She could have still turned round, walked out. She didn’t have to get the ten-pound note out of her purse, put it between her first two fingers, wait with her elbow on the counter for service.
She didn’t have to tell the tall, young barman with the dyed hair and the pierced face that she wanted a gin and tonic, double. But she did. She didn’t have to pay him, take the change and go to find a corner of the bar where she wouldn’t be bothered. Where she could look at the drink, gaze at its beauty. See how bright and clear and inviting it looked. Bubbling and sparkling and fizzing.
Her heart was beating like an express train was going to come steaming through her ribcage.
She placed it on her lips, felt the bubbles pop on the front of her face, the promise of enjoyment. She tried to smile.
The drink got closer. She tipped it forward, closed her eyes, her head back, ready to receive. She could almost taste it, almost feel it run down her throat into her stomach. Rounding the edges off her anxiety, muting the sound of the questions in her head. Knew it would go down quickly, be followed by another. And another.
Her lips were wet with the liquid. All she had to do was swallow.
One gulp. Down.
She opened her eyes. Looked at it.
Couldn’t do it.
The glass fell from her fingers, smashing on the floor. People looked round, frowned. Peta didn’t see them. She ran for the door, out into the night.
Running like her life depended on it.
24
Every time Jamal had closed his eyes he had been back in the shop.
The hanging body covered in horror-film gore. The mess, blood everywhere. And Jason nowhere to be seen. At first he had thought the boy was dead too, but he had replayed the events over and over in his mind and he was sure Jason wasn’t there.
His next thought: had Jason done it? No. He was only small and it would have taken some strength to hang that guy on the back of the door. So whoever had done it had taken Jason. That meant his secret was real.
Jamal had drifted in and out of sleep, waking with a start each time he saw that hanging body again. He was never so pleased to see morning, had lain there watching the sun come up.
He couldn’t wait to tell Amar. But Amar’s bedroom door was firmly closed. So Jamal had taken a shower and was just getting dried when he heard voices outside. Amar’s and another. OK, cool. He had been round the bars and brought someone back. No problem. Just as long as they leave soon. What he had to say couldn’t wait.
But the voice was familiar. And not in a good way.
Unplaceable but with unpleasant associations; someone bad.
Dripping wet and naked, Jamal padded to the door, unlocked it, pulled it open slightly, looked out. He could see a sliver of hallway, voices coming from the kitchen at the end. A glimpse of movement as Amar and his guest went about getting breakfast ready. He tried to tune in, listen.
‘Some serious tattoos.’ Amar’s voice.
‘If you’d seen them, would you have talked to me?’
Amar again after a pause. ‘You didn’t have them on show. You didn’t want them seen.’
A sigh from the guest, then: ‘Somethin’ I did. When I was younger. They’re just … there.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Amar. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m just some bloke you met in a bar. A one-night stand.’ There was a pause. ‘Aren’t I?’
The other man didn’t answer.
Jamal closed the door, stood with his back against it. He thought, hard:
Tattoos. Tattoos. The kind Amar didn’t like. Tattoos.
Played back the voice in his head again. Combined with tattoos.
He shivered, suddenly cold in a way that the warm bathroom could never reach. He had recognized the voice.
The skinheads who had abused him the other day, outside the house. Until Joe had seen them off.
It was him. The leader. Shit.
Jamal locked the door, grabbed his towel, wrapped himself in it. He looked round frantically, knowing there wasn’t another way out. He needed to think. No way he could tell Amar anything now. Had to get some clothes on, get to his room without the skinhead seeing him. But it meant passing the kitchen.
He carefully undid the bolt, cracked the door open. Listened.
The sound of physical movement, as if they were pulling apart from each other. Then Amar’s voice: ‘D’you want a shower or anything?’
‘I’d … I’d better be off. Get goin’.’
That was something, thought Jamal.
‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
The skinhead said he couldn’t be tempted. That he had to go.
Movement. Jamal quickly shut the door, locked it again.
He waited, listening intently for the footsteps he knew would go past. Soon. Any second. Waited. Now, surely.
Nothing.
He opened the door again, listened. From the kitchen came unmistakable sounds. The skinhead wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon. More movement, the two of them going to Amar’s bedroom. Jamal waited until the bedroom door shut, then, after counting to a hundred very slowly, made his way cautiously out of the bathroom.
He tiptoed down the hall, ignoring the damp trail his feet were leaving, crept round the corner to where the bedrooms were. The door was open slightly. He risked a glimpse inside. Saw Amar taking his robe off. He looked away, saw the other man.
It was him. No doubt about it.
He joined Amar on the bed. Jamal hurried on to his own room, closed the door firmly behind him.
He got ready in record time, pulling on jeans, trainers and T-shirt so fast he barely knew if they were the ones he had planned on wearing.
Pushed the door open, crept slowly out.
Closing the front door of the flat behind him, he ran down the hall and outside. Looked around.
Didn’t have a clue where he was going to go.
Just hoped he could reach Joe or Peta on their phones. Didn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t.
Mr Sharples sat in the corner of his favoured coffee shop. Customers streamed in and out, ignoring him. Not seeing him. He sipped his espresso, picked up his knife, sliced his almond croissant down the centre. Halved that. Precisely: making sure each piece was an exact quarter. He lined the pieces up on his plate symmetrically, regarded them. Almost a shame to eat it.
His fingers were poised over the top left-hand square, working in his usual order, when his phone rang. Irritated, he answered it.
‘Sharples.’
‘There have been some interesting developments.’
He waited.
‘A pair of investigators from a firm called Albion have been making nuisances of themselves, asking about old associates of Trevor Whitman. And threatening phone calls.’
A small shock ran through Mr Sharples. He compressed it until there was nothing to show but a tiny tic in his left cheek. It pulsed once, then no more. ‘Do they have tapes of the voices?’
‘No, only Whitman’s word.’
Another pulse appeared on Mr Sharples’s face, this time at the sides of his mouth. A smile. ‘Whitman thinks he is a clever bastard.’
‘How shall we persuade him otherwise?’
Mr Sharples looked at his quartered croissant. Touched it, toyed with it. Moved the squares of pastry into separate areas of the plate, leaving a geometric cross in the centre. ‘We must act soon. Swiftly and decisively.’
‘One of those asking questions was the daughter of Lillian Knight.’
Another pulse in Mr Sharples’s cheeks. His eyes glittered darkly. ‘Clever fucking bastard. He thinks that’s an advantage.’
‘Let’s hope it isn’t.’ The threat in the caller’s voice was obvious.
‘Give me an hour. I’ll call you back.’
Mr Sharples broke the connection, pocketed the phone.
He looked down at his plate, at the neatly divided sections. He was no longer hungry. He piled them one on top of another, carefully balan
cing them, then picked them up with his right hand. And squeezed. As hard as he could. His face expressionless. Eventually he could squeeze no more. He opened his fingers, let the pulpy pastry drop to the plate. It lay in an inedible lump.
He drained his coffee cup, licked his fingers clean.
They weren’t ignoring him now.
He stood up, left the coffee shop.
Work to do.
Peta opened her eyes. Sunlight hit with an almost physical force. She closed them again, groaned. Opened them slowly.
She was in a bed and it wasn’t her own. She felt under the covers. Naked. She lay back, groaned. She was alone. She looked round the room, saw her clothes discarded in a trail from the door, male clothing lying around also. She tried to think. Nothing. She was in the Forth almost downing a large gin and tonic, then … nothing. A dark blur.
The bedroom door opened. In walked a man, early twenties she guessed, wearing a towelling dressing gown and carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee and two plates of toast on it.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘What time is it?’ she asked.
He set the tray down on the bed, took his dressing gown off. He was naked underneath. Peta tried not to look. Failed. He wasn’t bad looking, that was something, with a fit body. He got into bed next to her. She moved as far away from him as possible. He smiled at her.
‘Feeling all right?’
Peta felt numb, braindead. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Fine.’
‘What a great night,’ he said, biting into his toast.
Peta said nothing. Closed her eyes. Things were falling into place. Frames, images slotting themselves into the blackness of her memory. Glimpses: being in a bar somewhere, a club, her head pounding, music playing. Someone talking to her. Looking at him as if from down a long, dark tunnel. Dancing, flinging herself around on the floor. An arm round her, supporting her. Then the weight of a body on top of her, her on top of the body. Alongside.
She sighed. She had done it. Got drunk. Picked up a guy and had sex. And she couldn’t remember any of it. She couldn’t believe it.
‘Not hungry?’ he said, pointing to her toast.
‘Yeah …’ She tried to sit up. Her head spun, her stomach lurched. Oh, God, oh, God …
‘You were putting it away last night,’ he said. ‘Like you were trying to rid the world of alcohol by drinking it.’ He laughed, looked concerned when she didn’t join in. ‘You OK?’
Peta looked at him, not knowing what to say.
Realization dawned on his face. ‘Oh, my God … You don’t … you don’t remember …’
Peta shook her head. ‘No … nothing …’
‘Oh, my God … oh, my God …’
‘What?’
‘We … we had sex.’
‘I kind of figured that,’ she said.
‘No, I mean … you wanted it too. In fact, it was your idea. You said—’
‘Don’t tell me.’ It came back to her, another jigsaw piece slotting back in. I want to fuck your brains out. She groaned.
He fell silent.
She stared at the ceiling. ‘What happened? Exactly. When we got back here. What happened?’
He looked at her, embarrassed now. ‘You … you said—’
‘Yes. I know. After that.’
‘We had sex. Lots of … of sex. Then you curled up. Looked sad. I put my arm around you. You cried as you … as you went to sleep.’
Peta sighed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘John. I’m a student at … at Newcastle Uni.’
‘Peta.’
‘I know. Look … I’m not … I don’t usually do this kind of thing. And to be honest I couldn’t … couldn’t believe my luck. I mean, you were, you …’ He sighed, eyes dropping to the half-eaten toast. ‘I don’t often get, you know … someone as classy as you.’
‘Classy? A drunk bitch throwing herself at you?’ She didn’t even try to keep the self-loathing from her voice.
‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘I meant someone as good looking. You know. Bit of style.’ He blushed when he said it.
Peta smiled. ‘Thank you. Well, I’d better get going.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He got out of bed again, left the room. Peta, as swiftly as her hangover would allow, picked up her clothes and put them back on. She felt dirty. Consumed by self-hatred. Then thought of her mother and Whitman. And felt like breaking down. The drinking hadn’t helped, hadn’t given any comfort. She knew it wouldn’t.
She looked back at the bed. Oh, God. What had she done? The first sex for ages and she couldn’t remember it. And with a stranger. Had they used protection? She needed an STD checkup. A pregnancy test. Oh, God. She sighed again.
Tears were welling up inside her. She didn’t want to let them out. Not here, not now.
She opened the bedroom door. John was loitering, not knowing what to do with himself. She saw his face. He looked genuinely concerned for her.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘No, John, I’m not.’
‘Oh.’ He really looked worried. ‘Look, it was OK. We used protection. I … I insisted. I meant it. I don’t do this kind of thing usually.’
‘Neither do I.’
She asked him where she was. He told her. Fenham. She could have guessed. Student central. She asked him about her car.
‘Dunno. We got a cab back. Must have left it at the club.’
‘Which was?’
‘Tiger Tiger.’
Jesus, she thought. I could have chosen somewhere a bit better to have a meltdown in.
She thanked him and left. The warm air fell over her body like a blanket. The walk would do her good, clear her head.
She needed help. She needed to confront things head-on.
She went to pick up her car.
Kev felt better than he had in ages. A new man. When he slept he hadn’t seen that burning student. His wound hadn’t given him any pain. And someone had held him all night. He wished his life could always be so good.
Perhaps it could.
He walked through the city, feeling the sun shining down on him. Feeling glad to be alive.
His side was starting to hurt again, guilt trying to stab him, but he ignored it. He had thought guilt would have consumed him like an obese kid eating a Big Mac for shagging a Paki poof. If he had been a socialist it would have been everything the party hated in one go. But he didn’t feel guilty. He felt good. Right.
The best he had felt since Gary. Even better.
He heard again Amar’s voice in his ear, his mouth on his mouth. Flesh against flesh. Pleasure in reliving pleasure.
He wanted to do it again.
He would do it again.
Amar’s voice in his ear, his mouth on his mouth. Flesh against flesh.
Hard again just thinking about it.
Maybe he should go for a drink. Sit somewhere and think. Make some decisions. Sort his life out.
He turned round, headed back down to the kind of pubs he knew he shouldn’t go in but knew he would.
His phone rang. He ignored it. And again. He ignored it. And again. He had to answer it. Just to shut it up. He opened it, saw who it was on the display.
Rick Oaten.
He stopped walking, looked at it. Turned it off, pocketed it and kept walking.
Down to the bars that he shouldn’t go to.
Unable to believe he had actually done that. Feeling like his life had just entered a new phase.
‘Wake up.’
Jason opened his eyes. He was in some kind of cell, lying curled up on the floor. He was cold, shivering. Two men were in front of him, dressed from head to foot in black, black balaclavas covering their heads. The light too dim to make out any features.
Jason did as he was told, sat up.
‘You don’t run away again,’ said one of the balaclavas. ‘Got that?’
‘Huh-who are you?’ he said.
‘I asked you a fucking question,’ screamed the balaclava. ‘You don’t run a
way again. Got that?’
‘Yuh-yeah.’
‘Good. Let’s make sure.’
Before he could say or do anything further, the room seemed to be filled with bodies, rushing at him. They grabbed him, pulled the clothes off him, kicked and punched him as they did so. Left him lying in a heap on the cold stone floor.
‘Try runnin’ now,’ said the balaclava.
They started to file out of the door. Jason stayed where he was, curled on the floor, shivering, hurting.
‘This isn’t over,’ said the balaclava. ‘This is just the start.’
He slammed the door behind him.
Jason didn’t move. Didn’t even cry.
25
Donovan sat outside the house again. The street still looked the same in the afternoon sunlight. The front door remained closed. The Multipla missing, the house empty.
He wished he could just walk inside, put his briefcase by the door, make a coffee, sink into an armchair, read the paper. Ask the kids how their day at school had been, kiss his wife, all sit round the table and eat dinner.
But he couldn’t.
The further he had driven from Newcastle, the more the Whitman case had diminished. He had to meet Maurice Courtney later, but right now that was the furthest thing from his mind. David was back firmly in his head. It was like the boy, or the hope of the boy, was a last branch sticking out above a raging river that was sweeping him away to an uncertain future.
He rubbed his face, ran his fingers through his hair. Exhaled. Yearning grew inside him again. He wanted to walk up that path, get his key out, touch the front door, feel it swing open under his hand, feel the change of air on his face as the outside world ended, home began.
Bitter, pointless anger welled up inside him. Impotent rage at the unfairness of life. He gritted his teeth, forced it back down. And away.
No good. He had to do something.
They weren’t home. It wouldn’t hurt. Just look in the windows, see a glimpse of his old life. Hopefully soon to be his new life. Do it.
Donovan got out of the Scimitar, crossed the road. Reached the front gate, stopped. Heart beating out a samba, hands shaking, he pushed it open. It groaned slightly, still needed oiling. One foot tentatively in front of the other, he walked down the path.
White Riot Page 19
