21
Newcastle’s Central Station, busy as usual. Behind the stone-fronted façade and the huge wooden, metal-studded doors was a modern concourse with a central ticket office and the usual food, drink and retail outlets dotted about.
Jamal stood behind a pillar by the entrance, risked a glance round, checking for signs of Sean Williams or Jason Mason, not wanting to be seen. This was where they had agreed to take Jason on the pretext that there were hotels nearby. A public place, less likelihood of Jason doing anything to attract attention.
He saw them, sitting outside Burger King, Sean Williams sweating, looking at his watch, Jason wolfing down a burger, juice dripping all over his hands. Sean Williams caught sight of Jamal out of the corner of his eye. He froze. Jason, into his burger, slurping on his milkshake, didn’t notice.
Jamal felt that familiar thrill of excitement at Williams’s unease. About seeing Jason again he was less sure of his emotions. He thought he would have felt triumphant, but it was nothing like that. He couldn’t describe what he felt watching the boy drink his shake with such joy, like it was the only good thing happening in his day. And the state he was in, even worse than before he had taken a bath at Joe’s house.
Jamal didn’t move. Because he had been so hung up on Williams getting him there, he didn’t know how to approach him. He had no plan. He thought quickly. Run up to him, jump out, give the boy the fright of his life. Then demand his stuff back. He took a deep breath. Yeah. That would have to do. That would be a plan.
He walked over to them, grabbed a spare chair from a nearby table, pulled it over, sat down.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Jason looked up. Jamal saw the terror in his eyes as he realized who it was. Terror followed by the urge to run. Jamal put his hand firmly over the boy’s wrist. ‘Don’t. I just wanna talk.’
Jason didn’t look convinced but didn’t move. He looked round frantically; Jamal knew what he was looking for. Backup. Others. Plotting a route out of there, checking for any obstacles, looking for the path of least resistance. Jamal knew, because he had done it himself so many times.
‘How … how d’you find us?’
Jamal’s eyes flickered over to Sean Williams, who was now sweating so much he was in danger of melting. ‘Threatened to tell his wife what he liked to get up to when he was supposed to be at the office.’
‘Yes,’ said Williams, ‘speaking of which, I’d better be getting on. You’ve, you’ve got what you wanted. Now …’
‘Shut up,’ said Jamal, enjoying the moment perhaps too much. ‘You ain’t goin’ nowhere. Stay where you are, pervert.’ He turned his attention back to Jason, tightening his grip but dropping his voice. ‘I just wanna talk. That’s all. You left pretty quickly the other night. Didn’t say goodbye nor nothin’.’
‘I … I was in a hurry, like.’
‘Not too much of a hurry. You had time to pick up a few things on the way.’
Jason’s head dropped down. ‘Sorry.’ The word was mumbled, lost in a clanging train announcement overhead.
‘Yeah.’
Jason looked up. ‘I didn’t mean to. You’d been, like, good to us an’ that. But, y’know. Y’know what it’s like.’
‘So where you stayin’ now?’ Concern had entered Jamal’s voice.
Jason shrugged. ‘Gorra place.’ He sighed. ‘Reckon I can’t go back there now.’
‘Why not?’
Jason looked at him like he was thick. ‘’Cos you’ve found us, why d’you think? ’S’not safe there any more.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘So what d’you want?’
‘My stuff back for starters. An’ …’ Jamal thought. He didn’t actually know. ‘An’ to make you see you can’t keep rippin’ off them that’s tryin’ to help you, y’get me?’
Jason nodded.
‘Good. We’ll start with the iPods.’
‘They’ve long gone.’
‘How much you get for them? You can give me the money.’
Jason shrugged, his eyes sliding down to his unfinished food. ‘Twenty quid. Each.’
Jamal laughed. ‘Don’ lie, man. Look, I’m tryin’ to help you here.’
Jason’s eyes were out on stalks. He wanted to believe Jamal but he was just waiting for the catch. Lies came easy to him. Trust came hard. Jamal knew that. He had lived in that world long enough.
‘No bullshit, man. I’m tryin’ to help you.’
Jason’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘’Cos way I see it, someone gave me a break an’ I wanna pass it on. Straight up. You’re in trouble an’ need help. Don’ turn it down when it’s bein’ offered.’
Jason looked between the two, down to his food again.
‘Got to be better than goin’ with him.’ Jamal jerked his thumb at Williams.
Jason smiled. ‘Wasn’t goin’ to. Not really. Just ganna nick his wallet then run.’
‘You got a fence?’
Jason nodded.
Jamal smiled. ‘Got news for you, bruv. He ain’t got a wallet. I’ve got his wallet here.’
Still holding on to Jason’s arm, he dug into his back pocket, pulled out Williams’s wallet, threw it on the table. Williams made a grab for it but Jason was quicker. He picked it up, slid it away into a pocket before Williams could look up.
‘That … that’s my …’
Jason looked at him. ‘What?’
Williams turned to Jamal. ‘You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you? We had a deal.’ His voice had taken on a wheedling, whining tone.
Jamal shrugged, felt power in the gesture. He understood. It wasn’t about turning people into victims, going from abused to abuser; it was about the transfer of power. He had stood up to an abuser. Helped Jason to do the same. He had broken the circle. He smiled.
‘I don’t do deals with paedophiles. Think yourself lucky all you’re losin’ is your identity. You could have lost a lot more than that.’
Sean Williams looked pained, like he could hear his carefully constructed life crashing down around him. Jamal felt another thrill of power run through him.
‘Gimme your mobile.’
Sean Williams, as if in a dream, meekly handed it over. Jamal opened it up, removed the SIM card, passed it over to Jason. ‘Have that too. Give you a head start before he starts cancellin’ his cards.’
Jason laughed, took the phone.
‘That enough to convince you?’
‘Yeah.’ Jason nodded.
‘Can I take my hand away?’
Jason nodded. Jamal removed his hand. ‘What happens now?’ said Jason.
‘Finish your transaction with your fence, then we’ll go an’ see about gettin’ you sorted out. You gone wrong. You need to get right again. But you got to give me my money back first, yeah? Debts have to be paid, y’get me?’
Jason got him. The two of them stood up to go. Williams, snapping out of his trance, got angrily to his feet.
‘And what about me? That’s it? You go off hand in hand and leave me?’ He stepped forward menacingly towards Jamal, his voice rising. ‘You little black shit. You think you can get away with this? Do you?’
He made a grab for Jamal’s T-shirt. Jamal ducked out of the way, grabbed the shake off the table and threw it in his face. Williams was too shocked to move. Jason grabbed the remains of the burger, shoved it in Williams’s mouth.
Laughing, they both ran out of the station.
Norrie was waiting. He knew they would come. Sitting in the back of the shop, looking around, mentally taking stock. He was always taking stock. Food was fuel, sleep was a necessity in order to help him go on working.
He was waiting. For Jason to return, for his money to arrive.
The phone call had been successfully concluded. There would be someone along to give him his blood money in return for Jason. Perhaps somewhere deep down in what remained of his soul he felt a small pang of guilt, but if so he chose to ignore it. Thinking like that wo
uldn’t get you anywhere. There was no money in it.
He had put the phone down smiling. Money in the bank and still in with a lucrative source of cash. A win/win situation.
Norrie’s mind was still travelling along these lines when he heard the front door of the shop opening. This was them. With his money. He stopped dead.
Two Pakis were standing there. Well built, looking like they could handle themselves. Both dressed unobtrusively, one with a scar down his cheek, the other with pink blotches on his face like he had been in a fire. Neither smiling, they just stood there.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m closed.’
They didn’t move, just stared at him. Norrie began to feel uneasy.
‘Just haven’t got round to putting the sign up. Bolting the door.’
Nothing. Like talking to two statues.
‘Been busy, you see.’
Like two slabs of meat.
Norrie swallowed hard. Hoped the lads from the party would turn up soon. He moved towards the door. ‘So I’ll just do it now, if you’d like to step …’
They didn’t move. He couldn’t get past.
He began to sweat.
‘You are locking up?’ One of them spoke. Scarface.
Norrie nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah. So if you’ll just—’
‘Allow me.’
The Paki turned and slid the bolt across the door. Turned back to Norrie. Norrie was getting very frightened. Where were those NUP lads?
‘Look, I’m … I’m waiting for someone. You don’t … don’t want to … to be around when they get here. No. No, you don’t—’
‘I don’t think anyone else is coming,’ said Scarface. ‘No one will be arriving to disturb us.’
He moved forward. Norrie put his hands to his face, opened his mouth to scream.
He didn’t get the chance.
‘So what’s this big secret, then?’ asked Jamal as he and Jason walked up Westgate Road.
‘Ah,’ said Jason. ‘I’m special, that’s what it is. Thor’s Hammer.’
‘Right.’ The boy was making even less sense than he had originally. ‘Want to give me a few more details?’
‘Later. Let’s get this sorted out first. I’ll see if I can get your iPods back an’ all.’
They reached the shop, stopped.
‘This where you been stayin’?’ said Jamal, running eyes over the filthy front.
Jason nodded. ‘I’d better go in on me own, like. Norrie doesn’t like … he’s a bit … it’s better if you don’t let him see you.’
‘Right,’ said Jamal. He pointed across the street to a motorbike shop. ‘I’ll go an’ look in that window, yeah?’
Jason nodded and entered the shop.
Jamal waited. Smiling to himself. This wasn’t working out so bad after all.
Jason tried the door. It was unlocked. He went in. The shop smelled as it always did, old, damp, like it was on the verge of rotting. He looked round. No Norrie. ‘Norrie,’ he called out, ‘it’s me. I’ve got some stuff for you, Norrie.’
No reply.
‘An’ … an’ then we’ve got to have a talk. You an’ me, we’ve got to have a talk.’
Nothing.
Must be in the toilet, thought Jason. But if he was, why had he left the shop door unlocked? Frowning, he moved towards the back room. The door was closed. He turned the handle. It felt heavier than usual, like there was something propped up against it. He pushed. It swung inwards.
He stepped inside. There was something on the floor, some liquid. He slipped in it, almost fell over. Looked down. Deep red and black. Was that blood?
Jason was starting to panic now. Norrie must have had an accident, run off to the hospital or something. Must be bad for him to leave the shop door unlocked like that.
The door swung heavily closed. Jason turned. Hanging on the back of the door was Norrie. Pinned there by a coat hook that had come right through the back of his head and was sticking out of his mouth.
Jason couldn’t move. He was rooted to the floor by fear and revulsion.
He saw a black shadow out of the corner of his eye, turned. Too late. It fell on him, hard, fast, and then he didn’t feel anything.
Jamal waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Something was wrong.
Jason had told him not to come into the shop. There would be a problem with the owner. Jamal knew what that meant. He weighed things up. He could stand where he was and do nothing, or he could go over there, bite the bullet. What was the worst thing that could happen? Take some shit from some old wanker. Like that hadn’t happened before. Mind made up, he crossed the road.
The shop was deserted. He looked round, listened. Nothing.
‘Jason?’
No reply.
‘Come on, man, what you playin’ at? I been outside now nearly half an hour. Where you at?’
No reply. Jamal looked round again. The door to the back of the shop was closed. He pushed it open, slowly.
Saw what was there.
And ran out of the shop and down Westgate Road as fast as he could.
22
Turnbull sat in his car on the opposite side of the road and watched the school kids walk out. Anyone asks, he thought, I’m just a dad on the school run.
His own kids came into his mind. And his wife, Karen. How he’d fucked it all up. Blinked hard, pushed them out of his mind. He was on a job, he was working.
The school was private, boys only, in Bishop’s Stortford. You could see the money in the cars the parents drove, the Mercs, Audis, Beamers and 4×4s. Almost smell it coming off them as they waited, windows down. Bastards. He hated them. All of them. Thinking they were protected. Thinking that because they had money nothing would ever go wrong in their lives. Nothing would happen to their kids or their jobs or their marriages. They wouldn’t get cancer or get made redundant or come home early one day to find their wives shagging the postman. Or the paperboy. Or the IKEA delivery man. Because money protected them, put up an invisible force field to keep all the bad stuff out.
And the thing was, most of the time it worked.
That was why he hated them.
He saw the Milsoms’ 4×4 waiting. The boy walked through the gates, got in. Didn’t walk out with anyone, wave to anyone, smile even. Just got in the car.
Turnbull saw Mrs Milsom turn in her seat, smile at him. He returned it, but it was a small smile, edged with sadness, not reaching his eyes. A response only. Mrs Milsom’s smile widened as if to compensate. She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. He took it, smiled again. This time it might have seemed real.
They drove off.
Turnbull had hoped the boy might have walked down into the town after coming out of school as some of the other boys did. Gone round the shops, through the park. Because that was how he was going to get near him. Find a can he had drunk from and bag it, perhaps some discarded chips that might have had a trace of saliva on them, a sweet wrapper maybe. Perhaps even get close enough to pick up a stray hair. Or catch him at some after-school club. A football team. Make off with his sweat-stained T-shirt. But there was nothing. The boy just got in the car and went home.
Like he was a prisoner.
Turnbull felt pity for him. All that money and the force field stopped him from getting out.
Turnbull waited a few seconds then pulled out after the 4×4.
There was no hurry. He knew where it would be going.
The sign said St Hilda’s Trust in black plastic hard-wearing, functional lettering. Peta switched the engine off, looked out. Eyes directed at the building, gaze fixed on something else.
Thoughts were tumbling over in her mind, snatches of conversation coming back to her.
Colin Baty: ‘Trevor Whitman was a waster. In his hippie commune. Shagging all his birds, kids all over the place …’
Mary Evans: ‘And that’s why you were chosen. Oh, Lillian. He got you too …’
Over and over, the words not leaving her alone. And their meaning …
She h
ad phoned Donovan but he had been unavailable. Left a message on her mobile saying he was off to interview Abdul-Haq. She was amazed he had managed it at short notice, but remembered Mary Evans’s words about how much Abdul-Haq loved to talk about himself. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised.
She looked at the building. Old, stone and bay-fronted, it looked like it had once housed a firm of Dickensian lawyers. And in its way the street, with its overflowing rubbish bins and garbage-strewn pavement, was twenty-first-century Dickensian. The buildings alongside it were now mostly cheaply rented flats, all peeling paint and rotting old wood. An archetypal run-down inner-city neighbourhood. The checklist: a convenience store, all brittle, broken lino, selling out-of-date fruit behind smeared windows in mildewed aluminium frames. An off-licence broadcasting low prices for undrinkable, death-hastening chemical stews. A betting shop. Cash Converters. Opposite was an abandoned park, empty but for a drinking school gathered around two benches.
St Hilda’s Trust had a large, heavy-looking front door, a buzzer at the side, a keypad underneath.
She locked the car, switched her mobile off, walked to the door, pressed the intercom. Waited. Some of the drinking school had detached themselves from the group in the park and were slowly making their way to the entrance, sucking down the dregs of their cans, landlocked Popeyes imbibing strength from tins of spinach.
Peta was buzzed in. The door slammed closed behind her. Inside was a foyer: reception, chairs, water cooler, toilets, keypad-operated doors behind reception. Anonymous. Could have been a police station, the DSS, anywhere. She approached the desk. An elderly woman with sparkling eyes looked up at her expectantly.
‘Hi, I’m Peta Knight. From a company called Albion. I’m here to see Richie Vane.’
Her eyes became immediately guarded. Peta knew what she was thinking: police.
‘Can I ask what it’s concerning?’
‘Mary Evans of COU made an appointment for me.’
The woman’s attitude softened. Peta had said the magic words. ‘Wait there,’ she said and left the desk.
As she waited, the reception area filled up. The drinking school from the park came in, were joined by others. Some, their faces scarred and scabbed over, looked like they had slept in their clothes; others had attempted to look smart. They were in good humour, happy to be there, chatting with passing staff, the security guard. The atmosphere seemed friendly and relaxed, but they didn’t attempt to engage Peta in conversation.
White Riot Page 17