White Riot

by Martyn Waites

  Another pill, dry-swallowed. Another step nearer to nothing.

  Rani cried. And cried.

  Until she could cry no more.

  Richie kept slipping away, like real life was too much for him in anything but small doses. He contented himself with looking round, playing with the radio and CD player.

  ‘You put a CD here,’ he said, staring intently at it, ‘and it just sucks it in. Takes it off you. Watch.’

  He held a CD at the opening on the player. It sucked it in. Richie laughed. ‘Clever, eh? Like it’s hungry an’ wants feedin’.’

  The car was filled with the sounds of Kasabian at full volume. Whitman reached over, turned it off.

  ‘We don’t need that. Just think, Richie. Think.’

  Richie sat there, humming, the song still in his head. Or a song.

  ‘What do you know, Richie? Eh? About what’s going on. What do you know?’

  Richie slowly looked at him. ‘I don’t know. Anythin’. Somethin’s happenin’ but I don’t know what it is.’ Richie gave a small smile. ‘Do I, Misterrr Jonezzzzz …’

  Whitman shook his head. Brilliant. Stuck in a speeding car with a brain-fired, Dylan-singing acid casualty. Things had gone badly wrong, out of his control. The plan was torn up. He needed somewhere to hide, to think. He needed protection.

  ‘Richie …’

  Richie was still humming. Whitman had to say his name again, sharper this time. Richie turned his head.

  ‘We need somewhere to hole up. Somewhere we won’t be disturbed. Know anywhere?’

  Richie frowned. ‘You mean a bar? I’m not supposed to drink any more. It’s bad … bad for me.’

  ‘I know that, Richie. I’m not asking you to drink. Just take me there.’

  Richie thought for a moment. ‘OK.’

  ‘Good.’ Whitman looked at the road, the night. They were out there. Waiting. Watching. Ready to attack at any moment. ‘And Richie?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘D’you know where I could buy a gun?’

  Jason was pulled up, a hand round his throat choking the air out of him. He was thrown into a hard wooden chair. He sat forward, gasping for breath. He was naked, no idea of how long he had been there. He was hungry and tired. He had been trying to sleep on the floor, his shivering keeping him awake. He rubbed his neck, tried to spit. Looked up.

  There were two of them. Major Tom and another man. No balaclavas this time. They both looked angry. He tried smiling at them but they didn’t return it. Jason was scared, more frightened even than when the two Pakis had taken him from the shop.

  ‘You ran away, little cunt,’ said the man he didn’t know. Shaved head, dressed in green army clothes. He looked and smelled hard.

  ‘Wuh-what’s goin’ on? What’s happenin’?’

  ‘Did we say you could talk? Eh? Did we?’

  The hard-faced one slapped him. It felt like a punch. Jason’s head snapped sideways, his cheek stinging like a hundred razor slashes.

  Major Tom came round behind him, put a sack over his head, began to twist it at the neck. Jason tried to pull a shuddering breath of air into his body, couldn’t. He smelled and tasted old earth, dirt and dust. His hands went to the edges, tried to pull it away. Major Tom’s grip was too strong. He tightened it.

  Jason felt himself being roughly pulled to his feet, spun round. He felt sick, light-headed. Round and round. Someone kicked his legs away from him. He fell to the stone floor, the remaining breath smacked out of his body. Stars danced, exploded, before his eyes. He felt himself blacking out.

  The sack was ripped from his head. He gasped in lungfuls of air, kept his eyes screwed tight shut. Curled into a foetal ball. Forced the tears not to form at the corners of his eyes, didn’t trust them not to come streaming down his face.

  He groaned.

  ‘I said no talking.’

  A kick to his ribs. Jason gasped, girdled by pain, curled up even more.

  ‘Open your eyes.’ Major Tom this time. ‘Open them.’

  Jason did as he was told. Found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A revolver. Major Tom opened the chamber, showed Jason the bullet, replaced it, spun it. Pointed it at Jason’s face again, pulled the trigger.

  Jason screamed, tried to move out of the way. Couldn’t. The hard-faced man held him by the neck, kept his face on the barrel of the gun.

  Click.

  Jason squealed.

  Another spin, another pull of the trigger.

  Click.

  Jason felt his bowels go.

  ‘Filthy fucker …’ The hard-faced man jumped out of the way, smacked him in the back of the head.

  Jason fell forward, sprawled on the floor.

  ‘Are you going to run away again?’

  Jason shook his head.

  ‘What?’ Another kick. ‘Can’t hear you.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Have you been chosen for something special?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Are you going to do it?’

  Jason hesitated. The kicks started again. Jason kept his eyes closed, body as still as possible.

  ‘Are you going to do it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jason held his breath, didn’t move. The two men left the room. Jason still held his breath, didn’t move.

  Didn’t dare do otherwise.

  30

  Amar and Jamal sat at the desk. Amar pushed keys on the laptop, watched the screen intently. Jamal watched Amar watching. Donovan stood behind them, can of beer in his hand. His second one. Calming him down, keeping him going.

  ‘Play it again,’ he said.

  Amar did so. Whitman’s voice came out of the speakers along with that of the caller. The tense conversation was relived, clicked off, ended. Amar turned round. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘That accent the caller’s got,’ said Donovan, taking another mouthful, ‘I’m guessing South African.’

  ‘But he kinda goes into it an’ out of it,’ said Jamal. ‘Like he’s puttin’ it on.’

  ‘Maybe he’s taking it off,’ said Donovan. ‘Maybe that’s how he speaks now and doesn’t think Whitman will recognize him with the accent so he tries to lose it.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’ said Amar.

  Donovan told him about the conversation he had had with Maurice Courtney mentioning the meeting with the mysterious South African representative of the NUP.

  ‘So?’ Jamal looked confused.

  ‘He said the South African looked like Alan Shepherd, the Hollow Man who went missing after the bomb blast. In fact, he thought it was him. If that’s the case, this nails it, don’t you think?’ Another swig of beer. His can was empty.

  It was late, past midnight. Donovan had driven straight to Amar’s flat, his nerves recovering the nearer he came to home. Jamal’s phone call had told him things were happening and to get back soon as. There was also a note of fear in Jamal’s voice that gave Donovan extra impetus. He had told them about the attempt to force him off the road as soon as he arrived. But he hadn’t had time to question Jamal further because Amar had played the recording.

  ‘You managed to get a trace?’ asked Donovan. ‘Any idea where he was calling from?’

  Amar shook his head. ‘Didn’t stay on the line long enough. Sorry.’

  ‘Shame.’ Donovan looked around. ‘Where’s Peta?’

  Amar’s face showed concern. ‘We don’t know. We phoned on her mobile, no reply. Landline, nothing. Tried Whitman, same thing.’

  ‘D’you think we should be worried? How was she getting on with the interviews?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Amar. ‘Never heard from her. That was all you and her.’

  Donovan dumped his empty can in the bin, cracked open another. He saw the look Amar gave him. ‘What? I’m thirsty and I’ve had a near-death experience. What else am I supposed to do?’

  Amar gave a half-smile. ‘Nothing. Just imagining what you’d say if it was me doing that.’

  Donovan bit back hi
s answer, gave a grim smile in return. ‘OK. Fair enough. Right. Let’s play catch-up. What we got?’

  ‘Jamal first,’ said Amar.

  Jamal looked between the two, began talking. He told Donovan about finding Jason Mason. When he told him what method he had employed, the anticipated anger from Donovan never materialized. Instead a look of pride spread over Donovan’s face. He smiled.

  ‘What?’ said Jamal. ‘What you look at me like that for?’

  ‘Nothing. Just pleased to see you using all that teenage anger constructively.’

  Jamal, relieved, continued. He told them about going to Norrie’s shop, his grisly discovery.

  ‘Then I ran, man, down that street an’ away like I’d never been there.’ He was panting, reliving the experience in his head. Amar, sitting next to him on the sofa, slipped a comforting arm round his shoulders. He relaxed slightly.

  ‘Did you phone the police?’ said Donovan.

  Jamal shook his head. ‘Naw, man. I was outta there. A black kid with previous turnin’ up at a murder? Open an’ shut, bro.’

  Donovan nodded. ‘And no sign of Jason.’

  Jamal shook his head.

  ‘Could he have done it?’ said Amar.

  Another shake of the head from Jamal. ‘Doubt it. He’s, like, tiny. He couldn’t even reach that high, never mind holdin’ a … a …’

  His head went forward, Amar’s grip tightened.

  ‘OK,’ said Donovan. ‘Jason said he was being hunted. We saw that at first hand a few days ago. I reckon that’s who those skinheads I dealt with were looking for.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Amar. ‘There’s something about that too.’

  He told Donovan about picking up Kev, bringing him back. Jamal joined in, said he recognized him.

  ‘You sure?’ said Donovan.

  ‘Unmistakable, man. You don’t forget someone like that.’

  ‘Even had a bandage on his side,’ said Amar. ‘Gave his name as Kev. The same …’

  ‘The same name Jason said,’ finished Jamal.

  ‘Right,’ said Donovan. ‘You have been busy. My turn now.’ He told them of his meeting with Abdul-Haq and subsequent meeting with Maurice Courtney. ‘And Peta,’ he said, finishing up, ‘went off to meet the other two. And we haven’t heard since.’

  ‘We could try her mother,’ said Amar.

  ‘Bit late, isn’t it?’ said Donovan, checking his watch. ‘D’you want to know what I think on what we’ve put together so far?’

  They did.

  ‘Alan Shepherd, the Hollow Men’s maniac bomber, did that pub in 1972, then disappeared afterwards, got as far away as possible. South Africa, from the looks of things. And now he’s back, calling himself Sharples and allying himself with the NUP.’

  ‘That’s some journey,’ said Amar. ‘Anarchist to Fascist.’

  ‘Not that far,’ said Donovan. ‘Apparently he was always like that. I get the impression that the rest of them were scared of him. Not quite sure what he was capable of. Anyway, he comes back, gets involved with the NUP. Now, the NUP have got something planned. What, we don’t know.’

  ‘Something to do with the elections?’ said Amar.

  ‘Very possibly. All we know is that Jason was due to play a major part in it. It seems like his friend Kev found out, had an attack of conscience and let him go.’

  ‘But Jason stabbed him,’ said Jamal.

  ‘Maybe they had a fight. Or maybe he had to make it look real,’ said Amar. ‘His cronies wouldn’t have believed him otherwise. Bit drastic, though, if it is.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d do the same for me,’ said Donovan.

  ‘So why was Kev leadin’ the bullyboys comin’ to get Jason?’ said Jamal.

  Donovan shrugged. ‘Don’t know that bit.’

  ‘Maybe it was his job,’ said Amar. ‘Couldn’t let them down, couldn’t lose face.’

  ‘Did he say anything when he was with you?’ said Donovan.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Amar. ‘He was sick of that life. Wanted out. Wanted to apologize for what he’d done. Kept saying that, wanted to apologize. I told him he’d done nothing to apologize for. He said he had but wouldn’t go into it. I left it at that.’ He frowned. ‘No, not apologize, atone. That was it. Atone for what he’d done.’

  Donovan became thoughtful. Drank his beer. ‘So where does Abdul-Haq fit in? Does he fit in? And where are Peta and Whitman?’

  ‘Call her mother,’ said Amar.

  Donovan looked at his watch. Well past one now. He made a decision. ‘OK.’ Dialled the number, waited.

  It took less time for an answer than he had expected. Lillian picked the phone up. ‘Hello?’ Her voice was nervous, like she was expecting bad news.

  Donovan told her who it was, why they were calling. ‘Is she there? Obviously I won’t disturb her if she’s asleep.’

  ‘No.’ Lillian’s voice was balanced on the fine line of frantic, ready to tip over with the slightest provocation. ‘I haven’t seen her since … she was here earlier. Then she received a call. And she and Trevor left. I haven’t seen them since.’

  ‘Who was the call from?’

  ‘Mary Evans.’

  Donovan couldn’t read the emotion in Lillian’s voice as she said the name.

  ‘Mary Evans? What did she want?’

  ‘Just wanted Peta to go and see her. Trevor wanted to go too.’ A sigh, then: ‘She wasn’t in the strongest frame of mind, I’m afraid. She had just received some rather life-changing news.’

  Donovan’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s … up to her to tell you. When you see her.’

  He asked her again whether she had any idea where Peta was or if she had heard from her. Lillian replied that she hadn’t.

  ‘But Mr Donovan,’ she said, swallowing down the panic in her voice, ‘please find them.’ She tried to laugh, didn’t even convince herself. ‘I’m sure I’m just being a stupid woman but I think there may be something wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  Silence on the line.

  ‘Mrs Knight?’

  ‘Just find them, please.’

  She put the phone down. Donovan turned to the other two.

  Shit,’ he said. ‘We need a plan.’

  One thirty, and Amar was driving Donovan’s Scimitar through Newcastle. Donovan had wanted to drive it himself but, since Donovan was already three cans in, Amar had insisted.

  They were heading towards Mary Evans’s office. See if she was still there; perhaps her, Peta and Whitman were talking into the small hours. Reminiscing about the old days. That sort of thing. Somehow Donovan doubted it.

  Donovan read the map, gave Amar directions. They had left Jamal back at Amar’s flat, monitoring the phone, telling him to get some sleep. They knew he could be relied on to do one of those things.

  ‘Down here,’ said Donovan, pointing towards a turn-off into an old council housing estate. ‘Should be a community centre somewhere … there it is.’

  Amar pulled up next to it. It was in darkness, the front doors closed.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘scratch that idea.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Donovan got out of the car, looked around. No one about. Good. He went up to the front doors. Another look around, then he knocked.

  No reply.

  Again. Nothing.

  He pushed. They were unlocked.

  He turned, pointed to the boot of the car. Amar got out, lifted the boot, brought out the American police torch Donovan kept there that sometimes doubled as a weapon. He joined Donovan on the step.

  They went inside. Donovan switched on the torch, shone the light around. They saw a doorway, weak light creeping out from underneath. They looked at each other, nodded. Moved towards it.

  They stood at either side of the doorframe. Donovan stretched out his arm, knocked on the door. Nothing. He reached for the door handle, turned it. It opened inwards. A glance at Amar, then he went in.

  Mary Evans’s office was neat and tidy. The desk lamp illum
inated a small patch, papers and files on it. They stepped inside. Looked round. They were alone.

  Donovan moved towards the desk, checking for any sudden movement out of the corners of his eyes. Amar joined him. Donovan opened the files on the desk, shook out the papers, unfolded them.

  Property development plans. Razing whole areas of the West End of Newcastle, building new offices, flats, shopping and leisure complexes in their place. He rifled the pages, studied the diagrams, artists’ impressions, worked it out with what he knew of the area.

  ‘It would go right through here,’ he said, voice barely reaching a whisper. ‘Take this whole estate away.’

  They went through more pages. Donovan didn’t understand most of them, being too technical or legal in their terms of reference. But he did spot something he knew well. A name.

  Abdul-Haq.

  Donovan and Amar shared a glance.

  ‘His company,’ said Donovan. ‘They’re behind this.’

  ‘Is that how he fits in?’ said Amar.

  ‘Don’t know. Must be.’

  They looked around. There was nothing else demanding their attention. Through the blinds came headlights. Instinctively they both ducked down, Donovan turning off the torchlight. They both moved quickly to the door, looked out into the corridor. The car had gone past.

  Giving one last look around, they left the building, got into the Scimitar and drove away slowly, not wanting to attract attention.

  31

  Donovan drove up the gravel drive to Lillian Knight’s house. He and Amar had returned to the flat, sent Jamal off to bed and spent the night monitoring the phone lines. They had added Peta’s to Whitman’s. Amar and Donovan had taken it in turns, one grabbing some sleep on the sofa while the other sat at the desk. As soon as it was light they had both been wide awake and drinking coffee, their eyes red-rimmed and dark-shadowed. Donovan had waited until eight o’clock, then, throwing cold water over his face, he had driven to Peta’s mother’s house.

  Amar had been left manning the phones and trying to reach Kev. Jamal had also been given a task.

  Donovan pulled up in front of the house, switched off the engine and Richard Hawley asking whether his love could hear the rain. Donovan wished for rain. Plenty of it. The air was already hot, oppressive. Like a hand holding the city in place for a hammer to come down and strike it.