White Riot by Martyn Waites Page B

was.
    ‘Hey, Jamal, how’s it goin’ …’
    Jamal looked closer. There was something familiar about the youth.
    ‘It’s Jason. Remember? Met you in the street a few weeks ago?’
    Jamal frowned. ‘Jason? From Father Jack’s?’
    Jason nodded. ‘Yeah.’
    They stood staring at each other, questions bubbling to the surface of Jamal’s brain, popping too quickly for him to ask them.
    Jason gave a quick, nervous glance round, fear shining like silver in his eyes. Jamal caught the look.
    ‘Can I come in?’
    Jamal frowned, those questions still there. ‘Uh, yeah, sure.’
    Jamal pointed to the house. Jason hurried inside. Jamal reached the back door, gave a quick look round the garden, listened. Just in case. Sure there was no one there, he stepped in, closed the door behind him.
    Locked it.
    ‘Sit down.’
    Jason sat on the sofa. He was filthy, like he had been sleeping rough in the woods. It was like letting a wild animalinto the house. Jamal wondered what kind of mess he would make of Joe’s furniture.
    ‘Man, you’re mingin’,’ said Jamal. ‘Where you been? An’ how you find me?’
    ‘Gave us your card, didn’t you? Remember?’
    Jamal remembered and silently admonished himself. Must have handed out the wrong one. He had various ones with different phone numbers and addresses on them, depending on how much information he wanted the recipients to have. Jason was supposed to have got the basic model. Must have got mixed up. Would have to be more careful in future. Shouldn’t have even been carrying them round at all.
    Jamal studied the youth, remembered their previous encounter. Jason was wearing jeans, boots, ripped T-shirt, all filthy. His razored hair was growing back; his head resembled a fuzzy, dirty peach. His nervous, fearful eyes took in all corners of the room. Perched on the edge of the sofa ready to bolt, he looked small and young, a lost little boy playing at being an adult. Not really master-race material, he thought.
    ‘So who’s after you, bro?’ said Jamal, sitting in an armchair.
    ‘Can’t tell you,’ said Jason, his voice dry and cracked, his head shaking.
    Despite their differences, Jamal felt an empathy with the lost boy. A street kid, come up the hard way. Done what he had to do to survive. Now scared and needing help. And Jamal knew he would give it. He had no choice. Because he’d been there. Because some allegiances went deeper than skin.
    ‘Can I have a drink?’
    ‘Got fruit juice. Just opened some.’
    A sharp-toothed smile appeared on Jason’s ratty little face. ‘Got any Stella?’
    ‘Nope. Fruit juice. Or tap-water. Maybe I could stretchto a cup of tea.’ Jamal felt good saying the words, strong. Like something Joe would say.
    Jason looked at Jamal like he was from another planet. ‘Fruit juice …’
    Jamal went into the kitchen, poured two fruit juices from the fridge, returned to the front room. Jason was on his feet, looking over the CD collection, touching things. He had a hold of Jamal’s iPod. When he saw Jamal enter, he replaced it on the shelf.
    ‘Here.’ Jamal handed him his juice. Jason took it, sat back down, shifty eyes darting everywhere.
    ‘So you’re runnin’, yeah?’
    Jason nodded.
    ‘Who from?’
    ‘Said. Can’t tell you.’
    ‘So why you come here? Why you look for me, then?’
    Jason drained his glass, put it on the floor. Looked at Jamal, his eyes conflicted, like he wanted to unburden but found trust hard.
    ‘You gonna tell me?’
    Again, the look of confusion. That lost look.
    ‘Got to open up some time, man. An’ we was at Jack’s place. We already shared some shit, you get me?’
    Jamal knew what was stopping him. The experience of Father Jack weighed against what the skinheads had told him about black kids. He sat back, waited for one side to win.
    Jason’s inner conflict came to the boil. ‘They … they’re gonna kill me,’ he said eventually.
    Jamal nodded, said nothing. Just like Joe had shown him.
    Jason looked