White Riot (33 page)

‘I feel great,’ said Kev. ‘For the first time in, oh, ages.
Ever.’ The happy puppy smile again. He reached out, placed his hand over Amar’s, clenched it. ‘Great.’

Amar ordered another two Becks, handed one to Kev. ‘So where’ve you been since I last saw you?’

‘Here and there,’ said Kev, necking the bottle. ‘I came down here again, hung around, met lots of interesting people.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Know what I mean?’

Amar knew.

‘I’ve packed in my job, I’m …’ He stopped, a darker thought passing through him. ‘I’m looking for somewhere else to live. I feel good.’ Another squeeze of the hand. ‘All down to you.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Right.’ Kev looked round, smiling again, expectant, as if ready to embark on an adventure. ‘So. What’s happenin’?’

Amar looked him square in the eye. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Kev shrugged. ‘So talk.’

Amar looked around. ‘Not here. Let’s go back to mine.’

An even bigger smile this time. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

‘Not for that. This is serious. Drink up.’

Amar drained his bottle, Kev, looking confused and slightly wary, did likewise. They left the bar.

Richie Vane sat on a bench at the bottom of Westgate Road, staring over at the Lit and Phil Building, eating a Mark Toney’s sugar cone as people walked past him. The sun was shining, the girls wearing short skirts and pretty dresses. No one had asked him to move, no one had stared at him, called him names, made fun of him. Usually, he would consider that to be a good day.

But not today. Not with everything else that was going on.

He had made some calls, hooked Whitman up with a guy he knew dealt in guns out of the back of a motorbike shop on Westgate Road. Richie hadn’t wanted to accompany him, not wanting to even be near guns, never mind firing them. Instead he had walked round for a bit, finally settling on the bench, trying, with his ice cream, to enjoy the day. And failing.

Two women walked past. Young, nicely dressed, with clean hair and strong smiles. Richie watched them go past. They either didn’t see him or tried to ignore him. He licked his cone, closed his eyes. There would have been a time, in a past so distant and unreal it felt either dreamed or seen only in a film, when girls like that wouldn’t have ignored him. They would have smiled, might even have talked to him. Given him their phone number and even expected him to call. Another life. When he was young and handsome. Not old and invisible.

Richie wasn’t thick. He knew what was going on. With Mary and Gideon and Alan. Trevor had told him. And what his old friends were doing was upsetting him in a way that no amount of sunshine could compensate for. He could feel his hard-won consciousness and serenity begin to fragment, drift again. The bottle was pulling at him again, telling him he shouldn’t be sitting here with an ice cream in his hands. He needed something proper to take the worries away, reintroduce him to those small, sustainable euphorias he had tried not to miss so much. And the weed was calling too. Ready to provide him with, if not answers, then the becalmed need not to ask so many difficult questions. His refuges, his comfortable caves. The last places he should go to.

Trevor Whitman didn’t need him. Not really. He was only getting in the way. Why not just get up, walk away? Trevor wouldn’t notice him gone. And Peta, well, he’d made
a promise but he hadn’t been able to keep it. Just another one. Join the queue. Walk away. And he could properly enjoy the day then.

Yeah, that sounded about right. Cool.

He got up, thinking of St Hilda’s Trust, the people who had patched his life back together. Who could do it again. He threw his ice cream in a litter bin, thought how good it would be to hold a can right now, a real cold, real strong one, Carlsberg Special, Tennants Super, something like that. He closed his eyes, shook his head, not wanting to be seduced. Opened them again.

And there stood Mary Evans.

‘Hello, Richie.’ She gave a smile that matched the day.

Richie was too startled to speak. He just stared.

Mary Evans kept smiling. ‘What’s the matter? Not pleased to see me?’

Richie frowned. He should run back up the hill, get Trevor. Tell him who was here, bring them together so they could talk.

‘Trevor … Trevor’s just up there …’ He pointed up Westgate Road.

‘I know. But it’s not him I want to see, it’s you. How you doing, Richie? Haven’t seen you in a while.’

‘No … Good. Yeah, I’ve been good.’

‘They been treating you right at St Hilda’s?’

Richie nodded.

‘Good.’ Mary Evans looked around. ‘Were you off somewhere, Richie?’

‘Yeah, I was, was goin’ back there.’

‘St Hilda’s?’

‘Yeah.’

Her smile was still dazzling. ‘I’ll give you a lift. Come on.’ She stretched out her arm, touched his. He made to walk away with her but something stopped him.

‘What?’ she said.

There was something, a niggle in his brain … Something not right …

‘What’s the matter, Richie? It’s me. Mary.’

She smiled again, even brighter if it was possible. He had always liked Mary. She had been a good friend to him. He had wanted her to be more than a friend at one point, but she had always told him that was impossible. So they had become friends. Just friends. And she was a good person. Despite what Trevor said.

He returned the smile.

‘Come on, then.’

Richie allowed her to lead him away, her hand tenderly placed on his arm, like a mother guiding an errant son back to safety.

Later, Trevor Whitman stood on the same spot, looking round. A greasy old Tesco’s carrier bag clenched in his fist. He had half expected Richie not to have waited, to have wandered off somewhere, but it was still irritating now that it had happened. But he didn’t have time to think about that.

He took his mobile out, found the number he wanted. Started calling.

Wondering what he would say when Joe Donovan answered.

Kev sat on the sofa at Amar’s flat, waited expectantly. His buoyant mood had subsided the further they had gone from the bar as he picked up the tension coming off Amar. Amar hadn’t spoken on the walk. Kev perched on the edge of the cushion, like a death-row inmate waiting for a pardon, knowing that, in the battle of hope and experience, hope always lost.

It’s AIDs, Kev thought. That’s what he’s going to tell me. Just started enjoying myself, finding out who I really am, then this.

Amar emerged from the kitchen, two mugs of coffee in his hands. He set them down, joined Kev on the sofa. Tried a smile. Didn’t reach his eyes.

‘Just tell me,’ said Kev. ‘Say what you’ve gotta say. I know what it is, anyway. What you’re gonna say.’

Amar frowned. ‘What?’

Kev took a few deep breaths. ‘AIDs. It is, isn’t it? It is. You can tell us.’

Amar almost laughed out loud. He shook his head. ‘No, Kev. Nothing like that.’

‘What, then?’

Amar looked at the coffee mug in front of him. ‘I know who you’re involved with. What you’ve done, what you’re doing.’

The slight euphoria Kev had allowed himself to feel at Amar’s AIDs denial dissipated completely. This was worse than AIDs. His heart felt like a stone in his chest, his legs
unable to support him if he stood up. He said nothing, waited for Amar to speak again.

‘The NUP. You’re a member, aren’t you?’

Kev tried to keep his breathing under control. ‘You know that. You saw the tats the other night. We talked about it.’

‘Yeah, I know, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? You’re more than just a member. Just a voter.’

Kev swallowed. His throat was dry, ashes. ‘Not any more. When I left my job I left the party. An’ everythin’ I was doin’ for them. That’s a part of me life that’s over.’

Amar sighed, nodded. ‘Shame. Because I need your help.’

‘To do what?’

Amar put down the mug that had been on the way to his lips. ‘I’ve got to trust you. I mean, really trust you.’

Kev was confused, wrong-footed, mentally running to keep up with the way the conversation was going. ‘I’m not a thief nor nothin’. Not gonna run off with your PIN number, like.’

Amar managed a smile. ‘Never thought you were.’

Kev relaxed at the sight of the smile. But only slightly.

‘You know the other night, when I told you I worked in IT? Well, I didn’t tell you the whole thing.’

Kev shrugged. ‘Did you not think I’d see you again, then?’

‘Not like this. I use computers but I also do surveillance, monitoring, all sorts of stuff. I work for an information brokerage. We’re like—’ he shrugged ‘—private detectives. But a bit better.’

Kev’s eyes widened.

‘We’re working on a case at the moment. And it’s become very … complicated. Not to mention dangerous.’ Amar stopped talking, let that sink in.

‘How?’

‘We think the NUP have taken one of my colleagues. Kidnapped her, I suppose. We don’t know whether she’s … if she’s OK, or anything. But they’ve got her. We want her back. And we need your help.’

‘But I’ve left them.’

‘They’ve taken my colleague. They might have taken someone else, we just don’t know. They’ve tried to kill another colleague of mine. They’ve also murdered a fence on Westgate Road and kidnapped a boy.’

Kev felt butterflies in his stomach. ‘Which boy?’

‘His name’s Jason. He’s the one we think you and your gang were looking for.’

The name hit Kev like a hammer. ‘They’ve got him? Aw, no …’

Amar frowned, confused by Kev’s reactions. ‘Why are you upset? You were looking for him.’

‘Yeah, but … I was gonna, gonna let him get away again …’

Amar’s eyes lit up. ‘Did he stab you?’

Kev, his face downcast, nodded. ‘I let him. It was, was the only way to let him escape.’

‘They wanted you to do something, or make him do something and you couldn’t, that right?’

Kev nodded again.

‘They’ve got him now.’

Kev looked up. ‘And your friend.’

Amar nodded. ‘We know they’ve been behind all the racist attacks recently. They’re planning something big to coincide with the election. Something that could tip the city over the edge, start a full-scale war on the streets. My partner Peta, we think she found out what it was and they’ve taken her. How am I doing so far? Am I right?’

Kev felt his whole world collapsing around him. His face was screwed up as if in pain, like he was dodging falling
shells, exploding walls and ceilings, dead and dying bodies. Bodies aflame, screaming …

‘Kev?’

He looked up. Amar was staring at him, concerned. Kev felt tears well in his eyes. Fought them back. ‘You’re right,’ he said, his voice dry from dust and debris, ‘that’s what they’re plannin’. Major Tom’s had everyone at the farm for weeks, drillin’ them like they were marines, gettin’ them to be like an army. An’ I … I was part of it.’

‘To what end?’

‘Send them out on the streets on election night. Where the, the immigrants an’ that lived. With guns. Real guns with real bullets. An’ anyone who gets in the way, we were gonna get rid of them.’ He looked at his cooling coffee in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his own mouth, as if he had been part of it.

‘Jesus …’ said Kev, as if suddenly seeing daylight after a lifetime under ground. ‘Killin’ all those people …’ Kev felt a wave of emotion build within him. He tried to hold it back, couldn’t. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …’

‘What are you sorry about? What did you do?’ Amar’s voice was quiet, a priest in the confessional.

Kev saw the student again. Sooliman, his name was. Lying on the floor. Breath leaving his body for the last time. Major Tom smiling, putting down the bat, wiping his forehead. Hard work this, he had said. We’ll have earned our beer tonight. The others laughing. Kev joining in, wanting to be one of them, but inside knowing that he had crossed a line. A line he desperately wanted to get back behind. Knowing that he had become something else, something he didn’t like, couldn’t face. Knowing in that moment that he wanted out.

‘Kev?’

‘I can’t … You wouldn’t …’

‘You can tell me.’

‘It’s awful. That student, that boy … I know who killed him. I was, was with them.’ Tears sprang to Kev’s eyes. He made no effort to hold them back.

‘Jesus … You …’

‘Major Tom. The guy in charge. It was him. I was just, just there. But I may as well have killed him. I did nothing to stop it.’

Amar said nothing.

‘I’m sick, I’m disgustin’ … I’m … I’m …’ Kev cried. Let it all out in huge, racking sobs. ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘what you goin’ to do with me? Turn me in? Hand me over to the cops?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because I’m a, a murderer, a killer …’ The tears started again.

Amar sat in silence until Kev was cried out. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

‘You handin’ me in, then?’

‘No.’

Kev looked up.

‘Wuh-why not? I need to be punished.’

‘Seems like you’re punishing yourself enough for that. Let it go, Kev. You did something horrible. Now’s your chance to atone for that.’

Kev looked at him, light in his eyes.

‘I need your help, Kev. You can turn yourself in later, but I need your help.’

Kev said nothing.

‘The farm? Where’s that?’

‘In, in Northumberland.’ Kev sniffed back the remaining tears. ‘Major Tom’s runnin’ it.’

Amar nodded. ‘D’you know where it is? That’s probably where they’ll be holding Peta.’

‘And Jason.’ Kev thought. ‘Shit, Jason … I know what they were goin’ to do with him …’

‘What?’

‘Aw, Jesus …’

‘What?’

‘Make him a suicide bomber. A martyr for the cause.’

‘Shit …’ Amar rubbed his eyes, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘This is … this is so fucked up …’

‘So what d’you want me to do?’

‘Go back to the farm,’ he said. ‘Find Peta. Get her out of there.’

‘And Jason.’

‘Him too.’

‘Then get back here. We’ll inform the police.’

‘Wuh-what about me?’

Amar smiled. ‘You’ll be a hero. Does that sound like atonement?’

Kev tried to smile. It didn’t go far. Back to the farm. Back to his old life. His heart sank at the thought. He knew what they did to traitors and spies. Especially spies.