Chapter Eight Razor #2
“You made your choice, bruv.” I tightened my grip on his hair. “The second you put that little thing inside her, you chose her and this. You live by my rules now. That clear?”
“Yeah… yeah. Sorry.”
I let go, the sting of control burning off my palm. “I’ll be taking this.” I waved his phone.
“I need a phone, Razor. What if Keeley needs me?”
“Why the fuck would she need you?” I crouched, pulled my bag from under the bed, found my gear inside, and shoved his phone in with it.
Keeley appeared in the doorway, bottle in one hand, baby tucked under the other arm. “He comes in useful sometimes.”
I pulled on my hoodie. “Yeah? Like when?”
“Like getting up at three a.m. when she’s crying. Running to the shop when I’m outta nappies. Not bolting.” Keeley eased the bottle into Maisie’s mouth. “No one ever knows where you are, do they?”
No. They fucking shouldn’t.
Still, low blow for defending a cretin.
“Don’t defend him.” I yanked on a pair of boxers under the towel.
“I’m not.” Her voice came softer now, tired. “But he’s here, Rich. That’s more than I can say for our dad.”
That hit. A clean shot, straight under the ribs.
I looked at Maisie, milk-drunk and half-asleep, one tiny hand curled in Keeley’s hoodie, quietly suckling. The little thing didn’t ask for any of this. The estate. The noise. A father who was a kid himself and an uncle like me, whose presence meant trouble.
Keeley must’ve seen it in my face because she said softly, “You don’t have to fix everything, y’know.”
I ripped off the towel and dragged on a pair of jeans. “Someone’s got to.”
“You could have someone.” She rocked Maisie from side to side, stepping into the room, half shielding Darren without even thinking about it. “Go on a date or something.”
I gave her a look. One I hoped said don’t start.
She smirked anyway. “You’re not ugly, Rich. I mean, you stink and you’re a prick, but other girls seem to like that. And I ain’t seen you with no one since you were at school.”
“I’m picky.” I bent to grab my bag, hoping she didn’t hear the crack in my voice.
No, I wasn’t out to her. Not to anyone. Only one person had ever known outright, but he wasn’t around anymore to corroborate.
Lennon probably guessed, he saw more than he should, but even he didn’t know the full story.
Couldn’t. Round here, being that kind of bloke made people look at you different.
Softer. Not feared. Not hard. And I couldn’t risk that.
I could prove myself with fists and choices if I had to, but I didn’t live for it like the others did.
What I got off on was the money, keeping my family safe… and pretty men who knew how to keep their mouths shut.
Keeley laughed. “You’re impossible, you know that? You could have a stack of girls if you wanted.”
I glanced at Darren, checked the kid quick, making sure whatever lines he was thinking stayed locked behind his teeth. He kept his head down, which was fine by me.
So I chucked an unused burner at him. “New phone.”
He fumbled with it, muttered something like thanks but was more sarcasm than real gratitude.
Keeley watched me. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah. Got shit to do.”
“Don’t you always.” She rolled her eyes.
I paused at the door, long enough to reach out and brush Maisie’s head with the back of my knuckles. “I’ll look into getting her a buggy, alright?”
Keeley beamed, rising on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.
Then I left. Waved to Mum sparko in front of the telly, open polystyrene box on her lap.
Out on the balcony, the wind was sharp and filthy, carrying the sound of the market starting up down below.
Traders shouting, metal shutters clattering open, the bass from some kid’s speaker shaking the air.
The towers rose around me, stained concrete and rusted railings catching what little light the city offered.
Eighteen floors up, I could see the skyline.
Cranes and glass towers in the distance, all polished and perfect, the money reaching the sky via Canary Wharf.
I trundled down the stairs, stashed my bag in the car, took what I needed, and headed for the high street.
The air hit thick. Diesel, chip grease, someone shouting about cheap trainers.
Hackney waking up. Halfway down, wedged between the chicken shop and the bookies, was the place I needed.
QuickFix Mobiles, open twenty-four seven, unless the police happened to drive by.
Then the shutter came down, and the closed sign went up real quick.
I pushed through the door, bell giving that half-dead jingle.
Tariq was hunched over the counter, busy with the guts of a smart phone.
He had his full setup going: screws, wire spaghetti, broken glass, the lot.
His light grey Imama, tightly wrapped, looking practical and well-worn, sat high on his head, framing that lean face, all dark beard and nervous eyes, making him look more like a scholar than a fence.
He saw me. Clocked me fast. Straightened up as if I’d pulled a wire, pulling those cheap specs off to dangle on their string around his neck.
“Razor.”
“Tariq.” I kept my nod tight and let my eyes do the walking around his chaos.
Rows of second-hand burners, consoles, cheap laptops stacked on old shelving. Cables hung like veins. Everything here had a past life. He sold the usual. Gear, gadgets, knock-off tech. But the real money sat under the counter. Along with the back room his cousin ran. But I didn’t need that today.
I reached him, and he dipped out of sight then came back up with a padded manilla envelope. “There you go.”
I frowned. “What’s that?”
“Your cut.”
I lifted a brow. “Of what?”
He sighed. “The phones.”
“I move gear, Tariq. Not stolen iPhones.”
“I know.” He raised a hand. “But this is your patch, innit? And most of them come from your runners. Figured that meant I owe you. Been saving that, in case you came round asking. Which I guess is what’s happening now.”
I let out a small laugh, rubbed a finger across my brow. That was the rep following me. The one where people handed things over before I even asked. Or even knew I could ask. This weren’t my trade, not really. But around here, everyone looked after everyone’s hustle. If we all ate, nobody talked.
I took the envelope, not bothering to count it. Called it a bonus. “Kind of you.”
Tariq nodded. “Don’t want no hassle.”
“How’s business?”
“Good. Unless you ask HM Revenue and Customs.”
“Not likely to.” I chewed on my lip, looking around again.
“You…want something else? Sami ain’t in at the mo.”
“Nah, don’t need him.” I fished out Darren’s phone, threw it on the counter. “But you can add that to your pile.”
“Will do.” Tariq popped it under the counter. “How much?”
“On the house.”
“Kind of you.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t move.
Tariq peered up. “Anything else?”
I sighed, psyching myself up. “Yeah.” I then took out the stolen iPhone from my back pocket and slid it across the counter to him. “Can you unlock that?”
Tariq picked it up, weighed it in his palm and whistled. “Nice bit of kit.” He tapped the screen. “I can clear it, add it to the pile, pay you for it.”
“No.” I sniffed. “I want it open. I want in.”
Tariq scrolled, thumbing the case. “Whose is it?”
“That’s the point.”
He looked up, arching a brow. “Not royalty, is it?”
I snorted, but honestly, that hit. What if it was?
The picture on the front showed a bunch of tuxedos and ball gowns at a mansion.
And Luca had said they were posh. What if they were that posh?
Although, I doubted royalty would be sniffing around Hackney corners. Not even the gentrified, hipster part.
“Can you get in it or not?”
Tariq sucked in through his teeth. “These days Apple’s tight. Activation locks, remote wipes, the whole lot. If it’s linked to iCloud and the owner knows what they’re doing, anything in there like bank apps, messages can be nuked from their end. Makes it tricky.”
“But it can be done?”
He shrugged. “Depends. Old handsets are easier. Newer ones, not worth trying unless you want to throw money at it. You got options: brute-force the passcode, slow and risky, and a lot will wipe on failed tries; social-engineer the owner to reset it. Dirty, but sometimes the quickest; or send it to a proper tech who does hardware jobs. That chip-off stuff. Expensive, specialised. Takes time.”
“And if it’s just a locked phone with nothing left on it?”
“Then it’s scrap money, or someone pays to scrub it clean and flip it. If there’s anything worth seeing it’s a hunt. But nobody can promise you access to bank accounts. That’s tied to two-factor and remote locks more often than not.”
“Ain’t interested in bank accounts.”
“What are you interested in, then?”
The pretty boy on the front. “Name of the owner. An address. Messages be good. But mostly I want intel from it.”
Tariq cocked his head. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll check back in a couple of hours.” I gave him the envelope of cash back. “For your trouble.”
He blew out a soft laugh. “Kind of you.” He then slid it back under the counter. When I pulled open the door, he called over. “You seeing Lennon anytime soon?”
“No plans. Why?”
Tariq fished out something from under the counter. “Fixed his missus’ phone screen. Had to do a real job on it. Cost more than he gave as deposit. Thought you could warn him.”
“How much?”
“Seventy.”
I wandered over, gave him a ton.
Tariq counted through the notes. “I’ll let him know you covered it.”
“Don’t. He won’t take it, then. Just tell him it cost what it cost.”
“You two still on that pride trip?”
“Always.” I left.
Outside, the High Street kept doing its thing: taxis coughing, chip fat sizzling, kids on scooters weaving through it all.
Sunday meant damage control. Making sure the night hadn’t eaten anyone’s head.
That the runners who’d taken a mint last night hadn’t taken more than they should.
That was my job. Keep the line moving. Safely. Without hassle.