Free White Riot by Martyn Waites Page A

she began stroking Kev’s hand, heels clacking on the floor like horses’ hooves. Her ample body had been squeezed into the clothes of an eighteen-year-old on a Friday night out down the Bigg Market. She sat down, her miniskirt riding all the way up her thighs. She left it there.
    The two young journalists exchanged glances, raised eyebrows, tried not to smile, let alone laugh. There would be some serious payback going on when they got back to the newsroom.
    The door slammed; the two bodyguards remained stationed outside.
    ‘What a beautiful picture,’ said Oaten. ‘How devoted. You can start snapping now.’
    ‘Can you ask her to put her tits away?’ said McKean. ‘We’re from the
Chronicle
, not
Razzle
.’
    Oaten’s face flushed from anger and embarrassment. Another flick of the hair and he crossed to the woman. He tried keeping his voice low, but the reporters still heard his words, the anger behind them.
    ‘Diane, what did I tell you? No heels, no low-cut tops. Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you?’
    The woman looked scared, flinched at his words like they were accompanied by slaps.
    ‘Sorry, Rick. I’ll … I’ll go home an’ change, like …’
    ‘You fuckin’ stupid cow,’ he hissed. ‘There’s no time. Just, just make yourself decent.’
    Diane began some detailed rearranging of her copious breasts. McKean looked tempted to start snapping. Coulson gave him a look of mock admonishment.
    ‘Right, lads,’ Oaten said, turning back to them with forced bonhomie, ‘this is Kevin Bright. Hard grafter, a proud working man. Salt of the earth. A true, yet unsung, working-classhero. And a very good friend of mine. And his … girlfriend. And what happens two nights ago?’ Oaten thrust his head at the two reporters, eyes wide. ‘What happened? He gets knifed, that’s what. Knifed.’
    Coulson and McKean waited. Oaten gestured to the notepad.
    ‘Write that down. Knifed.’
    Coulson didn’t move.
    ‘Go on.’
    Coulson sighed, scribbled something on the pad, looked up again. Oaten was walking round the room, building up to some dramatic announcement. While his back was turned, Coulson showed McKean what he had put on the pad: a cartoon of an erect penis spouting sperm. McKean tried not to laugh.
    Oaten reached the bedside, turned back to them. ‘And who knifed him?’
    They waited.
    ‘Will you tell them, Kevin, or shall I?’
    ‘You,’ said Kev, his voice sounding genuinely weak.
    Oaten patted him on the arm, gave what he presumed was a smile. ‘I shall. Youths. A gang of them. How many, Kevin? Five?’
    Kev nodded.
    ‘Five. Five pieces of scum against one honest, hard-working man. A totally unprovoked attack.’ Oaten began pacing the floor again. ‘And you know what else? They were Asian. Indian. Muslim, in fact. You see? That’s—’
    ‘How do you know?’ Coulson asked.
    ‘What?’ Oaten clearly wasn’t happy at being interrupted.
    ‘They said. You see—’
    ‘What did they say?’
    Oaten hid his anger as well as glass hides sunlight. ‘Jihad. Something about a jihad.’
    Coulson tried to speak again but Oaten ignored him. He declaimed his rehearsed speech, not stopping for any interruptions. ‘You see what we’re up against? You see? An unprovoked attack. You call us racist? I say we’re realist. You say we breed hate? I say we’re honest about the situation. You say we’re angry? You’re right there. We are. Angry. And defending our territory. Making our streets safe for honest, law-abiding citizens to walk down.’
    Oaten stood back, looked victorious.
    ‘Any questions?’
    Coulson turned over a page in his notebook. ‘Yeah,’ he said, lazily scratching his cheek with his pen. ‘I’d like to ask the honest hard-working etcetera whether he fought back.’
    Oaten looked uneasy. ‘Why?’
    Coulson shrugged. ‘I just thought someone who has two convictions for football hooliganism and a life ban from St James’s Park would have put up a fight. That’s