by Jay Stringer
He sipped at the whiskey and then stared at me for a long time. I could hear the fridge humming. I saw a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. Each carried traces of a different meal. A man eating alone over a number of days.
“Yes, it does. When my parents came to this country from Bangalore, the white people didn’t want them around. Didn’t want to talk to them or live with them. They said we smelled funny. Politicians said there would be rivers of blood. The guy who said that, he was talking about us here, you know? He was the local MP; he meant our streets. Fifty years ago my dad couldn’t get a job in West Brom. Now? I make one call and a thousand people in West Brom lose their jobs. You see it? Now politicians come to me for donations.”
“Living the dream.” There was a sneer in my words. He picked up on it straightaway and stared the sarcasm out of me with his eyes; the whites of them were yellowed and crisscrossed with veins from too much stress and alcohol.
“People like us—me, Gaines—you know where we start? Our communities. Our families come over from somewhere else, and they get attacked. They need protection, so we get organized. Then ten, twenty years go by and, shit, I’m the man.”
“I’ve seen some of the Birmingham gangs hanging around your spots. The reds and purples—which ones are they? Watsons? The Meatpackers?”
He nodded. “Those are old names. The world’s changing, you feel it? My day it was about community. Those riots—kids just angry, just fighting, and for what? They’ve never been spat at, never been burned out or knocked down. You seen it, right?”
Seen it? I’d been in it. “Yes.”
“We kept Birmingham out of this town for twenty years, but it’s different now. When the cops put the Watsons away, it was like small crews of guys came from everywhere to take their own bit. Each crew has its colors and its code, or so they think. And now they’re coming to take ours.”
“And you’re jumping into bed with them?”
“Survival.”
This didn’t sound like the Channy I knew. He’d always been more respectful of the old ways of doing things. His was a generation raised on Scorsese movies and respect. There was a moral code and a hierarchy. Now he was talking like he’d let any dumb kid from the street get right into the game. I told him he’d changed.
“Well, you changed me, eh? You and Gaines. Gav was always the loud one, the fighter. I was the thinker, the planner. I always thought I held Gav back, kept him in line, but now I think he held me to a certain standard.”
I looked again at the signs he was living alone. And at the madness eating away at the corners of his eyes. He was waiting to explode, and I didn’t want to be around when it happened.
“I’m done, Channy. I’m not like you or Gaines. I want out.”
After a moment he nodded and refilled his glass. “You know how you can get what you want.”
“This thing with Vero—with Gaines. I give her to you. I want all my debts cleared. No more obligations or games. Yeah?”
He smiled without a single trace of pleasure. He said yes. Do this thing for him, and I could walk away. He sounded like he meant it. I said I was serious, and he pointed to the ceiling.
“I swear on my children,” he said.
I shrugged and then stood up.
“Be ready the next time I call,” I said.
THIRTY‐FIVE
I woke up around three the following afternoon. After meeting Channy I had driven around the Black Country for a few hours, listening to music and letting it soften the hard edges of my thoughts. At some point, I’d pulled around the front of my flat. I’d had just enough energy to get up the stairs to my bedroom before I lay down and the world went white.
I dreamed of women: Gaines. Laura. Salma.
I dreamed of family: Mum. Dad. Rosie. Him.
I couldn’t tell if it was pain or the weight of obligation that woke me up, but I felt something crawling through my guts like a snake. The flat seemed cold and empty now that I was alone again. I showered and took a few pills, and for a moment the water of the shower hung in the air around me.
I popped another pill and cooked the largest plate of fried food in history. Then I let it go cold as I sat and stared at a space on the wall for almost an hour. Somewhere along the way my phone beeped and told me I had a voice mail. It was from Boz. He wanted help filling in a job application form. I added that to my list of things to get to. The list that only ever got longer.
To prove me right, the door buzzer sounded right on cue. I pressed the button without asking for a name, and a minute later, Rick Marshall stood in my doorway. Even through the fog shrouding my brain I knew I wanted to keep annoying this man.
“What’s up, Ricky?”
“I, uh. Listen, can I buy you a drink?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t want to be seen out with the bigot?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Right.” He smiled. “Can I buy you a Coke, then? Somewhere away from the town center?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“It’s about the illegal immigrants.”
What?
It took only about five minutes to drive him to the Myvod.
It was busier than I expected when we walked in. The pool table had been claimed by a gang of underage boys wearing tracksuits and haircuts crisscrossed by tramlines. Some of the men at the bar looked familiar—people I went to school with, I guessed. They all had the same look, prefaded jeans and T-shirts bought from High Street shops, probably by their wives. Hair short and thinning. Eyes glazed by one too many lagers.
We settled into one of the booths farthest from the door with a pint of lager for him and a pint of Pepsi for me. I watched Marshall’s face as he took in his surroundings, picked up on the rough laughter, the loud conversations, the thick accents.
“Not from around here, are you?”
He smiled down at his drink and then looked up at me. “That obvious?”
“Your skin might not be crawling, but it’s not comfortable. I’m guessing you grew up somewhere with a little more polish?”
“I grew up in Stoke, actually. It’s not any better than here.”
“No, it’s not. But it had a nice part of town, right? Or you lived in the countryside outside Stoke, one of those quiet little villages. A grammar school, maybe? Middle-class kids who knew how to pass an exam at eleven years old. I’m guessing you didn’t start to see people of color until you got older and ventured to the next town over for drinks?” He didn’t deny it, so I carried on. “Your dad voted Conservative his whole life, got bitter when they let him down. And Labour, of course, was unthinkable.”
“Always.”
“Is that why you got into politics? Make him proud?”
“I believe the things I say. That’s why I’m involved, which is more than you can say for a lot of politicians these days.”
“Closed borders, no asylum. Jobs going to white people.”
“I never said white people. I just want to level the playing field. Look, it’s about equality, okay? A friend of mine, highly trained engineer, lost his job because the economy took a dump. Then he couldn’t even get a job as a bus driver because they were giving them to any immigrant with two legs. Is that right? Is that fair?”
“Do you ever think what this country would be like without immigration? I don’t see the Neanderthals being able to fix pipes or drive buses, do you?”
“You’re being silly, going back that far.”
“Okay, pick an era. Draw a line in the sand wherever you want, you don’t just find white people.”
“Look, it’s about our banks, our newspapers, our oil companies. They’re not owned by us. They’re owned by Russians and Americans. The Germans control our savings. The Japanese sell us our cars. We don’t build anything anymore. Look at this town. How many tanks did they build here that rolled out to win us a war? How many families were supported by foundries and coal mines? Their sons and daughters have nothing now. This country is be
ing raped.”
An anger I didn’t know I had in me boiled over. “Don’t use that word. You don’t fucking know.”
He spread out both his hands in a peacemaking gesture. “You’re right. Look, I’m not here to get into a political debate. I just think the government shouldn’t force us to mix. And I mean that with respect to all sides.” I could tell he’d made a conscious effort to avoid saying us and them. “All this political correctness, positive discrimination—it’s taking away British culture. We can all have a share, but most communities seem better off when they stick to their own. I mean, look at the riots—”
“Mostly Gorjer, from what I saw.”
“Gorjer?”
“You lot. White folk.”
“Well, I disagree. I saw lots of angry minorities, all wanting a piece. But anyway, I meant what I said to you the other day. About moving my party forward. It’s taken a lot—I mean, there are guys out on the right who hate me for it. There are some real crazies out there who think I’ve betrayed them. I’m just trying to bring us into the middle.”
“Where the votes are?”
He shrugged again. “Nothing wrong with that.” He fingered the edge of his pint, wiping the moisture from the glass with his thumb. Then he made a decision about whatever was troubling him. “Our people know. About the flats, I mean.”
My blood ran cold, and I blinked about half a dozen times. He read my silence and carried on. “We’ve got a few friends on the force, you know? Not many, but a few.”
“So the police know the details?”
“Uh-huh. They’ve got some fireman in custody for another crime. He’s talking about everything except what they’ve got him for. They say he’s trying to talk his way out, and it’s working. He’s given them a list of places where he fitted smoke alarms for illegals—flats, houses, workplaces. He’s given them the flats on Thorn Lane.”
“If they know, how come they haven’t made a move?”
“This is fresh. A couple hours old, at most.”
“And why are you telling me?”
“Leaks like this happen for a reason. If they wanted to cause a stink, it would have been the press who got told, not us. It’s gone straight to the racist loonies in the party—Kyng and his lot—and I have to fight to keep them in line as it is.”
“Someone’s looking for a fight.”
“Someone is looking for those rivers of blood.”
This was the second time someone had mentioned that “rivers of blood” speech to me lately. I wondered if Enoch Powell had thought it would end up so famous.
“Call the cops. Tell them it’s been leaked.”
“Right. I call them, they have to follow the rules. They’re already following the rules. They’ll be seeking clearance to raid the flats right now, and nothing I say to them will speed that up. You’re connected. Get them out.”
He pulled out a brown envelope. He placed it on the table between us.
“What’s that?”
“Tapes. This is a recording of the cop who tipped us off.”
“And you just happened to have a tape recorder?”
“No, we record all inbound calls. We get a lot of threats, and we want to be covered if any of them ever follow through.”
I put my hand on the package but didn’t pull it toward me. I tightened my grip, but then I pushed the package back toward him. “Let the police deal with it,” I said. “Give a statement, get people arrested.”
He pushed it back. “Political suicide. No way.”
Political suicide. The penny dropped. “That’s all this is, isn’t it? You’ve known about the flats all along. That’s why you’ve been rallying here, getting ready to play your trump card. But now the game’s changed. You leave it to your loonies, and their vigilante violence will destroy your party name a few weeks before an election. You help me get them out, and you get off—hell, you might even benefit. You can shout about how illegal immigrants get everything for free.”
He leaned back and folded his arms. “So? Do you care about that right now? It’ll be getting dark before six. The people in the flats don’t have much time.”
THIRTY‐SIX
Move.
I didn’t stick around to ask if Marshall needed a lift home. I got the car in gear and left the pub with the kind of tire spin that makes every man grin deep down inside. I had the fading March daylight in my favor. Nobody would move until it got dark; the riots had given everyone plenty of practice in this kind of thing.
I called Becker, and he answered straightaway. “What?”
Nice.
“I need your help. Listen, there’s a leak. Someone on your side has tipped off Community about the flats and—”
“And I’m on the verge of losing my place on the team because I trusted the wrong fucking gypsy. I’ve been running PNCs for you, leaving a trail a mile wide to help you catch a rapist, and now it’s all gang related. Human fucking trafficking?”
He hung up. I stared at the phone in my hand for a second. Shit, was that one fixable? I knew I should call him straight back, try and talk it out, but I didn’t have time. I called Laura, but got her voice mail. I shouted into it, pretty much just key words. I called Gaines and got straight through, though she sounded sleepy. I guess that’s what happens if you call a vampire during the day.
“They know.”
“What?”
“The police, they know about the flats.”
“That’s not possible. They would have told me.”
“Well, you need to work on your sources. Maybe you’ve missed a few payments or something. You want to know whom they did tell? Community.”
“Shit. Where are you?”
“In my car. I’m on my way to the flats.”
“Don’t worry. PCP won’t move until it gets dark. They’ll want cover, and the families will be at work right now anyway. I’ll arrange transport for them, but you’ll need to get them all rounded up and packed.”
“Me? They won’t trust me. Most of them won’t even understand me. I’ll need to get Salma.”
“You should have let us deal with the rapist, you know.”
Subtext: This is all your fault.
If I’d pulled the trigger, or let Gaines cut a piece off him, then a whole load of people wouldn’t be about to lose their homes.
I pulled up outside the flats and watched the youngest children playing football in the car park. I’m not very good at planning things; I like to feel things out and make them up as I go. This was not going to be my finest hour. I left voice mails for both Salma and Connolly before I realized the obvious.
I knew someone with all the right connections.
Someone who could maybe get them away from Gaines in the bargain.
I called my little sister.
Rosie turned up soon after, with Mum in tow. She was driving a large, beat-up estate car, and the trunk was piled with blankets and medicine. She was like a small-scale version of the Red Cross. As the adults started arriving home from work, she handed out supplies and talked to each of them in turn. She and Mum listened to everybody’s stories, offering smiles, sadness, and sympathy in equal measure. I saw for the first time how similar they were—and how different from me. Noah and I were like our father; Rosie was like our mother. I’d never felt farther from the women in my family than I did in that moment: they were all the things I wasn’t.
A few people were standing and watching from the other side of the road. There were no houses or shops over there, nothing but a small industrial estate and a car showroom. They were not locals or passersby. They were watching for a reason. Mum approached me and nodded at them.
“It’s about to kick off,” she said. Her voice had the weariness of a mother who’d been chased out of any number of homes. “We need to get the police in.”
I shook my head. “The minute the police get here, all these people will be rounded up and deported. We need to move them.”
“How?”
“Well
, either Rosie finds a charity to take them right now, or—”
“Or?”
“Gaines. If we round them up, she can move them.”
I watched her chew her bottom lip, swallow a lifetime’s worth of anger, and try to make sense of it all. She turned on her heel without a word and went back to work, talking and preparing the families.
Shadows started to fall across the sky as the chilly early spring evening crept in. Rosie touched me on the arm a couple minutes later, told me there was a woman refusing to pack. Somehow I knew it would be Sally even before I heard her name. When we got to the foot of the steps leading up to Sally’s flat, Bejna greeted us and shook her head.
“Mama won’t leave,” she said.
She turned and led us up the steps and in through the front door, and the minute Sally saw us she started to shout, “No, no, not running again!”
I talked as low as I could, trying to sound soothing, but it didn’t help. Rosie tried too, but again Sally shouted.
“I run here! This is where we will stay. No more, we are home now!”
Bejna turned us and said, “Let me talk to her.”
Rosie and I both nodded and headed to the kitchen to give them a few moments alone. Rosie switched the kettle on out of reflex, and then she noticed what she’d done and laughed. I caught the smell of burning and turned to look at the cooker. There was nothing on, so I dismissed it and turned back.
“Listen, I know about Noah and—”
“What’s that noise?”
She’d heard it before I did. The kind of chipping sound that only comes from fire eating into something it shouldn’t. I caught the overpowering smell of gasoline and a great heat that was coming from somewhere below us. I heard Mum shout out my name. Then we heard the sound of the living room window smashing in. It was followed by screams and the unmistakable smells of furniture burning and gasoline. Then the world slipped me by for a second.
I’ve been here before.
THIRTY‐SEVEN
Stay still.
This is not happening.
I stayed rooted to the spot. This couldn’t be happening again. My life was stuck on a loop. I turned to look at Rosie; her eyes were wide and pleading. She’d never been old enough to know what was going on when we used to get burned out. But this must have been touching some half-remembered fear, just as it was with me. I looked again into Rosie’s eyes and thought, Shit, this one’s on me.
