Whitman looked away. ‘Not long now. Then we can get on with our lives again.’
Lillian nodded, her gaze averted. She sat up, wiped at the corners of her eyes, pulled her clothing straight. Opened the car door.
She walked to her own car, got in, drove off. He rubbed his face hard, dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, fought back fatigue and tiredness, myriad emotions crashing through him like a winter storm. Breathed deeply, screwed his eyes tight closed, opened them again. Shook his head to clear it, turned the engine over. Another check over his shoulder and off to his next meeting.
Unaware that a black 4×4 with tinted windows waited until he was almost on the road before, at a discreet distance, following him.
Joe Donovan sat in the bar of the Cluny, took another mouthful of beer, checked his watch. It had once been an old whisky warehouse and still held traces of its former life in the high ceilings and exposed stone and brickwork. Donovan could remember, twenty years ago, attending illegal warehouse raves in the same place. There had been live music, DJ sets, a trestle table bar selling only cans of Red Stripe and with parts of the floor roped off where the wood was rotten and unsafe.
Then the Ouseburn Valley in Newcastle had been run down and ex-industrial; now, as part of the regeneration of the area, the Cluny had been transformed into bar/art gallery/music venue. A community theatre was based next door, along with artists’ studios, and the Seven Stories children’s literature centre was further down, with more things promised. A neo-industrial-styled bar sold a huge variety of beers and whiskies, the kitchen did some of the best pub food in Newcastle and the floors were solid. It was one of his favourite haunts and the perfect place to arrange to meet Trevor Whitman.
Donovan sat on an old leather sofa in an elevated section of the bar. It was quiet, the early-evening drinkers not yet arrived. The only movement from roadies as they carried gear through the bar and into the other hall, setting up for the band playing that night.
Jamal was waiting in the car parked across the street, phone at the ready to warn of any unwanted attention. Donovan sat back, paperback book in front of him for camouflage, trying to look like a relaxed punter. Knew he probably looked anything but.
He didn’t have to wait long. Whitman entered. His suit looked like it had not only been slept in but partied in and worked in for several days. His hair and beard matched. He was carrying a leather briefcase. He saw Donovan, walked hurriedly over, sat down. Stared at him, warily. Donovan returned it.
Silence.
‘Well,’ said Donovan, throwing his book on the table, trying to control his anger, ‘what’s to stop me leaning across this fucking table and planting my fucking fist right in your fucking smug fucking face?’
‘Ah,’ said Whitman. ‘Like that. Right.’
‘You have got some fucking explaining to do.’
Whitman said nothing.
‘Peta’s gone missing, you fucked us about with your cock-and-bull story, and all the time you knew what was going on.’
Whitman sighed. ‘What do you know?’
‘That Alan Shepherd’s back from his sabbatical. That he’s going to turn the streets into a war zone tomorrow night.’
Whitman almost smiled. ‘That it?’
Donovan’s features hardened. ‘You’ve fucked me about enough. You got something, tell me.’
‘You know why? You know who else is involved?’
‘I’ve got some ideas.’
Whitman leaned forward. ‘Let me tell you. I presume you know about the plan to redevelop the West End of Newcastle?’
‘Which Abdul-Haq’s company is behind.’
‘Right. They, along with prominent people on the city council, think the area is in desperate need of redevelopment. Been left to die. A slum. Fit only for asylum seekers, immigrants housed by the council. No one would move there voluntarily. So there was a proposal made to redevelop the area.’
‘Which is what all the fuss is about now.’
‘Right. But despite having people like Colin Baty on his side, old Gideon didn’t have enough backing to be taken seriously. So he needed something else. A way to focus attention on the shortcomings of the area, make those in power think his idea is a credible alternative to the status quo. In fact, the only alternative. So he and Shepherd came up with the idea of a race war.’
Donovan almost dropped his beer. ‘What?’
‘You heard. A race war. Shepherd would start his own party. Make them a credible, electable force. Gideon would increase his profile as community spokesman. Both would appear to hate the other. And the incidents would fan the flames of that hatred.’
‘Incidents?’
‘Flashpoints. Stage-managed events to stir things up. The beating and burning of that student in the street. The supposed suicide bomber. The riot at the candlelit procession the other night. Their incidents. Their catalysts. To get ordinary people to take sides. Become politicized. Get out and vote.’
‘That’s just … fucking ridiculous.’
‘Think so? Know what Alan Shepherd was up to in South Africa all that time?’
Donovan waited.
‘Remember Eugene Terre’Blanche? The Afrikaner Resistance Movement?’
‘Yeah.’
‘South African Nazis who didn’t want apartheid to end so they started a terror campaign to spark a race war.’
‘This was in the early Nineties, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And Shepherd was involved?’
‘A fully paid-up member. An activist. Part of a gang who tried to bomb the Calvary church school in Nelspruit in 1992. A mixed-race school. Fortunately, the bomb didn’t go off. Shepherd was caught. Got a twelve-month suspended sentence.’
Donovan said nothing.
‘He was also linked to the murder of Chris Hani, the South African Communist Party leader, in 1993. Released without charge. And now he calls himself Sharples and is behind the NUP.’
Donovan shook his head. ‘South African Fascists in Newcastle?’
‘More around than you think. When things went tits up in South Africa, they came to Europe. The BNP have quite a few. Check. It’s a matter of record.’
‘But the NUP aren’t organized enough for that. They’re just street thugs.’
‘Right again. But Alan Shepherd brought someone with him.’
‘Who?’
‘A mercenary called Tom Bascombe. Major Tom. Ex-British army, he used to work with him out there. He’s the one behind the bombings, the beatings … everything. A very dangerous man.’
Donovan’s head was swimming. ‘But … why?’
‘The area’s heavily ethnic. They want to destabilize and frighten the populace. Get both sides angry and scared enough and they’ll vote in the extremists. And that’ll be a charter for them all to rip each other apart.’
‘And the council see what’s happening, get a guilty conscience for not acting sooner, come begging to Abdul-Haq to step in. So with their blessing he buys up as much land as possible as cheaply as possible, chases out the extremists, puts his plans into action and saves the area.’
‘Exactly. All so a small amount of people can make a large amount of money. A very large amount, leaving lots of innocent people injured or even killed as a result.’
‘How did you find out about this?’
‘Shepherd wanted to cut me in. That’s what the phone calls were about. Old times’ sake.’
Donovan frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘They were all in on it. Shepherd, Gideon, Mary Evans—’
‘Mary Evans?’
‘Apparently. Don’t know what she’s got to gain from it. But her idea of social action is all pragmatism and blind eyes, so who knows?’
‘What about—’ Donovan thought for a second ‘—the other two? Richie Vane? Maurice Courtney?’
‘Richie Vane has nothing to do with it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Maurice Courtney’s not in there somewhere.’
Donovan
thought about his meeting with him. He hadn’t got the impression Courtney was lying. But his car had been forced off the road on the way back … ‘You mentioned Colin Baty. Where does he come into this?’
‘I think he’s Gideon’s plan B. If this fails, Colin Baty will be there to mop up. He’s convinced him that it’ll mean jobs, better quality of life for his constituents, that sort of thing. But Gideon might not need him. As you said, Shepherd’s planning something big for election day.’
‘D’you know what?’
‘Haven’t been able to find out. But it has to be stopped. So this is the situation. We’ve got to work our way out of it. In this briefcase is everything I’ve got on the project. It’s taken me ages to put it all together, follow the paper trail. And there’s a set of plans of the new development.’
He opened the briefcase, took out an old Tesco’s bag, which he hurriedly put at the side of him, slid the case across the table. Donovan looked directly at Whitman.
‘If you had all this, if you knew all this, why didn’t you just go to the police?’
Whitman sighed, ran his hands through his hair. He looked like he was about to collapse, nervous energy being the only thing keeping him going. ‘Because it’s not complete. It’s not the smoking gun. It’s all supposition. They’re very good; they’re professionals at this. I’m an academic. That’s why I needed … needed someone to help me.’
‘Then why didn’t you say all this in the first place?’
‘Because … I didn’t think you would believe me. I thought it best you found out for yourself. I knew it all and I didn’t believe it.’ Another sigh. ‘I don’t know why, though. If the world’s greatest superpower can start a war in Iraq just for cheap oil and lucrative rebuilding contracts, then this shouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.’
Donovan said nothing, just kept staring. Whitman looked nervous.
‘Have you, have you heard anything from Peta?’
‘We’ve got someone looking into that.’
Whitman sat forward. ‘And?’
‘I said. We’ve got someone looking into that. We think we know where she might be.’
‘Well, get her. Tell the police—’
‘Just keep out of it. You’ve done enough damage.’
Whitman sank back into his seat, an expression on his face of thorough chastisement. Donovan pulled the briefcase over to his side of the table.
‘So what am I supposed to do with this?’
‘Keep it. Take it to the police. We just need to stop it.’ Another sigh, another riffle through his hair. ‘It’s election day tomorrow. It’ll be too late after that. You’ve got to do it now. Please.’
Donovan stared at him. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘I can’t. There’s … things I have to do.’
‘Yeah. Like sort out this mess you’ve created.’
‘You’re right. That’s why there’s things I have to do.’ He leaned across the table, eyes red-rimmed, black-edged but imploring. His hands were clasped in front of him, shaking. ‘I started this. I have to end it.’ He stood up. ‘I know you must … What you think of me. But do it because it’s, it’s the right thing to do. Please.’
Donovan kept his eyes on Whitman, took the briefcase. ‘We’ll have words. When this is over.’
Whitman nodded, sighed again. ‘Right. Whatever.’ He looked round the pub. ‘I’ll better be—’
Donovan’s mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket, flipped it open, read the display. Jamal.
‘Yeah?’
‘Listen, man, you got trouble headed your way. Big trouble. Two Indian guys, both got muscles like Arnie, one looks like he’s been caught in a explosion. You better move it, man. They walkin’ like they mean business.’
Donovan snapped the phone shut, grabbed the briefcase. ‘We’ve got company. Where you parked?’
Whitman gestured to the front doors.
‘Right. Let’s go this way.’
Donovan walked briskly along the length of the bar, up the flight of steps at the far end. Whitman, the rolled-up carrier bag clutched in his fist, followed behind. At the top of the steps, Donovan turned. The double doors were pulled open. One burned, one scarred. Donovan recognized Waqas and Omar immediately.
‘Come on,’ he said to Whitman, turned and made his way round the corner. He heard the sound of running feet behind them, a shout from one of the bar staff. A roadie was coming towards them from out of the music hall, carrying what looked like a foldback speaker.
‘Here,’ said Donovan quickly, ‘let me help you with that.’ Before the roadie could argue or resist, Donovan had thrown the briefcase to Whitman, taken the speaker from him, turned to the top of the steps. Waqas and Omar were at the bottom, just ready to ascend.
‘Catch,’ he shouted, and threw the speaker as hard as he could.
Waqas saw it coming and put his hands up in a futile attempt to catch it. It hit him square in the chest, sending him backwards into Omar, who fell to the floor.
Donovan turned around. The roadie was beginning to get angry.
‘Not music lovers, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll pay for any damage.’
Before the roadie could say anything else, Donovan had dodged round him and made it through the double doors. Whitman threw the briefcase at him.
He ran round the corner of the building to where he had parked the car. Jamal was waiting in the passenger seat. He had started the engine. Donovan jumped in, threw the briefcase on to Jamal’s lap, floored the accelerator and they were away.
‘I keep sayin’, man,’ said Jamal, when they were under way, ‘you should let me drive.’
Donovan, concentrating, said nothing.
Whitman, moving quickly, watched Donovan round the corner, disappear. He looked around, unfamiliar with the area, tried to think of the best way back to his car. He had parked it up a hill, the Byker viaduct looming huge above it.
He checked both sides of the street, behind him. Ran across the road.
The car was just ahead, a black 4×4 in front of it. He heard sounds behind, knew without turning round that his two pursuers had made their way outside. He looked again at the car, made up his mind. It was too risky to run for it; he wouldn’t be able to get behind the wheel and drive away before they reached him. He looked behind him again. They had spotted him. Holding hard to the carrier, he ran.
The area was quiet, even for early evening. Up the steep hill and underneath the viaduct was an urban country walk through the Ouseburn Valley leading up to Byker. A winding path leading through trees, bushes and overgrown weeds. It was deserted. He ran towards it, knew they would be following.
Up the first part, rounding a huge bush. He ran off the trail, hid, waited. Panting hard for breath, sweat on his face and body. He knelt down, opened the bag, took out what was inside. An automatic. He checked it was loaded, clicked off the safety. Waited, trying to control his breathing.
He heard them easily. They sounded like a mini stampede. He waited until they had passed him, then stepped out. Gave a quick glance around, making sure of no spectators. There were none. He stood in the middle of the path, gun raised.
‘Hey,’ he called. ‘You looking for me?’
They both stopped, turned. At first they didn’t see the gun, charged straight at him.
Whitman fired. He missed. Again. And again.
Waqas flew backwards as if he had hit an invisible wall. His leg buckled under him and he crashed hard on to the pavement. Blood geysered from his thigh.
Omar looked at him, his face a mask of shock. Then back to Whitman.
Whitman’s arm felt sore. He hadn’t been expecting such a kickback from the gun. He also hadn’t been expecting such a thrill. Adrenalin and testosterone surged through him. More power than he had felt in a long time, perhaps ever. He levelled the gun on Omar. Fired.
Omar saw what was happening, turned and started to run. He made one step, two, then the bullets hit his left ankle, bringing
him down. With no time for his arms to come up and absorb the impact, he too hit the pavement hard, his face crunching and thudding on to the gravel.
They had both screamed when the bullets hit, and now were both lying there, writhing, gasping and moaning in agony. Whitman stared at them, at what he had done to them. At the power he had felt and continued to feel. He looked at the gun in his hand, felt its lethal grip. Thoughts sped through his brain. A reluctant trip to Las Vegas that he had ended up loving. Because he had understood how it worked. Casino chips. So seductive, so tactile. They had wanted to be touched, stroked, toyed with. Most of all, they demanded to be played with, used. The higher the amount, the more tactile. He had felt superhuman, playing dice with the cosmos. The gun was the same, but more so. It didn’t just grant the power of chance; it conferred the power of life and death.
He wanted to stand there all day and all night, take on any and all comers, show them who was the strongest. He took aim at the bodies, felt his finger squeeze the trigger, felt a smile on his face.
Stopped. Looked around. He had been lucky so far. But someone could come along at any second. And what would he do? Shoot them? His luck wouldn’t hold for ever.
He quickly put the gun in his jacket pocket, picked up the spare clip, turned and ran. Back to the car. Into the car and away. Thinking fast. Planning his next move.
Knowing, now that he had used the gun, that there was nothing he couldn’t do.
Nothing.
37
Kev silently unlatched the door, swung it open as soundlessly as possible, stepped out into the dark, warm night. Closed it quietly behind him, waiting until the lock gave a barely audible click before moving away.
He had just left the bunker, the corrugated metal shed that the foot soldiers of the revolution, himself included, slept in. Or had been billeted in, as Major Tom said, giving them more of a sense of themselves as a disciplined military unit and not the disenfranchised bunch of losers and outsiders they really were.
Kev tried not to dwell on the fact that until recently he had been one of them. Told himself that his heart wasn’t sinking to be back, that he was there for a reason, he had work to do. And more than work, atonement.
White Riot Page 28
