White Riot (18 page)

Donovan smiled. ‘Really?’

Peta reddened. ‘Get your mind out of the gutter and back to work.’

‘I was joking.’

‘Yeah. The sexist male’s first line of defence. Anyway, Mary Evans is still in the north-east. The West End of Newcastle, to be precise.’

‘Crops up a lot at the moment.’

‘It’s a deprived area,’ said Peta. ‘She wouldn’t be a community activist in Jesmond, would she?’

They looked at the photo again. There were two others, a man at either side. One, duffel-coated, had a well-fed face and a wide smile. Like it was all just a really good laugh. His hair, although long, looked well groomed.

‘Maurice Courtney. Little rich boy playing at being a revolutionary. Left uni, got bored, went back to the family business. Big noise in the City, London. Doubt he’d be able to tell us much.’

‘You never know,’ said Donovan. ‘Maybe I should pop down and see him.’ And see how Turnbull’s doing, see when my son can come home. The thought was never far from the front of his mind. Peta’s face showed she was thinking the same thing but she said nothing. Donovan looked at the photo again.

‘Who’s the other one?’ he said.

‘Richie Vane.’ Peta pointed to the last one. He too was staring up at Whitman. Face slack, expression unfocused. Waiting for orders. Or just loaded. ‘Bit of a casualty. Drugs. No current address, just last known hostel.’

‘We can check hospitals, charities, that kind of thing. Maybe receiving treatment. You said six. Where’s the other one?’

‘Alan Shepherd. Disappeared at the time of the pub bombing.’

‘The supposed bomber. Caught in the blast. Or did a runner. Presumably he took the photo.’

Donovan put the photo down, looked up, smiled.

She looked at him, lips slightly parted, waiting. ‘What?’

‘Just like old times. This. Albion back together. Good, isn’t it?’

Peta nodded. She leaned forward again. Donovan tried to
keep his eyes on her face. She kept hers on him, smiling. They both sat there, neither seemingly wanting to be the first to break it, wondering just what each one was finding in the other’s eyes.

The door opened.

‘’M goin’ to bed. Spare room’s mine, yeah?’

They both sat back as if they had been caught doing something they were ashamed of. If Jamal noticed, he didn’t show it.

‘Yeah,’ said Peta, ‘you take the spare room.’ She looked at Donovan, composure returning to her features. ‘Joe can take the sofa in the living room. Can’t you?’

Donovan shrugged, his face as blank as possible. ‘Sure.’

And that had been that for the night.

They had their plan for the day. Peta was going to talk to Mary Evans, Donovan was going to try to contact Abdul-Haq.

‘Fine by me,’ said Donovan. ‘At least I won’t have to listen to your God-awful music in the car.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with James Blunt.’

‘Oh. That well-known cockney rhyming slang.’ Donovan hated Peta’s taste in music. Couldn’t understand how such an interesting person could listen to something so bland. Actually go into a shop and buy it.

Peta picked up her keys, made for the door. ‘And what would you suggest, O great arbiter of taste?’

Donovan moved with her. ‘What about the Drive By Truckers? You still got that one?’

She stopped walking, gave him a look equalling the one Jamal had received the night before about her pasta. ‘It’s still on the shelf next to Richmond Fontaine and Jim White and Sparklehearse—’

‘Sparkle
horse
.’

‘I’ve heard them. And all the other rubbish you burned for me. Johnny Dowd. For Christ’s sake, the man couldn’t carry a tune if it was in a bucket. I’m going.’

Arguing with her, Donovan knew from experience, would be like arguing with the Tyne Bridge.

She went out, slamming the door behind her.

Donovan watched her drive off, smiled. Another brilliant-blue morning sky, he thought. And another day nearer to being reunited with his son.

He went to sleep thinking about him, woke up the same way. Everything else, the job with Albion, helped to take his mind off it for most of the day, but it was the beginnings and endings, or the times when he was on his own, that were the hardest. When he couldn’t get him out of his mind.

He went into the kitchen, brewed up some more coffee, focused on the day ahead. Jamal was still asleep, would be down soon. In the meantime he went into the living room, picked up the phone.

Tried to get through to Abdul-Haq.

The walls had thudded, the floors shook, the crowd slammed off each other in aggressive ecstasy. The pounding, tuneless, atonal rhythm of White Jihad, a skinhead band from Poland, had transformed the upstairs of the Gibraltar into an angry mosh pit. The crowd had shouted, chanted, screamed along as the band thudded and ranted from the stage, the racist, white supremacist lyrics to their signature song ‘Boot Party’ known off by heart:

Rage transcendent, the audience bound by communal hatred, prejudices mutually confirmed, the cruel comfort of belonging.

And Kev hadn’t been touched by any of it.

Not so long ago he would have been in the thick of it, arms windmilling, booted feet stomping, giddy from the crush of hot, heaving bodies pressing against him, muscled male flesh against muscled male flesh, emerging eventually, skin wet with sweat and blood, both his own and others, carrying injuries and bruises like rare treasure.

The event was true believers only, a treat for Major Tom and the foot soldiers. Kev, although unable to join them on their raiding party, had been driven from the farm to the pub, was still expected to work the door and he had: frisking, checking for concealed cameras, recorders, weeding out undercover coppers or reporters. But even the true believers looked different now. Better dressed, designer labels. Happy with their lives. No cheap clothes, no conflict or doubt.

Groupie Diane had offered him sex, rubbed up against him, her hands on his cock. It hadn’t hardened. All he could do not to throw up. She looked like something from his butcher’s shop, big tits sagging down like udders, arse and belly and thighs ready to be sliced off the bone like pork. Smelling of rancid meat. She revolted him.

Kev wondered where Jason was, what he was doing. Felt a void within him, an aching loss he couldn’t explain. He wanted to talk to him, see he was OK.

But that was all the night before. Kev had left early, gone
back to the flat. That made it even worse. His stinking dad, his stinking brother. He had to get out.

Now, in the front room with Jeremy Kyle having a go at some cuckolded chav, Kev’s head was pounding. He had to get out. Go somewhere, anywhere. Do something, anything.

He needed to talk to someone.

And he knew who. It was a risk, but a risk worth taking.

He left the flat, slammed the door behind him.

Hoped he never had to go there again.

Jason Mason decided not to open his eyes. If he did he would have to get up. And face Norrie. And go back on the street again.

Too late. Norrie had looked into the back, seen him.

‘Oi, get up. Yeah, you, you lazy cunt. Come on, you’ve got work to do.’

Jason quickly weighed up the options. Decided he had no choice. He opened his eyes, sat up. Felt like he hadn’t slept. He looked down at his sleeping bag. At least it didn’t appear to have any more teeth marks in it. That was something.

‘What you still hangin’ around for? Fuck off out of it an’ get some work done.’

Jason got up. Rolled the sleeping bag as small as he could make it, stuffed it behind one of the shelves.

‘Out.’

Jason went. Dragging his feet as he did so.

Leaving Jamal’s place had been a risk. But then so had staying there. He didn’t know who this Donovan bloke Jamal wanted him to meet was. Or whose side he was on. So he had weighed it up. Wait, take a chance and maybe make some big money, maybe not, or cut and run with cash in hand. No contest. Result.

But once he had got back into the city he couldn’t face going back to the street, so Norrie’s had been a good idea. Bit of pickpocketing, bit of boosting, stuff he was good at. Working bars, roaming streets after closing time when people were too pissed to know what was going on, even
giving the come-on to perverts and running off with their wallets. Easy targets. And Norrie had been pleased with the haul.

But Jason was starting to see the risks. If the law pulled him in, word might get back to Rick Oaten. In fact, word definitely would get back. Jason knew what some of the party members did for a living.

So he had become even extra cautious. Pickpocketing was out. He was down to rolling drunks and setting up perverts. They were the least likely to complain.

He walked down Westgate Road, sun beating down on his back, the heat making him aware that he hadn’t had a bath since Jamal’s. Glancing round all the time, ready to run at a second’s notice.

But it was still in his head. The information. He had to think how to use it. And quickly. His old Connexions worker’s words came back to him. Make a mental list. Tick off the plus points and the minus points. Plan.

He did that all the way into town. Stopped off at McDonald’s for a burger, some fries and a strawberry shake. He always ate at McDonald’s. Knew that whatever else he was guaranteed some good food.

He reached the amusement arcade. Went inside. The hall was dark and cool, welcoming after the glare and the heat outside. He stood at one of the slot machines, feeding it with coins, not really looking at what was coming up, just playing automatically.

He became aware of someone behind him. He turned. A middle-aged businessman, suited and anonymous. Easy prey. Jason said nothing, waited.

‘Are you … are you working?’

Jason turned. ‘Might be.’

‘Good.’ The perv was sweating. Must take the heat really badly. ‘What … what’s your name?’

Jason almost gave his real one. ‘Kev,’ he said.

The perv looked disappointed.

‘Why?’ said Jason. ‘What’s yours?’

The perv licked his lips. All that sweat on his face, and his lips were still dry. ‘Sean,’ he said.

‘You got a place?’ said Jason.

Sean shook his head.

‘Come with me, then.’

They walked out of the arcade, down Clayton Street towards the Central Station, where it would be easy to run, get lost in the crowds.

Piece of piss, thought Jason. Money in the bank.

Peta pulled the car to the kerb, stopped the engine. She got out, looked round. A block of new flats in front of her constructed of sickly yellow brick. Small patches of arid grass ringed the ground floor. Cars, small and new, took up most of the communal parking spaces. A huge canvas billboard was erected on the Stanhope Street side of the development showing a young, photogenic couple lounging on boxy, beige furniture, grinning perfect smiles at each other over a moderate glass of wine.
IF YOU LIVED HERE
, the banner said,
YOU’D BE HOME BY NOW
.

If I lived here, she almost said aloud, I’d be dead by now.

She was in Arthur’s Hill in the West End of Newcastle. The area seemed quiet, like it was braced for the next thing to hit it. Opposite the new flats was an old council estate: Seventies, flat-roofed boxes. She locked the car, checked the piece of paper from her pocket, began walking towards the community centre.

Mary Evans was founder member, and head of, the local branch of COU, the Citizens Organizing Union. A grassroots community organization based in the north-east, it formed and encouraged local alliances between religious
groups, schools, students and trade unions. With notable success: the streets were safer and cleaner, housing more affordable, drugs down, crime down, schooling up, local businesses committing to a minimum living wage and regeneration.

Or so the press release said. As she walked down the road to the community centre, Peta was struck by just how well maintained the estate looked. No furniture or household appliances littered the street, no broken windows. Front doors painted, gardens well tended. An obvious, but understated, pride. It looked if not a great place to live then the best it could be.

Peta had read up on Mary Evans. After she’d left the Hollow Men the police had pulled her in, tried to get her to roll over on her old colleagues. They bent laws to keep her in custody, questioned her illegally without a solicitor, subjected her to all manner of indignities, threatened herself and her family. She never gave in. Reluctantly, they released her. But her silence cost; she suffered a breakdown and, following a suicide attempt, had been hospitalized.

She had stated that it wasn’t solely due to the police: it was the culmination of years of abuse. Family, university lecturer, even fellow Hollow Men, she had claimed. Men. Always men.

Her poetry writing started during therapy and she had discovered a real talent for it. Several volumes had been published, at least one of which had won a literary prize.

Following classic patterns, Peta thought. Feminism, man hating, lesbianism. The poetry channelling her anger outwards. Peta could relate to that. She had been serious in what she had said to Donovan.

She reached the community centre: a one-storey brick building, the paintwork on its doors and sign looking fresh, the grass around it well tended. The interior was all blond wood, old but well cared for. Clean and brightly lit. It
smelled of polish. Offices led off to the side, the main hall ahead of them. From beyond the double doors came the sounds of children playing. Peta put her head round the door. Pre-school-age children were running around playing, parents and helpers alongside them. Everyone seemed happy.

‘Can I help you?’

Peta turned at the voice. A woman, old, small and thin, was standing in a doorway. It took a few seconds but Peta recognized her from the photo.