White Riot (43 page)

‘Don’t go. Please. Stay with us.’ Jason’s arm gripped tighter, like holding on to Kev was the only thing stopping him from going into freefall.

Kev jumped, startled. ‘I’m, I’m not …’

‘Please, Kev, don’t go. You’re all I’ve, all I’ve got …’

Kev settled back down again.

‘Kev,’ Jason continued, ‘you’re like me dad an’ me brother … like I always wanted them to be.’

Kev put his head down. The words hurt more than punches. Each one guilt-edged. ‘Thank you.’

Jason was crying now. ‘I just, just wanted to say, say thank you.’ Tears took over him. Kev put his arm round him. Jason fell into him. ‘I don’t wanna die, Kev, I don’t wanna die …’

‘I know, Jason, I know.’

Jason was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I duh-don’t …’

Kev held him.

‘I’m goin’ to, aren’t I?’ said Jason. ‘We’re nuh-not goin’ to get help. Not now.’ Tears and snot were flowing down his face.

Kev sighed. ‘It looks that way, mate.’

Another round of crying. ‘Please, Kev, don’t leave me. Please, Kev … I duh-don’t wanna die on me own …’

Kev felt his own tears welling up inside. ‘I won’t leave you, Jason. Don’t worry.’

Jason burrowed into his side, kept sobbing. Kev stared ahead. This is what it’s come down to, he thought. This is it. This is life. And death. And none of it matters. He shook his head. And was hit by an idea. An idea born of anger and injustice. A way to balance things up.

‘Jason,’ he said. ‘There is somethin’ we can do.’

The boy looked up, hope in his eyes. ‘What?’

‘We can’t do anythin’ about the bomb, but we can make sure it takes the people who are responsible for this with it. What d’you reckon?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jason. ‘Whatever. Just as long as you stay with me, Kev, please.’ He clutched harder. ‘Please …’

‘Don’t worry Jason. I’m going to stay with you.’ Kev took out his phone. ‘Just got something to do first.’

He dialled. It was answered.

‘Hello, Amar.’

‘Kev’ said Amar, checking the screen for the call signal. ‘Where are you?’

‘Listen,’ said Kev. ‘Just listen. I’ve got somethin’ to say. An’ I haven’t got long. Don’t interrupt.’

Amar listened.

Kev looked at Jason before continuing.

‘You’re not goin’ to see me again, Amar. After tonight.
But you’re gonna hear about me. I just want you to know that it’s not my fault. Not my choice. I wished … wished—’ he felt his voice crack, held it together ‘—things could have worked out. I could have … could have loved you, Amar. You said I could be a hero. This is, is the only way I can think to do it. Goodbye. I—’

He cut the connection, couldn’t say any more.

Amar stared at the phone.

‘Kev? Kev?’

Kev switched the phone off. The last call he would ever make. He stood up, pulled Jason to his feet. Set off for Fenham.

And the NUP head office.

It wasn’t going as Whitman had planned. He was starting to feel dizzy. The buzz from the earlier alcohol had disappeared, leaving only a sluggish disbelief in what he was doing. The noise of the TV was droning on in his head, like a fly trapped inside and trying to batter its way out. He blinked, his gun hand slipping, his focus going.

And that was when Abdul-Haq pounced.

Whitman didn’t realize until Abdul-Haq was on his feet and coming towards him. Hands outstretched, ready to grab his gun, wrestle him to the ground.

Whitman’s response was instinctive. He fired.

The bullet tore a chunk out of Abdul-Haq’s side. He spun, his body flying backwards with the force, flinging him round until he landed in an awkward heap on the floor.

Shepherd was straight out of his seat and on the floor with him. Abdul-Haq was still breathing, his eyes circular with shock. Shepherd looked up at Whitman.

‘You fucking idiot.’

Whitman was staggering, the recoil from the gun having
sent painful shock waves up his arm again. He swung the gun at Shepherd.

‘Leave him, get back, sit down …’

Shepherd didn’t move. Whitman squeezed the trigger.

‘All right,’ said Shepherd, getting slowly to his feet. Abdul-Haq lay there, blood haemorrhaging from his side.

‘Call an ambulance,’ he managed to wheeze out. ‘Please …’

‘Do it, Alan.’ Whitman kept the gun on him.

‘No.’

Whitman stared at him. Abdul-Haq couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Please, Alan. Call an ambulance …’

‘No. The police would be called. They’d find him here. They’d ask too many questions.’ Shepherd looked at him, his eyes hard, flinty. ‘Sorry, Gideon, can’t be done. You’ll just have to grin and bear it.’

‘Then I’ll do it,’ said Whitman.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Shepherd coolly, as if he were the one holding the gun. ‘Because police will mean questions. About you. About who shot him, for one thing. About how those bullets will match the ones taken out of Gideon’s associates this afternoon.’ He leaned forward. ‘And how will that help you find your daughter?’

‘Shut up,’ Whitman shouted aloud. ‘Just shut up. All of you …’

He needed to think. He needed space and time.

He looked down at the floor, at the twitching, spasming body of Abdul-Haq, the pleading eyes of his one-time friend. Knew he had to do something, act quickly. But he didn’t know what.

On TV David Dimbleby talked of the imminent move over to see the results for Newcastle West. Whitman didn’t hear. He just held on to the gun as if that was the only thing that could save him.

‘What was that?’

Donovan on Percy Street with Jamal, stopped running, shouted into the earpiece. No one answered. ‘Whitman? What happened?’

Whitman’s voice came on the line eventually. ‘Nothing. Nuh-nothing. Everything’s … everything’s fine. Now. It’s fine. Just keep, you know, going.’

Donovan checked his watch. They were ahead of schedule. He nodded to Jamal and they set off again.

They made it to the war memorial in front of St Mary’s Church in less than a minute from where they had stopped. He checked his watch again. Still ahead of schedule. He flicked the switch on the earpiece.

‘Amar? How you doing locating Mary Evans’s phone?’

‘Yeah,’ said Amar, staring at the screen, ‘I’m on it. Nearly … nearly there …’ He punched in some more numbers, looked at the screen. The map of Newcastle had a grid over it. He was trying to get three green lines to find a spot to converge on. ‘I’m in the area. You just need to keep her talking so I can triangulate the right location.’

‘OK,’ said Donovan. He flicked the switch. ‘You hear that, Whitman? Keep her talking. We’ve nearly got a fix on her.’

‘Oh, OK. Right.’

Whitman didn’t sound right to Donovan, but he didn’t have time to worry about him now. The war memorial was directly in front of the church. On the opposite side of the road was the Newcastle Playhouse, home to Northern Stage, and behind the church was the Civic Centre. The lights were on there, the place humming with activity. Donovan looked at the circular tower, saw the sea horses lit up. The night would have been beautiful under other circumstances.

‘Check round,’ he said to Jamal. ‘See if you can find anything.’

They looked all round the memorial. Donovan spoke to Whitman again.

‘What should we be looking for?’

‘This was where I met Lillian. On a peace march here. For Vietnam,’ he said.

‘Was Mary here too?’

‘Maybe. Probably.’

Donovan could see why Mary Evans had taken such a dislike to the man.

‘But we used to go there all the time. All of us, when we were students, sit around on the green by the memorial.’

‘Doing what? Anything in particular?’

‘Just sitting. We … Wait. I … Let me think. Mary always said it was a special place for us. That’s why she was so annoyed that I met Lillian there.’

‘What made it so special? Think.’

‘It was where we made our plans. Talked about the future. Destroying the old order, getting the corrupt bastards out. This was in the days of Dan Smith, remember? Mary loved it, she was on fire for it.’

‘And how were you going to do that?’

‘By … Oh, my God. By blowing up the Civic Centre. Fuck.’

Whitman’s phone rang.

‘Keep her talking,’ said Donovan.

Whitman answered his phone. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you there yet?’

He sighed. ‘Yes. The war memorial.’

‘Know why I picked that place?’

‘Because we once sat there and talked about getting rid of the old order. Blowing up the Civic Centre. And because that’s where I met Lillian.’

There was silence on the line. He didn’t think he had been expected to get the right answer. ‘Very good,’ she said eventually.

‘So what have you got there for me to find? A bomb?’

Mary Evans laughed. ‘A map. Find that and you find your daughter.’

Whitman looked over at the chesterfield. Abdul-Haq had pulled himself on to the sofa, taken his shirt off and was holding it against his wound. It was sodden with blood. He was sweating. He didn’t look good. Shepherd was next to him, staring at Whitman, hatred in his eyes.

Whitman just wanted it all to be over.

‘OK,’ he said.

Donovan and Jamal were looking round the memorial, checking under stones, looking up at the top.

Donovan saw a folded piece of paper sticking out of the soil. He bent down, picked it up. Opened it.

‘Found it,’ he said.

‘Found it,’ Whitman repeated.

‘Good,’ said Mary Evans, a sick excitement in her voice. ‘It’s a white van. That’s all I’m saying.’

She rang off.

*

‘A white van,’ said Donovan, reading the paper.

It was a map leading from the war memorial, down by the side of the Civic Centre to the car park at the back. He and Jamal exchanged a glance. Another voice came over their earpieces.

‘Found her,’ said Amar. ‘She’s at the back of the car park by the entrance. Unless the phone’s being bounced off somewhere else. And that white van, that’s the one Peta was in. I’ve got the registration number here.’

‘How did you know that?’ said Donovan.

‘Kev came through for me. Got a pen?’

Donovan wrote down the number. He and Jamal moved round to the back of the Civic Centre.

Whitman put his phone down. Shepherd was still staring at him.

‘Haven’t you worked it out yet?’ he spat. ‘You really are a thick bastard.’

Whitman rubbed his eyes, tried to clear the buzzing in his head. Failed. ‘Tell me.’

‘She wants to see you. She wants to see you opening the doors of the van. She wanted you to run round Newcastle, revisit your old haunts. She wanted to break you. Then she wanted you to look at your daughter, see her lying there helpless. Realize what your life’s come to, then blow you both sky high.’

‘What? How?’

‘A bomb, you fucking idiot. Radio controlled. It’s all sorted. We’ve got a white Nazi suicide bomber going in through the front doors. We’ve got a bomb in a white van that has the planted DNA of a Muslim extremist all over it.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘You have no idea. You’re pathetic.’

On the TV the action had switched to the Newcastle West results. The camera was surveying the podium. Rick Oaten was standing there. The results were imminent.

‘Ka-boom,’ said Shepherd.

Kev stood outside the NUP headquarters, looked at it.

‘Come on,’ he said.

Jason didn’t move, just stared resignedly at the front door. Kev looked at him. ‘What?’

Jason was choking back tears again. ‘I just don’t want to die, Kev. I don’t want to die …’ The tears flowed. ‘I just … I always wanted, wuh-wanted somewhere to, to belong. A home, a fam-family. Someone. That’s all I wanted. Belong …’ His words dried up, choked them off.

Kev put his arm around him. ‘Me too, mate. Me too.’ He thought of Amar. His words. About being a hero. About atoning. He took a deep breath. Another. Checked his watch. Almost time. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s do it.’

He led him across the road and through the front door.

There was silence from the storefront as they entered, then Kev’s raised voice, muffled by the boarding. Then silence.

Then screaming, as the few remaining party faithful, those still in the office watching the results, made their way to the front door and out into the night, as fast as they could go.

Mary Evans sat at the top of the slope that led down to the car park behind the Civic Centre. Watching. Barely able to contain her excitement.

The culmination of years of planning, of waiting, of imagining. And it felt good. Making Trevor Whitman suffer.
Arranging his death. And knowing there would be no consequences for her. Living out the perfect revenge fantasy.

She looked at the two phones beside her. One for making calls, the other purely for pressing a button that would blow the van and its occupant and its opener sky high.

She couldn’t wait. Had even brought her binoculars to get a close-up of his face as he opened the doors.

Wouldn’t be long now.

She looked at the phone on the seat.

Just one more call to him …

Whitman picked up on the first ring.

‘Are you there yet?’

‘Nearly,’ he said, head pounding. ‘Just coming round the corner.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I can see it.’

She picked up the binoculars, focused on the back doors of the van. She smiled.

Waiting. Not long …

She touched the other phone, ran her fingers over the button.

Closer, closer …

The returning officer was standing on the platform, candidates behind him. Rick Oaten was at one side, Colin Baty the other. David Dimbleby had cut the voiceover, allowing the pictures to speak for themselves. The returning officer was about to speak.

‘Here we are,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is what it’s all about.’ He laughed. ‘The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.’

Abdul-Haq’s eyes had rolled into the back of his head. He was going into shock. Whitman didn’t know what to focus on first: the phone, the bleeding body, even the TV. He looked from one to the other, frantically. He had to tell
Donovan about the bomb. Had to … He didn’t notice Shepherd rise off the chesterfield, cross the room, come towards him. Until it was too late to do anything about it.