White Riot (2 page)

Opened them again. It was no dream.

Light, harsh and unexpected, made him squint. He closed his eyes, opened them again by degrees. Took in his surroundings. A garage of some kind with bright, artificial striplights overhead. Double doors firmly closed, but through a small high window he caught a glimpse of outside. Night had fallen. The moon stared in, full and high and surrounded by blackness like an unreachable light at the end of a tunnel fraught with monsters.

He could make out the silhouettes of the four men who had kidnapped him, the harsh indoor light haloed around them. Their hoodies resembled cowls, their faces shadowed and empty like horror film monks. Anger and violence came off them in waves. The terror he had felt in the car increased. Arms grabbed him, pulled him out of the boot. He was thrown to the ground. The fall jarred his bones, stretched his joints, knocked the air from his lungs. The floor was gravel and packed dirt; it bit through his jeans, his T-shirt. Into his face.

He opened his eyes, tried to look up.

‘Don’t move.’

A boot kicked him in the jaw. He went down.

Self-pity, fear and anger churned inside him. Tears welled again at the corners of his eyes. He sniffed them back in, scared to show weakness. Scared to show them anything.

He waited.

One of the four detached himself from the group, crossed the floor. Sooliman’s head was forcibly pulled up by the hair. The restraints on his wrists pinned his arms into the small of his back. Another one crossed, knelt down before him. Spoke.

‘Don’t worry,’ the voice said. ‘You’ll get your reward soon. In paradise.’

Panic welled again inside Sooliman. He felt vomit build, unstoppable, in his stomach. Burst in his mouth. The
speaking man jumped back as vomit exploded from Sooliman’s nose and around the gag.

‘Cut him loose!’ he shouted.

The one holding up Sooliman’s head produced a long, heavy hunting knife, cut the bindings of the gag. Sooliman was dropped, retching, on the floor. Dry heaving until his stomach was empty. He finished, lay there in silence.

‘Get this cleaned up,’ the speaker said. ‘Get him cleaned up. And then get on with it. We haven’t got all night.’

Sooliman was dragged to the back of the garage, dumped on the floor. His bonds were severed but still he didn’t dare move.

‘Stand up.’

Sooliman did as he was told. Three of the men stood before him. Sooliman’s legs began to buckle when he saw what they were carrying. Cricket bats, baseball bats, clubs. All augmented with darkly glittering metal, razors, spikes, nails. The first speaker stood some distance away at the far end of the garage. The voice sounded almost sympathetic.

‘Sorry. But think of those virgins waiting to greet you.’

They rushed him. Sooliman closed his eyes as pain, sharp and enormous, started at the back of his skull, shot down his neck and all round his body like he had been wrapped in electrified barbed wire. The force of the blow knocked him to the floor. He twisted his body, turned. Another blow. Another. Pain like he had never experienced before. More hurt than he had ever felt in his life.

He couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry. He barely had the strength to just lie there.

Another blow. Another.

He thought of his mother, his family. Tried to imagine their lives without him. Their grief.

More blows. Hard, cutting deep.

Felt something unmendable sever inside.

Felt himself being wrapped up in a thick, black comforting duvet.

Made one last begging peace with a god he tried desperately to believe in.

Willed the pain to stop.

Felt nothing at all.

Marion looked up at the sky. No clouds. A white moon. No sign of rain, just the oppressive, clammy night, like the sky was holding everyone down. The city needed a storm. A good storm. Make everything clean again. Let everyone breathe.

She rounded the corner. Just one more street, then across the road, over the grass and up the lift to the eleventh floor and home. She was exhausted. The off-licence had been busier than usual tonight. Everyone wanting something cold to drink while they sat in their back yards or on their balconies. Too busy for her to have a break. Mr Patel had appreciated her work, said he would slip something extra into her wage packet. She had thanked him. He was usually good about things like that, a decent man to work for, Mr Patel. Didn’t matter that he was a Paki.

She rounded the final corner, ready to cross the grass. Or what was left of it. Now just a dump for unwanted furniture and fridges. Some of it disappeared into other flats and houses, some of it was set alight, some of it was used as a makeshift playground until it became so fragmented it just disappeared.

Before she could take another step a car came speeding up to the grass, putting its brakes on with a screech. Three men jumped out, took something out of the boot, threw it on the ground. One knelt beside it, did something that she couldn’t see, stood quickly back as the bundle caught on fire, went up in flames. Two of the men jumped back into the
car. One stood, looking round. He saw her and, making an expansive gesture, threw out armfuls of leaflets, jumped inside the car and sped away.

Marion stood there dumbfounded, too shocked to move. Her eyes tried to take in the scene before her, process it. She stared at the bundle, hoping it wasn’t what she feared it to be.

It was. A body. A man’s body.

Marion screamed. And kept on screaming.

She was still screaming when the ambulance arrived twenty minutes later.

He sat on the side of the bed, unmoving. Beside him, his mobile trilled.

Reluctantly he answered it.

‘It’s started. Falls the shadow.’

He turned the mobile off, threw it like it was contaminated.

The air felt even heavier, the room hotter.

He tried to keep breathing.

The knife danced before Jason’s eyes. He recognized it, knew its purpose. Boning and filleting. Felt a pang of knowledgeable pride, then a frown of confusion. An intake of breath, as it came towards him.

‘Kev …’ he said, wide-eyed, unsure what was happening, not liking it.

‘Shut up, you stupid twat.’

Kev had stripped his hard, scarred body down to his underwear. At first Jason had thought his friend was turning queer. But when he picked the knife up from the table, he understood. It was nothing like that. It was so there’d be no bloodstained clothing to be CSIed.

An old farm building, the walls wood, the floor dirty concrete. Curved knives and mean shears hung on nails, rusty and aged. Farming implements of wood and metal were propped up against the walls, cobwebbed, slowly falling to pieces. The ancient brown stains on the floor gave witness to what the place had been used for.

A slaughterhouse.

Kev crossed to the door, turned the key in the lock. Then back to Jason. ‘We haven’t got long. They’ll be here in a minute.’

Jason’s heart jumped into his throat, was strangling him by beats. ‘What? Kev, I’m your mate, I’m the Butcher Boy, I’m special, they said so …’

Kev tried to keep his features impassive, his voice level. ‘Yeah, you’re special all right.’

Jason gave a little giggle. ‘Yeah, I am …’

‘Yeah. Really fuckin’ special.’

Jason frowned. Kev was looking at him strangely, his eyes shining as much as the knife. ‘But Kev …’

‘Shut up.’ Kev looked at the door, back to Jason. ‘There’s no time. Listen. They brought you here ’cos they want you to do somethin’ for them.’ He pointed to the coil of rope on the floor. ‘I was supposed to get the process started.’ He sighed, like it was hurting him. ‘An’ I can’t. I can’t let you … I can’t.’

Jason couldn’t take his eyes off the blade. He’d seen it split carcasses in the shop. Pare flesh back to the bone. He knew what it would do to him. There were only a few years between them, but Kev looked so much older handling the knife. ‘But Kev, they said it was somethin’ great, for the future. I’d be a hero …’

‘You’d be dead. Fuckin’ dead.’ Kev hissed the words. Jason jumped back at the force of them. ‘Yeah. That’s what they want. You dead.’

Jason’s eyes widened. ‘But Kev …’

The blade was thrust back in Jason’s face. ‘You wanna live?’ Jason nodded. Stupid question. ‘Then shut it. I’m tryin’ to think.’

Jason looked at Kev, tried not to make a sound, not even breathe. Wondered how this man, the nearest thing to family he had ever had, a brother – a father, almost – was holding a knife on him and threatening to kill him. And he would do it. No doubt.

Kev looked to the door, back at Jason. And his eyes had changed. They looked not friendly but not so scary. Jason clung to that look like a lifeline.

‘Gonna give you a chance,’ said Kev. He put his arms by his side, held the knife loosely. ‘You know what to do. Make it look good.’

‘But Kev …’

‘Just do it, you stupid cunt,’ hissed Kev. ‘Do it.’

Jason, realizing he had no choice, rushed towards Kev. His big, muscled torso absorbed most of the impact and he remained standing. Kev made a grab for Jason, catching his shoulder. Even though Jason knew he wasn’t using all his strength, it still hurt.

Jason fought back. Aimed a punch at Kev’s stomach that Kev only made a token attempt to deflect. A kick at Kev’s groin. Kev crumpled slightly but didn’t yield ground. Jason knew he would have to step up, not worry so much about hurting his friend, concentrate, fight harder to get himself free.

Kev came at him, swinging the knife. Jason jumped out of the way. Kev swung again. Jason grabbed Kev’s outstretched arm, forced the knife back towards Kev’s body. Kev grimaced; Jason detected a smile in there somewhere.

Jason pushed hard. Kev put up token resistance. Jason kept pushing, hard as he could. It was like arm wrestling with an uncle when he was a young boy, the uncle making a show of it, letting him win ultimately. Kev seemed to be guiding the knife to where he wanted it, then, with Jason still applying pressure, let go.

The knife slid into Kev’s side, just below his ribcage.

‘Fuck …’ Kev gasped in surprise. It seemed to have hurt him more than he thought it would. He slumped to the floor as the blood started to fountain out of the wound.

‘Go, now …’

Jason looked down at his prone friend, shocked and stunned by what he had done. He looked at Kev’s near-naked body, eyes taking in the tattoos that told the story of the man’s life.

The Union flag. The flag of St George. No Surrender. A vicious, snarling thing that could have been half pitbull, half rabid bulldog.

And the home-made ones: 100% White. Ain’t No Black In The Union Jack. SKINZ4EVA. Home-made or prison issue. Dark ink making the white skin whiter.

Jason was still proud to call Kev his friend.

‘What you waitin’ for? Run, you fuckin’ puff.’

Jason remembered where he was, dropped the knife. Heard the door of the main house open. They would be there any minute.

He looked down at Kev once again, wanted to say something.

‘Look, Kev …’

‘Just fuckin’ go … And don’t stop, don’t let them get you. They’ll kill you …’

Jason turned the key, grabbed the door handle, took two deep breaths, opened it.

And ran.

Silence at first. The only sounds his feet, his ragged breathing. He risked a glance behind. Heard angry shouts, cries. They had found Kev. Realized what had happened. Were giving chase.

He put his head down and went.

The terrain was hard. He ran blindly, his trainers giving him speed, the hard and uneven ground impeding his progress. No idea where he was or which direction would offer safety. He just ran.

It was a moor of some sort. Away out in the country somewhere. Rough, sharp plants pricked and nicked his skin like little razors. Stung his arms like tiny bees when he stumbled against them. He ignored it all. Thought of nothing but escape. As a kid he was a good runner. But that was years ago. Smoking, drinking, drugs … they were more important. Thought all the rucks and fights and fucks would keep him fit. They hadn’t.

Tripping and falling, he ran. The coarse, jagged, uneven
ground caught him off guard, sent pain arcing round his body. His chest felt like it had been tipped full of hot stones and every breath he took just fanned the flames. His arms pumped furiously; he ignored the pins and needles in his fingers, the aches across his shoulders.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t dare.

Fuelled by terror, by fear, he kept on going.

His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He began to make out shapes and mounds, places ahead. Tried to plan a path for himself, avoiding too many potholes.

A hill loomed up before him, a solid mass blotting out the stars. He launched himself at it, climbing hard, trying not to lose what momentum he had gained. He crested the ridge virtually on all fours and stood at the top, gasping, his legs steady as water.

He looked behind him. His pursuers were still there, but quite a way behind. A slight hope rose within him. He had the advantage. He could do it, get away. Hide out. Or get help.

He looked ahead again.

And couldn’t believe his eyes.

At the bottom of the hill was a small forest and, next to that, cottages. Two, no three of them. Lights on, curtains drawn. And all that stood between him and them was a run down the hill.

He took a deep breath and, adrenalin and hope giving his body a fresh surge of energy, ran down the hill as fast as he could. Like his life depended on it.

Halfway down, a thought hit. He knew he was in Northumberland, but beyond that he had no idea. What if the people in the cottages owned the land he was on? Or they were friends or relatives? Or sympathizers? He would be running right back to the people he was escaping from.

And he knew what would happen then.

Changing direction mid-stride he ran towards the wood.

Jason heard sounds behind him, ran all the harder. Made the covering of the trees, risked a glance behind him. The hunters had reached the crest of the ridge, were looking around, assessing their options. He watched as they split up, some going towards the houses, some to the trees. He turned and dived into the woods.