Revenger

15

In Row A of Block A2 — the front, centre section of the arena’s ground-floor seating — Kieron Sproles was sitting by himself, surrounded by an expectant buzz of chatter. His hands were in his jacket pocket. His right hand was gripped around the handle of the Glock. Not long now, and all his years of obscurity — that solitary insignificance that had marked his existence since his first day at primary school — would be over. By the end of the evening, everyone would know who he was, and what he had done.

And then, without warning, the lights began to dim.

As intense, doom-laden music boomed out from the speakers suspended above the stage a video screen came to life. A helicopter camera panned across a desolate wasteland of derelict buildings, boarded-up shops, abandoned tower blocks and open spaces — once intended for cheerful recreation, now given over to bare earth, weeds and dogshit. A single man was walking down a street of semi-detached houses, now all abandoned. Each had once had front and back gardens, though these were now overgrown. The camera zoomed in to reveal Mark Adams, and a huge cheer went up around the arena as he began to speak.

‘This used to be my street. These were all council houses… And this was the house where I grew up: 37 Cambrai Road.’

Adams stopped by a wooden gate, hanging half off its hinges. Beyond it, a path could just about be seen under a carpet of dandelions and bindweed. It led to a house with scorch marks round the windows, and bare patches on the walls where all the rendering had fallen off.

He began walking down the road again, speaking to the camera with the practised fluency of a man who had first become known to the public as the presenter of documentaries on military history; a war-hero-turned-TV-star. With a sweep of his arm, Adams encompassed all the houses around him: ‘The people who lived here were working-class, but they were proud of who they were and where they came from. Proud of Leeds, proud of Yorkshire, proud of England, proud to be British.

‘No one had much money to spare. Yet all the front gardens were immaculate: no weeds in the flower beds, paths and front doorsteps swept clean.’

Now Adams was walking down a row of empty shops.

‘I was brought up to behave myself properly — and expect a clip round the ear if I didn’t. Just because we weren’t posh didn’t mean we couldn’t have manners, or treat each other with respect. Then, when I was eleven, my whole life was transformed.’

The image on the screen cut from the devastation of the old estate to an image of a very different world. Now Adams was walking across a school campus of clean, modern buildings grouped around a lawn on which pupils sat and talked in the shade of leafy, well-tended trees.

‘Without Leeds Grammar I’d be nothing. My parents were so proud. No one in my family had ever been anywhere near a place like this before — not unless they were a cleaner or a tea-lady… But you’ve heard enough from me. Time for the people who know me to say their piece.’

A grandfatherly, silver-haired man appeared on screen. A caption read, ‘Edward Trower: former housemaster.’

‘Mark was always a bright boy,’ Trower began. He gave a fond, indulgent chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t say he was an intellectual, but he had plenty of brains in his head when he felt like using them. Of course, he loved his rugby and played for the school at every age-level. It was no surprise at all to me when he said he wanted to apply to become an army officer. After all, he was the head boy of Lupton House. He was a natural leader.’