1974

Chapter 12

1. AM, Tuesday 24 December 1974.

Rock On.

Christmas bloody Eve.

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

I drove down the Barnsley Road into Wakefield, homes switching off their Christmas lights, The Good Old Days finished.

I had the shotgun in the boot of the car.

I crossed the Calder, went up past the market, and into the Bullring, the Cathedral trapped in the black sky up above.

Everything was dead.

I parked outside a shoe shop.

I opened the boot.

I took the shotgun out of the black bin-bag.

I loaded the gun in the boot of the car.

I put some more shells in my pocket.

I took the shotgun out of the boot.

I closed the boot of the car.

I walked across the Bullring.

On the first floor of the Stafford the lights were on, down stairs everything dark.

I opened the door and went up the stairs one at a time.

They were at the bar, whiskys and cigars all round:

Derek Box and Paul, Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas.

Rock ‘n’ Roll Part 2 was on the jukebox.

Barry James Anderson, his face black and blue, dancing alone in the corner.

I had a hand on the barrel, a finger on the trigger.

They looked up.

“Fucking hell,” said Paul.

“Drop the gun,” said one of the coppers.

Derek Box smiled, “Evening, Eddie.”

I told him what he already knew. “You killed Mandy Wymer?”

Box turned and took a big pull on a fat cigar. “Is that right?”

“And Donald Foster?”

“So?”

“I want to know why.”

“Ever the journalist. Take a wild bloody guess, Scoop.”

“Over a fucking shopping centre?”

“Yeah, over a fucking shopping centre.”

“What the fuck did Mandy Wymer have to do with a shop ping centre?”

“You want me to spell it out?”

“Yeah, spell it out.”

“No architect, no shopping centre.”

“So she knew?”

He was laughing, “Fuck knows.”

I saw little dead girls and brand new shopping schemes, scalped dead women and the rain off your head.

I said, “You enjoyed it.”

“I told you from the start, we’d all get what we wanted.”

“Which was?”

“Revenge and money, the perfect combination.”

“I didn’t want revenge.”

“You wanted fame,” hissed Box. “It’s the same.”

There were tears running down my face, on to my lips.

“And Paula? What was that?”

Box took another big pull on his fat cigar. “Like I said, I’m no angel…”

I shot him in the chest.

He fell back into Paul, air hissing out of him.

Rock ‘n’ Roll

I reloaded.

I fired again and hit Paul in his side, knocking him over.

Rock ‘n’ Roll.

The two policemen stood there staring.

I reloaded and fired.

I hit the short one in the shoulder.

I started to reload but the tall one with the beard stepped forward.

I turned the shotgun round and swung the handle into the side of his face.

He stood there looking at me, his head to one side, a little bit of blood dripping from his ear on to his jacket.

Rock ‘n’ Roll.

The room was filled with smoke and the strong smell of the shotgun.

The woman behind the bar was screaming and there was blood on her blouse.

A man at a table by the window had his mouth open and his hands up.

The tall policeman was still standing, eyes blank, the short one crawling towards the toilets.

Paul was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling, opening and closing his eyes.

Derek Box was dead.

BJ had stopped dancing.

I pointed the gun at him, chest high.

I said, “Why me?”

“You came so highly recommended.”

I dropped the gun and went back down the stairs.

I drove back to Ossett.

I parked Eraser’s Maxi in a supermarket car park and walked back to Wesley Street.

The Viva was alone in the drive, my mother’s house all dark and asleep beside it.

I got into the car and switched on the engine and the radio.

I lit my last cigarette and said my little prayers:

Clare, here’s one for you.

Susan, here’s one for you.

Jeanette, here’s one for you.

Paula, they’re all for you.

And the unborn.

I sat there, singing along to The Little Drummer Boy, with those far-off days, those days of grace, coming down.

Waiting for the blue lights.

Ninety miles an hour.