White Riot (25 page)

She sighed, put her head down. Her hair hid her face. Her features were unreadable.

‘How’s … things?’

‘Things are good,’ she said.

‘Good. Listen.’ Donovan looked round. ‘D’you fancy a coffee or something?’

She looked warily at him. ‘Why?’

‘Just … instead of standing here. Sitting down. We can talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Look, Abby, let’s just be friends. Let’s talk.’

She didn’t look convinced. But she agreed. ‘OK.’

They found a Crouch End village coffee shop that was trying hard not to be Starbucks and fought their way through the yummy mummies with their parked baby carriages that looked like the child equivalent of 4×4s. They found a table, sat down. Donovan had a large cappuccino with an extra shot, Abigail a skinny latte.

‘You don’t need to lose weight,’ he said. ‘You look fine as you are.’

She stared straight at him. ‘What d’you care?’

He took a mouthful, set his cup back in the saucer. Bit back what he had been about to say. ‘So,’ he said instead, ‘how’s school?’

She shrugged, not wanting to open up to him. ‘Fine.’

‘And … everything else?’

‘What are you trying to ask?’

‘Nothing. Just … I’m as surprised as you to be sitting here. I’m sure you’re finding this difficult. So am I.’

She nodded, took a mouthful of coffee.

‘It’s really good to see you, Abby. Really good. You’re looking … lovely.’ He smiled as he said it.

A smile almost flitted across her face. Then the wariness returned.

‘How’s Mum?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘Good. And … Michael? How’s he?’

She looked up, features hardening. ‘He’s nice. He’s … He makes Mum happy.’

‘Good. She … needs a bit of happiness in her life.’

‘Well, she wasn’t going to get that from you.’

Donovan looked at his cup. He had been expecting this. ‘Look, I’m … I think we should talk. Look at, at the future. I’m sure your mum hates me. And she’s got every right to. And you too. But things are never … You probably weren’t told everything that happened. You just got your mother’s side.’

Abigail said nothing. Blew on her coffee.

‘Things haven’t been easy for me either. It’s not what I wanted. So maybe it’s … maybe it’s time we all sat down. Talked.’

Abigail looked around, as if suddenly uncomfortable with the shift in conversation. She drained as much of her latte as she could, grabbed for her bag. ‘I’ve got to go. Mum’ll be home soon.’

‘OK. Listen.’ Donovan stood also. ‘I’m really glad I
bumped into you. Really glad. And that we had a chance to, you know, just talk.’

‘You did the talking.’

‘Well, whatever. Maybe, maybe we can do it again. Some time soon.’

She made a production of gathering up her things. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to come with me. I know the way.’

‘OK.’ Donovan sat back down.

Abigail turned back to him. ‘And you’re wrong. Mum doesn’t hate you. Even though she’s got every right to.’

‘Really? What about you?’

‘I’ve got to go.’ Her face tried hard to be a mask of stone. Her eyes betrayed her. She looked at him, then away. ‘See you.’

She left. Donovan watched her go.

He waited, then stood up. Reluctantly made his way to his appointment with Maurice Courtney.

The pub was heaving with braying City workers divesting themselves of the trappings of the office. Loosened or missing ties, removed jackets. Spilling on to the pavement outside, laughing loudly and shouting. Talking up the day’s desk-bound exploits like soldiers on leave after an arduous but victorious tour of duty, stationed on some Cyprus air base rather than a boozer beside Liverpool Street Station.

Donovan stood apart from them, waiting. Pushing everything else out of his mind, concentrating on work. He didn’t think he would be waiting long. Maurice Courtney wasn’t, Donovan reckoned, an unpunctual man.

In a way he was pleased the meeting with Maurice Courtney was straight away. It would stop him going over the conversation with Abigail, playing it back word for word, looking for meanings he hadn’t gleaned the first,
second, third time around, not being content until he had squeezed every last emotional nuance from the meeting. Knowing also that it was the last thing he should be doing.

Donovan looked at the photo in his hand, tried to reconcile the smiling, happy-looking hippie with the super-confident voice on the phone. From Hollow Man to City stockbroker. Should be an interesting journey.

Donovan checked his watch again. The City boys and girls were still braying all around him. What did they do with their lives, their jobs that encouraged so little introspection, self-analysis? Why did they do it? Or was it just him – did he think too much? Did he—

‘Mr Donovan?’ The voice from the phone.

Donovan turned. The person standing before him bore little resemblance to the youth in the photo. This man wore middle age like a badge of honour. What was left of his hair was greying and swept back, his forehead rapidly encroaching on it. His red face and comfortably corpulent stomach showed his indulgence at the richer end of life’s spectrum. His hand-cut suit showed, in an understated way, that he had no trouble affording it.

‘Mr Courtney?’

Courtney nodded. They shook hands.

‘How did you recognize me?’ said Donovan.

Courtney smiled. It made the recipient feel like he was his best buddy ever. ‘You stood out. Not many City workers wear Silver Surfer T-shirts and old jeans. At least not during office hours. Shall we?’

He gestured to the back of the bar. Donovan picked up his drink and bag and followed. Courtney led him through a dark wooden doorway, down a panelled corridor to a private room. They entered. The place was old. Floor carpeted but uneven beneath. High-backed, well-worn leather armchairs beside a fire that was mercifully unlit. The kind of
place secret deals had been done in for centuries. Power granted or taken over a snifter of brandy. The Hellfire Club’s headquarters.

‘Please sit down, Mr Donovan.’

Donovan sat, feeling even more out of place in his Levi’s and T-shirt than he had in the front bar. He placed his pint of Stella before him.

Courtney announced they should be drinking something more suitable and summoned a hitherto hidden waiter to fetch a bottle of wine. Donovan didn’t catch the name but knew it would be something red and old.

It arrived. He was right. It was poured, he drank.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. A world away from the Sainsbury’s three ninety-nine special-offer stuff he usually got.

Courtney smiled as if he expected nothing else. ‘A favourite haunt of mine,’ he said. ‘I’m dining here with a friend later.’ Another smile. ‘I certainly don’t mind getting a head start on him. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ Donovan drank.

‘So,’ said Courtney, settling into his armchair, ‘what can I do for you?’

Donovan explained again. Trevor Whitman, the phone calls, the Hollow Men code. Courtney listened, face set hard as if to stop his jowls from moving. Donovan showed him the photo.

‘We’ve talked to everyone else. You’re the last.’

Courtney took the photo from him, studied it. A smile spread slowly across his features. ‘Good Lord!,’ he said. ‘Like looking into some long-lost tribe of David Attenborough’s.’ He handed the photo back, his smile now wistful. ‘All but extinct.’

‘Not that extinct,’ said Donovan.

‘Oh, the people may be alive, Mr Donovan, but the thought, the … ethos, that’s long gone. What are they up to now?’

‘You don’t keep in touch?’

Courtney shrugged. ‘Why ever for? The foolish indulgences of youth, that sort of thing.’

‘I’ve only met a couple.’ Donovan gave him thirty years of Trevor Whitman and Abdul-Haq in fifteen minutes, sketching in Mary Evans and Richie Vane. Maurice Courtney listened, enrapt. Eyes widening or narrowing depending on Donovan’s words.

Finishing, Donovan sat back, took another sip of his wine. Wondered how many other people had done the same thing down the centuries. He felt comfortable there. He could get to like this.

‘So there you have it,’ said Donovan. ‘Like speed-dating at Friends Reunited.’

Courtney smiled again.

‘Abdul-Haq,’ Courtney said. ‘Good Lord!, What a name.’

‘What about you?’ said Donovan. ‘How did you …’

‘Get from there to here? University was where you experimented.’ He shrugged. ‘Tried on different personas, sexualities. Characters. Get it out of your system before getting on with life. I mean, if you can’t be a socialist at nineteen, when can you be one? Still …’ He looked again at the photo. ‘Halcyon days, I suppose.’

Donovan, sensing what the answer would be, asked him again about the phone calls.

‘Sorry, can’t help.’ He kept looking again at the photo, looked up. ‘Of course, there is one other person you haven’t mentioned.’

‘Who?’

‘The one who took this. Alan Shepherd.’

‘Dead, supposedly. Killed in the bomb blast in that pub in Newcastle.’

A curious look came over Courtney’s face. ‘Perhaps.’

Donovan heard echoes of all the ghost stories that had
been told beside that fireplace over the centuries. Felt he was about to hear another one. ‘Go on.’

‘As I said, it was all just a bit of a laugh to me. But Alan always wanted to take things further than the rest. Go to extremes.’

‘In what way?’

‘Remember, this was the time of the Baader-Meinhofs. The Red Brigades. The Weather Underground. Bombings, kidnappings, hostage taking. Compared to what was happening in Europe and America, dissent was in its infancy in this country. Alan Shepherd admired the hell out of those groups. Loved them.’ Courtney took another sip of his drink. ‘He called himself a socialist. But then, so did Hitler.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘What I said about extremes. About taking things further. I doubt a bomb would have finished him off.’

‘So he isn’t dead?’

‘A few years ago, I was approached by an … organization for help with funding. They wanted venture capital, wanted a meeting. I told them that wasn’t what my arm of the bank did, but they were very insistent. I acquiesced.’

‘And?’

‘A new political party was being formed. They wanted funding.’

Donovan leaned forward, interested. ‘The name?’

‘The National Unity Party.’

‘And they came to you? Why?’

‘I must confess I was surprised myself. Whatever the journey I’ve made in my life I’ve never been that way inclined. I met them. And turned them down. But one of the people in the delegation looked familiar. Much older, of course, and with hardly any hair to speak of. Bespectacled. Rail-thin. Looked just like him.’

‘Alan Shepherd.’

Courtney leaned forward. ‘You have to understand, Mr Donovan, Alan and I never got on. There was something … unpleasant about him. He made me shiver. And when I saw that man at the meeting … like seeing a ghost.’

‘Was it him? Did you ask him?’

Courtney shook his head. ‘He didn’t contribute much to the meeting. And when he did speak it was with a South African accent. And he claimed no recognition of me. But he kept staring at me, like he knew secrets.’ He took another drink. ‘He got under my skin. Even in that short time. The way Alan used to. And I’ve never forgotten it.’

Neither spoke.

Courtney looked at his watch. ‘Mr Donovan, I don’t wish to appear impolite, but …’

Donovan stood up. ‘Of course.’ He thanked Courtney for his time.

‘Sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’

‘On the contrary. You’ve been a great help.’

‘That photo. Could I keep it? I don’t have anything from those times.’

Donovan took his address, said he would get a copy made. They shook hands. He left.

On the way out he brushed past someone he thought he knew and smiled automatically. It was only when he had reached the end of the corridor and was about to head into the bar that he realized he knew the person only from the TV and newspapers covering their exploits at Parliament.

Maurice Courtney’s dining companion was as high up the political tree as it was possible to get.

He checked his messages, intending to go back to the car, then the hotel. Then the bar. Stay another night.

But the message from Jamal had him jumping in the car and heading back to Newcastle as fast as he could.

Peta drove over the Scotswood Bridge out of Newcastle through Gateshead. Towards her family home.

She turned up the radio, let Kasabian’s thud and blunder drown her thoughts out, add to her headache. Hard enough to concentrate on what she had to do.

She reached her childhood home, got out of the car, pulled her thin denim jacket around her, looked up at the house. Thought of turning around, walking away, leaving questions unanswered. Couldn’t. She popped a mint into her mouth, hoped it disguised the alcohol that she could still imagine emanating from her. Took one deep breath. Two. Went in.

Lillian was in the sitting room watching TV. Glass of red wine on a small table at her side. Whitman on the sofa, his own glass of wine beside him.

‘Didn’t figure you for a
Deal Or No Deal
fan,’ Peta said, walking into the centre of the room, voice shaking as she said the words.

Lillian looked up. ‘Hello, darling.’ She took a sip of wine. Smiled, her features tense. Like she was expecting a blow. ‘Sit down, make yourself at home.’ She looked at the TV, glad to have her attention away from her daughter. ‘It passes the time. I can’t see any skill in this. He talks about a game plan, a strategy, but really there’s nothing to it. There is no game plan. There’s no way to play this thing.’

‘And yet it’s compulsive.’ Whitman also had his eyes fixed to the TV.

Peta took another deep breath. ‘Turn it off, Lillian.’

Lillian looked at her, uneasy.

‘I don’t want to talk about strategies and game plans. I just want some answers. Turn it off.’

Lillian pressed the remote. The screen went dead. Her mother scrutinized her, frowned. ‘Peta, have you been drinking?’ Incredulity in her voice.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been drinking,’ said Peta. ‘Course I have. How else would I cope with this?’