White Riot (41 page)

‘That was the order,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

They didn’t need to be told twice.

Major Tom dropped the mic on the front seat, turned to the driver and smiled. ‘Tomorrow belongs to us, and all that.’

The driver, not understanding the reference, nodded.

‘Right,’ said Major Tom, ‘now for tonight’s other major contribution to democracy.’ He turned to Kev. ‘D’you know what you’re doing with this?’

Kev nodded, not believing what he was about to say. ‘Taking Jason up to the Civic Centre, wait for the signal, arm the bomb.’ He swallowed, felt something stick in his throat. ‘Send him in.’

‘To be a martyr to the cause.’

Kev swallowed again. The obstruction wouldn’t shift. ‘To be a martyr to the cause.’ His voice was unsteady. ‘Sir.’ Said too loud, too forcefully.

Major Tom frowned. ‘You feeling all right?’

Kev cleared his throat. ‘Fine. Sir.’

‘Big ask, this. Big opportunity.’

‘I know, sir.’ Kev moved his feet uncomfortably. Felt the knife, tucked into the back of his waistband, dig in slightly.

‘You up to it?’

Kev nodded. Major Tom kept staring at him, quizzical. ‘How long will it take you to walk up to the Civic Centre? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? An hour?’

Kev shrugged. ‘Fifteen minutes, I reckon. Sir.’

Major Tom nodded. ‘Right. Well, just in case.’ He stepped towards Jason. ‘Unzip.’

Jason unzipped his bomber jacket. Major Tom armed the bomb.

‘What you doin’?’ said Kev. ‘It’ll go off now.’

‘No, it won’t,’ said Major Tom. ‘I’ve set it to detonate in thirty minutes. It can only be disarmed by inputting a code. That code is known only to me.’

‘Why?’

Major Tom smiled. ‘Just in case you got any ideas. Just in case you decided to run off.’ His gaze hardened. ‘My gut feeling with you, Kev, is that you’re not one hundred per cent a team player.’

‘What? Sir?’ Kev’s anxiety was increasing. He wished for the knife in his hand. He had to get out.

‘Too unreliable, too flaky. If I could have used someone else for this I would have done. But it’s too late for that. You’ll have to do. Oh, and don’t try and tamper with it. Cut the wires, pull them out, undo it, anything like that. It’ll blow up in your face.’

Kev was speechless.

‘Oh,’ said Major Tom, continuing. ‘I’ll have your mobile too.’

‘No.’ Kev couldn’t believe he had said that. Not to Major Tom.

From the look on his face, Major Tom couldn’t believe it either. ‘What? What did you just say to me?’

‘I said no. You … you can’t have it. No.’

Major Tom advanced on Kev. Jason closed his eyes. ‘Oh, yes I will.’

Kev drew the knife from the back of his jeans. It slipped into his hand like it was an extension of his body. It felt good, right. He drew comfort from it, strength. And he knew how to use it.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and ran forward, plunging the blade through Major Tom’s ribcage. Deeply in, twisting it, snapping the metal, leaving only the handle in his hand.

Major Tom staggered back in shock, his hand going to his chest as blood began to pump out.

‘I got you in the heart,’ Kev said, watching him fall to the ground. ‘I might know nothin’ else, I might be flaky, I might not be a team player, but I know me cuts of meat.’

Major Tom slid to the floor, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, unable to believe what was happening to him. Then his features changed. Fear entered his eyes, bringing with it the realization that he was about to die. He began grasping, flailing about, trying desperately to grab on to something, anything, that would anchor him in the world. His grasp was too feeble, his fingers wouldn’t hold. The world slipped away from his blood-slicked fingers.

The driver, standing at the front door on lookout, saw what was happening, moved towards Kev.

‘You want some an’ all, eh?’

The driver stopped walking, looked round uncertainly. Then, watching Major Tom writhing and gasping on the floor, blood flowing from his body like dark, red water, he opened the door and ran.

Kev looked down at the twitching body, the knife handle in his hand, at Jason standing dumbfounded to the side of him. Panic welled within him. He didn’t know what to do.

He grabbed Jason’s hand and pulled him to the door. Started running.

It was only when he had gone halfway up Forth Street without stopping for breath that he realised he had just killed the only person who knew how to defuse the bomb Jason was wearing.

He grabbed Jason, kept running.

Donovan and Jamal ran along Neville Street, round the bottom of Westgate Road, along past the cathedral, down the Side on to the Quayside. They reached the Guildhall out of breath, grateful for their run being mostly downhill.

Donovan’s chest was burning. He put his hands on his thighs, bent over, thinking he was about to be sick. Jamal, next to him, was doing likewise. His vision was spiked with dayglo swirls, his legs shaking. Donovan turned to Jamal.

‘You OK?’

Jamal, too winded to speak, nodded.

‘Good.’ Donovan straightened up, looked round. The Guildhall was in front of them, the massive arc of the Tyne Bridge just to their left. ‘Come on.’ Donovan trotted over to the water’s edge. Drinkers walked along the front, making the most of the extended opening hours, bar-hopping the night away. Dance music was carried on the air, giving the night a heartbeat of its own.

Donovan checked the railing. No Mary Evans, no Peta.

‘Whitman,’ he managed to get out between gasps, ‘she’s not here. Peta, Mary. Neither of them.’

Whitman’s voice came down the line. ‘What? Has she left something?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. A … key, or something? A map, some directions?’

Donovan directed Jamal to check the area. ‘Why here, Trevor? Why did she want you to come here?’

‘She … wait. Wait a minute.’

Donovan heard the other phone ringing. Whitman answered it. Donovan pressed a small button on the earpiece, changed channels.

Whitman put the phone to his ear. In front of him, Shepherd and Abdul-Haq sat uneasily. As he moved the phone, Shepherd moved forward. Whitman raised the gun. Shepherd sank back.

‘Are you there yet, Trevor?’ Mary Evans’s voice was in his ear. Already he hated the sound of it.

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t sound very out of breath.’

‘Stop fucking about, Mary. Tell me what you want.’

Silence while she digested the rebuke, then that voice again. ‘Have you found it yet?’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘You know fucking well what you’re looking for. We had just started seeing each other. We had our photo taken down there. Asked some passer-by to do it. We had two copies made. Said you would keep it for ever, treasure it. Did you?’

Whitman tried to think. Photo? He couldn’t remember …

‘Right,’ he said. ‘The photo.’

‘It’s there. Have you found it? It’s got a message on.’

‘Photo,’ Donovan hissed to Jamal.

They both began looking. They checked along the front, by the bollards, on the windows of the Guildhall itself. Couldn’t find anything. Donovan switched the channel on his earpiece.

‘We can’t find it. Ask for another clue.’

*

‘I can’t see it anywhere, Mary,’ he said, turning his head so no sound would bleed through from the other phone. ‘Give me a clue.’

‘It’s where it was taken.’

Whitman shook his head. He had no idea.

Mary Evans laughed. ‘Time’s running out, lover boy.’

‘I can’t …’

‘You bastard. Did I mean so little to you? The underpass beneath the Swing Bridge. You fucking idiot. You’re losing minutes for that.’

Donovan ran to the location, searched around. Tucked into a crack between the brickwork was a photo.

‘Found it.’

‘Found it,’ Whitman said.

‘Good. Now read the message to me.’

Donovan looked at the photo. It showed a young Trevor Whitman with his arm round an equally young Mary Evans. They were both smiling. There were no hints at how things would turn out, no seeds to be interpreted from it. He flipped it over, read out the inscription on the back.

‘“Where you first fucked me, with a view of the Tyne.” Got that?’

Whitman repeated it to Mary Evans.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Go there. You’ve got, ooh, six minutes.’

The phone went dead.

He picked up the other one. ‘Donovan, you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.’

‘Where?’

‘The … the pub …’ He couldn’t remember the name of it.

‘Which one?’

‘By the … the bridge. The High Level. The Bridge Hotel. That’s the one.’

‘You fucked her there? Classy.’

Whitman’s face reddened. ‘Don’t fuck about. Just get there.’

Donovan pocketed the photo, turned to Jamal.

‘You OK to do this?’

Jamal looked like he was ready to collapse. ‘For Peta, innit?’

Donovan gave a grim smile. ‘Yeah.’

‘We’re bein’ Dirty Harry, like you said.’ Jamal frowned. ‘Who is Dirty Harry?’

‘Film with Clint Eastwood,’ said Donovan quickly, not wanting to take up any time. ‘Early Seventies. Bad guy has a girl hidden somewhere and he sends the good guy running round the city looking for clues.’

‘Right.’

‘Shit.’ A shiver went through Donovan.

‘What?’

‘Just remembered. The girl was dead when he found her.’

Jamal looked horrified. ‘What we fuckin’ waitin’ for then?’

Jamal ran off. Donovan joined him.

On the chesterfield, Shepherd started laughing.

‘Think you can keep this up? Hmm, Trevor?’ Shepherd’s eyes were glittering darkly. ‘How long before she finds out? How long before she gets bored? We’re not dealing with the most stable of people here, are we?’

Whitman looked at him, anger and confusion etched into his features. He kept the gun pointed. His arm was really aching now. ‘What’s she doing this for? Eh? What does she get out of all this?’

Shepherd’s features darkened. Any trace of a smile disappeared. ‘Revenge, Trevor. This is all about money and power, yes, but also revenge. For what you did to her. For what you did to me.’

At his desk, Amar leaned forward.

‘To you?’ said Whitman. ‘What d’you mean? I didn’t do—’

‘Oh, spare me.’ Shepherd spat the words out. His face was contorted with anger. It had none of the cynical sheen he had used up until that point. He looked wounded, enraged. ‘Fucking spare me the holier-than-thou act. It may wash with your readers or your students, but not with me. Not with the person you fucked over all those years ago. Whose life you ruined.’

Whitman closed his mouth. Whatever he had been about to say he had decided was unnecessary.

‘Yeah, Trevor. I took the blame, all right. For blowing up the pub, killing the policeman. But we know who made the bomb, who planted it, don’t we?’

Whitman said nothing.

‘I said, don’t we?’

Whitman nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, voice small and defeated. ‘I did it.’

Amar, listening in, recovered from the shock quickly. He stuck another wire into the side of the laptop, attached a digital recorder.

Pressed RECORD.

The foot soldiers were on the march.

Down Wingrove Road into Nun’s Moor Road. Ligsy leading, head specially shaved and oiled so it gleamed in the streetlights, more like steel than skin, automatic pushed down the waistband of his jeans, motorbike chain wrapped round the knuckles of his right hand, swinging the loose chain like some medieval flail. Muscles like taut, metal rope. Shoulders straight, chest out, cock nearly hard and leading with it.

The others followed him, all on their lookout for targets. And that could be anyone, as long as their skin was a different colour or they didn’t understand the Queen’s English.

Ligsy loved it. This was what it was all about. No other feeling in the world like it. Better than sex. Better than anything.

The A team rounded the corner. And there they were. Pakis. Tooled up. Waiting for them. Word must have gone round. They were expected.

Ligsy stopped the march. They could have taken them out easily, just pulled out the guns, let them have it. But there was a better way. More fun, more honest. More brutal.

The Pakis started chanting: ‘Nazi scum, leave our streets. Nazi scum, leave our streets …’ Over and over.

‘Come on, lads,’ said Ligsy. ‘We’re not gonna let a load of fuckin’ Pakis shout louder than us, are we?’

They weren’t. They shouted back: ‘Wogs out,
Sieg Heil
.’ Doing the actions to accompany the words, moving forward all the while.

Both sides’ eyes burning with hate.

Anticipation like a big hard python coiled in Ligsy’s guts, waiting to get released and spread terror. A big hard-on waiting to come.

The chanting rose. And rose. Both sides getting louder, nearer, both sides psyching each other up for what they had to do.

Then it came. No more verbals, no more posing. Adrenalin pumped right up, bell ringing, red light on. The charge.

The python was out, the hard-on spurted.

Both sides together, two walls of sound clashing. A big, sonic tidal wave ready to engulf them all in violence, carry each one under with fists and boots and sticks.

Engage. And in.

Fists and boots and sticks. Ligsy and his boys took. Gave back double. Twisting and thrashing, swimming in anger. Up for air, then diving back in again, lungs full. Screaming the screams, chanting the chants.

Then Ligsy wasn’t swimming. Liquid solidified round him. And he was part of a huge machine. A muscle and bone and blood machine. A shouting, chanting cog in a huge hurting machine. Arms windmilling. Boots kicking. Fuelled on violence. Driven by rage. Lost to it. No more individuals. Just the machine. They had never felt more alive.

He saw their eyes. The fear and hate and blood in their eyes. Fed on it. Hate matched hate. Hate gave as good as hate got.

Gave better. The machine was too good for them. The
other side were going down. Red blood on brown skin. The machine was winning. Cogs and clangs and fists and hammers. The machine would always win.

Then it stopped.