White Riot Page 3

  ‘Yeah, things are cool.’

  He saw Jamal’s eyes jump immediately to them, size them up, make a judgement. Jason felt confused again. Jamal should be showing fear; it was the correct response of the immigrant to the tattoos. He’d been told. But Jamal wasn’t scared of him. He took in the tats, the clothes, the haircut, his uniform, his tribal insignia and showed no fear. If anything there was pity in his eyes.

  Another hard, sharp shaft went through Jason.

  ‘So what you doin’, then, eh?’ Usually there would be some mutual compassion when he met someone who had come up like he had, the hard way. Instead he tried to build up a good wave of anger, ride it out. Use it to cope with his confusion. ‘You on the dole? Scroungin’? Burdenin’ the state? Lettin’ the taxpayer keep you in ganja an’ beer?’

  It was what they told him to say to them at meetings. Would hit nerves, get them angry. Guaranteed, they said. Jason didn’t know why. Personally he couldn’t give a fuck about the taxpayer, whoever he was. And he loved ganja and beer.

  Jamal looked at him, a reluctant fire lighting up behind his eyes, an argument he didn’t want to have but he wouldn’t back down from.

  ‘Fuck you talkin’ like that for? That some twisted shit you comin’ out with. Don’ you be dissin’ me, man, I work for a livin’. Hard. Harder than you ever know.’ He ran his eyes disdainfully over Jason with the last few words.

  ‘Yeah?’ Jason sneered at him, the anger mixing with the rocks and booze now. ‘Doin’ what?’

  ‘An information brokerage.’

  Jason had no idea what Jamal was talking about, tried not to let it show. ‘Yeah? Right. Well. You got a—’ what did they call them? ‘—a business card? Eh? Might need some a’ that stuff you sell. Some information.’

  Yeah, thought Jason triumphantly. Make the nigger dance.

  Anger flushed Jamal’s cheeks. He drew his wallet from his jeans back pocket, hands shaking angrily, pulled out a card, flicked it at him. Jason caught it, laughing as he did so, but unable to cover up that sharpness stabbing at him again.

  He looked at it, tried to read it through slowly, gave up on the first line. He had never been good with words; they meant next to nothing to him. There were three phone numbers on there. And numbers he was good at. One local landline, one mobile and another one.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing to the third number.

  ‘My place in Northumberland,’ said Jamal, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

  Jason looked at the card, nodding. Jamal turned, began walking away.

  ‘Hey …’

  Jason wasn’t finished with him yet.

  ‘Have a good life, man,’ Jamal said from over his shoulder, not stopping, not even bothering to disguise the lie in his voice.

  Jason watched him go, holding the card between his fingers.

  A teenage nigger handing out business cards. What was the world coming to.

  He felt the edges of the card, bent it, testing the weight, then pocketed it. At least it would make a good roach, he thought.

  He felt all through his pockets, hoping he hadn’t made a roach out of it.

  He found it. Crumpled and soiled but still readable. He brought it out, but there wasn’t enough light to read it by.

  He smiled. Asking a nigger for help. Would have been ironic if he had known what ironic meant.

  He put the card back in his jacket pocket over his chest, over his heart.

  Tomorrow he would go and find Jamal. He would have to crawl a bit, maybe, explain they might have got off on the wrong foot last time they met, blame the drugs or the drink, but hey, no hard feelings. We’re both mates. Both came up the hard way and know what that does to you. And then Jamal would laugh and say that’s OK. Let him stay for a few days. Help him back on his feet. Lend him a few quid, maybe.

  Or even …

  Jason frowned, thinking hard. An idea was forming, a plan …

  Yeah, a plan …

  2

  It had bad idea written all over it like a full body tattoo.

  The house Peta Knight had grown up in was an old seventeenth-century rectory outside Gateshead near the south bank of the Tyne. Pulling the Saab on to the curving gravel drive brought back her usual memories: playing in the huge back garden, going for long walks through the woods, sitting by the river, watching the water ebb and flow, thinking it went on for ever. Comfort and indulgence, security and relaxation. Childhood’s sacred remembrances, its safe nostalgia.

  Not the place to meet a potential client. And certainly not one her mother was recommending. She wasn’t looking forward to this.

  Trevor Whitman was an old friend of her parents from way back, her mother had said, although Peta had never heard him mentioned before. Back in the north-east from living in London and needing someone with Peta’s talents. Which were what? A delicate matter; her mother couldn’t say over the phone. Why didn’t Peta come and meet him? At the house? They could all have lunch. Peta didn’t think it felt like the kind of thing she should be getting involved with. Not the right kind of job. Any job, her mother had insisted, voice sweet steel, was the right kind of job when it was the only job. Peta reluctantly demurred. Her mother cooed she would do lunch. Make a pleasant afternoon of it.

  Peta liked to research potential clients, get to meetings early, position herself well, take control, direct the conversation. There would be little chance of that here. But she had no choice but to accept the work. Her money stream was as dried up as a globally warmed creek bed.

  Going through the front door, she crossed the black and white squared-tile entrance hall, her unfamiliar heels awkwardly clacking and echoing, handbag slipping off her shoulder, skirt tight as a rope round her knees. Pulling her cotton blouse from her sweating chest, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. Angry at having to dress up to go home, so far away from her usual comfort zone of jeans and trainers or gym sweats, she felt like a female impersonator. A very bad one.

  She looked in on the front room. Same as usual. Her parents had settled on a Liberty print and Klimt look some time in the Seventies and, seeing no reason to change what worked, kept it the same over the subsequent decades. Peta often thought that was a metaphor for their relationship, a thought seemingly confirmed because since her father’s death from cancer four years previously her mother hadn’t changed a thing.

  She called out; no one answered.

  Into the kitchen, the Aga turned as low as possible in the heat. The back door was open, two figures sitting close on the wooden garden furniture, laughing. One of them saw her, turned. They pulled apart.

  ‘Peta, darling, come on out.’

  Peta went out. She noticed that the bottle of wine between them was nearly empty.

  Her mother stood up, smiled. In her early sixties, Lillian Knight was a striking woman. With good bone structure and a figure kept trim and fit, she seemed ten if not fifteen years younger than her actual age. Her blonde hair was now perhaps a shade unnatural, but so what? When Peta looked at her she saw herself in several years’ time and found no disgrace in that.

  They kissed, both cheeks.

  ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘You too, Lillian.’ Always Lillian, never Mother or Mum. That’s how she had grown up. The era her parents were from.

  ‘We were just reminiscing about the good old days.’ Her mother turned, indicated the man sitting at her side. ‘This is Trevor. Trevor Whitman.’

  Trevor Whitman’s hair was greying, swept back and collar length, his beard well manicured, one step above designer stubble. Medium height and build. Kept himself in shape. Dressed in a dove-grey suit with a black silk shirt beneath it.

  He stood up, shook her hand.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  She noticed how he surreptitiously took her all in. How his equally surreptitious nod indicated approval. How his eyes held hers for a beat too long. She forcefully blew the strand of hair away from her face again. He gestured to the garden table; t
here was a third chair. She sat, feeling uncomfortable, not liking the sensation. Trying to compose herself.

  A radiant smile. He lifted the bottle. ‘Drink?’

  Peta shook her head. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ said Lillian, seeming suddenly awkward. ‘Give you a chance to get to know each other.’

  Lillian stroked her hand along Whitman’s shoulder. Peta noticed the gesture. She felt she was meant to. Lillian slipped quickly away to the kitchen. Whitman kept looking at her.

  ‘I must say,’ he said, holding eye contact, ‘you’re not what I was expecting.’

  ‘I get that a lot. It’s the name,’ she said. ‘They expect a man.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant an ex-policewoman working in the private sector, I thought you’d be more …’ His fingers wriggled as if grasping for the word, smiling all the while.

  ‘Dykey?’

  He reddened. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have said …’

  She thought of the way her mother had stroked him. ‘How d’you know I’m not?’

  He quickly took a mouthful of his drink, pretended to find his glass fascinating. Peta tried not to smile. Lillian, as if on cue, chose that moment to reappear. She placed a glass of iced sparkling water down for Peta, another bottle of wine beside Whitman’s glass.

  ‘Right,’ she said with a bright, shiny smile. ‘Now that you two have introduced yourselves, shall we have lunch? Catch up on gossip, then you can get down to work.’

  Peta looked at her watch, told her mother she wouldn’t have time for lunch. Said that she had a lot on for the afternoon, wished it were true when she said it. Lillian objected but Whitman said it would be OK.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, although it clearly wasn’t. ‘Right. Well. I’d better go and make myself scarce.’ She turned, went back into the kitchen. Hurt but trying not to let it show.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Whitman.

  Peta felt a pang of guilt, tried to tamp it down, focus. She shrugged. ‘I did tell her but she wouldn’t listen. I won’t take the blame.’

  Whitman smiled. ‘She’s a stubborn one. Once she’s got an idea …’

  Peta nodded, took a sip of her water, felt her composure returning. ‘I know.’ And worse since she retired from lecturing, she thought, but didn’t want to share that with Whitman.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘About that remark before. Out of order.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘The wine, I suppose. And not very PC.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Another smile. ‘Cool. Whatever.’

  She looked at him again, sizing him up, professionally judgemental now. The kind of guy who never got punk and thought great music stopped at the Stones, thought cinema was never so exciting after Fassbinder died, had a shelf full of yellowing, orange-spined Penguins, drove a sports car – probably a red one – and thought he was still hip and down with the kids because he knew who Eminem was. Peppered his speech with transatlanticisms. Had the arrogance and demeanour of an ageing rock ’n’ roll rebel academic growing old gracefully, proud of not losing his rough edges. She could see what her mother and he had in common.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said. ‘You don’t drink. I’m curious. Is that by choice or …’

  She had been so determined to succeed when she joined the police, so eager. But whatever the PR people say, an intelligent, attractive young woman, unafraid to speak her mind, is still not welcome in the police. Or at least that was what her colleagues did their best to let her think. When she eventually admitted defeat and left she was racked with depression and a drink problem. She had also had an intense affair with a very unsuitable man that hadn’t helped. She had sorted herself out, but it had taken her years.

  Peta kept her face blank, her eyes unreadable. ‘Let’s just say the police lifestyle didn’t agree with me.’

  ‘Lillian’s told me about your company,’ Whitman said, pouring himself another large glass of wine. ‘Albion, is it?’

  ‘Was. It’s finished now. I’m freelance.’

  Whitman raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought you were doing well. You and an ex-journalist. Joe Donovan, right?’

  Peta kept her voice calm, her answers clipped. ‘We’re no longer working together.’

  ‘Right.’ Then he grinned. ‘Guy or girl?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe. Guy or girl?’

  ‘Guy.’

  ‘Thought I’d better ask.’ Another smile, another over-long eye lock. ‘You look just like her. Lillian. When she was your age. The image of her.’

  Peta felt her face reddening, hoped it was just the heat. ‘So who is it you want protecting from?’

  He smiled, eyes going twinkly-crinkly in the corners, sun glinting on his teeth. ‘Myself, mainly.’

  Enough. He needed some serious mental realignment and quick focusing.

  ‘Mr Whitman—’

  ‘Trevor, please.’

  ‘Mr Whitman, let’s get some ground rules established. This is not a leisurely afternoon with friends and family. We’re not on a date. You want to employ me in a professional capacity. So without meaning to be rude, let’s talk business.’

  Whitman sat back, humbled and fumbling for words. Blushing. Peta definitely with the upper hand now. She waited, her silence the tool he needed to dig himself out. From the kitchen her mother clattered about.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s not what … I didn’t mean to give that impression. Very unprofessional among other things. Yes, you’re right. Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Peta, clearly in control. ‘Now what’s the problem?’

  ‘You’re an information broker,’ Whitman said eventually, after searching for the right approach. ‘That’s what I need. Information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Or who.’ He sat back, took a mouthful of his drink. Looked at her, his eyes cold ashes, whatever was in them earlier now burned out. The garden umbrella cast a long shadow over his face. ‘What d’you know about me or my background?’

  Peta’s mind flicked over the notes she had made before the meeting. ‘Political radical. Heyday was the early Seventies.’

  Whitman winced. Peta enjoyed his reaction but didn’t glory in it. She continued.

  ‘North-eastern working-class boy, got a scholarship to university. Newcastle redbrick.’

  ‘Where I met Philip and Lillian.’

  ‘Became politicized there. Left, set up an Angry Brigade splinter group, the Hollow Men.’

  ‘After T. S. Eliot. Satire.’

  ‘And that group was responsible for acts of violence against the state—’

  ‘Ah, now that’s not fair—’

  Peta continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. ‘—including attacks on the police, various Tory MPs and the firebombing of a pub full of off-duty policemen. Eventually the Hollow Men disbanded, an acrimonious split. Repented of earlier actions in the Eighties, was never charged for anything. Attempted to become Member of Parliament for the SDP in ’82, was unsuccessful. Went into teaching at university level, became a lecturer in psychology and sociology.’ She sat back, smiling, trying to play down the smugness she felt. ‘How am I doing?’

  Whitman was impressed. ‘Very good.’ He smiled. ‘Disbanded, acrimonious split, make us sound like a rock band.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the intention? Politics the new rock ’n’ roll?’

  Whitman smiled wistfully. ‘Different time. When politics meant something. When rock ’n’ roll meant something.’ The smile faded. ‘And I’d take exception to that description of crimes against the state. We were never terrorists. We were freedom fighters. Revolutionaries, not terrorists. That’s what radical politics were like back then.’

  ‘Different time.’ She nodded, clearly unconvinced.

  He drank his drink.

  ‘So how can I help you now?’

  Whitman seemed to think hard, then continued. ‘Well, as you know, I’ve recently
written my biography. I didn’t expect it to knock The Da Vinci Code off the top of the best-seller chart, but I thought it might attract some interest in – shall we say? – academic circles.’ His voice, once he became interested in his own words, was rich and sonorous. Yet, Peta noticed, still betrayed his north-east origins. ‘Political journals, that sort of thing. I wasn’t prepared for what happened.’

  Peta leaned forward, interested. ‘What happened?’

  Whitman opened his mouth but seemed reticent to speak. He moved his lips as if auditioning the correct words before speaking them. ‘I’ve been getting … phone calls.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘The … disturbing kind. The threatening kind.’

  ‘Threatening?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, not in so many words. More … insistent. Veiled threats.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘Saying … enough to worry me. This person knows about me. My background. Knows I’m coming back up here. Wants to make it difficult for me.’

  ‘In what way?

  ‘’Just … difficult.’

  ‘So why are you back up here?’

  ‘The book. I’m promoting it. A few local media interviews, TV and radio, a signing, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And then what? Back home? To London?’

  ‘No, I’m … I took a sabbatical. Staying up here. For a while.’

  Peta leaned forward. ‘Any reason?’ She looked to the kitchen window, where her mother was pretending to do something at the sink. ‘Family? Friends?’

  Whitman shrugged. That irritating smile began to creep across his features again. ‘Not much family left. Friends?’ He followed Peta’s gaze. ‘Maybe. But really I’m just taking in the local colour. Seeing the old town. Logging the changes. That kind of thing. Might write another book about it.’

  He glanced quickly at her, then away, as if his eyes were holding something he didn’t want her to see. She didn’t believe his words but didn’t press him. It had nothing to do with work.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And judging by the headlines and the TV, I picked possibly the worst time to come back to Newcastle. What with that Asian kid. And the Fascists on the march again. And that Muslim guy trying to make a name for himself.’