White Riot (11 page)

And they were on their feet, Kev among them.

There was more, much more. But that was the bit Kev remembered. Word for word.

Kev felt valued, like he belonged, like he was wanted.

Kev felt like he had come home.

He hit a pothole, winced at the pain.

Gary was long gone. After what happened he had no choice. Things like that weren’t just frowned on; they had a habit of becoming nasty. Really nasty. Gary said he had seen it before. Body-in-the-concrete-foundations-of-a-new-quayside-development kind of nasty.

Kev told himself he didn’t mind. Kept telling himself he didn’t mind. Kept his head down, concentrated on what he’d found instead.

Himself.

And a job. Frank Bell. A butcher, a party member and man short. Couldn’t take a Paki or a wog, obviously, so he asked Kev. Kev was terrified, but the job didn’t involve much reading and writing and Frank Bell taught him how to use the till, recognize the numbers and let the computer do the adding.

And best of all he got to handle knives.

Cut flesh away from bone. Slice skin from fat. Pare muscle from sinew. He loved it. Especially delivery day when the new carcasses arrived.

Then came the whispers: Rick Oaten was forming his own party. The NUP.

Things were moving: Kev felt it. He offered his services. Was accepted. A recruiter. Security. A trusted foot soldier.

‘OK,’ Rick Oaten had said. ‘You’re loyal. You’ve got a true heart. I might need you sometimes. For special jobs.’

Kev had said he could be relied on. Rick Oaten said he knew. Smiled again, like he could see something Kev couldn’t.

‘But things are going to be a bit different this time. A bit different.’

And they were. The NUP were different from what Kev was used to. There were new, posh offices. Secretaries. A spin doctor, Mr Sharples, drafted in to advise on policy. When Kev first heard Rick Oaten on TV talking about the new party he thought he had been betrayed. There was no anger, no righteous indignation. Just measured discussion, reasoned and reasonable response.

But then Kev saw what Rick Oaten was doing. Playing to the mainstream. Make yourself electable and you get elected. People want to believe. Give them what they want to believe in.

With Mr Sharples standing behind Rick Oaten all the time, a living shadow. A puppeteer.

It worked. Membership was up. Newspaper reporting was increased. Kev and his mates still got in the Gib, had their traditional fun there, but without Rick Oaten. But that was OK. Everyone understood.

And then there was the plan. The big plan. Codename: Thor’s Hammer.

Kev was in on that too. No longer just a foot soldier, now a trusted lieutenant.

But then two things happened: the special jobs and Jason Mason.

Poor little Jason Mason. The lost boy.

Kev didn’t want his brother Joey roaming the streets on his own, looking to score drugs, wasn’t safe. So Kev used to go and get them. He didn’t want to, but as he saw it he had no choice.

He used to see this boy, living rough in a derelict house just off the West Road. But it wasn’t until he saw him out on the town late at night with some middle-aged bloke that he realized what the boy did for a living. And in that instant Kev’s angry heart had gone out to him. It might be too late for his brother and his dad. But he had to save the boy.

He started talking to him when he saw him, asked him along to the Gib. Tried to share the sense of community, of belonging that had been extended to him. Bring him along the right path. It was easy. The boy was hungry for a new life, a better one. And when he saw Jason saluting at meetings, chanting and shouting, when he saw him rucking with liberals, puffs and niggers, he felt so proud.

Like the son he thought he’d never have.

And Jason loved it, became a favourite with the others. Like a mascot. In him they saw their future. That made Kev even more proud.

And then he had found out what Rick Oaten meant by special jobs. At first he didn’t think it would touch him, thought his anger, his loyalty, would carry him through. But that was before he saw the Asian boy’s face spread all over the concrete floor. Saw his blood pouring from his body, his bones snapped and sticking out. Saw him burning in the street. When he closed his eyes. When he went to sleep.

Now nothing seemed so straightforward any more.

He sat in the Land Rover going over pothole after pothole in Northumberland, clutching his side, swallowing hard. Each bounce, each swallow brought another question, another conflict to his mind. Pain hit him as bad as the knife had. But he couldn’t let it show. Not in front of Cheggs and Ligsy. Pain meant weakness, and weakness didn’t deserve respect. He was in charge. Respect was vital.

His doubts were a new candle burning inside him, one he couldn’t blow out. He tried to ignore them. He had a mission. No matter how unhappy he was with it, he had to do it. Find Jason. What he would do when he found him was a bridge to be crossed another time.

They hit another pothole. He tried not to cry out.

*

Donovan was driving out of Newcastle, into Northumberland, when it hit.

He pulled the Scimitar off the road, banked it on to a verge, sat there.

His chest ached, his heart sambaed and skipped, the bones in his legs and arms felt like lead. Stars danced before his eyes.

A panic attack. At least that’s what he hoped it was.

He turned the engine off, sat there, arms by his side. Tried to steady his breathing. Focus.

He had dropped Amar off at his apartment, picked up his own car from there. A Reliant Scimitar, dark green. A Seventies classic, but it never felt old. Handled like a racing car.

But not today. He wasn’t in the mood.

The CD was still playing, Jim White singing about how he’d found someone he loved more than the rain. A song he wrote for his daughter. Donovan made no attempt to turn it off.

Surprised he had held it together as long as he had. All the way up from London.

No good, he thought, no good.

His vision was still blurred, his heart still jumping. The panic attack not receding. He tried breathing deeply again, held the steering wheel. Concentrated. Hoped it was just a panic attack.

Oh, God, not a heart attack, please, not a heart attack
…

He gripped the wheel, eyes screwed tight, breathing through his teeth.

I can’t do this on my own, he thought, gasping. I need help.

Peta. Amar and Jamal. All together, Albion functioning like it used to. He wanted that back again. Needed it.

His family. His other family.

He pitched forward against the steering wheel as another spasm lurched through him. He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, tried to bring it out, key in a number. Peta. Dropped it.

Closed his eyes.

Opened them again.

He looked around, sat up. Feeling in his arms, his legs again. Breathing normally. It was over. He had ridden the panic attack out.

The CD was still playing. He frowned. Two tracks down.

He had blacked out, sat there unconscious for over five minutes. He shook his head. Over five minutes.

He turned on the car, put it into gear. Drove away.

Couldn’t do this alone any more.

He needed help.

Mr Sharples took his usual booth at the Café Roma on Mosley Street, espresso before him. Neat, grey-suited, mid-fifties with close-cropped steel-grey hair and rimless glasses, he was invisible to the mass of commuting customers filing in and out. How he liked it. Power, he knew, lay in the shadows.

He sipped, the hot, black bitterness scalding down his throat. He licked his lips, relished the feeling. Took out his black leather notebook. Planning ahead.

Things were going well. After Oaten’s talking to. Only one minor problem. But that would be dealt with soon.

His mobile trilled. He checked the name on the display. Answered it.

‘I hear the boy has escaped,’ the caller said. ‘Do we need to talk?’

‘No.’ Mr Sharples didn’t like talking on mobiles. Any phones for that matter. Even if it was as secure a line as money could buy.

‘Do you need that particular one? Have you a replacement?’

‘No. We need him. And we’ll get him. He’s being programmed.’

‘Not very well, from the sounds of it,’ said the caller. ‘We need to step it up. An event. Another diversion. Another crisis.’

Mr Sharples took another sip of espresso. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I leave that to you.’

The line went dead. Mr Sharples folded his phone, slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Took another sip.

An event. A diversion.

A crisis.

He smiled. Licked his lips.

He knew just the thing.

Jamal knelt in the front garden, fingers digging in the dirt. He and Donovan had meant to do this for ages, been putting it off. He worked furiously, ripping and pulling, soil spraying everywhere. Gardening tools, plant pots, bags of compost and bedding plants in polystyrene trays were strewn all around him.

He had checked all round the house. It was like he had first feared. Both his and Donovan’s iPods were gone, some CDs and ornaments, Jamal’s wallet with cash and his debit card. Jamal had ripped people off in his time, back in the day when he was on the streets. But that was OK, expected. They were johns, he was a hustler. All part of the harsh, grim game. But now it had happened to him and he hated it. He was no john, no soft target. Hated it even more that someone who’d been in the life like him, should have known better, had done it. Someone he was trying to help.

There were rules about these things. Jason needed to be taught them.

And Jamal didn’t know what to tell Donovan. Was dreading his return. He just knew he should be occupying himself with something.

So he was ripping weeds out of the front garden.

He worked on and morning became afternoon. Became lost in what he was doing. So lost he didn’t notice the Land Rover pull up at the end of the road, the three men get out.

But they saw him. They walked towards the cottage,
checking all round, the fields, trees, bushes, as if searching for something.

Or someone.

Jamal became aware of their nearing presence, looked up from where he knelt. Three pairs of steel-toecapped boots met his gaze. His eyes travelled up the bodies. Dirty, faded jeans, tight, long-sleeved T-shirts, white but thin; Jamal could see swirls of blue ink and bulked muscle beneath. Faces full of cruelty. Cropped heads.

Jamal swallowed hard. Skinheads had always made him nervous. Especially big ones. He looked up.

The leading one, hair not quite as short, spoke. ‘Is the master of the house in?’

The other two laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard but tried to stifle it. Sounded like they were farting through their noses, thought Jamal.

‘No,’ he said.

Jamal’s answer made them braver. ‘You the gardener? The hired help?’

‘No,’ said Jamal. ‘I live here.’

The lead one looked at the door. ‘Your mam in? Your dad?’

Jamal said nothing but his face gave away the answer. The three shared glances, no mistaking their intention this time: we’re going to have some fun.

‘Just you, is it, little black boy?’

Jamal was scared. He’d met kids like this before. But these were adults. And could hit harder. But he was proud of his house and he wasn’t going to let anyone intimidate him on his own property. So, thinking attack was the best form of defence, he stood up.

The three squared up to him. Bristling, ready. He faced up to them.

‘Yeah,’ said Jamal. ‘Just me.’ As he rose he grabbed a gardening fork, clutched it hard in his hand.

The leader took a step forward. He winced as he did so, putting his hand to his side. Jamal saw padding, guessed there was a bandage or dressing under his T-shirt.

‘Gone out an’ left you alone, eh? Risky. Anythin’ might happen.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Surprised they let niggers live in the country. But they get everywhere now, I suppose.’

‘Yeah,’ said one of the other two, ‘why don’t you fuck off back to where you came from?’

Jamal answered with a strength he wished he possessed. ‘You mean Streatham?’

The two looked at each other, confused, Streatham seemingly as far away and exotic as Africa. The leader gave a pained look. Jamal surmised it was either his injury or the fact that he was with a couple of idiots.

Sensing, however small, an upper hand, Jamal kept talking. ‘This is my property,’ he said. ‘Get off or I’m callin’ the law.’

‘A fuckin’ nigger brat tellin’ me what to do?’ said the leader, stepping closer. ‘In my own country? Your property? You need a fuckin’ lesson from your massa, boy.’

The other two shifted on their feet, eager and ready for trouble.

Jamal, terrified, his heart pumping like it wanted to escape his chest, gripped the fork as hard as he could. Sweat pooled in his armpits, flooded his back. He looked around to see if anyone was on the road. A cyclist. Ramblers. A Parcel Force van. Anyone. No one.

He was going to get hurt, he knew it. Perhaps worse.

The three skinheads were grinning, savouring what was coming. No one moved. The sun beat down on all of them.

High Noon in Northumberland.

The three didn’t take any notice of a car behind them.

‘Look behind you,’ Jamal said.

‘Fuck off,’ said one of the three.

‘I mean it. One step nearer and you’re fucked, man.’ He smiled as he said it.

His conviction convinced them. They looked round.

‘Good afternoon, gents,’ Donovan said, smile in place, leaning over the car door. ‘Help you with something?’

The three turned, unsure who he was and whether he required politeness, but sure there was only one of him and three of them.

‘Lost? Need directions?’ Donovan kept the smile in place. Jamal wasn’t fooled by it. ‘I’m guessing you’re a long way from home. Don’t get out and about in this fine country of ours much, am I right?’

The leader of the three turned to face him, walked between the other two. Jamal noticed how painful it was for him to move, sure Donovan had seen too. The leader approached Donovan.