White Riot (45 page)

He watched the coffin go into the earth alone but for the vicar. There had been an older man there during what
service there was, but he had left straight after, saying something about looking after Joey.

‘Would you like to say a few words?’ the vicar asked Amar.

‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve said plenty to him while I’ve been standing here. If he heard them, he heard them. I don’t need to say them out loud.’

The vicar nodded, understanding.

Jamal had been sitting on the sofa one night, a thoughtful, disturbed look on his face. He turned the TV off. He wanted to talk.

‘What’s up, kidder?’ said Donovan.

‘Was thinkin’ ’bout Jason,’ he said.

‘What about him?’

‘It’s sad, y’know? He had no one. All that shit, that Nazi shit, it wasn’t who he was, what he wanted. It’s just what came to him. His way out. He just wanted to try an’ fit in, y’get me? Be, y’know …’

‘Loved,’ Donovan said.

Jamal blushed. ‘Yeah. Loved.’ He sighed. ‘But, like, not everyone get that, yeah? Not everyone can be lucky.’

‘That’s right, Jamal. It’s a cruel truth. Not everyone can be lucky.’

Jamal said nothing, sat thoughtfully. Eventually he put the TV back on.

Donovan stood in David’s room, stared at the rain. Three weeks.

He had promised Abigail, his daughter, that he would have some news for her. He couldn’t phone now. Not just yet. He couldn’t tell her what had happened. He wasn’t sure himself what had happened. He just had to keep going. See what the next job for Albion would involve, see—

He stopped dead. There was movement in the house.

He looked round. The door to David’s room was closed. Jamal was in town with Amar, staying overnight, so it couldn’t be him. He checked the window again. No car outside. He hadn’t seen or heard anyone drive up.

Another sound. Someone moving through the front room, making their way to the stairs.

He looked round, tried to find anything that he could use as a weapon. Nothing there. He checked his pocket for his mobile, make a call for help. Not there. He had left it charging downstairs.

The footsteps came to a halt on the landing. There was someone outside the door.

He took a deep breath, another. Then pulled the door open.

Donovan froze.

Standing there with his black, floppy fringe and his black-framed glasses was Matt Milsom. Or the person who claimed to be Matt Milsom. He smiled.

‘What the—’

Donovan got no further. Milsom’s fist crashed out, connecting with Donovan’s face. He fell backwards, hitting the bare floorboards with a hard thump. He looked up. Milsom was standing over him. He took something from behind his back, something black and heavy-looking.

Donovan didn’t have time to move out of the way. Milsom’s face twisted with rage as he brought the cosh down on Donovan’s head.

Stars exploded.

Then there was nothing.

Just darkness.

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Martyn Waites
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Tania Carver
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