want to believe. Give them what they want to believe in.
With Mr Sharples standing behind Rick Oaten all the time, a living shadow. A puppeteer.
It worked. Membership was up. Newspaper reporting was increased. Kev and his mates still got in the Gib, had their traditional fun there, but without Rick Oaten. But that was OK. Everyone understood.
And then there was the plan. The big plan. Codename: Thor’s Hammer.
Kev was in on that too. No longer just a foot soldier, now a trusted lieutenant.
But then two things happened: the special jobs and Jason Mason.
Poor little Jason Mason. The lost boy.
Kev didn’t want his brother Joey roaming the streets on his own, looking to score drugs, wasn’t safe. So Kev used to go and get them. He didn’t want to, but as he saw it he had no choice.
He used to see this boy, living rough in a derelict house just off the West Road. But it wasn’t until he saw him out on the town late at night with some middle-aged bloke that he realized what the boy did for a living. And in that instant Kev’s angry heart had gone out to him. It might be too late for his brother and his dad. But he had to save the boy.
He started talking to him when he saw him, asked him along to the Gib. Tried to share the sense of community, of belonging that had been extended to him. Bring him along the right path. It was easy. The boy was hungry for a new life, a better one. And when he saw Jason saluting at meetings, chanting and shouting, when he saw him rucking with liberals, puffs and niggers, he felt so proud.
Like the son he thought he’d never have.
And Jason loved it, became a favourite with the others. Like a mascot. In him they saw their future. That made Kev even more proud.
And then he had found out what Rick Oaten meant by special jobs. At first he didn’t think it would touch him, thought his anger, his loyalty, would carry him through. But that was before he saw the Asian boy’s face spread all over the concrete floor. Saw his blood pouring from his body, his bones snapped and sticking out. Saw him burning in the street. When he closed his eyes. When he went to sleep.
Now nothing seemed so straightforward any more.
He sat in the Land Rover going over pothole after pothole in Northumberland, clutching his side, swallowing hard. Each bounce, each swallow brought another question, another conflict to his mind. Pain hit him as bad as the knife had. But he couldn’t let it show. Not in front of Cheggs and Ligsy. Pain meant weakness, and weakness didn’t deserve respect. He was in charge. Respect was vital.
His doubts were a new candle burning inside him, one he couldn’t blow out. He tried to ignore them. He had a mission. No matter how unhappy he was with it, he had to do it. Find Jason. What he would do when he found him was a bridge to be crossed another time.
They hit another pothole. He tried not to cry out.
*
Donovan was driving out of Newcastle, into Northumberland, when it hit.
He pulled the Scimitar off the road, banked it on to a verge, sat there.
His chest ached, his heart sambaed and skipped, the bones in his legs and arms felt like lead. Stars danced before his eyes.
A panic attack. At least that’s what he hoped it was.
He turned the engine off, sat there, arms by his side. Tried to steady his breathing. Focus.
He had dropped Amar off at his apartment, picked up his own car from there. A Reliant Scimitar, dark green. A Seventies classic, but it never felt old. Handled like a racing car.
But not today. He wasn’t in the mood.
The CD was still playing, Jim White singing about how he’d found someone he loved more than the rain. A song he wrote for his daughter. Donovan made no attempt to turn it off.
Surprised he had held it together as long as he had. All the way up from London.
No good, he thought, no good.
His vision was still blurred, his heart still jumping. The panic attack not receding. He tried breathing deeply again, held the steering wheel. Concentrated.
With Mr Sharples standing behind Rick Oaten all the time, a living shadow. A puppeteer.
It worked. Membership was up. Newspaper reporting was increased. Kev and his mates still got in the Gib, had their traditional fun there, but without Rick Oaten. But that was OK. Everyone understood.
And then there was the plan. The big plan. Codename: Thor’s Hammer.
Kev was in on that too. No longer just a foot soldier, now a trusted lieutenant.
But then two things happened: the special jobs and Jason Mason.
Poor little Jason Mason. The lost boy.
Kev didn’t want his brother Joey roaming the streets on his own, looking to score drugs, wasn’t safe. So Kev used to go and get them. He didn’t want to, but as he saw it he had no choice.
He used to see this boy, living rough in a derelict house just off the West Road. But it wasn’t until he saw him out on the town late at night with some middle-aged bloke that he realized what the boy did for a living. And in that instant Kev’s angry heart had gone out to him. It might be too late for his brother and his dad. But he had to save the boy.
He started talking to him when he saw him, asked him along to the Gib. Tried to share the sense of community, of belonging that had been extended to him. Bring him along the right path. It was easy. The boy was hungry for a new life, a better one. And when he saw Jason saluting at meetings, chanting and shouting, when he saw him rucking with liberals, puffs and niggers, he felt so proud.
Like the son he thought he’d never have.
And Jason loved it, became a favourite with the others. Like a mascot. In him they saw their future. That made Kev even more proud.
And then he had found out what Rick Oaten meant by special jobs. At first he didn’t think it would touch him, thought his anger, his loyalty, would carry him through. But that was before he saw the Asian boy’s face spread all over the concrete floor. Saw his blood pouring from his body, his bones snapped and sticking out. Saw him burning in the street. When he closed his eyes. When he went to sleep.
Now nothing seemed so straightforward any more.
He sat in the Land Rover going over pothole after pothole in Northumberland, clutching his side, swallowing hard. Each bounce, each swallow brought another question, another conflict to his mind. Pain hit him as bad as the knife had. But he couldn’t let it show. Not in front of Cheggs and Ligsy. Pain meant weakness, and weakness didn’t deserve respect. He was in charge. Respect was vital.
His doubts were a new candle burning inside him, one he couldn’t blow out. He tried to ignore them. He had a mission. No matter how unhappy he was with it, he had to do it. Find Jason. What he would do when he found him was a bridge to be crossed another time.
They hit another pothole. He tried not to cry out.
*
Donovan was driving out of Newcastle, into Northumberland, when it hit.
He pulled the Scimitar off the road, banked it on to a verge, sat there.
His chest ached, his heart sambaed and skipped, the bones in his legs and arms felt like lead. Stars danced before his eyes.
A panic attack. At least that’s what he hoped it was.
He turned the engine off, sat there, arms by his side. Tried to steady his breathing. Focus.
He had dropped Amar off at his apartment, picked up his own car from there. A Reliant Scimitar, dark green. A Seventies classic, but it never felt old. Handled like a racing car.
But not today. He wasn’t in the mood.
The CD was still playing, Jim White singing about how he’d found someone he loved more than the rain. A song he wrote for his daughter. Donovan made no attempt to turn it off.
Surprised he had held it together as long as he had. All the way up from London.
No good, he thought, no good.
His vision was still blurred, his heart still jumping. The panic attack not receding. He tried breathing deeply again, held the steering wheel. Concentrated.
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