White Riot (42 page)

The police were there. No one had noticed them approach. They had let the fighters tire, moved in to pick them off one by one. Batons raised, shields up. Batons down. And again. And again.

The machine fell apart; components became selves again. The police were the machine now, moving forward inexorably, dragging off bodies to waiting vans, throwing them in the backs.

Ligsy grabbed the butt of his gun, ready to pull it out, start shooting. He stopped. A little red dot danced on the handle. He tried to grab it; it went with him. Understanding, he looked up. On rooftops were silhouettes, crouching, lying, streetlight glinting on telescopic sights, rifle barrels.

Armed police. No chance. His hand dropped. He turned, tried to run. Went straight into the baton of a waiting riot police. He went down.

He stayed down.

Similar scenes were happening all over the West End. The resistance had been crushed. The foot soldiers of the revolution were beaten.

Kev was running. Away from what, towards what, he didn’t know. He remembered being told once of a man, an associate of his dad’s, a one-time hard man, who started to have a heart attack while he was driving. He knew it was going to be fatal so pulled the car off the road and ran into a field, screaming all the while, ripping at his chest, trying to outrun it. He didn’t make it.

Kev felt exactly the same.

He ran, pulling Jason by the hand, along Forth Street, up
on to Mosley Street to the bottom of Grey Street. He stood there, forcing air into his blazing lungs, looked up at the huge Georgian buildings, all beauty and elegance, and knew he would never have anything like that in his life.

Rage and self-pity built up inside him, mingled with fear. He wanted to scream, to run, to rip himself apart and start again. He knew that would never happen now. Even without Jason he was looking at life in prison for murder.

He grabbed Jason’s hand again. ‘Come on.’

‘No …’ The voice almost inaudible.

Kev turned, looked at Jason. ‘What?’

‘No, I’m … I can’t run … any more …’

Kev grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You’re talkin’. You’re back. Look, d’you know what your name is? D’you know who you are?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jason, panting. He almost smiled. ‘I’m the Butcher Boy …’

Kev hugged him, felt tears forming in his eyes. Then remembered the clock.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get you somewhere, get that bomb defused.’

Jason shook his head. Started to cry.

‘Come on,’ said Kev, although he felt no better himself. ‘Let’s … let’s see if we can find somewhere, someone to help.’

Jason nodded. ‘Oh-OK …’

‘Good,’ said Kev. He held out his hand again. ‘Come on, then.’

And they were off again, Kev all the while trying to think where they could go, who they could find to help them in the time they had.

Feeling more and more like that dying man running across the field, ripping away at his own chest.

*

Whitman held the gun on Shepherd. It felt heavier than ever. In the background the TV was still playing, results starting to come in. David Dimbleby was talking about wanting to go over to Newcastle West but there being some kind of delay. No one in the room was listening to him.

Shepherd’s phone sat open and ignored by Whitman’s side.

‘So,’ Whitman said, ‘this was all for revenge.’

Shepherd made a harsh, grating sound that could have been a laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. If it had been left to Mary, yes. But not when there’s so much money at stake here. She wants payback. I want a payday. And after all I’ve suffered over the years because of you, I think I’m fucking entitled to it.’

‘So why the phone calls?’

‘To fuck with you.’ Shepherd enjoyed saying the words. ‘Some of us—’ he shot a pointed look at Abdul-Haq, who looked away ‘—actually wanted you in on it. For old times’ sake, all that shit. I just wanted you to know what we were doing. Fuck with your mind. Destroy you.’ His voice wavered. ‘Like you tried to do to me.’

Whitman shook his head. ‘No, Alan, it wasn’t—’

‘What? Wasn’t what? Your fault? It never was. Face it. You planted the bomb. You wanted to see how far you could take things. Then someone died, you got scared. And I was missing, already planning on baling out. Because I’d got your number. I knew what kind of fake you were.’

Whitman said nothing, just held the gun as straight as he could.

‘Wasn’t much of a leap, was it? Shift the blame on to me. Get Mary to lie about where you were that night. She ended up with a fucking mental breakdown from covering up for you. She’s been on medication for years, can’t function without it.’

‘I … I’m sorry.’

‘Bit fucking late for that, isn’t it?’

On the TV David Dimbleby was reading out a news report about trouble on the streets of Newcastle. Gang fights that the police had broken up. Nothing serious. Shouldn’t delay the result from Newcastle West for too much longer.

No one in the room heard him.

‘I had to move out of the country. All because of you.’

‘You went to work for Eugene Terre’Blanche. A Nazi.’

‘Work is the right word. He paid me. By that time I didn’t care who I worked for. Your betrayal killed any idealism I might have once had. I’m just in for the money, Trevor.’ Another laugh. ‘I sold out.’

‘Why are you trying to stop this?’ said Abdul-Haq. ‘Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?’

‘Because of him,’ said Whitman, gesturing at Shepherd with the gun. ‘Yes, I set the bomb. He’s right about that. But I’ve paid for that. I’ve had years of nightmares, of burning figures talking to me, of guilt …’ He shook his head, tried to clear it. ‘But what you’re doing is wrong. I didn’t want another mistake made. More lives lost. I had to do something about it. Something to stop it.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Shepherd. ‘You heard I was back in the country. You knew I’d be pissed off. That I might say something to someone about who really bombed this place. And you didn’t want that to happen, did you? Could still go to prison for it. So you make out you’re all liberal and concerned about the redevelopment deal. And something must be done. You were fucking clever, I’ll give you that. But not clever enough. You see, there’s a race war starting tonight. A whole platoon of NUP foot soldiers are taking to the streets. They’re armed. They’re out to cause trouble. And there’ll be retaliation. So you see, it doesn’t really matter who wins this election. We just step in and mop up.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ said Whitman. ‘It won’t work.’

Shepherd checked his watch. ‘Should be happening now. Just after the polls closed. Like I said, not clever enough.’

‘Really?’ said Whitman. It was his turn to laugh. ‘Then how come it’s me holding the gun?’

Shepherd smiled. ‘Your legman hasn’t reached the Bridge Hotel yet, has he?’

The gun felt even heavier in Whitman’s hand.

Amar couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He wished he had someone to share it with. He could call Joe, tell him – his mobile. There had been a text and he had ignored it. He took the headphones off, crossed the room, picked up the phone, checked the message. Kev. Looked at the photos.

His eyes widened. His heart began to beat faster.

He picked up the landline, speed-dialled. Di Nattrass’s number.

Hoped they weren’t too late.

Donovan ran, Jamal just behind him. They had passed the point of collapse some time ago. Their legs were shaking, chests burning, limbs aching. Every time one of them had felt like stopping, listened to their body telling them they couldn’t go any more, they had thought of Peta, pushed on, eked out a little more stamina. Neither wanted to think that Peta hadn’t been saved because they put themselves first.

The run had been all uphill, Donovan leading Jamal along the Quayside and up the Castle Stairs, the old Georgian route that linked the quay to the old castle keep. Taking them two at a time, dodging the pools of vomit, trying not to startle any post-pub fumblers in darkened doorways.

He reached the top of the steps, went through the old stone arch into what was left of the castle. Most of it had gone, only low stone walls and an oubliette built into what would have been the flagged stone floor but what was now, with wooden benches, a spot to sit at and enjoy the view along the Tyne.

But not tonight. The Bridge Hotel was just above, backing on to the castle remains. Leaving Jamal by the wooden bench getting his breath back, Donovan ran to the front doors of the pub. They were locked, the windows dark, the last punter long since drunk up and left. He looked around, tried to find a clue, something that jumped out at him, that he could tell Whitman about.

Nothing.

‘I’m, I’m here,’ he said into the earpiece. ‘The Bridge Hotel.’

Whitman’s voice came over the line. ‘Have you found anything? What’s there?’

‘Nothing. What happened here, Whitman? You had sex with her, that right?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was a thrill, for both of us. Out in the open, at night, looking down on the Tyne. We were the only ones there.’

‘You’re a classy date, Trev. And then what happened?’

‘I … I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

‘Think. There must be—’

Whitman’s phone rang. ‘That’ll be her,’ he said.

Whitman answered his phone. Shepherd sat before him, listening to every word. His grin back in place.

‘Are you there?’

‘Yes,’ said Whitman.

Shepherd looked like he was about to speak. Whitman pushed the gun at him as a reminder. Shepherd said nothing.

‘This is the next chapter in the story. Our story. What do you see?’

‘Erm … nothing.’

‘Then you’re looking in the wrong place.’

‘Where, where should I be looking?’

‘Where you fucked me!’ Her voice raged down the line. Whitman took the phone away from his face, could still hear her. ‘Where you fucked me and made me pregnant!’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘There. The ruins. By the oubliette.’

‘That’s right. I’ve left you a present …’

Donovan turned from the front of the pub, made his way down the stone steps. Jamal was staring at the oubliette, a look of disgust on his face.

‘Oh, man,’ he said, ‘that … that is well fucked up.’ Donovan drew level, saw what he was looking at. And agreed. He told Whitman what it was.

‘What?’ said Whitman.

‘A foetus. In a jar. Tiny one. Human.’

‘Oh, my God …’

Abdul-Haq shot a concerned glance towards Shepherd, who ignored it. He looked at Whitman, enjoying the man’s discomfort. Mary Evans was back on the line.

‘D’you recognize it? Do you?’

‘It’s … it’s a foetus, Mary. Where did you get this from?’

Her voice was on the verge of breaking up. ‘It’s our baby. The one we would have had together if you hadn’t forced me to have it aborted. The first one you had me kill.’ Anger pulled it back.

Whitman looked frantically about the room, breathing heavily, sweating. Abdul-Haq and Shepherd sat on their respective sofas. Shepherd was smiling. He knew exactly what she was saying to him.

‘What d’you think of that, Trevor?’ asked Mary.

‘I think … think you’re sick.’

‘One of us is. One of us ruined the other one’s life. And not just mine. Alan’s. The policeman you killed. And God knows how many more. Does it revolt you? Does it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Because you disgust me.’ There was mad satisfaction in her voice. The deranged vindication of a long-held grudge given well-plotted revenge. ‘I hope you’re suffering. Just like your daughter’s going to suffer if you don’t get to her in time.’

‘Where … where’s next?’

‘Where d’you think?’

‘I don’t … I don’t know.’

‘Our story’s about to come to an end. Boy meets girl, boy gets girl pregnant, boy kills girl’s babies, boy runs off with other girl.’

Whitman thought. ‘A march, a demonstration. The Haymarket.’

A sad sigh from Mary Evans, like she had been wounded. ‘You can remember where you met her. But not me. The war memorial, Barras Bridge. Six minutes.’

She rang off.

Whitman felt like he was falling apart. ‘Did you get that?’ he said into the other phone.

Donovan placed the glass jar carefully back on the oubliette, stepped away. Jamal was already standing well back.

‘Loud and clear,’ he said. He turned to Jamal. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Jamal looked pale.

‘You OK? You going to be sick?’

Jamal shook his head but seemed unsure.

‘It’s fine if you want to stay here,’ Donovan said. ‘I’ll go on alone.’

Jamal shook his head. ‘Nah, man, she some twisted bitch, you get me? I wanna see this one through. Get Peta back safe. Dirty Harry or no Dirty Harry.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Come on, then.’

They set off running again.

Kev couldn’t run any more. He stumbled forward, collapsing into a shop doorway on the way up Westgate Road. Jason went with him. They sat there, staring out, trying to get their breath back. Kev checked his watch. Less than fifteen minutes to go.

He watched the cars go by. People with boring, ordinary lives. Maybe been round to someone’s for dinner. Maybe
coming home from work. How he wished that could have been him. Now it would never be him.

Self-pity and sadness hung round his neck like a granite necklace. He couldn’t go any further, couldn’t go anywhere. He sighed. No one was going to help them, nothing was going to happen.

He stole a glance at Jason next to him. Almost catatonic, staring ahead, grunting and wheezing as he breathed, the beginnings of lung trouble in later life. Except he wouldn’t be having a later life.

Impotent anger thrashed within Kev. It was so unfair. It shouldn’t have come to this. Life should have been better than this. Another look at Jason. An idea came into Kev’s mind. He could get up, walk away. No, run away. There was nothing stopping him. Jason might have to die, but that didn’t mean Kev did. He’d feel guilty, sure. But that would go. Eventually. What was guilt compared with being alive? Guilt he could live with. Anything he could live with.

He checked Jason again, moved his body forward, ready to get up. A hand shot out, clutching his arm.