Part 2. We’re already dead

‘Madness is to think of too many things in succession too fast; – or of one thing exclusively.’

– Voltaire


Chapter 13

It’s 1969 again -

July 1969:

All across the UK, they’re staring at the sun, waiting for the moon -

Ann Jones, Biafra, the Rivers of Blood,

Brian Jones, Free Wales, the Dock Strikes,

Marianne Faithfull and Harvey Smith,

Ulster.

But here’s the news today, oh boy -

Memo from Maurice:

Jeanette Garland, 8, missing Castleford.

It’s a Sunday -

Sunday 13 July 1969.

Leeds -

Brotherton House, Leeds:

Lot of bloody suits for one little girl missing just one day; Leeds City doing their County Cousins a huge fucking favour:

Blame it on Brady, blame it on Hindley -

Blame it on Stafford and Cannock Chase.

Walter Heywood, Badger Bill Molloy, Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, and me:

Maurice Jobson; Detective Inspector Maurice Jobson -

Not forgetting Georgie Boy:

George Oldman; the County Cunt himself.

A lot of blue suits, a lot more politics, all of it bullshit -

Georgie Boy getting fat and red, huffing and puffing, about to blow -

Nobody listening, everybody straining to hear the radio next door:

Across the city, up in Headingley, England playing the West Indies; trying to regain the initiative after losing Boycott LBW to Sobers.

‘Be a press conference tomorrow,’ George is saying, giving a toss -

No-one else but me.

‘Big appeal on telly,’ he says. ‘We’ll find her.’

‘Not if GPO have their way,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Bloody strike coming, isn’t there?’ nods the Badger.

‘Marvellous,’ sighs George. ‘Bloody marvellous.’

It’s all over his face; fat and red and written as large:

Personal-


NO MOORS MURDERS HERE.


The car out to Castleford -

No-one speaking, not one bloody word -

Just the cricket on a tranny, the sky clouding over -

Bad light.

Brunt Street, Castleford -

Out on the pavement in front of the terrace, George nodding at the uniform -

In through the red door.

George with the introductions: ‘Mr and Mrs Garland, this is Detective Superintendent Molloy and Detective Inspector Jobson.’

We both nod at the skinny man with the two lit cigarettes and his blonde wife with the ten bitten nails; the skinny man and his blonde wife sat behind their red front door with the curtains drawn at noon -

Poor before, poorer now.

Mrs Garland goes to the window and peeps out between the curtains -

It’s 1969, the second day.

Back out on the pavement, staring across the road through the skeletons of half-built semis, the tarpaulin flapping in the breeze, watching the lines of black figures beating their way up the hills through the empty spaces with their big sticks and downward glances, the silent police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, the white ambulance parked at the top of the street, waiting.

Cigarettes lit, George blowing his nose.

‘What now?’ asks Bill.

‘Do neighbours again?’ replies George. ‘Get your hands dirty.’

I shrug, sick in the pit.

Bill grins across the street at the row of unfinished homes: ‘I’ll do t’other side.’

‘Someone ought to,’ I say, pointing at the sign -

The sign that reads:

Foster’s Construction.

‘Always so cheerful, she was. Always smiling. It’s terrible. Broad daylight and all. There are so many bloody oddballs about these days. Not safe in your own bloody home, are you? I bet you meet all bloody sorts, you lot. I mean, that’s the thing about mongols, isn’t it? Always happy, aren’t they? Never saw her without a smile on her face. Can’t say I envy them much, her mam and her dad. Mustn’t be easy on either of them. They take so much looking after, don’t they? Shocking really. Can I get you another cup? But then they’re so happy. I don’t reckon they know any better, do they? They’re lucky that way. Must be nice to be always smiling. Bet you wish you could say same, don’t you? Makes you wonder what this world is bloody coming to though, doesn’t it? Just popped down road for some bloody sweets, next door said. Broad bloody daylight. Terrible. But you think you’ll find her, don’t you? You think she’s all right, don’t you?’

‘Terrible,’ says Mr Dixon, the man in the cornershop. ‘We open at three, rain or shine, and there’s always a queue of them and Jeanette’s always among them, rain or shine. Have to watch her with her money mind, being as she is.’

‘But not yesterday, you say?’

‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘Not yesterday.’

‘The other kids,’ I ask him. ‘How are they with her, being as she is?’

‘Right kind they are,’ he nods to himself. ‘Lived on street since day she was born, Jeanette has.’

‘And yourself, you didn’t see anything or anyone suspicious yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing out the ordinary?’

‘Nowt much happens round here, Inspector.’

I nod.

‘Not till this.’

There’s a familiar figure leaning against the Jensen parked outside the shop:

‘Jack?’ I say -

Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter for the Yorkshire Post.

He offers me his open packet of Everest: ‘Maurice, any news?’

I take a cigarette. I shake my head: ‘You tell me, you’re the paperboy.’

Jack lights mine then his.

The gentle Sunday afternoon wind is tugging at the tails of his raincoat, its fingers through his thin hair.

He hasn’t shaved and he stinks of whiskey.

‘Late night?’ I ask.

He smiles: ‘Aren’t they all?’

‘How’s your Carol these days?’ I ask, just to let him know I know.

He’s not smiling now: ‘You tell me?’

‘How would I know?’

‘You’re the copper, aren’t you?’

I look back across the road through the skeletons of half-built semis, the tarpaulin flapping in the breeze, watching the lines of black figures beating their way up the hills through the empty spaces with their big sticks and downward glances, the silent police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, the white ambulance parked at the top of the street, still waiting, and I say:

‘For my sins.’

Back inside number 11, Brunt Street:

George, Jack, and me -

Mr and Mrs Garland -

Geoff Garland holding the framed school portrait, wiping the tears from the glass with the cuffs of his shirt; Paula Garland wrapping her arms around herself, biting her bottom lip -

‘I just don’t understand it,’ she’s saying. ‘Like she just vanished into thin air.’

Jack, notebook out, softly-softly -

Writing down her words, softly-softly -

Repeating her words: ‘Thin air.’

‘But she can’t have just vanished, can she?’

Behind the curtains, there’s the sudden sound of a summer shower, the noise of children’s feet running for home, leaving the park and the swings, the chalk on the pavement, the wickets on the wall -

Mr and Mrs Garland are staring at the back of their red front door, their mouths half-open on the edge of their seats.

There’s the sound of coins on the pavement, a child’s voice shouting after the fading feet of her friends:

‘Hang on! Wait for us!’

But the door stays shut, the curtains drawn, their little girl nowhere to be seen, the rain blowing through the skeletons of the half-built semis across the road, the tarpaulin flapping in the night, the lines of black figures beating their way back down the hills through the empty spaces with their big sticks and downward glances, the silent police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, the white ambulance at the top of the street, leaving empty and silent, the little girl never to be seen again, rain or shine, the door shut, the curtains drawn to the sun, open to the moon -

‘Wait!’

– for the Little Girl Who Never Came Home.


Chapter 14

She was falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of a mother trapped and forced to watch the slaughter of her young, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the linoleum floor, on the white squares and the grey squares, on the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, contorted and screaming and howling under the dull and yellow lights blinking on and off, on and off, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their numbers, telling them all the things you were going to do to them, all the shit that they were in, how fucked they really were, but they were just stood there silent, waiting for the Brass to come and take you both downstairs, the whole station silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, one young gun at the back, rocking on his chair, hands behind his head, noisily chewing his gum until you flew through them, tried to reach across and grab him, choke him, but his brother officers were holding you back, telling you all the things they were going to do to you, all the shit you were in, how fucked you truly were, her back on her feet, mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking under police boots, and then the Brass came, came to take you downstairs, down to the cells, and at the bottom of the stairs you turned the corner and they opened the door to Room 4 and there he was, his boots still turning as they struggled to cut him down, the stink of piss among the suds, his body attached to the ventilation grille, a belt holding him there by his neck, hanging in a jacket that said Saxon and Angelwitch between a pair of swan’s wings, his tongue swollen and eyes as big as plates, still struggling to cut him down and take him away, to put him in a hole in the ground and make it go away, but it wouldn’t and it never will, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up the walls and back up the stairs on her nails and her knees, the smell of overcooked dogs and dirty vegetables, the dull and yellow lights that blinked off and on, off and on, the faded poster promoting the pleasures of drinking and driving at Christmas, the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the linoleum, and these men that walked these stairs, these linoleum floors, these policemen in their suits and big size ten boots, and then it was all gone; the walls, the stairs, the smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables, the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the linoleum and policemen in suits and new boots, all gone as you fall backwards on a tiny plastic chair through the enormous depths of time, away from this place, this rotten un-fresh linoleum place, and you are alone, terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling -

Mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -

Contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -

Screaming and howling from under the ground -

Howling from under the ground -

Under the ground -

Under the ground as they murder you -

Murdered you:

The Last Man in Yorkshire.

Your eyes are open and you are staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, listening to the footsteps above, a kettle boiling and a cup breaking, raised voices in an argument about where all the money had gone, the rain falling hard behind the words -

You lying there -

Hating this country and all the people that live here -

Lying there -

Fat, bald and full of holes -

The branches tapping against the window pane.

You get out of bed and walk into the kitchen.

It is eight o’clock -

Thursday 26 May 1983:

You put the kettle and the radio on:

‘Healey accuses Thatcher of lying over the jobless; Jenkins brands Thatcher an extremist and the cause of division within the nation; reports on allegations of police corruption linked to the Ј3.4 million silver bullion robbery in 1980 are to be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions; damage to Albany jail is put at Ј1 million; bookmakers will pay out to punters who correctly select two consecutive dry days…’

You open the fridge and there’s nothing -

No milk, no bread -

The cupboard and there’s nothing -

You turn the kettle and the radio off.


D-14 .


*

The Parthenon, Wood Street, Wakefield -

Milky coffee with a skin and a toasted teacake inside -

Rain and umbrellas out.

The papers, your paper, everybody’s paper -

Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher -

Fuck ’em all and watch their Rome burn.

Not one single fucking word about Jimmy Ashworth -

Not one single word about Hazel Atkins -

Not one.

You look at your watch:

Almost ten, almost time.

The drive out in the rain -

The deserted spaces as depressing as the houses and buildings between them -

Jimmy Young kissing Thatcher’s arse on the radio, the cum drying in his y-fronts as members of the Great British Public call in -

‘Wurzel Gummidge?’ repeats Jimmy with a snigger. ‘That’s not very nice, is it?’

‘No Jimmy, it’s not,’ you shout alone in your car. ‘And neither are you, you thick and greedy old cunt. But we’ll not forget you and your cruel ways, not when we’re round your house to do the Mussolini.’

Alone in your car on the way to see another Jimmy -

A very different Jimmy -

Jimmy Ashworth -

Alone in your car on the way to his funeral.

The funeral of a suicide -

Your third.

Second funeral in a fortnight -

The same smell:

The flowers that stink of piss, that stink of sweat.

Wakefield crematorium, Kettlethorpe.

Sheets of rain battering the crocuses back underground, beheading the daffodils, the petals stuck to the soles of your shoes, with the cigarette ends and the crisp packets.

You sit near the back, seven other people down the front:

Mrs Ashworth, her husband, and her other son -

Two boys in denim jackets, two girls with back-combed hair -

The vicar says the words and they shed their tears. They set fire to him and shed some more. Then everyone walks away for a cigarette and a piss, a sandwich and a pint.

There are three coppers at the back by the door, Maurice Jobson one of them.

There’s a new Rover parked outside -

The window’s down, the driver looking at himself in the wing mirror -

A smug cunt looking back at him.

‘Give you a lift, can I, John?’ says Clive McGuinness.

‘No,’ you say and light a cig.

‘Five minutes, John?’ he says. ‘That’s all I ask.’

‘Didn’t have five bloody minutes on Monday night, did you?’

‘John,’ he sighs. ‘Look, I’m sorry about that.’

You drop your cigarette into the gutter with the yellow petals and the crisp packets. You walk around the back of the Rover. He has opened the passenger door for you. You get in. He leans across you to close the door -

‘Thank you, John,’ says McGuinness.

You turn to face him -

The smug cunt as immaculately turned out as ever:

Head to toe in Austin Reed and Jaeger, he stinks of aftershave.

The fat man from C &A says: ‘I’m all ears, Clive.’

‘There’ll be an inquiry, John.’

‘An internal police inquiry.’

‘He confessed, John.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘It was too much for him, John.’

‘What was? The torture? The beatings? His own fucking solicitor?’

‘The guilt, John. The guilt.’

‘About what?’

‘John, John -’

The back door opens -

You glance in the rearview mirror:

Maurice Jobson gets in -

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson:

The Owl.

‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ he says.

You don’t turn around.

‘Do you know the Chief Superintendent, John?’

You nod.

‘Course he bloody does,’ says Jobson. ‘I worked with his father.’

‘Your old man was a copper, was he?’ says McGuinness. ‘I didn’t know that, John.’

‘Was,’ you say as you open the door. ‘Until he topped himself.’

You don’t fancy the Inns but you do fancy a drink, so you cut through the back of the Wood Street Nick and into the Jockey.

It’s two o’clock so you only have an hour -

It won’t be enough but it’ll be a start, get some take-outs for the rest of the afternoon, find a happy hour later and be unconscious by eight.

You take the pint, the short, and the bottle of Barley Wine through into the pool room at the back -

Students and bikers, Vardis on the jukebox:

Let’s Go -

You drink the whiskey and then the Barley Wine.

There are four people on the other side of the pool table. They are staring at you. One of the girls gets up and walks over towards you. She is wearing a huge gold Star of David on her chest, her hair black and back-combed, her heavy make-up smudged.

She says: ‘I was Jimmy’s girlfriend.’

You say: ‘I was almost his solicitor.’

‘He didn’t kill himself; he wouldn’t.’

You nod.

‘He didn’t kill any little girl either; he couldn’t.’

You nod again: ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tessa,’ she says.

You hold out your hand: ‘John Piggott.’

‘I know,’ she smiles as she takes it.

‘You want a drink?’

‘I got one, ta.’

‘You want another?’

‘Twist my arm.’

‘Cider and black?’

She nods.

‘Sit down,’ you say and stand up.

You go into the other room, order the drinks, and come back with two pints.

Tessa’s not sat at the table and she’s not back on the other side of the room.

The two lads and the other girl are still staring at you. They are grinning now.

You look over at the toilet door and then back at the two lads and the girl. They shake their heads. They are laughing.

You walk over to them, still carrying the two pints.

They stop laughing.

‘Where’s Tessa gone?’

They shrug their shoulders and play with their beer mats.

You hold out the cider and black to the girl: ‘You want this?’

She looks up: ‘Ta very much.’

You set it down on the table.

‘You were Jimmy’s mates, yeah?’

They all nod. They are not grinning now, not laughing.

You take out a biro and piece of paper. You write down your name and phone number. You put it down on the table: ‘Will you give this to Tessa?’

‘Why?’ says one of the lads.

‘Never know when you might need a solicitor, do you?’

The girl looks at the two lads and then takes the paper.

You drink your pint in one, belch, and set the glass on the table. You take out two pound notes. You put them down next to the empty pint pot.

‘What’s that for?’ says one of the boys.

‘Have one on me, lads,’ you say and walk back to the bar. You buy your take-outs and leave.

Outside it’s raining again. You go into the Chinky and get some lunch to take out. You get it cheap because you once defended one of the staff in an assault case.

You come out and there she is, crouched down on the other side of the road in front of the Army Recruitment, head on her knees.

You cross the road and say: ‘Not thinking of joining up, are you?’

Tessa looks up: ‘What?’

‘After a free trip to the Malvinas, are you? See the world?’

‘The where?’

You nod at the picture in the window: ‘The Falklands.’

‘Piss off,’ she says, fiddling with one of her badges.

You point up the stairs to Polish Joe’s: ‘How about a haircut?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘OK. See you then.’

‘Hang on,’ she says, suddenly. ‘Where you off?’

‘Home.’

‘Where’s that?’

You point up the road past the College pub: ‘Just up there.’

She looks at your carrier bags: ‘What’s in them?’

‘Lunch.’

She smiles.

‘You want some?’

She nods and holds up her hand.

You pull her up.

‘You got any blow?’ she asks.

‘I might have.’

She smiles again: ‘What we waiting for then?’

You set off up the road, past the College and the Grammar School -

‘Bet you went there, didn’t you?’ she laughs.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Where you go then?’

‘Hemsworth, a long time ago,’ you say. ‘And you?’

‘Thornes.’

You turn on to Blenheim Road and walk along, the big trees keeping the rain off.

You’re going up the drive of number 28 when she says: ‘Isn’t this where that woman was murdered? That witch?’

‘Ages ago.’

‘You’re joking?’

You hold open the front door. ‘We all live in dead people’s houses.’

‘Fuck off,’ she says. ‘Which flat was it?’

‘Mine,’ you say.

‘You better be fucking joking?’ she says.

‘I have decorated.’

She is shivering and staring at you, the rain running off the guttering.

‘Up to you,’ you shrug. ‘Do what you want.’

She looks back out at the rain and steps inside: ‘Long as you’re not planning any bloody seances.’

‘Thought that’d be right up your street.’

‘Fuck off,’ she says again and follows you up the stairs.

You open the door to the flat. You go in first putting on the lights.

‘Come in,’ you say.

She walks down the hall and into the front room.

‘Have a seat,’ you say.

She sits down on the sofa.

‘What do you want to drink?’

‘What you having?’

‘Think I’ll have a lager to start with.’

She nods: ‘Stick some lemonade in ours, will you?’

You go into the kitchen. You open the fridge. There’s no lemonade.

‘Got enough bloody records, haven’t you?’ she shouts.

‘But no lemonade,’ you call back.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

You wash the glasses and find a tray and bring it back through with the Chinese. You have three cans in a carrier bag on your arm. You say: ‘Won’t be a minute.’

She stands up: ‘Where you going?’

‘Just got to nip upstairs.’

‘You’re never going to leave me on my own in here, are you?’

‘Be two minutes,’ you say. ‘Less you don’t want any draw?’

‘Two minutes?’

‘Stick a record on,’ you say. ‘It switches on at the wall.’

‘Two minutes -’

‘Two minutes,’ you say. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

You knock twice on Stopper and Norm’s door. You wait and then knock once again.

‘Who is it?’ whispers Norman.

Two fingers up at the spy-hole, you say: ‘JP.’

The three bolts slide back. The two locks turn. The door opens an inch.

‘What’s the password?’ says Norm over the chain.

‘Fuck off,’ you say.

‘What day is it?’

‘Fucking hell, Norm, it’s Thursday,’ you moan. ‘Just let us in, will you?’

He takes off the chain. He opens the door.

‘Thank you,’ you say.

He locks the locks. He bolts the bolts. He chains the door behind you.

You follow the sounds of Tomita down the hall into the front room.

Stopper’s on the sofa watching the snooker.

‘Aye-up, Peter,’ you say.

He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and winks.

‘How much you want?’ asks Norm.

You put a tenner and the cans on the table: ‘Just an eighth and a couple of wraps.’

Norm picks up one of the cans and leaves the room.

You crack the other two cans. You hand one to Stopper.

‘Ta,’ he says. ‘You out tonight?’

You look at your watch: ‘Maybe. And you?’

He shakes his head: ‘Tomorrow.’

Norm comes back in. He gives you an envelope.

‘Thanks,’ you say.

‘You stopping?’ he asks.

‘Can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow though, yeah?’

‘Nice one,’ nods Norm.

‘See you, Peter,’ you say to Stopper.

‘See you, John.’

You walk down the hall to the front door.

Norm unbolts the bolts. He unlocks the locks. He unchains the chain. He says: ‘You haven’t got a fucking lass downstairs, have you?’

‘Why?’

He puts his finger to his ear: ‘That’s fucking Ziggy, isn’t it?’

You smile.

‘You dirty bastard,’ he winks.

‘Just a friend.’

Pissed and stoned, you sleep fully clothed in the same bed, dreaming of King Herod and dead kids, the Baptist and Salome -

John and Salome, the wounds of Christ and the Spear of Destiny -

Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini, Jimmy Young and Jimmy Ashworth -

Mouths open, contorted and screaming and howling:

‘Hazel!’

You wake and hold her and touch her -

Hold her and touch her and fuck her -

You fuck her, hungover and hard -

Hard as her nails in your back:

‘Murder me!’

Blood on the sheets, blood on the walls -

She opens her eyes, she looks into yours: ‘This place stinks.’

‘I’m sorry -’

‘Of memories,’ she whispers. ‘Bad memories.’


Chapter 15

Clare is screaming: ‘Just fucking walked up to me, bold as fucking brass, and gives it a fucking Long time no see Clare.’

BJ speechless.

‘The cunt! Fucking cunt!’

BJ finding words: ‘Where?’

‘St Mary’s.’

‘Shit.’

‘Bold as fucking brass, he was.’

‘Fuck.’

Her room is trashed and smashed, her clothes and make-up lost among bottles and cans, papers and bags; wind howling around hostel, up stairs and down corridors, under doors and into room, rain hard against window -

This is Preston, Lancashire.

‘How did they find us, BJ?’ she cries. ‘How the fucking hell did they find us?’

BJ look up from floor: ‘Be kids.’

Clare is screaming.

BJ been up and down for days, Clare drunk for same -

Drunk and down since day BJ and Clare got here -

Almost one year now.

But never this down, never this drunk -

BJ a mess and Clare a mess -

Fucked.

BJ fucked, Clare fucked -

Fucked and now found.

‘What we going to do?’

‘Run,’ BJ say.

‘No fucking point,’ she sighs. ‘They’ll find us.’

‘Not if -’

‘If what? They’re fucking watching us!’

‘So what else we going to do?’ BJ cry. ‘Meet him?’

‘What he wants.’

‘Fuck off,’ BJ sob. ‘It’s a fucking trap.’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ she shouts. ‘I’ll not keep running all my fucking life.’

‘They’ll kill us.’

‘Good,’ she mutters.

BJ under covers. BJ hiding. BJ weeping.

There’s a knock on door -

BJ out from covers. Clare staring at door.

‘Clare?’ comes a man’s voice. ‘It’s me.’

‘Fuck, it’s only Roger,’ whispers Clare. ‘Let him in.’

BJ get out of her bed. BJ open her door. BJ let Roger Kennedy in. BJ go down corridor. BJ get in a cold bed. BJ lie under covers. BJ peep up at cracks in ceiling.

BJ wonder what mum is doing today -

Today is BJ’s seventeenth birthday.

BJ start to cry again.

BJ walk to other end of corridor. BJ knock on door.

‘Come in.’

BJ step into Old Walter’s room.

It’s still raining outside. It’s still cold inside.

Walter Kendall is sat at a table by only window. He is cutting something out of a newspaper. He sticks it into an old red exercise book.

‘You’re late,’ he smiles.

‘I’m sorry.’

He closes book: ‘How’s my Clare today?’

‘Busy.’

He laughs. He comes across his tiny room to sit beside BJ on bed.

Outside a train goes past. Window shakes.

‘Your eyes are red,’ he says and takes BJ’s hand. ‘What is it?’

‘They’ve found us.’

He lets go of BJ’s hand. He turns BJ’s face into his: ‘How could they have?’

‘Be her kids,’ BJ say.

‘How?’

‘When you all went to Blackpool.’

‘But how?’

BJ pull away from his grip: ‘If they were watching her kids in Glasgow, they could have easy followed her Suzie when she brought them down.’

‘But that was August. Why wait till now?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘What you going to do?’

‘Clare wants to meet them.’

‘No?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can’t let her,’ he says.

‘I can’t stop her.’

‘They’ll kill her.’

‘I know.’

‘Kill you both,’ he says.

BJ nod.

‘What did she say?’

‘Good.’

BJ lying in Walter’s arms, BJ’s head on his chest, listening to his heart. BJ remembering when mum and BJ drank a whole bottle of dandelion and burdock and ate two big boxes of chocolates for BJ’s seventh birthday. BJ wondering if she remembers it too, but -

Same room, always same room; ginger beer, stale bread, ashes in grate. I’m in white, turning black right down to my nails, hauling a marble-topped washstand to block door, falling about too tired to stand, collapsed in a broken-backed chair, spinning I make no sense, words in my mouth, pictures in my head, they make no sense, lost in my own room, like I’ve had a big fall, broken, and no-one can put me together again, messages: no-one receiving, decoding, translating.

‘What shall we do for rent?’ I sing.

Just messages from my room, trapped between living and dead, a marble-topped washstand before my door. But not for long, not now. Just a room and a girl in white turning black right down to my nails and holes in my head, just a girl, hearing footsteps on cobbles outside.

Just a girl.

BJ wake up. BJ sweating. BJ crying -

Walter gone.

BJ run down corridor. BJ push open her door -

Clare is lying on her bed in Walter’s arms. Her eyes closed -

Walter is stroking her hair -

Pair of them covered in sweat. Pair of them covered in tears.

‘What happened?’

‘Bad dream,’ whispers Walter.

‘Same dream?’

Walter nods.

‘Did you look?’

Walter raises her sweater and bra, more words there written in blood:

Help me, I am in hell.

It is dawn:

Thursday 20 November 1975.


Chapter 16

We walk the hills for a third day in our black cloaks with our big sticks and our police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, searching for the scene of a crime, walking the hills for the third day in our black cloaks with our big sticks until day becomes night and we return to our wives called Joan and Patricia, Judith and Margaret, to laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, meals being cooked, served and eaten, to our children called Robert and Clare, Paul and Hazel, to their feet upon the stairs and the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, to our houses in Harrogate and Wetherby, Sandal and West Bretton, our houses safe and far from harm and -

Here.

Until the next day when we return to walk the hills for a fourth day in our black cloaks with our big sticks and our police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, searching for the scene of the crime, the next day and the next, walking the hills in our black cloaks with our big sticks until days become night, one endless night and we’ve got no wives called Joan or Patricia, Judith or Margaret, no children called Robert or Clare, Paul or Hazel, only our black cloaks and our big sticks, our dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, our houses in Harrogate and Wetherby, Sandal and West Bretton, our houses big and empty and -

Full of nothing, nothing but -

Here.

Brotherton House, Leeds -

Walter Heywood, George Oldman, Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, Bill and me.

‘Come on, George,’ smiles Walter Heywood, the Chief Constable. ‘Bloody kid can’t just vanish into thin air, can she?’

‘What it looks like,’ says Oldman and holds up today’s paper -

Tuesday 15 July 1969:

Girl Vanishes, Fourth Day, All-out Hunt -

By Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter.

‘Cars?’ asks the Chief Constable.

Oldman nods: ‘Crestas, Farinas, Consuls, Corsairs, Zephyrs, Cambridges and Oxfords. You name it, we’ve had a bloody sighting.’

‘What next then?’ asks the Chief.

‘Door-to-door again, outbuildings -’

Bill cutting Oldman off: ‘Me and Maurice are off back up Castleford, talk to them builders again, maybe call in on Don Foster himself.’

Heywood nodding -

George Oldman: ‘Don’t let us keep you then, Bill.’

Morning sunlight on the windscreen -

Bill dozing, me driving -

The radio on:

Troops into Derry;

GPO Strike cuts TV;

Last day of the Test.

The A639 through Woodlesford and Oulton, Methley and Allerton Bywater, following the Aire back into Castleford -

The radio on:

Elvis -

Lulu -

Cliff.

Coming into town, policemen and their cars, women gathered on the corners in their headscarves, children tight to their apron strings, the ambulance at the top end of Brunt Street, still waiting -

I park and wake Bill: ‘We’re here.’

We get out and nod to the uniform outside number 11, the curtains still drawn -

Bill lights up as we cross the road to the half-built semis, the tarpaulin still flapping in the breeze -

Cross the road to the sign that reads:

Foster’s Construction.

‘Knock-knock,’ says Bill as he pushes aside the tarpaulin and we step inside one of the partial houses.

Two men stop their hammering and look up, their mouths full of nails.

‘Sorry to bother you, lads,’ smiles Bill. ‘Can we have a word?’

They let the nails drop from their mouths and one of them, the older one, says: ‘We give statements yesterday.’

Bill sniffs. Bill stares. Bill says: ‘I know.’

The older man looks at the younger one and shakes his head. They shrug and stand up.

I say: ‘This is Detective Superintendent Molloy and I’m Detective Inspector Jobson.’

The men nod.

I ask: ‘Anywhere we can sit down?’

‘Next door,’ replies the younger one.

We follow the two men into the next house, into the half-finished kitchen at the back. We sit down on wooden boxes and packing cases, among their sandwich papers and their tartan flasks, their newspapers and their cigarettes.

I take out my notebook and my pen: ‘You the only two working today?’

They nod.

‘That usual, is it?’

The younger of the two, he says: ‘Depends, but gaffer’s sick, isn’t he?’

I say: ‘Sorry, can I have your names?’

The younger man says: ‘Terry Jones.’

‘Michael Williams,’ says the older man.

Bill lights up another cigarette. He walks over to where a window will be.

I say: ‘You were both working Saturday, were you?’

They nod again.

I look through at the front of the house: ‘Pretty good view of the other side of street, haven’t you?’

Michael Williams says: ‘We weren’t here Saturday.’

‘Thought you just said you were working?’

Williams nods: ‘But like we told your mates yesterday, we were in Ponty on Saturday.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Gaffer wanted us to do some repairs on one of houses.’

‘In Pontefract?’

They both nod.

I say again: ‘That usual, is it?’

Jones looks at Williams. Williams shrugs: ‘Depends how busy we are.’

‘So who was working here?’

‘No-one,’ says Jones.

‘What about your gaffer?’ asks Bill from the window.

‘He was sick, wasn’t he,’ says Jones.

Bill comes back over. He smiles: ‘Not a well man your gaffer, is he?’

‘Never missed a day ’fore Saturday,’ says Michael Williams.

Bill is stood in front of Williams: ‘Is that right?’

‘Yep,’ says Williams, looking at Jones -

Jones nodding along -

Both of them starting to wonder.

‘I hope he’s all right,’ I say.

‘Maybe we should go check on him,’ winks Bill. ‘Just to make sure it’s nowt serious like.’

I ask Jones: ‘What’s his name?’

‘Who?’

‘Gaffer,’ whispers Williams to Jones.

‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at Jones -

Jones saying: ‘George Marsh.’

‘And where does George Marsh hang his hat?’

‘What?’

‘Where does he live, Terry?’

‘Mr Marsh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Netherton,’ says Terry Jones, looking at Williams -

Williams repeating: ‘Netherton.’

I stand up: ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

Two telephone calls later and we’re driving through Normanton, bypassing Wakefield, heading to 16 Maple Well Drive, Netherton -

Bill pissed off no-one’s been out to see this Marsh bloke, cursing them anew: ‘Slack fucking County cunts the lot of them.’

Me, four eyes on the road: ‘Still want to see Don Foster after?’

Bill shrugs: ‘See what we get from this one first.’

I keep it shut and reach over for an Action form, one hand on the wheel.

We park in front of a little white van outside a little brown bungalow with a little green garden and a little blue bicycle lying on its side:

Number 16, Maple Well Drive, Netherton.

I ring the doorbell.

Bill looks at the bicycle: ‘Be a waste of time this.’

A brown-haired woman opens the door, her pink washing-up gloves dripping wet: ‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Marsh?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Police, love. Your George in, is he?’

Mrs Marsh looks from me to Bill then back to me. She shakes her head: ‘He’s up the allotment.’

‘Feeling better, is he?’ says Bill, like I knew he would.

Lips pursed, she says: ‘Taking some air.’

‘Wise man,’ smiles Bill, ear to bloody ear.

Me with a kinder smile: ‘Where are the allotments, love?’

‘Top of field, behind here,’ she gestures. ‘End shed.’

‘Ta, love,’ I say, about to move off -

But Bill stays stood there: ‘Mind if we have a quick word with you first?’

Mrs Marsh holds open the door: ‘Best come in then, hadn’t you?’

‘Ta very much,’ winks Bill.

We follow Mrs Marsh into their front room. We sit down on their pristine sofa. We are facing their brand-new TV.

I nod at the set: ‘Colour?’

‘Fat chance,’ says Mrs Marsh and takes off her pink washing-up gloves. She wipes them on her apron. ‘Not on his wage.’

‘Got ours on never-never,’ I say.

Mrs Marsh shakes her head: ‘George doesn’t believe in HP or any of that kind of business.’

‘Wise man,’ says Bill again and opens his notebook.

Mrs Marsh stands up: ‘Sorry, can I offer you a cup of tea?’

Bill gestures for her to sit back down. ‘Thank you, but we best get a move on.’

Mrs Marsh sits down again. The pink washing-up gloves are on her knees between her folded hands.

Bill looks up from his notebook: ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you?’

‘About the missing lassie? The one in Castleford?’

Bill nods. Bill waits.

Mrs Marsh says: ‘George was wondering if he should call you.’

Bill: ‘Why was that?’

‘Thought you’d be wanting to speak to anyone who might have seen anything.’

‘He saw something then, did he, your George?’

Mrs Marsh shakes her head: ‘No, but he knew lass it was.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘He’d seen her, hadn’t he, working across road.’

‘Must have seen a lot of kids.’

‘Aye,’ she nods. ‘But he remembered her because she was, you know…’

I nod.

Bill asks her: ‘So what’s been up with him?’

‘George? Flu.’

‘Lads at work say it’s first time he’s missed a day.’

Mrs Marsh thinks. Mrs Marsh frowns. Then Mrs Marsh nods, just once.

‘When did it start?’

Mrs Marsh thinks again. Then Mrs Marsh says: ‘Sunday.’

‘Right, right,’ nods Bill. ‘What the lads at his work thought.’

‘Sunday,’ she says again, says to herself.

‘Remember what time he came home from work on Saturday, can you?’

Mrs Marsh says: ‘I can’t be right sure about that.’

‘Why -’

‘Took kids over to my mother’s Saturday lunchtime,’ she says. ‘But George was here when we got back tea-time, I know that.’

‘And what time’s tea-time?’

‘Half-six.’

Bill closes his notebook. He stands up.

‘You finished?’ asks Mrs Marsh.

‘Yep,’ nods Bill.

Mrs Marsh stands up. She leads us back out to the front door.

‘End shed?’ I ask her.

She nods, her eyes and brow full of worry -

Sorrow.

‘Thank you, Mrs Marsh,’ says Bill.

Mrs Marsh nods again.

We walk back down the little path, past the little bicycle, out of the little garden.

Mrs Marsh watches us go.

Bill stands by the car. He takes out a packet of cigarettes. He offers me one. He takes one himself. He lights us both up.

Mrs Marsh closes her front door. Minute later there’s a shadow behind the nets in the front room.

I say: ‘What you reckon?’

Bill shrugs. He looks at the end of his cigarette.

I say: ‘Not adding up, is it?’

‘Could be owt; another woman, horses, owt,’ he says.

I nod.

Another car pulls up. It is a big black Morris Oxford. A man gets out. He puts on his hat. He’s in black too -

A priest.

He looks at us. He touches the brim of his hat. He heads up the garden path to number 16. He rings the doorbell.

Bill raises his eyes: ‘But we best make sure.’

We open the gate to the field behind the bungalows and walk up the dry tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill. The sky is blue and cloudless above us, the field full of insects and butterflies.

Bill takes off his jacket: ‘Should have brought a bloody picnic with us.’

I turn around and look back down the hill at the little white van next to the two parked cars in front of their little brown bungalow and their little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows and their little green gardens.

I take off my glasses. I wipe them on my handkerchief. I put them back on.

I can see Mrs Marsh at the kitchen window of their little bungalow. She is watching us -

A shadow behind her.

I turn back.

Bill is up by the sheds. He shouts: ‘Hurry up, Maurice.’

I start walking again.

A man comes out of the end shed in a cap and shirtsleeves, blue overalls and Wellington boots.

‘Mr Marsh?’ Bill is asking him as I get up to them.

‘That’d be me,’ nods George Marsh. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Bill Molloy and this is Maurice Jobson. We’re police officers.’

‘Thought you might be,’ nods Marsh.

‘Why’s that then?’ asks Bill.

‘Be about lass who’s gone missing in Castleford, won’t it?’

Bill nods. Bill waits.

Marsh says nothing.

Bill keeps waiting.

Marsh looks at him. Marsh still says nothing.

Bill says: ‘What about her?’

Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘You tell me.’

‘No,’ says Bill -

– the Badger: ‘You tell me about Jeanette Garland.’

‘What about her?’

‘Working across road from her house, aren’t you?’

‘Aye.’

‘Been working there a while?’

‘Aye.’

‘Must have seen a fair bit of her.’

‘Coming and going, aye.’

‘You remember her then?’

‘Aye.’

‘Notice owt peculiar, did you?’

‘About her?’

Bill nods.

‘She was slow, late in head,’ he smiles. ‘But I suppose you know that, being policemen.’

Was?’ I ask him. ‘Why did you say was?’

‘What?’

‘You said she was slow; you’re talking like she’s dead, Mr Marsh.’

‘Isn’t she?’

Bill looks up from the hard ground: ‘Not unless you know something we don’t.’

George Marsh shakes his head: ‘Slip of the tongue, that’s all.’

I want to push him. I want to keep on -

But Bill just says: ‘Remember anything else about her, do you, Mr Marsh?’

‘Not that springs to mind, no.’

‘What about Saturday?’

‘What about it?’

‘Notice owt peculiar on Saturday?’

Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead with his forearm again. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘Wasn’t there, was I?’

‘Where were you?’

‘Sick.’

‘Not what the wife says.’

‘What does she know,’ shrugs Marsh.

Bill smiles: ‘That you weren’t where you say you were.’

‘Look, lads,’ Marsh smiles back for the second time. ‘Set off for work and I felt bloody rotten, but I didn’t want her staying in and fussing. So I waited for her to take kids round to her mam’s, then I came home, got some decent kip, watched a bit of sport. Not a crime, is it, lying to your missus?’

‘So did you get to work?’ asks Bill, not smiling -

Neither is George Marsh now: ‘No.’

‘So where were you exactly when you decided to turn around and come home?’

George Marsh takes off his cap again. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He shrugs his shoulders. He says: ‘Maybe halfway.’

‘Halfway where?’

‘Work.’

‘Where?’

‘Castleford.’

‘Castleford,’ repeats Bill.

‘Aye,’ says Marsh. ‘Castleford.’

Bill turns to me: ‘I think that’s everything, don’t you?’

I nod.

Bill turns back to Mr Marsh: ‘Thank you, Mr Marsh.’

Marsh nods: ‘Need anything else, know where I am.’

‘Aye,’ smiles Bill. ‘At work?’

Marsh stares at Bill. Then Marsh nods: ‘That’d be right.’

Bill nods back. He turns and starts down the hill, me behind him.

Halfway down, Bill says: ‘Give Mrs Marsh a wave, Maurice.’

And we both wave at the woman in the kitchen window of her little brown bungalow with its little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows with their little green gardens, only our car parked next to their little white van, the priest and his car gone.

Still waving at Mrs Marsh, I say to Bill: ‘He’s lying.’

‘He is that.’

‘What now?’

‘Best call our Georgie, hadn’t we?’


Chapter 17

She leaves. You puke. You dress. You puke again. You clean your teeth. You lock the door. You retch. You go downstairs. You heave. You run back up the stairs. You puke in your hands. You open the door. You puke on the floor. You spew. You start all over again.

It is Friday 27 May 1983 -


D-13 .


A change of clothes, a change of heart -

54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.

Having all the fun -

The patterned carpet and assorted furniture, the taste of air-freshener and the fire on full; the photographs and paintings, the photographs and the paintings of men not here.

Up the road in 69 another man gone, a young man:

Jimmy Ashworth -

Not here.

The clock is ticking, the kettle whistling.

Mrs Myshkin comes back in with the two cups of tea and sets down the tray.

She hands you yours: ‘Three sugars?’

‘Thank you.’

She says: ‘I’m sorry about that; once I start I just can’t seem to stop.’

You mumble something crap and meaningless.

‘But that poor boy,’ Mrs Myshkin says again. ‘His poor, poor mother.’

You mumble again. You take a sip of tea.

‘I’m so happy you’ve changed your mind though,’ she says. ‘My sister, she said you would.’

Upon her settee again, you are sweating, burning, and melting again -

‘I -’

‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘You do what you can for him, that’s enough. You’ll do your best, I know you will.’

You are about to say something else crap and meaningless, when -

Out of the corner of your eye you see something, see something coming -

Incoming -

Hard against the window:


CRACK!


Mrs Myshkin on her feet -

Hands to her mouth, shaking her head.

You hear it then, over and over -

Contorted and screaming and howling -

Hear it outside, again and again:

‘It’s all your fault, you fucking bitch!’

You are on your feet, over to the window.

‘You fucking bitch! You Polish fucking bitch with your fucking pervert son!’

Look it straight in the eye, see it coming again -

Incoming -

You duck -


SMASH!


Broken glass everywhere, a brick at your feet.

Out into the hall, you open the door -

Open the door and there she is:

Mrs Ashworth standing on Mrs Myshkin’s path, a plastic Hillards carrier bag of rocks in one hand, a half-Charlie in the other -

You walk towards her. You say: ‘Put it down, love.’

‘Never a moment’s trouble until he met your bloody spastic son. The dirty little pervert, him they should’ve hung. Had bloody done.’

‘Please,’ you say again. ‘Put it down.’

Half a house brick in one hand, her mouth white with spit and fleck, Mrs Ashworth screams again: ‘Fucking bitch! You killed him. You fucking killed my Jimmy!’

You are close to her now and now she sees you -

‘You!’ she shrieks. ‘Fat fucking lot of good you did him!’

You reach out to try and stop her arm, but it’s already up in the air -

The brick away -

‘You don’t know how it feels, do you? I wish to God they’d show you.’

There is the sound of breaking glass again, the sound of sobs from the door -

‘Please, Mary, no -’

‘Don’t you Mary me, you Polish fucking bitch,’ cries Mrs Ashworth, trying to get her hand back into her shopping bag, trying to get her hand on a brick or a stone -

But you’ve got her by the tops of her arms now, trying to talk to her, talk some sense into her: ‘Mrs Ashworth, let’s go and sit -’

‘You useless fat bastard, where were you when he needed you? I saw you sat in that posh car with bloody McGuinness. I saw you, don’t think I didn’t. Least McGuinness had manners not to show his fucking face inside. Not like you, you fat -’

‘Mary!’

She stops -

‘Mary!’

Stops at the sound of the voice behind her; stops and drops her bag of bricks.

Mr Ashworth is coming up the path: ‘I’m sorry. Didn’t realise she’d got out. Doctor says she’s to take it easy for a bit. Shock of it all.’

You are nodding, catching Mr Ashworth’s glance at Mrs Myshkin in her doorway, his glance at the broken window to her right, at the neighbours pairing up for a chat about the bother, their arms and brows folded.

But Mr Ashworth says nothing to Mrs Myshkin, just leads his wife by the shoulders back up the road to number 69, says nothing to Mrs Myshkin in her doorway with her broken window to her right, nothing to the neighbours paired up and chatting about the bother, their arms and brows crossed -

Just five more last little words from his wife -

Spinning round for one last little attack. Before the pills. Before her bed: ‘Bitch! Bloody fucking Polish bitch!’

You walk back up the path. You put an arm around Mrs Myshkin. You take her back inside -

The neighbours paired up and shaking their heads.

You close the door behind you. You get a brush and shovel from under the stairs. You sweep up the broken glass as Mrs Myshkin dusts the little pieces from in between the photographs and paintings, the photographs and the paintings of men not here -

Up the road in 69 another man gone, a young man:

Jimmy Ashworth -

Not here.

‘Used to happen all the time, this kind of thing,’ says Mrs Myshkin. She has a splinter of glass in her palm, blood running down her wrist. ‘Should have seen the place after they first arrested him.’

You nod: ‘My mum said.’

You drive around looking for a DIY shop or something and eventually find one in Featherstone and you buy some chipboard, because that’s all they have, chipboard like you and Pete had your trains on, then you go back to Fitzwilliam and tack the chipboard over the broken glass, Mrs Myshkin saying they’ll be out the next morning to put in a new pane of glass.

You decline her offer of beans on toast, telling her you’ll be in touch as soon as you have any news, and you leave her, leave her in her dark front room with the chipboard over the windows, alone with her photographs and paintings, her photographs and her paintings of men not here.

You leave her like you left your mother, alone in a dark front room with chipboard over the windows and a swastika on the door, alone with her photographs of your father, her photographs of her sons, of men not here.

You stand at the gate and look back up Newstead View, back up the road to 69 and another man gone, a young man:

Jimmy Ashworth -

Yet another young man -

Not here.

You stand at the gate and close your eyes and think of all the other young men -

Not here:

Friday 27 May 1983 -

Fitzwilliam -

Yorkshire.

On the radio on the drive back into Wakefield they are playing a record about ghosts and you wish they weren’t because as you pass your old house and then the Redbeck Cafй and Motel, both still boarded up, you feel afraid again -

Like you’ve suddenly got something to lose -

For them to repossess.

You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You switch off the radio. You go inside. The old Pakistani with the white beard is stood behind the counter with his young daughter. He is wearing white robes and she is wearing green. They do not speak. You buy vodka and fresh orange, beer and cigarettes, writing paper and envelopes, notebooks and pens -

These are your provisions -

For their coming siege.

You put the carrier bags on the passenger seat. You lock the doors. You head up the road and on to Blenheim. You park in the drive. You get out. You lock the doors. You go into the building. You go up the stairs. You let yourself in. You double-lock the doors. You close all the windows. You check all the rooms. You switch on the lights. You are afraid -

Something to lose -

Something they want.

You turn out the lights.

You can’t sleep so you drink again. Drink and drink and drink again. Drink until you puke again. Puke again and lose consciousness. Lose consciousness and then wake on the living room floor.

It is still night. The TV still on -

The front page of an old Yorkshire Post is stuck over the screen:

Missing -

The colours and light from the screen illuminate the photograph of her face. The holes in her eyes. The hole in her mouth. The colours and light from the screen make her move. Make her live:

Hazel.

You retch. You run into the hall. You puke in your hands. You open the bathroom door. You puke on the floor. You spew. You turn on the taps. You wash your hands. You clean your teeth. You look up into the mirror.

In lipstick, it says:


D-13 .


The branches are tapping against the pane.


Chapter 18

Thursday 20 November 1975:

Lost and now found -

Preston, Lancashire:

They mean murder.

There’s banging and banging and banging on door -

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Walter.’

‘Not now.’

‘Let me in.’

BJ get up, head pounding and pounding and pounding -

BJ open door: ‘What is it?’

‘It’s Clare,’ says Walter.

‘What?’

‘I think she’s gone to meet him.’

‘What?’

‘She’s not in her room.’

‘So?’

‘Way she was talking last night…’

‘What?’

‘“They’re going to meet me and kill me today,” she said.’

Trousers and jumper on, shouting: ‘When?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘You weren’t here, were you.’

‘Shit.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Fuck off,’ BJ spit at him, pushing past him -

Out door.

St Mary’s, Preston:

A church in Hell -

Into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs -

A big woman in other room murdering Superstar.

‘Where’s Clare?’

‘Just missed her, haven’t you, love?’

‘Where she go?’

‘Business.’

‘Fuck.’

‘If you want.’

Back outside in black night, black rain -

Down hill -

Down through town -

Down to Roger Kennedy’s house -

Banging and banging and banging on his door -

His wife answering door, a kid in her arms: ‘Yes?’

‘Roger in?’

‘No, he’s -’

‘Where?’

‘He’s still at work.’

‘Hostel?’

She nods, confused.

Black night, black rain -

Up through town -

Up hill -

Into St Mary’s, into hostel:

Banging and banging and banging on door to office, fluorescent light flickering on and off -

But it’s not Roger, it’s Dave Roberts: ‘What is it?’

‘Seen Roger?’

‘He’s gone home.’

‘Not what his wife says.’

Dave Roberts is frowning: ‘What?’

‘Just been down his house, haven’t I?’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t find Clare, can I?’

‘So?’

‘I’m worried about her.’

‘What’s it got to do with Roger?’

‘You got eyes in your head.’

Dave is shaking and shaking and shaking his head: ‘BJ -’

‘Fuck you,’ BJ say before he even starts.

‘Listen -’

But BJ up stairs again, checking her room again, checking BJ’s again:

Nothing, no-one.

BJ walk down to end of corridor. BJ bang on Walter’s door:

Nothing, no-one, but door’s open.

BJ step inside. BJ look about room.

On table in window there’s his old red exercise book.

BJ walk over. BJ open it:

Cuttings about Michael Myshkin, cuttings about murdered prostitutes.

BJ close book. BJ turn to go -

But there he is, standing in doorway:

‘What you doing?’ he asks from out of shadow.

‘I’m looking for Clare,’ BJ stammer.

‘In an old school exercise book?’

BJ look down at brown carpet.

‘And did you find her?’

BJ look up: ‘No.’

‘Well, what you waiting for?’ he shouts. ‘There’s not much time.’

‘Fuck off,’ BJ shout back -

Pushing old twat out of way, going back to BJ’s room -

Stuffing clothes into a carrier bag -

Back into hers and doing same -

Down stairs and out hostel door.

Black night, black rain -

Back up hill -

Back up to St Mary’s:

Church in Hell, last -

Back into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.

Big woman in other room now murdering We’ve only just begun.

‘Clare back yet?’

‘Not yet, love.’

‘Will you tell her, BJ is looking for her?’ BJ pant. ‘Tell her I’ll be down bus station waiting.’

‘If you want.’

One last place -

Last place on earth:

Left on to Frenchwood Street, off Church Street -

Six narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti, doors showing remnants of green paint -

Of evil.

Last door banging in wind, rain -

Last door.

BJ hold open door and step inside:

It is small, about twelve feet square and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex -

Of evil, a Kingdom of Evil.

There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish:

Old newspapers, old clothing -

Old evil, Kingdom of Old Evil.

In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty -

Evil.

A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing -

Nothing but evil, Kingdom of Evil.

A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing.

On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in red paint.

BJ touch paint. It is wet -

Red and wet.

Door opens behind BJ. BJ turn around -

‘SALT!’ screams a man, a vile man in black rags -

‘To preserve the meat.’

BJ push him over and out way. BJ out door and into road. BJ dodging a car and its horns.

‘SALT!’

Blackest night, blackest rain -

Back down hill -

Back into St Mary’s -

Hell -

Back into Saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.

Big woman silent, other room dead.

‘You just missed her again, love.’

‘Shit.’

‘You tell her BJ was looking for her?’

She nods.

‘About bus station?’

She nods again.

‘Fuck.’

‘If you want.’


*

Bus station -

Almost midnight:

No-one.

BJ sit down. BJ wait -

She is late:

It is midnight -

It is late:

Thursday 20 November 1975 -

Too late.


Chapter 19

Old times -

Dark night past -

Day 5:

One in the morning -

Wednesday 16 July 1969:

Yorkshire -

Leeds -

Brotherton House Police Station:

The Basement -

Room 4, always Room 4:

George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.

George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.

George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford -

The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland -

Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.

I ask George Marsh: ‘For the thousandth fucking time, George, what were you doing on Saturday?’

And for the thousandth fucking time he tells me: ‘Nothing.’

Old times -

Long dark night past -

Day 5:

Three in the morning -

Wednesday 16 July 1969:

Yorkshire -

Leeds -

Brotherton House Police Station:

The Basement -

Room 4, always Room 4.

We open the door. We step inside:

Bill Molloy and me -

Him with a wide streak of grey in his thick black hair, me with my thick lenses and black frames -

The Badger and the Owl.

And him:

George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.

George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.

George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford -

The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland -

Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.

I say: ‘Put your palms flat upon the desk.’

George Marsh puts his palms flat upon the desk.

I sit down at an angle to George Marsh. I take a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of my sports jacket. I hand them to Bill.

Bill walks around the room. Bill plays with the handcuffs. Bill sits down opposite Marsh. Bill puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist.

Silence -

Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet -

The Station silent, the Headrow silent -

Leeds sleeping, Yorkshire sleeping.

Bill jumps up. Bill brings his handcuffed fist down on to the top of Marsh’s right hand -

Marsh screams -

Screams -

But not much, not much at all.

I say: ‘Put your hands back.’

Marsh puts them back on the table.

‘Flat.’

He lies them down flat.

‘Nasty,’ says Bill.

‘You should get that seen to,’ I say.

We are both smiling at him -

Him not smiling, just staring straight ahead.

I stand up. I walk over to the door. I open the door. I step out into the corridor.

I come back in with a blanket -

I place it on George Marsh’s shoulders: ‘There you go, mate.’

I sit back down. I take out a packet of Everest from the pocket of my sports jacket. I offer one to Bill.

Bill takes out a lighter. He lights both our cigarettes.

We blow smoke across Marsh.

His hands are flat upon the desk.

Bill leans forward. Bill dangles the cigarette over Marsh’s right hand. He rolls it between two fingers, back and forth, back and forth.

Marsh never flinches. Marsh silent -

Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet -

The Station silent, the Headrow silent.

Bill reaches forward. Bill grabs Marsh’s right wrist. Bill holds down Marsh’s right hand. Bill stubs his cigarette out into the back of Marsh’s hand.

Marsh screams -

Screams -

But not much, not much at all.

I say: ‘Put your hands flat.’

Marsh puts them flat on the table.

The room stinks of burnt skin -

His.

‘Another?’ I say.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says Bill. He takes another Everest from the pack. He lights the cigarette. He stares at Marsh. He leans forward. He begins to dangle the cigarette over Marsh’s hand.

Marsh stares dead ahead -

Silent:

Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet -

The Station silent, the Headrow silent.

Bill and I stand up -

I say: ‘Stand up.’

Marsh stands up.

‘Eyes front.’

Marsh stares straight ahead, eyes dead.

‘Don’t move.’

Bill and I lift the three chairs and the table to the side. I open the door. We step out into the corridor. I close the door. I look through the spy-hole at Marsh. He is stood in the centre of the room. He is staring straight ahead, not moving, eyes dead.

‘He’s a hard one,’ I say.

‘Where’s Dickie?’ Bill asks.

‘He’s here.’

‘He got it?’

I nod.

‘Best get him then, hadn’t you?’

I walk off down the corridor.

Dick Alderman is already waiting in one of the cells at the end.

‘We’re ready,’ I say.

He nods.

We walk back down the corridor, Alderman carrying it under a blanket.

Bill nods at Alderman: ‘Morning.’

‘Morning,’ he slurs back. His breath reeks of alcohol.

Bill says: ‘You up for this, Richard, are you?’

He nods.

Bill leans in closer to his mouth: ‘Bit of Dutch courage for breakfast, eh?’

Alderman tries to pull his head back.

Bill’s got him by the scruff: ‘Don’t fuck it up, Richard.’

Alderman nods. Bill pats him on his face. Alderman smiles. Bill smiles back.

I ask: ‘Everybody ready?’

They both nod. Alderman puts down the box. He leaves it in the corridor for now. Bill hands him another package wrapped in a brown towel.

I open the door. We step inside -

Room 4, always Room 4:

George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.

George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.

George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford -

The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland -

Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.

I stand by the door. Bill and Alderman bring the chairs and the table back into the centre of the room.

Bill puts a chair behind Marsh. He says: ‘Sit down.’

Marsh sits down opposite Dick Alderman.

Bill picks up the blanket from the floor. He puts it over Marsh’s shoulders.

Alderman lights a cigarette. He says: ‘Put your palms flat on the desk.’

Marsh puts his hands flat on the desk.

Bill is pacing the room behind Marsh.

Alderman puts the brown package on the table. He unwraps it. He takes out a pistol. He lays it down on the table between himself and George Marsh.

Alderman smiles at Marsh -

Marsh just stares dead ahead.

Bill stops walking about the room. He stands behind Marsh.

‘Eyes front,’ says Alderman.

Marsh keeps staring straight ahead into the silence -

The dead silence:

Room 4 dead, the Basement dead.

Alderman jumps up. Alderman pins Marsh’s wrists down.

Bill grabs the blanket. Bill twists it around Marsh’s face.

Marsh falls forward off the chair.

Alderman holds down his wrists.

Bill twists the blanket around his face.

Marsh kneels on the floor.

Alderman lets go of Marsh’s wrists.

Marsh spins round in the blanket and into the wall:


CRACK -


Through the room, through the Basement.

Bill pulls off the blanket. He picks Marsh up by his hair. He stands him up against the wall.

‘Turn around, eyes front.’

Marsh turns around.

Alderman has the pistol in his right hand.

Bill has some bullets. He is throwing them up into the air. He is catching them.

Alderman turns to the door. He asks me: ‘It’s all right to shoot him then?’

I nod: ‘Shoot him!’

Alderman holds the pistol at arm’s length in both hands. He points the pistol at Marsh’s head.

Marsh is staring straight back into Alderman’s eyes.

Alderman steps forward. The barrel touches Marsh’s forehead. Alderman pulls the trigger -


CLICK -


Nothing happens.

‘Fuck,’ says Alderman.

He turns away. He fiddles with the pistol.

Marsh is staring straight ahead.

‘I’ve fixed it,’ says Alderman. ‘It’ll be all right this time.’

He points the pistol again -

Marsh staring straight back into him.

Alderman pulls the trigger -


BANG -


Marsh falls to the floor.

I think he’s dead.

Marsh opens his eyes. He looks up from the floor. He sees the smoking gun in Alderman’s hand. He sees the shreds of black material coming out of the barrel. He sees them floating down to the floor, over him -

He sees us all laughing.

George Marsh smiles.

Bill picks him up off the floor. Bill stands him against the wall. Bill takes two steps back. Bill takes one step forward. Bill kicks him in the balls.

George Marsh falls to the floor again.

‘Stand up.’

Marsh stands up.

‘On your toes,’ says Bill.

Bill steps forward. Bill kicks him in the balls again.

He falls to the floor again.

Alderman walks over to him. Alderman kicks him in the chest. Alderman kicks him in the stomach. Alderman handcuffs his hands behind his back. Alderman pushes his face down into the floor.

‘Do you like rats, George?’

Marsh looks up at him.

‘Do you like rats?’

Marsh says nothing.

I open the door.

Bill steps out into the corridor. He comes back into the room. He has the box under the blanket. He walks over to where Marsh is lying on the floor. He puts the box down on the ground next to Marsh’s face.

Alderman pulls Marsh’s head up by his hair.

Bill rips off the blanket: ‘Three, two, one -’

The rat is fat. The rat is wet. The rat is staring through the wire of its cage at Marsh.

Bill tips up the cage. The rat slides closer to the wire and Marsh. Bill shouts: ‘Get him! Get him!’

The rat is frightened. The rat is hissing. The rat is clawing at the wire. The rat is clawing at Marsh’s face.

‘He’s starving,’ says Bill.

Alderman pushes Marsh’s face into the wire.

Bill kicks the cage. Bill tips the rat up into the wire -

It’s tail and fur against Marsh’s face.

‘Turn it round, turn it round,’ Alderman is saying.

‘Open it,’ I say.

Bill tips the cage up on its backside. The wire door is facing up. Bill opens the door.

The rat is at the bottom of the cage. The rat is looking up at the open door. Alderman brings Marsh’s face down to the open door -

Marsh, eyes wide, struggles to get loose.

The rat is growling. The rat is shitting everywhere. The rat is looking up at Marsh.

Alderman squeezes Marsh’s face down further into the open cage.

Marsh struggles. Marsh says something.

I nod.

Alderman pulls him back up by his hair: ‘What? What did you say?’

Marsh looks at him. Marsh smiles.

Alderman pushes his face back down into the cage. Alderman screams: ‘What have you done with her? What have you fucking done with her?’

Marsh says something.

I nod again.

Alderman pulls him back up: ‘What did you say?’

Marsh looks at him. Marsh says: ‘I did nothing. I know nothing. So I’ve got nothing to say.’

‘Is that right?’ says Bill and Bill reaches down into the cage. Bill picks out the rat by its tail. Bill swings it around into the wall -


SMASH!


Blood splatters across Marsh and Alderman -

‘Fucking hell,’ shouts Alderman.

Bill drops the dead rat back into the wire cage. Bill squats down level with Marsh. Bill wipes his hands on Marsh’s face, on his police issue grey shirt, and Bill says again: ‘Is that right?’

George Marsh puts his hand to his face. George Marsh smears the rat’s blood across his cheeks, across his tongue and lips, and George Marsh says: ‘John Dawson.’

‘What about him?’ asks Bill.

Marsh licks his lips: ‘He knows what I did. He knows what I know. He’ll tell you all about it.’

Bill looks at Marsh.

Marsh winks.

Bill stands up. Bill kicks Marsh hard in the ribs.

George Marsh slumps to the floor, clutching his side, coughing -

Laughing.

I turn to Alderman: ‘Clean him and room up.’

Bill and I step out into the corridor.

‘He did it,’ I say. ‘He fucking did it.’

Bill shakes his head. Bill looks at his watch.

I look at mine:

It’s almost dawn -

Day 6.

But there’s no light -

Not down here.

Here just night:

Endless dark night -

Endless dark nights, past -

Past and future -

Futures and pasts:

Times old and yet to come.


Chapter 20

You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library at eight o’clock on a wet Saturday morning in May -

The car doors are locked and you are shaking, unable to switch off the radio:

‘Healey wins Polaris battle with Foot; Tebbit pledges to curb unions and abolish GLC and metropolitan district councils; Thatcher seeks bumper victory to thwart Labour extremists; boy aged sixteen found hanging from window bars of a cell in the borstal allocation unit of Strangeways prison; Dennis Nilsen is committed for trial…’

No Hazel.

You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library at half-eight on a wet Saturday morning in May -

The radio is off but you are still shaking -

The car doors still locked.

It is Saturday 28 May 1983 -

D-12:

Does anybody know any jokes?

Up the stairs to the first floor of the library, the microfilms and old newspapers, pulling two boxes of Yorkshire Posts from the shelves:

December 1974 and November 1975.

Threading the film, winding the spools, flogging dead horses:


STOP -


Friday 13 December 1974:

Morley Girl Missing – by Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.

Mrs Sandra Kemplay made an emotional appeal this morning for the safe return of her daughter, Clare.


STOP -


Sunday 15 December 1974:

Murdered – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

The naked body of nine-year-old Clare Kemplay was found early yesterday morning by workmen in Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield.


STOP -


Monday 16 December 1974:

Catch this Fiend – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year, 1968 & 1971.

A post-mortem into the death of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay revealed that she had been tortured, raped, and then strangled.


STOP -


Thursday 19 December 1974:

Caught – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

Early yesterday morning police arrested a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay.

According to a police source, exclusive to this newspaper, the man has confessed to the murder and has been formally charged. He will be remanded in custody at Wakefield Magistrates’ Court later this morning.

The police source further revealed that the man has also confessed to a number of other murders and formal charges are expected shortly.


STOP -


Saturday 21 December 1974:

A Mother’s Plea – by Edward Dunford.

Mrs Paula Garland, sister of the Rugby League star Johnny Kelly, wept as she told of her life since the disappearance of her daughter, Jeanette, just over five years ago.

‘I’ve lost everything since that day,’ said Mrs Garland, referring to her husband Geoff’s suicide in 1971, following the fruitless police investigation into the whereabouts of their missing daughter.

‘I just want it all to end,’ wept Mrs Garland. ‘And maybe now it can.’

The arrest of a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the disappearance and murder of Clare Kemplay has brought a tragic hope of sorts to Mrs Garland.


STOP -


Saturday 21 December 1974:

Murder Hunt – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

A fresh murder hunt was launched in Wakefield today following the discovery of the body of 36-year-old -


STOP -


STOP -


Into the library toilets, dry-heaving -

Your stomach burning, your stomach bleeding -

You retch again. You puke. You spew -

Knowing it’s not over, that it’ll never be over -

That you have to go back there -

Threading films, winding spools, flogging dead horses:


STOP -


Monday 23 December 1974:

RL Star’s Sister Murdered – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

Police found the body of Mrs Paula Garland at her Castleford home early Sunday morning, after neighbours heard screams.


STOP -


Tuesday 24 December 1974:

3 Dead in Wakefield Xmas Shoot-out – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.


STOP -


STOP -


STOP -


Back in their bogs, burning and bleeding -

Retching.

Puking.

Spewing -

Knowing what you know, damned to go back one last fucking time -

You thread the last film. You wind the last spool. You flog the dead:


STOP -


Friday 21 November 1975:

Myshkin gets life.

In a telephone box on Balne Lane, the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof, you make two calls and one appointment, thinking -

Jack, Jack, Jack -

The relentless sound of the rain on the roof, thinking -

Not here.

There is a Leeds & Bradford A-Z open on your lap. Your notes and photocopies are on the passenger seat beside you. You are driving through the back and side streets of Morley -

It is Saturday but there are no children.

You come down Church Street to the junction with Victoria Road and Rooms Lane. You turn right on to Victoria Road. You park outside Morley Grange Junior and Infants School, under the steeple of a black church -

The rain falling through the dark, quiet trees.

You look at your notes. You start the car.

‘Clare Kemplay was last seen on Thursday 12 December 1974, walking down Victoria Road towards her home -’

You follow Victoria Road along -

Past the Sports Ground, past Sandmead Close.

‘Clare was ten years old with long straight fair hair and blue eyes, wearing an orange waterproof kagool, a dark blue turtleneck sweater -’

You glance at your notes again -

You indicate left.

‘Pale blue denim trousers with a distinctive eagle motif on the back left pocket and red Wellington boots -’

You turn into Winterbourne Avenue -

It is a cul-de-sac of nine or ten houses; some detached, some not.

‘She was carrying a plastic Co-op carrier bag containing a pair of black gym shoes.’

A cul-de-sac.

You park outside number 3, Winterbourne Avenue.

There is a For Sale sign stuck in the tiny front lawn.

You get out. You walk up the drive. You ring the doorbell.

There is no answer.

A woman in the next house opens her front door: ‘You interested in the house?’

‘No,’ you shout back over the low hedge and drives. ‘I’m looking for the Kemplays?’

‘The Kemplays?’

‘Yeah.’

‘They moved years ago.’

‘You don’t know where, do you?’

‘Down South.’

‘You remember when?’

‘When do you bloody think?’ she says and slams her front door.

You stand in the drive of a house that nobody wants to buy and you wonder what the Atkins will do, if they’ll go down South or if they’ll stay around here, stay around here and watch their neighbours’ children grow, watch their neighbours’ children grow while their own daughter rots in the ground, rots in the ground of the very place that took her away.

You stand in the rain in the cul-de-sac and you wonder.

You go back to the car. You get in. You lock the doors. You open the A-Z again.

You start the car. You turn right out of Winterbourne Avenue. You go back down Victoria Road -

Back past the Sports Ground, back past the school.

You turn right on to Rooms Lane. You go up Rooms Lane -

Past the church -

The rain falling through the dark, quiet trees.

You come to Bradstock Gardens. You turn right again.

Bradstock Gardens is a cul-de-sac, just like Winterbourne Avenue.

A cul-de-sac.

There are two policemen sat in a police car outside number 4.

The curtains are drawn, the milk on the step.

You turn to look at your notes:

‘A ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light brown corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket, carrying a black drawstring gym bag -’

Sat beside you on the passenger seat -

Hazel looks at you -

Looks at you and says -

‘Help me -’

The rain falling through the dark, quiet trees -

‘We’re in hell.’

You reverse out of the cul-de-sac -

The Leeds & Bradford A-Z open on your lap, your notes and photocopies on the passenger seat beside you, out of Morley -

It is Saturday but there are no children -

All the children missing.

You drive out of Morley -

Down Elland Road and into Leeds -

They are playing that record about ghosts again.

You change stations but all you get is -

Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher.

No Hazel -

Not here.

At the Yorkshire Post reception, you ask the pretty girl with the nice smile and bleached hair if she has an address for one of their former employees.

‘Jack Whitehead?’ she repeats. ‘Who was he?’

‘A journalist,’ you say. ‘Crime.’

‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him,’ she frowns. ‘Do you know when he last worked for us?’

‘Saturday 18 July 1977.’

She shakes her head again. She picks up the phone: ‘Hi, it’s Lisa at reception. I’ve got a gentleman here asking about a Jack Whitehead who he says was a journalist here up until July 1977.’

She listens. She waits. She says: ‘Thank you.’

You watch her hang up. Her roots need doing.

She looks up. She smiles: ‘Someone will be down in a minute.’

The woman is in her mid-thirties and good-looking. She has a confident walk and a look of Marilyn Webb.

You stand up.

‘Kathryn Williams,’ she says, hand out.

‘John Piggott,’ you reply, holding her hand for as long as you dare.

‘You’re here about Jack Whitehead, I believe?’

You nod: ‘I’m a solicitor and I’ve become involved in an appeal and I know from memory and the microfilms that Jack Whitehead covered the original case.’

She tries to smile. She’s already bored. She says: ‘How can I help?’

‘To be honest,’ you mumble, ‘I don’t know if you can. I know that Jack Whitehead had some sort of accident in 1977 and that he no longer -’

‘Terrible,’ she says. She looks at her watch.

‘But I was hoping somebody might have an address, so I could maybe contact -’

She shakes her head: ‘Last I heard, he was still in hospital.’

‘You wouldn’t happen to know which one by any chance?’

‘Stanley Royd.’

You can see red brake-lights through the glass walls of the building, headlights and rain against the revolving doors.

‘I suppose he could be dead,’ you say.

‘Doubt it,’ she says. ‘We’d have heard.’

You nod again. And again.

‘Well,’ she smiles. ‘If there was nothing else…’

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘Thank you very much.’

She walks you to the doors. She says: ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Parrot.’

‘Piggott,’ you smile.

She laughs and squeezes your arm: ‘I am sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ you say. ‘Thank you for your time.’

She has her hand out again: ‘Which case was it?’

‘Clare Kemplay.’

She starts to let go of your hand: ‘Whose appeal? Not -’

‘Michael Myshkin,’ you nod.

She drops it.


Chapter 21

She’s slipped on to her knees and he’s come out of her. Now he’s angry. She tries to turn but he’s got her by her hair, punching her casually once, twice, and she’s telling him there’s no need for that, scrambling to give him his money back, and then he’s got it up her arse, but she’s thinking at least it’ll be over then, and he’s back kissing her shoulders, pulling her black bra off, smiling at this fat cow’s flabby arms, and taking a big, big bite out of underside of her left tit, and she can’t not scream and she knows she shouldn’t because now he’s going to have to shut her up and she’s crying because she knows it’s over, that they’ve found her, that this is how it ends, that she’ll never see her daughters again, not now, not ever -

BJ awake:

It is morning and there are sirens -

Police sirens.

Fuck.

BJ get up off bench, eyes blinking in grey light -

Heavy smell of diesel -

BJ go into bogs and puke in sink.

Fuck, fuck.

Preston Bus Station -

Friday 21 November 1975:

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

BJ run up hill from centre, back to hostel.

There is no-one in office -

Just fluorescent light flickering on and off.

BJ go upstairs and bang on her door: ‘Clare!’

But there’s no-one, nothing.

BJ try door and it opens. BJ step inside.

Room is trashed and smashed, more than usual -

More than what BJ did last night -

Someone else was here:

Walter.

BJ turn to leave her room and there he is, standing in doorway.

‘Who is it?’ he asks.

‘It’s me,’ BJ say. ‘Who fuck you think it is?’

He steps out of shadow, arms out: ‘Look!’

‘Fuck,’ BJ say -

‘Look at me!’

His eyes white, his eyes blind.

‘What happened?’

‘They were here,’ he says.

‘Who?’

‘You know who.’

‘What did they want?’

‘You and Clare,’ he says. ‘They turned both your rooms upside down.’

BJ look down at carrier bag in BJ’s hand. BJ tip it out on to her bed -

Clothes, make-up, a photograph:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.

‘What is it?’ gropes Walter.

BJ pick photograph up -

‘It’s not her,’ BJ say.

‘Where is she?’ asks Walter.

‘I don’t know.’

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ he whispers, tears on his cheeks.

‘We all are,’ BJ say.

BJ run up hill, past other St Mary’s, up Church Street and on to French -

Fuck, fuck, fuck:

Police cars and an ambulance parked in front of garages -

Last door -

Last door banging in wind, in rain -

Two policemen in black cloaks holding it open as they carry out a body on a stretcher, wind raising a bloody sheet:

A light green three-quarter-length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it, dark brown trousers, brown suede calf-length boots:

A complete wreck of a human being.

A woman is weeping at side of road, her dog barking at first train out of here -

Just like Clare used to.

Then BJ see him, standing at top of street by open door of his car -

Looking at BJ.

He smiles.

BJ run.


Chapter 22

Thursday 17 July 1969:

Apollo 11 starts with a beautiful ride on the way to the moon -

I’m on an ugly ride out to Castleford:

The overture to a new era of civilisation -

The radio full of war songs and bad news:

London Wharf explosion kills five firemen, local girl still missing -

War songs, bad news, and the moon.

The site is visible for two or three miles before we reach it, the skeleton of an enormous bungalow on the top of a hill, its stark white bones rising out of the ground.

‘Must have some bloody brass,’ I say -

Bill smiles. Bill nods. Bill says nothing.

I turn off the main road.

It is raining as we park at the bottom of the hill.

‘He expecting us?’ I ask.

‘Looks that way,’ says Bill -

Two men are coming down the tracks from the top of the hill. They are walking under two large red golfing umbrellas. They are wearing Wellington boots.

Bill and I get out into the drizzle and the mud.

‘Long time no see, Don,’ says Bill to the big man with the Spanish tan -

Donald Foster, Yorkshire’s Construction King.

Donald Foster shakes Bill’s hand: ‘Too long, Bill.’

‘Didn’t expect to see you here today,’ says Bill. ‘Pleasant surprise.’

‘The bad penny,’ winks Foster. ‘That’s me.’

‘Fair few of them too, I hear,’ smiles Bill.

Donald Foster slaps Bill on the back. He laughs and gestures at the other man: ‘Bill, this is John Dawson; a good man and a very good friend of mine.’

Bill sticks out his hand: ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Dawson.’

Dawson takes it.

Foster says to Dawson: ‘John, this is Detective Superintendent Bill Molloy; also a good man and also a very good friend of mine.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Superintendent,’ replies the gaunt and paler man -

John Dawson, the Prince of Architecture himself.

Bill says: ‘Mr Dawson, Don; this is my colleague and friend, Maurice Jobson.’

Don Foster shakes my hand: ‘Bill’s told me a lot about you, Inspector.’

I say: ‘Only the good things, I hope.’

Foster still has my hand in his. He grins: ‘Now where would fun be in that.’

John Dawson has his hand out, waiting. He says: ‘John Dawson.’

Foster lets my hand go. I take Dawson’s. I nod. I say nothing.

Bill is looking up at the top of the rise, at the bones of the bungalow. He says: ‘Mind if we have a look?’

‘Be my guest,’ says Dawson.

‘We’ve buried bodies deep mind,’ laughs Foster.

‘I should bloody well hope so,’ says Bill.

John Dawson hands us his large umbrella.

‘Thank you,’ says Bill.

I say nothing.

We start up the track towards the site. Dawson and Foster are under one umbrella, Bill and I under the other, the umbrellas failing to keep us dry -

Our shoes and our socks sinking into the sod.

Foster strides ahead back up the hill, Dawson beside him. Foster stops. He turns round: ‘Keep you busy behind that desk, do they, Bill?’

‘Not busy enough,’ Bill shouts back.

They are waiting for us when we reach the top, waiting under their red umbrella among the stark white bones.

John Dawson asks: ‘Have either of you seen the film Lost Horizon?’

‘No,’ says Bill.

Dawson shrugs. He surveys the site. He says: ‘It’s my wife Marjorie’s favourite. In the film there’s a mythical city called Shangrila; that’s what I’m going to call this place – Shangrila. It’s going to be her present for our Silver Wedding next year.’

‘Does she know?’ Bill asks.

‘If she does, she’s not saying,’ he smiles.

The rain is falling fast on our red umbrellas, the four of us stood in the foundations, among the white scaffolding, looking out across Castleford and the Aire -

The silence and the grey sky.

‘I’ve designed it to reflect a swan,’ says Dawson.

‘John loves swans,’ nods Don Foster.

‘Beautiful creatures,’ Dawson continues. ‘I suppose you both know that once swans mate, they mate for life?’

‘If one of them dies,’ I nod. ‘The other one pines to death.’

‘Very romantic,’ says Bill -

There’s something in his voice, something he doesn’t like, something I don’t -

From under our umbrella, Bill points: ‘What’s that going to be down there?’

Halfway back down the slope, there is a large and freshly dug hole in the ground.

‘Fish pond,’ says Don Foster. ‘For his goldfish.’

‘Not Swan Lake then?’ laughs Bill.

‘Not quite,’ says Dawson.

Bill tilts the umbrella back so he can look at both of them; his old mate Don and his new mate John. Bill says: ‘Is there somewhere we can have a word?’

‘A word?’ repeats Don Foster, his tan fading with the light and the rain.

‘Aye,’ nods Bill. ‘A word.’

Foster looks at Dawson. Dawson looks over at a small cabin on the edge of the site. Foster looks back at Bill. He says: ‘The hut?’

Bill and I follow them over there.

John Dawson unlocks the door. We go inside. Don Foster lights a paraffin heater. Dawson pours out the tea from two large flasks. Bill flashes the ash. We sit there, like four blokes about to play a hand of cards.

It is raining hard now against the hut, against the window.

I look at Bill. I look at my watch. I look at Bill again.

Bill stamps his cigarette out on the floor. He takes a swig of his tea. He asks them: ‘I take it you both know we’ve got George Marsh at Brotherton?’

John Dawson and Don Foster glance at each other for a split second -

A split second in which you can see them thinking -

Thinking of denying that they actually know George Marsh -

A split second in which they change my life -

All our fucking lives -

A split second before Don Foster shakes his head. A split second before he says: ‘I wish you’d have come to us before, Bill.’

‘Why’s that then, Don?’

‘Could have saved us all a lot of bother.’

‘How’s that then, Don?’

Don Foster looks at John Dawson.

John Dawson looks at Bill.

Bill waits.

John Dawson says: ‘He was with me.’

Bill waits.

John Dawson says: ‘On Saturday.’

Bill waits.

John Dawson says: ‘Bit of cash in hand.’

Bill waits.

John Dawson stands up. He goes over to the window and the rain. He looks out at the skeleton of the enormous bungalow, its stark white bones rising out of the ground. John Dawson says: ‘He was here with me.’

I look at Bill.

Bill smiles. Bill turns to Don Foster. Bill says: ‘Wish you’d have come to us before, Don.’

Don Foster doesn’t smile. He just blinks.

‘Could have saved us all a lot of bother,’ says Bill. ‘A lot of bother.’

On the road home we stop by a telephone box.

Bill makes the call.

I sit and feel hollow and sick inside.

Bill opens the passenger door. It’s written all over his bloody face. All over the bloody Action form in his hand.

‘It’s bollocks,’ I say. ‘Fucking bollocks.’

‘Got no reason to hold him now.’

‘Fucking bollocks.’

‘Maurice -’

‘Load of fucking bollocks.’

‘What? They’re all fucking lying?’

‘It’s a load of fucking bollocks and you fucking well know it!’

‘Finished?’ Bill asks.

I clutch the wheel, my knuckles white when they should be bloody and scabbed.

‘Have you fucking finished?’ he asks again.

I nod.

‘Then I hope you’ll remember that we fucking owe John and Don.’

I nod again, my tongue bleeding.

‘Now let’s get bloody home,’ says Bill Molloy, the Badger, scrawling across the form:


N.F.A .


Home -

Home with its children’s feet upon the stairs, laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, the sounds of meals being cooked, served and eaten -

Home, sod that -

I drive through the fading summer evening, the fields of green and trees of brown, birds going home and the cattle to sleep, clouds in retreat and night upon the march with its promise of another summer’s day tomorrow, of cricket and croquet and the Great Yorkshire Show, and -

Fuck it. I see under the ground -

An underground kingdom, an animal kingdom of badgers and angels, worms and insect cities; white swans upon black lakes while dragons soar overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swoop down through lamp-lit caverns wherein an owl searches for a sleeping little princess in her tiny feathered wings -

My underground -

My underground kingdom, this animal kingdom of corpses and rats and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the dirty water of old tears, dragons tearing up burning skies, empty churches and barren wombs, the fleas, rats and dogs picking through the ruin of her bones and wings, her starved white skeleton left here to weep by -

I park at the bottom of the hill, the stark white bones rising out of the ground and into the moonlight.

I get out into the moonlight, the ugly moonlight.

I walk up the hill.

My shoes and my socks sink into the sod.

In the ugly moonlight, I start to dig.

I drive home, the radio on:

Suspicious Minds -

War songs and bad news:

‘David Smith, one of the chief witnesses in the Moors Murder trial, was sentenced at Chester Assizes to three years’ imprisonment. Mr Smith, aged twenty-one, a labourer, pleaded guilty to wounding William Lees with intent to do grievous bodily harm. In mitigation his counsel claimed that had he not been involved in the murder trial Smith might not have been in trouble.’

War songs, bad news, and the moon:

‘“Spirit of mankind is with you,” says President Nixon.’

The radio off.

I park outside our house, our home -

The lights are off, the curtains drawn -

Everybody sleeping.

I get out of the car.

I stand and look up at our house, our home -

In the ugly moonlight with dirty hands:

Jeanette Garland, eight, still missing -

The little girl who never came home.


Chapter 23

Sunday 29 May 1983 -

D-11:

You push the buzzer and wait outside the door to the main building. There is the loud click. The sound of the alarm. You pull open the door. You step into the steel cage. You show the plastic visitor’s tag to the guard on the other side of the bars. You tell him your name. He bangs twice on one of the bars with his black and shining truncheon. The other set of locks moves back. The other alarm sounds. You go through into the reception area. Another guard gives you the slip of paper with your number. He points at the bench. You walk over. You sit down next to a woman in grey and burgundy clothes. There is a pale and silent child upon her knee. They smell of chip shops and the rain, the grey and the damp -

The whole room still grey and damp, grey and damp with the same smell of people who’ve travelled hundreds of miles along motorways still grey and damp, the same overweight men in uniforms still grey and damp, the same government seats still grey and damp, the same bad news still grey and damp, as the bolts and the locks slide back and forth and the alarms sound and the numbers are called and the people cough and cough and the children stare and stare until the voice from the desk by the door cries out: ‘Thirty-six’.

The pale and silent child is staring at you.

‘Thirty-six!’

You look down at the piece of paper in your hand.

‘Number thirty-six!’

You stand up.

At the desk, you say: ‘John Piggott to see Michael Myshkin.’

The woman in the grey uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down her biro list. She sniffs and says: ‘Purpose of visit?’

‘Legal.’

She hands you back your pass: ‘First time?’

‘Second.’

She shrugs: ‘The patient will be brought to the visitors’ room and a member of staff will be present throughout the visit. Visits are limited to forty-five minutes. You will both be seated at a table and are to remain seated throughout the course of the visit. You are to refrain from any physical contact and are not to pass anything to the patient. Anything you wish to give the patient must be done so through this office and can only be one of the items on this approved list.’

She hands you the photocopied piece of A4.

‘Thank you.’

‘Return to your seat and wait for a member of staff to escort you to the visiting area.’

Forty minutes and another paper swan later, a stocky guard with a button missing from his uniform says: ‘John Winston Piggott?’

You stand up.

‘This way.’

You follow him through the other door and the other lock, the other alarm and the ringing bell, through the door and up the overheated and overlit grey corridor.

At the last set of double doors, he pauses. He says: ‘Know the drill?’

You nod.

‘Keep seated, no physical contact, and no passing of goods.’

You nod again.

‘I’ll tell you when your forty-five minutes are up.’

‘Thank you.’

He punches the code into the panel on the wall.

The alarm sounds. He pulls open the door: ‘After you.’

You step into the small room with the grey carpet and the grey walls, the two plastic tables each with their two plastic chairs.

‘Sit down,’ says the guard.

You sit down in the grey plastic chair. You lean forward, arms on the marked plastic surface of the grey plastic table, eyes on the door opposite.

The guard sits down behind you.

You are about to say something to the guard when there he is again:

As if by magick -

Coming through the door in his grey overalls and grey shirt, enormous with a head twice as large:

Michael John Myshkin -

Michael John Myshkin, with spittle on his chin.

‘Hello again,’ you say.

‘Hello again,’ he smiles, blinking.

His guard pushes him down into the grey chair opposite you. He closes the other door. He takes a seat behind Michael Myshkin.

You say: ‘How are you, Michael?’

‘Fine,’ he says, patting down his dirty yellow hair with his fat right hand.

‘I’ve been doing some background work on your case, preparing documents for your appeal, and I’d like to go over some of the details with you.’

Michael Myshkin wipes his right hand on his overalls and smiles at you, pale blue eyes blinking in the warm grey room.

‘Is that OK with you?’

Michael Myshkin nods once, still smiling, still blinking.

You take out your notebook and biro from your carrier bag. You open the pad. You ask: ‘Can you remember when you were arrested?’

Michael Myshkin glances round at the guard behind him, then turns back to you. He whispers: ‘Wednesday 18 December 1974. One o’clock in the morning.’

‘Really? One o’clock?’

He blinks. He smiles. He nods again.

‘Where were you arrested?’

Michael Myshkin is not smiling. He is not blinking. He says: ‘At work.’

You look down at your notes: ‘The Jenkins Photo Studio in Castleford?’

He nods his head. He looks down.

You sit back in your plastic chair, tapping your plastic pen on the plastic table. You look back across the table at him.

He is patting down his hair again.

‘Michael?’ you say.

He looks up at you.

‘The police said they arrested you on the Doncaster Road after a chase?’

‘That’s not true,’ he says. ‘Ask my mum.’

You make a note. You ask: ‘Where did they take you?’

‘Wakefield.’

‘Wood Street? Bishopgarth?’

He shakes his head.

‘OK, then tell me why?’ you ask him. ‘Why did they arrest you?’

‘Because of Clare,’ he says.

‘What about her?’

‘Because they said I killed her.’

‘And is that right?’ you say again. ‘Did you?’

Michael John Myshkin shakes his head again: ‘I told you, no.’

‘No what?’ you say, writing down his words verbatim again.

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘Good,’ you smile. ‘Just checking.’

Michael Myshkin is not smiling.

‘The actual policemen who arrested you?’ you ask him. ‘The ones that came to your work that night? Can you remember their names?’

He shakes his head.

‘Michael, please think. This is very, very important.’

He looks up at you. He says: ‘I know it is.’

‘OK then,’ you say. ‘The policemen who arrested you, who came to the studio, who took you to Wakefield, were these the same policemen who later told you to say you killed Clare?’

Michael Myshkin blinks. Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -

You ask Michael Myshkin: ‘Policemen told you to say you killed Clare?’

He nods.

‘But you didn’t kill her?’

He nods again.

‘But you signed a piece of paper to say you did?’

‘They made me.’

‘Who?’

‘The police.’

‘How?’

‘They said if I signed the paper, I could see my mother.’

‘And if you didn’t?’

‘They said I’d never see her or my father again.’

You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -

‘The police said that?’

He nods.

‘Who was your first solicitor?’ you ask.

‘Mr McGuinness.’

‘Clive McGuinness?’

He nods.

‘How did you find him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you tell Mr McGuinness that you killed Clare?’

Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘You told Mr McGuinness that you didn’t kill Clare Kemplay?’

He nods.

‘And what did Mr McGuinness say?’

‘He said it was too late. He said I had signed the paper. He said no-one would believe me. He said everyone would believe the police. He said it would make things worse for me if now I said I didn’t do it. He said I’d never get out of prison. He said I’d never see my mother and father. He said he would only help me if I said I did it. He said I would be able to see my mother and father soon. He said I would only have to stay in prison a short time.’

You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -

‘How long have you been in here, Michael?’

Michael Myshkin looks at you: ‘Seven years, five months, and eleven days.’

You nod.

He starts to pat down his hair again.

You look at your notes. You say: ‘Two girls told the police that they saw you in Morley on a number of occasions, including the afternoon that Clare Kemplay disappeared.’

Michael Myshkin looks up again. Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘What?’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘You weren’t in Morley that Thursday?’

He shakes his head.

‘So where were you?’

‘At work.’

‘The Jenkins Photo Studio in Castleford?’

He nods.

‘But the police couldn’t trace Mr Jenkins and the only other member of staff, a Miss Douglas, she couldn’t be sure whether you were at work or not. Not very helpful, was it?’

‘They made her say that.’

‘Who did?’

‘The police.’

‘OK,’ you say. ‘These two girls, they also said that the reason they remembered you so clearly was because you had once exposed yourself to them.’

He shakes his head again.

‘They were lying, were they, Michael?’

He nods.

You sigh. You sit back in your plastic chair. You look across at him.

He is patting down his hair again.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Do you remember Jimmy Ashworth?’

He looks up at you. He nods.

‘What do you remember about him?’

‘He was my friend.’

‘Your friend?’

‘My best friend.’

‘Did he talk to you about Clare?’

He nods.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said she was beautiful.’

‘Beautiful?’ you say. ‘She was bloody dead when he found her?’

Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘What?’

‘He’d seen her before.’

‘What? Where?’

‘When they built the houses.’

‘Which houses?’

‘In Morley.’

‘So Jimmy knew her?’

Michael Myshkin nods.

‘Did you?’

He shakes his head.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Did Jimmy kill her?’

He looks at you. He shakes his head again.

‘So who did?’

He is patting down his hair. He is blinking. He is smiling.

‘Who?’

Smiling and blinking and patting down his hair -

You bang the table hard with your hand: ‘Who?’

Michael Myshkin stares up at you -

Michael Myshkin says: ‘The Wolf?’

‘This wolf have a name, does he?’

He says: ‘Ask Jimmy.’

You open your carrier bag. You take out a Yorkshire Post -

There are two photographs on the front page.

You throw the paper across the table -

You lean forward.

You point at one of the photographs -

The photograph of a young man with long, lank hair.

Michael Myshkin looks down at the paper -

You say: ‘He’s dead.’

You point at the other photograph -

The photograph of a little girl with medium-length dark brown hair.

You say: ‘She’s missing.’

Michael Myshkin is still looking down at the paper -

You say: ‘The police said Jimmy took her. They caught him in Morley. They arrested him. They say he confessed. Then he hung himself.’

Michael Myshkin looks up at you -

There are tears down his cheeks.

Michael Myshkin says: ‘He’s back.’

‘Who?’

Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘Who?’

Michael Myshkin turns to the guard sat behind him. Michael Myshkin whispers: ‘I’d like to go back to my room now please.’

You are on your feet: ‘Who?’

The guard behind you has a hand on your shoulder -

‘Sit down -’

You are shouting: ‘Michael, who? Tell me fucking who?’

‘Sit down -’

Michael Myshkin is on his feet, his guard opening the other door -

‘Who?’

‘Sit down!’

Michael John Myshkin turns back -

Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks -

Turns back and screams: ‘The Wolf!’

Doors locked, you switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette and then another and another:

‘Thatcher rejects TV battle with Frost; Foot finds Times headlines malicious; Hume concerned over Kent’s CND role; Hess holds key to Hitler’s Diary; eleven-year-old boy strangled by a swing-ball tennis game which wrapped around his neck…’

No Hazel -

Not here.

You switch off the radio and light another cigarette and listen to the rain fall on the roof of the car, eyes closed:

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

You open your eyes:

Fuck.

You feel sick again, your fingers burnt again.

You put out the cigarette and press the buttons in and out on the radio until you find some music:

Simple Minds.

‘Mrs Myshkin? It’s John Piggott.’

In a telephone box on Merseyside again, listening to Mrs Myshkin and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof -

‘Yes, he’s fine,’ you say.

The rain pouring down, the car lights on in the middle of a Sunday afternoon in May -

‘Where was Michael arrested?’

The kind of wet Sunday afternoon you used to spend in bus shelters, huddled around ten cigs and the readers’ wives, afraid -

‘You’re certain?’

Sitting in the bus shelter, listening to the rain fall on the corrugated roof, the world outside so sharp and full of pain, listening to the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof and not wanting to go back home, dreading it -

‘I should have asked you before, but how did Clive McGuinness come to represent Michael?’

That vague fear even then -

‘One last question,’ you ask her. ‘Who did Michael call the Wolf?’

That fear real and here -

‘You’re certain?’

That fear again now -

She hangs up and you stand there, listening to the dial tone -

The dial tone and the relentless sound of the rain on the roof of the telephone box, not wanting to go home, dreading it -

The fear now:

Sunday 29 May 1983 -

D-11:

That fear here -

Dogs barking -

Near.

Wolves.

You drive from Merseyside back to Wakefield -

‘An active IRA unit of four or six men is thought to be planning the assassination of a leading British politician or a bombing during the General Election campaign.’

The motorways quiet -

‘Mr John Gunnell, the leader of West Yorkshire County Council, has alleged that new photographs conclusively prove that British nurse Helen Smith was murdered in Saudi Arabia.’

Everywhere dead.

She is sat on the stair. She is waiting for you. She has brought cold Chinese food and warm alcohol. She hears you on the stairs. She looks up. She is wet. She smiles.

‘Thought you might be hungry,’ she says.

‘I am,’ you lie and open the door -

The telephone ringing, the branches tapping.


Chapter 24

Breathing hard and spitting blood, running blind -

But here it is again, his car:

Fuck.

Let it get within six foot and then BJ off again -

Wind, rain, his voice:

‘BJ!’

Over a fence and on to wasteland, tripping and falling on to ground on other side, bleeding and crying and praying, stumble across wasteland and into a playground, into playground and scrambling over another fence, over fence and into some allotments, drip blood through vegetable patches and over a wall and into a small street of terraces, down street and right into another street of terraces, turn left then right again -

Got to get off streets.

BJ turn off street and down side of a quiet little house -

Into their back garden:

Bingo.

A shed, black in rain at bottom of garden.

Door isn’t locked, just kept shut with a brick.

BJ go inside and sit down on a pile of old newspapers beside a spade and a lawnmower, a wheelbarrow and a trowel.

BJ wait -

Wait for it to get dark -

But it’s always dark.

BJ sit and BJ wait in dark, endless dark, and BJ cry -

Cry -

Cry for cuts on hands and cuts on legs, cuts on face and cuts in hair -

For mud on trousers and mud on shoes, on jacket and on shirt -

For mess -

For fucking mess BJ in -

Not only BJ:

BJ cry for mum -

Cry for mum and all other people BJ either loved or fucked or both -

Or ones BJ simply just fucked over:

For Barry Gannon and Bill Shaw -

Even Eddie Dunford and Paula Garland -

But most of all BJ cry for Grace and Clare:

Here in some nice little person’s shed in a nice little garden in Preston at half-past ten in morning on a wet Friday -

Friday 21 November 1975 -

BJ crying and crying, over and over, finally crying -

Knuckles red and fingers blue, biting hands and cuffs of shirt, wishing BJ could stop -

Wishing it all would fucking stop -

Stop and rewind -

That dead be living, living never dead:

‘Clare!’

BJ take photograph out of pocket:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her cunt.

But it isn’t her, it really isn’t her, and BJ screw it up and hide it deep inside BJ’s jacket, and BJ close eyes to make it stop and go away -

But when BJ close eyes, BJ see her body again -

Her body on a stretcher, wind raising bloody sheet:

A light green three-quarter coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it, dark brown trousers, brown suede calf-length boots.

BJ open red eyes and BJ steal a glance through dirty wet window at nice little garden and nice little house with its nice little curtains and its nice little ornaments on nice little windowsill, even nice little flap for cat and nice little table for birds -

Birds with their wings, their little angel wings that raise them high -

BJ pull up BJ’s shirt and with dirty wet fingers, BJ search among shoulder blades and back bones, search for stumps -

Stumps of wings -

But BJ cannot find them.

BJ pull down dirty star shirt and BJ think about BJ’s mother and nice little house with nice little garden that never was; Clare and her kids and nice little house with nice little garden they never had and never will -

BJ wait in endless dark and BJ cry.

It is Friday 21 November 1975:

North of England -

Clare is dead.

It’s dark when BJ open shed door -

Always dark -

There are still no lights on in house so BJ walk down side and back out on to street.

BJ jog down to end of street and peer round corner:

All clear.

BJ weave through side streets and terraces, wishing it would stop raining for just one single fucking minute.

BJ come to playing fields where on far side behind houses there is a dual-carriageway.

BJ start to cross playing fields. BJ see them:

Fuck.

A line of coppers with sticks, searching playing fields for something -

A murder weapon.

Someone -

A missing child, me.

Torches and capes in rain, fanned out like a bloody army of night marching towards BJ -

But they can’t see BJ, not yet:

They are walking away from lights of road, into shadow -

BJ hit mud and ground, crouching and crawling across one pitch, rolling and tumbling on to another, slowly -

Slowly until they pass and they’re gone, behind, and BJ start to crawl again -

Crawl and crouch off towards dual-carriageway and road to fuck knows where -

Anywhere but here -

Glancing back at coppers with their sticks, their torches and their capes, thanking fucking Christ they hadn’t dogs out tonight -

BJ get to gardens, gardens of houses that stand between BJ and road.

BJ slink along looking for another one without its lights on, at least its curtains drawn.

BJ come to one, dark.

BJ scale wooden fence and drop down into their shrubbery and cross their neatly trimmed lawn and go along side of their house and into their front garden where BJ hide in their privets while BJ check coast is clear -

Like in a war film.

After a minute or so BJ step out into street and walk along pavement next to big and busy road, walk towards roundabout where BJ will hitch a way out of here -

Out of Nazi Germany.

And BJ is walking along, yellow lights coming, red lights leaving, practising German and thinking about trying to cross to other side where it’s just more playing fields and some woods, thinking at least there’d be somewhere to run if Krauts showed their sour Nazi faces -

Thinking of somewhere to run when a car stops -

A car stops and driver winds down his window -

Winds down his window and says -

He says: ‘Hello Barry, you’re all wet.’


Chapter 25

We turn into Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July -

Big houses with their hearts cut into flats, losing their paintwork and their lead;

We turn into Blenheim Road and I am filled again with hate -

Filled with hate at Mystic Mandy, the medium and the fraud -

Hate at wasted time with sideshow freaks from the Feasts and the Fairs;

Hate at Wally Heywood, Georgie Oldman, and Badger Billy -

Hate at who and what they are -

What they know and will not do;

But most of all this day -

Saturday 19 July 1969 -

I am filled with hate at me;

Hate at me for who and what I am -

What I know and will not do:

(Just a lullaby in the local tongue) -

Hate.

We park on Blenheim Road -

The big trees with hearts cut into bark, the big houses with hearts cut into flats;

We park and finally I say: ‘What the fucking hell is this, Bill?’

He stinks of his lunch and guilt. He slurs: ‘George reckons -’

‘Since when did you give two shits what George fucking Oldman reckoned -’

‘Maurice -’

‘We know who fucking did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘Took her.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Yes, we fucking do.’

‘Maurice, it isn’t pantomime season yet.’

‘Oh yes it fucking is.’

‘Fuck off, Maurice,’ he says and opens the car door -

(Local, local hates) -

I get out. I slam my door.

We walk up the drive of 28 Blenheim Road -

One big tree with hearts cut into bark, one big house with her heart cut into flats;

We walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water -

The bottoms of our trousers, our socks and our shoes, muddy in July.

George Oldman is already here, waiting under the porch with a black umbrella. He puts out his cigarette. He nods: ‘Gentlemen.’

‘George,’ says Bill.

I’ve got nothing to say.

‘Going up?’ asks Bill.

‘Best wait for Jack,’ says George.

I say: ‘Jack?’

‘Jack Whitehead,’ says George.

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Thought he was your mate,’ says Bill.

‘He is, but -’

‘Him that set this up,’ says George. He hands me today’s Post -

I read aloud: ‘Medium Contacts Police.’

I shake my head. I hand the paper back to George. I look at my watch:

It’s gone one -

Wasted, wasted time.

‘Talk of the Devil,’ says Bill -

Jack’s Jensen pulls into the drive. He parks at an angle and gets out. His face is grey and his eyes are red, another one pissed up. He sparks up. He waves his cigarette: ‘Hello, hello, hello. If it ain’t the boys in blue.’

‘Number 5, is it, Jack?’ asks George.

Jack nods. Jack stumbles -

(No local angels here) -

Jack drops his fag. Jack picks it up. Jack slaps me on the back.

We go inside 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

The big house with her heart cut into flats, losing her paintwork and her lead;

We go inside and walk up the stairs to Flat 5 -

The glass in the windows stained.

We walk up the stairs to Flat 5 on the first-floor landing -

The air cold and damp, the air stained.

Jacks knocks on the door: ‘Police, love. Open up in the name of the law.’

Bill looks at me. I look at the floor.

The door opens a crack, a chain on -

Between the wood of the door and the wood of the frame, the pale face of a beautiful woman, the metal chain across her mouth.

‘It’s Jack Whitehead, love. These are the police officers I was talking about.’

Between the wood, this pale and beautiful face nods.

The door closes briefly then opens again wider, the chain gone -

The woman is in her early thirties. She is wearing a white silk blouse and a dark wool skirt.

She is truly beautiful -

(Local beauty) -

She says: ‘Please, come in.’

We step inside Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road -

A flat cut out of its heart;

We follow the woman down a dim hall, the walls hung with dark paintings, and into a big room, the walls and chairs draped in Persian rugs -

The whole flat stinks of cat piss and petunia.

Jack does the introductions: ‘These two gentlemen are Detective Superintendents George Oldman and Bill Molloy, and this is Detective Inspector Maurice Jobson -

‘Gentlemen, this is Mrs Mandy Denizili, or -’

‘Mandy Wymer,’ she smiles, shaking our hands.

Mystic Mandy,’ nods Jack. ‘As she is known professionally.’

She looks at Jack. She sighs. She gestures at the sofa and the armchair. She says: ‘Please sit down.’

George takes the armchair, Jack a cushion on the floor, Bill and I the sofa -

A low and ornately carved table pressing into our knees and shins.

‘Tea?’ she asks.

‘That’d be grand,’ smiles George, Bill and I nodding.

‘Not for me, love,’ says Jack. ‘Never touch the stuff.’

‘Excuse me for just a minute,’ she says. She goes off through another door.

‘Denizili?’ Bill asks Jack.

‘Husband was Turkish.’

I look up from the unlit candles on the table: ‘Was?

‘Not about,’ says Jack.

Bill is laughing: ‘You think she knows owt about the two-thirty at York?’

‘I’m a medium, Mr Molloy, not a fortune-teller,’ says Mandy Wymer. She is stood in the doorway with a tray in her hands.

‘Sorry,’ says Bill, hands up in apology. ‘No offence.’

She brings in the tray of teacups and a teapot. She sets it down on the low table. She smiles at Bill: ‘None taken.’

It is a truly beautiful smile.

George sits forward in the armchair. He says: ‘Jack here tells us you have some information about this little girl who’s gone missing up Castleford way?’

She hands him his cup of tea. She nods: ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘We’re desperate,’ I add. ‘Must be.’

She looks at me. She smiles. She hands Bill and me our cups of tea. Then she kneels down on the other side of the low ornately carved table -

‘I am a medium, gentlemen,’ she says again. ‘And it is sometimes possible for me to hear, see, and feel things that other people perhaps cannot.’

We all nod -

Three coppers staring at the beautiful woman knelt before us, Jack struggling to keep his eyes open, Bill the grin off his chops.

‘It is also the case that on occasion the dead can speak through me.’

‘You think she’s dead then, Jeanette?’ asks George.

Mandy Wymer doesn’t answer him. She lights one of the fat white candles on the low table. She stands up. She goes over to the large windows. She draws the heavy crimson curtains -

The room dark but for the candlelight, she returns to the table.

Bill: ‘Mrs Denizili -’

She has her hand up in the shadows: ‘Please, Mr Molloy -’

‘But -’

I have my hand on Bill’s arm.

She lights a second fat white candle on the low table. Then another. And another. She says: ‘Now please take the hand of the person on your left and close your eyes.’

She takes George’s right hand. He takes Bill’s. Bill takes mine. I take Jack’s -

Jack waking with a start to hold hers.

The five of us lean forward in a circle around the table and the candles, the numbers on a clock -

(Local time) -

It is Saturday 19 July 1969.

Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big house with her heart cut into flats, losing her paintwork and her lead;

Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big room with hearts dark, losing our way and our head;

Walls hung with dim paintings and Persian rugs -

The smell of cat piss and petunia, Bill and Jack’s breath;

My eyes are open -

Her breasts rising and falling beneath her white silk blouse;

Beneath the shadows -

Low sobs, muffled sobs, she is weeping;

Her breasts rising and falling beneath -

Her shadows -

Looking into my eyes -

Rising and falling -

Beneath her shadows -

She is snarling, carnivore teeth:

‘This place is worst of all, underground;

The corpses and the rats -

The dragon and the owl -

Wolves be there too, a swan -

The swan dead.

Unending, this place unending;

Under the grass that grows -

Between the cracks and the stones -

The beautiful carpets -

Waiting for the others, underground.’

Silence -

Silence, the circle unbroken:

Holding George’s right hand. George Bill’s. Bill mine. I Jack’s -

Jack holding hers:

Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big house with her heart cut into flats, losing her paintwork and her lead;

Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big room with dark ways, hearts and heads lost;

My eyes are open -

Low sobs, muffled sobs, she is weeping;

Looking into my eyes -

Weeping;

Rising and falling -

Beneath her shadows:

‘It’s happened once before -’

Cavernous tears:

‘- and it’s happening now.’

Tears, then -

Silence -

The silence, but outside:

Outside behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the big tree are tapping upon the glass of the big windows, their leaves lost in July -

Wanting in;

Wanting her -

My eyes open and looking into hers;

I want to drop Bill’s hand, let go of Jack -

To reach out across the table -

Free her from the chains -

The prisons:

The certain death that I see here -

That terrible, horrible voice that gloats, that boasts:

‘I AM NO ANGEL -

‘I AM NO FUCKING ANGEL!’

Looking into my eyes -

Weeping;

Rising and falling -

Beneath her shadows:

In the Season of the Plague, the meat -

Two black crows eating from black bin-bags, ripping through her sweet meat -

Screams echoing into the dark, sliding back on her arse up the hall, arms and legs splayed, her skirt riding up; scared sobs from behind a door, the sound of furniture being moved, of chests and drawers and wardrobes being placed in front of the door -

A faint voice through the layers and layers of wood, a child whispering to a friend beneath the covers: ‘Tell them about the others…’

On my feet, across the table -

Teacups and teapot falling to the floor -

I shake her -

I scream: ‘What others?’

Her eyes open and looking into mine -

She says: ‘All the others under those beautiful carpets.’

‘What fucking others?’

Bill and George are on their feet now -

The candles out -

Pulling back the curtains, Jack spewing into his palm -

I am screaming -

I am summoning her back from the Underground, the court of the Dead:

A cold and dark December place when I open up the bedroom door to find her lying cold and still upon the floor -

Bill and George taking my arms -

Pulling me off;

Her pushing me off -

Pushing me away, whispering: ‘Please tell them where they are.’

‘What?’ I say -

Standing up in the light;

But in the light -

The dead daylight -

There are bruises on the backs of my hands -

(Local bruises) -

Bruises that won’t heal.


Загрузка...