White Riot

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Rick.’ Sharples spoke without moving.

  ‘He could be anywhere now, little cunt … anywhere …’

  ‘Rick.’ Mr Sharples’s eyes flashed hard and cold. The words held razors.

  Oaten stopped walking. Looked over, panting but not daring to speak.

  ‘We all have a part to play. Concentrate on yours. We’ll take care of everything else.’

  Oaten wanted to speak, but the words were too scared to emerge from his mouth before Mr Sharples. So he stood, tense and rigid, swaying, the ship he captained ready to capsize. He looked about to burst into tears. Something extra was called for. Mr Sharples stood, crossed, put his arm round his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t give up now, Rick. Look what you’ve achieved. Look at it.’ His voice, smooth and sinuous, wrapped itself round Oaten like the grip of a boa constrictor. ‘The BNP, the NF, the RVF, Combat 18, all the rest … none of them have come close to what you’ve done with the NUP. Up here, in your little corner of the country. Just you. Bigger and stronger than all of them put together. A force this country will sit up and take notice of.’ The grip tightened. A smile. ‘Whether they want to or not. Quite an achievement. Be proud of that achievement.’

  Oaten sighed. ‘I am, but … all this is nothing. We need that kid …’

  ‘And he will be found.’

  Oaten nodded. Mr Sharples’s tone left him in no doubt as to how.

  ‘Now. The meeting tonight. We need you on top form. The preacher to his congregation. Convince them that not only can they win but that they will win. We need Rick Oaten the great political orator again. Can you do that?’

  Oaten stood immobile.

  Mr Sharples suppressed his first response, kept his voice honeyed. ‘Can you do that?’

  Oaten nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Mr Sharples looked at his watch. ‘Then go and prepare to dazzle the Daily Mail readers. Leave the boy to me.’

  Oaten nodded again. Mr Sharples ushered him out. His smile disappeared. The hard, steely gaze back in place.

  ‘Fucking idiot,’ he said.

  This boy was a problem. And Oaten’s thugs clearly weren’t capable of dealing with him. Something would have to be done.

  He took out his mobile, speed-dialled a number, waited. It was answered.

  ‘The boy,’ he said without introducing himself. ‘He’s still a problem.’

  ‘I thought you had the matter in hand?’

  Mr Sharples sighed, an angry exhalation of breath. ‘The mouth-breathers couldn’t find him. Couldn’t find their arses with both hands. We don’t need arguments and recriminations; we need to be together on this one. So I want you and your boys to get out and look for him too.’

  The voice on the other end gave its assent.

  ‘By the way,’ said Mr Sharples before hanging up, ‘what did you think of my diversion?’

  The voice laughed. ‘How very apposite.’

  ‘I thought you would think that.’

  ‘Anything else planned I should know about?’

  Mr Sharples laughed. Like razor-sharp ice breaking. ‘What do you think?’

  He broke the connection, sipped his whisky.

  Kev had locked himself in the toilet cubicle. He didn’t want to come out, couldn’t come out. Not yet. Not when he knew what they wanted him to do next.

  He closed his eyes and saw the boy again, the Asian boy. Saw fists smashing into his face, pain and blood seeping from his body. Screams. Smelled his flesh burning.

  He opened his eyes again, rubbed them hard. No good. The rage, the guilt. Back again. Coiling and twisting in his guts. He couldn’t do it.

  He was in the toilet block by the converted stables on the farm in Northumberland where he, and the rest of the boys, had stayed the night. He heard voices outside. Ligsy and Cheggs and the rest, on the way to the van, piling inside. Fighting and shouting, getting each other, themselves, psyched up for what they were going to do. Getting their blood up, their testosterone levels high, their cocks hard. Heard Major Tom’s posh voice hurrying them along, getting them in line.

  The toilet door was knocked on, hard.

  ‘Come on, haven’t got all fuckin’ day.’

  ‘Yuh-yeah, just comin’ …’

  Kev looked round. Wanted to hit something, smash it into pieces.

  Wanted to burst into tears.

  He breathed in deep, felt the movement hurt his stomach. Tried to think of something to get his anger going. That fucking black kid. And his nigger-loving boyfriend. Showing him and his boys up like that. He should go back there, tear their place apart, rip their fucking hearts out, teach them both a lesson …

  But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t summon up the hatred.

  He slumped against the cubicle wall, tried to think. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t join the rest of them. Had to have a way out. Another deep breath, another pain in his stomach.

  An idea.

  He looked down, saw the bandages underneath his T-shirt. He rolled his T-shirt up, slowly pulled the dressing away from his skin. The bandages were taped on, gauze and padding over the wound. He took it all away, laid it on the top of the cistern.

  Took a deep breath. Another.

  And stuck his fingers in the wound.

  The pain lanced through him like he was being stabbed all over again. Blood began to seep out over his fingers, down the back of his hand. He pushed harder, moved his fingers around, grabbed at the tender, healing flesh on the inside of the wound.

  His face grimaced in pain, screwed his eyes tight shut, saw black stars bursting behind his eyelids, feared he would pass out from the pain.

  He held on. Felt blood pour from the wound now, down his hand to his wrist. A voice inside told him it was enough, it would do. Another voice told him it was never enough, he could never atone for what he had done.

  He removed his fingers, felt the pain slide out with them. Hastily stuck the dressing and bandages back in place, opened the cubicle door. Started to limp out holding his side. He didn’t have to act, the pain was real.

  He went outside. Major Tom was standing at the back of the van. Tall, imposing, he looked and sounded like the kind of British army officer always interviewed on the BBC. Even dressed in jeans, boots and bomber jacket he looked military. Mr Sharples had brought him in. He was one of the most disciplined, ordered and sadistic bastards Kev had ever met.

  ‘About fucking time.’ Major Tom turned to Kev, eyes widening as he saw him clutching his side, the blood spreading through his white T-shirt. ‘What the fucking hell happened to you?’

  ‘Knife wound … it’s … it’s opened again …’

  Major Tom sighed. ‘Well, you’re no fucking use to me in that state.’ He slammed the back of the doors on the Transit van. ‘Stay here. Get that cleaned up.’

  Major Tom walked round to the front of the van, got in the passenger side. The van drove out of the farm and away.

  Kev slumped down to the ground, watched it go. He looked up at the sky, saw cloudless blue. Felt the sun on his face. Breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Felt pain flash all round his torso.

  He smiled. Pain had never felt so good.

  He had never been happier to be alive.

  While Rick Oaten was wowing the faithful at a fund-raising dinner and talk at the Assembly Rooms, the candlelit procession to honour the life of Sooliman Patel was just starting out.

  They moved slowly, their steps contemplative, their candles held in front of them, through the city. They had gathered at the mosque on the corner of Elswick Road and Grainger Park Road where the imam had read to them from the Koran. Then, waiting until darkness had finally fallen, had lit their candles and made their way into the city.

  Through Scotswood, down Westgate Road, into the centre of the city. Passing the Assembly Rooms, unaware that Rick Oaten was inside, along Mosley Street, coming to a halt before the cathedral. Singing softly as they went.

  Sooliman’s parents led the way, neither of them holding a candle, instead holding each
other. Mrs Patel breaking down as they passed the end of the street where he died. The news cameras making sure the moment didn’t go unrecorded.

  Local religious and political leaders were, for once, content to let the spotlight be on someone else. Abdul-Haq kept his distance from the Patels, only walking alongside them after they asked him to.

  They reached the cathedral. The Bishop was waiting outside, ready to begin the remembrance service. It had been decided to hold it outside, to make it as open as possible, to encourage people to join in not just to honour a dead boy but to demonstrate that the majority of people in the city wanted nothing to do with extremism, were in no way racist.

  The make-up of the marchers reflected that: white, brown and black faces all walking together. Young and old. Atheists and agnostics alongside the devout. Together for a bigger purpose. The overriding feelings loss and remembrance, but out of those there was a chance for peace. For love. All the marchers felt it.

  The Bishop gave a heartfelt, solicitous greeting to the Patels. ‘This is a real chance for peace,’ he said to them. ‘If any good can come of your terrible loss, then let us hope this is it.’

  They waited in front of the cathedral, candles burning low, waiting. Across the closed-off street, the police had erected barriers, were standing in front of them, ready for any trouble.

  It wasn’t long in coming. A white Transit van reversed fast up the Side, back doors opening, bodies spilling out. The police saw what was happening, ran over to contain the situation.

  And were met with tear gas.

  Coughing and choking, they fell back and the occupants of the van were on them. Bats, fists, chains. Taking out anyone who was in front of them. They wore jeans and bomber jackets like a uniform, bandanas and balaclavas covering their heads and faces.

  More tear gas thrown, this time into the procession.

  People screamed, scattered. Ran into each other, over each other, tried to get away. The masked raiders wading through the crowd, hitting indiscriminately, causing pandemonium.

  The police radioing for backup, reinforcements.

  At a signal from their leader, the raiders ran back to the van, piled inside. The van revved up and roared down the Side on to the Quayside and away.

  Carnage and chaos. Injury and anger. All that was left of the peaceful procession. The love long gone.

  Ambulances were called, wounded and shocked attended to. Abdul-Haq had pulled the Patels inside the cathedral when the violence erupted. Mrs Patel was beyond crying now, looking like she was on the verge of nervous collapse.

  The news cameras had captured it all.

  No doubt as to who was responsible: the shouts of Sieg Heil as the raiders boarded their Transit giving the game away.

  The peace shattered.

  Perhaps irrevocably.

  16

  Newcastle, past three thirty a.m. The sirens, the flashing lights were gone. Areas were cordoned off as police searched through the night for any signs of the march’s attackers. Shock waves had rippled out from the event: the city was sleeping, but uncomfortably, all sodium light and shadowed darkness.

  Pubs and clubs long since closed. Fast-food shops and vans shut, their grease mopped up, their meagre takings counted, their waste and wrappings left where they were dropped. Skeleton crews of taxis dotted about on city-wide ranks, drivers reading, standing together, radios throwing their voices into the transistorized void. Occasional night workers moved purposefully along the pavements, drunks and stragglers wandered home or away from home. Stone, steel and glass ticking, cooling, gathering a collective breath before the next day’s heat hit.

  Paul Turnbull cruised the city streets, driving slowly, moving forward purposefully. One thing to do before he went to Hertfordshire. And no amount of civil disruption would get in the way of who he was going to visit.

  Out of the city centre, up to the West End of Newcastle, patrolling, looking. No sign. One last place to check. Back to Newcastle, parking up round Gallowgate, walking down Stowell Street. The Chinese restaurants that lined both sides of the city’s mini Chinatown were closed, their neon and gold signs now flat and unenticing, the dragon banners hanging still, lifeless. The smell of fried food and oriental spices fading away on the air.

  It didn’t take long for Turnbull to find her. She was down a back alley on her knees, working away at a punter. Turnbull didn’t look at the man, didn’t want to. He turned away, tried not to listen. He waited until she was finished and her client had left before approaching her.

  ‘Hi, Claire,’ he said, ‘it’s me.’

  She was taking a long drink from a Bacardi Breezer in her handbag, swilling it round her mouth before swallowing. She looked up. The streetlight made her face look even gaunter than when he had last seen her, the hollows underneath her cheekbones and eyes almost skeletal. Her eyes, even in this light, he noticed, were pinwheeling.

  It took her a while but she recognized him. ‘Paul.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What d’you want? What have you got that I want?’ Her fingers played against his chest in an approximation of flirtatiousness that she had been doing so long it was now automatic. She giggled in attempted coquettishness.

  He shut his eyes, shook his head. He hated to see her like this, fought hard to be non-judgemental about her, to just talk to her.

  ‘Listen, Claire, I just wanted to let you know, I’m going to be away for a while. Work. Don’t know how long for.’

  ‘But what about me?’ She grabbed the front of his shirt.

  Turnbull took a second before answering her. Addicts were so selfish, so unappreciative of everything anyone ever did for them. Yet still he did it. He had no choice. He had promised. She was his responsibility.

  ‘Just listen a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s someone you can contact if you need anything,’ he said. He handed her a card. ‘Joe Donovan. You’ve met him before. You probably can’t remember. Call him if you need anything. Right?’

  She nodded, trying to focus her eyes on his face.

  Turnbull stood back, took her in. So thin, her clothes as worn out as she was. He had seen that downward spiral so depressingly often.

  ‘I thought you were going to that clinic. Getting yourself cleaned up.’

  She sighed. ‘I am. I was. It’s just … Don’t keep going on at me. I’ll do it. In me own time.’

  ‘OK. I’ve got to go.’ He didn’t hug her. He didn’t know how. ‘Bye.’

  She replied.

  He turned and left. Behind him, another man was already approaching her.

  Jason Mason couldn’t sleep. Not because of the rats gnawing nearby, or the smell of the bins although they were bad enough. But because of what was going on in his head.

  The sleeping bag was on the floor in the back of a second-hand shop. Insect-and animal-chewed mismatched carpet squares, offcuts and bare boards competed to see which could hold the most dirt. Around him were battered metal shelves holding cardboard boxes filled with old, used cameras, mobile phones, video game consoles. Plus bigger pieces: electric guitars, keyboards, amplifiers. Even a dismantled drum kit.

  The shop was a front. Norrie was a fence. A go-to guy for Newcastle muggers, burglars and boosters, he kept smackheads and crackheads solvent. Anything saleable went in the window, was soon snapped up. But he was a victim of his own success: too well known to the police to handle anything big and valuable, so he had been forced to improvise. He now made most of his money through stolen credit card details, selling identities, working online. But he still kept the shop supplied. For appearances, if nothing else.

  After leaving Jamal’s place, Jason had gone straight to him with the iPods.

  ‘Good resale, no problem sellin’ this.’ Norrie looked it over, down at the other one on the counter next to it. He was short, round, with thinning, steel-wool hair unsuccessfully flattened down to his scalp, big glasses, greasy thumbprints glinting off them in the weak light. Behind the glass his eyes blinked continuously. A nervous
habit, Jason reckoned. ‘Anything on it worth keepin’ that I can download? Sell separately?’

  ‘Dunno. Listen, Norrie’ he had said, looking round anxiously all the time as if expecting someone to run in and grab him, ‘I need to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Don’t do fuckin’ favours.’ He was scrabbling about in the till for notes. ‘You’ll wanna be my fuckin’ friend next.’

  Jason had expected Norrie to say that. He had to try harder. ‘No, listen, this is … this is good. I’ve got somethin’ else. Somethin’ big, y’knaw? But I need somethin’ in return for it.’

  Norrie didn’t look up. ‘Not jewellery. Can’t shift that stuff at the moment. Prices aren’t worth shit.’

  ‘Naw, better than that.’

  Norrie sighed. ‘How much and what is it?’

  ‘Information.’

  Norrie looked up. ‘What information?’

  ‘The party.’ Jason could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘They’re plannin’ somethin’ big. Thor’s Hammer, it’s called.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I mean big. Really big. A lot of people would pay loads to know what they were plannin’.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? An’ how d’you know all this?’

  ‘Because—’ I’m the special one. He nearly said it. Stopped himself just in time.

  He had got to know Norrie through the boys in the Gibraltar. Their fence of choice. For the cause, they had always said. His shop was on Westgate Road, sandwiched between two motorbike shops. Just a hefty stone’s throw from the Gib. Not that Norrie was a fully paid-up member of the party – they wouldn’t allow it; they thought he was Jewish, although he was actually Scottish – but he did say he was sympathetic to their aims. Kev had once said he would be sympathetic to anybody’s aims if there was money in it.

  Jason couldn’t tell him. Because if Norrie knew that, then he would just phone someone up, tell them he knew where Jason was, wait for the reward. And he knew what would happen to him then.

  ‘Because what? What d’you know? What information?’ Norrie was starting to get angry. Eyes blinking faster. Jason had just stood there with his mouth open.