‘Can’t tell you now,’ he said.
‘Well, you’re fuckin’ useless, then, aren’t you?’ He looked at the iPods. ‘Give you fifty for the pair.’
Jason nodded. Norrie moved over to the till.
Jason had looked round the shop, an idea forming in his head. He had to think quickly if it was going to work. ‘Listen, Norrie.’ Another look round to check there was no one after him. ‘I need … somewhere to stay. For a bit.’
Norrie blinked behind his filthy glasses, counted out bills. ‘Salvation Army’s that way.’
Jason screwed up his eyes, thought harder. This had to work. Had to. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. ‘I’ve got a … a prop’sition. For you.’
Norrie looked at him. Waited.
‘Yeah. Yeah. I stay here, right? You let me stay here. I know you do that.’ Norrie had given a few wanted faces a place to stay until things had cooled off for them.
‘Not any more. Too fuckin’ risky.’
Jason thought hard. ‘I’ll work for you, right?’ He looked at Norrie, a hopeful little smile on his face. ‘Stay here an’ work for you. Yeah?’
‘Fuck off. Can’t afford to pay anyone else.’
Wasn’t working. Jason shook his head quickly, tried to get his brain functioning. ‘Naw, naw, not like that …’
‘What like, then?’
Yeah, he thought, what like, then? ‘On the street, like. Nickin’ stuff. Cards an’ that. Bringin’ them back, an’ you sellin’ them.’ Jason stood still. He grinned this time, pleased with his quick thinking, his brilliant idea.
Norrie looked at him. Jason could almost see the numbers rolling around his eyeballs like they did in old cartoons. He waited. Eventually Norrie nodded.
‘Stay in the back there. I’ll pay you what I think stuff is worth, take your rent out of that. Food you find yourself. You don’t like that, you can fuck off.’
Jason nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yeah, yeah, I like it. ’S great.’
Norrie folded the pound notes up, put them back in the till. ‘Your first bit of rent.’
Jason watched the money disappear back into the drawer. He said nothing, not wanting to jeopardize his position already. Norrie looked at him.
‘What you still standin’ there for? Fuck off out of it an’ get some work done.’
Jason had done as he was told.
That was a couple of days ago. Now Jason lay there, as far away from sleep as he was a concept of home. He couldn’t keep living like this, running like this. He just wanted peace.
He thought of Jamal’s house. It had seemed so cosy, so comfortable. How come he had somewhere like that? How come it was always other people?
Never him.
So he lay there in his sleeping bag, listened to the rats, tried not to smell the bins behind him. Bullying back the tears. Tried to will himself to sleep.
And dream of a better future.
17
The TV news was white hot the next morning, and the run-up to what was just another boring local election was taking on almost national significance.
Images of police clashing with balaclavaed rioters were on every channel, along with footage of screaming, terrified marchers running into the cathedral. Rick Oaten’s face followed, an interview held immediately after his dinner at the Assembly Rooms: ‘We are a legitimate political party with respectable policies. Like any other party. We are not responsible for acts of random violence such as this, which I join you in condemning.’
He seemed calm and reasonable, debonair in his bow tie and dinner jacket. Unruffled. His words matched his appearance. Abdul-Haq, however, appeared as the opposite. Interviewed in the cathedral directly after the attack, he was visibly shaken, his mood alternating between fear and anger: ‘This was a peaceful march in memory of a young boy’s life. A boy murdered by racist thugs, the kind of thugs who did this to us! This is not who we are! We are men of peace! Peace!’ His face, in wide-eyed close-up, failed to match his words.
And back to the studio.
Donovan turned from the TV, shouted into the kitchen. ‘Don’t think we’ll be getting an interview with Abdul-Haq today. Might be a bit busy.’
Peta walked in, two mugs of coffee in her hands. ‘You never know,’ she said, ‘might want to talk to as many journalists as possible.’
She sat down next to him, watched the remainder of the bulletin. A long piece about the proposed razing and rebuilding of the West End of Newcastle, replacing terraced houses and crumbling tower blocks with what they described as ‘an urban brownfield regeneration scheme’. The screen showed computer-generated images of sculpted parkland with cutting-edge blocks of housing, shopping complexes and offices dotted about on it. It was a multi-billion-pound project. If it ever went through. Talking heads’ pieces from local councillors showed it was having trouble being passed.
‘Hey, there’s Colin Baty,’ said Peta.
The screen was filled by his round, red face. ‘Obviously there are things we need to look at, but in principle the proposal’s sound. It’ll mean much-needed jobs for a deprived area and, at the end of the day, better housing and better amenities.’
‘Yeah,’ said Donovan, ‘if you can afford to live in them.’ He turned to Peta. ‘That’s who terrified Trevor Whitman?’
‘You want to see him on full power.’
The weather came up next. More heat.
‘Right,’ said Peta, snapping the TV off, ‘to work.’
The previous evening they had ordered an Indian takeaway instead of eating Peta’s pasta. Jamal’s relief had been apparent, earning him a scornful look from Peta. He had eaten and gone to bed. Not like him, Donovan knew.
‘Did you have much luck finding him?’ Donovan had said, knowing what was on the boy’s mind.
‘Nah, man.’
‘You going to try again tomorrow?’
Jamal had nodded.
‘OK. When this case is finished, I’ll give you a hand. We’ll all get on it, yeah?’
Jamal had nodded, gone in the living room to watch TV.
Donovan and Peta had sat either side of the dining room table and got down to work, Donovan through the pile of photocopied old newspapers Peta had brought back from the library, Peta surfing the net, then through Whitman’s book, more thoroughly this time. There was no mention of Peta’s parents. The relief on her face had been palpable.
They had then planned what to do next. Peta showed him a photo in the book of the Hollow Men. ‘And they weren’t all men, either,’ she said.
‘How very patriarchal for such heavy progressives,’ Donovan had replied.
‘Indeed. Five men, one woman.’ She showed him the photo.
Five people, young, idealistic and full of hope, taken at a party some time in the early Seventies judging by the clothes. Trevor Whitman stood in the middle looking suitably charismatic in leather jacket, white kaftan and faded Levi’s. An urban Jesus Christ Superstar. Next to him was a young Asian man with the obligatory long hair, wearing a velvet jacket and holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other.
‘Our friend Abdul-Haq,’ said Peta. ‘Or Gideon Ahmed, as he was known then.’
‘In less strict times, obviously.’
‘Looks like Cat Stevens,’ said Peta, smiling. ‘You know, I still have a problem with all this.’
‘All what?’
‘Well, religious extremism. Political extremists you can cope with. They’re not usually ready to die for their beliefs. But religious extremists, you can’t reason with them. Because God tells them to do it. And anything you say or do against them is just a test from God.’
‘Not just Muslims, though. Look at the American Christians. Censoring free speech, burning books, blowing up abortion clinics and, worst of all, voting for George Bush.’
‘You’ve got a point.’
‘When the political extremists start blowing themselves up, that’s when we’ve got trouble.’
They went back to t
he photo. A woman stood on Whitman’s other side, gazing up at him like she was basking in the light from his halo. With long dark hair and flowing Indian-cotton-print dress, she looked the archetypal hippie chick.
‘Mary Evans, I presume,’ said Donovan.
Peta looked at her notes. ‘Now a community activist. Well respected. Gets things done. And a poet. Award-winning, apparently. And a lesbian. Big advocate of gay liberation, women’s rights, that sort of thing.’
‘The way she’s staring at our Trevor here, she doesn’t look too lesbian,’ said Donovan.
Peta ran her finger down the notes again. ‘Late convert from what I can gather given some of her quotes. Says men abused her, systematically, for years. Would never trust them again. Only trust women. Lot of anger. Channelled it into her poetry.’
‘Strange how you can shift your whole sexuality like that.’
‘Not really,’ said Peta. ‘I don’t think we’re as hard-wired as you think. There’s been times in the past when … never mind.’
Donovan smiled. ‘Really?’
Peta reddened. ‘Get your mind out of the gutter and back to work.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Yeah. The sexist male’s first line of defence. Anyway, Mary Evans is still in the north-east. The West End of Newcastle, to be precise.’
‘Crops up a lot at the moment.’
‘It’s a deprived area,’ said Peta. ‘She wouldn’t be a community activist in Jesmond, would she?’
They looked at the photo again. There were two others, a man at either side. One, duffel-coated, had a well-fed face and a wide smile. Like it was all just a really good laugh. His hair, although long, looked well groomed.
‘Maurice Courtney. Little rich boy playing at being a revolutionary. Left uni, got bored, went back to the family business. Big noise in the City, London. Doubt he’d be able to tell us much.’
‘You never know,’ said Donovan. ‘Maybe I should pop down and see him.’ And see how Turnbull’s doing, see when my son can come home. The thought was never far from the front of his mind. Peta’s face showed she was thinking the same thing but she said nothing. Donovan looked at the photo again.
‘Who’s the other one?’ he said.
‘Richie Vane.’ Peta pointed to the last one. He too was staring up at Whitman. Face slack, expression unfocused. Waiting for orders. Or just loaded. ‘Bit of a casualty. Drugs. No current address, just last known hostel.’
‘We can check hospitals, charities, that kind of thing. Maybe receiving treatment. You said six. Where’s the other one?’
‘Alan Shepherd. Disappeared at the time of the pub bombing.’
‘The supposed bomber. Caught in the blast. Or did a runner. Presumably he took the photo.’
Donovan put the photo down, looked up, smiled.
She looked at him, lips slightly parted, waiting. ‘What?’
‘Just like old times. This. Albion back together. Good, isn’t it?’
Peta nodded. She leaned forward again. Donovan tried to keep his eyes on her face. She kept hers on him, smiling. They both sat there, neither seemingly wanting to be the first to break it, wondering just what each one was finding in the other’s eyes.
The door opened.
‘’M goin’ to bed. Spare room’s mine, yeah?’
They both sat back as if they had been caught doing something they were ashamed of. If Jamal noticed, he didn’t show it.
‘Yeah,’ said Peta, ‘you take the spare room.’ She looked at Donovan, composure returning to her features. ‘Joe can take the sofa in the living room. Can’t you?’
Donovan shrugged, his face as blank as possible. ‘Sure.’
And that had been that for the night.
They had their plan for the day. Peta was going to talk to Mary Evans, Donovan was going to try to contact Abdul-Haq.
‘Fine by me,’ said Donovan. ‘At least I won’t have to listen to your God-awful music in the car.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with James Blunt.’
‘Oh. That well-known cockney rhyming slang.’ Donovan hated Peta’s taste in music. Couldn’t understand how such an interesting person could listen to something so bland. Actually go into a shop and buy it.
Peta picked up her keys, made for the door. ‘And what would you suggest, O great arbiter of taste?’
Donovan moved with her. ‘What about the Drive By Truckers? You still got that one?’
She stopped walking, gave him a look equalling the one Jamal had received the night before about her pasta. ‘It’s still on the shelf next to Richmond Fontaine and Jim White and Sparklehearse—’
‘Sparklehorse.’
‘I’ve heard them. And all the other rubbish you burned for me. Johnny Dowd. For Christ’s sake, the man couldn’t carry a tune if it was in a bucket. I’m going.’
Arguing with her, Donovan knew from experience, would be like arguing with the Tyne Bridge.
She went out, slamming the door behind her.
Donovan watched her drive off, smiled. Another brilliant-blue morning sky, he thought. And another day nearer to being reunited with his son.
He went to sleep thinking about him, woke up the same way. Everything else, the job with Albion, helped to take his mind off it for most of the day, but it was the beginnings and endings, or the times when he was on his own, that were the hardest. When he couldn’t get him out of his mind.
He went into the kitchen, brewed up some more coffee, focused on the day ahead. Jamal was still asleep, would be down soon. In the meantime he went into the living room, picked up the phone.
Tried to get through to Abdul-Haq.
The walls had thudded, the floors shook, the crowd slammed off each other in aggressive ecstasy. The pounding, tuneless, atonal rhythm of White Jihad, a skinhead band from Poland, had transformed the upstairs of the Gibraltar into an angry mosh pit. The crowd had shouted, chanted, screamed along as the band thudded and ranted from the stage, the racist, white supremacist lyrics to their signature song ‘Boot Party’ known off by heart:
‘With their turbans and their bombs –
Send them back where they belong –
Boot party!
Boot party!
Show the niggers white means right –
Shoot the black bastards on sight –
Boot party!
Boot party!
Boot party!
Boot party!’
Rage transcendent, the audience bound by communal hatred, prejudices mutually confirmed, the cruel comfort of belonging.
And Kev hadn’t been touched by any of it.
Not so long ago he would have been in the thick of it, arms windmilling, booted feet stomping, giddy from the crush of hot, heaving bodies pressing against him, muscled male flesh against muscled male flesh, emerging eventually, skin wet with sweat and blood, both his own and others, carrying injuries and bruises like rare treasure.
The event was true believers only, a treat for Major Tom and the foot soldiers. Kev, although unable to join them on their raiding party, had been driven from the farm to the pub, was still expected to work the door and he had: frisking, checking for concealed cameras, recorders, weeding out undercover coppers or reporters. But even the true believers looked different now. Better dressed, designer labels. Happy with their lives. No cheap clothes, no conflict or doubt.
Groupie Diane had offered him sex, rubbed up against him, her hands on his cock. It hadn’t hardened. All he could do not to throw up. She looked like something from his butcher’s shop, big tits sagging down like udders, arse and belly and thighs ready to be sliced off the bone like pork. Smelling of rancid meat. She revolted him.
Kev wondered where Jason was, what he was doing. Felt a void within him, an aching loss he couldn’t explain. He wanted to talk to him, see he was OK.
But that was all the night before. Kev had left early, gone back to the flat. That made it even worse. His stinking dad, his stinking brother. He had to get out.
; Now, in the front room with Jeremy Kyle having a go at some cuckolded chav, Kev’s head was pounding. He had to get out. Go somewhere, anywhere. Do something, anything.
He needed to talk to someone.
And he knew who. It was a risk, but a risk worth taking.
He left the flat, slammed the door behind him.
Hoped he never had to go there again.
18
Jason Mason decided not to open his eyes. If he did he would have to get up. And face Norrie. And go back on the street again.
Too late. Norrie had looked into the back, seen him.
‘Oi, get up. Yeah, you, you lazy cunt. Come on, you’ve got work to do.’
Jason quickly weighed up the options. Decided he had no choice. He opened his eyes, sat up. Felt like he hadn’t slept. He looked down at his sleeping bag. At least it didn’t appear to have any more teeth marks in it. That was something.
‘What you still hangin’ around for? Fuck off out of it an’ get some work done.’
Jason got up. Rolled the sleeping bag as small as he could make it, stuffed it behind one of the shelves.
‘Out.’
Jason went. Dragging his feet as he did so.
Leaving Jamal’s place had been a risk. But then so had staying there. He didn’t know who this Donovan bloke Jamal wanted him to meet was. Or whose side he was on. So he had weighed it up. Wait, take a chance and maybe make some big money, maybe not, or cut and run with cash in hand. No contest. Result.
But once he had got back into the city he couldn’t face going back to the street, so Norrie’s had been a good idea. Bit of pickpocketing, bit of boosting, stuff he was good at. Working bars, roaming streets after closing time when people were too pissed to know what was going on, even giving the come-on to perverts and running off with their wallets. Easy targets. And Norrie had been pleased with the haul.
But Jason was starting to see the risks. If the law pulled him in, word might get back to Rick Oaten. In fact, word definitely would get back. Jason knew what some of the party members did for a living.
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