White Riot

by Martyn Waites

  ‘I’ve worked for it. Things are good.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Your … your help.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The party. I’ve got doubts.’ He saw the Asian boy’s body in flames, the blood pooling underneath his dead body. ‘Doubts about what I’m doin’. I’m worried.’

  Gary breathed what seemed to Kev a sigh of relief. ‘Which party? The NUP?’

  Kev nodded.

  ‘I’m nothing to do with them any more. That part of my life’s over.’ He gave Kev a pointed look as he said those words.

  ‘They told me you’d moved on. You were workin’ for them somewhere else.’

  Gary shook his head. ‘They lie to you all the time, don’t you know that?’

  Kev looked at him, still confused. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I found something better.’

  ‘What?’

  Gary’s voice dropped, became more confessional. ‘God.’

  Kev’s confusion increased. ‘What?’

  Gary sat back. ‘God. I couldn’t go on doing … what we had been doing. So I went away for a bit. Met Rebecca.’ Gary smiled. ‘And here I am.’

  Kev stared at him, speechless.

  Gary told Kev about going to a Pentecostal church at Rebecca’s invitation. How he didn’t want to go but she had kept on at him. He knew something was lacking in his life, so he went. ‘And there were all these people there and they looked so happy, and I thought, I want some of that.’ The speech sounded well rehearsed. His testimony. ‘They were so welcoming and so … full of the spirit. And I knew. They were somewhere I wanted to be. Because I was in a bad place, Kev, a very bad place.’

  Kev expected him to stand up, lift his voice and start preaching. Kev noticed that Gary couldn’t look him in the eye as he spoke the words ‘bad place’.

  ‘Very bad. So I sat down and listened. And when the time came I prayed. Can you believe that? Prayed. Me.’

  Yeah, thought Kev, the way you’re talkin’ now I can well believe that.

  ‘So when I prayed—’ he pointed his finger at the professionally textured ceiling. ‘—He heard. God heard my prayer. Then everything fell into place. And I realized I’d been wrong. So He showed me the right thing to do. Gave me the courage to do it. I left, married Rebecca. And I’ve never been happier. She’s pregnant now.’ He gave a beaming, beatific smile, arms spread before him. ‘And all because I dedicated my life to Christ.’

  Kev looked at Gary’s arms. There were patches of smooth, shiny, hairless skin. White and translucent on top, with red embers below the surface, a fire not yet gone out.

  ‘You’ve had your tats removed.’

  Another smile. ‘More than that. I’ve had my soul cleansed.’

  Kev felt uncomfortable, bewildered. He wanted to talk about things he knew, hear Gary talk about them too. Reassure himself who was in front of him.

  ‘D’you not miss it?’

  Gary’s brow creased in thought. He seemed to be giving the question real thought. His features took on a wistful quality. ‘Maybe the football. The rucks.’ He nodded, smiling at the memory. ‘Yeah.’ His nostalgic smile was replaced by his new beatific one. ‘Not for the violence. Just the … the workout. That’s all. And I get plenty of exercise in my day job now.’

  Kev didn’t know what to say next. He sat in silence.

  ‘I don’t miss the politics,’ said Gary. ‘Because it’s all wrong. So much hate.’ The word said like it was a foreign thing in his mouth. ‘Man’s way, not God’s. It’s easy to hate, to destroy. Harder to create, to love. That’s why I became a builder. And lots of Christians want a builder they can trust. Got lots of work – too much, in fact. Yeah. You see, the only person who holds us back, the only person we should hate,’ he said, ‘is ourselves. Not the Asians, or the asylum seekers or the blacks. You. Me. No one was going to offer me a living; I had to do it all myself. And once I had, and money was coming in, all the other stuff just … didn’t matter any more. I’ve even got an Asian girl working in the office. Couple of Polish lads on site.’ He gave a short, hard laugh. ‘What would the old party say about that, eh?’

  Kev didn’t know. He didn’t know what he would say about that.

  Gary stopped, looked at Kev. ‘So you want my advice? Get out. Now. They’re liars. No, worse than liars. Don’t trust them, have nothing to do with them.’ Gary’s expression changed. ‘In fact, I can help you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Hope sprang up inside Kev like a small light glimpsed at the end of a tunnel.

  ‘Yes.’ Gary leaned forward once again, his expression, his body language solicitous in a personal yet impersonal way. ‘Pray with me. God’ll help you. Give your life to Him and the fear just disappears.’

  Kev just looked at him. That small light at the end of the tunnel now an oncoming train. ‘No … That’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘I just wanted things … I just … Remember how we used to be? You and me …’ Kev reached out his hand, touched Gary’s knee.

  Gary recoiled from the touch as if a python had just slithered around his thigh.

  ‘Don’t do that, Kev. It’s wrong. Wrong then and wrong now. Wrong thoughts and wrong feelings. An abomination before God.’

  ‘No, it’s not, Gary. It wasn’t wrong, it was right. We were right. The only fuckin’ thing in me life that’s ever been right …’

  Gary’s voice, face were flat. His voice like spit hissing on a hot griddle. ‘No. It’s wrong. Those bars, those clubs. What we did when we were alone. With our bodies. All wrong.’

  Kev felt tears welling behind his eyes. ‘You really enjoyed it. You did. And so did I. It was the only time I’ve felt happy … You said the same …’

  ‘I told Rebecca. About … us.’ His eyes, body were hard, rigid. Like cold stone encasing hot lava. ‘Because we agreed, no secrets before God. And she understood. We spoke to the church leader. And he arranged for counselling. A reprogramming course. And that’s what I did.’

  He looked up, smiling hard at Kev, baring his teeth.

  ‘And I’ve never felt happier.’

  Kev just stared at him.

  ‘Take the course, Kev. I’ll get you on it. And you’ll have joy like you’ve never experienced before.’

  Kev couldn’t get out of the house quickly enough. He ran down the road, oblivious to the tears on his cheeks.

  More lost than ever.

  Jamal dialled the number, waited.

  ‘Sean Williams,’ the voice said, slightly breathless.

  ‘’Sme. What you got for me?’

  There was a shuffling noise, like he was walking away somewhere. A muffled voice. ‘I’ve found him. He’s here.’

  Jamal’s stomach flipped over. He nearly dropped the phone. ‘Where’s here.’

  ‘Outside the Central Station. We’re … I’m going to find a room somewhere.’

  Jamal looked round. He was sitting on the steps at Grey’s Monument, eating a Mark Toney’s sugar cone, listening to the Big Issue seller’s cry of ‘Shoosa’ to everyone who walked past.

  ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said and stood up.

  He handed his ice cream cone to the Big Issue seller and took off down Grey Street as fast as he could go.

  20

  Norrie sat behind the counter in his second-hand shop. No customers had come through the door all day. Customers never came through the door. He looked out of the window, thinking. His mind was clicking over all the time, cogs and gears whirring and grinding, just a piece of machinery calculating how to make more money.

  Jason. The boy had a good idea. Go out, work the streets for him. Could even get a whole team of kids doing it, be a regular Fagin. Just the wrong time. He had let Jason stay, thinking about what he would do with him, calculating the angles. He had information about the party. Good. Norrie could sell that. But that might make the party angry with him. And he did a lot of business
with them. And they might not take kindly to him harbouring Jason from them. So really there was only one thing to do.

  He reached across, picked up the phone, dialled a number he knew, like all of his numbers, by heart. It was answered.

  ‘It’s Norrie. I think I’ve got some of your merchandise.’

  The person on the other end started to speak rapidly.

  ‘Wo, wo, wo. Hold your horses. This bit of merchandise is valuable to you, right? You’ll pay to get it back, right?’

  Norrie listened. A smile spread across his face. It was like an old leather ball splitting open.

  ‘Good. Then let’s talk business …’

  *

  Donovan struck lucky. Abdul-Haq was in. And receiving. Installed in the meeting room of his company like a visiting Hollywood star on a press junket.

  His offices were located on Dean Street, heading down to the Quayside. It was an old, Victorian building with heavy wooden double doors at the front, wood-panelled walls and an open atrium inside. An antique cage lift took Donovan up to the third floor. The hallway, light and airy, was carpeted. Another double door, this one with an entrance buzzer at the side, awaited him. He pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Joe Donovan to see Abdul-Haq.’

  He was buzzed in. Inside was an IKEA-modern reception that could have been anywhere. Abdul-Haq’s day job, Donovan had been surprised to learn, was in property development. He didn’t know why he was surprised; he just imagined someone so community orientated would be working on a more grass-roots level. Framed pictures of housing developments adorned the walls.

  He took a seat, waited. Went over what he knew of Abdul-Haq.

  Born Gideon Ahmed in South Shields, to a Yemeni father and white English mother. Brought up Catholic. Found Islam after he left the Hollow Men, swore off booze, drugs, women, turned to the Koran instead. Took the name Abdul-Haq, meaning Servant of the Truth. Joined a pretty extreme bunch. Links to al-Muhajiroun, the hate-preaching deported cleric Omar Bakri Mohammed’s outfit.

  Describing himself as a community spokesman, he was often in the papers calling for Britain to be under Sharia law, bigging up the 7/7 terrorists, claiming Western civilians are legitimate targets. More recently he had played down his radical connections, at least to a mainstream audience. Inviting rumours that he believed in Islam as much as Tony Blair believed in the Labour Party. That he was just a cynical, ruthless, manipulative operator furthering his own interests and that he would have claimed he was a tuna fish sandwich if it would have got him noticed.

  Donovan had laughed at that description, agreed with it. Abdul-Haq had managed to be both a credible and outspoken mouthpiece for the Muslim community while simultaneously managing to run a prosperous business and dealing with non-Muslims on a daily basis. Whatever else he was, he was a shrewd operator.

  Donovan thought about what he wanted to achieve with the meeting. He doubted Abdul-Haq was the one behind the phone calls, but from what Trevor Whitman had said it was someone using Hollow Men codes which made him think something was being planned. And since they were most famous for a bombing and Abdul-Haq had spoken in favour of bombings, he thought it was as good an approach to take as any. Get in there. Rattle him.

  A door down the corridor opened and Abdul-Haq, resplendent in his best robes, ushered a journalist out. He looked serious, statesman-like, as he shook hands, let the journalist know the audience was at an end. He looked down the corridor, saw Donovan sitting there. He moved towards him like Norma Desmond coming down for her final, demented close-up, sweeping down the hall in his robes, smiling like a benevolent god.

  ‘Mr—’ he referred to a piece of paper in his hand ‘—Donovan?’

  Donovan stood up, smiled. ‘I’m your twelve thirty.’

  They shook hands. Abdul-Haq gave him a searching look, scrutinizing him.

  ‘Come in.’

  They went into the meeting room. A large table surrounded by chairs. Anonymous office furniture. Overhead striplighting. Abdul-Haq sat at one end, composed. Donovan sat halfway down the side.

  ‘Well, Mr Donovan,’ said Abdul-Haq. ‘From the Herald.’ He smiled. ‘I’m pleased that the national press are taking an interest in the affairs of a part of the country they usually ignore.’

  Donovan smiled. ‘Ah, I may have misled you slightly, I’m afraid.’

  Abdul-Haq’s smile disappeared.

  ‘I used to work for the Herald. I’m now … freelance.’

  Abdul-Haq’s voice had lost any trace of warmth. ‘So this interview won’t be appearing nationally.’

  ‘No.’

  Abdul-Haq waited, said nothing.

  ‘I actually work for a company called Albion,’ said Donovan, knowing he had about thirty seconds before he was removed from the building. ‘We’re an information brokerage. We take on clients, perform services for them. Involving information. At the moment one of our clients is Trevor Whitman.’

  Abdul-Haq’s expression changed. There was still no warmth in it but a definite curiosity. He moved forward, listening. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s been receiving phone calls. Threatening ones. I don’t suppose for a minute you’re behind them—’

  ‘I am not. Why did you not tell me this was the real reason for your visit?’

  ‘Because if I did you might not have seen me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done.’

  ‘So are you going to throw me out?’

  Abdul-Haq regarded him like an ancient emperor would regard a slave whose life he was deciding to spare. ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But if you do not believe I am responsible for the phone calls, why come to see me?’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘Curiosity, I suppose. Heard a lot about you. Knew you were in the Hollow Men. Wondered how you got from there to here.’

  Abdul-Haq sat back. Smiled. Was there relief in that smile, mingled with the conceit? Donovan wasn’t sure.

  ‘Hard work and perseverance. Great British values.’

  ‘Is that what the Hollow Men taught you?’ Donovan smiled when he said it, but there was seriousness behind the words.

  ‘The Hollow Men taught me lots of things. Mainly that the political way alone is not the right way. To be truly effective it must be allied with something else. Like faith. Islam is a peaceful religion. I am a man of peace.’

  ‘But weren’t you brought up Catholic?’

  Abdul-Haq looked genuinely impressed. ‘I see you have done your homework, Mr Donovan. Yes, I was. At my mother’s insistence.’

  ‘Bit of a radical conversion, then.’

  Conceit returned to Abdul-Haq’s features. ‘Islam is the one true faith. I had been running from that. All my life. It was time to stop running. Time to embrace it.’

  Donovan nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Not that it matters since you are not a journalist, but I sense you do not believe me, Mr Donovan.’

  ‘Since I’m not a journalist, does it matter what I think?’

  ‘Let us imagine, for a moment, that it does.’

  ‘OK. Well, let’s just say you used to be involved with a group that was blamed for bombings. And you’ve recently spoken out in favour of suicide bombers. You see what I’m doing here? Bit of a link.’

  Anger flashed in Abdul-Haq’s eyes. He tamped it down, worked with it. ‘The Hollow Men never bombed anywhere. There may – and I stress the word may – have been a rogue element involved in one bombing but no more. Suicide bombers are a different thing. If you have an army you are a general. If you have a bomb, you are a terrorist.’ He shrugged. ‘It is all a question of perception and interpretation. As a journalist, or even an ex-journalist, you should appreciate that.’

  He seemed unflappable. Donovan would have to try a different approach. He looked round the office.

  ‘Long way from South Shields to here.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Do you know your history?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘South Shields was the first
place to have race riots. Not just in the region but the whole country. Sailors from the Yemen who lived here, who had fought in the First World War for this country, were treated like dogs, like scum, on their return. My grandfather among them. We wanted equal rights. We got police truncheons.’ He took in a deep breath, stuck out his chest proudly. ‘That is why my work is still important today.’

  ‘But there aren’t any Yemeni sailors left now,’ said Donovan.

  Abdul-Haq regarded him with a level stare. It said: you don’t want me as an enemy.

  ‘I am still needed because of attitudes like yours. Because of wilful ignorance like yours. My community need spokesmen. Strong, forthright spokesmen who will not let their voices be drowned out. Trampled on.’

  Donovan said nothing.

  Abdul-Haq’s voice took on a dangerous edge. ‘We want our views to be heard. We want you to listen. Above all, we want respect.’

  ‘Respect has to be earned.’

  He stared at Donovan, who returned his unblinking gaze.

  ‘Trevor Whitman is the past. The Hollow Men are the past. Long may they remain so.’ He stood up. ‘My courtesy is ended. Please leave.’

  Donovan knew there would be no handshake. He turned to the door.

  ‘Mr Donovan.’

  Donovan turned.

  ‘If you harass myself or any of my employees again, whether by impersonating a journalist or just being yourself, you will be arrested. Or worse. Do you understand?’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ said Donovan.

  ‘Then leave.’

  Donovan left.

  As he walked along the corridor, he passed two men. Muscled, both wearing black T-shirts, both looking like they could handle themselves. One had a scar running down the left side of his face, the other, disfigured by fire, seemed to be wearing his muscles externally. Neither looked at him as he went.

  Reaching the door, he turned for one last look. Abdul-Haq was out of the meeting room, standing in the hall talking to the two men. From the direction of their eyes it was clear who they were talking about.

  Donovan gave a little wave and, not wanting to admit he was slightly unnerved, pushed the door open and left.