White Riot (24 page)

It was him. No doubt about it.

He joined Amar on the bed. Jamal hurried on to his own room, closed the door firmly behind him.

He got ready in record time, pulling on jeans, trainers and T-shirt so fast he barely knew if they were the ones he had planned on wearing.

Pushed the door open, crept slowly out.

Closing the front door of the flat behind him, he ran down the hall and outside. Looked around.

Didn’t have a clue where he was going to go.

Just hoped he could reach Joe or Peta on their phones. Didn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t.

Mr Sharples sat in the corner of his favoured coffee shop. Customers streamed in and out, ignoring him. Not seeing
him. He sipped his espresso, picked up his knife, sliced his almond croissant down the centre. Halved that. Precisely: making sure each piece was an exact quarter. He lined the pieces up on his plate symmetrically, regarded them. Almost a shame to eat it.

His fingers were poised over the top left-hand square, working in his usual order, when his phone rang. Irritated, he answered it.

‘Sharples.’

‘There have been some interesting developments.’

He waited.

‘A pair of investigators from a firm called Albion have been making nuisances of themselves, asking about old associates of Trevor Whitman. And threatening phone calls.’

A small shock ran through Mr Sharples. He compressed it until there was nothing to show but a tiny tic in his left cheek. It pulsed once, then no more. ‘Do they have tapes of the voices?’

‘No, only Whitman’s word.’

Another pulse appeared on Mr Sharples’s face, this time at the sides of his mouth. A smile. ‘Whitman thinks he is a clever bastard.’

‘How shall we persuade him otherwise?’

Mr Sharples looked at his quartered croissant. Touched it, toyed with it. Moved the squares of pastry into separate areas of the plate, leaving a geometric cross in the centre. ‘We must act soon. Swiftly and decisively.’

‘One of those asking questions was the daughter of Lillian Knight.’

Another pulse in Mr Sharples’s cheeks. His eyes glittered darkly. ‘Clever fucking bastard. He thinks that’s an advantage.’

‘Let’s hope it isn’t.’ The threat in the caller’s voice was obvious.

‘Give me an hour. I’ll call you back.’

Mr Sharples broke the connection, pocketed the phone.

He looked down at his plate, at the neatly divided sections. He was no longer hungry. He piled them one on top of another, carefully balancing them, then picked them up with his right hand. And squeezed. As hard as he could. His face expressionless. Eventually he could squeeze no more. He opened his fingers, let the pulpy pastry drop to the plate. It lay in an inedible lump.

He drained his coffee cup, licked his fingers clean.

They weren’t ignoring him now.

He stood up, left the coffee shop.

Work to do.

Peta opened her eyes. Sunlight hit with an almost physical force. She closed them again, groaned. Opened them slowly.

She was in a bed and it wasn’t her own. She felt under the covers. Naked. She lay back, groaned. She was alone. She looked round the room, saw her clothes discarded in a trail from the door, male clothing lying around also. She tried to think. Nothing. She was in the Forth almost downing a large gin and tonic, then … nothing. A dark blur.

The bedroom door opened. In walked a man, early twenties she guessed, wearing a towelling dressing gown and carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee and two plates of toast on it.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

He set the tray down on the bed, took his dressing gown off. He was naked underneath. Peta tried not to look. Failed. He wasn’t bad looking, that was something, with a fit body. He got into bed next to her. She moved as far away from him as possible. He smiled at her.

‘Feeling all right?’

Peta felt numb, braindead. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Fine.’

‘What a great night,’ he said, biting into his toast.

Peta said nothing. Closed her eyes. Things were falling into place. Frames, images slotting themselves into the blackness of her memory. Glimpses: being in a bar somewhere, a club, her head pounding, music playing. Someone talking to her. Looking at him as if from down a long, dark tunnel. Dancing, flinging herself around on the floor. An arm round her, supporting her. Then the weight of a body on top of her, her on top of the body. Alongside.

She sighed. She had done it. Got drunk. Picked up a guy and had sex. And she couldn’t remember any of it. She couldn’t believe it.

‘Not hungry?’ he said, pointing to her toast.

‘Yeah …’ She tried to sit up. Her head spun, her stomach lurched. Oh, God, oh, God …

‘You were putting it away last night,’ he said. ‘Like you were trying to rid the world of alcohol by drinking it.’ He laughed, looked concerned when she didn’t join in. ‘You OK?’

Peta looked at him, not knowing what to say.

Realization dawned on his face. ‘Oh, my God … You don’t … you don’t remember …’

Peta shook her head. ‘No … nothing …’

‘Oh, my God … oh, my God …’

‘What?’

‘We … we had sex.’

‘I kind of figured that,’ she said.

‘No, I mean … you wanted it too. In fact, it was your idea. You said—’

‘Don’t tell me.’ It came back to her, another jigsaw piece slotting back in.
I want to fuck your brains out
. She groaned.

He fell silent.

She stared at the ceiling. ‘What happened? Exactly. When we got back here. What happened?’

He looked at her, embarrassed now. ‘You … you said—’

‘Yes. I know. After that.’

‘We had sex. Lots of … of sex. Then you curled up. Looked sad. I put my arm around you. You cried as you … as you went to sleep.’

Peta sighed. ‘What’s your name?’

‘John. I’m a student at … at Newcastle Uni.’

‘Peta.’

‘I know. Look … I’m not … I don’t usually do this kind of thing. And to be honest I couldn’t … couldn’t believe my luck. I mean, you were, you …’ He sighed, eyes dropping to the half-eaten toast. ‘I don’t often get, you know … someone as classy as you.’

‘Classy? A drunk bitch throwing herself at you?’ She didn’t even try to keep the self-loathing from her voice.

‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘I meant someone as good looking. You know. Bit of style.’ He blushed when he said it.

Peta smiled. ‘Thank you. Well, I’d better get going.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He got out of bed again, left the room. Peta, as swiftly as her hangover would allow, picked up her clothes and put them back on. She felt dirty. Consumed by self-hatred. Then thought of her mother and Whitman. And felt like breaking down. The drinking hadn’t helped, hadn’t given any comfort. She knew it wouldn’t.

She looked back at the bed. Oh, God. What had she done? The first sex for ages and she couldn’t remember it. And with a stranger. Had they used protection? She needed an STD checkup. A pregnancy test. Oh, God. She sighed again.

Tears were welling up inside her. She didn’t want to let them out. Not here, not now.

She opened the bedroom door. John was loitering, not knowing what to do with himself. She saw his face. He looked genuinely concerned for her.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘No, John, I’m not.’

‘Oh.’ He really looked worried. ‘Look, it was OK. We used protection. I … I insisted. I meant it. I don’t do this kind of thing usually.’

‘Neither do I.’

She asked him where she was. He told her. Fenham. She could have guessed. Student central. She asked him about her car.

‘Dunno. We got a cab back. Must have left it at the club.’

‘Which was?’

‘Tiger Tiger.’

Jesus, she thought. I could have chosen somewhere a bit better to have a meltdown in.

She thanked him and left. The warm air fell over her body like a blanket. The walk would do her good, clear her head.

She needed help. She needed to confront things head-on.

She went to pick up her car.

Kev felt better than he had in ages. A new man. When he slept he hadn’t seen that burning student. His wound hadn’t given him any pain. And someone had held him all night. He wished his life could always be so good.

Perhaps it could.

He walked through the city, feeling the sun shining down on him. Feeling glad to be alive.

His side was starting to hurt again, guilt trying to stab him, but he ignored it. He had thought guilt would have consumed him like an obese kid eating a Big Mac for shagging a Paki poof. If he had been a socialist it would have been everything the party hated in one go. But he didn’t feel guilty. He felt good. Right.

The best he had felt since Gary. Even better.

He heard again Amar’s voice in his ear, his mouth on his mouth. Flesh against flesh. Pleasure in reliving pleasure.

He wanted to do it again.

He would do it again.

Amar’s voice in his ear, his mouth on his mouth. Flesh against flesh.

Hard again just thinking about it.

Maybe he should go for a drink. Sit somewhere and think. Make some decisions. Sort his life out.

He turned round, headed back down to the kind of pubs he knew he shouldn’t go in but knew he would.

His phone rang. He ignored it. And again. He ignored it. And again. He had to answer it. Just to shut it up. He opened it, saw who it was on the display.

Rick Oaten.

He stopped walking, looked at it. Turned it off, pocketed it and kept walking.

Down to the bars that he shouldn’t go to.

Unable to believe he had actually done that. Feeling like his life had just entered a new phase.

‘Wake up.’

Jason opened his eyes. He was in some kind of cell, lying curled up on the floor. He was cold, shivering. Two men were in front of him, dressed from head to foot in black, black balaclavas covering their heads. The light too dim to make out any features.

Jason did as he was told, sat up.

‘You don’t run away again,’ said one of the balaclavas. ‘Got that?’

‘Huh-who are you?’ he said.

‘I asked you a fucking question,’ screamed the balaclava. ‘You don’t run away again. Got that?’

‘Yuh-yeah.’

‘Good. Let’s make sure.’

Before he could say or do anything further, the room seemed to be filled with bodies, rushing at him. They grabbed him, pulled the clothes off him, kicked and punched him as they did so. Left him lying in a heap on the cold stone floor.

‘Try runnin’ now,’ said the balaclava.

They started to file out of the door. Jason stayed where he was, curled on the floor, shivering, hurting.

‘This isn’t over,’ said the balaclava. ‘This is just the start.’

He slammed the door behind him.

Jason didn’t move. Didn’t even cry.

Donovan sat outside the house again. The street still looked the same in the afternoon sunlight. The front door remained closed. The Multipla missing, the house empty.

He wished he could just walk inside, put his briefcase by the door, make a coffee, sink into an armchair, read the paper. Ask the kids how their day at school had been, kiss his wife, all sit round the table and eat dinner.

But he couldn’t.

The further he had driven from Newcastle, the more the Whitman case had diminished. He had to meet Maurice Courtney later, but right now that was the furthest thing from his mind. David was back firmly in his head. It was like the boy, or the hope of the boy, was a last branch sticking out above a raging river that was sweeping him away to an uncertain future.

He rubbed his face, ran his fingers through his hair. Exhaled. Yearning grew inside him again. He wanted to walk up that path, get his key out, touch the front door, feel it swing open under his hand, feel the change of air on his face as the outside world ended, home began.

Bitter, pointless anger welled up inside him. Impotent rage at the unfairness of life. He gritted his teeth, forced it back down. And away.

No good. He had to do something.

They weren’t home. It wouldn’t hurt. Just look in the windows, see a glimpse of his old life. Hopefully soon to be his new life. Do it.

Donovan got out of the Scimitar, crossed the road. Reached the front gate, stopped. Heart beating out a samba, hands shaking, he pushed it open. It groaned slightly, still needed oiling. One foot tentatively in front of the other, he walked down the path.

The front door. Hand in midair, thinking about touching it. It had been painted but the leaded glass was still the same. The tree at the side had grown, shadowing him from the road.

He breathed hard, his chest tight. It was like confronting something that had only ever existed in his mind, a dream come prosaically true. There all along. All he had to do was reach out, touch it.

He reached out. Touched it.

Solid. Firm. Locked.

He sighed. Felt suddenly foolish. He could look in the window but knew things would be different. New furniture, new carpets. Life continued without him. He didn’t want to see. And besides, it was a Neighbourhood Watch area.

Stupid, he thought. Pointless. What had he expected?

He turned round to go back to his car, his hotel, and the first drink of the evening. And walked straight into Abigail. His daughter.

She jumped back, startled. He did the same.

Her expression changed as she realized who he was. The surprise and fear of meeting a stranger loitering in front of her doorway gave way. At first Donovan was convinced she looked pleased to see him. He would have sworn a smile jumped into her eyes. But it soon went. Replaced by her default setting for him: dislike. Distrust. And that unforgiving anger over his departure rekindled.

‘What d’you want?’

‘Hello, Abigail.’

She looked round, as if scared someone would see her talking to him. ‘What are you doing here?’

Donovan shook his head. ‘I … don’t know. I was … passing, in the area, thought I would … just …’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I wanted to see you.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What for?’

Because I think I’ve found your brother. Because we can all be a family again
.

‘I just …’ He shrugged. ‘Do I need a reason? I had some business down here. I couldn’t not stop off.’ He looked at her in her school uniform, book bag slung over one shoulder. And felt very proud that she was his daughter. Then ashamed. Her upbringing had nothing to do with him. ‘You’re looking well.’