White Riot Read Online Free Page A

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; theymeant 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 thenJamal 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