks in any second now, and he could practically taste that first pint.

15
    IN ROW A of Block A2 – the front, centre section of the arena’s ground-floor seating – Kieron Sproles was sitting by himself, surrounded by an expectant buzz of chatter. His hands were in his jacket pocket. His right hand was gripped around the handle of the Glock. Not long now, and all his years of obscurity – that solitary insignificance that had marked his existence since his first day at primary school – would be over. By the end of the evening, everyone would know who he was, and what he had done.
    And then, without warning, the lights began to dim.
    As intense, doom-laden music boomed out from the speakers suspended above the stage a video screen came to life. A helicopter camera panned across a desolate wasteland of derelict buildings, boarded-up shops, abandoned tower blocks and open spaces – once intended for cheerful recreation, now given over to bare earth, weeds and dogshit. A single man was walking down a street of semi-detached houses, now all abandoned. Each had once had front and back gardens, though these were now overgrown. The camera zoomed in to reveal Mark Adams, and a huge cheer went up around the arena as he began to speak.
    ‘This used to be my street. These were all council houses . . . And this was the house where I grew up: 37 Cambrai Road.’
    Adams stopped by a wooden gate, hanging half off its hinges. Beyond it, a path could just about be seen under a carpet of dandelions and bindweed. It led to a house with scorch marks round the windows, and bare patches on the walls where all the rendering had fallen off.
    He began walking down the road again, speaking to the camera with the practised fluency of a man who had first become known to the public as the presenter of documentaries on military history; a war-hero-turned-TV-star. With a sweep of his arm, Adams encompassed all the houses around him: ‘The people who lived here were working-class, but they were proud of who they were and where they came from. Proud of Leeds, proud of Yorkshire, proud of England, proud to be British.
    ‘No one had much money to spare. Yet all the front gardens were immaculate: no weeds in the flower beds, paths and front doorsteps swept clean.’
    Now Adams was walking down a row of empty shops.
    ‘I was brought up to behave myself