White Riot (7 page)

But no bad endings here, he thought, looking round the cottage and smiling. Took a sip from the big glass of mixed
fruit juice at his side. Fruit juice. Who’d have guessed? No drugs, no booze. Living clean, intending to stay that way. And loving it.

Donovan had phoned to say he would be back on Thursday, leaving Jamal on his own. He just hoped Amar had been able to say something, talk some sense into him. Hoped his scheme to get the team back together again had worked.

He hadn’t realized just how lonely it would be, in the cottage by himself. He was used to living alone, on his wits, back in London. But this was different. Everything was different now. His mate Josh was away; there was nothing to do. Couldn’t even get into Newcastle. Not that he wanted to at the moment. Streets weren’t safe if your skin was dark, not since that Asian kid had been set on fire. Too much violence. Too many people looking for easy targets. Even a savvy kid like him was scared.

Jamal stretched out on the sofa, yawned. Thought about going to bed, maybe taking up one of Donovan’s graphic novels. Old-school stuff,
Watchmen
or
V for Vendetta
. Or coolest of the cool,
100 Bullets
.

He stood up, made to cross to the bookshelf.

And stopped.

A noise, coming from beyond the back door.

Something scratching, rooting around.

Jamal froze. Usually when he heard something like that it was a fox foraging in the bin, or a cat on a nocturnal prowl from one of the nearby houses. Nothing to worry about.

He listened. Heard the crash of glass as bottles saved for recycling were knocked over.

Too big for a cat or a fox. Or even a badger.

But cats, foxes and badgers didn’t trip over bottles. And then swear.

Jamal looked round, wished Donovan was there with
him. But he wasn’t and there was nothing he could do about that.

He steeled himself, swallowed hard, cautiously made his way towards the back door. Stopped, scoped the kitchen, looking for some armament, something that would give him an advantage. His baseball bat was propped up against the back door, two tennis balls on the floor beside it. He and some of the boys from the village sometimes went out on the recreation field, played their own version of baseball. Thankfully he had ignored Donovan’s nagging and not put it away. He picked it up and carefully opened the back door.

He looked round, eyes getting accustomed to the darkness. The air was still and warm, even this late. He listened. Heard only his own breath coming harsh and ragged, his heart beating fast as drum ’n’ bass.

He stepped outside, bat raised. Planted his feet away from the broken glass. Stood as still as he could, waited.

A movement; heard more than seen, the bushes by the end of the garden rustling, the shiny, dark leaves catching a moonlight glint.

Jamal turned, ready. ‘You better come out, man. Whoever you are. I’m armed an’ I’m gonna start hittin’ soon, you get me?’

Nothing. The bush remained still.

Jamal cleared his throat. ‘I ain’t jokin’, man.’ He took a step closer to the bush, tried to ignore the damp grass beneath his socked feet. ‘I’m comin’. I mean it.’

He pulled the bat back, all of his strength behind the swing, let it go.

‘Don’t hit me!’ A figure stepped out from behind the bush, cowering, hands before its face.

Jamal, unable to stop, quickly changed direction, bringing the bat down away from the figure, swinging it at the
other side of the bush. It hit, sending leaves flying from the impact.

He tried to make out the face of the figure in the leafy shadows.

‘Sorry …’ the figure said. It was a male voice, scared.

Jamal stepped back, bat held ready once more. ‘Step out o’ there,’ he said. ‘Slowly.’

The figure stepped out on to the lawn. In the moonlight Jamal could make out a small frame, undernourished and runty-looking, clothes dirty and dishevelled. Eyes wide like a hunted animal’s. He had no idea who it was.

‘Hey, Jamal, how’s it goin’ …’

Jamal looked closer. There was something familiar about the youth.

‘It’s Jason. Remember? Met you in the street a few weeks ago?’

Jamal frowned. ‘Jason? From Father Jack’s?’

Jason nodded. ‘Yeah.’

They stood staring at each other, questions bubbling to the surface of Jamal’s brain, popping too quickly for him to ask them.

Jason gave a quick, nervous glance round, fear shining like silver in his eyes. Jamal caught the look.

‘Can I come in?’

Jamal frowned, those questions still there. ‘Uh, yeah, sure.’

Jamal pointed to the house. Jason hurried inside. Jamal reached the back door, gave a quick look round the garden, listened. Just in case. Sure there was no one there, he stepped in, closed the door behind him.

Locked it.

‘Sit down.’

Jason sat on the sofa. He was filthy, like he had been sleeping rough in the woods. It was like letting a wild animal
into the house. Jamal wondered what kind of mess he would make of Joe’s furniture.

‘Man, you’re mingin’,’ said Jamal. ‘Where you been? An’ how you find me?’

‘Gave us your card, didn’t you? Remember?’

Jamal remembered and silently admonished himself. Must have handed out the wrong one. He had various ones with different phone numbers and addresses on them, depending on how much information he wanted the recipients to have. Jason was supposed to have got the basic model. Must have got mixed up. Would have to be more careful in future. Shouldn’t have even been carrying them round at all.

Jamal studied the youth, remembered their previous encounter. Jason was wearing jeans, boots, ripped T-shirt, all filthy. His razored hair was growing back; his head resembled a fuzzy, dirty peach. His nervous, fearful eyes took in all corners of the room. Perched on the edge of the sofa ready to bolt, he looked small and young, a lost little boy playing at being an adult. Not really master-race material, he thought.

‘So who’s after you, bro?’ said Jamal, sitting in an armchair.

‘Can’t tell you,’ said Jason, his voice dry and cracked, his head shaking.

Despite their differences, Jamal felt an empathy with the lost boy. A street kid, come up the hard way. Done what he had to do to survive. Now scared and needing help. And Jamal knew he would give it. He had no choice. Because he’d been there. Because some allegiances went deeper than skin.

‘Can I have a drink?’

‘Got fruit juice. Just opened some.’

A sharp-toothed smile appeared on Jason’s ratty little face. ‘Got any Stella?’

‘Nope. Fruit juice. Or tap-water. Maybe I could stretch
to a cup of tea.’ Jamal felt good saying the words, strong. Like something Joe would say.

Jason looked at Jamal like he was from another planet. ‘Fruit juice …’

Jamal went into the kitchen, poured two fruit juices from the fridge, returned to the front room. Jason was on his feet, looking over the CD collection, touching things. He had a hold of Jamal’s iPod. When he saw Jamal enter, he replaced it on the shelf.

‘Here.’ Jamal handed him his juice. Jason took it, sat back down, shifty eyes darting everywhere.

‘So you’re runnin’, yeah?’

Jason nodded.

‘Who from?’

‘Said. Can’t tell you.’

‘So why you come here? Why you look for me, then?’

Jason drained his glass, put it on the floor. Looked at Jamal, his eyes conflicted, like he wanted to unburden but found trust hard.

‘You gonna tell me?’

Again, the look of confusion. That lost look.

‘Got to open up some time, man. An’ we was at Jack’s place. We already shared some shit, you get me?’

Jamal knew what was stopping him. The experience of Father Jack weighed against what the skinheads had told him about black kids. He sat back, waited for one side to win.

Jason’s inner conflict came to the boil. ‘They … they’re gonna kill me,’ he said eventually.

Jamal nodded, said nothing. Just like Joe had shown him.

Jason looked away, at his glass, at the floor. Anywhere but at Jamal. ‘Kev found out an’ … an’ …’ Jason nodded to himself, his body rocking backwards and forwards, his face showing a growing incredulity at his words. He looked at
the ceiling, past the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. ‘Shit, I stabbed him …’

Jamal watched him, concern on his face. ‘You stabbed him? Stabbed who?’

‘Kev. Bright.’ Jason’s eyes focused again. He gave a little giggle. ‘I’m the Butcher Boy.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m special.’

Weirder by the minute, thought Jamal. ‘Who are they?’

Jason looked at Jamal, frowned. ‘You fuckin’ stupid? You know who they are. On the news all the time.’

‘The NUP?’

Jason nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said, pride in his voice. ‘An’ I’m one o’ them. A special one.’ A shadow seemed to pass over his face. ‘Well, I was.’

‘Keep goin’,’ said Jamal. ‘You were talkin’ about Kev. You stabbed him.’

‘Yeah. Well, anyway, he got me to cut him with the knife. Make it look good. I’m the Butcher Boy.’

‘You said. Then what?’

‘I ran.’

‘Here.’

‘Yeah. They chased us. I had to hide in trees an’ shit, like, sleep rough.’ He laughed with a child’s glee. ‘Like a proper fuckin’ survivalist, you know? Livin’ in woods. Then I had to find you, like. Took me a whole day.’

Jason sat back, looking comfortable for the first time. ‘An’ here I am.’

Jamal scrutinized him. ‘So why they wanna kill you, man?’

‘’Cos I’m special.’

‘You keep sayin’ that. How?’

Jason shook his head. ‘Can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘’Cos I’ll lose me money.’

‘What money?’

‘The money. I’ve had loads of time to think it through. It’s the plan. I’m gonna make loads of money. An’ you’re gonna help us.’

Jamal frowned. ‘Jase, man, you’re makin’ as much sense as tits on bulls. What you on about?’

Jason gave him the kind of look that ignorant people give intelligent ones when they believe they’re thick. Jamal would have been upset by that once, fought back against it. Not any more. He didn’t need to.

‘’Cos what I know, right, they don’t want anyone else to know. Anyone. So we blackmail them.’

‘Blackmail.’

Jason nodded. ‘Aye. You see?’

Jamal was beginning to regret letting him into the house. He wished Donovan were back. ‘So if I’m supposed to be helpin’ you, shouldn’t I know what you’re talkin’ about?’

‘Not yet. ’Cos if I tell you now you’ll run off with it an’ make money.’

‘Why would I do that?’

Another retarded, incredulous look at Jamal. ‘’Cos you buy and sell information, like it says on the card. If you had the information you wouldn’t need me. I’m not thick.’

‘Right.’ Jamal definitely regretted bringing him into the house. He nodded, pretending to think it over. Suddenly the Wednesday night of earlier didn’t seem so boring after all.

‘Listen,’ said Jamal, ‘there ain’t no information brokerage no more. It’s gone.’

Jason frowned. ‘So why d’you give us the card?’

Jamal shrugged. ‘Frontin’.’

Jason said nothing.

‘Tell you what,’ said Jamal, ‘why don’t you come back when the boss is here, yeah?’

‘The boss?’

‘Joe Donovan. This is his house. He be back tomorrow, we can sort it then.’

Jason jumped up, suddenly agitated. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, we can’t. Has to be you. No one else.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’ll take the money, won’t he? Take it away. Might even be in with them.’

‘Don’t think so, man. Not Joe.’

Jason laughed. ‘Aye. Not takin’ the chance, like.’

‘OK,’ said Jamal, standing up. From his brief acquaintance at Father Jack’s he remembered that Jason wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Obviously something had happened to him since then, made him worse. Drink, drugs, whatever. That, coupled with the earlier abuse, must have sent him over. He had seen it happen before. Jamal felt sorry for him, it was sad, but he didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s paranoid fantasies. ‘Come back tomorrow, yeah?’ he said, walking towards the front door, ‘We’ll talk about it then. You want money to get home, yeah?’

Jamal reached the front door, turned. Jason hadn’t moved; his fearful eyes darted around the room again.

‘Don’t make us go out there,’ he said, his breathing getting harsh. ‘Please, Jamal. Let us stay. You’ve got to let us stay …’

Jason crossed quickly to Jamal, put his hands on his arms, gripped tight. Up close, Jason smelled of woods, fields, pigpens, farmyards.

‘Man, you stink,’ said Jamal. ‘You need a bath.’

‘I’ll have one. Yeah. Please let us stay an’ I’ll have one. Please, Jamal. They’re out there, lookin’ for us. Tryin’ to kill us. Honest. But they’ll never think of lookin’ here.’ He smiled as if he had thought up a master plan. ‘An’ not with you.’

Jamal looked into Jason’s pleading eyes. He didn’t find the madness he’d expected, just fear and desperation. He saw not the tough skinhead Jason wanted people to see but the scared little boy who had been bullied and victimized at Father Jack’s and probably before that too.

Jamal could more than sympathize with that. ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘You can stay the night. An’ then we talk to Joe, yeah?’

Tears appeared in the corners of Jason’s eyes. ‘Yeah, whatever … thank you. Thank you …’

He tried to hug Jamal. Jamal stepped back. ‘Yeah. Good. Bathroom’s upstairs, first on the left. Go an’ run it. Should be some hot water. Gimme your clothes, I’ll stick them in the machine. Get them washed an’ dried.’

‘Thank you.’ Jason’s face was beaming. ‘You’ve saved me life.’

‘Whatever. Go an’ get a bath.’

Jason made his way upstairs. Jamal went up too, to get a duvet to lay on the sofa. On the landing he stopped, looked at the closed bathroom door. Heard running water.

He crossed to the window, looked out. The night was warm, heavy and still. No one there. No car headlights. Nothing out of the ordinary. He let the curtain fall back into place.

Just checking, he thought. Just checking.

Jamal woke early, sunlight streaming in to his room and with it heat. Another glorious day. He was getting sick of them. He checked his bedside clock. Five thirty. He groaned, flopped back on the pillow.