Part 3. Dreams less sweet

‘The Christian Church has always condemned magick, but she has always believed in it. She did not excommunicate sorcerers as madmen who were mistaken, but as men who were really in communion with the Devil.’

– Voltaire


Chapter 26

Tapping against the pane -

Monday 30 May 1983 -

D-10:

She is lying on her side in a sleeveless black T-shirt with her back to you -

Branches tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back in your underpants and socks -

The branches tapping against the pane;

Lying on your back with the taste of fried rice and vodka in your mouth -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;

D-10:

Monday 30 May 1983 -

You are listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

It is raining again outside and they are arguing again upstairs.

You sit in the kitchen eating Findus Crispy Pancakes in silence, the radio on:

Sterling at new high on hopes of Tory landslide as Foot attempts to refute latest opinion polls; Mr Cecil Parkinson, the Conservative Party Chairman, dismisses suggestions that his party has been subjected to significant infiltration by far right members of the National Front and the League of St George; a report to be published today says shopping centres built in the 1960s and…’

You get up. You change stations. You find some music:

Spandau Ballet -

True.

She stands up. She switches off the radio.

You go over to the sink. You rinse cold water over the plates and the grill. You turn around, hands still wet. You say: ‘What was Jimmy doing in Morley?’

‘What?’

‘When they nicked him? Why was he in Morley?’

She shrugs. She says: ‘He was coming to see me.’

‘You?’

‘It’s where I live, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Do now.’

She goes out of the kitchen. You follow her into the front room. She is putting on her coat.

You are stood in the doorway. You say: ‘Dangerous place, Morley.’

She doesn’t say anything. She walks towards you. She says: ‘Excuse me.’

You say: ‘Do you know Hazel Atkins? Her family?’

She shakes her head. She tries to push past you.

You grab her arm: ‘What about Clare Kemplay? Did you know her?’

‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Jimmy did.’

‘Fuck off,’ she hisses. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Michael Myshkin told me.’

‘What does he know.’

‘He knew Jimmy; they were mates.’

‘Fuck off,’ she spits. ‘It was years ago and they were never mates; they were only bloody kids.’

Best mates, Michael said.’

‘It was years ago and Jimmy’s bloody dead because of that fucking Joey!’

And that’s it:

She’s gone -

Just like that.

You drive through Wakefield and out over the Calder, the car retching and then coughing, hacking its way up the Barnsley Road and out past the Redbeck -

Putting one and one together:

Michael Myshkin and Jimmy Ashworth -

Jimmy and Michael, Michael and Jimmy -

One and one to make:

‘… and 1970s are in urgent need of repair; senior detectives searching for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins will again travel to Rochdale having discounted the reported weekend sighting of Hazel at an Edinburgh fair…’

Sweating and then freezing, your clothes itching with hate, you’ve got shadows in your heart and a belly full of fear -

Putting two and two together:

Fear and hate, hate and fear -

Michael and Jimmy, Jimmy and Michael -

Fitzwilliam.

Another silent house on Newstead View, Fitzwilliam -

The fire and TV off -

Just the clock ticking and the whistle of another boiling kettle.

Mrs Ashworth comes back in with two mugs of tea.

She hands you yours: ‘Sugar?’

You nod.

‘How many?’

‘Three please.’

She passes you the bag: ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thank you.’

She sits down. She says: ‘I’m sorry about other day. I’m feeling more myself now, I suppose.’

‘That’s good,’ you say. ‘But it’s going to take a bit of time.’

She nods: ‘That’s what the doctor says. But everyone’s been very helpful, very kind.’

Just the clock ticking -

You say: ‘I saw Tessa.’

Mary Ashworth rolls her tired eyes. Mary Ashworth sighs.

You wait. You wait for her to say what she wants to say -

Wait for her to say: ‘She’s another one, you know?’

You shake your head.

She squeezes her hands together. She leans towards you. She whispers: ‘Another bloody lost cause; I tell you, if there was ever a saint for lame ducks, it was my Jimmy.’

‘That how he fell in with Michael Myshkin?’

She shakes her head: ‘She’s been through a lot, his mother, I know. But, and may God forgive me, I wish with all my heart they’d never moved here and then Jimmy would have never met him and Jimmy…’

‘When was that?’

‘That they moved here?’

You nod.

‘Must have been when Jimmy was about three or four and him, he’d have been ten or so. Not that you’d have known.’

‘They knew each other a while then?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t till Jimmy was ten or eleven himself that they started palling around.’

‘So Michael would have been a teenager? Sixteen or seventeen?’

‘Physically.’

‘Didn’t worry you then, them two being friendly?’

‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘He was harmless, leastways that’s what folk thought.’

You nod.

‘And,’ she continues. ‘Wasn’t like it was just them two. There were others.’

‘Others?’

‘Four or five of them.’

‘They still about?’

She sits back. She scratches her nose.

You push: ‘Remember who?’

‘Kevin Madeley, he would have been one of them. Little Leonard, but he was a bit younger and maybe they’d moved by then. It’s such a long time ago. The Hinchcliffes’ lad, Stuart maybe. There were others and all, you know how kids are?’

The clock ticking -

The bells ringing: ‘They still about?’

‘Kevin Madeley, he moved over Stanley way. I think the Hinchcliffe lad went down South. Birmingham somewhere.’

Distant bells: ‘Their parents? They still live local?’

‘The Madeleys do,’ she says. ‘Mrs Madeley, she worked with his mother.’

‘Mrs Myshkin?’

‘Aye,’ she nods.

‘Dinner lady?’

She nods. She finishes her tea. She keeps hold of her mug on her lap.

You pull your notebook from your pocket. You find your pen. You start to write down some of the names and dates.

She says: ‘What about your brother?’

You stop writing. You look up. You say: ‘What about him?’

‘Always lived round here, hasn’t he?’

You shrug.

‘Not close these days?’ she smiles. ‘You and your Pete?’

You shake your head: ‘Not really, no.’

‘He blame you, does he?’ she asks. ‘Business with your father, then your mother?’

‘Mrs Ashworth, I -’

‘Mr Ashworth does,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes with the ends of her apron. ‘Blames me, I know he does. See it written all over his face every time he looks at me.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ you lie again.

She sniffs. She tries to smile. She says: ‘He might know something, mightn’t he?’

‘Who?’

‘Your Pete.’

You shake your head. You think about your brother -

Men not here -

Your father -

Not here.

You say: ‘I want to talk to you about Clare Kemplay.’

She stares at you. She says: ‘Is this for my Jimmy or her down road?’

‘I need to ask you -’

‘Not again,’ she sighs.

‘It’s important -’

‘It’s so bloody long ago -’

‘But -’

‘What’s the point in -’

‘Please -’

‘Raking over -’

‘Mrs Ashworth, please I -’

‘Not going to bring him back -’

‘Look,’ you shout. ‘Clare Kemplay is the bloody reason they picked Jimmy up.’

She stops speaking. She closes her eyes. She clutches the mug tight in her hands. She opens her eyes. She looks at you. She says: ‘He had nothing to do with that and he had nothing to do with this.’

‘He knew Clare Kemplay.’

‘He didn’t know her. He’d seen her. That’s all.’

‘He said she was beautiful.’

‘Who did?’

‘Your Jimmy.’

‘No.’

‘To Michael.’

She shakes her head.

‘He knew her. He found her.’

‘The wrong place -’

‘What about Hazel Atkins?’

She shakes her head again.

‘He was in Morley one week later, the exact time she’d gone missing.’

‘The wrong time -’

‘But why?’

She closes her eyes again.

You tell her: ‘Tessa says he was there to meet her.’

She shakes her head. She opens her eyes. She says: ‘He didn’t…’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t do it,’ she says.

‘Didn’t do what?’

‘He didn’t kill Clare Kemplay. He didn’t take this Hazel Atkins. And he didn’t bloody kill himself.’

‘But -’ you stop.

She looks at you now. She says: ‘Go on, say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘What you want to say. What you really think.’

You shake your head.

‘I’ll say it for you then,’ she snorts. ‘You think he killed Clare Kemplay and he took this other girl and then he hung himself with guilt of it all. That’s what you think, isn’t it?’

‘I -’

‘No, I’ll tell you. They can have all the bloody inquests and all the internal police inquiries they like, but that boy never hung himself. Never. He had no reason. He’d done nothing.’

‘Mrs Ashworth -’

‘Not in a month of bloody Sundays would he do that to me. Never.’

Now you close your eyes. You wait. You open them. You say: ‘I’m sorry.’

She takes a deep breath. She nods.

You shake your head. You think of your father -

Men not here -

Your brother -

Not here.

She dries her eyes. She sits up. She says: ‘Not going to bring him back, is it? Carrying on like this. But what can you do?’

‘Depends what you want?’

She looks at you. She says: ‘The truth, John. That’s all.’

You look down at your notes. You close your eyes -

Not here.

You open your eyes. You look back up. You nod -

The clock ticking.

She puts her mug down on the chipped fireplace in front of her. She reaches into the front pocket of her apron. She takes out a piece of paper. She looks at it. She whispers: ‘It says he hung himself by his belt until he was dead. Suicide.’

You nod.

‘You’ve seen it then?’

You nod again.

Mrs Ashworth gets up. She walks over to the table. She picks up a single studded black leather belt. She turns to you. She holds out the belt. She says: ‘You’ve seen this, have you?’

You look away. You shake your head. You swallow. You ask: ‘Is that it?’

‘That’s Jimmy’s belt,’ she nods.

‘They let you have his stuff back then?’

She shakes her head -

The clock has stopped.

You look at the belt again. You look at her. You ask: ‘So how did you get it?’

She looks up at the ceiling. She says: ‘I went upstairs. I opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans.’

You look at her.

She is crying.

You swallow. You say: ‘But -’

She shakes her head.

You look at the belt. You say again: ‘But -’

She shakes her head again. She says: ‘He only had the one belt.’

You look at her. You say: ‘You’re certain?’

She nods, the tears everywhere.

At the door, Mary Ashworth takes your hand in hers.

You look down at the doorstep.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

You shake your head.

She squeezes your hand in hers: ‘Thank you.’

You nod.

She pats your hand twice. She squeezes it one last time. She lets it go.

You turn. You look down the street. You turn back to Mrs Ashworth -

She is looking at you. She is watching you.

You say: ‘Do you think Michael Myshkin killed Clare Kemplay?’

She stares at you. She swallows. She looks away.

You ask again: ‘Do you?’

She looks at you. She shakes her head. She shuts the door.

You walk down Newstead View -

Through the plastic bags and the dog shit.

You go up the path. You knock on number 54 -

There’s no answer.

You knock again.

‘She’s out.’

‘On her broomstick.’

You turn around -

There are a group of four young boys on enormous bicycles at the gate. They have small pointed faces and cold blue eyes. They are dressed in grey and burgundy. They are wearing boxing boots.

‘She’s gone to prison.’

‘Gone to see her son.’

‘He’s in loony bin.’

‘Michael Myshkin, that’s her son.’

You nod. You walk back down the path towards the boys.

They rock backwards and forwards on their bicycles. They lean over their handlebars. They spit.

‘He’s one that killed them little girls.’

‘Had it off with them.’

‘Stuck birds’ wings on them.’

‘Cut their hearts out and ate them.’

You push through the boys and their bicycles.

They don’t move.

‘My dad says they should have hung him.’

‘My mum says they will do, minute he gets out.’

‘My dad says they’ll kill her and all then.’

‘My mum says she’s an evil fucking witch, his mum.’

You spin round. You slap the nearest boy hard across his face.

He falls off his bicycle into a fence and a thin hedge.

He is cut. His small pointed face is bleeding. His cold blue eyes smarting.

The other three boys start to turn the bicycles around.

‘Fuck you do that for fatty?’

‘You fat bastard.’

‘I’m fucking getting my dad on you.’

‘My dad’s going to fucking kill you.’

You walk to the car. You unlock the door.

‘He’ll fucking murder you!’

You get in. You lock the doors.

They are banging on the car:

‘You’re fucking dead, you are, you fat fucking bastard.’

On the radio on the way into Leeds they are playing that record about ghosts again. You pull over just past the Redbeck. You switch off the radio. You take deep breaths. You dry your eyes.

‘I’d like to see the Duty Sergeant who was on the night James Ashworth killed himself.’

‘And you are?’

‘John Piggott, the solicitor.’

The policeman on the desk nods at the plastic chairs behind you. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’

You walk over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights that still blink on and off, on and off, the faded poster still warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

Still not Christmas.

The policeman on the front desk is making his calls.

You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables is gone, pine disinfectant in its place -

They have been cleaning.

‘Mr Piggott?’

You stand back up and go over to the front desk.

The policeman on the desk says: ‘I’m afraid the officer in question is on holiday at present.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘Could you give me his name then?’

The policeman shakes his head: ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Regulations?’

He nods.

‘Then maybe you can help me?’

The policeman stops nodding.

‘You see, I represent Mrs Mary Ashworth, whom I’m sure you know is the mother of the unfortunate James Ashworth who hung himself in one of your cells. At seven fifty-five on the evening of the twenty-fourth of May to be exact. You did hear about this, I take it?’

The policeman says: ‘How might I be able to help you, sir?’

‘Mrs Ashworth would very much like to have her Jimmy’s clothes back and any other stuff that he might have had on him when he was arrested. Not to mention his rather expensive motorbike. You know how sentimental some folks get.’

The policeman looks you up and down. He takes the end of his pen from out of his mouth. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’

You turn and walk back over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights again, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

Not Christmas.

The policeman on the desk making more calls.

You look down again at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of pine disinfectant strong.

‘Mr Piggott?’

You stand up and go back over.

‘I’m afraid everyone’s over in Rochdale today, so you’ll have to make an appointment for another day.’

‘When?’

He looks down at the big book on the desk in front of him. He starts to turn the pages. He stops. He looks up. He says: ‘Wednesday?’

You shrug your shoulders.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘What time?’

‘Ten o’clock.’

‘Thank you,’ you say.

You walk through the empty market to the Duck and Drake. You go inside. You order a pint. You go to the phone. You take out your little red book. You dial.

The phone on the other end starts ringing -

Ringing and ringing and ringing.

You look at your watch -

Six.

You hang up. You leave your pint on top of the phone. You walk back out into the empty market and the rain.

It’s a Bank Holiday -

Bank Holiday Monday -

Everywhere dead.

On the drive back to Wakefield you stay in the slow lane and keep the radio off.

You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You go inside. The old Pakistani with the white beard has a black eye and a bandage over his left ear. His young daughter is not here. He does not speak. You look at the bottles. You look at the cans. You look at the papers. You buy a Yorkshire Evening Post. You go back outside. You get in the car. You lock the doors. You open the paper. You read:


HAZEL POLICE CROSS PENNINES


Kathryn Williams, Chief Reporter

The detective leading the hunt for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins today denied reports that police were investigating links between the disappearance of Hazel and that of the Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard in 1972.

Susan Ridyard was ten years old when she went missing in March 1972. Her disappearance was at one time linked to the 1974 abduction and murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay for which Michael Myshkin was later convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment in 1975.

Although Myshkin initially confessed to taking Susan and also Jeanette Garland from Castleford in 1969, Myshkin subsequently denied any involvement and was never formally charged in connection with either disappearance. Michael Myshkin has recently begun an appeal against his conviction and life sentence for the Kemplay murder.

However, this lunchtime, Mr Maurice Jobson, the man leading the search for Hazel, described the continued presence of West Yorkshire detectives in Rochdale as ‘merely routine’ and denied any connection between the two disappearances, branding recent press reports as ‘ultimately harmful to police inquiries’.

James Ashworth, a Fitzwilliam man who had been helping police with their inquiries, was found hanged in his cell at Millgarth police station last week.

You put the paper on the passenger seat. You start the car. 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 take your key out. You stop -

The door ajar.

You look at it. You have your key in your hand. You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You push the door -

It swings open.

You stand there. You shit yourself. You say: ‘Hello?’

There’s no answer.

You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You say: ‘Hello?’

No answer.

You step forward. You go inside. You walk slowly down the hall. You say: ‘Hello?’

No-one.

You look in the bedroom. The bathroom. The living room. The kitchen -

You shit, shit, shit, shit, shit yourself:

The whole place has been ransacked -

Everything smashed. Everything broken -

Every single thing -

Every single thing except the bathroom mirror:

You put your fingers to the glass -

To the lipstick:


D-10 .


Chapter 27

Hate & War:

Banging on Joe’s door -

Man hasn’t left his room in a week -

Two sevens:


1977 -


Thursday 9 June 1977 -

Hope I get to heaven:

‘Open fucking door!’

‘Who is it?’

I’m not who I want to be:

‘It’s BJ. Open fucking door!’

Locks slide, keys turn/new locks, new keys -

I laugh at your locks:

Wide white eyes at crack -

Paranoid looks to left/paranoid looks to right -

Perilous times:

BJ push open door into this private little Chapeltown hellhole; only window boarded up with a shattered door, a battered mattress on floor covered in loose tobacco and Rizlas, broken bottles and pipes, whole room under heavy smoke and songs, every wall and every surface, whole fucking room painted with red, gold and green sevens -

‘You do it?’

‘No,’ BJ say. ‘Tonight.’

‘You got the keys?’

BJ jangle them in his stoned black face: ‘What these look like?’

‘Keys to my heart,’ he nods and rolls another one.

BJ ask him, BJ check: ‘You up for this?’

Still nodding, he smiles as he lights up: ‘Show me mine enemy.’

BJ take it when he passes it -

Take it because BJ need it and BJ lie back on mattress, staring at sevens on walls and sevens on door, sevens on ceiling and sevens on floor -

All them pretty little sevens, all dressed up in red, dressed up in gold and green:

Two sevens -

Joe stagger-dancing around hell, his voice of thunder chanting: ‘War in the East, war in the West; War in the North, war in the South; Crazy Joe get them out -’

Two sevens beginning to bob and beginning to weave, swaying and dancing around each other until:

They two sevens clash -

Two sevens clash and weak hearts rock -

Weak hearts drop.

It’s dark:

Ten o’clock -

Sitting in a stolen Austin Allegro on Bradford Road, Batley -

Sitting in a stolen car watching a flat above a newsagent’s.

BJ get out and go to phonebox and dial flat -

It just rings and rings and rings:

No answer.

BJ go back to car and tell Joe: ‘All clear.’

Joe nods and gets out and follows BJ across road and round back of shops and walk down alley to a red gate to yard behind newsagent’s.

‘Wait here,’ BJ tell Joe and open gate and go through yard to back door.

BJ unlock back door and take stairs on right.

BJ stand at top of stairs, ear to black glass of door:

Nothing.

BJ unlock white door at top of stairs and step inside -

No lights.

BJ go down passage to front of flat and look out window -

Just Allegro across road.

Phone starts ringing -

Fuck -

Ringing and ringing and ringing.

BJ let it and walk down passage to door on left.

Phone stops as BJ step inside bedroom.

BJ open wardrobe and move lights and camera bags to one side and strain in dark to find magazines piled up at back.

BJ find them:


SPUNK .


BJ go through stack until BJ find ones BJ looking for -

Ones they don’t want no-one to see:

Issue 3 – January 1975.

BJ turn pages in gloom until BJ come to page BJ want -

Page they don’t want no-one to see:

A bleached blonde with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, fingers up her cunt and arse -

Clare.

BJ take three copies and put lights and cameras back and close wardrobe and bedroom doors.

BJ walk down passage and phone starts ringing again, ringing and ringing and ringing, making BJ jump again, but BJ lock white door and go down stairs and lock back door, phone still ringing and ringing and ringing.

Joe is stood waiting by gate: ‘You get them?’

BJ nod and Joe nods back.

In another telephone box on Bradford Road, BJ dial number on slip of paper and let it ring and ring and ring until:

‘Hello.’

‘Jack Whitehead?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I’ve got some information concerning one of these Ripper murders.’

‘Go on.’

‘Not on phone.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not important, but I can meet Saturday night.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘On Saturday,’ BJ say and look across road at Joe sat in Allegro and big sign above him. ‘Variety Club.’

‘Batley?’

‘Yeah,’ BJ say. ‘Between ten and eleven.’

‘OK,’ Whitehead says. ‘But I need a name?’

‘No names.’

‘You want money, I suppose?’

‘No money.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘You just be there.’


Chapter 28

Tuesday 21 March 1972 -

I’m listening to the radio and this is what it’s saying:

The two policemen were standing next to a yellow saloon car in Donegall Street when a 100lb gelignite bomb hidden inside exploded, killing them and four civilians instantly and driving broken glass into the faces and legs of dozens of office workers as every window in the street caved in. Limbs were flung into an estate agent’s premises and on to the road while nearly 100 people, most of them young girls, lay in the street covered in the shattered glass and screaming with pain and shock…’

The telephone is ringing.

I switch off the radio. I pick up the receiver: ‘Jobson speaking.’

‘You on fucking strike and all?’ says the voice on the other end -

Badger Bill Molloy -

Chief Superintendent Bill Molloy.

I say: ‘Had a bit of a late one last night.’

‘I heard.’

‘Who’s been blabbing?’

‘Sod them,’ he snaps. ‘We’ll have other things to celebrate tonight.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like fifty fucking grand and a new business partner, that’s what.’

‘He agreed then?’

‘Not quite,’ he laughs. ‘But with a bit of friendly persuasion, he will.’

‘When and where?’

‘Ten o’clock tonight, back of Redbeck.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘You about today?’

‘Doubt it, got to go over bloody Rochdale with George.’

‘Rochdale? What the hell for?’

He pauses. He says: ‘You know George, be something and nothing.’

‘What -’

‘Forget it,’ he laughs. ‘See you tonight.’

I start to speak but the line’s already dead.

I switch the radio back on and it says:

… In his summing up, the Judge said he believed undoubtedly that the time these two detectives had spent trudging through the slime and the sludge of the underworld, dredging for the truth, had taken its toll and led these highly decorated officers to conspire and corruptly accept money…’

I switch it off again.

The wife comes in. She starts to dust. She says: ‘Who was that?’

‘Who was what?’

‘On the telephone?’

‘Bill.’

‘That’s nice,’ she smiles. ‘About work?’

I stand up. I say: ‘The wedding.’

She stops dusting. She says: ‘Thought it might have been about that little girl.’

‘What little girl?’

‘The one in Rochdale.’

‘What one in Rochdale?’

She nods, the Valium not quite biting: ‘Been missing since yesterday tea-time.’

Into Leeds, one hand on the steering wheel -

The other on the radio dial, searching:

… While local police remain optimistic about finding Susan safe and well, senior detectives from both Leeds City and the West Yorkshire Constabulary are expected in Rochdale later today, although police sources refused to confirm or comment on these reports…

Park off Westgate, up the steps and into Brotherton House -

Everyone talking Northern bloody Ireland.

Up the stairs to top floor and the Boss -

Julie looks up from her typing. She shakes her head.

‘Five minutes,’ I say. ‘That’s all I ask.’

She steps inside. She’s out again within a minute. She’s all smiles: ‘Come back in half an hour.’

I look at my watch. I say: ‘Eleven?’

She nods. She goes back to her typing.

Downstairs in my own office with a cold cup of tea and an unlit cig. I reach down to unlock the bottom drawer of my desk. I take out a file -

A thick file, bound with string and marked with one word.

I know what Bill’s going to say and I don’t give a shit -

Behind his back or not.

I light the cig. I cut the knot. I open the file -

The thick file, marked with one word -

One name -

Her name:

Jeanette.


*

‘Just go straight in,’ smiles Julie.

I knock once. I open the door. I step inside.

Walter Heywood, Chief Constable of the Leeds City Police, is sat behind his desk with his back to the window and the Law Courts. The desk is strewn with papers and files, cigarettes and cups, photographs and trophies.

‘Maurice,’ he smiles. ‘Sit yourself down.’

I sit down across from the Chief Constable -

The short, deaf, blind man for whom it took three cracks and a World War to get in; the short, deaf, blind man who hears and sees everything -

The short, deaf, blind man who asks me: ‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’

‘Susan Ridyard.’

Walter Heywood puts his hands together under his chin. He says: ‘Go on.’

‘Chief Superintendent Molloy has gone over to Rochdale and…’

‘You’d have liked to have gone with him?’

I nod.

‘Why’s that then?’

‘I did a lot of work on the Jeanette Garland case,’ I tell him.

‘I know that.’

‘A lot of my own work, on my own time.’

‘I know that too,’ he says.

I want to ask him how he knows. But I don’t. I wait.

He puts his hands down flat on his desk. He looks across at me. He says: ‘It was never our case in the first place, Maurice.’

‘I know that,’ I say. ‘But once we were asked, I…’

‘Let it get under your skin, eh?’

I nod again.

‘Now you think there could be some connection between this business in Rochdale and little Jeanette and you’re annoyed Bill’s over there with George Oldman while you’re stuck back here twiddling your thumbs talking to me?’

I shake my head. I open my mouth. I start to speak. I stop.

Walter Heywood smiles. He pushes himself up from behind his desk. He walks round the papers and the files, the cigarettes and the cups, the photographs and the trophies. He stands in front of me. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

I look up at him.

He looks down at me.

I say: ‘I’d just like to be involved, that’s all.’

He pats my shoulder. He says: ‘I know you would, Maurice. But it’s not for you, not this one.’

‘But -’

He grips my shoulder tight. He bends down into my ear. He says: ‘Listen to me, Maurice. You’ve made a name for yourself, you and Bill: the A1 Shootings, John Whitey; getting headlines, cracking cases. But you and I both know it were Bill that got them headlines, that cracked them cases. Not you. Stick with him, learn from him, and you’ll get your chance. But this isn’t it. Not yet. Listen to me and listen to Bill.’

I close my eyes. I nod. I open my eyes.

Walter Heywood walks back round to the other side of his desk. He sits back down. He puts his hands together under his chin again. He looks across at me. He says: ‘You’re in a good position, Maurice. Very good. Sit tight, wait, and let’s see what the future brings.’

I nod again.

‘Good man,’ says Walter Heywood, Chief Constable of the Leeds City Police, sat behind his desk with his back to the window and the Law Courts. ‘Good man.’

Back downstairs in my own office with a cold cup of tea and an unlit cig. I lock the door. I go to my desk. I unlock the bottom drawer. I take out the file -

The thick file, marked with one word.

I sit down. I light the cig. I open the file -

The thick file, marked with one word -

One name -

Her name:

Jeanette.

I take out a new notebook. I begin again -

Begin again to go through the carbons and the statements -

And then I stop -

Stop and pick up the phone -

Pick up the phone and dial -

Dial Netherton 3657 and listen to it ring -

Listen to it ring until it stops -

Until it stops and a woman’s voice says: ‘Netherton 3657, who’s speaking please?’

‘Is George there?’

‘He’s at work,’ she says. ‘Who is this?’

‘And where’s work these days? Rochdale way?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Jeanette.’

A black day in a black month in a black year in a black life with time to kill:

Black time -

Sat in the car in the dark with the radio on:

… Commander Kenneth Drury of the Flying Squad, the officer named in the investigation ordered by the Commissioner last week, has been suspended. The inquiry, which is being conducted by a deputy assistant chief constable of the Metropolitan Police, will look into allegations that the Flying Squad Chief spent a holiday in Cyprus with a strip-club owner and pornographer…

Sat in the car in the dark on Brunt Street, Castleford -

Tuesday 21 March 1972:

A black day in a black month in a black year in a black life -

Of black times.

Almost ten -

The Redbeck car park, the Doncaster Road.

I pull in and park, lights out.

There’s a fog coming down again, the one streetlight blinking on and off.

Across the car park a dark Ford van flashes its lights twice.

I get out of my car. I lock the door. I cross the car park, my breath white against the black night.

The driver is John Rudkin, a hard man just out of uniform and on his way up:

Bill’s Boy.

The man in the passenger seat next to him is Bob Craven, another cunt just out of uniform -

Another one of Bill’s Boys.

Rudkin nods through the windscreen. I bang on the side of the van.

The back door opens. I get inside.

‘Evening,’ says Bill.

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice are sat down the far end of the van, all in black like Bill -

Like me.

‘How was Rochdale?’ I ask him.

‘Sod that,’ he says and bangs the doors shut. ‘We got some real work to do.’

He nods down the van. Dick Alderman taps on the partition and off we set -

‘Some real money to make,’ Bill laughs.

Off we bloody go -

No turning back.

From the Redbeck car park back into Castleford -

Silence in the black of the back of the van -

Dim lights down black back roads -

Sat in the back of the black of the van -

Yorkshire, 1972:

You’ll wake up some morning as unhappy as you’ve ever been before.

The van slows down. It bumps over some rough ground. It stops.

Bill chucks me a black balaclava: ‘Put that on when you get inside.’

I put the balaclava in my coat pocket.

Dick Alderman and Bill already have theirs on.

Bill hands me a hammer: ‘Take that too.’

I put on my gloves. I pick up the hammer. I put it in my other pocket.

Rudkin comes round to the back. He opens the doors.

I jump out after Bill, Alderman and Prentice following.

We’re round the back of a row of shops somewhere in Castleford.

‘Maurice, you and Jim go round front to keep an eye out,’ says Bill.

We both nod.

Bill pulls down his balaclava. He turns to the others: ‘You lads set?’

Alderman, Rudkin, and Craven nod once.

We all follow Bill along the back of the shops. He stops by a metal gate in a high wall with broken glass set in the cement on the top.

‘This it?’ he says to Dick Alderman.

Alderman nods.

‘Right,’ says Bill to me and Jim. ‘You two look sharp.’

We both set off jogging to the end of the alley, both turning back at the corner to see what the others are doing -

Bill and Dick are hoisting Rudkin over the wall and the broken glass, Craven scanning the alley.

Jim and I walk round to the front of the shops on the high street. We walk along the pavement until we come to it:

Jenkins Photo Studio.

‘This it?’ I ask Prentice.

He nods.

We’re in the centre of Castleford and it’s dead but for the odd couple walking to and from the pub.

I turn and look at the window full of school portraits.

There’s a light on in the back. I hear something break, voices raised.

I turn back to Jim: ‘They’re in.’

He nods again, hands deep in his pockets.

There’s a tap on the door behind us. We look round and there’s Alderman at the glass, balaclava raised -

He opens the door: ‘Bill wants you to wait outside, Jim.’

Prentice nods.

I ask: ‘What about me?’

‘Come with me.’

I step inside the dark shop.

Alderman closes the door. He says: ‘Put your mask on and follow me.’

I take off my glasses. I take out the balaclava. I put my glasses in my pocket. I slip the balaclava on. I follow Alderman through into the back of the shop -

No turning back.

There’s a single light bulb and two men tied up and bleeding under it; five men in masks with hammers and wrenches stood over them.

One of the men is young and grossly overweight. He is gagged and bleeding from his nose. He is crying.

The other man is older; grey hair and a harsh face already swelling -

No gag.

Bill grabs the man’s face. He turns it to look up at me. He squeezes it. He says: ‘Just telling Mr Jenkins here how he’s got himself some new business partners.’

I hear Rudkin and Craven laugh beneath their masks.

I step closer to the man. I ask: ‘And what does Mr Jenkins think of that, I wonder?’

Bill dangles a bloody gag from the end of his glove. He chuckles: ‘Been a bit quiet about it actually.’

I say: ‘That’s not very polite, is it?’

‘Not very polite at all,’ says Bill.

‘Have to teach him some manners then, won’t we?’ I hiss.

Bill nods: ‘He’s going to need them if he wants to stay in fucking business.’

‘Roll up his trouser legs,’ I tell Craven.

Jenkins is squirming in the chair and his bindings: ‘Please…’

Craven bends down: ‘Both of them?’

I look at Bill.

Bill nods.

Jenkins is shaking his head: ‘Please…’

Craven rolls up Jenkins’ trouser legs.

Bill looks at me.

I take out the hammer.

Jenkins is squirming. Jenkins is shaking his head. Jenkins’ eyes are wide-open: ‘There’s no need…’

I lift the hammer above my head with both my hands. I say: ‘Oh, but you see there’s always a need…’

I bring the hammer down into the top of his right knee -

‘Always a need for manners, Mr Jenkins.’

Jenkins screams.

The young man howls.

Bill turns to Alderman: ‘Upstairs.’

Dick Alderman takes Craven. They head up the stairs to the right of us.

Bill turns to Rudkin. He nods at the fat lad: ‘Find out who this fucking lump of shite is.’

Rudkin goes into the man’s pockets -

Nowt but handkerchiefs and toffee papers.

‘Try them coats,’ I say.

Rudkin goes over to the back of the door. He fishes two wallets out of the coats hanging there.

He opens one. He nods at Jenkins: ‘His.’

Bill: ‘Other one?’

Rudkin takes out a driving licence: ‘Michael John Myshkin, 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.’

Bill asks Jenkins: ‘He work for you, this bastard, does he?’

Jenkins nods. He is white with the shock and the pain.

Craven comes back down the stairs. He tips out boxes of photographs and magazines across the floor. He says: ‘Look at all this.’

‘Well, well, well,’ chuckles Bill. ‘What kind of filth have we here?’

Skin and hair, all of them hardcore -

‘Quite the European businessman,’ says Alderman with another parcel.

Some of them young -

‘Been a bit modest about his talents and his contacts,’ laughs Craven.

Very young:

I stare down at the photograph between my feet, at the blonde hair and the blue eyes, the little white smile against the sky-blue backdrop -

I lift the hammer above my head and with both my hands I bring the hammer down into Jenkins’ left knee -

Jenkins shrieks, the young man howls -

Back up for a second time -

But Bill has me by my wrists. He shouts through the masks: ‘Fuck you think you’re doing?’

I look down from the single light bulb at the two men tied up and bleeding under it; the five men in masks with hammers and wrenches stood over them -

Bill shouting: ‘You’ll fucking kill him!’

One of the men is young and grossly overweight. He is gagged and bleeding from his nose. He is crying. He has pissed himself.

The other man is older; grey hair and a harsh swollen face. Both his knees are black and bloody. He is unconscious.

I drop the hammer.

‘Get him out of here,’ Bill is shouting at Dick Alderman -

Alderman leads me out the back way and into the alley. I take off my balaclava. I put my glasses back on. I look up at the moon -

War songs, bad news, and the moon:

Jeanette Garland missing two years and eight months -

Susan Ridyard one day eight hours:

There’s a house with no door and no windows and this where I live -

Blood on my hands -

No turning back.


Chapter 29

You drive; drive all night; drive in circles;

Disintegrating -

Disappearing -

Decreasing -

Declining -

Decaying -

Dying -

Dead -

Circles; circles of hell; local hells.

You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library in the grey dawn of the last day of May 1983 -

The car doors are locked and you are staring into the rearview mirror with the radio on:

‘Latest opinion polls suggest a Conservative landslide as the Tories open up an eighteen point gap on Labour; Healey accuses Mrs Thatcher of glorying in slaughter over the Falklands; a father is to sue Norman Tebbit over his son’s death on a youth opportunities scheme; a fourteen-year-old boy, charged with sending a letter bomb to Mrs Thatcher, was sent for trial to the Central Criminal Court…’

No Hazel.

You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library at half-past eight on the last day of May 1983 -

The radio is off now but you are still staring into the rearview mirror -

The car doors still locked -

Still no Hazel -

Not today:

Tuesday 31 May 1983 -


D-9 .


Up the stairs to the first floor of the library, the microfilms and the old newspapers, pulling just the one box down from the shelves:

March 1972.

Threading through the film, winding the spools, searching -


STOP -


Tuesday 21 March 1972:

Rochdale Girl Missing – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

The parents of missing ten-year-old Susan Louise Ridyard made an emotional plea late last night for information that might lead police to their daughter’s whereabouts. Susan was last seen at four p.m. yesterday afternoon as she made her way home from school with friends.


STOP -


Wednesday 22 March 1972:

Oldman Joins Susan Search – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman of the West Yorkshire Constabulary crossed the Pennines today to help his Lancashire colleagues in their search for missing Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard.


STOP -


Friday 24 March 1972:

Medium Links Susan and Jeanette – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

Police last night refused to comment or speculate on reports that local medium and TV personality Mandy Wymer had found a connection between the missing Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland, known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home, who was eight years old when she disappeared -


STOP.


Jack, Jack, Jack -

Always back to Jack:

You turn off the main road and drive through the stone gates and up the long drive, the trees black with wet leaves and crows, the mental hospital nesting at the end of the road -

Waiting for you:

Stanley Royd Psychiatric Hospital, Wakefield.

You park in front of the old, main building and walk across the sharp, pointed gravel to the front door. The faces of mental people in their dressing gowns and cardigans are crowded at the windows. On the lawn a woman with bare feet and bloody knees is barking, her leg raised against a tree.

You open the door and go inside, thinking of your mother, thinking:

This is what she did not want.

You ring the bell on the desk, thinking of what she got:

Graffiti sprayed on her walls, a swastika and noose hung above her door, the shit through her letterbox and the brick through her window, anonymous calls and dirty calls, the heavy breathing and the dial tone, the taunts of children and the curses of their parents, all because -

‘Can I help you?’ the nurse in the white uniform says again.

‘I certainly hope so,’ you smile. ‘My name is John Piggott and I’m a solicitor. I was hoping to be able to see a patient of yours, a Jack Whitehead?’

The nurse shakes her head: ‘I’m afraid Mr Whitehead is no longer with us.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, I -’

‘Let me just double-check for you,’ she says and walks over to a large metal filing cabinet.

Fuck.

You turn away. You look down the corridor.

A man is stood at the end of the corridor in the shape of a cross, his pyjama-bottoms around his ankles.

You hate hospitals -

Hate the institutional smell of boiling cabbages and rags, the institutional walls of heavy green and magnolia cream, the institutional floors covered with stained carpet and linoleum -

Hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one alive.

The nurse comes back with a file. She is nodding to herself. She says: ‘Yes, Mr Whitehead left us on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’

‘Doesn’t say what he died of, does it?’

‘No, no, no,’ she smiles. ‘His son came and took him home.’

‘His son?’

She nods again. She taps the file: ‘What it says here.’

You strain to read the upside-down writing: ‘Is there an address?’

She pulls the file back: ‘I’m not sure I should -’

‘It’s good news,’ you smile. ‘Stands to inherit a small fortune.’

‘Well then,’ she laughs. ‘Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds.’

‘Thank you very much,’ you wink.

‘Be sure to tell him how you found him,’ she giggles.

You wink again. You open the doors. You walk back down the steps and across the sharp, pointed gravel.

The woman on the lawn is chasing her tail.

You hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one -

Nobody but Jack.

Tuesday 31 May 1983 -

The first spits of another rain.

Crawling along the M62 towards Rochdale, the fields black and brown, the sky black and grey:

‘She wraps herself in the Union Jack and exploits the sacrifices of our soldiers, sailors and airmen in the Falkland Islands for purely party advantage – and hopes to get away with it.’

You switch off the radio. You glance in the mirrors. You pull over on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a smashed-up phonebox -

You pray that it works.


D-9 .


Fifteen minutes later you are reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a silent part of Rochdale.

It is pissing down now, the houses across the road with their lights already on.

Mr Ridyard is standing in the doorway.

You get out of the car. You say: ‘Afternoon.’

‘Nice weather for ducks,’ he says.

You nod. You shake his hand. You follow him into a small hall and through into their front room.

‘The wife’s having her lie-down,’ he whispers. ‘Afraid you’ll have to make do with just me.’

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘It’s very good of you to see me.’

‘Sit down,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘I’ll make us a quick brew.’

You stand back up when he leaves the room. You walk over to have a closer look at the two framed photographs on top of the television -

One is of three children dressed in their school uniforms; the other of just the youngest child sat on her own:

Susan Louise Ridyard.

Mr Ridyard comes back in with the tea: ‘Here we are.’

You put the photograph back down in its place. You go back over to the sofa.

Mr Ridyard sits down in the chair opposite you: ‘Sugar, Mr Piggott?’

‘Three please.’

He hands you your tea: ‘There you go.’

You take a sip. You watch him pick up his cup -

He looks at it. He doesn’t drink.

You watch him put it back down -

He looks up at you. He tries to smile. He says: ‘We drink too much.’

You say again: ‘I really do appreciate you seeing me. I realise it must be very upsetting for you.’

Mr Ridyard nods. He whispers: ‘What is it I can do for you, Mr Piggott?’

‘As I said on phone, I’m a solicitor and I have two clients who seem to have an interest or a link, should I say, with your daughter.’

‘With Susan?’

You nod.

‘Who are your clients?’

‘One is a lady called Mrs Ashworth. Her son, James, was arrested by the police in connection with this recent disappearance of a little girl in Morley. Hazel Atkins?’

Mr Ridyard nods.

‘Well, as you may already know from the news, James Ashworth hung himself while he was in police custody.’

‘Hung himself?’

‘Supposedly.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘Were you his solicitor as well?’

‘Supposedly,’ you say again. ‘But he died before I actually had a chance to speak with him.’

‘But what has he to do with Susan?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure he has anything at all to do with Susan,’ you stammer. ‘That’s half of why I’m here.’

‘And the other half?’

You glance back over at the photograph on top of the television. You say quietly: ‘Michael Myshkin.’

Mr Ridyard swallows. He scratches his neck. He says: ‘What about him?’

‘I’m representing Michael Myshkin in his appeal against his conviction,’ you say and then pause -

Waiting to see if Mr Ridyard is going to say anything -

‘I see,’ is all he says, with a slight glance at the ceiling.

‘Michael Myshkin was never actually formally charged in connection with your daughter’s disappearance, was he?’

Mr Ridyard shakes his head: ‘But he did confess to the police.’

‘And then retract it?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And then he retracted it.’

‘And the police never sought to press charges, did they?’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head again. ‘But they did close the inquiry.’

‘So they obviously thought he did it?’

He nods.

‘They sat you down and told you that?’

He nods again.

‘When did they tell you?’

‘1975,’ he says. ‘When they closed the inquiry.’

‘And you?’ you ask him. ‘Do you think Michael Myshkin had something to do with the disappearance of your daughter?’

‘I did,’ he says.

‘You did?’ you say. ‘You don’t now?’

‘Tell him, Derek,’ says a voice from the door -

You turn in your seat:

Mrs Ridyard is stood in the doorway, drained in a scorched dressing-gown.

You stand up: ‘I’m John Piggott, I -’

‘I know who you are,’ she says.

‘We were just -’ her husband starts to say -

‘Tell him!’

Mr Ridyard looks up at you in his green cardigan and his brown trousers and for the briefest of moments, the very briefest of moments, you think he is going to tell you he killed his own daughter -

But he stands up and he says: ‘Sit down, Mr Piggott.’

You sit back down, trying not to stare at the woman stood in the doorway in her scorched dressing-gown, her husband on his feet -

Mr Ridyard asking her: ‘Are you sure you want me to; the police said we -’

‘Fuck them,’ spits Mrs Ridyard, sliding down the doorframe, holding her scorched dressing-gown tight around her, the un-light catching in the scratches and sores on her neck and her legs, on the backs of her hands.

‘Three weeks ago,’ says Mr Ridyard, alone on his feet in the middle of the room. ‘Three weeks ago when I went to get the milk in, there was a box on the doorstep.’

‘A box?’

‘A shoebox.’

‘A shoebox?’

Mr Ridyard nods, the house silent -

The house silent but for the rain against the window and the ticking of a small clock on top of the TV, on top of the TV between the two photographs -

The one of the three children in their school uniforms; the other of only the youngest child -

Mr Ridyard crying as he sits back down then stands up again, Mrs Ridyard rocking back and forth on the floor in the doorway, you staring back across the room at that photograph -

The youngest child.

You close your eyes. You put your hands over your ears -

But the noise will not stop -

The sound of their weeping, the rain against the window, the ticking of the clock.

You open your eyes -

Mr Ridyard is alone on his feet in the middle of the room -

In the middle of the room in the shape of a cross.

You shout: ‘What was in the shoebox?’

‘Susan,’ he sobs.


Chapter 30

‘Please give a big Yorkshire Clubland welcome to the New Zombies!’

Saturday 11 June 1977 -

Batley Variety Club:

She’s not there -

But he is and he doesn’t remember BJ, but BJ remember him and he has aged; aged in terror, terror of witnessing execution of his ex-wife on lawn of her new house by hand of her new husband, naked under a new and bloody moon but for a hammer and a twelve-inch nail.

‘Spot of late-night reading,’ BJ say and pass Jack bag under table.

Whitehead takes it and daft cunt starts to open it -

‘Not here,’ BJ say. ‘Bogs.’

Jack gets up and walks through empty tables at back towards gents, looking over his shoulder to check BJ still here -

‘Give you hand if you want,’ BJ shout but Jack scuttles off into toilets.

BJ finish drink as band give up on song. BJ take off every ring and put them all back on again. BJ light another cig and wonder what fuck’s taking old cunt so long. Maybe he has whipped it out for a quick one. BJ smiling until BJ see them:

Fuck, fuck, fuck -

Pigs -

Fucking pigs.

BJ slide out of seat and crawl off towards stage down front. BJ keep low against lights and only in shadows. BJ get to edge of stage. BJ duck under a curtain at side. BJ start running through cables and wires. BJ following red light that shines:

Exit -

BJ push down bar and through door, letting it slam shut. BJ outside in car park at back, rain still falling -

Rain a fall -

But Allegro’s round front and BJ be so fucking stupid BJ deserve all shit that’s coming down -

Fuck, fuck -

Can’t go back/can’t go forward; can’t go left/can’t go right; can’t go up/only down -

Fuck -

Crouched against fire door, heavy rain coming down/heavy shit with it, when out of shadows/darkness he steps -

A Black Angel -

And he says: ‘You’re all wet.’

My Black Angel -

BJ look up. BJ say: ‘Fuck do you want?’

The Father of Fear -

He raises brow of his black hat and stares up into black night and black rain. He watch black things fall from out of black skies. He smiles his black smile and says: ‘You’re going to catch your death, Barry.’

‘You got your car?’

‘Best hurry though,’ he nods. ‘Police will soon tire of Our Jack.’

BJ follow him over to his old dark car parked nearby, a Morris something -

BJ looking left and right, left and then right.

He unlocks doors and in BJ get, BJ sliding over and on to backseat -

Car damp and cold, a black briefcase beside BJ.

‘Keep your head down,’ he says, starting car.

BJ do as he says and off he sets but then car slows at front of club -

Fuck -

Man in hat leans across passenger seat. He winds down window: ‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’

‘Stolen car,’ says policeman. ‘You haven’t seen a youngish skinhead type, have you, sir?’

‘Fortunately, no.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ says Pig.

‘Goodnight, officer,’ he says and winds his window back up.

Then car turns left and heads into Dewsbury.

BJ sit up in backseat -

His eyes on BJ in mirror.

BJ say: ‘Where we going?’

‘Church.’

It is 1977.

He found me hiding -

In Church of Abandoned Christ on seventh floor of Griffin Hotel in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, BJ lost in room 77; hair already shaved and 8 eyes shined, BJ be Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt; Father of Fear is weeping, whispering from among wine his death songs:

Knew I was not happy -

‘And after this Joseph of Arimathжa, being a disciple of Jesus, but secretly for fear of thee Jews, besought Pilate that he might take away thee body of Jesus; and Pilate marveled if he were already dead and calling unto him thee centurion, he asked him whether he had been any while dead. And when he knew it of thee centurion, Pilate gave Joseph leave. He came therefore and took thee body of Jesus.’

Scratching my head -

‘And there came also Nicodemus, which at thee first came to Jesus by night and brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundred pound in weight. Then they took thee body of Jesus and wound it in linen clothes with thee spices, as thee manner of thee Jews is to bury their dead.’

Confused beyond existence -

‘Now in thee place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in thee garden a new sepulchre, wherein was never man yet laid, but when they laid him out upon thee rock, they saw his wounds were bloody and bleeding beneath thee white linen, they saw he was not dead -’

Sat in the corner, shivering from fright -

‘Only bleeding -’

Feeling strung up -

‘And as they were afraid and bowed their faces to thee earth, he said to them: Why seek ye thee living among thee Dead?’

Out of my clothes and into the bed -

‘E am here; E suffered and am now risen from thee Dead and ye are witnesses of these things. But know ye who did this thing, for only one person could do this, thee one who did not forsake me, for whom death is not thee end.’

The movements in his bed -

‘And they traveled out of thee Holy Lands and through Asia Minor and across thee mountains of Europe until they arrived at thee port in France and there thee White Ship was waiting to take them to thee Land of Angels and there was a mood of celebration amongst thee party for they were in sight of their goal and eager to reach this Pagan Place they set out to sea only after night had already fallen.’

So sorry sad and so, so confused -

‘But he was a jealous God and he was angry and thee White Ship hit a rock in thee gloom of thee night and thee port-side cracked wide-open to reveal a gaping hole whereupon Joseph quickly rushed thee Wounded Christ on deck and bundled Him into a smaller dinghy. They were away to safety as thee remaining crew struggled to wrest thee vessel off thee rocks. However, Christ could hear His wife calling to Him, begging Him not to leave her to thee sea and He ordered Joseph to turn around, but thee situation was hopeless.’

Between life and death -

‘As Christ drew nearer once more, thee White Ship began to descend beneath thee waves. Everyone was in thee water and they fought desperately for thee safety of thee dinghy. Thee turmoil and thee weight were too much. Christ’s boat was capsized and sunk without trace.’

Lost in room -

‘And it is said that thee only person to survive thee wreck to tell thee tale was Mary Magdalene, thee wife of Christ, but that she never spoke or smiled again but waited alone and lost in room for thee White Ship to rise again from beneath thee waves and bear thee linen body of thee Wounded, Abandoned Christ to these pagan shores, thee shores of this, thee Land of Angels.’

They found me hiding -

In Church of Abandoned Christ on seventh floor of Griffin Hotel in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost; drunk and all covered in sleep upon a double bed, BJ lost in room 77; hair already shaved and 8 eyes shined, BJ be Northern Son. Black Angel is beside BJ upon bed; his shabby clothes and burnt wings; Father of Fear, he weeps and whispers from among wine:

‘You must choose a side to be on.’

In the shadow -

BJ take off every ring -

In the shadow of the Horns -

Head bobbed.


Chapter 31

The telephone is ringing and ringing and ringing and I’m wondering where the fuck the wife is and why she won’t bloody answer the telephone ringing and ringing and ringing wondering where the fuck the wife is and why she won’t bloody answer the telephone ringing and ringing and ringing the fuck is the wife and why won’t she answer the fucking telephone is ringing and ringing and ringing -

‘I need to see you.’

‘I told you not to ring me here.’

‘So where am I supposed to call you? At work?’

‘I made a mistake, I -’

‘Please, I need to -’

I hang up. I go to the bathroom. I wash my hands -

Wash them and wash them and wash them -

Thanking Christ the wife is out, the kids at school.

Thursday 23 March 1972 -

Brotherton House, Westgate, Leeds:

Downstairs in my office, the door locked -

Cigs out and a pile of newspapers:

Front pages full of the Belfast Station bomb and the Heath-Faulkner talks -

Inside pages the biggest ever Littlewoods Pools win, Jimmy fucking Savile with his bloody OBE -

Then there she is -

Susan Search Widens – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

That same photograph for the past two days:

A long fringe and big teeth.

72 hours coming up -

Missing.

I light another cigarette. I pick up the phone: ‘News desk, please.’

I wait. I say: ‘Jack Whitehead, please.’

I wait. I hear: ‘Jack Whitehead speaking?’

‘Jack?’ I say. ‘Maurice Jobson.’

‘Maurice? And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Got something good for your Uncle Jack, have you?’

‘I was hoping you might have something for me.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

I look at my watch. I ask him: ‘What you doing for lunch?’

‘What I usually do for lunch.’

‘Press Club?’

‘I’m banned.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since I can’t fucking remember. That’s the problem.’

‘Where they taking your money these days then?’

‘Taking my money? I’m not fucking paying to drink with you.’

‘There’s no such thing as a free pint, Jack. You should know that.’

I hear him light a cigarette. Exhale. He says: ‘Duck and Drake?’

‘Duck and fucking Drake? Jesus, Jack.’

‘You ought to drink in there more often, Maurice,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t need to keep crawling back to me then, would you.’

‘Twelve?’

‘Don’t be late.’

On my way out, I stop and ask Wilson on the front desk if he’s seen Bill today -

‘Off, isn’t he?’ says Wilson.

‘Yeah? Must be a first.’

‘The wedding on Saturday, isn’t it?’

‘Fuck, yeah.’

‘Don’t tell me you’d forgotten, not way he’s been going on.’

‘You’re off then?’

Wilson smiles: ‘Must have invited whole bloody force and then some.’

‘That’s the Badger,’ I agree, walking off.

‘Going to miss him when he’s gone.’

I stop. I turn back: ‘You what?’

Sergeant Wilson and his boils are a deep and crimson red: ‘Just a rumour.’

‘Is that right,’ I say. ‘Is that right?’

Duck and Drake, back of the bus station, down the side of the Kirkgate market:

Not a nice pub; even when it’s pissing it down on a black Thursday in March.

I’m five minutes late -

Jack’s on his second pint and whiskey.

I take off my coat. I say: ‘Same again?’

‘You’re a gentleman,’ he nods.

I go over to the bar.

The big bloke behind the bar looks over at Jack then back at me: ‘You feller he says is going to pay for his drinks?’

I nod: ‘Same again for him and a Guinness for me.’

‘That’s a fucking Mick drink,’ says a long-haired cunt -

A long-haired cunt with his back to me at the bar -

His mate grinning over the cunt’s shoulder at me.

‘You what?’ I say to the back of the cunt’s head.

‘You heard,’ says the cunt -

The cunt still with his back to me, nodding to his mate -

But his mate’s not grinning now.

The long-haired cunt slowly turns around. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth, the hair out of his eyes.

The barman puts the Guinness on the counter.

‘Drink it,’ I tell the long-haired cunt.

‘What?’

‘You heard,’ I say. ‘Drink it.’

‘Fuck off,’ the cunt says, straightening up.

I take my warrant card out of my inside pocket. I put it down next to the pint of Guinness.

The long-haired cunt stands there blinking at the card on the bar next to the pint.

‘Drink it,’ I hiss.

The cunt glances at his mate and at the barman. He picks up the Guinness and drinks it down in one. He puts the glass back on the bar next to the card. He wipes his lips on his sleeve. He says with a smile: ‘Ta very much, officer.’

‘Now pay for it,’ I say. ‘And don’t ever call anyone a Mick who isn’t, you dirty little gyppo cunt.’

The dirty little gyppo cunt looks at his mate and the barman again. He shrugs his shoulders. He takes out a pound note from his jeans. He hands it across the counter to the barman.

‘And these,’ I say, nodding at the whiskey and Tetleys on the counter -

The barman already pulling me a fresh Guinness.

‘What?’

‘You heard,’ I say.

‘You can’t fucking do that,’ says the cunt.

I pick up my warrant card and the tray of drinks. I say: ‘I just did.’

‘Fucking hell…’ the cunt starts to say before his mate touches his arm -

‘Leave it, Donny,’ says the cunt’s friend. ‘Not worth it.’

‘Wise man,’ I say.

‘Fuck off.’

I walk across the room to where Jack’s sat waiting -

‘Making friends with the locals,’ he winks.

I put the drinks down: ‘How’s the wife, Jack?’

‘Ex-wife,’ he smiles. ‘Remarried and living with a builder’s mate in sunny Ossett. And yours?’

‘My what?’

‘Wife? Family?’

‘Who the fuck knows.’

Jack raises his glass: ‘Ain’t that the truth, Maurice.’

‘Now there’s a funny thing,’ I nod, raising my glass. ‘The truth?’

‘What about it?’ laughs Jack.

‘Well I was rather hoping you could give me some?’

‘Give you some what? Some truth? Shouldn’t it be other way round, officer?’

‘In a perfect world,’ I smile.

Jack offers me a cig.

I lean across. I take it with a light -

‘Fucking pig bastard!’ comes a shout from the door -

‘Wanker!’ yells another -

I turn around to raise my glass but the cunt and his mate are already gone.

‘Perfect world, eh?’ says Jack.

I shake my head: ‘What’d one of them look like, I wonder?’

Jack stubs out his cig: ‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’

I sit forward. I say: ‘Susan Louise Ridyard.’

‘What about her?’ shrugs Jack.

‘Been reading your pieces.’

‘Rehashes from the Manchester Evening News, mate.’

‘You not been over there?’

‘Rochdale? Nah, why?’

‘George Oldman has.’

‘And your boss,’ nods Jack.

‘You don’t think this has all got a bit of a familiar ring to it then?’

Jack sits back in his chair. He shakes his head. He takes out another cigarette. He says: ‘Not you and all?’

‘What? Someone else talked to you about this?’

‘Yeah,’ he nods.

‘Who?’

‘Your girlfriend.’

‘What you mean, my girlfriend?’

Mystic Mandy.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Come on, Maurice,’ he winks again. ‘Everyone fucking knows.’

‘Fucking knows what?’

‘That you’ve been having your fucking cards read a fair bit, what you think people fucking know?’

I sit there staring into my half-drunk Guinness, the sound of lorries and buses outside in the rain.

Jack stands up. He says: ‘I’ll get these.’

‘Miracles’ll never cease,’ I say. I take out my own cigs and light one, the sound of the slot machine and the jukebox in rhythm.

Jack comes back with two pints and two shorts: ‘Put a whiskey in your Guinness, that’ll put a smile on your face.’

I say: ‘Wasn’t owt serious or anything.’

‘Don’t fucking worry about it,’ grins Jack. ‘Nice looking bloody woman.’

‘She called you?’

‘This morning.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘What she say to you?’

‘Same as she told you probably.’

‘She didn’t tell me anything.’

‘Well, told me she was sensing some connection between Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland,’ laughs Jack. ‘You know how she talks?’

I nod, tipping the whiskey into the top of the Guinness.

‘I asked her what kind of connection,’ he says. ‘Then she tells me that she’s been having all these dreams but by this point, to be honest with you, I’d switched off.’

‘You tell her you were going to write anything?’

Jack shakes his head: ‘Said I might pop over this afternoon, if I had time.’

‘And have you?’

‘What?’

‘The time?’

‘No,’ says Jack.

I pick up my pint. I drink it down in one.

‘And you?’ winks Jack.

From Millgarth and Leeds into Wakefield and St John’s -

Big trees with hearts cut;

On to Blenheim Road -

Big houses with their hearts cut;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

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

I park in the drive, a bad taste in my mouth.

I put a finger to my lips. It comes away all bloody, smeared. I touch my handkerchief to my lips. There are brown stains when I look, smudged.

I get out. I walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water.

It’s still raining, the branches scratching the grey sky.

I open the downstairs door. I walk up the stairs. I knock on the door of Flat 5.

‘Who is it?’

‘Police, love,’ I say -

The door flies open, no chain, and there she is, stood in the doorway -

That pale face between the wood, that beautiful face -

Truly beautiful.

‘Hello Mandy,’ I say.

‘I knew you’d come,’ she smiles.

‘I thought you weren’t a fortune teller?’

‘I’m not,’ she laughs.

She takes my hand. She leads me down the dim hall hung with dark oils into the big room -

The smell of cat piss and petunia.

We sit side by side on her sofa, on Persian rugs and cushions -

The low ornately carved table at our shins.

She is still holding my hand, our bodies touching at our elbows and our knees.

‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I say.

She tightens her hand round mine. ‘No, I shouldn’t call you there.’

‘No-one else was home, it doesn’t -’

‘But you’ve felt it too, haven’t you?’

‘I -’

‘You have to go and see her, you must.’

‘Who? See who?’

‘Mrs Ridyard.’

‘Why? I -’

‘She knows, Maurice. She knows.’

‘Knows what?’

‘Where her daughter is.’

‘How? How could she?’

‘She sees her.’

‘Then maybe she’s already told George Oldman, or -’

‘No, Maurice. She’s waiting for you.’

I pull her head on to my chest. I stroke her hair. I say: ‘I can’t do this.’

Mandy raises her head and her lips. Mandy kisses my cheek and my ear -

‘You must,’ she whispers. ‘You have to.’

The fat white candles lit and the heavy crimson curtains drawn, there are no windows in the big room -

Dark ways, hearts lost;

Beneath her shadows -

She is sobbing, weeping;

The smell of cat piss and petunia, of desperate fucking on an old sofa strewn with Persian rugs and cushions -

She has her head on my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.

Behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass of her big window -

Wanting in;

Sobbing, weeping -

Wanting in.

She kisses my fingertips and then stops, holding my fingers to the candlelight -

She lifts her head and says: ‘You’ve got blood on your hands.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but her face in the candlelight is white and already dead -

The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass of her big window -

Dark -

Sobbing, weeping -

Hearts -

Asking to be let in.


Chapter 32

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 imagine the repeated slaughter of her young, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the floor of their front room, on the yellow squares and the red, on the marks made by crayons and the marks made by paints, 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 losing and not finding your children, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of damp clothes and undercooked dinners, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their ages, telling them all the things you were going to do for them, all the good news you were going to bring, how happy they’d be, but they were just sat there, silently waiting for their kids to come home, to take them upstairs and put them to bed, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, rocking back and forth, her husband in his chair and on his feet, his hands outstretched in the shape of a cross, noisily grinding his teeth as you flew across the room, tried to reach across and grab him, hold him, but your brother was holding you back, telling you all the things that he’d done, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how much better off he was dead, your mother on her feet, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her own hands, and then the Brass came, came to take you all 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 gun still smoking as they struggled to clean him all up, the stink of shit among the smoke, his brains attached to the windows of the shed, a finger holding down the trigger, lying there in a uniform that said West Yorkshire Constabulary between a pair of swan’s wings, his face all blown off and in bits, still struggling to mop up those bits and take him away, to put him in a hole in the ground and make him 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 the stairs on her nails and her knees, pissing and barking and chasing her tail, the smell of overcooked cabbages and dirty old rags, the dull and yellow lights that blinked off and on, on and off, the faded poster asking the public to please help find their kids, the white squares and the grey, the marks made by bones and the marks made by skulls, 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 gone again; 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, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the carpets and the 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, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories, and you are alone now, terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with their mothers, all of these mothers, their children not here -

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 all over again:

The Last Man.

Wednesday 1 June 1983 -

You are listening to the branches tapping against the pane;

Lying on your back in your underpants and socks -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;

Lying on your back in your underpants and socks, amongst the ruins -

The branches tapping against the pane;

Lying on your back in your underpants and socks, amongst the ruins of your flat -

Tapping against the pane:


D-8 .


You drive into Leeds, the radio on:

Searching for Hazel -

You push the buttons. You change the stations -

Finding only:

‘I think her appeal has always been to baser emotions like fear and greed…’

Only Thatcher -

Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher -

No Hazel -

The radio off, you drive into Leeds.


*

‘My name is John Piggott. I have an appointment.’

The policeman on the desk nods at the plastic chairs: ‘Take a seat please.’

You walk over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas above you -

No Christmas for Jimmy A.

The policeman on the desk making his calls -

You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and the chair marks -

‘Mr Piggott?’

You stand up and go back over to the front desk.

‘Someone will be down in a minute.’

‘Mr Piggott?’

You look up to see a man with heavy black frames staring down at you; grey skin and suit, red eyes under thick specs, balder and thinner than he was even a week ago -

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson:

The Owl.

You stand up. You take his hand. You say: ‘About the other day, I…’

He stares at you. He says: ‘Forget it. That’s funerals for you.’

You nod.

‘That’s why you’re here though?’ he says. ‘About James Ashworth?’

‘Yes,’ you say. ‘For his mother.’

‘How is she?’

‘How do you think she is?’ you say.

He stares at you. He says: ‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Piggott?’

‘She’s instructed me to ask you for Jimmy’s belongings; his clothes, personal effects, his motorbike.’

‘They’ve not been returned?’

You shake your head: ‘That’s why I’m asking for them.’

He stares. He says: ‘If you come up to my office, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you.’

He doesn’t move. He just stares. He doesn’t blink. Just stares.

‘Thank you,’ you say again.

The Chief Superintendent turns and leads the way up the stairs and along the corridors, the typewriters clattering away and the telephones ringing, past the incident rooms and the murder rooms, the walls and walls of maps and photographs, past one open door -

One open door and one wall, one map and one photograph:

Hazel Atkins.

In chalk beside the map, beside the photograph:

Day 20.

You pause before the door, before the map, before the photograph.

Jobson stops. He turns round. He comes back down the corridor. He looks in the door. He walks across the room. He picks up a piece of chalk. He changes the day:

Day 21.

He drops the chalk. He walks back across the room. He passes you in the doorway. He sets off back down the corridor.

You follow him. You say: ‘I thought you were over in Wakefield these days?’

‘I was,’ he says. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been back and forth between there and here.’

‘Which do you prefer?’

He opens the door to his office. ‘Leeds City born and bred I am.’

You step inside -

It’s a bare office:

No photographs, no certificates, no trophies.

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson gestures at a seat.

You sit down on the opposite side of his desk, Jobson with his back to the window.

He says: ‘I can’t promise you the motorcycle today. It’ll still be with forensics up at Wetherby but -’

‘Forensics?’

He nods. ‘I’m afraid that the late Mr Ashworth is still very much a part of our investigation into the whereabouts of Hazel Atkins.’

‘I see,’ you sigh. ‘Actually, I did want to -’

Jobson has his palm raised. ‘But I’m sure we can give you some of his clothes.’

‘That would be very much appreciated.’

He passes three sheets of paper across the desk. ‘Just sign these and I’ll see what I can do.’

You take them. You ask: ‘I was wondering if it would be possible to have a copy of the inventory, just to make sure everything is accounted for?’

‘Inventory?’

‘Just what he had with him when he was originally detained.’

‘You want a copy?’

‘For his mother.’

He stares at you. He says: ‘There’s going to be an inquiry, you do know that?’

‘An internal police inquiry,’ you nod.

Jobson stares at you. He says again: ‘Sign the papers and I’ll see what I can do.’

You reach inside your jacket for your pen -

It isn’t there.

You look up at Jobson. He’s holding one out across his desk.

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘I must have -’

‘Forget it,’ he smiles.

You sign the papers. You hand them back across the desk with his pen.

Jobson takes them. He separates them. He gives you back a copy as one of the three telephones on his desk buzzes and a light flashes -

Jobson glances at the flashing light then back at you: ‘Well, Mr Piggott, if there was nothing else I -’

‘To be honest with you, I do seem to have got myself up to my neck in -’

The Detective Chief Superintendent is nodding: ‘Out of your depth, are you?’

‘Bitten off more than I can chew,’ you smile. ‘Which, as you can see, is a lot.’

‘Go on,’ says Jobson.

‘To be straight with you,’ you say. ‘I’m also representing Michael Myshkin.’

Jobson stares at you. Jobson doesn’t blink.

You say: ‘You know who I mean?’

‘Yes, Mr Piggott. I know who you mean.’

‘Well, I’m in the process of preparing a preliminary appeal on his behalf and I -’

Jobson has his hand raised: ‘Didn’t Michael Myshkin confess and plead guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘So on what possible grounds is he thinking of appealing?’

‘Early days yet but, in cases such as these, where a conviction is based upon a confession, it is possible for the appellant to argue that his pleas were ill-considered and out of accord with the evidence; that in the absence of the alleged confession, there was a lack of evidence to convict; that the appellant’s state of mind at the time of the confession calls into question the validity of the confession; that the Trial Judge erred in accepting guilty pleas based solely upon confessions; that the very confession itself might have been gained by unlawful means -’

‘Mr Piggott,’ interrupts Jobson. ‘That is a very serious allegation to make.’

‘Examples,’ you say. ‘Just examples of avenues open to exploration.’

Jobson stares at you. He says: ‘There were witnesses -’

You nod.

‘Forensic evidence.’

You nod again. ‘As I say, I am feeling somewhat overfaced.’

‘That surprises me,’ smiles Jobson.

‘Eyes bigger than my belly, would you believe?’

Jobson shakes his head: ‘I’d say you seem to have the measure of things.’

‘No, no, no,’ you say. ‘Not at all. You see, I keep running into the same names, the same faces, again and again.’

Jobson stares at you.

‘Both with Michael Myshkin and now with Jimmy Ashworth -’

‘They did live on the same street,’ says Jobson.

‘I know, I know, I know,’ you reply. ‘But what with you pulling Jimmy Ashworth in over this Hazel Atkins business and her having gone missing from the same school as Clare Kemplay did nigh on ten years ago, the murder of whom Michael Myshkin is now serving life imprisonment for -’

‘And to which he confessed.’

‘And to which he allegedly confessed,’ you add. ‘Well -’

‘Well what?’

‘Well,’ you say. ‘Is this all just one big bloody coincidence or is there something I should know before I waste any more of Mrs Ashworth and Mrs Myshkin’s money and my time?’

‘Mr Piggott,’ he smiles. ‘You want me to tell you how to spend your time and other people’s money?’

You shake your head. ‘No, but I would like you to tell me if Michael Myshkin murdered Clare Kemplay?’

Jobson stares at you.

You stare at him.

He says: ‘Yes he did.’

‘Alone?’

Then, right on fucking cue, there’s the knock at the door.

Jobson looks up and away from your face.

You turn around in your chair -

‘Boss,’ says a man with a moustache -

A man you recognise from the night Jimmy Ashworth hung himself downstairs, a man you recognise from the funeral -

All three of them.

‘Give me two minutes, will you, Dick?’ says Jobson.

But the man shakes his head: ‘It’s urgent.’

Jobson nods.

The door closes.

Jobson stands up, his hand out. ‘If you wait downstairs, I’ll make sure you get her son’s belongings.’

You stand up. You reach over the desk. You take his hand. You hold it. You say: ‘I went to Rochdale, Mr Jobson.’

Jobson drops your hand. ‘So?’

‘I know about the shoebox.’

Jobson stares at you. ‘So?’

‘So I know Michael Myshkin didn’t kill Clare Kemplay.’

Jobson blinks.

‘And I know Jimmy Ashworth didn’t take Hazel Atkins and I know he didn’t kill himself.’

Jobson stares at you -

You stare at him -

He says: ‘You know a lot, Mr Piggott.’

You nod.

‘Maybe too much,’ he smiles.

You shake your head. You stare at him -

The Owl.

He says: ‘Goodbye, Mr Piggott.’

You turn. You walk over to the door. You stop. You turn back round. You say: ‘You won’t forget about the motorbike, will you?’

‘I won’t forget, Mr Piggott,’ says Chief Superintendent Jobson. ‘I never forget.’

‘See you then,’ you say.

‘No doubt,’ he replies.

You close the door. You hear -

You swear you hear -

Hear him say:

‘In the place where there is no darkness.’

You walk down the corridor and back down the stairs and over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

No more Christmases.

The policeman on the desk is picking the scabs off his boils.

You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and the chair marks -

‘Mr Piggott?’

You look up.

‘Sign here please, sir,’ says a young, blond policeman -

A young Bob Fraser -

Smiling and holding out a clipboard, two large brown paper bags on the desk.

You take the clipboard and the pen from him. You sign the papers.

He hands you the large brown paper bags. ‘Here you go, sir.’

You stand up. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

You walk across the linoleum floor, the white squares and the grey, the boot marks and the chair marks, walk towards the double doors and out -

‘Sir,’ the young officer calls after you. ‘Just a minute.’

You turn back round -

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘You wanted a copy of the inventory, didn’t you?’

You nod.

He hands you a photocopied piece of A4. ‘The Chief would’ve had my guts for garters. He said to be sure you got it.’

You sit in the car in the car park between the bus station and the market, still in the shadow of Millgarth, the two large brown paper bags open on the passenger seat with the photocopied piece of A4 in your hand:

One pair of black leather motorcycle boots, size nine.

Two pairs of blue navy wool socks, size eight.

One pair of white underpants, size M.

One pair of Lee blue denim jeans, size 30, with black leather belt.

One brown handkerchief.

One pair of medium-sized black leather motorcycle gloves.

One white T-shirt, size M.

One blue and white cotton check shirt, size M.

One sleeveless Wrangler blue denim jacket with patches and badges, size M.

One black leather jacket, marked Saxon and Angelwitch with bird wing motif.

One pair of round-framed gold spectacles.

One Casio digital calculator wristwatch.

One black leather studded wristband.

One Star of David metal key-ring with three keys attached.

One brown leather wallet containing one five pound note, driving licence in the name of James Ashworth, 69 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam, a Mass card and stamps to the value of twenty-five pence.

One packet of Rothmans cigarettes containing five unsmoked cigarettes.

One disposable white plastic cigarette lighter.

One packet of Rizla cigarette papers.

Seventy-six-and-a-half pence in loose change.

You put the list down. You root through the bags for the belt.

You find the jeans first, but the belt isn’t in them -

It’s at the very bottom of the second bag.

You pull it out. You hold it up:

They open the door to Room 4 and there he is, his boots still turning as they struggle 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 says 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 won’t and it never will -

Not for her -

Nor you.

But you cannot remember if it was this belt -

Holding him there by his neck -

This belt here in your hands.

You put the belt back in the bag. You close both large brown paper bags. You fold the photocopied piece of A4. You put it in your pocket. You start the car. You pull out without looking in your mirror.

A motorcycle brakes hard behind you.

You stop.

The rider dismounts. He tears off his helmet. He is coming towards you with his angry words and violent threats.

You start the car again. You drive off up George Street, drive off thinking -

No helmet.

At the top of George Street you piss around on the various one-way systems till you come out on to the Headrow. You check the rearview to be sure Sid fucking Snot isn’t still on your tail. You go up Cookridge Street.

You are looking for Portland Square -

Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds 1.


*

You park on Great George Street. You wander around behind the Law Courts and the Cathedral, the Infirmary and the Library -

Looking for Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds 1 -

Looking for Jack.

It is Wednesday 1 June 1983 -


D-8.


Off Calverley Street, tucked between Portland Way and Portland Crescent, up by the Poly and opposite the Civic Hall, you find it -

Suitably ruined Victorian grandeur, ill-gotten and squandered, waiting for the Wrecking Ball; two empty terraces staring down at the grass and the weeds rampant between the cracks and the stones:

Portland Square -

You pick your way along the line until you come to number 6:

The front door is wide open and there are no curtains in the windows of the ground floor. There is a tree stood in the patch of ground that sets the place back from where the pavement lies buried. The tree is taller than the building and hiding the lamppost, its branches scratching down the upstairs windows.

You walk up the three stone steps. You push the door open wider.

There is a staircase leading up to the left, leaves and crisp packets, old unopened post and papers, all scattered across the brown carpet.

You step inside. You call out: ‘Hello? Hello?’

No answer.

You walk up the stairs to the first floor and Flats 3 and 4.

The carpet is cleaner here.

You cross the landing. You go up the second flight of stairs.

At the top is Flat 5 and at the end of the landing is number 6.

The carpet is clear of leaves and crisp packets, unopened post and papers.

You try the bell on the door of Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds 1.

No answer.

You knock. You shout: ‘Hello? Hello?’

No answer.

There is a metal letterbox in the old wooden door.

You squat down. You lift the flap. ‘Mr Whitehead? Jack Whitehead?’

No answer.

You peer in through the letterbox:

The inside of the flat is dark and the smell unpleasant.

You can hear the bells ringing for Evensong, the trees scratching at the windows.

You let the flap go. You stand back up. You drop to your knees again -

Someone has scratched a single word into the metal flap of the letterbox:

Ripper.

You let the flap go again. You stand back upright. You stare at the door -

Someone has also scratched a number on either side of the six:


6 6 6.


You are thinking of your mother again -

The things they wrote on her walls and door.

Maybe Whitehead and son don’t want to be found.

Back outside among the grass and the weeds, the cracks and the stones, you follow the bells into St Anne’s. You want to ask if anyone knows any Whiteheads living local, but there’s no-one in a collar to pester.

Fat, bald and tired -

Scared to go home, you sit down at the back.

Down in the front pew there’s an old woman with a walking stick trying to stand. A little boy is helping her to her feet, a book under his arm.

Up on the Cross, there’s Christ -

Just hanging around as usual, waiting for someone to save or seduce -

Some lonely old widow trapped in her house by the endless night and its kids.

The boy is leading the old woman down the aisle. They reach the back pew where you are sat. The boy takes the book from under his arm. He opens it and hands it to you.

You look at the boy and the old woman.

They look back at you, familiar.

You start to speak but they walk off.

You look down at the pages of the book -

The Holy Bible -

Look down at the passage marked:

Job 30, 26-31.

Look down and read it:

When I looked for good,

Then evil came unto me:

And when I waited for light,

There came darkness.

My bowels boiled,

And rested not:

The days of affliction prevented me.

I went mourning without the sun:

I stood up,

And I cried in the congregation.

I am a brother to dragons,

And a companion to owls.

My skin is black upon me,

And my bones are burned with heat.

My harp also is turned to mourning,

And my organ into the voice of them that weep.

Back in the car on Great George Street, you rummage around in the bags until you find Jimmy’s wallet. You take it out. You open it. You find the fiver, his driving licence, the stamps to the value of twenty-five pence -

Not the Mass card -

It isn’t there.

But tucked inside the split silken lining is a photograph -

A photograph of a girl:

Not Tessa.

It’s a photograph cut from a newspaper -

A cutting:

Hazel.


Chapter 33

Dawn or fucking near enough -

Sunday 12 June 1977 -

(You better paint your face) -

Banging on Joe’s door: ‘Open fucking door!’

‘Who is it?’

BJ hiss: ‘We’re fucking late!’

Locks slide, keys turn/new locks, new keys -

BJ: over right shoulder/over left -

(Hair in his face, he is dressed in the black of the corner of my eye) -

Him: wide white eyes at crack -

(Here is your friend again) -

Paranoid looks to left/paranoid looks to right -

(Me, my face, my eye) -

BJ push open door into this private little Chapeltown hellhole:

Joe’s mate Steve Barton on mattress and angry: ‘You the late boy, not me.’

BJ: ‘You fucking ready?’

Steve: ‘Been waiting for you.’

‘Things to do.’

‘No shit,’ nods Steve. ‘You get them done, them things?’

‘Fuck off with him,’ says Joe.

‘You fuck off,’ he spits.

BJ: ‘Fuck is with you two?’

‘Bad night.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

Joe is shaking his head: ‘Word is Janice be dead.’

‘Janice Ryan?’

He nods.

‘Fuck that,’ BJ say. ‘She’s protected, double I hear.’

He snorts: ‘Aren’t we all?’

Steve: ‘First Marie -’

BJ: ‘Stop man, stop right there.’

‘Be out of hand, I say.’

BJ turn to Steve: ‘Then this is your fucking payback, man.’

‘Be that Pirate,’ whispers Joe.

‘Fuck her,’ BJ say. ‘Fuck him.’

No-one speaks.

‘We going or what?’

No-one moves.

BJ ask them again, check them two-times: ‘You up for this?’

Joe, he doesn’t smile, just says again: ‘Show me mine enemy.’

BJ turn to Steve: ‘Payback time?’

He shrugs and gets up off mattress, tracing sevens on walls and sevens on door, sevens on ceiling and sevens on floor -

All them pretty little sevens, dressed up in red, dressed up in gold and green:

Them two sevens -

Joe stagger-dancing out door, his voice of thunder still chanting: ‘War in the East, war in the West; War in the North, war in the South; Crazy Joe get them out…’

Steve: ‘Heavy Manners.’

Heavy fucking Manners -


COMING DOWN.


Three young men sitting in a stolen Cortina:

(Down we slide, further) -

Steve Barton, Joe Rose, and BJ -

(On Satan’s side) -

Edgy with cause/edgy with reason -

(Treacherous times) -

BJ look at BJ’s watch:

Seven twenty-five, nineteen seventy-seven.

BJ nod.

Everybody gets out of car.

Everybody walk across Gledhill Road, Morley.

Everybody pull on their masks.

BJ knock on back door.

Everybody wait -

Wait, wait, wait:

The key turns.

The door opens.

Steve kicks it straight back in bloke’s face.

Bloke goes down on other side of door (like a sack of fucking spuds):

His hair in his face, his teeth all covered in blood -

Everybody step over him -

Steve giving him a kick (just to make sure he’s going to be a good boy).

‘What the -’

Granny coming down stairs -

Steve straight across room to give her a slap, hard.

He bungs a bag over her head, ties her arms behind her, pretends to suck her tit:

‘Please, please -’

Bound, gagged and bagged.

Steve back on his feet and through into Post Office, pointing Joe upstairs -

Joe saying: ‘Upstairs?’

Steve turning and nodding, finger to his mask.

BJ stand in back with old bloke still out for count, his wife crying in a pool of her own piss.

Steve is back with a bag of cash.

Joe coming down stairs, empty-handed and shrugging his shoulders.

BJ walk over to Steve. BJ peer into bag:


NOT ENOUGH -


Not a grand, nowhere near.

Nowhere near and BJ tell him so: ‘Someone’s fucked up here.’

‘Shut up, man,’ hisses Steve. ‘Deal with it later, not here.’

BJ shake BJ’s head.

BJ walk out back door.

They follow.

Everybody leave -

Leave them lying in their little pools on floor of their little Post Office:

He will need thirty-five stitches in his head and in six months she’ll be dead.

Everybody take their masks off.

Everybody get in Cortina.

Everybody drive back into Leeds, old sun already behind new clouds -

Steve laughing as he drives, shouting: ‘Payback!’

Joe chanting to himself: ‘War in the East, war in the West; War in the North…’

Old sun already behind new clouds, shadows across car -

BJ say: ‘We’ve fucked up.’

Joe counting cash: ‘Still be more than seven hundred here, man.’

‘We’ve fucked up,’ BJ say again. ‘It was a set-up.’

‘No set-up,’ Steve is saying, shaking his locks. ‘Just pure fucking payback.’

BJ nodding, knowing -

(The never-never, can’t go on forever) -

Knowing what’s coming -

(Close my eyes but he will not go away) -


COMING -


(But I have the will to survive) -


COMING -


(I will cheat and I will win) -


COMING -


(You think I’m a raving idiot, just off the boat) -


COMING -


(But I’ll be round the back of your house in the dead of the night) -


COMING -


(Watch you sleeping in your bed) -


COMING -


(When the bloody heavens clash) -


COMING DOWN -


(The Two Sevens).


Chapter 34

Saturday 25 March 1972 -

‘You wake up some morning as unhappy as you’ve ever been…’

I lie alone in our double bed, listening to the sound of things getting worse:

‘Protests mount over direct rule in Northern Ireland after the Government’s agreement yesterday that Ulster is to be ruled direct from Westminster for a year ran into opposition immediately with both wings of the IRA saying they would fight on and militant Protestants demanding widespread strike action despite calls from Mr Faulkner for calm.

‘Meanwhile Mr William Whitelaw, the new Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, yesterday described the task ahead of him as, “Terrifying, difficult, and awesome.”’

I lie alone in the double bed, listening to the sound of things getting worse as my family dress for a wedding -

‘Mr & Mrs William Molloy gratefully request the presence of Mr & Mrs Maurice Jobson & family at the marriage of their daughter Louise Ann to Mr Robert Fraser.’

A celebration.

‘Paul!’ the wife shouts up the stairs. ‘Paul, hurry up, love, will you? We’re all waiting.’

My wife, my daughter and I stood at the front door -

My wife looking up the stairs, my daughter in the mirror, me at my watch.

The Simon and Garfunkel abruptly stops and down he comes.

‘I’ll get the car out,’ I say and open the door.

‘I’ll lock up,’ nods the wife, pushing the children towards the door.

I go out. I open up the garage. I drive the car out, the family car -

The Triumph Estate.

I get back out. I lock the garage door.

‘It’s open,’ I tell the wife and kids as they stand around the car wishing we were all somewhere else -

Someone else -

Other people.

We get in the family car.

Clare asks me to put the radio on.

‘We haven’t got one,’ I reply.

She slouches down in the back. Paul whispers something to her. They both smile.

They are fifteen and thirteen and they hate me.

I glance in the rearview mirror. I say: ‘Leeds have got Arsenal today, haven’t they?’

Paul shrugs. Clare whispers something to him. They both smile again.

They are fifteen and thirteen and I hate them and I love them.

My wife Judith says: ‘Hope they get a bit of sun for the photos.’

And her -

I hate her -

Hate her in her hat too big for the car.

Ossett Parish Church has the tallest steeple in Yorkshire, so they say. It stands black and tall for all to see, across the golf courses and the fields of rape and rhubarb.

We park in its shadow on Church Street, Ossett -

The whole road lined with cars in both directions.

‘Big wedding,’ says Judith.

No-one says a word.

We get out and walk down the road and into the churchyard where groups of coppers are gathered around their cigarettes in their court suits -

Girlfriends and wives all off to the side, battling to keep their hats on in the wind, talking to the older folk, ignoring their kids.

‘He invite the whole force, did he?’ laughs Judith.

I lead the way through the men and their greetings, dragging the wife and kids along -

‘Sir,’ says one.

‘Inspector,’ says another.

‘Mr Jobson.’

‘Maurice, Judith,’ smiles John Rudkin at the church door in his morning suit -

Bill’s Boy.

‘Where you hid Anthea?’ asks the wife.

‘Bottom of Winscar Reservoir,’ Rudkin laughs -

Laughs like he wishes it were true.

I say: ‘Which way to cheap seats, John?’

‘Anywhere on the right, but first two are for family.’

‘And what are we?’

He looks confused -

‘Just pulling your leg, Sergeant,’ I say. ‘Just pulling your leg.’

‘Isn’t he awful,’ says the wife. ‘You see what we have to put up with?’

He smiles -

A smile like he wishes us both dead.

I nod at another man in morning dress on the other side of the church. I ask: ‘That Bob’s brother, is it?’

Rudkin shakes his head. He says in a low voice: ‘Not got any family, has Bob.’

‘You’re joking?’ says Judith, her purple glove up over her red lipstick.

‘Mam died couple of years ago.’

I say: ‘His side of church is going to be a bit on thin side then.’

‘Boss filled it out with a lot of blokes Bob trained with and I reckon most of Morley station must be here.’

‘That’s all right then,’ says Judith.

‘See you later,’ I say and turn to my children. ‘Come on.’

We walk down the aisle, nodding to Walter Heywood and his wife -

Ronald Angus and his -

They’re all here:

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice shaking my hand -

Bob Craven not.

All here but one:

No George -

George still over in Rochdale, over where I want to be.

I hear my name again. I turn round:

Don Foster and his wife, John Dawson and his -

Big smiles and waves and they’ll talk to us later.

In our middle pew, Judith says: ‘That’s John Dawson, isn’t it?’

I nod, thinking:

Other people.

‘You never told me you knew John Dawson.’

‘I don’t.’

But she says: ‘You should see that house…’

(Inside a thousand voices cry) -

Then Clare whispers to her mother: ‘How did they meet?’

Judith looks at me. She says: ‘I’m not sure.’

‘What?’ I say.

‘How did they meet?’ sighs Clare, wincing.

I say: ‘Louise and Bob?’

‘No,’ she sneers. ‘Queen and Prince Philip.’

‘Bob’s a policeman, and -’

‘I don’t want to marry a policeman,’ she spits.

‘Clare,’ says my wife. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

Me -

Her father, I say nothing.

So she says again, louder: ‘I’ll never marry a policeman.’

I look away at Robert Fraser -

Bob Fraser standing at the front of the church, the vicar in front of him, his best man at his side.

I don’t recognise the best man -

Not a policeman -

Not one of us.

The meandering tinkling from the organist stops. He hits all his keys at once and we all stand as Here Comes the Bride starts, turning round to see her -

The Bride -

Beautiful in white, her father at her side -

(Beautiful as the moon, as terrible as the night) -

Proud as punch in his morning dress -

The greys of his suit matching the streak that got him his name, the black his eyes.

Then it’s on with the show -

The celebration -

The hymns:

Lead us Heavenly Father, lead us;

Oh, Perfect Love;

Love Divine.

The readings -

The readings that say -

That say words like:

For the body is not one member, but many.

If the foot shall say, Because I am not the hand, I am not the body; is it therefore not of the body?

And if the ear shall say, Because I am not the eye, I am not of the body; is it therefore not of the body?

If the whole body were an eye, where were the hearing? If the whole were hearing, where were the smelling?

But now hath God set the members every one of them in the body, as it hath pleased him.

And if they were all one member, where were the body?

But now there are many members, yet but one body.

And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need for thee; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you.

Nay, much more those members of the body, which seem to be more feeble, are necessary:

And those members of the body which we think to be less honourable, upon these we bestow abundant honour; and our uncomely parts have more abundant comeliness.

For our comely parts have no need; but God hath tempered the body together, having given more abundant honour to that part which lacked;

That there should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same care one for another.

And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it.

Now ye are the body of Christ, and members in particular.

I look at my family beside me in the pew -

Paul eyes closed while Judith and Clare dab theirs as Mendelssohn strikes up.

Outside in the churchyard, the groups of coppers gather around their cigarettes again -

The girlfriends and wives off to the side, battling to keep their skirts down in the wind, bitching about the older folk, their kids tugging at their hems and their sleeves, their eager handfuls of confetti slipping through their tiny fingers -

The photographer desperately trying to corral us -

A black Austin Princess sat waiting to take the newlyweds away from all this.

‘He did invite the whole force, didn’t he?’ Judith laughs -

Laughs to herself.

I can see George -

George Oldman stood at the gates with his wife, his son and two daughters.

He sees me coming.

I shake his hand and nod to his wife. ‘George, Lillian.’

‘Maurice,’ he replies, his wife smiling then not.

‘Thought you weren’t going to make it?’

‘He nearly didn’t,’ says his wife with a squeeze on his arm.

‘Any luck?’

He shakes his head. He looks away. I leave it -

Leave them to it:

George, his wife, his son and two daughters.

‘Group shot, please,’ the photographer pleads as the sun comes out at long last, shining feebly through the trees and the gravestones.

I walk back over to pose with my wife, my son and daughter.

Clare asks: ‘Can we go home now?’

‘There’s the reception next, love,’ smiles her mum. ‘Be a lovely do, I bet.’

Paul whispers something to Clare. They both smile -

They are fifteen and thirteen and they pity their mother.

‘Family for the last time,’ shouts the photographer.

Judith looks from the kids to me, adjusting her hat with a shrug and smile -

We are forty-five and forty-two and we hate -

Just hate:

Married seventeen years ago this August at this church, so they say.

We drive in silence down into Dewsbury and up through Ravensthorpe to the outskirts of Mirfield, silence until Clare reminds us that Charlotte next door, her family have a car radio and her dad is only a teacher and, according to Paul, everyone at the Grammar School has a radio in their car and we must be the only family in the whole bloody world that doesn’t.

‘Don’t use that word, please, Paul,’ says his mother, turning round.

‘Which word?’

‘You know very well which word.’

‘Why not?’ asks Clare. ‘Dad says it all the time.’

‘No, he doesn’t.’

‘Yes, he does,’ shouts Paul. ‘And worse.’

‘Well, your father is an adult,’ says Judith -

‘A policeman,’ spits Clare.

‘We’re here,’ I say.

The Marmaville Club:

Posh mill brass house turned Country Club-cum-pub, favoured by the Masons -

Favoured by Bill Molloy.

I get Judith a white wine. I leave her with the kids and the other wives and theirs. I head back to the bar -

‘Don’t forget you’re driving,’ shouts Judith and I laugh -

Laugh like I wish she was dead.

At the bar, a whiskey in my hand, there’s a hand at my elbow -

‘Isn’t that a Mick drink?’

I turn round:

Jack -

Jack bloody Whitehead.

‘What?’ grins Jack. ‘Didn’t think the Chief Superintendent would stoop to inviting scum like me?’

‘No,’ I say, looking around the room. ‘Not at all.’

Mr and Mrs Robert Fraser stand in the doorway to the dining room, waiting to greet their guests:

‘Uncle Maurice, Auntie Jane,’ says the Bride.

‘Auntie Judith,’ corrects the Groom.

‘Smart lad,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘You should be a copper.’

We all laugh -

All but Paul and Clare.

Louise kisses Judith on the cheek. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Not over yet,’ I say -

Not by a long chalk.

In the dining room we’re seated at the same table as Walter and Mrs Heywood, Ronald and Mrs Angus, the Oldmans and their son and two daughters -

The Brass.

We eat grapefruit, chicken, and some kind of trifle with a fair few glasses of wine and disapproving looks from the wives and kids to wash it all down.

Then come the speeches, with a fair few glasses more to help them go down.

There’s a hand on my shoulder. John Rudkin bends down to whisper: ‘Bill wants us all to have a drink upstairs. When dancing starts.’

I smile, hoping he’ll fuck off.

He glances at Walter Heywood and the West Riding boys. He says: ‘Be discreet.’

I smile again.

He fucks off.

An upstairs room, down the red and gold corridor past the toilets -

The curtains drawn, the lamps on, the cigars out -

The sound of music coming up through the carpet -

The beautiful carpet, all gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -

Like the whiskeys and our faces.

Sat in a circle in the big chairs, a couple of empty ones -

The gang’s all here:

Dick, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin, Bob Craven and -

‘Lads,’ says Bill. ‘Like you all to meet a good mate of mine from over other side of Pennines. This is John Murphy, Detective Inspector with Manchester.’

Similar age to me but with all his hair, Murphy is a good-looking bloke -

A younger Bill Molloy -

Another one.

John Murphy stands up -

‘Speech!’ shouts Dick Alderman.

‘I know some of you and the rest by reputation,’ smiles Murphy with a nod to me. ‘I also know that we’re all here because of one man -’

Nods and murmurs in Bill’s direction -

Bill all hands up, embarrassed and modest.

‘So let’s first raise our glasses,’ says Murphy. ‘To the Badger himself, on the marriage of his daughter.’

‘Cheers,’ we all say and stand up -

‘No,’ says Bill. ‘We all had enough of that bollocks downstairs -’

We laugh. He pauses. We stand there waiting -

Waiting for him to say -

‘Let’s drink to us,’ his voice and glass raised. ‘The bloody lot of us.’

‘The bloody lot of us,’ we reply and drain our whiskeys.

We sit back down.

Bill tells Rudkin to ring down for another round. He says: ‘We’ll have to keep this brief, as we don’t want too many questions, do we?’

‘They think we’re playing cards,’ laughs Jim Prentice.

‘Not talking about the wives, Jim,’ says Bill. ‘Thinking more about Old Walter and our country cousins.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks for putting us on same bleeding table.’

Hands up again, Bill grins: ‘I just wanted you lads to meet John here, and -’

There’s a knock on the door. Bill stops talking.

A young waitress brings in another tray of whiskeys -

Doubles.

She picks up the empties and leaves.

‘And?’ I say.

‘And,’ nods Bill. ‘A couple of other things.’

We sip our whiskeys. We wait.

‘John here’s acquired,’ smiles Bill. ‘Acquired some offices for us on Oldham Street in centre of Manchester. Got the printing and distribution end sewn up nicely.’

‘Got a few nice Vice connections too,’ adds Murphy. ‘Pete McCardell for one.’

Low whistles around the room.

Bill pats Murphy on the back. ‘This is just the beginning; what we planned, worked so hard for, it’s finally coming together -’

Nods.

‘Controlled vice,’ says Bill Molloy, quietly. ‘Off the streets and out the shop windows, under our wing and in our pocket.’

Smiles.

‘The whole of the North of England, from Liverpool to Hull, Nottingham up to Newcastle – it’s ours for the taking: the girls, the shops, the mags – the whole bloody lot.’

Grins.

‘It’s going to make us rich men,’ nods Bill. ‘Very bloody rich men.’

Lots of nods, smiles, grins and hear-hears.

I stare around the room at all the teeth. I ask Bill: ‘What about your son-in-law?’

Everyone stops smiling -

Rudkin shaking his head.

‘Never,’ says Bill. ‘I never want Robert near any of this.’

I stare around the room again: ‘Better all watch what we say then, hadn’t we?’

Some of them are looking at the carpet, the beautiful carpet -

All gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -

Like the whiskeys and their faces.

‘I do have some other new faces though,’ smiles Bill and turns back to Rudkin. ‘Invite our guests in and have them bring up some more drinks, will you, John?’

John Rudkin leaves the room.

‘We’ve got an opportunity here,’ Bill says. ‘An opportunity to invest the money from our little ventures and turn it into something even bigger -

‘Something great.’

There’s another knock. Rudkin holds open the door for John Dawson and Donald Foster.

Bill gets up. ‘Gentlemen. Please join us.’

Don and John take their seats in the circle. Bill makes the introductions -

Me thinking, too many cooks, too many chiefs.

The waitress brings in more drinks and leaves.

The introductions over and done, Bill gestures to John Dawson and Don Foster. ‘John and Don here have their own dreams, don’t you, gents?’

Foster nods. He clears his throat. ‘With your help, gentlemen, we’re going to build a shopping centre -’

‘The biggest of its kind in England or Europe,’ says Dawson.

‘One place where you can buy everything you need, where you can see a film or go bowling, where you can have breakfast, lunch or tea,’ says Foster.

‘Whatever the weather, all under one roof,’ adds Dawson. ‘Make the Merrion Centre look like the rabbit hutch it is.’

‘Where?’ I ask.

‘The Hunslet and Beeston exit of the motorway,’ says Foster. ‘Be ideal.’

‘The Swan Centre,’ beams Dawson -

Beams Foster -

Beams everyone:

Too many cooks, too many chiefs.

Bill stands back up, his left hand open in the direction of Dawson and Don Foster: ‘With John’s brains, Don’s bricks, and our brass, we’re going to make this happen -’

Everyone clapping -

‘And we’re going to make some bloody money too -’

Everyone joining him on their feet with their drinks -

‘Some fucking real bloody money!’

All the cooks and all the chiefs -

Me too:

For the body is not one member -

Bill raises his glass: ‘To us all and to the North – where we do what we want!’

But -

‘The North,’ we reply as one and drain our whiskeys again.

Many.

Bill looks over at me, smiling to himself: ‘There’s one last thing.’

We sip our whiskeys. We wait.

‘You’ve all heard the rumours,’ he says. ‘But I wanted to tell you all face to face, here and now, in front of the lot of you -

‘I’m retiring.’

‘What?’ we all say.

‘I’ve had my time,’ he grins. ‘And I’m going to have plenty to keep me occupied.’

‘But what -’ Jim Prentice says.

Craven: ‘Who will -’

Bill looks at me. He nods. He says: ‘Maurice is taking over.’

I say nothing.

‘Old Walter signed the papers yesterday,’ laughs Bill. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, Head of Leeds CID.’

Before I can say anything -

Before anyone can say anything -

Dick Alderman stands up, his glass raised one final time: ‘To Maurice.’

Bill and Rudkin on their feet first, Dawson and Foster next, Craven and Prentice following -

Murphy bemused, confused -

As confused as me as I stand and raise my own glass to myself thinking:

Make believers of us all.

Downstairs, drunk and ugly -

Everyone dancing -

Everyone except my wife and my children, sat to the side in the dark -

Everyone dancing or falling down:

‘State of her,’ whispers Dick with a nod to Anthea Rudkin -

Rudkin’s wife draped all over George Oldman -

Half in and half out of a long but low-cut pink dress -

Oldman’s wife and children getting their coats.

Bill is shaking his head, whispering to Rudkin -

Rudkin across the dancefloor, pulling his wife off George -

Her arms already bruised in his grip, she kicks her legs out and she screams: ‘Never marry a copper!’

In the family car on the drive home, Judith and Clare are asleep.

Paul puts his head between the seats. He says: ‘Why do they call you the Owl?’

‘Because of my glasses.’

‘Think it’s stupid,’ he says and sits back.

I look in the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the passing night, the lorries and the cars, the yellow lights and the red.

He is crying, wishing he were somewhere else -

Someone else -

Other people;

Or maybe just me -

Wishing I were someone else;

Crying and wishing we were all dead -

Or maybe just me -

Just me.


*

I lie in our double bed, listening to Simon and Garfunkel through the wall, doors slamming and the telephone ringing, no-one answering it -

The sound of things:

Terrifying, difficult and awesome -

The sound of things getting worse.

Lying in the double bed, thinking -

Please make me believe.


Chapter 35

You can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep -

You shut your eyes, you see her face -

You open your eyes, you see her face:

‘If Mrs Thatcher wins, Britain’s young men and women will be a lost generation, without jobs, without education -’

You shut your eyes, you see her face -

You open your eyes, you see her face:

‘No hope to make the life they want for themselves.’

You can’t go to sleep -

Thursday 2 June 1983:


D-7 .


Down through the thunder and the rain and Wakefield, the car still retching and coughing, hacking its way over the Calder and out past the Redbeck, into Fitzwilliam -

Putting them together:

Jimmy Ashworth and Michael Myshkin -

Michael and Jimmy, Jimmy and Michael -

Putting them together and getting:

Hazel Atkins -

A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper.

Sweating and then freezing, your clothes still itching with hate, you’ve got the shadows all over your heart again, a belly brimming over with fear -

Putting it all together to get:

Fear and hate, hate and fear -

A pocket full of paper, a pocketful of -

Hazel.

It is getting late -

Everywhere.

The silent houses of Newstead View, Fitzwilliam:

Fitz-fucking-william-

69 Newstead View:

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

‘Took your time?’ spits Ma Ashworth, almost closing the door in your face.

‘I’ve been busy.’

She stares at the dinner medals on your shirt. She says: ‘So I see.’

You put down the two large brown paper bags at her feet: ‘I brought you these.’

She holds open the front door. ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting your cup of tea with three sugars?’

You shake your head: ‘I’m not stopping.’

She shrugs. She looks at the bags. She says: ‘What about the belt?’

You lean down. You open the bag nearest her, the black leather belt coiled on top.

She bends down. She picks it up.

‘Was that his?’ you ask.

Her shoulders are shaking, her rough hands holding the worn belt.

‘Mrs Ashworth?’

She stares down at the belt in her hands, the tears falling from her face.

‘What about this?’ you ask. ‘Was this his?’

Mrs Ashworth looks up at the tiny newspaper photograph in her face -

A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper -

‘You know who this is, don’t you?’

The tears streaming down her face -

‘It was in his wallet, in the lining.’

The tears down her face -

‘He’d cut it out.’

The tears -

‘No,’ she cries.

You hold it closer to her face, to the tears and the lies -

‘Why would he do a thing like that?’

But she’s turned her face to the dark grey sky, mumbling hymns and whispering prayers, saying over and over: ‘I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans. I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was…’

‘I’ll see you,’ you say -

In hell, another hell.

You walk down Newstead View -

The plastic bags and the dog shit.

You go up the path. You knock on 54 -

No answer.

You knock again.

‘Not your lucky day, is it?’

You turn round -

There are three men at the gate. They have pointed faces and pale moustaches. They are dressed in denim and grey. They are wearing trainers.

‘I’m a solicitor,’ you say.

They rock back and forwards on their heels. They spit.

‘You look like a fat cunt to me.’

‘A fat cunt who can’t keep his hands to himself.’

‘Fat cunt who’s going to get his head kicked in.’

They walk up the path towards you.

You swallow. You say: ‘I know who you are.’

‘And we know who you are,’ they laugh.

You look across the road -

The neighbours paired up, arms and brows folded -

You shout: ‘Will someone please call -’

The nearest man punches you hard in the face.

You put your hands up to your nose.

They grab your hair. They pull you off the step. They punch you in the stomach.

You fall forwards.

They knee you in the stomach. They hit you with a dustbin lid.

You fall on to the garden path.

They kick you in the back. They kick you in the front.

You put your hands and arms over your head. You curl up.

They smash the dustbin lid down into your head. Into your back.

You try to crawl down the path.

They grab your hair. They pull you down the path.

You reach up to your scalp.

They drop you by the gatepost. They jump on you.

You -

They close the gate in your face. Repeatedly.

‘Mr Piggott?’ Kathryn Williams is walking across the Yorkshire Post reception -

No outstretched hand today -

‘What on earth happened to you?’

You are swollen and wrapped in bandages. You pull yourself up out of your seat: ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

Kathryn Williams stares at you. She says: ‘You should be in hospital.’

‘A mental hospital?’

She doesn’t smile. She asks: ‘What can I do for you, Mr Piggott?’

‘Miss Williams, I -’

Mrs Williams,’ she says.

‘OK, Mrs Williams,’ you say. ‘It’s about Jack Whitehead.’

‘Mr Piggott, I told you everything I know about Jack -’

‘You didn’t tell me about the flat.’

‘The flat?’

‘On Portland Square.’

‘I -’ she starts then stops.

You say: ‘I what?’

‘I thought he was still in Stanley Royd.’

‘Well, he ain’t.’

‘He’s at home?’

‘If he is,’ you say. ‘He’s not answering his door.’

‘You’re sure he’s not back in Stanley Royd.’

‘He was signed out into the care of his son on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’

‘His son?’

You nod. It hurts.

Mrs Williams asks: ‘You know where the son took him?’

‘The flat on Portland Square.’

‘But there’s no answer?’

You shake your head. It hurts.

She asks: ‘You went today?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Maybe they were just out?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You going round there again?’

You nod. It hurts. You stop.

She stares at you again. She says: ‘This isn’t just about Jack, is it?’

‘Not just Jack, no.’

She closes her eyes -

The two of you stood there in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area.

You say: ‘I read your piece on Hazel and Susan Ridyard. I went to Rochdale.’

She opens her eyes -

The two of you stood in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area, one of you swollen and wrapped in bandages -

Both of you in pain.

Off Calverley Street, tucked between Portland Way and Portland Crescent, up by the Poly and opposite the Civic Hall, it’s still raining:

Raining on the ruined grandeur, ill-gotten, squandered and damned -

Raining on Portland Square:

Mrs Williams and you tip-toe through the grass and weeds, the cracks and the stones; the pair of you picking your way along the terrace until you come to number 6, the front door still wide open and the tree still standing.

You walk up the three stone steps and through the front door -

You call out: ‘Hello? Hello?’

Still no answer.

You walk up the staircase on the left, over the leaves and the crisp packets, the unopened post and the papers, up the stairs to the first floor and Flats 3 and 4, cross the landing and up the second flight of stairs to Flats 5 and 6.

You stand before the door. You look at Mrs Williams. She shrugs.

You try the bell.

No answer.

You knock. You shout: ‘Hello? Hello?’

No answer.

You squat down. You lift the flap. ‘Mr Whitehead? Jack Whitehead? Anybody?’

No answer.

You let the flap go. You stand back up. You point down at the single word someone has scratched into the metal flap of the letterbox:

Ripper.

You show her the numbers on the door -

The number someone has scratched either side of the six:


6 6 6.


‘Be kids,’ says Kathryn Williams.

‘Or their dads.’

‘Is it locked?’ she whispers.

You press your fingertips into the wood and the door swings in and the smell runs to greet you; a tongue warm with saved spit and an unexpected bark that brings new tears to your black eyes.

She takes one step backwards. You take one step forwards -

This is the way.

You step inside. You can see the light at the end of the passage -

Through the old smells and the new, down the passage to his room -

Jack’s room:

Curtains billowing through the open and cracked windows, black sails -

The books and the papers scattered to the wind, their pages turning -

The spools and the tapes, streamers from an abandoned street party -

The suit and the shirts, the shoes and the socks, all spilling out from the chests of drawers, the stately wardrobes -

The sheets and the blankets, the pillow on the bed, stained and as cracked as the ceiling and the pelmets above -

Above the photographs and the words -

The photographs upon the floor, the words upon the wall.

You stand in Jack’s room and remember another room -

Room 27, the Redbeck Cafй and Motel:

The first and last time you met Jack Whitehead.

You remember the photographs and words upon those walls:

Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland.

Through the old tears and the new, down all those passages to that room and this -

This the place.

A mirror in four pieces, a stool with three legs -

A telephone dead in two halves, a clock stopped at 7.07 -

The time.

You swallow. You wipe your eyes -

Kathryn Williams is staring at a photograph on the mantelpiece -

A photograph of a young, handsome man with a bright, wide smile.

‘You know him?’

Her bottom lip is trembling, fingers pinching the end of her nose.

‘Who is it?’

‘Eddie,’ she says -

New tears streaming down another old face. ‘Eddie Dunford.’

It is night now.

You drive alone from Leeds into Wakefield, through the dead centre and out along the Donny Road, heading towards the Redbeck -

This the place, the time -

Tuesday 14 June 1977:

‘Fuck is this place?’ you said stood in the doorway, two teas in your hands, a chip butty in your pocket.

‘Just somewhere,’ smiled Bob Fraser.

‘How long you had it?’

‘It’s not really mine.’

‘But you got the key?’

‘It’s for a friend.’

‘Who?’

‘That journalist, Eddie Dunford.’

Haunted:

1977 all over again -

This the time, the place -

The Redbeck:

There was a knock on the door, you jumped.

Bob went to the door: ‘Who is it?’

‘Jack Whitehead. Let me in, it’s pissing down out here.’

Bob opened the door and in Jack stepped.

‘Fuck,’ Jack said, looking at the walls, the words and the photographs.

‘I’m John Piggott,’ you said. ‘I’m Bob’s solicitor.’

But Jack was still looking at the walls, the photographs and the words -

Haunted:

The words -

Jack Whitehead, Bob Fraser and Eddie Dunford -

Haunted:

The photographs -

Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland -

Haunted:

The photograph in your pocket -

Hazel.

You’ve got a photograph and a key in your pocket -

This the place -

The Redbeck;

The time -


1983.


You pull in behind the Redbeck -

There is one other car parked in the depressed, coarse car park.

A man is sat alone in the car -

It is an old Viva.

He is watching the row of deserted rooms -

He has his headlights on.

They are shining on a door -

A door banging in the wind, in the rain.

You don’t stop. You put your foot down -

Ninety miles an hour.

Haunted, old ghosts and new -

Tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone -

Branches tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages -

The branches tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages, your mouth open -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, listening to the branches tapping against the pane -

Wishing she was here with you now:

Thursday 2 June 1983 -


D-7 .


Chapter 36

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ -

They come for BJ on Tuesday night.

They kick in door, splinters of wood and sevens flying.

They grab BJ.

They slap BJ.

They punch BJ.

They kick BJ.

They cuff BJ.

They gag BJ.

They put a bag on BJ’s head.

They drag BJ from room.

They throw BJ down stairs.

They kick BJ across Spencer Place.

They toss BJ in back of a van.

They slam doors.

They drive away with BJ.

They whisper.

They light cigarettes.

They burn BJ through shirt and trouser legs.

They laugh when BJ scream.

They laugh as BJ choke upon gag.

They slow down.

They stop.

They open doors of van.

They punch BJ.

They kick BJ.

They push BJ out of back of van.

They throw BJ through a wooden gate.

They pick BJ up off floor.

They drag BJ up some stairs.

They bounce BJ down some corridor walls.

They stand BJ in a room.

They whisper.

They kick BJ in balls.

They laugh when BJ fall to knees in pain.

They pick BJ up off floor.

They sit BJ on a chair.

They tie BJ to it, hands cuffed behind and a bag on BJ’s head.

They leave BJ.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis.

‘Skin the cunt alive!’ he screams into BJ’s blindfolded face.

BJ pass out in a pool of BJ’s own piss.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt.

They slap BJ’s face.

BJ awake inside bag.

They slap BJ again.

BJ nod.

They kick chair.

BJ try to speak through gag.

They laugh.

BJ cry.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed.

There is light.

Maybe it is morning.

There is bright light.

BJ’s mouth dry and cracked on gag, wrists cut and bleeding from handcuffs.

Piss has dried upon BJ’s crotch, upon BJ’s trousers.

Maybe BJ be alone in room.

BJ move slightly toward light.

Telephone rings.

Footsteps coming.

BJ drop down head.

Someone picks up phone.

A voice, a voice BJ know saying: ‘Eric, you worry too much.’

I got to think -

‘Don’t say a bloody word, Eric.’

Think, think fucking fast:

‘Eric for fuckssake.’

Eric Hall, Bradford Vice; dirty every which way, dealing drugs with Spencer Boys, pimping Karen Burns and Janice Ryan; Janice stepping out with Bobby the Bobby Fraser, Leeds Murder Squad and son-in-law of Badger Bill; Janice dead, some saying Eric, some saying Bobby, some saying Leeds bloody Ripper.

‘Eric, I know Peter Hunter and he’s not a problem.’

Peter Hunter, White Knight; Mr Manchester Clean.

‘Yeah, that’s what I say and you’ll do what I fucking say.’

Eric shitting bricks.

‘Eric, don’t fucking start.’

I got to think, think -

‘Eric, we’re the only friends you’ve got,’ he says. ‘So stop fucking around.’

Think, think fucking fast:

‘Or we’ll start fucking around with you.’

They got BJ over Morley or they got BJ over Jack?

Long pause, then: ‘I know you are. We all are.’

They gonna kill BJ or they gonna not?

‘No, you’re not.’

I got to think, think, think -

‘It won’t come to that.’

Think, think fucking fast:

‘We’ll look after you.’

Eric Hall already dead.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room.

Head down, out for count.

Same voice, same phone: ‘It’s me.’

Me: West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Force.

‘He’s still out.’

Someone keeping BJ alive; someone, somewhere.

‘Eric called.’

Eric, Eric, Eric.

‘Hunter the Cunt.’

Peter Hunter, White Knight.

‘Eric’s Bob’s mate; I say Bob does it.’

Bob: Craven, Douglas, or Fraser?

‘Yeah? Where?’

Please god, no -

‘Bring him here.’

Fuck -

‘Now.’

Fuck, fuck -

‘Tonight.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt.

They are coming -

They are coming-

They are coming into room -

They are here:

They shout: ‘Wakey, wakey.’

They kick BJ’s chair.

They slap BJ’s head.

They take bag off.

BJ blink in light, bright morning light-

Joe says: ‘What the fuck -’

They grab Joe.

They slap Joe.

They punch Joe.

They kick Joe.

They cuff Joe.

They gag Joe.

They kick Joe in balls.

They laugh when Joe falls to his knees in pain.

They pick Joe up off floor.

They sit Joe on a chair.

They tie Joe to it, his hands cuffed behind him and a bag on his head.

They put bag back on BJ’s head.

They leave Joe and BJ.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor.

BJ awake:

It is still light.

Joe must be near, in room somewhere.

BJ try to see him, see him through bag.

But BJ can’t and light is fading -

Fading fast.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor. He finishes and he blows the loose hair away.

BJ awake:

It is dark now.

Joe must be near, in room somewhere.

BJ try to hear him, hear him breathing.

But BJ can’t and telephone is ringing -

Ringing long and loud.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor. He finishes and he blows the loose hair away. He picks up a Philips screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer.

A light goes on, telephone stops:

Head down -

Someone picks up phone.

Out for count.

That voice, that voice BJ know saying: ‘Yes?’

Fuck -

‘When?’

Fuck, fuck -

‘We’ll be waiting.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor. He finishes and he blows the loose hair away. He picks up a Philips screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer. He stands behind me.

They are coming -

They are coming -

They are coming into room -

They are here:

They shout: ‘Wakey, wakey.’

They kick BJ’s chair.

They slap BJ’s head.

‘Put your masks on,’ says one of them. ‘And take their bags off.’

They take bag off.

BJ blink in light, light from single light bulb.

‘Take their gags off.’

They take gag off.

Joe says: ‘What the fuck -’

They punch Joe.

BJ know where this place be:

Flat above shop on Bradford Road -

Flat above shop where two men are tied up and bleeding under a single light bulb; three men in overalls and masks with hammers and wrenches stood over Joe and BJ.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor. He finishes and he blows the loose hair away. He picks up a Philips screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer. He stands behind me. He puts the point of the screwdriver on the crown of my skull.

They grab Joe’s face in their hands.

They say: ‘You been a busy boy, haven’t you, Joseph?’

BJ can hear them laughing beneath their masks.

They step closer to Joe: ‘Wonder why that would be?’

They laugh: ‘Bit quiet about it.’

They say: ‘That’s not very polite, is it?’

‘Not very polite at all,’ they say.

‘Have to teach him some manners then, won’t we?’ they hiss.

‘We will,’ they nod.

‘Take his trousers down,’ they say.

Joe is squirming in his chair and bindings: ‘Please -’

They take his trousers down.

They take out hammer.

Joe is squirming and shaking, cock small and eyes big: ‘There’s no need…’

They lift hammer above their head and say: ‘Oh, but you see there’s always a need…’

They bring hammer down into top of his right knee -

‘Always a need for manners, Joseph.’

Joe is screaming.

BJ howling.

They lean into Joe’s face and say: ‘Gledhill Road, Morley. Whose idea was that?’

Joe is shaking. Joe is crying.

They ask him: ‘You still work for Eric, do you?’

Joe is wide-eyed -

Following them and their hammer as they pace beneath single white bulb -

Joe not daring to blink.

‘Joseph,’ they say. ‘Who set it up?’

Joe is opening and closing his stupid fat lips.

‘You do know who it was?’

Joe is nodding.

They lean down into his face and hiss: ‘So tell us.’

Joe is sniffing and Joe is stammering: ‘The one in Morley?’

‘Yes?’

‘Eric, it was Eric.’

‘Eric?’

Joe is nodding and nodding and nodding.

‘No-one else?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t think it up all on your lonesome, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t think you’d use the money to get away, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Get away from your obligations, your commitments?’

‘No.’

‘To us? To your friends?’

‘No.’

‘Not to drop your friends in the shit and do a runner; that not your plan?’

‘No.’

‘Payback?’

And Joe Rose looks up at BJ for a split fucking second -

A split fucking second in which he ends his life.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor. He finishes and he blows the loose hair away. He picks up a Philips screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer. He stands behind me. He puts the point of the screwdriver on the crown of my skull. He brings the hammer down -

Down for a second time -

Down for a third -

Until they say: ‘He’s dead.’

He looks up at single, blood-specked light bulb and then down at man tied up and soaked in blood under it; two other men in overalls and masks with hammers and wrenches stood over Joe -

He takes off his mask and he looks at BJ, stares at BJ -

Tied up and splattered in Joe Rose’s blood under a single white light bulb.

He comes towards BJ.

He takes BJ’s face in his hands.

He wipes away Joe’s blood with BJ’s tears.

He kisses BJ’s forehead and he kisses BJ’s cheek.

He takes a photograph from inside his overalls.

He shows it to BJ.

It is BJ’s mother.

BJ mouth open and -

He puts a finger to BJ’s lips.

He says: ‘I think you need a new friend, Barry.’

BJ nod.

He says: ‘Can I be your friend?’

BJ nod.

He taps photograph of BJ’s mother: ‘I’ll help you then.’

BJ nod.

‘Will you help me?’

BJ nod.

‘Will you go to the Spencer Boys for me?’

BJ nod.

‘Will you tell them Joe is dead?’

BJ nod.

‘Will you tell them Eric Hall killed him?’


BJ -


‘Will you?’


BJ -


He taps photograph again: ‘I’ll help you, if you help me.’


BJ -


‘Isn’t that what friends are for?’

Head bobbed and wreathed, BJ nod -

It is 1977 -

Not heaven.


Chapter 37

The family gone -

The telephone is ringing and ringing and ringing.

I don’t answer it -

I haven’t time.

Sunday 26 March 1972:

‘I think about you -’

Crawling through Huddersfield and on to the M62, over the moors and on to Rochdale, the stage bare but for the wraiths and the sheep, the pylons and the pile-ups, the sky black:

‘Heath names Roman Catholic as Minister of State in Northern Ireland as strikes cripple Ulster and soldiers face angry Protestant crowds and buildings blaze…’

I switch off the radio, talking to myself:

‘Susan Louise Ridyard, aged ten, missing seven days. Last seen at 3.55 p.m. on Monday 20 March outside Holy Trinity Junior and Infants School, Rochdale…’

The hard rain -

‘She knows, Maurice. She knows.’

The wraiths and the sheep -

‘She sees her.’

The pylons and the pile-ups -

‘She’s waiting for you.’

The sky black and only black -

‘I think about you all the time.’

I pull up on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a telephone box. It is the colour of dried, spilt blood.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m parking two doors down from Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a strained part of Rochdale -

Strained by the waiting ambulance, the two police cars and the men at the door.

It’s pissing down and there’s no sign of George.

Mr Ridyard is standing in the doorway talking to one of the uniforms.

I walk along the pavement and up their path, the rain in my face.

‘Nice weather for ducks,’ says Derek Ridyard.

I nod. I shake his hand. I show my warrant card to the uniform. I follow Mr Ridyard inside -

Through into their front room, dark with the rain -

Dark with their pain -

The seventh day:

Mrs Ridyard is sitting on the sofa in her slippers. She has her arms tight around her older son and other daughter, the children looking at the hands in their laps -

The patterns in the carpet.

‘Sit down,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

I sit down opposite the sofa. I smile at the kids. I look at Mrs Ridyard.

Mrs Ridyard is staring at the framed photograph on the top of the television -

The framed photograph of three children sat together in school uniforms, the older son and other daughter with their arms around the youngest girl:

Susan Louise Ridyard -

All big white teeth and a long fringe, smiling.

The framed photograph of two girls and one boy that’ll become just one girl and one boy in the photographs on the sideboard, the photographs in the hall, the photographs on the wall, the one girl and one boy growing -

Always growing but never smiling -

Never smiling because of the little girl they’ll leave behind on top of the TV, the little girl who’ll be always smiling -

Never growing but always smiling:

Susan Ridyard -

The one they’ll leave behind.

I look away out of the window at the new and detached houses across the road, the neighbours at their curtains, the rain hard against their windows.

‘Here we are,’ says Mr Ridyard, coming back in with the tea on a tray.

I smile.

Mr Ridyard puts down the tray. He looks up at me. He says: ‘Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Sweet enough already,’ he says, quietly.

I try not to stare -

Not to stare at the woman on the sofa in her slippers, arms tight around her older son and other daughter.

I look away again out of the window at the new and detached houses across the road, the neighbours at their curtains, the rain hard against their windows -

That same rain hard against the Ridyards’ leaking, rotting frames -

The only sound.

I say: ‘My name is Maurice Jobson and I’m with Leeds CID. Three years ago a little girl called Jeanette Garland went missing over Castleford way and I was involved in that investigation -’

They are looking at me now -

The children blankly, their father intently -

Their mother, his wife nodding -

Nodding and saying: ‘You never found her, did you?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Not yet?’

‘The investigation is still open.’

There are trails of tears down Mrs Ridyard’s face -

Trails of tears that leave red scars upon her cold, white skin.

Mrs Ridyard looks up through her tears and their trails -

Looks up through her tears and their trails with hate -

Hate and blame -

With hate and blame she looks into my face;

A face where she can see no trails of tears, no red scars upon my cold, white skin.

I say: ‘Mrs Ridyard, I think you know where your daughter is.’

Silence -

The rain hard against her leaking, rotting frames, the only sound -

The only sound before she howls -

Her mouth open, contorted and screaming -

She howls -

Her bone-white fingers digging into the faces of her older son and daughter -

Her husband on his feet: ‘What? What are you saying?’

I say: ‘You see her, don’t you?’

Howling -

Contorted and screaming, her mouth open -

Her face to the ceiling, her eyes wide with the pain -

The pain in the belly where she grew her -

Digging -

Digging bone-white fingers into the faces of her older son and daughter -

Shaking -

Shaking with tears, tears of sadness and tears of rage, tears of pain and tears of -

Horror -

Horror and pain, rage and sadness, raining down between her bone-white fingers, raining down between her bone-white fingers on to her children, the children she clutches between her bone-white fingers and broken arms, arms shaking with the tears, the tears of pain and the tears of horror, the tears of sadness and the tears of rage, the tears for -

Susan -

All big white teeth and a long fringe, smiling.

I ask: ‘Where is she?’

Her mouth open, contorted: ‘Those beautiful new carpets -’

Screaming: ‘Under those beautiful new carpets -’

And howling: ‘I see her -’

Bone-white fingers pointing through the trails of tears -

Pointing through her leaking, rotting frames -

The rain hard against their windows, all our windows -

Her husband on his feet, on his knees -

The children looking at the hands in their laps -

The patterns in the carpet -

The patterns that once were roads for their toys -

Roads now flooded with tears -

Mrs Ridyard pointing across the road -

She is pointing at the new and detached houses across the road -

The neighbours at their curtains, the rain hard against their windows -

Their lights already on.

In their bathroom, the cold tap is running and I am washing my hands -

‘I think about you all the time -

Judith, Paul and Clare, unknown to me as to where they’ve gone or how they are, if they’ll come back or if they’ll not; thinking of Mandy; thinking of Jeanette and now Susan -

‘Under the spreading chestnut tree -

The cold tap still running, still washing my hands -

‘In the tree, in her branches -

Washing and washing and washing my hands -

‘Where I sold you and you sold me -

Maurice Jobson; the new Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson -

Stood before the mirror in their bathroom, stood behind these thick lenses and black frames, stood staring back into my own eyes, into me -

The Owl -

‘I’ll see you in the tree -

Outside the bathroom I can hear the woman’s muffled and terrible sobs, here amongst the smell of the pines, piss and excrement -

‘In her branches.’

In the doorway, the uniform and I are looking at the detached houses across the road.

‘You checked them out, did you?’

He nods; cold, wet and insulted.

‘When were they built?’

He shrugs; cold, wet and unsure. ‘Couple of years ago.’

‘Who by?’

‘What?’

‘Who built them?’

He shakes his head; cold, wet and stupid.

‘You tell Mr Oldman and Mr Hill that Detective Chief Superintendent Jobson suggests they find out.’

He nods; cold, wet and humiliated.

Mr Ridyard steps into his doorway, red eyes up at the black clouds above.

‘Do wonders for the allotments, that,’ he says.

‘Imagine so,’ I nod -

His daughter’s little bones already cold and underground.

Beneath her shadows -

Dark hearts.

Kissing then fucking -

Cat piss and petunia, desperate on a sofa stripped of rugs and cushions.

Fucking then kissing -

She has her head upon my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.

Behind the curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass -

Wanting in.

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ I say -

‘Never want to lose you,’ I say.

The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass of her big window -

Wanting in.

Laughing, she says: ‘You couldn’t lose me -’

Laughing, she whispers: ‘Even if you wanted to.’

Sobbing, weeping -

Wanting in.

She kisses my fingertips and then stops, holding my fingers to the candlelight -

The ugly candlelight.

She lifts her face and says: ‘You can find them, you know you can.’

But her face in the candlelight, her face is white and still dead -

Lost -

Sobbing, weeping -

Hearts -

Asking to be let in.

The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cry.

Inside -

Inside your scorched heart.

A house -

A house with no doors.

I wake in the dark, beneath her shadows -

‘I’ll see you in the tree -’

Tapping against the pane.

She’s lying on her side in a white bra and underskirt, her back to me -

Branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table -

The branches tapping against the pane.

Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, terrible tunes and words in my head -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, terrible tunes and words in my head, listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

I look at my watch -

‘In her branches.’

Past midnight.

I reach for my glasses and get out of the bed without waking her and I go through into the kitchen, a paper on the mat, and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find a teapot in the cupboard and two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and I pour it into the cups and put two teabags in the teapot and take the kettle off the ring and pour the water on to the teabags and let it stand, staring out of the small window, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a married man undressed but for a pair of white underpants and glasses, these thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a married man undressed in another woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning -

Monday 27 March 1972.

I put the teapot and cups and saucers on a tray and take it into the big room, stopping to pick up the paper, and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk and I open the paper:

POLICE CHIEF’S SON KILLED IN CRASH

George Greaves, Chief Reporter


The son of top local policeman George Oldman was killed when the car his father was driving was involved in a head-on collision with another vehicle on the A637 near Flockton, late Saturday night.

Detective Superintendent Oldman’s eldest daughter was also described as being in a serious condition in intensive care at Wakefield’s Pinderfields Hospital. Mr Oldman and his wife, Lillian, and their other daughter were being treated for minor injuries and shock and it was believed they would be discharged later today.

The driver of the other vehicle is described as being in a serious but stable condition, although police have yet to release the driver’s name.

It is believed that Mr Oldman and his family were returning from the wedding reception of another policeman when their car collided with a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction.

Mr Oldman’s son John was eighteen.

‘What is it?’ says Mandy behind me -

I hold up the paper.

She says nothing -

‘You knew?’ I ask.

Nothing -

Just the branches tapping against the pane, whispering over and over:

‘We’ll see you in the tree, in her branches.’


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