White Riot (10 page)

George Baty’s widow, Marilyn, had remarried, cutting all her ties with the Baty family. She would now be in her fifties, the son in his thirties. And so far untraceable. Peta wrote it all down.

An internet search brought up information about Colin Baty. At the time of his brother’s death he had been a low-level street thug working manual jobs for the council, getting
drunk, taking out whatever anger he had on whoever was at hand. But his brother’s death obviously made him reassess his life. He changed, became driven. Stopped fighting, reined in the drinking, retrained. Set up in business. Telecoms. Became a local Labour councillor. Married with two children. Both girls, both at university.

Colin Baty had been on TV recently, in the papers. Asked for comment, reaction to Whitman’s book. His anger over his brother’s death and whom he blamed clearly hadn’t diminished. Was developing quite a fledgling career in punditry Blamed Whitman’s reappearance for the fact that he was on long-term sick with stress. Peta thought him a logical person to start with.

‘Hi,’ said Peta to the receptionist, ‘I’m here to see Colin Baty.’

‘Is he expecting you?’

The receptionist smiled, but Peta imagined it was calculated. She was middle-aged, smartly dressed and she looked sharp. She obviously had to deal with lots of people trying to get in, knew all the ways to stop them. That was why Peta had phoned ahead.

‘He is,’ she said. ‘Peta Knight.’

The receptionist rang up, talked. Peta waited.

The TV was on behind the desk, local news. Rick Oaten was standing outside the Royal Victoria Infirmary hosting a press conference. Peta caught some of the words:

‘You call us racist? I say we’re realist. You say we breed hate? I say we’re honest about the situation. You say we’re angry? You’re right there. We are. Angry. And defending our territory. Making our streets safe for honest, law-abiding citizens to walk down.’

The news package rounding off with a clip of Abdul-Haq, creating a thin veneer of balance. Standing on the spot Sooliman Patel was murdered, his face full of righteous
anger: ‘Rick Oaten is talking nothing but lies. This is a vicious fabrication. Where is his proof? Where are his witnesses? Where is the police report? Nowhere. Because whatever happened to this man was not a racist attack. Was not a Muslim attack. If he wants answers he should be pointing the finger at his own kind.’

And back to the studio. Peta didn’t doubt Abdul-Haq’s legitimate anger, but it didn’t play well on the screen. Next to Rick Oaten’s slickly couched hatred, he looked like just another scarily angry militant. More likely to repel than be embraced. And the location of his oration too manipulative. Oaten, conversely, had looked sincere, statesman-like, his suit immaculate, his hair perfectly coiffed. A winner with the electorate. Peta instinctively hated him even more.

The receptionist rang off. Smiled again, this time with genuine warmth for the legitimate guest. Gave Peta directions, pointed to the lifts. Peta followed the directions, found herself walking down anonymous corridors, stopping to gaze out at the view of the city. She found the room she wanted. Knocked.

‘Come in.’ A voice: gruff, male, middle-aged.

She entered. Colin Baty was sitting behind a desk looking important. She imagined it had been done for her benefit. The room was bright, airy, with another wonderful view of the city. Colin Baty was a thickset man in his mid-fifties, dressed in chinos and a white shirt, tie askew, red-faced, with curly salt-and-pepper hair that a bad journalist would have described as tousled.

‘Mr Baty?’ Peta entered the room, extended her hand. ‘Peta Knight.’

He smiled at her, or rather at her breasts. She noticed, decided to let it go.

‘Colin Baty. What can I do for you? You were a bit vague
on the phone. But first, can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee? A cold drink?’ He almost winked. ‘Something stronger?’

‘No, thanks, Mr Baty.’ Peta decided it was time to be straight, no messing about. ‘I want to talk to you about your brother’s death.’

She dug out one of her old Albion cards, hoped he wasn’t aware of them, handed it to him. He snatched it from her, read it quickly, turned it over, back again.

‘You said on the phone you were some kind of investigator. Says nothing about that here.’

‘We’re an information brokerage. That covers a multitude of activities. Right now Trevor Whitman is one of our clients.’

Colin Baty’s already red face got redder. Whatever was left of his smile disappeared. Peta thought he had all the makings of an imminent heart attack. She would definitely be getting no tea.

‘He’s back. I know. On the TV, in the paper. Bloody everywhere.’

Peta didn’t remind him of his own recent media appearances.

‘Murdering bastard. I’ve tried to get him banned, but there’s nothin’ I can do about it. Never did time, comes back up here and they treat him like some kind of hero.’

‘No one’s treating him like a hero.’

He pulled his lips back from his teeth. And Peta saw the one-time streetfighter. Anger still there, just channelled differently. He jabbed his finger at her.

‘You lot are. Taking him on as your client? Can’t do that with my brother, can you?’

‘Look, Mr Baty, I know this can’t be easy for you …’

‘Say what you’ve got to say and get out.’

‘Phone calls,’ said Peta, standing her ground. ‘Threatening phone calls.’

A spark of worry flashed across Baty’s eyes. ‘That was years ago,’ he said. ‘And nothing was ever proved.’

‘I don’t mean years ago,’ she said. ‘I mean now.’

Baty frowned. ‘Now?’

‘Trevor Whitman is receiving threatening phone calls. Now.’

‘What kind?’

‘You tell me.’

Anger built within Baty, threatened to burst, but he stopped. Instead a smile spread across his features, followed by a laugh. It seemed so alien to his face, Peta would have preferred the anger.

‘Oh, I get you. I get you. Someone with a long memory’s saying nasty things to him about what a murdering scumbag he is and he’s so scared he’s come running to you for protection. To a woman.’

His eyes went to her breasts again as if to emphasize the point. Not bothering to hide it this time. Well I think much more of you for that, she thought, hoping the distaste didn’t show on her face.

He moved his eyes back to hers. ‘And you think it’s me.’

Peta folded her arms, gave him the look she had perfected during her time on the force. ‘Is it?’

Baty didn’t speak straight away. Instead he seemed to be auditioning possible responses. Peta waited, doubted he could supply an answer she hadn’t prepared for.

‘Is he really scared?’

Peta didn’t reply.

‘I hope he is. He deserves to be.’ His anger ebbed slightly. He looked tired.

It must be tiring, thought Peta, carrying that intensity of hatred around with you.

‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘But I wish it was. And I wish him more than just threats. I wish he’d been through what I’ve
been through. I wish he’d been through what my brother had been through.’

Peta nodded. The office no longer seemed light and airy, the brightness gained only by casting darker shadows. ‘Right.’

‘My brother was a good man. He did a job that helped people. Kept them safe.’

Peta said nothing, waited.

‘Trevor Whitman was a waster. In his hippie commune. Shagging all his birds, kids all over the place—’

‘What?’

Baty looked at her, frowning. ‘What I said. Shagging his hippie birds. Left kids all over the place. Read it in the papers.’ Baty smiled. ‘Didn’t you know?’

Peta felt like she had been winded. ‘We must read different papers,’ she managed to say.

With that, he moved her to the door, closed it firmly behind her. Peta stood outside for a few seconds, steadying herself, then made her way back to the lift and out of the Civic Centre.

The sea horses didn’t make her smile this time.

She wished Albion was back together, all of them working together again.

She wished she had someone to talk to.

Kev Bright clutched his bandaged side, grimaced as the Land Rover bounced over pothole after pothole. Tried to swallow, but that just reminded him of the pain in his mouth.

What he deserved, he thought. For betraying the party. Even for Jason, the lost boy. It wasn’t what a Knight of St George did. A foot soldier of the revolution.

Then maybe he wasn’t one.

The thought hit him like a well-aimed brick in the face. For years the party had been everything. His life. It had saved him from his dull, tower-block existence. Given him a job, a sense of comradeship, of belonging. Kept the doubts down. But now they were back.

Growing up in the Benwell badlands of the West End of Newcastle, where fists spoke louder than words. And that suited Kev fine. He was king of the streets, anyone else the subject of his anger. He ruled. Anything to put off going home. Back to the ninth floor of the tombstone tower block. His dad’s alcohol-powered swinging fists. His mother’s screams.

Then his mother was gone, off to Peterlee with some Paki postman. Well, Greek, but the same thing. Then his dad lost his job in a warehouse in Tyne Dock and with it his heart. And he was too old to retrain, didn’t understand computers, couldn’t afford one. So just sat in his vest rolling fags, watching Trisha, shouting back at Jeremy Kyle if he was up early enough. His brother Joey was the clever one in the family, the one who would go far. Now lying all day in
bed, the heroin monkey on his back. Not that fucking clever.

Kev was happy being out all hours. Ignoring kids he’d gone to school with, hurt, nicked stuff off, bossed around, seeing them getting good jobs, driving good cars, leaving the area. Ignoring the fact he had trouble reading and writing. Ignoring the fact that he couldn’t get a girlfriend, didn’t find them attractive the way the other lads did. Telling himself that none of it mattered; as long as he could go to the football, bully a ticket off someone smaller, have a ruck, he was happy. The press of bodies all round him, male muscles connecting with male muscles. Twisting, grappling. Pleasure and pain. Belonging. Ignoring the rage and fear, the candle burning inside him that he couldn’t blow out. The voice that was telling him he was going nowhere, doing nothing. Ignoring all that. Until he met Gary.

Gary.

Standing over him one day in the shopping centre off Scotswood Road, Kev sitting there, knocking back can after can, trying not to think about the rest of his life. Gary stood over him, blocking out the sun, light haloed round him. A vision. A god.

Shaved head, eighteen holers, jeans and T-shirt so tight they showed off the curves and contours of his muscled body. Relaxed, in control. His jacket off, showing the tats all over his forearms and biceps. He looked, to Kev, perfect.

Said five words: ‘I know what you need.’

He did. And Kev had taken it gladly.

Gary gave answers. Told Kev who was to blame. For his mother running off. For his brother’s heroin habit. For the fact that he didn’t have a job, a future. Put it all in context with the global Zionist conspiracy. Put it closer to home with pictures he could understand: the Pakis. The niggers. The asylum seekers.

Gary showed Kev the world through his eyes. Saw crumbling concrete, burned-out brick. The whites depressed, huddling about. The new kids coming up either fuck-ups or meltdowns. Smug Pakis smiling to each other, treating the place like it was their community. Or newer foreigners from fuck knew where with dark skins and big, round, scared eyes. Jabbering away in other languages, all of them. Sticking to their own.

His neighbours.

And something moved inside Kev, an emotion coming into focus.

‘I feel your anger,’ Gary said, ‘understand your hate.’

The way he said ‘hate’. Sounded just right to Kev.

Gary knew some others that felt the same. Why didn’t Kev come along later? Meet them?

Kev did.

And never looked back.

The pub Gary took Kev to was just off the West Road in Benwell, the Gibraltar. On the walls behind the bar were flags, photos, framed letters from people Kev had never heard of but would soon come to revere as heroes. David Irving. Nick Griffin. An outward manifestation of what was inside the regulars, what was written on their bodies in scar and ink.

Then upstairs for the meeting. Sitting there, Kev felt the same rage and fear coming off all the others in the room. Felt, for the first time in his life, he could relax.

And out in front of them walked Rick Oaten.

Rick Oaten told it like it was. Rick Oaten told the truth.

Kev listened. And it all made sense.

‘I’m a Knight of St George,’ Rick Oaten said. ‘We’re all Knights of St George.’

That got a round of applause, some cheering, a few chanted
heils
.

He went on. ‘The West End of Newcastle is like this
country in miniature. It used to be a good place where families could live in harmony and everyone knew everyone else. But now it’s a run-down shithole full of undesirables and people who’ve given up trying to get out. No pride any more. No self-respect. Our heritage sold to Pakis who’ve just pissed on us.’

Another cheer when he said that one, like they’d been waiting for him to say it.

He went on. The liberal elite government. Feminism. Teaching homosexuality in schools. Human rights for terrorists. Free NHS treatment only if you’re an asylum seeker. All conspiring against the white working class. Another cheer.

‘Anybody live in a tower block?’

Kev’s head jerked up.

‘High-rise cages where they put animals. Stick them on—’ he paused ‘—the ninth floor …’

Kev’s heart missed a beat.

‘The ninth floor, and hope they throw themselves off, save them the expense of housing them.’

A huge cheer. This time Kev joined in.

‘Love your country like it used to be,’ Rick Oaten said, ‘but hate it like it is now.

‘And I do,’ Rick Oaten said, his voice, his fist raised. ‘Both. With all my heart.’

Another cheer. Kev was with them now.

‘We are one crisis away from power. One crisis away from moving in, taking over. That crisis will happen. Sooner rather than later. And then we’ll reclaim it. Make this land a proud place to be again. A land fit for heroes once more. And you, my lovely boys, will be the ones to do it. The foot soldiers of the revolution.’