Jamal studied the youth, remembered their previous encounter. Jason was wearing jeans, boots, ripped T-shirt, all filthy. His razored hair was growing back; his head resembled a fuzzy, dirty peach. His nervous, fearful eyes took in all corners of the room. Perched on the edge of the sofa ready to bolt, he looked small and young, a lost little boy playing at being an adult. Not really master-race material, he thought.
‘So who’s after you, bro?’ said Jamal, sitting in an armchair.
‘Can’t tell you,’ said Jason, his voice dry and cracked, his head shaking.
Despite their differences, Jamal felt an empathy with the lost boy. A street kid, come up the hard way. Done what he had to do to survive. Now scared and needing help. And Jamal knew he would give it. He had no choice. Because he’d been there. Because some allegiances went deeper than skin.
‘Can I have a drink?’
‘Got fruit juice. Just opened some.’
A sharp-toothed smile appeared on Jason’s ratty little face. ‘Got any Stella?’
‘Nope. Fruit juice. Or tap-water. Maybe I could stretch to a cup of tea.’ Jamal felt good saying the words, strong. Like something Joe would say.
Jason looked at Jamal like he was from another planet. ‘Fruit juice …’
Jamal went into the kitchen, poured two fruit juices from the fridge, returned to the front room. Jason was on his feet, looking over the CD collection, touching things. He had a hold of Jamal’s iPod. When he saw Jamal enter, he replaced it on the shelf.
‘Here.’ Jamal handed him his juice. Jason took it, sat back down, shifty eyes darting everywhere.
‘So you’re runnin’, yeah?’
Jason nodded.
‘Who from?’
‘Said. Can’t tell you.’
‘So why you come here? Why you look for me, then?’
Jason drained his glass, put it on the floor. Looked at Jamal, his eyes conflicted, like he wanted to unburden but found trust hard.
‘You gonna tell me?’
Again, the look of confusion. That lost look.
‘Got to open up some time, man. An’ we was at Jack’s place. We already shared some shit, you get me?’
Jamal knew what was stopping him. The experience of Father Jack weighed against what the skinheads had told him about black kids. He sat back, waited for one side to win.
Jason’s inner conflict came to the boil. ‘They … they’re gonna kill me,’ he said eventually.
Jamal nodded, said nothing. Just like Joe had shown him.
Jason looked away, at his glass, at the floor. Anywhere but at Jamal. ‘Kev found out an’ … an’ …’ Jason nodded to himself, his body rocking backwards and forwards, his face showing a growing incredulity at his words. He looked at the ceiling, past the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. ‘Shit, I stabbed him …’
Jamal watched him, concern on his face. ‘You stabbed him? Stabbed who?’
‘Kev. Bright.’ Jason’s eyes focused again. He gave a little giggle. ‘I’m the Butcher Boy.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m special.’
Weirder by the minute, thought Jamal. ‘Who are they?’
Jason looked at Jamal, frowned. ‘You fuckin’ stupid? You know who they are. On the news all the time.’
‘The NUP?’
Jason nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said, pride in his voice. ‘An’ I’m one o’ them. A special one.’ A shadow seemed to pass over his face. ‘Well, I was.’
‘Keep goin’,’ said Jamal. ‘You were talkin’ about Kev. You stabbed him.’
‘Yeah. Well, anyway, he got me to cut him with the knife. Make it look good. I’m the Butcher Boy.’
‘You said. Then what?’
‘I ran.’
‘Here.’
‘Yeah. They chased us. I had to hide in trees an’ shit, like, sleep rough.’ He laughed with a child’s glee. ‘Like a proper fuckin’ survivalist, you know? Livin’ in woods. Then I had to find you, like. Took me a whole day.’
Jason sat back, looking comfortable for the first time. ‘An’ here I am.’
Jamal scrutinized him. ‘So why they wanna kill you, man?’
‘’Cos I’m special.’
‘You keep sayin’ that. How?’
Jason shook his head. ‘Can’t tell you that.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos I’ll lose me money.’
‘What money?’
‘The money. I’ve had loads of time to think it through. It’s the plan. I’m gonna make loads of money. An’ you’re gonna help us.’
Jamal frowned. ‘Jase, man, you’re makin’ as much sense as tits on bulls. What you on about?’
Jason gave him the kind of look that ignorant people give intelligent ones when they believe they’re thick. Jamal would have been upset by that once, fought back against it. Not any more. He didn’t need to.
‘’Cos what I know, right, they don’t want anyone else to know. Anyone. So we blackmail them.’
‘Blackmail.’
Jason nodded. ‘Aye. You see?’
Jamal was beginning to regret letting him into the house. He wished Donovan were back. ‘So if I’m supposed to be helpin’ you, shouldn’t I know what you’re talkin’ about?’
‘Not yet. ’Cos if I tell you now you’ll run off with it an’ make money.’
‘Why would I do that?’
Another retarded, incredulous look at Jamal. ‘’Cos you buy and sell information, like it says on the card. If you had the information you wouldn’t need me. I’m not thick.’
‘Right.’ Jamal definitely regretted bringing him into the house. He nodded, pretending to think it over. Suddenly the Wednesday night of earlier didn’t seem so boring after all.
‘Listen,’ said Jamal, ‘there ain’t no information brokerage no more. It’s gone.’
Jason frowned. ‘So why d’you give us the card?’
Jamal shrugged. ‘Frontin’.’
Jason said nothing.
‘Tell you what,’ said Jamal, ‘why don’t you come back when the boss is here, yeah?’
‘The boss?’
‘Joe Donovan. This is his house. He be back tomorrow, we can sort it then.’
Jason jumped up, suddenly agitated. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, we can’t. Has to be you. No one else.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’ll take the money, won’t he? Take it away. Might even be in with them.’
‘Don’t think so, man. Not Joe.’
Jason laughed. ‘Aye. Not takin’ the chance, like.’
‘OK,’ said Jamal, standing up. From his brief acquaintance at Father Jack’s he remembered that Jason wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Obviously something had happened to him since then, made him worse. Drink, drugs, whatever. That, coupled with the earlier abuse, must have sent him over. He had seen it happen before. Jamal felt sorry for him, it was sad, but he didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s paranoid fantasies. ‘Come back tomorrow, yeah?’ he said, walking towards the front door, ‘We’ll talk about it then. You want money to get home, yeah?’
Jamal reached the front door, turned. Jason hadn’t moved; his fearful eyes darted around the room again.
‘Don’t make us go out there,’ he said, his breathing getting harsh. ‘Please, Jamal. Let us stay. You’ve got to let us stay …’
Jason crossed quickly to Jamal, put his hands on his arms, gripped tight. Up close, Jason smelled of woods, fields, pigpens, farmyards.
‘Man, you stink,’ said Jamal. ‘You need a bath.’
‘I’ll have one. Yeah. Please let us stay an’ I’ll have one. Please, Jamal. They’re out there, lookin’ for us. Tryin’ to kill us. Honest. But they’ll never think of lookin’ here.’ He smiled as if he had thought up a master plan. ‘An’ not with you.’
Jamal looked into Jason’s pleading eyes. He didn’t find the madness he’d expected, just fear and desperation. He saw not the tough skinhead Jason wanted people to see but the scared little boy who had been bul
lied and victimized at Father Jack’s and probably before that too.
Jamal could more than sympathize with that. ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘You can stay the night. An’ then we talk to Joe, yeah?’
Tears appeared in the corners of Jason’s eyes. ‘Yeah, whatever … thank you. Thank you …’
He tried to hug Jamal. Jamal stepped back. ‘Yeah. Good. Bathroom’s upstairs, first on the left. Go an’ run it. Should be some hot water. Gimme your clothes, I’ll stick them in the machine. Get them washed an’ dried.’
‘Thank you.’ Jason’s face was beaming. ‘You’ve saved me life.’
‘Whatever. Go an’ get a bath.’
Jason made his way upstairs. Jamal went up too, to get a duvet to lay on the sofa. On the landing he stopped, looked at the closed bathroom door. Heard running water.
He crossed to the window, looked out. The night was warm, heavy and still. No one there. No car headlights. Nothing out of the ordinary. He let the curtain fall back into place.
Just checking, he thought. Just checking.
Jamal woke early, sunlight streaming in to his room and with it heat. Another glorious day. He was getting sick of them. He checked his bedside clock. Five thirty. He groaned, flopped back on the pillow.
He had tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep for long periods. The windows had been open to counteract the heat, but it probably had more to do with his guest. He reckoned Jason would still be asleep if he had had as rough a time as he claimed. Donovan would know how to deal with him when he returned.
He felt wide awake, couldn’t get back to sleep. He threw back the covers, got up. He needed the toilet. He would try to go quietly so as not to wake Jason.
He crept out on to the landing, tiptoed over to the top of the stairs, expecting to see the youth fast asleep below him.
But he didn’t.
The sheet was thrown off, the sofa empty.
Jamal went downstairs, looked around the front room. Jason was nowhere to be seen. He went into the kitchen. The washing machine had been opened, his dried clothes taken. He went back into the front room, looked at the shelves.
His iPod was gone.
‘Shit …’
He searched the room. Other things were missing too. CDs, ornaments. Small objects. Things that could be sold or fenced. One of the pillowcases was gone. He looked round again. Saw a note left on the mantelpiece. He picked it up, saw the semi-formed letters, the childish scrawl. Read it.
sury but ave go. i feel bit bad but i need muny. you bin good an we stil partnus if yu want. but mybe not cuz who you r an who i m. but thnks for cleynin mi clohs.
jason
Jamal threw the note on the floor. He felt worse than angry. He felt betrayed, cheated. By one of his own. He would never have been taken in a few years ago; he must be getting soft. A trusting idiot, like the kind he used to rip off when he was desperate.
He looked round the room again, tried to calm down. Just wait until he told Joe …
Shit.
Joe. He didn’t want him to know what had happened. Didn’t want him to know how he had been taken in. He picked up the duvet, ready to carry it upstairs, then stopped.
Better have a look round, see what else Jason had taken.
Hands shaking, he got his notepad and pen, started making an inventory.
5
He waited for the fire to engulf him. It never came.
Before him bodies were burning, twisting in pain, mouths open, screams drowned out by the noise of the flames. Flesh bubbling and hissing first to jumping, liquid red then unmoving, charcoal black.
No longer a pub, now just a scene from Dante’s Inferno. And in the middle of this hell, he stood.
Untouched by it.
Life burnt out before him. Faces implored him for help.
He couldn’t save them. And if he couldn’t save them, he wanted to burn along with them. It was only right. He stuck his arm into the flames. They danced around him, away from him. He tried again. The same thing. He walked towards the fire, ignoring the charred crunching underfoot. It parted, gave him space to move.
‘You can’t!’ he screamed, his words only heard inside his head. ‘It isn’t fair. Don’t leave me behind. Don’t take them and leave me …’
One of the burning bodies turned, faced him. Skin and muscle gone, now just a flaming skull. ‘Let me be no nearer in death’s dream kingdom,’ it said.
‘I didn’t do it …’
‘Let me also wear such deliberate disguises …’
‘Listen to me … I didn’t do it …’
‘’Til that final meeting in the twilight kingdom …’
The burning body loomed. He screamed again.
And it stopped.
Trevor Whitman awoke, tangled up in his bedding, sweat sticking him to the bed.
He sat up, heart racing, looked around. Saw the hotel room, flopped back on the bed, breathing heavily.
‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do it …’
He stared at the ceiling, unmoving.
Joe Donovan sat in the car and stared at the house.
They had stayed the night in London. He had left Amar at the hotel.
Fresh morning sunlight, warm air. The leafy, affluent, North London suburb of Crouch End seemed alive with possibilities, new chances even.
The house looked the same as he had last seen it. Big, Edwardian. Permanent and solid, lasted for years, would last for more years to come. Safe. A proper house for a proper family.
His old house.
He watched the front door, heart beating fast, breathing heavily like a prizefighter about to step into the ring, focusing himself for the task ahead.
Talk to his wife, daughter. Tell Annie she would have a son again. Abigail a brother.
They barely spoke now. Donovan’s obsession with finding their missing son and his subsequent breakdown had strained the marriage past breaking point. Running, he had ended up in a semi-derelict cottage back in his native north-east, staring into the abyss, ready to jump. Only the arrival of Jamal into his life and the creation of Albion had pulled him back. Now he no longer looked into the abyss but was still near the edge. And he knew: one good shove and he would stumble and be lost. Possibly for ever.
Like the boy in the house in Hertfordshire. He could pull Donovan away from the abyss. Or shove him into it.
Annie would be pleased when he told her. Could imagine her wanting to share his hope. Join him in taking the first steps towards being a proper family again. Movement at the front door of the house pulled him back from his reverie.
Out stepped a figure. A girl with long, dark hair pulled back, tied in a loose knot at the back, wearing school uniform. His daughter, Abigail. So grown up he almost didn’t recognize her.
His heart was pumping like he was losing blood. She hated him and he didn’t really blame her. Why had he gone looking for David? Thought it must be something she had done wrong. What had happened was awful, a nightmare, and going on with life was difficult, but why couldn’t her dad be content with her? Just her?
He was, he wanted to tell her. He still loved her and her mother with all his heart. And he wanted them all to be together. The four of them. A full family. A proper family. So he kept looking.
And Annie and Abigail had never been able to accept that. But that was OK. Because he wasn’t sure he could accept it himself.
She walked down the path to the gate. Tall and confident. He gave a choked-sob smile, pride and guilt inextricably linked.
He had the car door open, heart in mouth, legs shaking and ready to get out, when another figure appeared. A man, late thirties. Casually dressed with short hair, glasses and designer stubble. Michael, he presumed. Annie’s new partner. Donovan closed the car door, sat back.
Michael pointed his keys at the Fiat Multipla in front of the house. It responded, unlocking to allow Abigail in. Michael walked to the driver’s side, said something to Abigail that made her laugh, got in too. The front
door closed. Annie was double locking it. She put her keys in her bag and walked towards the car, flicking her dark hair out of her eyes. Just like she used to do.
Donovan felt a knife stab his heart. He wanted to rush out, grab hold of Annie, tell her he was here, tell her who he’d found.
The knife twisted. His hand was on the door handle, ready to fling it open, run into the street, jump in front of that stupid fucking car …
And twisted, thrust in deeper. Tell Abigail he loved her, she didn’t have to hate him any more, he’d found him, they were a family, a real family …
The Multipla drove past him. None of them even glanced in his direction.
Thoughts of Annie and hope disappeared like a half-remembered dream exposed to daylight. His face was wet. He didn’t know he had been crying. He felt a weight on his chest, like hands shoving him.
Backwards.
He sat in the street, head on his steering wheel, openly sobbing, hands held as fists to his forehead. His tears eventually dried up. But not their cause. He waited until his hands had stopped shaking. Drove away.
Stuck a CD into the player, the first one that came to hand – Richmond Fontaine: Post to Wire – to drown out the noise in his head. Listened to Willy Vlautin tell him that not everyone lived their life alone, not everyone gave up.
But knew from the sadness in his voice and the funereal tune that he didn’t mean it.
6
Rick Oaten walked through the hospital like a Hollywood star on a red-carpet premiere. Waving hello to this one, blowing kisses at that one, smilingly ignoring another one who spat angry words at him. Basking in the fame of being the NUP leader. Two slabs of awkwardly suited, shaven-headed muscle lumbering in his wake just added to the effect. Medium height, balding and getting jowly and paunchy, in his mind he was a six-foot-plus well-thatched Adonis. He stopped outside a closed door, greeted two young men who were waiting there, one with a notebook, one a camera.
White Riot Page 6
