White Riot
Page 36
He had gone to meet her at the specified time and date, but she didn’t show up. He waited for two hours. Eventually he went home.
She never called again.
Another election had been announced, the results of that one declared null and void. Rick Oaten had been arrested and was being held in police custody as he was considered a serious flight risk. The redevelopment plan had been shelved. Indefinitely. Money instead to be put into new community schemes to tackle integration. Mary Evans had been arrested. The last Donovan had heard, she was going to declare herself insane.
And Albion was going back into business. The office was being refurbished, all previous investigations would be dropped. While officially the city couldn’t condone the actions they had taken, they had to admit they had helped stop a vicious terrorist act.
‘But I’m still keeping my eye on you, cowboy,’ Nattrass had told Donovan.
‘Sure you are, sheriff,’ he had replied.
Whitman’s funeral had been next.
Lillian had requested the release of his body, wanted to see it buried properly after its untimely cremation. There was so little of him left and what there was had been fused with other artefacts in the explosion that it was more of a memorial service than a funeral. However, Lillian had insisted on a full-size coffin, wanting to honour the memory of the man as she remembered him, rather than his final state.
The crowd in the small parish church in Ryton, where Lillian lived, was also full-sized, swelled by journalists and ghoulish rubberneckers; the church had never seen such activity.
A human storm of bodies, cameras, mics, cables, lights and vans was outside in the rain. Inside, at the eye of the storm, Peta had sat next to her mother, Donovan, Jamal and Amar, all black-suited, a discreet number of rows behind. The vicar talked of him in glowing but impersonal terms, obviously having never met the man. He told what a debt of gratitude the region owed to this man, who had selflessly sacrificed himself in order to save more lives.
Donovan and Amar tried hard not to exchange glances.
There were words from his work colleagues, and Lillian gave a Bible reading. He had not, it transpired, ever got seriously involved with another woman after her. She had held herself in check admirably during the service but afterwards, as the mourners filed out with Jimmy Cliff’s ‘Many Rivers to Cross’, Whitman’s funeral song of choice, playing over the speakers, she broke down. Peta supported her all the way to the graveside. Lillian had wanted him buried beside where she lived. Wanted him near her.
Standing away from the party around the grave, watching the vicar say his final few words, Amar whispered to Donovan. ‘I’ve still got that recording.’
Donovan nodded.
‘What should I do with it?’
Donovan looked at Lillian, barely holding herself together at the graveside, Peta with her arm firmly around her, hiding whatever conflicting emotions she was experiencing, being strong for the sake of her mother. Amar’s eyes followed Donovan’s.
‘Lose it,’ said Donovan.
Amar nodded.
After the service, Peta came up to them. ‘Thanks for coming, guys.’
Donovan smiled. ‘What are friends for?’
Peta nodded, gaze averted. She wiped the corners of her eyes, looked back at him. ‘You coming back to the house?’
‘D’you want us there?’
‘Of course.’
‘I have a feeling,’ said Donovan, looking over to Lillian, who looked lost without her daughter to lean on but nevertheless giving him an unpleasant look. ‘I have a feeling that your mother won’t make us all that welcome.’
‘She’s just a bit … She wants someone to blame. For what happened.’
‘And it can’t be Whitman.’
‘He’s not here,’ said Peta, her voice fracturing slightly.
‘I think we’ll be off,’ said Donovan.
Peta nodded. ‘Oh, Joe, guys. I think … I think I’m going to take a little time off. Go away somewhere with Lillian. Spend some time together. Things we need to talk about.’
‘Good idea,’ said Amar.
‘But I’m still one of the team,’ she said, trying to summon up a smile.
‘You’re damned right,’ said Donovan.
He pulled her to him, embracing her in a tight hug. She let her tears go. He held her until she had ridden them out. Then it was Amar’s turn, then Jamal’s. She pulled back, looked at the three of them.
‘Best friends I’ve ever had,’ she said, and went back to rejoin her mother.
Kev Bright’s funeral was different again. A run-down, soot-blackened old church in Scotswood, only three present including the vicar. Amar had paid. He felt it was the least he could do.
He watched the coffin go into the earth alone but for the vicar. There had been an older man there during what service there was, but he had left straight after, saying something about looking after Joey.
‘Would you like to say a few words?’ the vicar asked Amar.
‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve said plenty to him while I’ve been standing here. If he heard them, he heard them. I don’t need to say them out loud.’
The vicar nodded, understanding.
Jamal had been sitting on the sofa one night, a thoughtful, disturbed look on his face. He turned the TV off. He wanted to talk.
‘What’s up, kidder?’ said Donovan.
‘Was thinkin’ ’bout Jason,’ he said.
‘What about him?’
‘It’s sad, y’know? He had no one. All that shit, that Nazi shit, it wasn’t who he was, what he wanted. It’s just what came to him. His way out. He just wanted to try an’ fit in, y’get me? Be, y’know …’
‘Loved,’ Donovan said.
Jamal blushed. ‘Yeah. Loved.’ He sighed. ‘But, like, not everyone get that, yeah? Not everyone can be lucky.’
‘That’s right, Jamal. It’s a cruel truth. Not everyone can be lucky.’
Jamal said nothing, sat thoughtfully. Eventually he put the TV back on.
Donovan stood in David’s room, stared at the rain. Three weeks.
He had promised Abigail, his daughter, that he would have some news for her. He couldn’t phone now. Not just yet. He couldn’t tell her what had happened. He wasn’t sure himself what had happened. He just had to keep going. See what the next job for Albion would involve, see—
He stopped dead. There was movement in the house.
He looked round. The door to David’s room was closed. Jamal was in town with Amar, staying overnight, so it couldn’t be him. He checked the window again. No car outside. He hadn’t seen or heard anyone drive up.
Another sound. Someone moving through the front room, making their way to the stairs.
He looked round, tried to find anything that he could use as a weapon. Nothing there. He checked his pocket for his mobile, make a call for help. Not there. He had left it charging downstairs.
The footsteps came to a halt on the landing. There was someone outside the door.
He took a deep breath, another. Then pulled the door open.
Donovan froze.
Standing there with his black, floppy fringe and his black-framed glasses was Matt Milsom. Or the person who claimed to be Matt Milsom. He smiled.
‘What the—’
Donovan got no further. Milsom’s fist crashed out, connecting with Donovan’s face. He fell backwards, hitting the bare floorboards with a hard thump. He looked up. Milsom was standing over him. He took something from behind his back, something black and heavy-looking.
Donovan didn’t have time to move out of the way. Milsom’s face twisted with rage as he brought the cosh down on Donovan’s head.
Stars exploded.
Then there was nothing.
Just darkness.
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