White Riot (38 page)

‘We need her.’

‘She isn’t a professional. She’s a civilian. A believer. She’s not one of us. Not any more.’

‘I have her on a tight leash. And if that fails, which it won’t, there’s always his lover.’

Abdul-Haq stared hard at Sharples. ‘Keep a sense of perspective, Alan. Don’t let this get out of hand.’

Sharples grinned and Abdul-Haq saw the old Alan Shepherd. ‘Out of hand? There’s too much at stake now to let it get out of hand. By any means necessary, Gideon – isn’t that what we agreed?’

Abdul-Haq said nothing. Sharples continued.

‘Things go forward as planned.’

Abdul-Haq opened his mouth to argue; Sharples talked over him. ‘Just keep your nerve. Once the elections are over, things move into a crucial phase. Just—’

The door opened loudly, swinging back on its hinges, hitting the wall. The two men looked up, startled.

‘Secretary tellin’ me you’re in a private meetin’ and not to be disturbed.’ An angry Rick Oaten stood framed in the doorway. ‘Told her, I said, this is my fucking party. There’s no such thing as a private meeting without me being there. I—’

He stopped talking, saw who Sharples was talking to. Or rather, what Sharples was talking to. An Asian. A Paki.

‘What the fuck’s goin’ on? Who’s this? What’s he doin’ in here?’

Sharples stared at him, swallowed down his anger, tried to ride it out constructively. ‘Why aren’t you out trying to win an election, Rick? Haven’t you got babies to kiss and hands to shake?’

‘But …’ Oaten pointed at Abdul-Haq. Incomprehension was coagulating round his anger.

Sharples stood up, crossed to him. ‘What, Rick? Have you something to say? Something on your mind?’

Oaten didn’t notice the menace, the danger behind Sharples’s words. He kept staring at the Asian man. ‘I know
you,’ he said, trying to regain his voice. ‘You’re, you’re Abdul-Haq.’ Oaten frowned, looked from one man to the other. ‘Abdul-Haq … what, what the fuck …’

Abdul-Haq shifted uncomfortably. He looked across at Sharples, who had a gleam in his eye and a curl to his lip. Abdul-Haq had seen both things before. Usually as a prelude to someone being hurt in some way. And to Alan Shepherd enjoying it.

Oaten’s voice returned. He slammed the door behind him so there could be no enquiring faces, turned back to the two men in the room, pointed an accusing finger at Abdul-Haq. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Here?’ Oaten laughed. A harsh, ugly sound. He looked round to the door, summoning unseen support. ‘You must have a fuckin’ death wish, mate, comin’ here like this.’

‘He’s here as my guest, Rick,’ said Sharples.

Oaten looked at Sharples, back to Abdul-Haq, back to Sharples, his words sinking in. ‘What? Your, your fuckin’ what?’ He was blinking quickly, twitching.

‘Guest, Rick. And I gave orders not to be disturbed.’ Sharples’s voice had dropped in register. Flat, menacing.

Oaten either didn’t notice or ignored it. He gave another sharp laugh. ‘Well. I see now that, that …’ He tailed off, lost for words. He shook his head, regained his thread. ‘Get out. Go on, get out. You’ve got no place here. And take the fuckin’ Paki with you.’

Sharples stood, immobile, looking at Oaten, smiling. Abdul-Haq sat rigid, braced for a storm to hit.

‘Oh, Rick,’ said Sharples, a weary sadness to his words, ‘I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.’

Oaten stared. ‘This is my party, this is my room. Get out.’

‘Rick … you’re pathetic.’ The smile faded from Sharples’s face.

‘What?’ The tics started to jump again in Rick Oaten’s cheek. ‘What did you call me?’

‘Pathetic. Your party, your room.’ Sharples moved slowly towards him, talking all the time. ‘This was never your party, Rick. This is not even your room. You’re only here because it suited my purposes to have you here.’

‘What—’

‘Listen. It’s about time you heard a few home truths.’ Sharples was face to face with Oaten. ‘I chose you to do a job. A very specific job. I found you, trained you, educated you. Made you what you are. And what are you? A tool to do my work. A puppet to do my bidding.’ Sharples smiled. ‘A fool.’

Oaten’s face went red. ‘What are you fuckin’ …’ He wanted to be angry but there was too much doubt, too much confusion racing through him.

‘Your room, your party? Only because I let you believe it. Only because it suited my purposes.’

‘What … what purposes?’

‘Business, Rick. Purely business. Same as my colleague here.’ He gestured to Abdul-Haq.

Oaten looked round, agony in his expression, confusion in his gestures. He raised his fist to Sharples. Abdul-Haq was off his seat, behind Sharples, backing him up.

Sharples laughed. ‘You going to hit me, Rick? I wouldn’t recommend it.’

The fist dropped.

‘That’s better.’

‘But you, you … believed …’

‘No I didn’t. I don’t believe in what you believe. I don’t care what you believe in. You suited my purposes.’

‘You … you used me …’ Oaten sounded like he was crumbling away.

‘That’s right, Rick.’

‘Why? Why me?’

Sharples shrugged. ‘Why not? I needed someone and you ticked all the boxes. If it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else. Some other fanatic. True believer. They’re the easiest to manipulate.’

‘Like the Danish cartoons,’ said Abdul-Haq.

Rick Oaten looked between the two of them, confused. ‘What? What?’

‘Good point, very educational. The Danish cartoons of Mohammed,’ said Sharples. ‘Got all the Muslims up in arms. Thing is, the ones they were complaining about weren’t even there originally. They were only put in later to exploit the potential for hatred. It’s very simple.’ He looked at Oaten’s uncomprehending face. ‘Probably too simple for you to understand.’

Oaten again looked between the two. His body crumpled. He looked around, pulled at his tie. Tried to move, couldn’t. Didn’t have anywhere to move to. ‘I don’t, don’t know what to do …’

‘I’ll tell you, shall I?’ said Sharples, putting his arm round Oaten’s shoulder and smiling. ‘You go back out there, you say nothing of what’s gone on in here and you win your election. That’s what you do.’ Sharples adjusted Oaten’s tie, fastened his top button. ‘Chin up, smile.’

Oaten just stared at him.

A dark light twinkled behind Sharples’s eyes. ‘What alternative have you got, Rick?’

Oaten looked round the room, at the two men, at the door he had entered through. ‘None,’ he said.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Sharples, giving his shoulders a squeeze. ‘Look like a winner, feel like a winner, you are a winner. And if you’re not a winner, or you want to tell someone about this, it’s not too late to replace you. Permanently.’

Oaten looked into Sharples’s eyes. He understood.

‘Now go.’

Oaten turned round, made his way to the door, slinked silently through it. Sharples and Abdul-Haq waited until he had gone before speaking.

Sharples gave another rare smile.

‘Like I said, nothing to worry about.’

Abdul-Haq nodded.

Sharples checked his watch, looked at the darkening skies outside. ‘Polls should be closing soon,’ he said. ‘And since you and I aren’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future we may as well watch the election results here.’

Abdul-Haq looked towards the door. ‘Won’t—’

‘We won’t be disturbed.’

Sharples settled himself on the chesterfield. ‘Whisky?’

Abdul-Haq gave a small smile, tried to commit himself to looking relieved. Failed. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

The polls had closed. The count was starting.

Politicians and would-be politicians could relax their facial muscles, let their rictus smiles go. Get on with the business of waiting. All around the country bins were emptied, armies of volunteers got to work, voting slips were counted by hand.

On TV David Dimbleby settled into his studio, readying himself for an all-night shift before an audience of students of politics and insomniacs.

At the farm in Northumberland they were getting ready to move out.

The foot soldiers were lined in the barn, listening to Major Tom give their final instructions before getting into the backs of the four white vans. There was no pushing or jostling. No joking, name-calling, rough-housing. Just concentrated, focused men standing to attention, listening. All dressed in uniform of combats, boots and black nylon bomber jackets.

Major Tom had a map of the West End of Newcastle in front of him, a pointer in his hand.

‘A team,’ he said, gesturing to the first four men, ‘will be stationed here. B team here, C team here and D team here.’ He looked round the group. ‘Don’t worry about the names of your groups. It doesn’t mean anything. Just something to identify you all by.’

The men said nothing. A well-drilled, well-trained platoon.

‘I want you all to wait for my signal. It’ll come over the radio. I’ll be in the central command vehicle. When you hear that, you go into action as planned.’ Another look round the group. ‘Any questions?’

There were none.

‘Good luck, everyone. Pick up your weapons from the armourer and off you go.’

The men filed out. No talking, no shambling. Straight lines all the way to the milking shed, where they were each given a firearm. Some were rifles, some shotguns, some handguns. They had been familiarized with them, trained, and they weren’t tempted to play about with them. Then on to the waiting vans.

Kev, standing with his back against the door of a black 4×4, watched it all, mobile hidden in the palm of his hand. Surreptitiously, he captured the scene, disguising the camera’s click with a small cough.

He had kept the camera with him all afternoon, trying to find a way to phone Amar and failing. Major Tom had banned the use of mobiles; no one was to know where they were, what they were up to. He had introduced the strictest penalties for anyone caught breaking that rule. So Kev had had to think on his feet. He had kept it hidden, taken pictures of the farm, the layout of the camp and, from a discreet distance, Major Tom and his lieutenants. He had been lucky so far. But he knew that luck could run out at any moment. And he didn’t want to endure what would happen to him then.

He felt the stolen knife, wrapped in cloth to protect his skin, nestling at the small of his back. That gave him some consolation. It was something he was familiar with, something he knew how to use to the best advantage. He drew comfort from having it there, strength.

Another click, another cough. Then Major Tom came striding towards him.

He hurriedly flipped the camera shut, slipped it into his pocket, swallowing hard, hoping Major Tom hadn’t seen him do it. Major Tom drew level.

‘Right,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Shouldn’t be long now. You may as well get in the car.’

‘Right, sir.’ Kev got into the car, tried not to let his reluctance show. Because Jason was in there waiting. Sitting, staring straight ahead, the blink of his eyes, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only indications that he was actually alive. Kev had tried to talk to him. Jason had said nothing. Shared memories, told him jokes. Nothing. Eventually he had given up, sat there next to him, staring alongside him. It had become too much. That was when he had climbed out of the 4×4, started taking photos again.

That was bad enough. But worse was the plastic explosive strapped to Jason’s stomach. Kev didn’t know how much was there, but knew it was a lot. Enough to do a great deal of damage. Jason’s jacket was zipped up to his chin, no wires showing.

Kev sat back next to him, sighed. Wondered how his life had come to this.

‘All right, mate?’ he said to Jason.

No reply.

Kev felt like the relative of some comatose car-crash victim, sitting at his bedside, talking to him in the hope that something he might say, some trigger, might bring him back to life. He looked at Jason, who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence. Kev went back to looking out of the window.

And saw something.

A separate white van had backed up to the door of the outhouse where he suspected Peta was being held. He saw that scary, strange, wizened old hippie woman who had been wandering around for the last few days go to the door, open the padlock with a key. He took the camera out again,
glanced round for sight of Major Tom. He was off talking to one of his lieutenants. Good.

Kev opened the door a little, placed his camera hand on the crack. The back doors of the van were opened, obscuring Kev’s view. He tried to crane his neck, see around them. He caught glimpses: what looked like a bound figure being helped, if that was the word, then thrown into the back of the van.

Click. Cough.

And again.

Then the doors of the van were slammed shut. Kev looked to the front of the van, angled the camera at it, hoped he had got a shot of the numberplate. He closed the door, sat back, began to go through the phone, see what he could do about sending the photos.

‘They’re not allowed.’

Kev jumped, almost dropped the phone. He looked round. Jason had pulled his gaze away from whatever it was he had been looking at and turned to face him.

‘What?’ Kev was almost too stunned to talk.

‘If they find you with that,’ he said, voice small and distant, like it was coming down a transatlantic phone line, ‘they’ll be really angry with you. You’d better get rid of it.’

Kev swallowed. ‘You’re not going to tell them, are you?’

Jason looked like he was making up his mind. ‘No,’ he said eventually, although he didn’t sound convinced.

‘Look, Jason, I can get you out of here. I can. But you’ve just got to trust me. Can you do that?’

Jason said nothing.

‘Can you?’

Jason frowned, like he was receiving thoughts he didn’t know how to process.

‘Can you?’

The front door of the 4×4 opened and Major Tom got in.
Kev quickly shoved his phone into his pocket. Major Tom looked round, his eyes flashing down to Kev’s hand. Kev didn’t know whether he had seen him or not.

‘Not long now,’ said the major.

Kev waited for him to get up again but he stayed where he was, in the passenger seat. Jason had resumed staring into space.

Kev, not knowing what was going to happen next, joined him.