White Riot

by Martyn Waites

  And they were off again, Kev all the while trying to think where they could go, who they could find to help them in the time they had.

  Feeling more and more like that dying man running across the field, ripping away at his own chest.

  *

  Whitman held the gun on Shepherd. It felt heavier than ever. In the background the TV was still playing, results starting to come in. David Dimbleby was talking about wanting to go over to Newcastle West but there being some kind of delay. No one in the room was listening to him.

  Shepherd’s phone sat open and ignored by Whitman’s side.

  ‘So,’ Whitman said, ‘this was all for revenge.’

  Shepherd made a harsh, grating sound that could have been a laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. If it had been left to Mary, yes. But not when there’s so much money at stake here. She wants payback. I want a payday. And after all I’ve suffered over the years because of you, I think I’m fucking entitled to it.’

  ‘So why the phone calls?’

  ‘To fuck with you.’ Shepherd enjoyed saying the words. ‘Some of us—’ he shot a pointed look at Abdul-Haq, who looked away ‘—actually wanted you in on it. For old times’ sake, all that shit. I just wanted you to know what we were doing. Fuck with your mind. Destroy you.’ His voice wavered. ‘Like you tried to do to me.’

  Whitman shook his head. ‘No, Alan, it wasn’t—’

  ‘What? Wasn’t what? Your fault? It never was. Face it. You planted the bomb. You wanted to see how far you could take things. Then someone died, you got scared. And I was missing, already planning on baling out. Because I’d got your number. I knew what kind of fake you were.’

  Whitman said nothing, just held the gun as straight as he could.

  ‘Wasn’t much of a leap, was it? Shift the blame on to me. Get Mary to lie about where you were that night. She ended up with a fucking mental breakdown from covering up for you. She’s been on medication for years, can’t function without it.’

  ‘I … I’m sorry.’

  ‘Bit fucking late for that, isn’t it?’

  On the TV David Dimbleby was reading out a news report about trouble on the streets of Newcastle. Gang fights that the police had broken up. Nothing serious. Shouldn’t delay the result from Newcastle West for too much longer.

  No one in the room heard him.

  ‘I had to move out of the country. All because of you.’

  ‘You went to work for Eugene Terre’Blanche. A Nazi.’

  ‘Work is the right word. He paid me. By that time I didn’t care who I worked for. Your betrayal killed any idealism I might have once had. I’m just in for the money, Trevor.’ Another laugh. ‘I sold out.’

  ‘Why are you trying to stop this?’ said Abdul-Haq. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?’

  ‘Because of him,’ said Whitman, gesturing at Shepherd with the gun. ‘Yes, I set the bomb. He’s right about that. But I’ve paid for that. I’ve had years of nightmares, of burning figures talking to me, of guilt …’ He shook his head, tried to clear it. ‘But what you’re doing is wrong. I didn’t want another mistake made. More lives lost. I had to do something about it. Something to stop it.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Shepherd. ‘You heard I was back in the country. You knew I’d be pissed off. That I might say something to someone about who really bombed this place. And you didn’t want that to happen, did you? Could still go to prison for it. So you make out you’re all liberal and concerned about the redevelopment deal. And something must be done. You were fucking clever, I’ll give you that. But not clever enough. You see, there’s a race war starting tonight. A whole platoon of NUP foot soldiers are taking to the streets. They’re armed. They’re out to cause trouble. And there’ll be retaliation. So you see, it doesn’t really matter who wins this election. We just step in and mop up.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ said Whitman. ‘It won’t work.’

  Shepherd checked his watch. ‘Should be happening now. Just after the polls closed. Like I said, not clever enough.’

  ‘Really?’ said Whitman. It was his turn to laugh. ‘Then how come it’s me holding the gun?’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘Your legman hasn’t reached the Bridge Hotel yet, has he?’

  The gun felt even heavier in Whitman’s hand.

  Amar couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He wished he had someone to share it with. He could call Joe, tell him – his mobile. There had been a text and he had ignored it. He took the headphones off, crossed the room, picked up the phone, checked the message. Kev. Looked at the photos.

  His eyes widened. His heart began to beat faster.

  He picked up the landline, speed-dialled. Di Nattrass’s number.

  Hoped they weren’t too late.

  46

  Donovan ran, Jamal just behind him. They had passed the point of collapse some time ago. Their legs were shaking, chests burning, limbs aching. Every time one of them had felt like stopping, listened to their body telling them they couldn’t go any more, they had thought of Peta, pushed on, eked out a little more stamina. Neither wanted to think that Peta hadn’t been saved because they put themselves first.

  The run had been all uphill, Donovan leading Jamal along the Quayside and up the Castle Stairs, the old Georgian route that linked the quay to the old castle keep. Taking them two at a time, dodging the pools of vomit, trying not to startle any post-pub fumblers in darkened doorways.

  He reached the top of the steps, went through the old stone arch into what was left of the castle. Most of it had gone, only low stone walls and an oubliette built into what would have been the flagged stone floor but what was now, with wooden benches, a spot to sit at and enjoy the view along the Tyne.

  But not tonight. The Bridge Hotel was just above, backing on to the castle remains. Leaving Jamal by the wooden bench getting his breath back, Donovan ran to the front doors of the pub. They were locked, the windows dark, the last punter long since drunk up and left. He looked around, tried to find a clue, something that jumped out at him, that he could tell Whitman about.

  Nothing.

  ‘I’m, I’m here,’ he said into the earpiece. ‘The Bridge Hotel.’

  Whitman’s voice came over the line. ‘Have you found anything? What’s there?’

  ‘Nothing. What happened here, Whitman? You had sex with her, that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was a thrill, for both of us. Out in the open, at night, looking down on the Tyne. We were the only ones there.’

  ‘You’re a classy date, Trev. And then what happened?’

  ‘I … I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Think. There must be—’

  Whitman’s phone rang. ‘That’ll be her,’ he said.

  Whitman answered his phone. Shepherd sat before him, listening to every word. His grin back in place.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Whitman.

  Shepherd looked like he was about to speak. Whitman pushed the gun at him as a reminder. Shepherd said nothing.

  ‘This is the next chapter in the story. Our story. What do you see?’

  ‘Erm … nothing.’

  ‘Then you’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘Where, where should I be looking?’

  ‘Where you fucked me!’ Her voice raged down the line. Whitman took the phone away from his face, could still hear her. ‘Where you fucked me and made me pregnant!’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘There. The ruins. By the oubliette.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve left you a present …’

  Donovan turned from the front of the pub, made his way down the stone steps. Jamal was staring at the oubliette, a look of disgust on his face.

  ‘Oh, man,’ he said, ‘that … that is well fucked up.’ Donovan drew level, saw what he was looking at. And agreed. He told Whitman what it was.

  ‘What?’ said Whitman.

  ‘A foetus. In a jar. Tiny one. Human.’

  ‘Oh, my God …’
/>
  Abdul-Haq shot a concerned glance towards Shepherd, who ignored it. He looked at Whitman, enjoying the man’s discomfort. Mary Evans was back on the line.

  ‘D’you recognize it? Do you?’

  ‘It’s … it’s a foetus, Mary. Where did you get this from?’

  Her voice was on the verge of breaking up. ‘It’s our baby. The one we would have had together if you hadn’t forced me to have it aborted. The first one you had me kill.’ Anger pulled it back.

  Whitman looked frantically about the room, breathing heavily, sweating. Abdul-Haq and Shepherd sat on their respective sofas. Shepherd was smiling. He knew exactly what she was saying to him.

  ‘What d’you think of that, Trevor?’ asked Mary.

  ‘I think … think you’re sick.’

  ‘One of us is. One of us ruined the other one’s life. And not just mine. Alan’s. The policeman you killed. And God knows how many more. Does it revolt you? Does it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Because you disgust me.’ There was mad satisfaction in her voice. The deranged vindication of a long-held grudge given well-plotted revenge. ‘I hope you’re suffering. Just like your daughter’s going to suffer if you don’t get to her in time.’

  ‘Where … where’s next?’

  ‘Where d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t … I don’t know.’

  ‘Our story’s about to come to an end. Boy meets girl, boy gets girl pregnant, boy kills girl’s babies, boy runs off with other girl.’

  Whitman thought. ‘A march, a demonstration. The Haymarket.’

  A sad sigh from Mary Evans, like she had been wounded. ‘You can remember where you met her. But not me. The war memorial, Barras Bridge. Six minutes.’

  She rang off.

  Whitman felt like he was falling apart. ‘Did you get that?’ he said into the other phone.

  Donovan placed the glass jar carefully back on the oubliette, stepped away. Jamal was already standing well back.

  ‘Loud and clear,’ he said. He turned to Jamal. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Jamal looked pale.

  ‘You OK? You going to be sick?’

  Jamal shook his head but seemed unsure.

  ‘It’s fine if you want to stay here,’ Donovan said. ‘I’ll go on alone.’

  Jamal shook his head. ‘Nah, man, she some twisted bitch, you get me? I wanna see this one through. Get Peta back safe. Dirty Harry or no Dirty Harry.’

  Donovan smiled. ‘Come on, then.’

  They set off running again.

  Kev couldn’t run any more. He stumbled forward, collapsing into a shop doorway on the way up Westgate Road. Jason went with him. They sat there, staring out, trying to get their breath back. Kev checked his watch. Less than fifteen minutes to go.

  He watched the cars go by. People with boring, ordinary lives. Maybe been round to someone’s for dinner. Maybe coming home from work. How he wished that could have been him. Now it would never be him.

  Self-pity and sadness hung round his neck like a granite necklace. He couldn’t go any further, couldn’t go anywhere. He sighed. No one was going to help them, nothing was going to happen.

  He stole a glance at Jason next to him. Almost catatonic, staring ahead, grunting and wheezing as he breathed, the beginnings of lung trouble in later life. Except he wouldn’t be having a later life.

  Impotent anger thrashed within Kev. It was so unfair. It shouldn’t have come to this. Life should have been better than this. Another look at Jason. An idea came into Kev’s mind. He could get up, walk away. No, run away. There was nothing stopping him. Jason might have to die, but that didn’t mean Kev did. He’d feel guilty, sure. But that would go. Eventually. What was guilt compared with being alive? Guilt he could live with. Anything he could live with.

  He checked Jason again, moved his body forward, ready to get up. A hand shot out, clutching his arm.

  ‘Don’t go. Please. Stay with us.’ Jason’s arm gripped tighter, like holding on to Kev was the only thing stopping him from going into freefall.

  Kev jumped, startled. ‘I’m, I’m not …’

  ‘Please, Kev, don’t go. You’re all I’ve, all I’ve got …’

  Kev settled back down again.

  ‘Kev,’ Jason continued, ‘you’re like me dad an’ me brother … like I always wanted them to be.’

  Kev put his head down. The words hurt more than punches. Each one guilt-edged. ‘Thank you.’

  Jason was crying now. ‘I just, just wanted to say, say thank you.’ Tears took over him. Kev put his arm round him. Jason fell into him. ‘I don’t wanna die, Kev, I don’t wanna die …’

  ‘I know, Jason, I know.’

  Jason was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I duh-don’t …’

  Kev held him.

  ‘I’m goin’ to, aren’t I?’ said Jason. ‘We’re nuh-not goin’ to get help. Not now.’ Tears and snot were flowing down his face.

  Kev sighed. ‘It looks that way, mate.’

  Another round of crying. ‘Please, Kev, don’t leave me. Please, Kev … I duh-don’t wanna die on me own …’

  Kev felt his own tears welling up inside. ‘I won’t leave you, Jason. Don’t worry.’

  Jason burrowed into his side, kept sobbing. Kev stared ahead. This is what it’s come down to, he thought. This is it. This is life. And death. And none of it matters. He shook his head. And was hit by an idea. An idea born of anger and injustice. A way to balance things up.

  ‘Jason,’ he said. ‘There is somethin’ we can do.’

  The boy looked up, hope in his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘We can’t do anythin’ about the bomb, but we can make sure it takes the people who are responsible for this with it. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jason. ‘Whatever. Just as long as you stay with me, Kev, please.’ He clutched harder. ‘Please …’

  ‘Don’t worry Jason. I’m going to stay with you.’ Kev took out his phone. ‘Just got something to do first.’

  He dialled. It was answered.

  ‘Hello, Amar.’

  ‘Kev’ said Amar, checking the screen for the call signal. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Kev. ‘Just listen. I’ve got somethin’ to say. An’ I haven’t got long. Don’t interrupt.’

  Amar listened.

  Kev looked at Jason before continuing.

  ‘You’re not goin’ to see me again, Amar. After tonight. But you’re gonna hear about me. I just want you to know that it’s not my fault. Not my choice. I wished … wished—’ he felt his voice crack, held it together ‘—things could have worked out. I could have … could have loved you, Amar. You said I could be a hero. This is, is the only way I can think to do it. Goodbye. I—’

  He cut the connection, couldn’t say any more.

  Amar stared at the phone.

  ‘Kev? Kev?’

  Kev switched the phone off. The last call he would ever make. He stood up, pulled Jason to his feet. Set off for Fenham.

  And the NUP head office.

  It wasn’t going as Whitman had planned. He was starting to feel dizzy. The buzz from the earlier alcohol had disappeared, leaving only a sluggish disbelief in what he was doing. The noise of the TV was droning on in his head, like a fly trapped inside and trying to batter its way out. He blinked, his gun hand slipping, his focus going.

  And that was when Abdul-Haq pounced.

  Whitman didn’t realize until Abdul-Haq was on his feet and coming towards him. Hands outstretched, ready to grab his gun, wrestle him to the ground.

  Whitman’s response was instinctive. He fired.

  The bullet tore a chunk out of Abdul-Haq’s side. He spun, his body flying backwards with the force, flinging him round until he landed in an awkward heap on the floor.

  Shepherd was straight out of his seat and on the floor with him. Abdul-Haq was still breathing, his eyes circular with shock. Shepherd looked up at Whitman.

  ‘You fucking idiot.’

  Whitman
was staggering, the recoil from the gun having sent painful shock waves up his arm again. He swung the gun at Shepherd.

  ‘Leave him, get back, sit down …’

  Shepherd didn’t move. Whitman squeezed the trigger.

  ‘All right,’ said Shepherd, getting slowly to his feet. Abdul-Haq lay there, blood haemorrhaging from his side.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ he managed to wheeze out. ‘Please …’

  ‘Do it, Alan.’ Whitman kept the gun on him.

  ‘No.’

  Whitman stared at him. Abdul-Haq couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Please, Alan. Call an ambulance …’

  ‘No. The police would be called. They’d find him here. They’d ask too many questions.’ Shepherd looked at him, his eyes hard, flinty. ‘Sorry, Gideon, can’t be done. You’ll just have to grin and bear it.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it,’ said Whitman.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Shepherd coolly, as if he were the one holding the gun. ‘Because police will mean questions. About you. About who shot him, for one thing. About how those bullets will match the ones taken out of Gideon’s associates this afternoon.’ He leaned forward. ‘And how will that help you find your daughter?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Whitman shouted aloud. ‘Just shut up. All of you …’

  He needed to think. He needed space and time.

  He looked down at the floor, at the twitching, spasming body of Abdul-Haq, the pleading eyes of his one-time friend. Knew he had to do something, act quickly. But he didn’t know what.

  On TV David Dimbleby talked of the imminent move over to see the results for Newcastle West. Whitman didn’t hear. He just held on to the gun as if that was the only thing that could save him.

  47

  ‘What was that?’

  Donovan on Percy Street with Jamal, stopped running, shouted into the earpiece. No one answered. ‘Whitman? What happened?’

  Whitman’s voice came on the line eventually. ‘Nothing. Nuh-nothing. Everything’s … everything’s fine. Now. It’s fine. Just keep, you know, going.’

  Donovan checked his watch. They were ahead of schedule. He nodded to Jamal and they set off again.

  They made it to the war memorial in front of St Mary’s Church in less than a minute from where they had stopped. He checked his watch again. Still ahead of schedule. He flicked the switch on the earpiece.