White Riot (3 page)

Once inside he looked around, blinking. The dark outside nothing compared to the dark within. He rubbed his eyes, tried to get them to acclimatize quickly, assessed his options. They would be coming in soon. They didn’t have torches, so they would be as blind as he was. He had to use that to his advantage. If he stayed where he was they would find him. If he hid on the ground they would find him. He looked upwards.

Almost giggled.

His eyes getting used to the darkness, he found a suitable tree with plenty of thick branches and covering foliage and began to climb.

Jason knew he wasn’t the smartest kid around. Never had been. Although his memory went back only to the time his mother’s old boyfriend had smacked him around so hard he had to be taken to the hospital with a fractured skull, so who knew? Maybe he had been smart before that.

Meeting Kev had been a smart thing. A good thing. The best that had ever happened to him at the time. Living rough, selling whatever he could for money. Bit of weed, coke, heroin, stuff he’d nicked, his body. Anything. Just drifting, going with the flow. Getting through life one day at a time.

He thought Kev was a punter at first. Sold him some weed first, then heroin. Didn’t look the type but you could never tell. Then kept coming back, even when he didn’t
want to buy. Started talking. Asking him about his family, where he was from. With his muscles and tats he didn’t look like no social worker, but Jason couldn’t be too careful. Wary, he told him some true stuff and some lies, mixed it a bit. Confused himself by the end of it.

Kev started looking out for him, looking after him. Kept the local gangs off his back, the proper gangsta dealers, even found him somewhere to live. A room in a house with three others.

Three just like him. Homeless, rootless. Wanderers and strays. They all congregated at a local pub. The Gibraltar. Jason tagged along with them. Wasn’t much to look at from the outside, even less from inside. Bare walls and floors. Only decoration the flags and photos round the place. And there was Kev and his mates slap bang in the middle. Regulars in the place, ruling it. Wary at first because they looked so mean, like the kind of men who would use him then not pay him or try to hurt him afterwards. But this lot weren’t like that. So Jason, little by cautious little, began to go with the flow.

Eventually he came to almost trust the men. Dared to allow himself to feel at home, even.

Then Kev had another surprise. A job. Working in the butcher shop with him. Jason had never had a job before, didn’t know what to do. But said yes, thought it would be a laugh. So there he was. The Butcher Boy, sharpening his knives.

Jason kept some of himself back, ready to run at the first sign of things turning bad, of the bill needing to be paid. Because all of this didn’t come free. There had to be a price somewhere. But it never arrived. Instead came a strange feeling. One he didn’t have the emotions to respond to. A sense of belonging.

Then came the meetings. At first he thought that was the
price, like the Christians making you say you believe in God and Jesus before they would feed you or give you a bed for the night. But it wasn’t like that. They just told him their truth until it became his.

And then he really did feel he had found somewhere he belonged.

And now this.

They came hunting. Pulling branches off trees, fashioning them into clubs, thrashing away at the ground, the low-lying ferns and plants, hitting out blindly and fiercely, wanting to hurt, to maim.

They didn’t find him.

Up above, not daring to move or barely breathe, Jason crouched, the branches snagging his clothes, ripping his skin. He watched, listened. Heard their angry voices issuing orders to each other, as if by shouting loud enough and strongly enough they would make him appear.

He didn’t.

Eventually they wearied. Reluctantly accepting defeat, they retreated from the woods. Taking a few last smashes at bushes and tree trunks as they went.

Jason still didn’t dare to move. He had seen a film once where this guy on the run was hiding and the bad guys looking for him said they couldn’t find him and left. So the good guy went out when he thought the coast was clear. And the bad guys had tricked him and were waiting for him and caught him. And killed him. So he would stay where he was. Because they might have seen that film too.

Jason sighed, as loudly as he dared, letting the tension, the terror out. He needed a plan. Some way to stay alive.

At first he could think of nothing. Then began to wonder how an ordinary Tuesday could turn out like this. Panic built inside him. He would have to sit in the tree for ever,
getting older, wasting away with nothing to eat and drink and no way to even go to the toilet. Maybe he would be pecked at by birds, big birds. Maybe they had them round here, he didn’t know. Or some kind of wild animal that could jump up trees.

Oh, God.

He wanted to scream and almost did, stopping himself by shoving his fist inside his mouth to stifle the sounds. They might still be there, waiting. Ready to kill him. He waited until the wave passed, removed his fist, tried to calm down, think.

His old Connexions worker was always telling him to make a list of things, look at the plus points. He had always thought that was bollocks, but he had to do something. So he tried.

How much money did he have? Not much.

Where was he? In Northumberland.

Who did he know there who could help him? No one.

Where could he go next? Nowhere.

Short and fuckin’ sweet, that was it.

He put his head in his hands, curled up in a ball. About to give in to despair again, but something stopped him.

Northumberland.

He put his head up, thought back to a few weeks ago. Started rummaging through his jacket pockets, feeling the adrenalin rush building up again.

It had better be there, it had better be …

A few weeks ago. Who would have thought.

A few weeks. Felt like a lifetime ago.

‘Oi, you. I know you.’

Jason had been sitting at the foot of Grey’s Monument, waiting for something to happen, somewhere to go. His day off from the butcher’s, he had a bit of a buzz on from a
couple of spliffs, a couple of rocks and was working his way through a can of Stella. An average day. He was going to see Kev later, see what was going on, maybe go to a meeting. Looking forward to that. But until then, just killing time. Watching the world go by, getting a bit of sun. Eyeing up the girls, pitying the office workers. Knowing everything they said and did and how they lived their lives was wrong, knowing he was right. He had the answers.

Or he knew someone who did.

‘Oi.’

The boy turned, looked at him. From the narrowed brow it was clear he didn’t know who Jason was, couldn’t remember him. But Jason remembered the boy.

‘’S’me. Jason.’

‘Yeah?’ The boy shrugged.

‘Father Jack’s, remember?’

The boy turned pale. Jason didn’t think that would have been possible, the kid being black an’ all, but he did. He shouldn’t even have been shouting at a nigger in the street, at least not all friendly, like. Christ, he must be stoned. Or bored.

The kid came over, looked at Jason.

‘Father Jack’s …’

‘The home.’

The youth bridled. ‘Man, that was never no fuckin’ home.’

The youth was big now, gangling. Must have been about fourteen at Father Jack’s then, looked about sixteen now, same age as Jason, but where Jason was still small the youth had shot up. But not just age; he carried himself well. Seemed bigger in many ways. Jason felt a hard shaft of something unpleasant strike him between the ribs. He didn’t know what. Anger? Jealousy?

Jealousy? For a nigger? Yeah, right.

‘Yeah,’ said Jason. ‘I remember you.’ He thought hard for a moment, eyes screwed up. ‘Jamal, innit? Yeah. You moved in an’ everythin’ went tits up. Police there an’ everythin’. We all had to leg it, find somewhere else to live. Thanks to you.’

Jamal looked at him, shrugged like he didn’t want to get drawn into talking to Jason but continued all the same. ‘Father Jack was one evil bastard, man, a fuckin’ pervert. Deserved to be turned over, you get me? Deserves his jail time. No question. Hope he’s gettin’ everythin’ due to him in there.’

Jason’s fogged brain was having trouble following Jamal’s argument, tried to counter. ‘Yeah, but … wasn’t a bad place. Y’know. Just had to ignore some stuff, think of the good stuff. Was kinda settled there.’

Jamal looked at Jason, compassion in his eyes. ‘Know what you mean, man. Comin’ up rough … it’s bad.’

Jason looked hard at Jamal. The black kid was confusing him. He seemed genuine, concerned. They weren’t supposed to be like that.

‘You found somewhere else?’ The compassion still there.

Jason’s eyes slowly lit up. ‘Yeah, did. Was shit for a time. But it’s awright now. Got some new mates. A job. Proper one, like.’ He couldn’t believe those words came from his lips. He smiled. ‘Yeah. Things are cool.’

Jason involuntarily flexed his arms as he spoke, sending the new tattoos rippling over his scrawny little muscles.

‘Yeah, things are cool.’

He saw Jamal’s eyes jump immediately to them, size them up, make a judgement. Jason felt confused again. Jamal should be showing fear; it was the correct response of the immigrant to the tattoos. He’d been told. But Jamal wasn’t scared of him. He took in the tats, the clothes, the haircut, his uniform, his tribal insignia and showed no fear. If anything there was pity in his eyes.

Another hard, sharp shaft went through Jason.

‘So what you doin’, then, eh?’ Usually there would be some mutual compassion when he met someone who had come up like he had, the hard way. Instead he tried to build up a good wave of anger, ride it out. Use it to cope with his confusion. ‘You on the dole? Scroungin’? Burdenin’ the state? Lettin’ the taxpayer keep you in ganja an’ beer?’

It was what they told him to say to them at meetings. Would hit nerves, get them angry. Guaranteed, they said. Jason didn’t know why. Personally he couldn’t give a fuck about the taxpayer, whoever he was. And he loved ganja and beer.

Jamal looked at him, a reluctant fire lighting up behind his eyes, an argument he didn’t want to have but he wouldn’t back down from.

‘Fuck you talkin’ like that for? That some twisted shit you comin’ out with. Don’ you be dissin’ me, man, I work for a livin’. Hard. Harder than you ever know.’ He ran his eyes disdainfully over Jason with the last few words.

‘Yeah?’ Jason sneered at him, the anger mixing with the rocks and booze now. ‘Doin’ what?’

‘An information brokerage.’

Jason had no idea what Jamal was talking about, tried not to let it show. ‘Yeah? Right. Well. You got a—’ what did they call them? ‘—a business card? Eh? Might need some a’ that stuff you sell. Some information.’

Yeah, thought Jason triumphantly. Make the nigger dance.

Anger flushed Jamal’s cheeks. He drew his wallet from his jeans back pocket, hands shaking angrily, pulled out a card, flicked it at him. Jason caught it, laughing as he did so, but unable to cover up that sharpness stabbing at him again.

He looked at it, tried to read it through slowly, gave up on the first line. He had never been good with words; they
meant next to nothing to him. There were three phone numbers on there. And numbers he was good at. One local landline, one mobile and another one.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing to the third number.

‘My place in Northumberland,’ said Jamal, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

Jason looked at the card, nodding. Jamal turned, began walking away.

‘Hey …’

Jason wasn’t finished with him yet.

‘Have a good life, man,’ Jamal said from over his shoulder, not stopping, not even bothering to disguise the lie in his voice.

Jason watched him go, holding the card between his fingers.

A teenage nigger handing out business cards. What was the world coming to.

He felt the edges of the card, bent it, testing the weight, then pocketed it. At least it would make a good roach, he thought.

He felt all through his pockets, hoping he hadn’t made a roach out of it.

He found it. Crumpled and soiled but still readable. He brought it out, but there wasn’t enough light to read it by.

He smiled. Asking a nigger for help. Would have been ironic if he had known what ironic meant.

He put the card back in his jacket pocket over his chest, over his heart.

Tomorrow he would go and find Jamal. He would have to crawl a bit, maybe, explain they might have got off on the wrong foot last time they met, blame the drugs or the drink, but hey, no hard feelings. We’re both mates. Both came up the hard way and know what that does to you. And then
Jamal would laugh and say that’s OK. Let him stay for a few days. Help him back on his feet. Lend him a few quid, maybe.

Or even …

Jason frowned, thinking hard. An idea was forming, a plan …

Yeah, a plan …

It had bad idea written all over it like a full body tattoo.

The house Peta Knight had grown up in was an old seventeenth-century rectory outside Gateshead near the south bank of the Tyne. Pulling the Saab on to the curving gravel drive brought back her usual memories: playing in the huge back garden, going for long walks through the woods, sitting by the river, watching the water ebb and flow, thinking it went on for ever. Comfort and indulgence, security and relaxation. Childhood’s sacred remembrances, its safe nostalgia.

Not the place to meet a potential client. And certainly not one her mother was recommending. She wasn’t looking forward to this.

Trevor Whitman was an old friend of her parents from way back, her mother had said, although Peta had never heard him mentioned before. Back in the north-east from living in London and needing someone with Peta’s talents. Which were what? A delicate matter; her mother couldn’t say over the phone. Why didn’t Peta come and meet him? At the house? They could all have lunch. Peta didn’t think it felt like the kind of thing she should be getting involved with. Not the right kind of job. Any job, her mother had insisted, voice sweet steel, was the right kind of job when it was the only job. Peta reluctantly demurred. Her mother cooed she would do lunch. Make a pleasant afternoon of it.