White Riot (34 page)

Kev thought of the student again, saw the flames. And through the flames, thought of that atonement. Peace. He could make up for what he did in the biggest and best way possible. He had no choice. He had to do it.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘sounds simple.’

Amar smiled, put his hand on Kev’s leg. ‘Thanks, Kev. You’re doing the right thing.’

Kev said nothing. Didn’t trust himself to speak.

‘Right,’ said Amar, taking his hand away and making to stand up. ‘Let’s get—’

‘Just a minute.’

Amar looked at Kev.

‘Put your hand back where it was.’

‘Kev, we don’t have time for—’

‘Please.’

Amar looked into Kev’s eyes. Saw what was going on there. Understood.

‘Please.’

Kev moved closer. Amar felt a hand on his body, a mouth on his mouth. Felt a need emanating from Kev that was more than just sexual.

Amar knew what Kev wanted, knew how to help. That torment that Amar had first recognized was still there. The same need he recognized in himself.

They came together, their mutual needs too strong to resist.

Mary Evans sat on the bank of the Tyne, looked at Richie. He was staring out ahead. She didn’t know if he saw the green trees and fields of Ryton Willows on the other side of the river, or something else entirely, something not in the physical world.

She had brought him to the Tyne Riverside Country Park. A green and naturally beautiful part of the city, surprisingly just a few minutes away from the West End of Newcastle. Nature reserves, trails, a leisure centre and restaurant. Space. And peace.

And it would all go when the new development went through.

She summoned up a smile. Felt any remaining warmth, empathy slide off like a silk dressing gown falling to the ground. Concentrated on what she was here for. What she had to do. ‘Remember when we used to come here, Richie? When we were students?’

Richie, still staring ahead, nodded.

‘We used to lie here, just you, me and as many mushrooms as we could find. Remember?’

Richie gave a small laugh, nodded, rocking back and forward.

‘We used to say that when we were in charge, we’d make all the drugs legal, put them on the National Health.’

Another nod, rocking. ‘I tried … I wanted you to be, to be my girlfriend. This is, is where I asked you …’

She sighed. Tried to ignore the residual fluttering in her chest. No time for sentimentality. This was work. This was important. ‘I know. I remember.’

‘An’ you … You said no.’

She felt impatience rise within, tamped it down. Kept her voice sweet. ‘That was then, Richie. Things were, were difficult then.’

Richie said nothing, continued to rock.

‘But they were good times, though. Wished they had never ended.’

Richie stopped rocking. Turned to face her. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

The fluttering became a beating of fierce wings. She swallowed hard. ‘Because … because this was always our special place. And because I’ve always, always liked you, Richie.’

She reached across, touching his greasy hair, stroking it, trying not to let her revulsion show.

Richie looked at her outstretched arm, felt the touch of her hand. His eyes widened, he began to shake. ‘But not … not like that. You said. Then. You were never my girlfriend. Always Trevor’s.’

Mary Evans sat forward, stroked her hand down his equally greasy face and on to his shoulder, kept a smile on her face, tried to calm him. ‘It, it could be like that, Richie. It’s not too late.’

He stopped rocking, looked at her.

‘Really?’

Mary Evans nodded, concentrating, keeping the mask in place. This was the difficult bit. ‘Yes, Richie. Just a, a couple of things to get out of the way first. Then we can be together. Properly.’

Richie frowned. ‘But you’re, you’re a, a lesbian.’

Mary Evans smiled. She noticed her hand was shaking. She thought of what she had to lose, had to gain. The shaking stopped. ‘People change,’ she said.

Richie turned to look at her, a pathetic hope in his eyes, brightening up his ruined face. There would have been a time when that look would have touched her, made her waver. But not any more. The things she had done, would do … She was far beyond that now.

‘There’s just something you’ve got to do for me first.’

‘What?’

‘Trevor … he’s got something in his head at the moment. Something he’s doing, am I right?’

Richie nodded.

‘He’s …’ Richie stopped himself, looked at Mary Evans like a guilty child caught doing something he shouldn’t have. ‘I promised not to tell.’

Another smile. Those wings beating, tearing to get out. ‘It’s OK, Richie. You can tell me.’

‘He said you’re …’ Richie’s features darkened. ‘You’re doin’ somethin’ bad.’

Mary Evans fought with the rising tide of emotion building in her chest. Kept smiling. ‘Is that what Trevor said? Oh, come on, Richie, it’s me. Mary. Do you think I’d do something bad? Honestly?’

Richie frowned, thinking hard. Jesus, he looked pathetic, she thought. He quickly looked up, shook his head.

‘That’s right. Now, you can tell me what Trevor’s doing, can’t you?’

Richie looked at her, unsure. She gave another smile.

‘Come on, Richie. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?’

Richie made his mind up. ‘He’s … It’s about some land or houses or something. An’ his, his daughter … She’s been taken.’

Mary stiffened at the word ‘daughter’. The wings inside her flapped a different beat. She wanted a cigarette. ‘Right. Anything else?’

Richie screwed up his face in concentration. Again he looked childlike, this time a child who desperately wants to please. ‘An’ he’s, he’s got a gun.’

Mary Evans tensed. ‘What for?’

Richie looked straight at her. ‘Dunno. Protection, he said.’ His voice was tiny, cowed.

Mary Evans stared at him.

‘I … I was just goin’. Leavin’ them. Goin’ back to St Hilda’s. I didn’t … didn’t want to be with him any more. It upset me too much.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’ The words came out absently. Mary Evans’s mind was spinning, calculating her next move.

Richie frowned again. ‘I … I was watchin’ you, you know. Lookin’ out for you.’

Those wings, back again. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘The way you looked out for me, y’know, looked after me. I was at your office. I saw that girl go in. Peta. She’s Trevor’s daughter, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘Aye. She went in. An’, an’ them two blokes come out. An’ then Trevor. He was there. That’s why I went with him. ’Cos he was there.’ He gave a shy smile. ‘So is that it? Are we boyfriend and girlfriend now?’

‘Not quite.’ She struggled, kept her voice even.

‘How d’you mean?’

Mary Evans took Richie in her arms. Confused at first, he nestled into her arms, snuggling down. ‘I looked after
you for years, Richie. Made sure you got help, somewhere to live. You were like a … child. A son, I suppose, that I felt responsible for.’ She kissed him on the forehead.

Richie rocked backwards and forwards, a soporific smile on his face.

Then abruptly she pulled away from him, stared straight into his eyes. She had stopped smiling. Her eyes were hard, cold. Like a look from them could freeze the Tyne. ‘But you’re not, are you, Richie? You’re not my child. I’m not responsible for you.’

‘What … what d’you mean?’

‘You’re an adult. An adult who fucked up his life. And has no one to blame but himself.’

She stood up, throwing him off her in the process. He looked up at her like a dog about to be beaten.

‘What … what … I don’t understand …’

‘No, Richie, you don’t. You never did.’

‘What … what you goin’ to do to me?’

‘Me? Nothing.’ She looked round. Two men detached themselves from behind nearby bushes. Waqas and Omar. They moved towards Richie.

‘Goodbye,’ said Mary Evans. ‘I used to like you, but you’re too pathetic for words.’ She walked away.

Didn’t see the look of incomprehension on Richie’s face as it turned into fear, into pain. Didn’t see or hear any of that.

She took out a cigarette, lit it, took the smoke down deep into her lungs, exhaled.

Watched the smoke leave her body, rise up into the sky.

Watched it dissipate into the hot air.

Trevor Whitman pulled his daughter’s Saab up in the car park, killed the engine, tried to get his head straight.

Washington Services on the A1. Southbound.

He sat, drumming his fingers on the wheel, looking round, checking for watchers. No one. Or no one he recognized. He looked at the bag on the seat beside him. Thought of what it contained.

A rap at the window. He jumped, looked up, startled, grabbing instinctively for the bag on the seat. Relaxed. Lillian Knight’s face was looking back at him. He sighed, opened the passenger door, placed the bag behind the seat. She ran round, got quickly in. She fell into his arms. He grabbed her, held on like she was the only thing keeping him from falling off a very steep precipice.

She pulled away, looked at him. ‘Peta, have you …?’

He shook his head. ‘They’ve still got her. But I’ll … Did you bring what I asked you?’

She had placed a briefcase between her legs. She patted it.

‘Good.’ He stroked her face. Even now, her features creased, coarsened and reddened by worry, stress and tears, she looked beautiful. ‘Try not to worry. It’ll all work out. It will.’

She sighed, her eyes pleading for his words to be true. Knew she wanted what her heart was feeling to win out against what her head was telling her. Knew it wouldn’t.

He put his arms round her again, pulled her hard to him. Held her.

‘I don’t … don’t want you to go,’ she said.

He said nothing.

‘Let me come with you.’

‘No, Lillian. It’s safer if you go home.’

She pulled away from him again. ‘Not for me. I have to sit there, on my own, waiting …’

‘It won’t be long now. I promise.’

They clutched each other like drowning mariners.

‘I, I love you, Trevor.’

Whitman’s eyes locked with hers. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.

She pulled away, the move hiding any sadness that he couldn’t match her declaration. ‘You’re a brave man,’ she said. ‘And selfless.’

Whitman looked away. ‘Not long now. Then we can get on with our lives again.’

Lillian nodded, her gaze averted. She sat up, wiped at the corners of her eyes, pulled her clothing straight. Opened the car door.

She walked to her own car, got in, drove off. He rubbed his face hard, dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, fought back fatigue and tiredness, myriad emotions crashing through him like a winter storm. Breathed deeply, screwed his eyes tight closed, opened them again. Shook his head to clear it, turned the engine over. Another check over his shoulder and off to his next meeting.

Unaware that a black 4×4 with tinted windows waited until he was almost on the road before, at a discreet distance, following him.

Joe Donovan sat in the bar of the Cluny, took another mouthful of beer, checked his watch. It had once been an old whisky warehouse and still held traces of its former life in the high ceilings and exposed stone and brickwork. Donovan could remember, twenty years ago, attending
illegal warehouse raves in the same place. There had been live music, DJ sets, a trestle table bar selling only cans of Red Stripe and with parts of the floor roped off where the wood was rotten and unsafe.

Then the Ouseburn Valley in Newcastle had been run down and ex-industrial; now, as part of the regeneration of the area, the Cluny had been transformed into bar/art gallery/music venue. A community theatre was based next door, along with artists’ studios, and the Seven Stories children’s literature centre was further down, with more things promised. A neo-industrial-styled bar sold a huge variety of beers and whiskies, the kitchen did some of the best pub food in Newcastle and the floors were solid. It was one of his favourite haunts and the perfect place to arrange to meet Trevor Whitman.

Donovan sat on an old leather sofa in an elevated section of the bar. It was quiet, the early-evening drinkers not yet arrived. The only movement from roadies as they carried gear through the bar and into the other hall, setting up for the band playing that night.

Jamal was waiting in the car parked across the street, phone at the ready to warn of any unwanted attention. Donovan sat back, paperback book in front of him for camouflage, trying to look like a relaxed punter. Knew he probably looked anything but.

He didn’t have to wait long. Whitman entered. His suit looked like it had not only been slept in but partied in and worked in for several days. His hair and beard matched. He was carrying a leather briefcase. He saw Donovan, walked hurriedly over, sat down. Stared at him, warily. Donovan returned it.

Silence.

‘Well,’ said Donovan, throwing his book on the table, trying to control his anger, ‘what’s to stop me leaning across
this fucking table and planting my fucking fist right in your fucking smug fucking face?’

‘Ah,’ said Whitman. ‘Like that. Right.’

‘You have got some fucking explaining to do.’

Whitman said nothing.

‘Peta’s gone missing, you fucked us about with your cock-and-bull story, and all the time you knew what was going on.’

Whitman sighed. ‘What do you know?’

‘That Alan Shepherd’s back from his sabbatical. That he’s going to turn the streets into a war zone tomorrow night.’

Whitman almost smiled. ‘That it?’

Donovan’s features hardened. ‘You’ve fucked me about enough. You got something, tell me.’

‘You know why? You know who else is involved?’

‘I’ve got some ideas.’

Whitman leaned forward. ‘Let me tell you. I presume you know about the plan to redevelop the West End of Newcastle?’

‘Which Abdul-Haq’s company is behind.’

‘Right. They, along with prominent people on the city council, think the area is in desperate need of redevelopment. Been left to die. A slum. Fit only for asylum seekers, immigrants housed by the council. No one would move there voluntarily. So there was a proposal made to redevelop the area.’