White Riot by Martyn Waites

cameras, print journalists.
    He saw a crowd, ready to be worked.
    When they saw him take the stand they stopped talking. He waited patiently, giving their conversations a chance tosubside, replacing the noise with an expectant silence. Ready to swap fear for reassurance.
    He glanced behind at the seated couple, well but conservatively dressed, the woman leaning into the man for support, the man with his arm around her, comforting her. She crying; him trying not to. He gave them a reassuring smile.
    Behind the platform, almost out of sight from the main crowd, were Waqas and Omar. His personal bodyguards. Well muscled, wearing black T-shirts and black jeans, their earpieces barely visible. Waqas’s T-shirt was long-sleeved, the shiny patches of pink skin, the burn marks covered up on Abdul-Haq’s order. People were scared by them, intimidated, offended. Waqas agreed. That was why he put them on display, along with his scarred face. Omar, with only a scar running down his left cheek, had got off lightly by comparison.
    Abdul-Haq stepped up to the microphone. ‘Peace be upon you.’ His amplified voice, rich and rounded, echoed round the crowd. They responded, ready to listen.
    He looked around again, saw a drab, run-down, redbrick street in the Arthur’s Seat area of Newcastle. A poor area, predominantly immigrant, whether Asian, African, Eastern European or university student. Those already there too poor to leave. The kind of disadvantaged area where poverty outstrips opportunity, where fear turns to hatred faster than work turns to wealth. A place ripe for investment and redevelopment.
    He opened his arms for emphasis. ‘I’m standing right on the spot where Sooliman Patel was murdered. By racists.’ The word emphasized with a strong hand gesture. ‘And with me—’ he gestured to the seated couple behind him ‘—are his parents. It has cost them a lot to come here today. More than I hope any of us, with the grace of Allah, will ever haveto experience. But they wanted to do so to share this moment with you. To make sure it never happens again.’
    Mrs Patel’s shoulders heaved as another bout of tears overtook her. Mr Patel’s arm tightened around her shoulder.
    ‘Sooliman Patel was playing with his friends just over there.’ He gestured in the vague direction of the Town Moor. ‘Playing cricket. When he was snatched from us by Fascist bullyboys. By racist thugs. And murdered.’ He leaned forward on the final word, pitched it up, heard it ring out over the crowd. He shook his head. ‘Was he a criminal? Had he done something to anger these boys? No. Then why? What was his crime?’ He scanned the crowd again, waiting, knowing no one would give the answer, knowing they were waiting for him to supply it. ‘Being Asian. Being a Muslim.’ Again his head forward, his voice raised, the words unmistakably emphatic.
    He went on. Gave a brief precis of Sooliman Patel’s life. A loving son and brother. A fine student. A good boy. Mrs Patel wept all the more; Mr Patel held her all the harder.
    Abdul-Haq looked round, caught the eyes of the crowd. Felt that familiar tingle inside, knew he had them. They were listening to his words, ready to obey his commands, ready to believe whatever he told them, even if it contradicted the evidence of their own eyes. He never tired of having that power.
    He pointed to the ground, ramping up his oration. ‘This is where he died. This very point. His body was found here.’ He flung his arms out. ‘Look around you. What do you see? Who lives here? We do. The West End of Newcastle was not a prosperous area before Muslims moved in. Before even Sikhs, before Hindus came. Before we set up shops for our own people, providing food, clothing, jewellery. If this area is prosperous now it is because of what we did. How we changed it.’ Another hard, unblinking look out at the crowd.‘And there are those who want to stop that. Who
hate
—’ again his head forward, again the word