White Riot (15 page)

Peta kept her arm round her.

Any further questions, and Peta had lots of them, put on hold.

‘I think he knows,’ said Peta, ‘but he’s not telling us. Neither of them are.’

Donovan swallowed his mouthful of food and looked at her and Amar. ‘Any ideas why? Either of you?’

Amar shrugged. Peta said nothing.

Pani’s in Newcastle. Situated down a cobbled street between the sweeping Georgian splendour of Grey Street and the ripe-for-gentrification Pilgrim Street. Laid back enough to be comatose, and with its stripped wooden floors and adobe décor, chatty baristas and model-grade serving
staff the Italian café was doing its usual brisk lunchtime trade.

It was a regular haunt for Donovan. For meeting clients, the rest of the team, or sometimes just by himself with a book. Pubs and bars had always been his haunt of choice, but booze, isolation and thoughts of his son didn’t mix well. So coffee, food and work filled that gap. Stopped him obsessing. For the moment.

Peta had played the tape. They had all listened.

‘So,’ said Donovan, ‘thoughts on Whitman. I’ve not met him yet, so what to make of him.’

Amar looked thoughtful. ‘Can’t decide what kind of twat he is. Special one or common or garden.’

Peta smiled. ‘They’re all special. In their own way.’

‘So largely negative, then,’ said Donovan, taking a mouthful of iced cappuccino. ‘But why would he lie if he knows who this person is? And why would your mother?’

A shadow passed over Peta’s features. ‘I don’t know.’ She sighed. ‘I tried to ask her, didn’t get the chance.’

‘OK, not to worry.’ Donovan turned to Amar. ‘By the way, shouldn’t you be off monitoring calls, or something, instead of sitting here feeding your face?’

Amar held up his mobile, patted his laptop bag at his feet. ‘Got it all routed here. The marvels of GPS. Mobile tracking station. Anything happens, I’ll know about it.’

Donovan smiled. It felt good to be working, the old team back together again.

‘So what were you doing this morning that was so important?’ said Peta.

‘Sorting out someone to go to Hertfordshire.’ He told her who.

She made a face. ‘Paul Turnbull? You sure?’

Donovan shrugged. ‘I trust him, believe it or not.’

Her head went down, she stared fixedly at her lunch. ‘Great. Just make sure you keep him well away from me.’

‘He’s single again since his wife chucked him out.’

‘Good.’

Donovan looked at Peta, said nothing. Turnbull’s not my ex-lover, he thought. He didn’t leave me with a drink problem and force me to resign from the police force.

Donovan scrutinized her. Her jeans and white T-shirt showing off her toned body, sunglasses perched on her head holding her blonde hair off her face, she looked good, he thought. Better than himself in his baggy Levi’s, once-white Cons and vintage X Men T-shirt. Then he studied her more closely. Her eyes were slightly dark-rimmed, as if she had been losing sleep over something. He knew that feeling well.

They finished their meal.

‘So what now?’ said Donovan.

‘I’m off home,’ said Amar. ‘Scan the airwaves.’

‘OK. I think you and me—’ Donovan gestured to Peta ‘—had better start hunting down the Hollow Men. And reading his book.’

‘Great.’

Donovan and Amar exchanged glances. Peta looked worried.

‘D’you not want to?’

‘My parents might be in it.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Right.’

‘I’ve scanned the index and flicked through: no mention, but you never know.’

‘And you don’t want to come across them. I see.’ Donovan and Amar exchanged smiles. ‘Could traumatize you for life, that.’

‘Yeah,’ said Amar, picking up the riff. ‘Those bad haircuts, Afghan coats, Gong albums under one arm …’

‘Worse than seeing them naked when you’re a kid.’

Peta reddened but managed a smile. ‘Piss off. You know what I mean.’ She smiled, but Donovan noted its fragility.

‘By the way,’ said Amar a moment later. ‘Where’s Jamal?’

‘Around somewhere,’ said Donovan. ‘He came into town with me. He’s a bit down at the moment. Let someone stay the night, ended up ripping him off.’

‘What?’

Donovan told them about the visit from Jason Mason.

‘He’s taking it very hard,’ said Donovan. ‘Feels he’s been abused, violated.’

‘Poor kid.’

‘Think he’s gone looking for him.’

‘To get his stuff back?’

‘Yeah. To get his pride back, mainly. Let this kid know you can’t go around doing that.’

It was time to go. Amar picked up his laptop and left. Donovan took the bill in his hand, produced a card. He and Peta both stood up. As he went to pay, he accidentally brushed against Peta’s bare arm. It was the closest they had physically come to each other since their enforced separation. She looked at him as if the touch had produced a spark, an electric charge. His eyes met hers. Their gaze held.

‘I’d better pay,’ said Donovan.

‘Right,’ Peta nodded. They both looked away, the moment broken.

That thrill again. Neither had acknowledged it, not even to anyone else, but it was always present when they were together. A frisson neither dared to take further. Because it could either be the start of something beautiful, or the end of it.

Donovan paid. They met at the door.

‘Right. Home,’ she said. ‘Got a book to read. What about you?’

‘Find Jamal. Head off. Get ready to hunt down the Hollow Men with you tomorrow.’

‘Don’t take the Metro. In fact, don’t take any public transport.’

Donovan sighed. ‘Jesus Christ, not you as well. You haven’t fallen for that, have you? We’re besieged by suicide bombers? They want you to think that way. They want to keep you scared. A scared populace is a pliant populace. Don’t give in to that way of thinking. Any of it.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I agree. Of course. But I’m ex-police, remember. I know what goes on that the public never get to see. And wouldn’t want to see, either. If they did, they’d never sleep safe in their beds again.’

‘Yeah, all right.’ Donovan didn’t want an argument.

‘Look,’ she said, uncomfortable with the words. ‘Why don’t you and Jamal come back to mine tonight? You can stay over if you want and we’ll be ready to go in the morning. I’ll cook.’

‘Or we could get a takeaway.’

Peta smiled. ‘Thought you liked pasta carbonara.’

‘I do. But I like other things than pasta carbonara too.’

‘It’s my signature dish.’

‘It’s your only dish.’

Peta pretended to be angry. ‘If you feel like that …’

There was something behind her words, Donovan knew that. She didn’t want to be alone. That was fine. Neither did he.

‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure his nibs would too when I find him.’

‘Great,’ she said, a smile of relief spreading over her face. ‘It’s a date.’

Jamal stood in the amusement arcade feeling like a hundred years had gone by, feeling like no time had passed at all.

It was where he had first come to when he had arrived in Newcastle. The only place he knew to come to. Where he could work, trade. Where all the rent boys went; to pick up johns, to score, to get money to get stuff to make them forget.

A step back in time, but also like a glimpse into the life of another person, someone he used to be, someone who didn’t exist any more. A lost boy. A dead boy.

He looked round. The familiar pings and howls, squeals and jingles, ringtones and death knells. Once, this place, or somewhere just like it, would have been his home, his theatre, his office. Where he worked and played, where he lived. Where he died.

His street sense was right back, had never left. He spotted them straight away: the hustlers, the punters, waltzing round the machines, round each other, circling closer, power-playing.

The arcade glittered like a subterranean diamond mine. The sounds like literal sirens drawing the wary and the unwary, those who couldn’t help themselves, those who didn’t want to be saved. Jamal felt a thrill course through his body. He could see the attraction, understand the allure. Because it had been in him. Was still in him.

Would always be with him.

He had to accept that, push it to one side. His life was different now. Safe. And he was thankful for that, every day. But he had work to do.

He wanted to find Jason Mason. And this place seemed like as good a starting point as any. He wanted to find him for various reasons. To get his stuff back. To teach him a lesson. To find out what this big secret he claimed to know really was. And because what Jason had done was just wrong.

But Jamal was out of the loop. There was no one he
could ask. And he was too dark to move in some of the circles he supposed Jason Mason moved in. But he could come here, watch, pick up clues. This was the likeliest place for the boy to come to. All that time working with Albion had taught him something. He scoped out the place, trying to find something, a groove, a rhythm to latch on to, get into.

It made him angry. Not just the punters but the boys as well. Selling themselves. Allowing their bodies to be violated. He knew there were arguments, well constructed ones. Conversations with Joe and Peta and Amar had straightened him out. But that anger was still there. And this place was making it flare up inside him.

He became aware of the man at his side before he actually saw him. That punter shuffle, that sour smell of old sweat and twisted needs. The thrill of transgression, of putting desire into action.

Jamal made to walk away but stopped himself. An idea, a plan, sprang into his mind. He stayed where he was, let the man approach. Make the first move.

‘You … working?’ Eyes running over his body like hot, clammy hands.

Jamal turned to face him. Saw not the man, just the need. So typical as to be almost a stereotype. Nondescript. Bland. Middle-aged. Suited and tied. To the office. To the family. To his secret desires.

‘Depends,’ he said.

The man realized he was going to have to work at it, was excited by the fact.

‘You’re a beautiful boy …’

Jamal’s stomach turned. He kept his face stone-blank.

‘Yeah,’ he said, cutting off any more words. ‘You got money?’

The man’s excitement level rose. ‘Yes.’

Jamal looked round, saw a darker area of the arcade near the back. Unpopulated. ‘Over here,’ he said. ‘Show me.’

Jamal walked, the man followed. Once in the shadows the man made a clumsy lunge forward. Jamal stopped him.

‘Money first,’ he said. ‘Wallet out.’

The man, slightly aggrieved at having to stop, pulled out his wallet, opened it. Before he could extract any notes, Jamal grabbed it from him.

‘Hey—’

‘Shut it, you fuckin’ perv,’ said Jamal, snarling round the words. ‘You don’t speak until I fuckin’ tell you to. Got that?’

The man looked around, unbelieving, as if seeking some official he could approach for redress. Jamal grabbed him, pushed him up against the back of a machine. Away from the crowds, daylight, the CCTV cameras. The man let him. A black youth, tall but wiry, was evidently something he was scared of.

‘No one gonna help you now. You got no friends here. Do as I say an’ you get out alive. Got that?’

The man swallowed hard. The darkness at the back of the cave suddenly real. No glittering diamonds here. Nodded even harder.

‘Good.’ Jamal opened the man’s wallet, took out his cards. ‘OK Mr … Sean Williams. That you?’

The man nodded.

‘Good. You like the boys, do you? Like them young?’

Sean Williams said nothing, too scared to reply.

‘Yeah, bet you do. Now you gonna do somethin’ for me Sean Williams. I’m tryin’ to find a boy, you get me? He be on the streets, maybe even sellin’ his body. Maybe even to scum like you. I wanna know when you see him.’

‘What … what’s he look like?’

Jamal didn’t have a photo, so he described Jason to him.
‘Little kid, white. Got tattoos, skinhead shit. You know, Nazi. Can’t miss him. Think you could recognize him?’

Sean Williams nodded.

‘Good.’ Jamal knew the man would say he was King Zog of Albania just to get out of the building. He needed an extra incentive. A bit more leverage. He pocketed the wallet.

‘What—’

‘I’ll hang on to this,’ said Jamal. ‘Just to be sure we understandin’ each other here. Bet it’s got all sorts of personal shit in it. Home address, pictures of your kids, your wife …’

Sean Williams looked like he was about to expire in a puddle.

‘Business cards? Phone number?’

Sean Williams nodded.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow. You’d better get out there an’ start lookin’.’

‘What … what if I can’t find him?’

‘You better find him. Otherwise wifey gets a call. You get me?’

Sean Williams nodded again.

‘Now get outta my fuckin’ sight, you piecea’ shit.’

Sean Williams almost ran from the building.

Jamal watched him go, feeling a thrill of power run through him. It didn’t last for long, though, as it was soon replaced by another feeling. One of being soiled, unclean.

He shook his head, left the arcade.

Joe would have been proud of what he had done.

He hoped.

Donovan was waiting for Jamal by Grey’s Monument. ‘Did you find him?’

‘Naw, man, not yet.’

‘You going to keep looking?’

Jamal shrugged.

Donovan told him they were off to Peta’s.

‘Not that pasta shit again.’

‘Hopefully not.’

Jamal nodded. ‘Safe.’

Jamal stared off down the street, couldn’t meet Donovan’s eyes.

‘You sure you’re OK?’

Jamal’s head snapped back. ‘Yeah, man, I’m cool. Let’s go.’

He began to walk off. Donovan frowned, watched him go, then followed.

The pub was long gone. Burned out and boarded for years, then bought cheaply and refurbished, sold as generic business premises. It had been many things in three decades and was now the offices for the NUP.

The front windows were again boarded, cheaper to replace wood than glass. A dark, conservative blue. A discreetly displayed sign. No flags, no confrontational slogans. No outward display of aggression.