Free White Riot by Martyn Waites Page B

all.’
    Oaten looked like he was ready to explode. His upper lip slipped back over his teeth in a snarl, like a wild animal ready to attack. Struggling to control his temper.
    Flash
.
    The camera went off full in his face. And again.
    The two journalists nodded to each other. Coulson flipped his notebook shut. McKean slung his camera over his shoulder.
    ‘Think we’ve got everything here, thanks,’ said Coulson. ‘We’ll be on our way.’
    They turned and left, closing the door behind them.
    No one spoke, no one moved. They could hear laughter trailing down the hall, running feet. Oaten was still red in the face, his body shaking.
    The door opened. In stepped a man; thin, suited, in his fifties, his hair close cropped, rimless glasses.
    ‘Bastards, fucking bastards …’ Oaten’s fists clenched andunclenched. He noticed the new arrival in the room, stopped. ‘Mr Sharples …’
    ‘I told you to wait for me,’ said Mr Sharples, his South African accent making all his words guttural and harsh. ‘Why didn’t you fucking listen?’
    Oaten stared at him, too angry to speak.
    ‘I’m sure they made you look a fool. And I’m sure you did your best to help them.’
    ‘Don’t … lecture me …’
    A hard, cruel light ignited behind Mr Sharples’s eyes. His voice was calm, all the more menacing for it. ‘Let’s get this straight. I’m not here to give you good ideas or make valid points. I’m here for you to fucking listen to me. Got that?’ His accent turning the words into verbal machine-gun bullets.
    Oaten stood there, shaking. ‘This is my party—’
    ‘And you’ll run it the way I tell you. Got that?’
    ‘Don’t fuckin’—’
    ‘Got that?’
    Looking into Mr Sharples’s eyes was like staring into Rick Oaten’s worst nightmare. His head dropped. He nodded.
    ‘Good.’ Mr Sharples crossed to the door. ‘Right. We do this professionally. A full press call on the steps of the hospital. TV, print media, the works. No chance for argument or answering back. And if you want to be the fucking party leader you start behaving like it. Or I’ll find someone who can.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If I leave now I might catch them. Stop them printing.’ The overhead lights glinted on the frameless glass before his eyes. Made his eyes hard, inscrutable. ‘Try not to fuck too much up when I’m gone.’
    He closed the door silently behind him.
    Oaten’s fury hadn’t diminished. It still needed an outlet. He turned to Kev.
    ‘You, you fucker. I want you out of that bed. Now.’
    ‘But Rick, I’ve been stabbed. Jason Mason—’
    ‘Don’t fuckin’ “but Rick” me!’ Oaten was screaming in Kev’s face now. Diane shrank away in fear. ‘You get up out of that fuckin’ pit. I want you on the street. I want you to find that kid, that little cunt, before he can do any damage.’
    ‘I’ve got the boys lookin’ for him …’
    ‘The boys?’ Oaten leaned across, put his fingers inside Kev’s mouth, grabbed his tongue, pulled on it, hard. Twisted. ‘Don’t fuckin’ talk … don’t … say … fuckin’
anythin
’ …’ Incoherent with rage, struggling to regain control.
    ‘The boys,’ he said eventually, gasping. ‘The boys. You’re gonna join them. You’re gonna find him an’ bring him to me. That clear? You got that?’
    Kev, spittle oozing from the sides of his mouth, mutely nodded.
    ‘Good.’
    Oaten dropped Kev’s tongue, stood back, breathed out heavily. Kev massaged his aching mouth. Diane stared in horror.
    Oaten tried to regain what passed for equilibrium. When he could trust his own limbs he walked to the door.
    ‘Fuckers,’ he said. ‘Fuckers.’
    The door vibrated in the frame when he slammed it behind him.
    Abdul-Haq stood on the hastily erected platform and looked out before him. He saw faces: concerned, frightened, angry. Mostly brown faces, a smattering of white ones, a few very dark ones. He saw people worried about their futures, their ways of life. He saw TV