Page 39 of Corrupt

A knot of lads I half-recognised hunched on the church steps, vapes glowing blue in the sun, tracksuits hanging off them the same way they had when we were all kids. One of them straightened when I hit the path.

“No fucking way. Razor?”

My shoulders squared before I got control of them. Hearing it here, outside this church, on this day, scraped violently under my ribs. I’d driven over in Richie mode without even meaning to. Lennon and Levi did that to me. Dragged out the version of me before everything went sideways. They’d never really called me Razor. Not properly. Not like the rest of the world did once I started running gear. Hard thing, carrying a name given to you on a playground at eleven when you’ve built another one on the bones of it.

Hearing Razor where Richie used to stand…Yeah. It reminded me there were two versions of me walking around in the same skin. And I wasn’t sure which one was winning anymore.

The lads gave me the once-over. Jeans that actually fit, boots that hadn’t seen a puddle in months, car keys in my hand instead of stuffed into a sock.

One jerked his chin at the road. “Nice motor. You doing alright for yourself.”

That old prickle crept up my neck. Not shame. Nor even pride. Something in between. Being seen by the wrong people in the wrong way. They knew what I did. Some of them had links to the line, or links to the ones linked to it. Didn’t matter. I never flaunted it. Flaunting was for the ones who wanted disciples. Flash cars, flashy chains. Recruit the next kid hungry for a shortcut.

Never been my style.

And if I was honest, standing here, maybe the problem was I’d never been enough of Razor to live this life clean. There was still too much Richie clinging on, trying to breathe.

“Just working,” I said, shrugging it off.

“Man says just working,” another snorted. “Wish my nine-to-five looked like yours.” He shifted his vape to the other hand, leant in slightly. “You hear about Darren, yeah? Court date’s set. They’re saying crown, not mags. Man’s finished. Ain’t seeing daylight for time.”

My gut sank.

“Yeah,” I said, voice flat. “I heard.”

“Man’s fucked. Could use someone with… connections.” His eyes lingered on my keys again, then on the door behind me. “Need to pay a right good barrister to get him out.”

Tristan’s face flashed across my brain uninvited. White shirt, courtroom eyes, the cut of his mouth when he was trying not to care.

“Ain’t that simple,” I muttered. “Nothing’s simple in court.”

“Never stopped you before, Razor.”

The name again, soft and sharp. I had to bite down on the instinct to walk back to the car and get the fuck out. Instead, I forced my feet forward, towards the doors, the music, the picture of the boy I’d failed.

Inside, gospel hummed low through the church. Soft, cracked around the edges. Someone sang His Eye Is on the Sparrow, voice shaking as if she’d cried all the way there. People swayed, humming along, shoulders touching. The air smelt of candlewax, damp coats, old wood, and the familiar spice of Caribbean cooking someone had brought for after. British-Jamaican families didn’t do quiet grief. It filled the room. Saturated it.

I stayed at the back, the same as I had when Lennon’s mum dragged us in as kids. Said the saints needed eyes on boys like us. I never believed it, but Lennon had. He’d lean into me in the pews, pretending he wasn’t scared of God, the dark, or losing his little brother to the roads. Then he got older and stopped leaning. Stopped pretending. Wanted me to do the same.

Too late for all that now.

My gaze drifted to the front, and there he was. Levi’s face blown up on a poster board. Smiling, bright, wearing the chain I’d got him off my first real street wage. The one he never took off and told everyone he’d bought it.

The grief sank deeper. Darker.

“Oi, move over.”

I jerked my head to the side to find Keeley, hip cocked, baby on her arm, attitude intact despite the red rims around her eyes. She shoved Maisie at me and I barely got an arm under the kid before she latched onto my face, grabbing my nose with a sticky fist from whatever she’d been chewing on. Drool slipped down my shirt.

“What you doing here?” I whispered.

“Amara invited me.” Keeley nodded towards the front pews.

Lennon and Amara stood by the front row, holding one baby each, little heads bobbing as they rocked them gently. Levi’s nephews. Facing the uncle they’d never got to meet.

Keeley shrugged. “Said there’d be free food.”

Jesus Christ.