Part 4. There are no spectators

‘There are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times.’

– Voltaire


Chapter 38

You can’t sleep; you can’t sleep; you can’t sleep -

Your head hurts, your mouth hurts, your eyes hurt;

But you drive; drive all night; drive in circles -

Circles of hell; local, local hells:

‘The mother of the missing Morley child, Hazel Atkins, yesterday renewed her appeal for information about the disappearance of her ten-year-old daughter.

‘“I know in my heart that Hazel is alive and that someone somewhere is keeping her. I would like to ask that person to please bring Hazel home to her family and we will help you in any way we can. But we need you to bring her home today because we miss her very, very much.”

‘Hazel disappeared on her way home from school in Morley three weeks yesterday. Police have made a number of arrests since that day but have yet to charge anyone in connection with the case nor have they had any confirmed sightings of the missing girl since her disappearance on May 12.’

It is Friday 3 June 1983 -

You can’t sleep because you hurt; you hurt so you drive; you drive in circles;

Circles of tears; local, local tears:


D-6 .


Shangrila -

An enormous white bungalow lain bare on a wet black hill.

You walk up the drive, past the goldfish and the new Rover, the rain on your bandages and your bruises.

You press the doorbell. You listen to the chimes.

It is six-thirty and the milk is on the doorstep.

The door opens -

He is in his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas. He blinks. He says: ‘John?’

‘Clive.’

‘Look like you’ve been in the wars, John?’

‘I have,’ you tell him. ‘A fucking long one and it isn’t over.’

‘That which doesn’t kill us -’

‘Fuck off, Clive.’

McGuinness looks at you. He says: ‘So what brings you out to my house at six-thirty on a Friday morning, John?’

‘Answers, Clive. I want some fucking answers.’

‘And you can’t just pick up a bloody phone and set up a meeting like anyone else, can you?’

‘No.’

‘John, John,’ he sighs. ‘He was guilty. He hung himself. End of fucking story.’

You don’t say anything.

‘Give it up as a bad job, mate.’

You wait.

‘OK?’ he says.

You cough. You turn. You spit once on his drive.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’ he says. ‘Now if you don’t bloody mind, John, I want to get dressed and have my breakfast. Some of us have still got an office to go to.’

You have your foot in his door. You say: ‘Michael Myshkin.’

‘What?’

‘I’m here about Michael Myshkin, Clive.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s appealing. I’m representing him.’

He looks at you.

‘What?’ you say. ‘Didn’t Maurice Jobson tell you?’

He blinks.

‘Not had a falling out, have you? You and the Chief?’

‘What do you want, John?’

‘I told you; answers.’

He swallows. He says: ‘I haven’t heard any questions yet, John.’

You smile. You say: ‘Well, I’ve heard quite a few about you, Clive.’

‘From Michael Myshkin?’

You nod.

‘So fucking what?’ he says. ‘He did it. He confessed.’

‘Just like Jimmy.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Just like Jimmy.’

‘Except Michael tells me that he didn’t do it. That his confession was gained under duress. That he told you this. But Michael says you advised him to stick to the confession. That you would help him. That he would only stay in prison for a short time.’

‘He did it, John.’

‘You were his solicitor, Clive. You were supposed to advise him of his legal rights. You were supposed to defend him.’

‘He -’

‘Protect him.’

‘Look,’ he shouts. ‘He fucking did it.’

You shake your head.

‘There was forensic evidence, John. Witnesses.’

You shake your head.

‘You know what hypogonadism is, do you, John? It means your balls don’t grow. That’s what Myshkin had. Doctors shot him full of fucking hormones. Cranked him up to ten. Poor bastard couldn’t control himself. Week before he did what he did to that poor little lass, he was wanking himself off in front of two teenage girls in the fucking graveyard next to Morley Grange Infants. He did it. He might not have been able to help himself, John, but he did it. He fucking well did it.’

You stand on his doorstep, the rain in your bandages and your bruises. You say: ‘What were their names, Clive?’

‘Who?’

‘The girls in the graveyard.’

‘I can’t remember, John,’ he sighs. ‘Be in the court records.’

‘He pleaded guilty, Clive. They were never called. Remember?’

‘For the life of me, after all these years, John, I couldn’t tell you.’

You look into his eyes, look into the lies -

The lies and the greed -

The stains from the hours before the mirror:

The lies, the greed and the guilt.

‘John, John,’ he says. ‘There’s no need for it to be like this.’

‘Be like what?’

‘Just look at the state of you, man.’

You stare at him.

‘Walk away, John,’ he tells you. ‘Walk away.’

You stare at him in his silk dressing-gown and his best pyjamas.

‘There’s nothing but pain here,’ he says. ‘Nothing but pain, John.’

‘You’re going to be the one in fucking pain, Clive.’

‘I hope that’s not a threat, John?’

‘Call it a prediction.’

‘In the fortune-telling business are you now, John?’

‘And what business are you in, Clive?’

He starts to speak -

You say: ‘How about the intention to pervert the course of justice business?’

He shrugs. He says: ‘You do like your lost causes, don’t you, John?’

You turn. You say: ‘See you in court, Clive.’

‘Don’t doubt it, John,’ he says. ‘Don’t doubt it.’

You walk down the drive, past the new Rover and the goldfish, the rain in your bandages and your bruises.

‘Maurice told me about your father, John,’ McGuinness shouts down the drive. ‘Sounds like brave men run in your family.’

You stop. You turn round. You walk back up the drive.

He starts to close the door -

You start to run.

‘Fuck off, John!’

You crash into the door. Into him -

‘Fuck off -’

You have him by his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas -

‘Fuck -’

You clench your fists. You raise them. You look down at him -

He is struggling on the floor, wriggling -

Struggling and wriggling in his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas -

Pleading with you:

‘John, John -’

You pull him up towards you. You look at him -

‘John -’

You spit in his face. You let him go.

He falls to the floor.

You walk away.

You park in the lay-by. You turn off the engine. You wait. You watch.

Twenty minutes later, the Rover pulls out of the end of the road.

You wait for a moment. You watch it go round the bend.

You turn on the engine. You follow the Rover:

Methley -

East Ardsley -

Tingley -

Bruntcliffe Road on to Victoria Road, left up Springfield Avenue -

Morley.

You pull up on Victoria Road. You turn the car around. You park opposite Morley Grange Junior and Infants School, in the shadow of the black steeple -

The graveyard.

You are facing Springfield Avenue. You get out. You lock the doors. You cross the road. You run back along Victoria Road. You turn up Springfield Avenue. You can see his new Rover parked outside a semidetached house on the right. You walk back to your car. You get in. You wait. You watch.

Forty minutes later, the Rover comes out of Springfield Avenue. It turns left. It comes towards you.

You duck down in your seat -

McGuinness alone. McGuinness gone.

You get out. You lock the doors. You cross the road. You run back along Victoria Road. You turn up Springfield Avenue. You walk up the drive of the semi-detached house on the right. You knock on the door.

‘Spot of afters,’ she says as she opens the door. She is wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt and a pair of yellow knickers. Her mouth is open -

‘Hello, Tessa,’ you say.

She tries to shut the door in your face.

You put your foot in the way. You lean on the door. You force your way in. You slam the door shut.

‘Fuck off,’ she spits and picks up the phone. ‘I’m calling -’

‘Calling who?’ you laugh. ‘Your solicitor?’

You snatch the phone out of her hands. You rip the cord out of the wall.

‘What do you want?’

You grab her hair. You tip her head back.

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘You set Michael up. You set Jimmy up.’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’

‘No!’

You wrap the telephone cord around the tops of her arms.

‘Please…’

You pull it tight.

‘It’s not what it looks like,’ she is saying. ‘Not what you think.’

You knot it. You push her through into the front room. You throw her on the floor. You draw the curtains. You switch the TV off. You light a cigarette.

‘John,’ she says. ‘Please, listen to me…’

You are stood over her.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she whispers. ‘But you’re wrong.’

You shake your head. ‘You called Jimmy.’

‘No -’

‘You told me you did.’

‘No -’

‘He came to meet you.’

‘No -’

‘The police were waiting for him.’

‘No -’

‘You planned it with McGuinness.’

‘No -’

‘You set him up.’

‘No -’

‘You set Jimmy up just like you set Michael Myshkin up.’

‘No -’

‘You had to, because it was you who told the police about Michael. It was you who said he exposed himself. You who said he’d been wanking in the graveyard.’

‘It’s -’

‘You were one of the girls they were going to call.’

‘I -’

You look down at her.

She nods.

You shake your head.

She looks away.

‘How could you?’ you say. ‘How fucking could you?’

She looks up at you.

You look away.

‘It was during summer holidays. Jimmy was working on the new houses. Michael used to pick him up from work in his van every night. We used to see them mucking around in churchyard. We started talking to them, me and some of the others. Michael could get us booze and cigs from off-licence. Used to all get pissed. Just mucking about in churchyard. I started to go out with Jimmy. But Michael was always about because of his van and fact he could get us the booze and stuff. Jimmy used to say Michael had never had a girlfriend. Never been kissed or anything. Jimmy was dead rotten to him. Just used him. Teased him. Bullied him. Made Michael try and get off with some of the lasses or Jimmy would pay some of lasses to get off with Michael. It was fucking cruel, I know. But Michael wasn’t bothered. He wasn’t interested. He had eyes -’

You look down at her.

‘He only had eyes for one girl.’

‘No,’ you say.

‘He went on about her all the time.’

‘No -’

‘How he could save her.’

‘No -’

‘He had a photo -’

‘How -’

‘From his work.’

‘No -’

‘All the time -’

‘No -’

‘He’d look at it all the time -’

‘No -’

‘For hours.’

‘No -’

‘He talked to it.’

‘Shut up!’

‘It’s the truth -’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s the truth, John!’

‘Fuck off!’ you shout. ‘You ever actually see them together, did you?’

She looks up at you. She shakes her head.

‘Rumours. Innuendo. Circumstantial fucking -’

‘Not Clare,’ she whispers.

You look at her.

‘Jeanette.’

You close the door. You walk down the drive. Back down Springfield Avenue. You turn on to Victoria Road. You go back down the road towards the graveyard, the Church and the school. You cross the road. You take out your car keys. You unlock the car door. You open it -

‘Help me,’ she says -

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

‘We’re in -’

You fall backwards into the road -

An election van brakes -

A woman drops her shopping -

You lie in the road in a ball -

The rain falling through the dark quiet trees -

The rain in your bandages, the rain in your bruises -

A man shouts: ‘Somebody call the police!’

You pull into the car park behind the Redbeck Cafй and Motel -

The Viva is gone -

Hazel too.

You park. You wait. You watch -

You watch the row of deserted rooms -

Their boarded glass, their padlocked doors.

You get out. You lock the car door. You walk across the car park -

That depressed, coarse car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot.

You walk across the rough ground to the bogs round the side -

They reek. The tiled floor covered in old, black piss. The mirror broken and the light smashed. The sink stained with brown water from a busted tap. There is one cubicle without a door, the toilet inside without a seat. The whole room engrossed in a thousand different inks and words of -

Hate.

Always hate, always -

Fear -

Fear and hate, hate and fear;

You’ve been here before -

Now you’re back for more -

Always back to here;

This the place -

The place you never left:

Never left the motel room of a forgotten cafй on a tedious road in a barren place; the place you’ve been for the last six years -

Stolen wine/stolen time.

Piss on your bandages and down your trousers, you walk out of the toilets and along the row, past the broken windows and the graffiti, the mountains of rubbish and the birds and the rats that feast here, walking towards the door -

The door to one room in a row of disused motel rooms -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain -

You stop before the door:

Room 27 -

The place you’ve been for the last six years.

You pull open the door -

The room is dark and cold.

You step inside -

The remains of a devoured mattress against the window;

No light here -

No words upon the wall, no photographs -

Nothing but pain.

You walk across the floor -

Shattered furniture and splintered wood underfoot;

Walk across the floor to stand before the wall.

You take the photograph from your pocket -

A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper;

You take the photograph and you stick it on the wall.

You sit down upon the base of the bed -

The relentless sound of the rain on the window and the door;

The door banging in the wind and the rain.

You close your eyes -

The Fear here -

The place you never left;

The dogs barking -

The Wolf at the door.


Chapter 39

It’s Christmas and I’m coming up hill, swaying, bags in my hand. Plastic bags, carrier bags, Tesco bags. A train passes and I bark, stand in middle of road and bark at train. I am a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three-quarter-length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it and dark brown trousers and brown suede calf-length boots. I turn left and see a row of six deserted narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti and their doors showing remnants of green paint, last door banging in wind, in rain. I hold open door and I step inside. It is small, about twelve feet square, and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex. There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish. In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty. A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing. A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing. On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint. I hear door open behind me and I turn around and I’m -

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

‘What shall we do for rent?’ I sing.

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

Just a girl -

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


*

BJ wake up, sweating:

It is Saturday 27 December 1980.

BJ lie in bed and watch rain and lights and cracks in ceiling.

There’s someone at door -

(Always someone at door) -

Someone knocking on door: ‘Phone.’

‘Ta,’ BJ say. ‘Ta very much.’

It is Saturday 27 December 1980 -

BJ back in Preston -

St Mary’s Hostel:

Blood and Fire etched in stone above door.

‘What?’

‘Did you call him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘You know where.’

‘You’ve got the picture?’

‘I’ve got picture.’

BJ hang up and stand in institutional corridor. BJ’s eyes black and lips raw, nose broken and hand bandaged. These green and cream walls defaced with insults and with numbers.

BJ staring at sevens, but they mean nothing now -

Not now in 1980 -

Now is time of sixes:

Six six sixes -

Illuminated.

BJ go back up steep stairs and walk down narrow corridor to room at end.

Door is open.

BJ go inside.

It is cold in here.

Light doesn’t work.

BJ sit at table by window.

It is raining outside.

There are pools of water forming on windowsill.

A train goes past.

A dog barks.

The window shakes -

Rattles.

BJ wish BJ were dead.


Chapter 40

Saturday 14 December 1974:

100 miles an hour -

North up the motorway:

Never leave home, never leave home, never fucking leave home ever -

Through the night, screaming:

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

8.15 a.m.

Millgarth, Leeds:

Up the stairs to my old office -

‘He in?’ I say to Julie, my old secretary -

Julie on her feet: ‘He’s in a meeting.’

‘Who with?’ I say, not waiting -

‘Journalist from the Post.’

Fingers on the handle: ‘Jack?’

‘No.’

I let go of the handle.

‘You’ll have to wait,’ she says.

‘I can’t.’

She nods. She picks up the phone on her desk. She presses a button.

I hear his phone buzz on the other side of the door.

‘Thanks, love,’ I say.

She smiles. She says: ‘How’s Bishopgarth?’

‘Don’t ask me. I was in London until three o’clock this morning.’

‘Mr Oldman knows you’re back?’

‘If he’s any bloody brains, he does.’

She shakes her head. She says: ‘Won’t you sit down.’

I look at my watch. ‘I can’t.’

She picks up the phone again. She presses the button. The phone buzzes on the other side of the door.

‘Thank you,’ I say again.

The door opens a fraction. George is talking to someone inside. I hear him say: ‘You do your digging and I’ll do mine.’

I look at my watch.

I hear George laugh, hear him say: ‘Bismarck said a journalist was a man who’d missed his calling. Maybe you should have been a copper, Dunstan?’

I look at my watch again.

Julie presses the button. She keeps her finger on it.

George Oldman opens the door wide. He leads out a young man -

A young man I’ve never seen before.

‘Not a word,’ George is telling him. ‘Not a bloody word.’

George lets go of the young man’s hand.

The man walks off.

George Oldman turns to me. He’s pissed off.

‘Maurice,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Thought we’d have seen you sooner.’

‘I was in London at the conference,’ I say. ‘Nobody told me. Nobody called.’

‘Somebody must have -’

‘I sleep with the fucking radio on, George.’

He smiles. ‘What about them psychic contacts of yours?’

I ignore him. I walk past him into my old office.

He follows me inside.

I shut the door. I want to take my seat behind my desk. I don’t -

He does. He says: ‘It’s Leeds, Maurice.’

‘Jeanette Garland wasn’t. Susan Ridyard wasn’t.’

‘You’re as bad as that bloody journalist,’ he spits -

‘I’m not alone for once then?’

‘Early days, Maurice, you know that,’ he says. ‘Early days.’

I shake my head. I say: ‘It’s been over five years, George.’

‘Look in long run, it doesn’t bloody matter who -’

‘Long run?’ I laugh. ‘I’m the fucking long run, George. Not you.’

He sighs. He rubs his eyes. He looks at me across my old desk -

His eyes empty. His hands shaking. He says: ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

He picks up a file off the desk. He flings it across at me. It lands on the floor. ‘There you go,’ he says.

I pick it up. I open it. I look at the photograph -

Clare Kemplay.

‘Was there anything else?’ he sighs.

I look up at him sat behind my desk. I tell him: ‘I want in.’

‘Talk to Angus,’ he says. ‘His call, not mine.’

‘George -’

He stands up. ‘I’ve got a fucking press conference in five minutes.’

The Conference Room, Millgarth Police Station, Leeds.

I stand at the back. I wait. I watch the faces -

Looking for the man who’d been upstairs with George.

There’s a nudge to my ribs. I turn around -

‘Jack,’ I say. ‘Just the man I wanted.’

‘That’s what all the girls say,’ grins Jack, fresh whiskey on his breath.

‘Thought it was someone else from the Post on this one?’

Jack laughs. He points down the front: ‘You mean him?’

The young man from upstairs is talking and laughing with the rest of the pack -

Hounds, the lot of them.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Scoop,’ laughs Jack.

‘Very funny, Jack,’ I sigh. ‘His fucking name please?’

‘Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.’

‘Thought that were you?’

Jack rolls his red eyes. ‘Crime Reporter of the Year, if you don’t mind.’

‘And I can see why,’ I say. I look at my watch:

Nine.

Down the front the side door opens:

Everyone quiet as Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, and Oldman troop out.

‘Here,’ whispers Jack. ‘Your Mandy got any messages for us, has she?’

‘Fuck off,’ I hiss and leave him to it -

The whole bloody lot of them.

I go up the stairs and along the corridor -

Lots of nods and handshakes and pats on the back as I go.

In the Leeds half of the Incident Room, a familiar face:

John Rudkin in a bright orange tie -

‘Boss,’ he says. ‘They let you out then?’

‘Day release.’

‘How are you?’ he asks.

‘Who can say?’

He nods -

Both staring across at the enlarged photograph of another missing schoolgirl -

Trapped in the claws of Time -

Tacked up on the far wall between a map of Morley dotted with pins and flags and a blackboard covered in chalk letters and numbers, her physical measurements and a description of her clothing -

Orange waterproof kagool; dark blue turtleneck sweater; pale blue denim trousers with eagle motif on back left pocket; red Wellington boots -

A telephone is ringing:

Somewhere on the other side of the room someone picks it up. They shout something to Rudkin. John picks up the one on his desk. He listens. He looks up at me -

His face full of shadow -

He hands me the phone.

I swallow. I say: ‘This is Maurice Jobson speaking.’

Mandy says: ‘Maurice -’

The telephones all ringing at once, every single fucking one -

Bloody wings -

People picking them up -

I’ve seen her -

People shouting to Rudkin -

Down by the prison -

Rudkin picking them up one after another -

In a ditch -

Rudkin listening -

She’s dead -

Rudkin looking at me -

‘Maurice,’ she’s crying. ‘Maurice -’

I drop the receiver -

She had wings, bloody wings -

The room, the building, the whole fucking place full of shadow:

The shadow of the Horns.

100 miles an hour back down the motorway -

I see her -

Lights and sirens -

Down by the prison -

Into Wakefield -

In a ditch -

My new patch -

She’s dead -

Patch of sheer fucking, bloody hell.

Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield -

In the shadow of the prison:

The wasteland beside the Dewsbury Road -

Across from St Michael’s.

Drive straight on to the rough ground, two police cars already here -

More on their way;

Door open before the car’s stopped -

Boots in the mud;

George barking at the uniforms -

My uniforms.

I’m out the car, my hand on his shoulder -

‘You don’t work round here any more,’ I tell him. ‘I do.’

‘Fuck off, Maurice!’ he shouts -

But I’m past him, waving at the gallery, telling my lads: ‘Get them out of here.’

Barking my orders to my boys -

360° as I cross the ground;

Oldman, Alderman, Prentice, Rudkin -

Everyone else in my wake;

Rain in our faces -

Cold and black.

180° I see it -

Big bold letters flapping in the piss:

Foster’s Construction -

Cold and fucking black.

Another 180° and I’m there -

The edge of the ditch;

I stop -

Stop dead:

The air that I breathe, choking me -

The rain;

I look away -

Look up at the bloody grey sky;

I’m crying -

Tears, cold and fucking black;

The air that I breathe, killing me -

I drop to my knees, my hands together:

I see her -

I SEE HER NOW;

On my knees, hands together -

Praying:

In the shadow of his Horns -

Sleep, silent angel, go to sleep.

Dark times -

No darker day -

This Third Day:

Eleven in the morning -

Saturday 14 December 1974:

Yorkshire -

Wakefield:

Wood Street Police Station -

Down the long, long corridor -

Room 1:

Terry Jones, thirty-one, in his black wet donkey jacket at our table -

Terry Jones of Foster’s Construction -

Terry Jones who was working on Brunt Street, Castleford, in July 1969 -

Terry Jones, working where we just found Clare Kemplay in December 1974.

I ask Terry Jones: ‘So tell us again, Terry, what happened?’

And Terry Jones tells me again: ‘Ask Jimmy.’

Back upstairs they’re shitting fucking bricks, already talk of bringing in outside Brass, the fucking Yard even, like we’re some gang of monkeys can’t find our arses without a bloody map, and I’m wishing to Christ there’d been no amalgamation, no West Yorkshire fucking Metropolitan Police and -

‘Maurice?’

Ronald Angus is looking at me -

Chief Constable Ronald Angus -

My Chief Constable.

I say: ‘Pardon?’

‘I said, George will do the Press Conference if you’ve no objections.’

I stand up. I say: ‘None.’

‘Where you going?’ asks Angus.

‘Well, if you’ve no objections,’ I smile. ‘I thought someone ought to try and catch the fucking cunt. If that is, you’ve no objections.’

Long dark times -

Endless dark day -

The Third Day:

Three-thirty in the afternoon -

Saturday 14 December 1974:

Yorkshire -

Wakefield:

Wood Street Police Station -

Down the long, long corridor -

Room 2:

We open the door. We step inside:

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice -

One with a long moustache, the other one with fine sandy hair:

Moustache and Sandy.

And me:

Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson -

Thick lenses and black frames -

The Owl.

And him:

James Ashworth, fifteen, in police issue grey shirt and trousers, long lank hair everywhere, slouched in his chair at our table, dirty black nails, dirty yellow fingers -

Jimmy James Ashworth of Foster’s Construction -

Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.

‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.

Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.

Prentice sits down at an angle to Ashworth. He takes a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his sports jacket. He passes them to Dick Alderman.

Dick Alderman walks around the room. He plays with the handcuffs.

I close the door to Room 2.

Dick Alderman puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist. He leans against one of the walls.

I sit down next to Jim Prentice, opposite Ashworth, watching his face -

In the silence:

Room 2 quiet -

Jimmy Ashworth looks up. He sniffs. He says: ‘You talk to Terry, did you?’

I nod.

‘He tell you same, did he?’

I shake my head. I say: ‘One more time, Jimmy.’

He slouches back in his chair. He sighs. He picks at his dirty black nails.

‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.

Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.

I push an open pack of fags his way. I say again: ‘One last time, Jimmy.’

He sniffs. He flicks his fringe out of his face. He takes a cigarette.

Jim Prentice holds out a lighter.

Ashworth leans in for a light. He looks up across the table at me. He smiles.

I turn away. I nod at Dick Alderman.

Dick takes two small steps from the wall. Dick smacks Jimmy Ashworth hard across the face.

The boy falls from his chair on to the floor.

Dick leans down. Dick shows him his right fist, the handcuffs over his knuckles. Dick says to Jimmy Ashworth: ‘Be this one next time, lad.’

Jim Prentice picks the scrawny little twat up off the floor. He plonks him back down in his seat.

‘Are we ready now?’ I ask.

‘I told you,’ he says.

I turn away. I look at Dick Alderman -

‘No, no,’ Ashworth screams. ‘No, wait…’

We wait:

‘I told you, we were hanging about for Gaffer. But he never come and it was raining so we were just arsing about, you know, drinking tea and stuff. I went over Ditch to have a waz and that’s when I saw her.’

‘Where was she, Jimmy?’

‘Near top.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I just froze, didn’t I?’

‘That’s when Terry came over, is it?’

He nods.

‘When you was all frozen?’

Jimmy Ashworth sniffs. He says: ‘Yes.’

I turn away. I nod.

Dick takes two steps from the wall. Dick smacks Ashworth hard across the face.

Ashworth falls from his chair again on to the floor.

Dick leans down. Dick shows him his right fist, the handcuffs over his knuckles. Dick says: ‘That was last with left, lad. I promise you.’

Jim Prentice picks the scrawny little twat up off the floor again. He plonks him back down in his seat.

‘The truth please, Jimmy?’

‘I must have gone back,’ he moans. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’

‘You want that gentleman over there to help jog that memory of yours, do you, Jimmy?’

‘No, no,’ he screams again. ‘No, listen will you…’

We listen:

‘I went back to shed, you’re right. I was hoping Gaffer would be there because he’d know what to do. But it was just Terry, wasn’t it?’

‘What about the others?’

‘They were off in van somewhere.’

‘So you and Terry Jones, the two of you went back over to Ditch?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. Terry telled me to phone you lot.’

‘So that was what you did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which phone you use?’

‘One on Dewsbury Road.’

‘We’ll check, you know that, don’t you?’

He nods.

‘Is that everything, Jimmy?’

Jimmy Ashworth nods again.

I look at Dick.

Dick shrugs.

I say: ‘Thank you, Jimmy.’

Dick takes the handcuffs off his knuckles. He steps out into the corridor.

Jim Prentice stands up. He says: ‘Good boy, Jimmy.’

I wait until he’s out in the corridor with Dick. I lean across the table. I bring the lad’s head towards me. I whisper into Jimmy’s ear: ‘One last question.’

Ashworth looks at me from under his fringe, his face swelling beneath his eyes.

I ask him: ‘What’s your Gaffer’s name?’

‘Mr Marsh,’ he whispers back.

‘George Marsh?’

He nods -

He nods. My heart pounds -

My heart pounds. My fists clench -

My fists clench. There is blood in my mouth.

I brush his long lank hair out of his face. I touch his cheek. I hold his cheek. I say: ‘Good boy, Jimmy.’

He nods.

‘Not a word,’ I tell him. ‘Not a word.’

He nods again.

I stand up. I step out into the corridor -

Dick and Jim are waiting.

I look at my watch -

It’s almost five:

They’ll be finishing the post-mortem -

The little thing cut to bits for a second time -

George Marsh sitting down for his tea.

I look up. I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor -

Familiar footsteps -

Bill Molloy coming towards me -

Retired Detective Chief Superintendent Badger Bill Molloy -

The black hair gone grey, his skin a terrible yellow.

I close the door to Room 2. ‘Bill?’ I say. ‘What you doing here?’

Bill Molloy tries to see over my shoulder. He turns back to me. He winks: ‘Helping hand, that’s all.’

I lock the door. I dial Netherton 3657.

I listen to it ring. It stops -

‘Netherton 3657, who’s speaking please?’

‘Is your dad there?’

‘No, he’s -’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s in hospital.’

‘Hospital? What’s wrong with him?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Which hospital?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can I speak to your mam?’

‘She’s not here.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s gone to see me dad.’

‘When she gets back, will you -’

There’s a knock at the door. I hang up.

Back upstairs with the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass, the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass in their nice new suits and polished shoes with their nice new sheepskins hanging by their trophies and their tankards, the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Brass with their beer guts and their wallets bulging in those nice new suits, the brand-new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Brass plus one ex-Brass:

Badger Bill Molloy -

The helping hand.

Plus one guest Brass:

Detective Superintendent Peter Noble -

The man who nicked Raymond Morris.

Ronald Angus, fingers in a church beneath his chin: ‘The Hunslet gypsy camp -’

Fuck, I’m thinking -

‘George,’ says Angus. ‘Would you care to brief the troops on the latest.’

Here we fucking go again:

‘Witness has given us a positive sighting of a white Ford Transit in Morley last Thursday night. This witness has been shown photos taken by surveillance at the Hunslet camp of a similarly described van and we now have a positive ID. I’ve got officers over in Rochdale picking up the Lamberts who also made a statement about a white van and some gypsies spotted around the time of Susan Ridyard’s disappearance,’ pants Oldman.

‘When we going to hit the bastards?’ asks Dick.

‘Midnight,’ says Oldman.

Prentice: ‘Bring the cunts back here?’

Oldman: ‘Split them between here and Queen’s.’

‘Briefing will be downstairs at ten,’ nods Angus. ‘Anything else?’

Bill Molloy looks across the table. He says: ‘You’re very quiet, Maurice.’

‘Not like you,’ smiles Oldman.

‘Not a crime, is it?’ I say.

Bill looks at me. He says: ‘It’s a coincidence, Maurice.’

‘What else could it be?’ I nod -

In my nice new suit and polished shoes with my nice new sheepskin on the wall, my beer gut and my wallet bulging in that nice new suit -

I nod because there’s nothing more to say -

They’re going to die in this hell -

We all are.

I drive out of Wakefield -

Up to Netherton.

I park at the end of Maple Well Drive -

The night here now.

All the bungalows but one have their lights on -

All the bungalows but number 16.

I get out -

I walk along the road.

Their house dark -

No van parked outside.

I go up the path -

Fucking bird table on the small lawn;

I ring the doorbell:

No answer.

I try again -

No answer.

I go round the back -

The curtains not drawn;

No fire left on -

Nothing.

I go back down the path -

Back to the car.

I get in and I wait -

I wait and I watch;

Wait and watch -

Nothing.

It’s gone nine when I turn into Blenheim -

Hearts cut, leaves lost;

I park in the drive. I open the car door. I spit -

That taste in my mouth;

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

Ugly moonlight and black rain;

The bottoms of my trousers, my socks and shoes, muddy -

Devil’s Ditch.

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

‘Maurice?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me, love.’

The door opens without the chain and there she is -

So truly fucking beautiful.

‘I saw her,’ she says.

I nod.

She takes my hand. She pulls me towards her -

‘I can’t,’ I say.

She looks at me -

‘I have to go back.’

‘She had wings, Maurice. Bloody wings -’

I nod.

‘I saw her.’

‘I know.’

She squeezes my hand -

‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ I say.

‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart.’

She squeezes my hand again -

‘Lock the door,’ I tell her.

There are three envelopes on my desk. I sit down with an unlit cig. I open the top envelope. I pull out two sheets of typed A4 and three enlarged black and white photographs:

The post-mortem.

I wipe my eyes. I look at my watch:

Eleven-thirty -

Saturday 14 December 1974.

I reach for the phone book. I turn the pages. I find the number I want. I pull the telephone closer. I dial, a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.

The number rings. And rings -

‘Ossett 256199. Who’s speaking please?’ a woman asks.

‘Is Edward there?’

‘Just a minute, please.’

There’s a pause -

Beethoven down the other end of the line.

‘Edward Dunford speaking.’

I ask him: ‘Saturday night all right for fighting?’

‘Who’s this?’

I wait.

‘Who is it?’

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘What do you want?’

‘You interested in the Romany Way?’

‘What?’

‘White vans and gyppos?’

‘Where?’

‘Hunslet Beeston exit of the M1.’

‘When?’

‘You’re late,’ I say. I hang up -


4 LUV .

Chapter 41

You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library for the last time -

It is Saturday 4 June 1983:

The car doors locked, you are staring into the rearview mirror and then the wing; the rearview and then the wing; rearview and then wing -

The relentless sound of the rain on the roof, the radio on as loud as it can go:

‘200 arrests at USAF base at Upper Heyford in Oxfordshire; VC’s widow accuses Healey of despicable and cheap conduct over his remarks about Mrs Thatcher and the Falklands; Dr Owen warns that the Tories need a constraining force to combat Mrs Thatcher and Norman Tebbit and that voters are afraid of Big Sister…

No Little Sister -

Rearview then wing; rearview wing; rearview:

Not today -


D-5 .


The key turns in the lock and you are up the stairs two at a time, pulling the last box down from the shelf -

July 1969.

Threading film, winding spools -


STOP -


Monday 14 July 1969:

Local Girl Missing – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter.

The parents of missing eight-year-old Jeanette Garland made an emotional plea late last night for information that might lead police to their daughter’s whereabouts. Jeanette was last seen on Saturday on her way to buy sweets at a local shop.

Tuesday 15 July 1969:

Girl Vanishes, Fourth Day, All-out Hunt – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter.


STOP -


Saturday 19 July 1969:

Medium Contacts Police – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter.


STOP -


Back to the shelf, back to 1972 -

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 from her Castleford street in 1969.


STOP.


STOP.


STOP -


Into the library toilets, dry-heaving -

Your stomach burning, bleeding again -

You retch. You puke. You spew -

Knowing it’ll soon be over, soon -

But you have to go back there:

Back to the room (back to all their rooms) -

Back to the shelf again (take them all down again):

The films, the spools -


STOP -


AGAIN -


Saturday 21 December 1974:

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

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


STOP -


AGAIN AND AGAIN -


Monday 23 December 1974:

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

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


STOP -


AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN -


You retch. Puke. Spew -

Blood in your mouth, blood on your shirt, blood on your hands -

Again and again and again -

Until it stops.

You drive through Wakefield and up the Barnsley Road, out of Wakefield and along the Doncaster Road, past the Redbeck into Castleford -

You pull up by a red telephone box. You get out. You walk over to the telephone box and open the door.

The phone is ringing.

You pick up the receiver. You listen -

There is a foreign voice on the other end;

You hang up. You wait -

No-one phones.

You stand in the red telephone box. You listen to the relentless sound of the rain on the roof of the telephone box. You watch the silent cars with all their killers at the wheel, watch them speed up and down the road, watch them point and laugh at you, missing children in their boots, tiny hands pressed to their back windows -

You pick up the receiver. You listen -

There’s no-one there;

The world outside so sharp and full of pain.

Brunt Street, Castleford -

You’ve been here before.

The car stinks of sick. You wind the window down. You stare across at 11.

The red door opens. A woman comes out under a flowered umbrella. She locks the door behind her. She walks past the car, her boots on the wet pavement as she goes -

Down Brunt Street -

Echoing.

‘Terrible,’ says the old woman for the third time, her arms folded against the rain and the memories, the bruised and bandaged fat man on her doorstep.

You nod.

‘Just seemed to be one bloody thing after another,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘All started with the little lass though.’

You nod again.

‘If that’d never have happened,’ she sighs. ‘They could have had everything.’

And you nod again.

‘But he goes and kills himself, husband. Next their Johnny, he starts getting in all kinds of bother, letting his talent go to waste. Then -’

You look up.

She is staring down the street. ‘Then she’s murdered, mother. Right there.’

You follow her pointing bones down the street to number 11.

‘Right there on our own bloody doorstep,’ she sighs again. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Terrible,’ you say.

‘Terrible,’ says the old woman across the road. ‘Never same again, mother was.’

You shake your head.

‘You wouldn’t be, would you?’

You shake your head again.

‘Lovely little lass,’ she sighs, folding the tea-towel in her hands. ‘Always so cheerful, she was. Always smiling.’

And you shake your head again.

‘I mean,’ she says. ‘That’s the thing about mongols, isn’t it? Always happy, aren’t they? I don’t reckon they know -’

You look up.

She is staring across the road. ‘They’re lucky that way.’

You turn round and look across at the red door.

‘Broad daylight it was,’ she sighs again. ‘Broad bloody daylight.’

‘Terrible,’ you say.

‘Terrible,’ says Mr Dixon, the man in the cornershop. ‘Back then didn’t used to open up until three of an afternoon so there always be a queue of kiddies and she’d be among them. Had to watch her with the money mind, being how she was.’

You nod.

‘Wasn’t there that last Saturday though,’ he sighs. ‘I remember that.’

You nod again, looking at the sweets and the crisps, the cigarettes and the alcohol, the pet food and the local papers.

You say: ‘Heard husband topped himself?’

‘Aye,’ says Mr Dixon. ‘Be a couple of years later, mind.’

You nod towards the door. ‘In that house?’

Mr Dixon shakes his head. ‘Wife would know, good with stuff like that she is. Know it wasn’t here though.’

‘The mother?’ you ask. ‘That was here though?’

Mr Dixon nods. ‘Oh aye, that was here.’

‘Not a very lucky family,’ you say.

‘This bloody street,’ whispers Mr Dixon, the bloody street listening at the door. ‘You know who else lived on here, don’t you?’

You shake your head.

‘The Morrisons,’ he says. ‘Clare and Grace?’

You stop shaking your head. You swallow. You stare. You wait.

‘Grace was one of them that got shot when them blokes did over Strafford in centre of Wakey?’

‘And Clare?’

‘They thought Ripper did her, over in Preston,’ he smiles. ‘He’s always denied it mind, has Ripper.’

‘Clare Strachan,’ you tell him.

He nods. ‘That’d be her married name.’

‘What about him?’ you say. ‘Ever see him round here?’

Mr Dixon takes the photo from you. He stares at the twenty-two-year-old face of Michael Myshkin -

Round and smiling.

Mr Dixon shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d remember him.’

You drive into Leeds. You park under the arches -

The Dark Arches;

Two black crows fighting with a fat brown rat over a bin-bag -

UK DK sprayed in white on a damp green wall;

You lock the car. You walk through the arches and out into the night -

It is Saturday 4 June 1983.

‘You shouldn’t keep coming here,’ says Kathryn Williams. ‘Folk’ll start talking.’

‘I wish they bloody would.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tell me what you know about Jeanette Garland.’

‘I -’

‘Her father?’

‘John, I -’

‘Her mother?’

‘Please John, I -’

‘Her uncle?’

Kathryn Williams is squeezing her hands together in her lap, her eyes closed.

‘Her neighbour?’

She opens her eyes: ‘Who?’

‘Clare Strachan,’ you say -

She stands up: ‘Not here.’

You grab her arm -

She looks down at it. She says: ‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Am I?’

‘Please John, I -’

‘I want to know if you think Michael Myshkin killed Jeanette Garland?’

‘John, I -’

‘Susan Ridyard?’

‘I -’

‘Clare Kemplay?’

She looks at you. She closes her eyes. She shakes her head.

The Press Club -

In the sights of the two stone lions -

Leeds City Centre:

Almost ten.

You are waiting outside in the rain.

They come along the road under two separate umbrellas.

‘John Piggott,’ says Kathryn Williams. ‘This is Paul Kelly.’

Paul Kelly juggles his briefcase and umbrella to shake your hand.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet,’ you say.

He looks at you. Your bandages and your bruises.

‘He’s had a bad week,’ says Kathryn.

Paul Kelly shrugs. He opens the Press Club door:

Members Only.

‘After you,’ you say to Kathryn.

She smiles.

You follow her down the steps.

It is badly lit and half empty.

You sit down at a table against the far wall.

‘What can I get you?’ you ask them both.

‘Nothing,’ says Paul Kelly.

‘You sure,’ you say.

‘You’re not a member,’ he smiles. ‘They won’t serve you.’

Kathryn Williams stands up. ‘I’ll get them.’

You hold out a fiver. ‘At least let me pay.’

She waves it away: ‘What do you want?’

‘Bitter,’ says Paul.

‘Water,’ you say. ‘If they’ve got any.’

Kathryn Williams looks at you. She smiles. She walks over to the bar.

You’re sitting across the table from Paul Kelly, your back to the bar and the door -

In the corner is a pool table with a game in progress.

‘Used to be a stage there,’ says Paul Kelly.

‘Really?’

‘A long time ago,’ he says.

You look up at the walls, the dark walls with their dim photographs of the famous and the dead. You look back -

Paul Kelly is staring at you.

You smile.

‘Recognise anyone?’ he asks.

‘John Charles, Fred Trueman, Harvey Smith,’ you say.

‘Had them all in here,’ he nods.

‘Not Sir Geoffrey?’

He smiles. He shakes his head. ‘More’s pity.’

Kathryn brings the drinks over on a tray. She sets them down.

She hands you your water. ‘Having a nice time?’

‘Just chatting,’ you say.

She lights a cigarette. She says: ‘What about?’

‘Yorkshire,’ you say, looking at Paul Kelly. ‘And the past.’

Paul Kelly glances at his watch.

Let’s Dance is on the jukebox.

Kathryn’s knee touches yours beneath the table -

(You say run) -

You move your knee closer into hers. She doesn’t move away -

(You say hide) -

‘So go on,’ Kathryn tells you. ‘Ask him.’

Paul Kelly looks up at you. He is waiting -

His pint already gone.

You cough. You shift your weight. You say: ‘I wanted to ask you about your cousin Paula. Her daughter Jeanette.’

Kathryn moves her leg away from yours -

(For fear tonight) -

Paul Kelly looks at you again. He tips his glass up.

You say: ‘Do you want another?’

‘Murdered cousin and missing niece?’ he says and shakes his head. ‘No, thanks.’

Kathryn stubs out her cigarette. She says: ‘Same again?’

You both look up at her, but she’s already at the bar.

You turn back to him -

He is staring at you again.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I’m representing a man called Michael Myshkin and -’

‘I know.’

‘I do appreciate -’

He nods towards Kathryn at the bar. ‘I only came here because she asked me.’

‘I appreciate that,’ you say. ‘It was very good of you.’

He shakes his head. He looks at his watch again. ‘Not really. She suffered as much as anyone.’

You take a cigarette from the pack she’s left on the table. You light it.

‘I suppose you know about Eddie? Jack Whitehead?’

‘Yes,’ you nod.

Kathryn brings the next round over on a tray. She sets them down.

‘Still having a nice time?’ she laughs, handing you another water.

You hold up the cigarette: ‘I took one of yours, sorry.’

‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Everyone else does.’

Kelly takes a big sip from his bitter. He says: ‘This is fun.’

Let’s Dance has finished.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say again.

‘Look, Mr Piggott,’ he says. ‘Ask your questions. But I think you’ll find you’re talking to the wrong Kelly.’

Down by the dark arches under the railway -

She pulls you up, bringing your mouth to hers as you topple on to the back seat -

A pretty young damsel chanced my way -

Her tongue pushes down harder on yours -

Down by the dark arches under the railway -

The taste of her own cunt in her mouth pushing her harder -

Singing Vilikens and Dinah, so blithe and so gay -

You take off her knickers -

Then I stepped up to her so gay and so free -

And she takes your cock in her right hand and guides it in -

To her did I say will you my sweetheart be?

Using your right hand to move your cock clockwise around the lips of her cunt -

Oh no, my gay young man that cannot be -

She digs her nails into your arse, wanting you in deeper -

There is a chap here in blue and he is a-watching me -

You go in hard, your stomach fat and sick -

And if he should see me, what would he say -

Kiss her hard, moving from her mouth to her chin and on to her neck -

Down by the dark arches under the railway -

‘Eddie,’ she whispers -

Pop goes the weasel -

You slip out of her cunt and off her -

Down by the dark arches -

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

You want to go home and drink sweet white wine and smoke some fine Red Leb watch TV with Pete and Norm and fall asleep on their sofa and wake up about five go downstairs and wank yourself back to sleep and get up late eat crispy pancakes and listen to records and do the crossword on the bog meet Gareth for Yorkshire Pudding and onion gravy on the Springs then sit in half-empty pubs playing the jukebox and pool end up in a disco dancing to Culture Club with ugly girls in Boots No. 7 buying them an Indian or a Chinky and tapping off having a shag planning an away day a cheap holiday, wishing you were far away -

But you’re not:

You’re here -

Where everybody knows.

Break my heart in two -

In the black, broken heart of the black, broken night, you pull into the Redbeck -

The Viva back.

A man sat alone in the car -

Headlights on.

They are shining on a door -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain:

Room 27 -

A light on inside;

A photograph stuck on a wall -

A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper;

A light on inside -

You don’t stop, you don’t stop, you don’t fucking stop -

For fear tonight is all.


Chapter 42

This man is at door to hell -

Preston, Sunday 28 December 1980.

Door is banging in wind and rain -

From station to station, this his destination:

The door to hell.

He pulls it back and he sees BJ.

‘Afternoon,’ BJ say.

‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘You got a name?’

I am not who I want to be -

‘No names.’

He points to his own wounds: ‘What happened to you?’

‘Occupational hazard,’ BJ say. ‘Goes with places I go.’

He looks around hell and he says: ‘Is this what you wanted to talk about? The places you go? This place?’

‘You been here before, have you, Mr Hunter?’

He nods: ‘Have you?’

I don’t know how to leave -

‘Oh yes,’ BJ say. ‘Many times.’

‘Were you here on the night of Thursday 20 November 1975?’

BJ brush hair out of two black eyes. BJ try to smile: ‘You should see your fucking face?’

‘Yours isn’t that good.’

‘How’s that song go: if looks could kill they probably will?’

‘I don’t know.’

BJ take piece of paper out of jacket. BJ hand it to him. BJ say: ‘Well, I do.’

He opens it. He looks at it:

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

He looks up at BJ then back at piece of paper:

Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975.

He looks up at BJ again.

BJ say: ‘Here comes a copper to chop off your head?’

‘You do this?’

‘What?’

‘Any of it?’

‘No, Mr Hunter.’ BJ say. ‘I did not.’

‘But you know who did?’

BJ shrug. BJ wait.

‘Tell me.’

BJ shake BJ’s head.

‘I’ll fucking arrest you.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘For what?’

‘Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Obstruction. Murder?’

‘That’s what they want.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Well then, you’ve obviously been overestimated.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning a lot of people seem to have gone to a lot of bother to make sure you’re not in Yorkshire and not involved with Ripper.’

‘So why do they want you arrested?’

‘Mr Hunter, they want me dead,’ BJ say, spinning truths from lies and lies from truths. ‘Arresting me’s just a way to get their hands on me.’

‘Who?’

BJ shake BJ’s head again. BJ try not to laugh: ‘No names.’

Not yet:

It isn’t working yet -

Hunter’s pissed off.

‘Stop wasting my time,’ he shouts and opens door -

The door out of hell.

But BJ there first, at door -

The door to hell.

BJ slam it shut.

‘Here,’ BJ tell him. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

He holds piece of paper up to BJ’s face. He says: ‘Start fucking talking then.’

BJ push him and paper away: ‘Fuck off.’

‘You called me,’ he shouts. ‘Why?’

‘I didn’t bloody want to, believe me,’ BJ say, moving away from him. ‘I had some serious doubts.’

‘So why?’

‘I was going to just post picture,’ BJ mutter. ‘Then I heard about your suspension and I didn’t know how long you’d be about.’

‘Just this,’ he says, holding up piece of paper. ‘That was all?’

BJ nod.

‘Why?’

‘I just want it to stop,’ BJ say. ‘Want them to stop.’

‘Who?’

‘No fucking names!’ BJ scream. ‘How many more times?’

He looks at BJ then back down at Clare: ‘So why here? Is this where it all started? With her?’

‘Started?’ BJ laugh. ‘Fuck no.’

‘Where it ended?’

‘Beginning of end, shall we say.’

‘For who?’

‘You name them?’ BJ whisper. ‘Me, you, her, – half fucking coppers you’ve ever met.’

He looks back down at piece of paper in his hands:

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

‘Why Strachan?’ he asks. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’

‘Why they murdered Clare?’ BJ shake BJ’s head. ‘No.’

‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

‘No.’

‘I want names -’

‘I’ll give you one name,’ repeating today’s instructions for today’s mission, BJ whisper. ‘And one name only.’

‘Go on?’

‘Her name was Morrison.’

‘Who?’

‘Clare – her maiden name was Morrison.’

‘Morrison?’

‘Know any other Morrisons, do you, Mr Hunter?’

‘Grace Morrison.’

‘And?’

‘The Strafford,’ he says. ‘She was the barmaid at the Strafford.’

‘And?’

‘They were sisters,’ he whispers.

‘And?’

He looks down at piece of paper in his hand:

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

He looks up again, his eyes open: ‘The Strafford.’

‘Bullseye.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘I was there.’

‘Where? You were where?’

‘Strafford,’ BJ say and BJ open door -

The door out of hell.

But he is there first, at door -

The door to hell.

He slams it shut.

‘You’re not going anywhere, pal,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’

‘But that’s your lot, Mr Hunter.’

‘Fuck off,’ he screams. ‘You tell me what happened that night?’

‘Ask someone else.’

‘You mean Bob Craven? There isn’t anybody else, they’re all dead.’

Mission for Dead accomplished, BJ smile: ‘Exactly.’

‘Fuck off,’ he says, grabbing BJ’s jacket.

BJ push him away.

He grabs BJ again.

BJ punch him.

He goes down.

BJ have fingers round his throat but he still has hold of BJ. BJ shout: ‘What fuck are you doing?’

‘Time to stop running,’ he hisses.

BJ kick him but he still has hold of BJ. BJ say: ‘Get fucking off me.’

‘What happened?’

BJ kick him again: ‘I’m saying no more.’

‘Tell me!’

BJ break free and at door -

The door out of hell.

BJ tell him: ‘They haven’t finished with you.’

‘You’re dead,’ he shouts from floor of hell. ‘You’re dead.’

‘Not me,’ BJ laugh. ‘I got my insurance. How about you?’

‘They’ll find you and they’ll kill you if you don’t come with me.’

‘Not me.’

‘Go on, run.’

‘Fuck off,’ BJ say, opening door -

Door banging in wind, in rain -

The door out of hell.

‘It’s you who should be running,’ BJ tell him. ‘You, they haven’t finished with you.’

BJ stand at door -

The door into hell -

Stand at door and BJ see him now:

On his knees on his lawn in rain, his finger on trigger of shotgun in his mouth.

‘You’re dead,’ he shouts -

BJ step outside -

‘Dead.’

BJ start walking, walking up to top of street, when BJ see him -

See him standing at top of street by open door of his car -

Looking at BJ -

Unblinking -

He smiles.

BJ run -

Run like hell.


Chapter 43

No sleep, no food, no cigarettes -

Just this:

Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/Wood Street -

Back to Netherton:

Sunday/Monday/Tuesday -

The evening of Tuesday 17 December 1974:

Nothing -

No sleep, no food, no cigarettes:

No George fucking Marsh.

There’s a tap on the glass -

I jump:

Badger fucking Bill -

He tries the passenger door.

I lean across. I open it.

He gets in. ‘Christ, it fucking stinks in here.’

‘How’d you know I was here?’

‘Fucking hell, Maurice,’ he snorts. ‘You’re an open fucking book, mate.’

‘Not a crime, is it?’ I smile.

‘A broken fucking record.’

‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not.’

‘What then?’

He pauses -

I turn to look at him:

He’s staring up the road at Maple Well Drive; the black bungalow on the right.

‘What is it?’ I ask again.

‘Eddie Dunford,’ he says.

‘Who?’

Bill turns to look at me. He smiles. He says: ‘Fuck off, Maurice.’

‘What?’

‘He’s a bloody nuisance and he doesn’t need any fucking encouragement.’

I’ve got my hands on the steering wheel, holding it tight.

Bill says: ‘He’s already been up Shangrila.’

‘So?’

‘So we’ve got enough bloody problems with Derek fucking Box. I don’t need any fucking more. Thank you.’

‘Dunford’s not a problem,’ I say.

Bill doesn’t reply -

I turn back to look at him:

He’s looking at me.

‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say.

‘He knows enough to have been round your bird’s house this afternoon.’

‘What?’

He winks. He opens the passenger door. He gets out. He turns back. He says: ‘You and your ladyfriend best remember, reckless talk costs lives.’

I drive back through the dark and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big hearts cut, lost;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Heart cut, lost;

I park. I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -

Stars and angels -

Silent little angels:

Jeanette, Susan, and Clare.

I get out. I lock the car door. I spit -

The taste of flesh;

I walk up the drive -

Shallow ugly moonlight, black stagnant rainwater;

The bottoms of my trousers, my shoes and socks, muddy -

Everything mud;

I go inside out of the rain. I go up the stairs to Flat 5 -

The air damp, stained -

Hearts lost;

The door is open -

Wide open, the metal chain loose -

In the Season of the Plague, the meat;

My heart thrashing -

The air suddenly thick with murder -

Two black crows eating from black bin-bags;

I step inside, listening:

Low sobs, muffled sobs -

Ripping through her sweet meat;

Stood before the bedroom door, whispering: ‘Mandy?’

Low sobs, muffled sobs, weeping -

Screams echoing into the dark;

I try the door: ‘Mandy?’

I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -

Sliding back on her arse up the hall -

Stars and angels -

My angel: ‘Mandy?’

Arms and legs splayed, her skirt riding up;

Close my eyes. Open them -

Stood before the bedroom door, whispering: ‘Mandy?’

Scared sobs from behind a door;

Listening to the low sobs -

The muffled sobs, the weeping -

The sound of furniture being moved;

I lean into the wood of the door. I push -

The door opens a fraction then stops -

Chests of drawers and wardrobes being placed in front of the door;

The sobs louder, the weeping more -

I push again: ‘Mandy?’

A faint voice through the layers and layers of wood;

The sobbing, the weeping -

Another fraction, another inch: ‘Mandy?’

A child whispering to a friend beneath the covers;

Sobbing, weeping -

My arm inside then a leg, pushing the fractions and the inches -

‘Tell them about the others -’

It is Tuesday 17 December 1974 -

A cold and dark December place when I open up the bedroom door;

Behind the chests of drawers and the wardrobes -

To find her lying cold and still upon the floor;

Beneath the shadows.

I take her into my arms -

I look into her eyes;

Beneath her shadows -

She is snarling, carnivore teeth:

‘This place is worst of all, underground;

The corpses and the rats -

The dragon and the owl -

Wolves be there too, a swan -

The swan dead.

Unending, this place unending;

Under the grass that grows -

Between the cracks and the stones -

The beautiful carpets -

Waiting for the others, underground.’

Silence -

Holding her;

Low sobs, muffled sobs, she is weeping -

Beneath her shadows:

‘It has happened four times before -’

Tears -

‘Four times-’

Cavernous tears:

‘- and it will happen again.’

Tears, then -

Silence -

The silence, but outside -

Behind the chests of drawers and the wardrobes, the broken doors and the heavy curtains, outside the branches of the big tree are tapping upon the glass of the big windows, their leaves lost in December -

For only moon has shone upon them;

Cold and wanting in -

Wanting her -

Where the wind cannot rest;

My eyes open -

Looking into hers -

Winter lights for the dead;

I want to free her from the chests of drawers and the wardrobes, the broken doors and the heavy curtains -

Free her from the chains -

The prisons:

The certain death that echoes here -

The terrible, horrible voice that gloats, that boasts:

‘I AM NO ANGEL -

‘I AM NO FUCKING ANGEL!’

Looking into my eyes -

Weeping;

Rising and falling -

Beneath her shadows;

‘I’m sorry,’ I say -

‘Where were you?’ she whispers.

‘Who was it?’ I sob -

Her eyes open and looking into mine: ‘Please tell them where I am.’

‘What?’ I am screaming -

Summoning her back from the Underground, the court of the Dead:

This cold and dark December place -

‘Who?’

She is pushing me off -

Pushing me away, whispering: ‘You weren’t here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say -

Standing up in the light -

But in the light -

The dead moonlight -

There are bruises on the backs of my hands again -

Bruises that won’t heal -

Ever.

Beneath her shadows -

Lost hearts.

Fucking -

The cat piss and petunia, desperate.

Fucking then fucking -

Desperate.

Fucking then kissing -

Her head upon my damp chest, I stroke her hair, her beautiful wet hair.

The branches of the tree tap upon the glass -

Sobbing, weeping -

Soaked and wanting in.

‘I love you,’ I say.

The branches tapping -

Sobbing, she whispers: ‘I can’t live like this.’

Sobbing and weeping -

Wanting out.

‘We’ll go,’ I tell her -

Her face in the candlelight: ‘Where?’

‘Far away.’

Her face white: ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

Her face white and already -

Dead -

Sobbing, weeping -

Hearts -

Asking to be let out.


*

The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cry.

Inside -

Inside your scorched heart.

There is a house -

A house with no doors.

The earth scorched -

Heathen.

I wake suddenly in the dark again, beneath her shadows -

‘I’ll see you in the tree -’

Tapping against the pane.

She’s lying on her side in a black 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, that terrible tune and its 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, that terrible lonely tune and her words in my head, listening to the branches tapping along against the pane -

‘In her branches.’

I look at my watch -

It is one o’clock in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974.

I reach for my glasses and get out of the bed without waking her and I go through into the kitchen and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find the teapot in the cupboard and the 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 divorced man undressed but for a pair of white underpants and glasses, these thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a divorced man undressed in the other woman’s flat at two o’clock in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974:

‘Under the spreading chestnut tree -’

I put the teapot and cups and saucers on the tray and take it into the big room and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk when -

There are boots upon the stair, the doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -

She is standing in the hall.

I ask: ‘Tomorrow night?’

‘Tomorrow night,’ she nods.

The doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -

I open the door -

Dick’s stood there, panting. ‘They’ve got someone.’

‘What?’

‘For Clare.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone we fucking know -’

‘Who?’

‘Michael Myshkin.’

‘What?’

‘He’s coughing.’

‘What?’

‘Come on. Get dressed.’

I turn back round -

She’s not there;

Just the branches tapping against the pane, saying over and over:

‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’

Dark hours -

Dark, dark hours -

Before the cock crows:

Three in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974:

Yorkshire -

Wakefield:

Wood Street Police Station -

We walk down the long, long corridor -

Uniforms stood around, drinking and laughing, singing fucking carols -

Jingle Bells -

Jimmy Ashworth sat at the table in Room 1 -

Jingle Bells -

Two teenage girls sat at the table in Room 2 -

Jingle -

Room 3 empty -

Fucking -

In Room 4 -

Bells -

Three big kings in their shirtsleeves:

Ronald Angus, George Oldman and Pete Noble -

Three big men in their shirtsleeves stood over him:

Michael John Myshkin, twenty-two, in police issue grey shirt and trousers -

Michael John Myshkin of Jenkins Photo Studio, Castleford -

Michael John Myshkin the man who is saying he murdered Clare Kemplay:

‘… she wouldn’t let me kiss her, so I kissed her anyway and then she wouldn’t shut up. Said she was going to tell her mam and dad and police, so I strangled her. Then I cut her and put the rose up her and the wings in her back…’

He is grossly overweight, his enormous head bowed and shaking -

Handcuffed, spots of blood are dropping from his nose on to the table.

He is crying. He has pissed himself.

Dick and I step inside.

Angus, Oldman and Noble turn round -

‘Maurice,’ says George. ‘This is Michael John Myshkin.’

I look back at Myshkin -

Head bowed and shaking.

‘Michael’s just been telling us what a bad boy he’s been, haven’t you, Michael?’

Myshkin doesn’t answer.

Noble bangs both palms down loud on the table. ‘Answer the man!’

Myshkin nods -

A fat and stupid moon in a black and cruel night;

‘Tell these gentlemen what you just told us, Michael,’ says Ronald Angus.

Michael Myshkin looks up at me -

Trembling and blinking through his fears and tears.

I say: ‘We’re listening, Michael.’

Michael John Myshkin smoothes down his hair. He blinks. He nods. He whispers: ‘I was driving the van in Morley and I saw her and I fancied her and I stopped and got her into the van but she wouldn’t let me kiss her, so I kissed her anyway and then she wouldn’t shut up. Said she was going to tell her mam and dad and police, so I strangled her. Then I cut her and put the rose up her and the wings in her back. Just like the others.’

‘Which others?’ I say.

‘Them two others.’

‘You did them too, didn’t you, Michael?’ says Noble.

He nods.

Noble: ‘Susan Ridyard?’

He nods.

Noble: ‘Jeanette Garland?’

Michael Myshkin looks from Noble to me for a split second -

A split second in which you can see him -

See him see her -

See Jeanette -

A split second in which he loses his life -

A split second before he nods.

‘Did what?’ shouts Noble.

‘Killed them.’

I say: ‘Michael? Where did you kill them?’

‘Under the grass, between the cracks and the stones -’

‘Where?’

‘Those beautiful carpets.’

‘Where is this?’

‘My kingdom,’ he says. ‘My underground kingdom.’

Noble steps forward. He slaps him hard across the top of his head. He shouts: ‘You’re going to have to do fucking better than that, you dirty fat fucking bastard!’

‘Come on,’ says Oldman. ‘Leave him to think on. I need a drink.’

‘A bloody whiskey,’ laughs Angus. ‘A bloody big one.’

Dick follows them out into the corridor.

I wait until they’re all out in the corridor. I lean across the table. I lift the lad’s head up. I look him in the eye. I tell him: ‘You didn’t really do it, did you, Michael?’

Michael Myshkin stares back. He doesn’t blink -

He shakes his enormous head.

‘But you know who did, don’t you, Michael?’

He looks at the table. He smoothes down his hair.

‘Who was it, Michael?’

He looks up -

There is blood on his face, tears on his cheek -

This fat and stupid moon in this black and cruel night;

He looks up. He blinks. He smiles. He laughs. He says: ‘The Wolf.’


*

They are waiting for me outside Room 4.

We walk back down the long, long corridor.

The two girls are still sat in Room 2.

They are wearing long skirts, tight sweaters and big shoes. They are about thirteen or fourteen years old.

‘Who are they?’ I ask Oldman.

‘These are two that first told us about Myshkin.’

I stand in the doorway of Room 2. I stare at them -

They have love bites on their necks.

‘One of them goes out with the lad that found the body,’ says Oldman.

‘Jimmy Ashworth?’

He nods: ‘Him and Myshkin live on same street out Fitzwilliam. He’s been driving Jimmy up and down to Morley to see her. They reckon he’s on some kind of pills to make his balls grow and his tits shrink. The lasses say he’s always whipping it out in churchyard. The one next to Morley Grange -’

‘Who pulled him?’

‘Girls went into Morley Station with their mams last night. Morley phoned it through. I sent John Rudkin up Fitzwilliam. He gets there. Myshkin’s done a runner. White Ford fucking Transit no less. Bob Craven and Bob Douglas spot him on the Doncaster Road. They chased him. They nicked him. Their collar.’

‘That’s it? A wank in the graveyard and he does a runner?’

George shakes his head.

‘What else you got?’

George hands me an envelope.

I open it -

A school photograph:

Blue-sky background -

Eyes and smile shining up in my face;

One pair of mongol eyes -

One crooked little smile:

Jeanette Garland.

‘It was in his wallet,’ says Oldman. ‘His fucking wallet.’

Ronald Angus stands between me and George Oldman. He already smells of whiskey. He puts an arm around each of our shoulders.

I try to move away.

Angus grips my shoulder. He says: ‘He did it, Maurice.’

I look at him.

‘You know it in your heart,’ he says.

I turn. I walk down the corridor -

‘In your heart,’ shouts Angus.

I walk past Room 1 -

Jimmy Ashworth still sat at the table, long lank hair everywhere. He is crying.

So am I -

In my heart.

Back upstairs they’re choosing Myshkin a solicitor, calling in Clive McGuinness and a thousand fucking favours, the talk now of Chivas Regal and press conferences, new tankards and trophies, like we’re some gang of monkeys who’ve just found their own arses without a fucking map, but I’m still wishing there’d been no amalgamation, no West Yorkshire fucking Metropolitan Police, wondering where the fuck the Badger is -

‘Maurice?’

Ronald Angus is looking at me -

My Chief Constable.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, George will do the Press Conference if you’ve no objections.’

I stand up. I say: ‘None whatsoever.’

‘Where you off now?’ asks George.

‘Well, if you’ve no objections,’ I say. ‘I thought someone ought to go up the pervert’s house and get some fucking evidence. If that is you’ve no objections?’

Out of Wakefield and up the Doncaster Road, past the Redbeck -

Blue lights spinning, the sirens screaming like the undead but buried -

Screaming all the way into Fitzwilliam -

Dick shouting: ‘You remember him, yeah?’

Nodding -

‘You know who nicked him?’

Nodding -

‘You know who they got him for a solicitor?’

Nodding -

‘You think he did it?’

Foot down -

‘I fucking hope he did.’

Foot down, nodding.

One, two, three, four -

Five o’clock:

54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam -

Three police cars and a van, parked angular -

Doors open, hammers out -

His mam and his dad at the front door in their nightclothes -

Dick knocking them to one side on to their tiny front lawn -

Shouting: ‘We have a warrant to -’

Old man Myshkin coughing his blood and guts up, her screaming -

I give her a slap. I push them both back inside -

‘Upstairs,’ I say to Dick and Jim Prentice -

Old man Myshkin, hands full of stringy blood trying to comfort his wife -

I push them down into their tatty old sofa. ‘Sit down and shut up!’

‘Where’s Michael?’ she’s crying. ‘What have you done to Michael?’

‘Boss,’ says Dick -

Dick and Jim are standing in the doorway:

Jim is holding up a huge drawing of a rat -

A rat with a crown and wings -

Swan bloody wings.

Dick with a box full of photographs -

Photographs of ten or twelve young girls -

The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart;

School photographs -

Where one thousand voices cry;

Eyes and smiles shining up in my face -

Inside;

Ten pairs of blue eyes -

Inside your scorched heart;

Ten sets of smiles -

There is a house;

That same blue-sky background -

A house with no door;

One pair of mongol eyes -

The earth scorched;

One crooked smile -

Heathen and always winter.

100 miles an hour out of Fitzwilliam and down into Castleford, the undead but buried spinning and howling -

Spinning and howling all the way into Castleford -

Dick shouting: ‘You tell Oldman where we’re going?’

Shaking my head -

‘You called Bill, didn’t you?’

Shaking my head -

‘You think we should call him?’

Shaking my head -

‘I fucking hope you know what you’re doing?’

Foot down, shaking.

Heathen and always winter -

The car slows down. It bumps over the rough ground. It stops.

I chuck Dick and Jim their black balaclavas: ‘Put them on when you get inside.’

I stuff my balaclava in my coat pocket.

I hand them a hammer each.

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

We get out of the car -

We’re at the back of a row of shops in the centre of Castleford.

‘Jim, go round the front to keep an eye out,’ I tell him.

He nods.

I pull down my balaclava. I turn to Dick: ‘You set?’

Dick nods.

They follow me along the back of the shops. I stop by the metal gate in the high wall with the broken glass set in the top. I look at Dick.

Dick nods.

He gives me a leg up and over the wall and the broken glass.

I land on the other side in the backyard of Jenkins Photo Studio:

There’s a light on upstairs, a hammer in my pocket -

A photograph.

I open the gate for Dick.

I pick up one of the metal dustbin lids. I drop it on the floor with a crash -

We stand flat against the wall in the shadows by the back door -

In the shadows by the back door, waiting -

The door stays shut, the light on upstairs.

I nod.

Dick picks up the metal dustbin. He hoists it up. He hurls it through the back window -

Glass and wood everywhere.

He pulls himself up on to the ledge. He shoulders in through the broken glass and splintered frame. He jumps down on the other side to open the back door -

No turning back.

In and down the corridor to the front of the shop, Dick straight up the stairs -

Me past the window full of school portraits. I tap on the door. I open it for Jim.

He steps inside.

I point at the ceiling.

He puts on his balaclava. He follows me through to the back stairs -

Up the narrow steep stairs past a dark room on the right and into a living room-cum-bedroom on the left.

Dick is standing alone in the room on a carpet of photographs -

Photographs of young girls -

School photographs -

Thousands of eyes and hundreds of smiles shining up in our faces:

Pairs of eyes and sets of smiles all against that same blue-sky background -

That same sky-blue background favoured by Mr Edward Jenkins, photographer.

I take the photograph from my pocket -

The photograph of a young girl -

A school photograph -

Eyes and smile shining up in my face:

Mongol eyes and crooked smile against that same blue-sky background -

Jeanette Garland.

I take off my balaclava. I put my glasses back on -

Their thick lenses and black frames -

The Owl:

I am the Owl and I see everything from behind these lenses thick and frames black, everything in this upstairs room with its carpet of innocent eyes and trusting smiles, abused and exposed under a single dirty light -

Unblinking -

A single dirty light bulb still left on.

I put the photograph of Jeanette back in my pocket.

‘He’s gone then,’ says Jim.

I nod.

Dick hands me a large black Letts desk diary for 1974. ‘Forgot this in his haste.’

I turn to the back. I flick through the names and addresses -

Initials and phone numbers listed alphabetically.

I turn the pages. I read the names. I see the faces:

Looking for one name, one number, one face -

I see John Dawson. I see Don Foster -

I see me -

I see Michael Myshkin, John Murphy, the Badger and then -

That name, that number, that face:


GM: 3657 .


I close the book -

They’re all going to die in this hell;

Close my eyes -

We all are.

‘What now?’ Jim is asking.

I open my eyes.

They are both staring at me.

‘Torch the place,’ I tell them.

They nod.

I walk back down the stairs. I go out into the alley.

It is daylight now.

I take off my glasses. I wipe them. I put them back on. I look up at the sky -

The moon gone -

No sun -

Jeanette Garland missing five years and six months -

Susan Ridyard missing two years, ten months -

Clare Kemplay dead five days -

Dead:

The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cry;

Inside -

Inside your scorched heart;

There is a house -

A house with no doors;

The earth scorched -

Heathen and always winter;

The room murder -

This is where I live:

The grey sky turning black -

Fresh blood on my hands -

No turning back.

I drive out of Castleford -

Over to Netherton.

I park at the end of Maple Well Drive -

The morning sky black.

All the bungalows have their lights on -

Even number 16;

Fuck -

Never leave, never leave, never leave;

I get out -

I walk along the road.

The living room light is on -

Their white Ford Transit parked outside.

I go up the path -

I ring the doorbell:

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

She’s put on weight since last we met.

I say: ‘Mrs Marsh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Police, love. Is your George in?’

She looks at me. She tries to place me. She shakes her head. ‘No.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s at his sister’s, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m asking you.’

‘Well, he is.’

‘Where’s that then? His sister’s?’

‘Over Rochdale way.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When did you last see your husband?’

‘Day he left.’

‘Which was?’

‘Last Thursday.’

‘Heard he was sick?’

‘He is. He’s gone for a break.’

‘Is that right?’

‘That’s what I just said, isn’t it?’

I want to push the door back hard into her face. I want to slap her. To punch her. Kick her. Beat her.

‘Is everything all right?’ asks a man from the doorway to the kitchen -

A tall man in black, his hat in his hands -

A priest.

I smile. I say: ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Marsh.’

She nods.

I turn. I walk away, back down the garden path.

Back at the gate, I turn again -

Mrs Marsh has closed her front door, but there’s that shadow again -

Behind the nets in the front room -

Two shadows.

I walk back down Maple Well Drive -

Back to the car.

I get in and I wait -

I wait and I watch -

I wait.

I watch.


Chapter 44

You sleep in the car. You wake in the car. You sleep in the car. You wake in the car -

You check the rearview mirror. Then the wing -

The passenger seat is empty.

The doors are locked. The windows closed. The car smells. You switch on the engine. You switch on the windscreen wipers. You switch on the radio:

‘Latest opinion polls have the Conservatives still 15% ahead of Labour; Mrs Thatcher accuses SDP leaders of lacking guts; Britain faces a 1929-style economic crash within two years whatever party wins, according to Ken Livingstone; Michael Foot speaks at a Hyde Park rally attended by 15,000 people at the end of the People’s March for Jobs…’

You switch everything off.

You can hear church bells, the traffic and the rain:

It is Sunday 5 June 1983 -


D-4 .


You are parked below the City Heights flats, Leeds.

Halfway to the tower block, you turn back to check the car is locked. Then you walk across the car park. You climb the stairs to the fourth floor. You read the walls as you go:

Wogs Out, Leeds, NF, Leeds, Kill a Paki, Leeds.

You think of your mother. You don’t stop. You turn one corner and there’s something dead in a plastic bag. Your father. You don’t stop. You turn the next and there’s a pile of human shit. Fitzwilliam. You don’t stop. You are walking in another man’s shoes, thinking of lost children -

Hazel.

On the fourth floor you go along the open passageway, the bitter wind ripping your face raw until there are tears in your eyes. You quicken past broken windows and paint-splattered doors -

Doors banging in the wind, in the rain;

New tears in your old eyes, the lights are already going on across Leeds -

But not here -

Not here before a door marked Pervert.

You knock on the door of Flat 405, City Heights, Leeds.

You wait.

You listen to the smash of glass and the scream of a child down below, the brakes of an empty bus and an hysterical voice on a radio in another flat -

The church bells gone.

You press the doorbell -

It’s broken.

You bend down. You lift up the metal flap of another letterbox. You smell staleness. You hear the sounds of a TV.

‘Excuse me!’ you yell into the hole.

The TV dies.

‘Excuse me!’

Through the letterbox, you can see a pair of dirty white socks pacing about inside.

You knock on the door again. You shout: ‘I know you’re in there.’

‘What do you want?’

You stand up. You say to the door: ‘I just want a word.’

‘What about?’

‘Your sister and her daughter.’

The latch turns. The door branded Pervert opens.

‘What about them?’ says Johnny Kelly -

The Man who had Everything;

‘What about them?’ he says again -

The Man who had Everything -

In a tight pair of jeans and a sweater with no shirt, his hair long and unwashed, his face fat and unshaven;

‘They’re dead,’ he says.

‘I know,’ you say. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Fuck off,’ he hisses.

‘No.’

Johnny Kelly steps forward. He pokes you in the chest. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘My name is John Piggott,’ you reply. ‘I’m a solicitor.’

‘I’ve got no fucking money,’ he says. ‘If that’s what you’re after.’

‘No,’ you say. ‘That’s not what I’m after.’

‘So what are you after?’

‘The truth.’

He swallows. He closes his eyes. He opens them. He looks past you at the grey and black sky. He hears the glass smash and the child’s screams, the brakes and the voices. He sees the dead and the shit -

‘About what?’ he says.

‘The truth about your Paula and her Jeanette. About Susan Ridyard and Clare Kemplay. About Michael Myshkin and Jimmy Ashworth. About -’

The dead and the shit -

The tears old and new -

The windows and the doors branded Pervert -

‘About Hazel Atkins,’ you say.

‘What makes you think I know anything?’

‘It was just a hunch,’ you shrug.

‘You fucking psychic, are you?’ he says, closing the door.

You put your right foot forward between the door and the frame. You stop him.

‘Fuck off!’ he shouts. ‘I don’t know anything.’

You push the door back in his face. You say: ‘Is that right? Well, you know all those names, don’t you?’

And Johnny Kelly -

The Man who had Everything -

Johnny Kelly looks down at his dirty white socks. He nods. He whispers words you cannot hear -

‘You what?’ you say.

‘They’re dead,’ he says again, looking up -

The tears old and new -

The tears in both your eyes -

‘All of them,’ he says. ‘Dead.’

‘Not quite,’ you say.

He looks down again at his dirty white socks.

‘You going to let me in?’ you say.

Johnny Kelly turns. He walks back into his flat, the door open.

You follow him down a narrow hall into the living room.

Kelly sits down in an old and scarred vinyl armchair, racing papers and a plate of uneaten and dried-up baked beans at his feet -

An empty bottle of HP stood on its head -

He has his face in his hands.

You sit on the matching settee, a colour TV showing The World at War.

Above the unlit gas-fire and its plastic-surround, a Polynesian girl is smiling in various shades of orange and brown, a tear in her hair and one corner missing, the walls running with damp.

You sit and you think of faces running with tears -

Think of the missing -

Of Hazel.

Next door a dog is barking and barking and barking.

Johnny Kelly looks up. He says: ‘It never goes away.’

You nod.

‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Everything,’ you whisper.

You drive from Leeds back into Wakefield. You do not put the radio on. You repeat as you drive:

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

Everybody knows and -

It is about four o’clock in the afternoon with the sun never shining and the hard, relentless, endless fucking drizzle of a dull, dark, soundless fucking Sunday running down the windscreen of the car.

You check the rearview mirror. Then the wing.

You park up on the pavement of a quiet dim lane in front of tall wet walls:

Trinity View, Wood Lane, Sandal -

The posh part of Wakefield; the garage owners and the builders, the self-made men with their self-made piles, their double drives and deductible lives, the ones who never pay their bills and always dodge their taxes -

Self-satisfied and shielded, gilded against the coming war -

Against John Piggott.

You walk up the long drive towards Trinity View, past the neat lawn with its tainted, plastic ornaments and stagnant, plagued pond.

There are no cars in the drive. There are no lights on inside -

Only the hateful gloom of bad history -

The hateful, hateful gloom of bad, bad history, hanging in the trees, the branches -

Their shadows long.

You ring the doorbell. You listen to the dreadful, lonely chimes echo through the inside of the house.

‘Yes? Who is it?’ calls out a woman from behind the door.

‘My name is John Piggott.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘About Johnny Kelly.’

‘Go away.’

‘About your late husband.’

‘Go away.’

You have your face and lips to the door: ‘About Jeanette.’

Silence -

Hanging in the trees -

‘About Clare.’

Silence -

In the branches.

‘Mrs Foster,’ you say. ‘I’m not going to go away until you open that door and I see your face.’

There is hesitation. Then a lock turns. The door opens.

Mrs Patricia Foster is in her early fifties with grey hair in need of a perm. She is dressed all in black and holding a lighter and an unlit cigarette in her hands.

There’s already lipstick on the filter and her hands are shaking.

She turns back inside. She sits down on the steps of her grand, carpeted stairs. She shakes her head. She says: ‘The things we do.’

‘Pardon?’

She looks up at you. She lights her cigarette. She says: ‘I knew you’d come.’

‘Me?’

‘Someone.’

You tell her: ‘I went to see Johnny Kelly.’

She smiles at the carpet. ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, eh?’

You hold up a newspaper photograph of Hazel Atkins.

She looks up, dark eyes and tall nose, the face of an eagle -

An iniquitous, flesh-eating bird of prey.

She looks away. She says: ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Nothing,’ you say.

She stares at you. She says: ‘Nothing?’

You nod. You turn -

‘Wait!’ she screams -

You walk -

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

You keep on walking -

‘You can’t leave!’

Walking away through the hateful gloom, the stained class that she is -

On her doorstep, screaming: ‘No!’

Past the neat lawn with its tainted, plastic ornaments and stagnant, plagued pond -

The neat lawn on which her husband was murdered on December 23, 1974 -

Under these very trees;

You walk down the long drive away from Trinity View -

Mrs Patricia Foster screaming and screaming and screaming;

Her screams and her memories -

Hanging in the trees, in the branches -

Your memories;

You are walking in another man’s shoes -

A dead man’s.


Chapter 45

Breathing blood and spitting blind, running hard -

Here it is again, his car -

Fuck.

Gets within six foot and BJ off again -

Door, wind and rain -

His voice: ‘BJ!’

Over fence and on to wasteland, tripping and falling on to ground on other side, bleeding and crying and praying as BJ stumble over land and into playground, into playground and scrambling across fence, across fence and into allotments, dripping blood through vegetable patches and over wall and into small street of terraces, down street and right into next street of terraces, BJ turn left and then right again and into privets -

The shrubbery.

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

Out of Nazi Germany.

BJ walking along, yellow lights coming towards BJ like stars, red lights leaving BJ like sores, practising German and thinking about trying to cross to other side where it’s just factories; fires burning and smoke rising, crows picking at white bones of babies and their mothers, screaming:

Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -

‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -

‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex.’

Thinking at least there’d be somewhere to hide -

Somewhere to hide.

Then car stops -

His car -

His car stops. He winds down window -

He says: ‘You’re going to catch your death, Barry.’

‘Please,’ BJ say. ‘Help me.’

He raises brow of his black hat. He looks up at black afternoon sky and black rain. He says: ‘Are you sorry?’

BJ nod.

‘Sorry for all the things that you’ve done?’

BJ looking left and right, left and then right. BJ say: ‘I am sorry.’

He unlocks door. BJ get in, sliding over into back -

Car damp and cold, black briefcase beside BJ.

He starts car. He says: ‘Keep your head down.’

BJ do as he says.

On motorway, BJ look up from leather seat: ‘Where we going?’

‘Church,’ he says.

It is 1980.

He found me hiding -

In Church of Abandoned Christ in sixth flat on second floor of sixth house in Portland Square in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost again; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, lost in another room; hair shaved again and eight eyes shined, BJ be once more Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes shabby and wings burnt; he is Hierophant, Father of Fear, and he is weeping, whispering old death songs:

Knew I was not happy -

‘Through thee Church, E met Michael and Carol Williams at their house in Ossett in December 1974 where E had been invited to lecture on thee Irvingites. We took communion of ready-sliced bread and undiluted Ribena. During prayers thee next day Michael spoke in glossolalia for thee first time. Thee three of us wept for it is thee gift of thee Holy Spirit. It is beautiful and it is frightening.

Scratching my head -

‘And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind. It filled all their house on Towngate where we were sitting. And there appeared unto us cloven tongues as of fire and they sat upon Michael. And he was filled with thee Holy Ghost and began to speak with other tongues as thee Spirit gave him utterance.

Confused beyond existence -

‘In January 1975 Michael suddenly visited me. He said he had seen thee Devil who had told him to go and kill himself in his car. He then kissed me upon thee lips. It was not a Christian kiss and we bounced off each other, repelled.

Sat in the corner, shivering from fright -

‘Thee following day Michael approached neighbours in thee street. He told them thee world was coming to an end. He came to thee Church and told me he had been seduced by thee Devil. E recited a prayer of absolution, thee Infilling of thee Holy Spirit. He was strained and tired and went home before night fell. He was afraid of thee dark.

Feeling strung up -

‘On Friday 24 January Michael told Carol to get rid of all thee crosses and religious books in thee house and she did so. When it was time to go to bed he left thee radio on. He was frightened of thee silence of thee night.

Out of my clothes and into the bed -

‘On thee Saturday E decided to give Michael and Carol a rest from their troubles. They would, E believed, benefit from a car ride in thee fresh air of thee Yorkshire Dales. As E drove out Wharfedale way, Carol seemed relieved until Michael suddenly uttered a piercing scream. It was as if all his prayers vociferated in one high-pitched cry full of pent-up blasphemies and curses. “He desperately needs help,” said Carol.

The movements in his bed -

‘E turned thee car around and headed back to thee Church. By 7.30 p.m., Michael was behaving irrationally, violently and noisily. He picked up my cat and flung it through thee window. Food was placed before him to placate and occupy his mind, but he threw it on thee floor. It was my view that an enormous force of evil was emanating from Michael and that this was undoubtedly a case of demonic possession. It was clear from Carol’s words that she was convinced that her ex-husband Jack was connected with some Satanic group and that he had pledged Michael to thee Devil. Michael’s violence of speech and action, his threat to murder someone and thee fact that he invoked thee power of thee moon persuaded me that thee exorcism should begin immediately without further delay.

So sorry, sad and so, so confused -

‘E took him to thee vestry at thee side of thee Church and there E laid him on his back on a pile of red, gold and green cassocks. E stood over him asking him questions, finding answers, putting suggestions, saying prayers, and casting out thee devils one by one. E named each devil by its own evil: bestiality, lewdness, blasphemy, heresy, masochism and so forth. A wooden crucifix given to him by his wife was repeatedly put in his mouth as E prayed for him. He writhed and thrashed on thee floor. Carol and E had to hold him down forcibly. Every time he puffed out his cheeks and gasped and panted for breath, another demon had been expelled. However, by noon on thee Sunday we were all exhausted. He was rid of forty demons but alas there were two still inside of him: violence and murder.

Between life and death -

‘E felt that there was a doll somewhere for Michael like thee witchcraft dolls into which people stick pins; unless it was found and burned E would never be able to cast out thee spirit of murder for E had had thee word from God that if Michael went home that afternoon he would kill his wife. E tried to contact a medical officer of some sort but, as it was a Sunday, E could find none. E called thee police but Carol said Michael would be cross if thee police were called into this matter. So at 8.30 p.m., E drove Michael and Carol home. E left at 9 p.m. in search of thee doll and Carol’s ex-husband. Thee last thing Carol said was, “My husband is going to have a good rest.”

Lost in room -

‘E finally returned with her ex-husband, Jack. Michael Williams was on his hands and knees with his forehead touching thee lawn. He was naked except for his socks and his wife’s rings on his fingers. It was with these very fingers he had torn out her eyes and her tongue and, as she lay choking on her own blood on thee grass, he had hammered a twelve-inch nail into thee top of her skull. His hands, arms and body were bloody and beside him was thee hammer. Thee first policeman asked him, “Where did all that blood come from?”

‘“It is thee blood of Satan.”

‘“Did you kill your wife?”

‘“No, not her,” he said. “E loved her.”’

They found me hiding -

In Church of Abandoned Christ in sixth flat on second floor of sixth house in Portland Square in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ still lost; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, lost in so, so many rooms; hair shaved again and eight eyes shined, BJ be this Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes shabby and his wings burnt, he has dolls in his pocket; he is Hierophant, Father of Fear, and he whispers:

‘It is time to bring Jack home again.’

In the shadow -

Rings upon the bed -

In the shadow of the Horns -

BJ, head bobbed and wreathed.


Chapter 46

I watch -

No sleep, no food, no cigarettes -

I just watch and I listen:

‘A Fitzwilliam man will appear before Wakefield Magistrates later today charged with the murder of Clare Kemplay, the Morley schoolgirl whose body was found on Saturday in Wakefield. The man is also charged with a number of motoring offences and is expected to be remanded in custody for questioning in connection with offences of a nature similar to those with which he has already been charged. This is widely believed to refer to the disappearance of eight-year-old Jeanette Garland from her Castleford home in 1969, a case which became nationally known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home and which remains unsolved to this day…’

Thursday 19 December 1974 -

Netherton, Yorkshire.

I wait.

Dawn, I watch a grey-haired woman come out of her front door with a parcel under her arm. I watch her close the door. I watch her come down her garden path. I watch her open her gate. I watch her carry the parcel round the back of Maple Well Drive. I watch her open the gate behind the bungalows. I watch her walk up the tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill. I watch her slip. I watch her get back up. I watch Mrs Marsh disappear into the end shed with her parcel.

I wait.

Thirty minutes later, I watch Mrs Marsh come out of the end shed. I watch her walk back down the tractor path. I watch her slip. I watch her get back up. I watch her open the gate behind the bungalows. I watch her come back round on to Maple Well Drive. I watch her open her garden gate. I watch her go back up her garden path. I watch her open her front door. I watch her go back inside, empty-handed.

I wait.

Twenty minutes later, I watch a car pull up.

It is a big black Morris Oxford. The driver is all in black. He is wearing a hat. He doesn’t get out. He sounds his horn twice.

I watch Mrs Marsh open her front door. I watch her lock it. I watch her come back down the garden path. I watch her get inside the car. I watch them talk for a minute. I watch them set off.

I toss a coin -

I look at the top of my hand:

Tails -

I wait.

Ten minutes later, I open the gate to the field behind the bungalows. I walk up the tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill. The track is muddy and the sky grey above me, the field full of dark water and the smell of dead animals.

Halfway up the hill, I turn around. I look back down at the little white van outside their little brown bungalow and their little brown garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows and their little brown gardens.

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

I start walking again -

I come to the top of the hill. I come to the sheds:

An evil sleeping village of weatherbeaten tarpaulin and plastic fertiliser bags, damp stolen house bricks with rusting corrugated iron roofs.

I walk through this Village of the Damned. I come to the end of the row -

To the one with the blackest door and the rotten sacks nailed over its windows.

I knock on the door -

Nothing.

I open the black door -

I step inside:

There is a workbench and tools, bags of fertiliser and cement, pots and trays, the floor covered with empty plastic bags.

I step towards the bench. I step on something -

Something under the sacks and bags.

I kick away the sacks and bags. I see a piece of rope, thick and muddy and hooked through a manhole cover -

I wrap the rope around my hands. I hoist the cover up. I swing it off to one side -

There is a hole.

I look into the hole -

It is a ventilation shaft to a mine. It is dark and narrow. The sides of the shaft are made of stone, metal rungs hammered into them.

I can hear the sound of dripping water down below. I look closer -

There is a light, faint but there -

Fifty feet down there.

I take off my coat. I take off my jacket. I lower myself down into the shaft, hands and boots upon the metal ladder -

Everything dark. Everything wet -

Everything cold, down I go.

Ten feet. Twenty feet -

Thirty feet, down I go.

Forty feet. Fifty feet -

Towards the light, I go.

Then the wall at my back ends. I turn around -

There is a passageway. There is a light.

I heave myself out of the vertical shaft into the horizontal tunnel -

It is narrow. It is made of bricks. It stretches off into the light.

I can hear strange music playing far away:

The only thing you ever learn in school is ABC -

I crawl upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

But all I want to know about is you and me -

Crawl upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

I went and told the teacher about the thing we found -

Upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

But all she said to me is that you’re out of bounds -

My belly across the bricks towards the light -

Even though we broke the rule I only want to be with you -

Belly across the bricks towards the light -

School love -

Across the bricks towards the light -

School love -

The bricks towards the light -

You and I will be together -

Bricks towards the light -

End of term until forever -

Towards the light -

School love -

The light -

School love -

Light -

The music stops. The ceiling rises. There are beams of wood among the bricks.

I stagger on, arms and legs bleeding -

Stagger on through the shingle and the shale. The sound of rats here with me -

Near.

I put out my hand. I touch a shoe -

A child’s shoe, a sandal -

A child’s summer sandal. It is covered in dust -

I wipe away the dust -

Scuffed.

I put it down. I move on -

My back ripped raw from the beams, the burden.

Then the ceiling rises again. I stand upright in the shadow of a pile of rock -

I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

I turn the corner past the pile of fallen rock and -


THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!


I am falling -

Falling -

Falling -

Falling:

Backward from this place -

This rotten un-fresh place -

Her voice, Mandy’s voice -

She is calling -

Calling -

Calling -

Calling:

‘This place is worst of all, underground;

The corpses and the rats -

The dragon and the owl -

Wolves be there too, the swans -

The swans all starved and dead.

Unending, this place unending;

Under the grass that grows -

Between the cracks and the stones -

The beautiful carpets -

Waiting for the others, underground.’

I am on my back -

Eyes closed -

I am dreaming -

Dreaming -

Dreaming -

Dreaming:

Underground kingdoms, animal kingdoms of pigs and badgers, worms and insect cities; white swans upon black lakes while dragons soar overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swoop down through moonlit caverns wherein an owl guards three silent little princesses in their tiny feathered wings from the wolf that waits for them to wake -

On my back -

Eyes half open -

I am not dreaming -

I am underground:

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

On my back -

Eyes wide open -

Under the ground:

Lying on a bed of dying red roses and long white feathers -

Looking up at a sky of bricks painted blue, white cotton wool clouds stuck here and there among bright swinging Davy lamps -

Lying here, I watch a dark figure rise out of the ground -

Rise out of the ground into the swinging lamplight -

Into the lamplight, a hammer in his hand:

George Marsh -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. I wait for George Marsh -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. George Marsh almost upon me -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. Then I raise my right leg. I kick out hard -

Hard into his leg.

George Marsh howls. He tries to bring down the hammer -

The hammer in his hand.

I kick out hard again. Then I roll over. I rise up -

George Marsh howling, trying to stand.

But I am behind him now and I have his hammer in my hand.

Blind and black with his blood, I stop.

Under this painted sky of bricks of blue, in this one long tunnel of hate, there are two walls made up of ten narrow mirrors, ten narrow mirrors in which I can see myself -

See myself among the Christmas tree angels, the fairies and their lights, among the stars that hang from the beams, that hang and dangle among the swinging Davy lamps but never ever twinkle -

See myself among the boxes and the bags -

The shoeboxes and the shopping bags -

The cameras and the lights -

The lenses and the bulbs -

The tape recorders and the tapes -

The microphones -

The feathers and the flowers -

The tools;

I see myself and him among the tools -

The tools black with his blood.

His mouth opens and closes again.

I put the hammer down.

I stagger and crawl back the way I came, past the child’s summer sandal, through the tunnel until I come at last to the shaft -

I can see the grey light above.

I haul myself up the metal rungs towards the light, weak and fit to drop into the endless dark below.

I reach the top. I scramble out of the hole. I pull myself on to the floor of the shed. I turn on to my back, panting -

Panting and wanting out.

I use the workbench to get to my feet, my glasses gone.

Blind, I move the manhole cover back into place. I camouflage it with the plastic sacks, kicking them over the cover and the rope.

Then I hear it -

Behind me.

I stop. I turn:

There is a figure, a shape here in the shed with me now -

Quiet and hooded.

Crouched down in the corner by the workbench and the tools, hidden here among the bags of fertiliser and cement, the pots and the trays -

Small hands.

A thin shape, with black hair and raggedy clothing -

Bleeding.

It steps forward -

Arms raised in the air with the appearance of menace and implacable famine.

I reach out towards it -

Blind and groping, covered in dried black blood, I whisper: ‘Who is it?’

The figure darts to the left. I follow -

Darts to the right. I have it -

Then it is away -

Out of my arms and out of the door.

I stumble after it -

Out into the field and the rain -

But it is gone -

Gone.

I fall to my knees in the mud.

I raise up my eyes and heart, blind and raw up towards the vast grey sky and I let the coarse black rain wash away the blood -

From my eyes and heart, his heart and mine -

I let the rain wash away the blood, wash it into the earth -

This scorched and heathen earth -

These scorched and heathen hearts.

Thursday 19 December 1974 -

Midnight -

I am late:

Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Hearts cut, lost -

I am late;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Heart cut -

I am late;

I park. I get out. I lock the car door. I walk up the drive. I go inside. Up the stairs to Flat 5 -

Heart -

Late;

I knock on the door -

The air stained -

Silent.

I try the door -

It opens.

I step inside -

Listening:

No low sobs, no muffled sobs -

No weeping here tonight;

Only silence.

Stood before the bedroom door, I whisper: ‘Mandy?’

I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -

Stars and angels -

My angel -

I try the door: ‘Mandy?’

The door swings open.

There are loud animal sobs -

Contorted, screaming and howling -

The weeping is mine.

She is naked but for her blood -

Her hair all gone -

She is hanging from the light.

Beneath her shadows -

Dead hearts.

The cat piss and petunia, desperate on an old sofa -

Her head upon my chest, I am stroking her beautiful, bloody scalp.

Behind the heavy stained curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the window -

Sobbing and weeping;

Soaked in blood and wanting in -

‘I love you.’

Sobbing -

‘We’ll go.’

Weeping -

‘Far away.’

Her face in the candlelight white and dead -

The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass;

Sobbing and weeping -

We are kissing -

Asking to be let in -

Kissing and then fucking.

The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cry.

Inside -

Inside your scorched heart.

There is a house -

A house with no doors.

The earth scorched -

Heathen and always winter.

The rooms murder -

Here is where we live.

I wake in the dark, beneath her shadows -

‘We have her in the tree -’

Tapping against the pane.

She’s lying on her side, naked -

Branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks -

The branches tapping against the pane.

Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, terrible laments and their dreadful elegies inside my head -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, terrible laments and their dreadful elegies inside my head, listening to the branches tapping along against the pane -

I look at my watch -

‘Have her in the branches.’

It’s stopped.

I reach for my glasses but they are gone and I get out of the bed without moving her and I go through into the kitchen and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find the 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 the bottle smells bad but I put two teabags in the teapot anyway 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, an undead man undressed but for his white underpants, an undead man undressed in a dead woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning -

Friday 20 December 1974:

‘Under the spreading chestnut tree -’

I put the teapot and cups and saucers on the tray and take it into the big room and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea and switch on the radio:

‘A Fitzwilliam man yesterday appeared before Wakefield Magistrates and was charged with the murder of Clare Kemplay, the Morley schoolgirl whose body was found on Saturday by the Calder in Wakefield. The man was also charged with a number of driving offences and was further remanded in custody for questioning in connection with offences of a nature similar to those with which he was charged. This is widely believed to refer to the disappearance of eight-year-old Jeanette Garland from her Castleford home in 1969, a case which became nationally known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home and which remains unsolved to this day…’

I switch off the radio and take the tray back into the kitchen, one cup untouched.

I rinse out the cups and then dry them and put them away.

I go back into the bedroom -

I lie down beside her.

There are sirens and there are brakes -

I close her eyes.

Boots upon the stairs, fists knocking on the door -

I kiss her.

Boots down the hall -

I close my eyes.

Fists pounding on the bedroom door -

I kiss her for the last time.

Bill is shaking me -

I open my eyes.

I hold up her hand in mine -

There are bruises on the backs of both our hands;

Bruises that will never heal -

Never.

Bill is saying: ‘I think you need a friend, Maurice.’

I nod.

The branches tapping against the pane, screaming:

‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’


Chapter 47

Falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her memories open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of an unfaithful wife trapped and forced to watch the slaughter of her husband upon their own neat lawn, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the carpet in the hall, on the golden flowers and the crimson leaves, on the marks made by piss and the marks made by shit, contorted and screaming and howling under dull Christmas tree lights that blink on and then off, on and then off, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and dying at Christmas, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of dirty clothes and unshaven faces, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their memories, telling them of all the hells they were in and all the fresh hells you’d bring, how damned they truly were, but they just sat there silently waiting for new hells to come to their houses and flats, to take them upstairs and fuck them on their bed with their eyes open wide and their mouths shaped like fish, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, her husband rotten in his box, already on his way back down underground, a tie around his neck and truncheon by his side, stitched up stones for his teeth, as you flew across the church, tried to reach across the pews and grab Badger Bill, to kill him here and kill him now, but your brother Pete was holding you back, telling you all the things that your dad had done and had not, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how he was better off dead and now she could get back on her feet and on with her life, better off without him, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her fingers, and then came the Brass, came to tell you how sorry they were, he was one of their own he was, one of the best that there was, how they were all going to miss Big John the Pig, his gun still smoking as they struggled to clean this all up, the stink of bullshit among the smoke, their lies smeared all over the windows of your shed, their fingers holding down the trigger, lying in their uniforms that said Leeds City Police, your father dead between a pair of swan’s wings, his story blown to bits, still struggling to tidy up those little loose ends and file them away, to put him in the ground and make him go away, but it didn’t and it never would, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up her walls and her stairs on her hands and her knees, the bricks through her windows and LUFC on her walls, the swastikas and noose they hung above her door, the kids and their dogs chanting and barking, chasing her home from the shops in packs, home to the shit through her letterbox and the dirty phone calls, the dull thuds in the night and the torchlight that blinks off and on, on and off through her windows all night, the feeble voice asking her sons to please, please come help stop these kids and their dads, the white swastikas and the black, the marks made by kids and the marks by their dads, burning paper through her letterbox and a dead cat on her step, these policemen in suits and big size ten boots who check all her locks and drink all her tea and remember her John and then are all gone; the walls covered in wet painted words, the stink of shit up the stairs, the smell of dirty dog muck and rotten old eggs, the fruit and the veg and the endless days and nights of hate, these long days and long, long nights spent alone in her bedroom afraid to go downstairs, afraid to go out, for the kids and their dads, their mams and their nans, their chants and their taunts, their sticks and their stones, the words and the bricks that always hurt always, her husband dead and her sons that never call, alone on her bed in her own shit and piss with no food in the house, the doors and windows all locked and the dog fucking starved, she falls backwards alone on her bed through the enormous depths away from this place, this terrible rotten un-fresh place, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories and history; this place where you are now, alone; terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with your mother on her bed in the piss and the shit with no food in the house and the wolf fucking starved at the door, alone with your mother in her bed, your mother and -

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

Contorted and screaming and howling from under the sheets -

Screaming and howling from under the sheets -

Howling from under the sheets -

Under the sheets -

Under the sheets as he first buggers and murders thee all over again -

Buggers and murders thee:

The Last Yorkshire Son -

Thee and then her -

Hazel.

Monday 6 June 1983 -

You are on your back, back in the flat, listening to the branches;

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

Listening to the branches tap;

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

Listening to the branches tap against;

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

Listening to the branches tap against the pain:


D-3 .


The old woman with the walking stick and the small boy are staring at you.

‘Number forty-five!’

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

‘Number forty-five!’

You stand up.

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

The woman in the grey, damp uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down the biro list. She sniffs and says: ‘You’re not on the list.’

You say: ‘I’m his solicitor.’

‘Neither of you are,’ she spits.

‘There must be some mistake…’

She hands you back your visitor’s pass: ‘Return to your seat and a member of staff will be down to explain the situation to you.’

Fifty minutes and two paper swans later, a plump man in a doctor’s coat says: ‘John Winston Piggott?’

You stand up.

‘This way.’

You follow him to a different door and a different lock, a different alarm and a different bell, through another door up another overheated and overlit grey corridor.

At a set of double doors, he pauses. He says: ‘I’m afraid Mr Myshkin is in the hospital wing of our facility.’

‘Oh,’ you say. ‘I had no -’

‘His family didn’t contact you then?’

You shake your head. ‘I’ve been away.’

‘Mr Myshkin has been refusing food for just over a week now. He had also taken to smearing his excrement on the walls of his room. He refused to wear the regulation clothing provided to him. Both the staff and his family felt that he might possibly attempt to take his own life. As a result, Mr Myshkin was hospitalised late Saturday night.’

You shake your head again. ‘I had no idea.’

‘It is possible for you to still see Mr Myshkin,’ he says. ‘However, I’m afraid that it can be only for a very, very short period.’

‘I understand,’ you say. ‘Thank you.’

‘Certainly no longer than ten minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ you say again.

The doctor punches a code into a panel on the wall.

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

You go through into another corridor of grey floors and grey walls.

There are no windows, just doors off to your left.

‘Follow me,’ says the doctor.

You walk down the corridor. You stop before the third door on the left.

The doctor punches another code into another panel on the wall.

Another alarm sounds. He pulls open another door: ‘After you.’

You step inside a large grey room with no windows and four beds.

The beds are all empty but one.

You follow the doctor across the room to the bed in the far-left corner.

‘Michael,’ says the doctor. ‘You have a visitor.’

You step forward. You say: ‘Hello, Michael.’

Michael Myshkin is lying strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas, staring at the ceiling -

His hair shaved. His mouth covered with sores. His eyes inflamed -

Michael John Myshkin, the convicted murderer of a child.

He turns from the ceiling to you -

There is spittle on his chin.

He looks at you. He doesn’t speak.

You stop staring at him. You look at your feet.

The doctor pulls a set of screens around you both. He says: ‘I’ll be outside.’

‘Thank you,’ you say.

He nods. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ you say again.

The doctor leaves you stood beside the bed -

Michael Myshkin looking up at you from beneath the straps.

‘I didn’t know,’ you say. ‘Nobody told me.’

He looks away, his face to the wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say.

He doesn’t turn his head back.

It is hot in here. It is bright. It smells of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I want you to tell me about Jeanette Garland.’

He doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t speak.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Please…’

He is lying on his back with his face to the wall.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I’ve tried to help you. I still want to help you, but -’

He turns his face from the wall to the ceiling. He whispers: ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

He looks at you. ‘Why do you want to help me?’

You swallow. You say: ‘Because I don’t think you should be here. Because I don’t think you killed Clare Kemplay. Because I don’t think you’re guilty.’

He shakes his head.

‘What?’ you say. ‘What?’

He stares at you. He smiles. ‘So why do you want to know about Jeanette?’

‘Because you knew her, didn’t you?’

He is still staring at you -

‘I went to see Tessa. You remember Tessa?’

He sighs. He blinks.

‘She said you had Jeanette’s photo. That you carried it everywhere. That you talked to it.’

He is crying now.

‘She said you got it from work. Is that right?’

He nods.

‘How? Why?’

‘We went to her school,’ he says. ‘Jeanette’s school.’

‘Who?’

‘Me and Mr Jenkins. It was my first week.’

‘To take school photos?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. Mr Jenkins was shouting at me. The children were all laughing at me. But not Jeanette.’

‘So you kept her photo?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘That was later.’

‘So you never saw her again?’

He looks away.

‘What?’ you say. ‘Tell me -’

‘I used to see her on the High Street sometimes with her dad or her uncle.’

‘Johnny Kelly? In Castleford?’

He turns back. He nods. ‘She always smiled and waved but…’

Strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas -

Hair shaved. His mouth sores. Eyes inflamed -

He is sobbing.

‘You saw her one last time, didn’t you?’

He closes his eyes. He nods.

‘When, Michael?’

He opens his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling.

‘When?’

‘That day,’ he whispers.

‘Which day?’

‘The day she disappeared.’

‘Where?’

‘In Castleford.’

‘Where in Castleford?’

‘In a van.’

Shaved. Sore. Inflamed -

He is weeping -

‘She wasn’t smiling,’ he cries. ‘She wasn’t waving.’

‘Who -’

He sighs. He blinks. He says: ‘I loved her.’

You nod. You say: ‘Who was she with, Michael?’

He looks at you.

‘In the van?’

He smiles.

‘Who was it, Michael?’

He says: ‘You know.’

Hot. Bright. The smell of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies -

‘I want you to tell me.’

‘But you know.’

‘Michael, please -’

‘Everybody knows,’ he shouts.

You look at the floor.

‘Everybody knows!’

You stare at your shoes.

‘Everybody!’

You look back up at him. You say: ‘The Wolf?’

He nods.

‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I did,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t know.’

Michael Myshkin stares at you -

You turn away again.

‘Yes, you did,’ he whispers. ‘Everybody did.’

‘About the Wolf?’

‘Everything.’

This heat. The brightness. This shit. The disinfectant. These lies -

‘I didn’t know,’ you say again. ‘I didn’t.’

Michael John Myshkin laughs. ‘Your father did.’

Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks -

Tears on yours.


*

Doors locked, you check the rearview mirror then the wing. You switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette:

‘The stars came out last night for Mrs Thatcher at a packed Wembley Conference Centre: Bob Monkhouse and Jimmy Tarbuck, Steve Davis and Sharon Davies, Brian Jacks and Neil Adams, Terry Neill and Fred Trueman; Kenny Everett shouted Let’s Bomb Russia and called on the crowd to Kick Michael Foot’s Stick Away; Lynsey de Paul composed and sang a song entitled Tory, Tory, Tory…’

You are crying again:

No Hazel.

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

Fourteen years ago, you waited in the same piss outside Wakefield Station for your dad to pick you up. Just graduated. A lawyer at last. The Prodigal Son. Your dad never came. You got the bus out to Fitzwilliam. There was no-one home. You had no key. You went round the back of the house to wait in the shed, the shed with your old trains and tracks. You thought you could see your dad inside. You opened the door -

You open your eyes.

You feel sick. Your fingers burning.

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

Iron Maiden.

There’s no answer -

You are listening to Mrs Myshkin’s telephone ring and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof -

Nobody home -

The rain pouring down, car lights on a wet Monday afternoon in June -

The kind of wet Monday afternoon you used to spend in your office answering and asking questions about marriage and divorce, children and custody, maintenance and money, eating Bourbon or digestive biscuits, sitting behind your desk, listening to the rain fall on the windows, the raindrops on the wall outside so sharp and full of pain, listening to the relentless sound of the hard rain on the windows and the walls, not wanting to visit your mother, dreading it -

This fear even then -

You hang up:

This fear real -

This fear real and here again:

In a telephone box on Merseyside, listening to the dial tone -

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

This fear now:

Monday 6 June 1983 -

D-3:

This fear here -

The Wolf.

You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You get out of the car. You go to the door of the shop. It is locked but there is a light on behind the handwritten postcards and the stickers for ice-cream and beer. You knock on the door. The old Pakistani with the white beard appears at the glass. He looks at you. He shakes his head. You rap on the door again -

‘I just want a paper,’ you shout.

The old Pakistani appears at the glass again. He shakes his head again.

‘Mr Khan,’ you say. ‘Please -’

He is crying.

You turn round. You walk back to the car. You get in. You lock the doors. You start the car. You go up Northgate and turn on to Blenheim. You park in the drive. You get out. You lock the doors. You go inside your building. You go up the stairs. You take your key out -

The door is not open. There is no-one on the stair.

You open the door. You go inside. You lock the door. You walk down the hall. You do not go into the bathroom. You do not look in the mirror. You go into the ruined front room. You take some paper from a drawer on the floor. You take out your pen. You sit down on a pile of broken records -

The telephone ringing. The branches tapping -

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

You start writing.


Chapter 48

Big car turns off main road and passes through stone gateposts and up long drive, trees bare and black, up to main building of hospital -

Stanley Royd Mental Hospital, Wakefield.

He parks in front of old house and BJ and him crunch across gravel to front door.

BJ hold open door then follow him into reception area.

A nurse with a nametag that says M. White is sat behind desk; she is listening to a local radio news report about arrest of Yorkshire Ripper.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says.

‘Good afternoon,’ smiles woman. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I do hope so,’ he smiles. ‘We’ve come for Mr Whitehead.’

‘Pardon?’ she says, turning down radio.

‘We’ve come to take him home.’

‘Jack Whitehead?’

‘Yes,’ he nods.

‘And you are?’

‘The Reverend Laws.’

Confused, she says: ‘I’ll have to get Dr Papps.’

Reverend takes off his black hat and smiles at her, his nose broken and bandaged: ‘We can wait.’

M. White picks up a phone with one hand and points at some chairs with other: ‘Have a seat.’

BJ and him sit down and wait, staring through open double doors into day room -

Day room staring back in their pyjamas and paper hats.

It is New Year’s Eve, 1980.

A short and fat man is coming down stairs: ‘Gentlemen?’

BJ and Reverend stand up.

He has his hand out: ‘I’m Dr Papps, Senior Consultant.’

‘Reverend Laws.’

They shake hands. Papps says: ‘Nurse White tells me you’re here about Mr Whitehead?’

‘Yes,’ nods Reverend Laws. ‘We’ve come to take him home.’

Papps is looking at BJ, trying to place top of BJ’s head -

Suddenly trying not to remember BJ -

But BJ remember him:

BJ never forget a cock.

Papps suddenly blushes. He stammers: ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as you might think.’

Reverend puts an arm around Dr Papps. He turns him to look at BJ. He says: ‘This young man is a relative.’

Good doctor tries not to look at BJ. He whispers: ‘A relative?’

‘His son.’

Dr Papps leads BJ and Reverend up stairs and down corridors, out of main building and into one of wings, unlocking and locking doors until last corridor and last door.

Dr Papps, key in hand, says: ‘He hasn’t been well, has Mr Whitehead; in fact he’s only just returned from Pinderfields.’

‘I know,’ says Reverend.

‘He won’t be easy to care for, to administer to.’

‘His son is aware of the commitment.’

Dr Papps glances at BJ.

BJ smile. BJ wink.

Papps unlocks door.

Everybody steps inside.

Room is cold and grey, just a toilet and a bed:

Jack Whitehead is lying flat upon bed in a pair of white pyjamas -

Staring up at light from window high in wall -

His head shaved, his hole in shadow.

‘Jack?’ whispers Reverend.

‘Father,’ he smiles.

‘We have come to take you home.’

Jack sighs, eyes watering -

Tears slipping down his face -

Down his cheek -

His neck -

Off his pillow -

From mattress -

On to floor -

Puddles -

Rivers -

Rivers of tears upon stone floor -

Lapping around tips of all our wings.

Jack turns his head towards door: ‘So many broken hearts.’

‘So many pieces,’ Reverend softly says.

‘But do they fit?’ BJ ask.

‘That’s the question,’ whispers Jack. ‘That is the question.’


*

Papps leads Jack in his white pyjamas out of door and down corridor, unlocking and locking doors, crossing from wing back to main building, along corridors and down stairs.

At reception, Reverend hands bad doctor a fat brown manila envelope and smiles: ‘I believe this will help take care of any outstanding paperwork.’

Papps is touching envelope and his lips, nodding.

Reverend puts on his black hat: ‘Good day, Dr Papps.’

‘Good day, Father.’

Nurse White holds open front door as BJ and Reverend help Jack down stone steps and across gravel to car.

‘Wait,’ cries Nurse White. ‘He hasn’t any slippers, any shoes!’

BJ look down at Jack’s bare feet, a tiny trail of blood upon cold, sharp gravel -

Reverend is holding open car door: ‘He’ll soon be home, don’t worry.’

BJ push Jack’s head down into back seat. BJ slide in next to him.

Reverend puts seat back and gets in. He closes door -

‘Soon be home,’ he repeats as he turns car around and heads back down long drive to stone gateposts and main road, trees black and bare but for old nests and carved hearts that cry:

‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -

‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -

‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex.’

It is raining and it is night in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis when big black car turns off Calverley Street and on to Portland Square, in shadows of Cathedral and Court.

Reverend parks before number 6.

There is a light in a second-floor window.

Reverend opens door and pulls back seat.

BJ help Jack from car and up three stone steps and through front door. BJ lead him across carpet of brittle leaves and buried letters and up staircase to first floor, across landing and up stairs to second -

To door of Flat 6 -

Door where someone has written on letterbox:

Ripper -

Door where someone has added two sixes to first:


6 6 6 -


But there are so many, many doors:

Many doors to hell;

Open -

All of them open:

Everybody steps inside.

There is smell of amaranth and aldehyde.

BJ and Jack walk down passage into front room:

There are curtains whipped and candles fervid, there are words upon walls and photographs upon floor, there are shadows and there are sounds:

‘… no not she e loved her e destroyed thee evil within her it had to be done e am relaxed what had to be done has been done thee evil in her was destroyed carol was good but they had put thee evil into her e had to kill it he primed me to do it this last night we went to his church in fitzwilliam and stayed all night he will tell you it was a long night he danced around me and he burned my cross but he was too late my cross was tainted with evil he tried oh how he tried but e had to do it e had to destroy it e am relaxed e am at peace it was terrible he had me in thee church all night look at my hands e was banging them upon thee floor thee power was in me e could not get rid of it and neither could he e was compelled by a force within me which he could not get rid of e felt compelled to destroy everything living within thee house everything living including thee dog everything living but that was a lesser evil it is done now it is done thee evil in her has been destroyed it was in carol it used my wife my love oh hell e loved that woman no not carol she was good e loved her…’

Tape stops.

There is a white towel upon bed.

Reverend Laws draws curtains.

He places a wicker chair in centre of room.

‘Come here,’ he says.

Jack doesn’t move.

‘Come to me,’ he says again.

He is not looking at Jack -

He is looking at BJ.

BJ do as he says.

He takes off BJ’s shirt.

‘Sit here,’ he says.

BJ do as he says.

He picks up a razor from white towel.

Jack is stood in middle of his room in his white pyjamas and his bleeding feet, tears in his eyes.

Reverend finishes. He blows across top of BJ’s head. He brushes loose hairs away. He walks back over to bed. He puts down razor. He stands behind BJ.

He is facing Jack, whispering:

‘Thy way is thee sea and thy path in thee great waters, and thy footsteps are unknown.’

Bathroom door opens.

A big skinhead in blue overalls is standing in doorway.

He has a Philips screwdriver in one hand and a ball-peen hammer in other.

‘This is Leonard,’ says Martin Laws. ‘You remember Little Leonard?’

BJ close his eyes.

BJ wait.

BJ feel cold point of screwdriver on crown of skull -

Head bobbed and wreathed, this is BJ’s choice.


Chapter 49

It was the night before Christmas. There was an enormous bungalow made of white feathers sat on the top of a big black hill, fat white candles burning in the windows. I was walking up the hill in the rain and the sleet, past the giant orange goldfish in the pond. I rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I opened the door. I went inside. A fire was burning in the hearth, the room filled with the sounds and smells of good cooking. Under a perfect Christmas tree, there were boxes of beautifully wrapped presents. I went down the hall to the bedroom. I stood before the door. I closed my eyes. I opened them. I saw stars, stars and angels. I tried the door. It swung open. I saw her; my star, my angel. She was lying on the bed under a beautiful new carpet, her beautiful, beautiful hair splayed out across the cushions, her eyes closed. I sat down on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning my uniform. I slid quietly under the carpet, nuzzling up to her. She was cold. She was wet. Her hair all gone. I tried to get up out of the bed but arms held me down, children’s arms, branches -

‘Uncle Maurice! Uncle Maurice!’

I open my eyes.

Bill’s daughter is looking down at me.

I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

I blink. I am lying in a big double bed. I am wearing a pair of pyjamas.

‘It’s me,’ she says. ‘Louise.’

I sit up in the bed. It is not my bed. Not my pyjamas.

‘You’re at John and Anthea’s house,’ she says. ‘In Durkar.’

I blink. I nod.

‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks. ‘A cup of tea?’

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘My dad said you needed to rest.’

‘What day is it?’

‘It’s Monday,’ she says. ‘Monday morning.’

I look at my watch. It’s stopped.

‘It’s just after ten,’ she says.

‘Where is everybody?’

She starts to speak. She stops. She puts her hand to her mouth.

‘Tell me, love,’ I say. ‘Please -’

‘Sandal,’ she says.

I look at her. I wait.

She sighs. She says: ‘Donald Foster’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘Bob found him.’

‘Your Bob?’

‘At his house this morning,’ she nods. ‘Murdered.’

I push back the covers. I get up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I can’t stay here, love.’

‘But my dad said -’

‘Where are my clothes?’

She points at the stool in front of the dressing table. ‘Over there.’

On the stool are a clean set of clothes and my spare pair of glasses.

‘I went to your house,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t -’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asks again.

‘Wood Street,’ I say. ‘Can I borrow your car?’

‘Your Triumph’s outside.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again.

‘But are you sure, you’re -’

‘I’m fine,’ I smile. ‘Honestly.’

‘Do you want me to call my dad?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘You know how he worries.’

I drive from Durkar into Wakefield. I don’t turn off to Sandal. I go straight to Wood Street. I don’t go in the front way. I go in the back. I don’t speak to anyone. No-one speaks to me. I run up the stairs. I go into my office. I unlock the bottom drawer. I take out two thick old files and a third thin new one. I close the drawer. I pick up the files. I leave the office. I walk back down the stairs. I go out the way I came in. I don’t see anyone. No-one sees me. I run back to the car. I drive out of Wakefield past the Redbeck. I come to the edge of Castleford -

To Shangrila.

I don’t stop -

There is a dark red Jaguar parked at the bottom of the drive.

I drive to the end of the road. I turn left. I drive to a lay-by. I turn the car around.

I wait.

I don’t close my eyes. I don’t dare.

I watch.

Thirty minutes later, I watch the dark red Jaguar pull out of the end of the road -

There are two big men in the car.

I know the big man sat in the passenger seat -

Derek fucking Box.

The Jag turns right. It disappears around the bend in the road.

I start the car. I go back the way I came.

I park at the bottom of the drive. I get out. I look up the hill -

Shangrila.

I remember this place when it was only bones -

Stark white bones rising out of the ground;

I remember this place in the moonlight -

The ugly moonlight;

I remember this place and I remember the lies -

‘He was here with me.’

I walk up the drive. I pass the goldfish -

I am not empty-handed.

I come to the door. I press the bell. I listen to the chimes.

The door opens:

John Dawson, the Prince of Architecture himself -

‘Maurice?’ he says. ‘This is an unexpected -’

‘Shut up,’ I tell him.

‘What?’

I push him back into his hall.

His wife is coming down the stairs in her dressing-gown: ‘Who is it now?’

‘It’s the police,’ I say.

‘Maurice?’ she says. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

I point to the living room on the left. ‘Both of you in there.’

They go into the large white living room.

I follow them -

The whole room white. The whole room decorated with images of swans.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ says Dawson.

I punch him in the back of his head. ‘Sit down and shut up.’

They sit down on the huge cream sofa, side by side.

On the glass table in front of them are architect’s plans and today’s paper -

I stare down at an upside-down photograph:

Paula Garland.

I read an upside-down headline:

RL STAR’S SISTER MURDERED.

I look back up at them. I say: ‘You know why I’m here.’

‘No, I don’t actually,’ says Dawson. ‘And what’s more, I believe Bill Molloy -’

‘Fucking shut up!’ I shout. ‘Shut up!’

‘Mr Jobson, I -’

‘John,’ whispers his wife. ‘Please be quiet.’

I look at Marjorie Dawson -

Her expensive dressing-gown. Her tired, lonely eyes;

I look at her and I know she knows.

I look at her husband -

His expensive clothes. His timid, licentious eyes;

I look at him and I know he knows -

Knows she knows, knows I know.

‘Ted Jenkins,’ I say.

‘Who?’ asks Dawson.

‘Photographer and purveyor of pornography. Child pornography to be exact.’

Mrs Dawson looks at her husband.

I take out a large black Letts desk diary for 1974. I open it. I turn to the addresses and telephone numbers at the back. I find the names beginning with the initial D. I turn it around. I put it down on top of the newspaper and the plans. I point to one name and one number.

Marjorie Dawson leans forward. John Dawson doesn’t.

I smile. I say: ‘He’s got your number, has Mr Jenkins.’

Marjorie Dawson looks at her husband.

‘He’s got a lot of numbers,’ I say.

John Dawson is biting his lip.

‘Don Foster for one,’ I say. ‘Not that he’ll be answering his phone again.’

Marjorie Dawson looks at me.

‘He’s dead,’ I say.

She is opening and closing her mouth.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought you knew.’

Dawson tries to hold his wife’s hand -

She moves away from him.

He tells his wife. ‘I only just heard.’

‘That what Derek Box came to tell you, was it?’ I ask.

John Dawson puts his hands over his face.

‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news,’ I say.

Dawson looks up from his hands.

‘George Marsh is dead too.’

‘What?’ says Dawson.

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I killed him.’

‘What?’ he says again. ‘Why -’

I smile again. I put three photographs down on the table on top of his plans -

Jeanette. Susan. Clare.

His wife looks down at them. His wife looks up at him -

‘I wish you were dead,’ she says. ‘I wish we all were.’

I pick up the photographs.

He has his head in his hands again.

She stands up. She slaps him. She claws at his hands. She screams.

I leave.

I drive from Shangrila back home -

Home.

I park outside the house, my home.

There are no lights on, the curtains are not drawn -

Everything gone -

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

Everybody -

Judith, Paul, my Clare;

Jeanette, Susan, Clare Kemplay;

Mandy -

Everybody gone.

I drive back into Wakefield and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

I park on the road beneath the big trees with the hearts cut into their bark;

I look down the street at 28 Blenheim Road -

I stare at the policemen sat in the dark in their cars;

I close my eyes. I open them. I see no stars -

No stars or angels;

I look up at Flat 5 -

No star, no angel;

Not tonight.

There’s a tap on the glass -

I jump:

Bill -

He tries the passenger door.

It’s open. He gets in.

His hair grey. His skin yellow -

He stinks of death; We both do.

‘Don’s dead,’ he says. ‘So’s John Dawson.’

‘How?’

‘Derek fucking Box did Don. Looks like John and his wife topped themselves.’

I turn to look at him. ‘His wife too?’

Bill nods.

‘What we going to do?’

Bill looks at me. He smiles. He says: ‘We’re late.’

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

The Marmaville Club:

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

Favoured by Bill Molloy:

The Badger.

The upstairs room, next to the toilets -

The curtains drawn, the lamps on, no cigars -

No cigars tonight:

Monday 23 December 1974 -

Christmas bloody carols up through the carpet -

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

Like the Chivas Regals and all our faces -

Stood and sat in a circle of big chairs, a couple of upturned and empty ones -

The gang half here:

Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin and Murphy -

John Murphy on his feet and off his rocker -

‘Sit down!’ Dick is shouting at the bastard -

The Manc bastard not listening:

‘No, I fucking won’t sit down,’ Murphy shrieks. ‘Not until someone fucking tells me what the hell is going on over here…’

Bill palms up, asking for calm: ‘John, John, John -’

‘No! No! No!’ Murphy shouts. ‘John Dawson and Don Foster are fucking dead. I want some fucking answers and I want them fucking now!’

We say nothing.

Murphy looks around the room. He points at me. ‘And that fucking cunt -’

Points and screams at me: ‘Now you tell me that fucking headcase has only gone and burned down half our fucking business!’

I say nothing -

‘Fuck only knows what he’s done with Jenkins.’

Nothing.

Bill is on his feet: ‘Believe me, John, we’re all as concerned as you are.’

We don’t nod.

Murphy stops. He stands in the centre of the circle. He is panting and staring -

‘John,’ Bill tells him. ‘What we’ve planned, what we’ve all worked so hard for; it’s not going to be thrown away.’

Murphy is shaking his head.

‘I won’t let that happen,’ Bill promises -

Just so we know -

Reminds us all: ‘Off the streets, out of the shop windows; under our wings and in our pockets.’

We all stare at Bill -

Bill smiles. Bill winks. Bill says: ‘Our very rich pockets.’

We don’t smile.

Bill puts an arm around Murphy. He sits him back down -

Tells him and the rest of us how it’s going to be: ‘We have got a bit to sort out, but then it’ll all be over and our investments secure.’

Jim Prentice shakes his head. He snorts: ‘A bit?’

‘Not talking about much,’ says Bill. ‘Two little problems, that’s all, Jim.’

We wait -

Wait for him to tell us what we know: ‘Derek fucking Box for bloody one.’

‘Two-faced fucking cunt,’ Dick spits -

‘Where is the twat?’ Jim asks.

‘Bastard’s meeting Bob Craven and Dougie at midnight,’ Bill says.

‘The heroes of the hour,’ smiles Rudkin.

‘More ways than one,’ nods Bill. ‘Upstairs in the Strafford.’

There’s a tap on the door. The waitress brings in another tray of whiskeys:

Doubles.

She picks up the empty glasses. She leaves.

Murphy asks Bill: ‘So what’s on the agenda for this meeting of the minds?’

‘You’ll find out,’ he winks -

‘What do you mean?’ says Murphy

Bill turns to Rudkin. ‘You got the guns?’

Rudkin nods.

‘Go get them then,’ he tells him.

Rudkin leaves the room.

Bill gets to his feet. He shouts: ‘Stand up!’

Everybody joins him on their feet, fresh drinks in their hands -

Me too:

For the body is not one member -

‘To us,’ Bill raises his glass. ‘The bloody lot of us.’

But -

‘The bloody lot of us,’ we mumble -

Many.

‘And the North,’ I shout. ‘Where we do what we want!’

‘The North,’ they reply and drain their whiskeys.

We sit back down.

‘And the second little problem,’ says John Murphy. ‘You said there were two?’

Bill turns. He looks over at me -

They all turn. They all look over at me.

‘Eddie Dunford,’ says Bill.

I close my eyes -

I see my star, my angel -

My silent bloody angel;

I open my eyes. I nod. I start to say: ‘I’ll take -’

But there are boots on the stairs -

Heavy boots.

Rudkin bursts through the door: ‘They got fucking shots fired at the Strafford!’

Bill and Dick on their feet first -

Jim and me right behind them -

Murphy fucked;

Everybody down the stairs fast, drunk and ugly -

Everybody shouting -

Everybody except Bill;

Down the stairs and into the cars -

100 miles an hour;

Bill, Dick, and John Rudkin in the one car -

110 miles an hour;

Jim driving ours, Murphy in the back seat -

120 miles an hour;

Police radio still reporting shots fired -

120 miles an hour;

Me screaming at Jim: ‘Can’t you go any fucking faster?’

120 miles an hour;

Hammering into the radio: ‘This is Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, repeat: Do not approach the scene -’

120 miles an hour;

I tell them: ‘Armed officers are being deployed -’

120 miles an hour;

I order them: ‘Establish roadblocks in a five-mile radius, extending radius five miles every ten minutes -’

120 miles an hour;

I warn them: ‘DO NOT APPROACH THE CRIME SCENE!’

120 miles an hour;

John Murphy, head between the front seats -

Drunk and laughing, fucked forever -

‘Fuck they all call you the Owl for?’ he shouts.

‘Because of my glasses,’ I reply.

‘I see,’ he grins -

‘Now fuck off and let me do my job.’

He sits back -

I look into the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the dark Yorkshire night, the Christmas lights already broken or off -

Murphy crying, wishing he were somewhere else -

Someone else -

Other people;

Crying and wishing we were all dead -

Or maybe just me -

Just me.

Fuck him -

Fuck them all -

The bloody lot of them:

I am the Owl.

Prentice slams on the brakes:

It is 1.30 a.m. -

Tuesday 24 December 1974:

The Bullring -

Wakefield.

There is an ambulance and a couple of Pandas at the bottom of Wood Street -

Our two cars with all doors open;

Bill sat in the passenger seat of one car telling us how it’s going to be:

‘Dick and Jim, get up Wood Street and wait for the call. Start rewriting this; times, calls, the whole fucking thing.’

They nod. They go.

‘You hold the line here,’ he tells Rudkin. ‘Everyone out of sight, especially Brass.’

Rudkin nods.

Bill looks at his watch: ‘Put the call in for the SPG in three minutes.’

Rudkin nods again.

‘Me?’ asks Murphy.

‘You get fucking lost and fucking lost fast,’ hisses Bill. ‘Not your patch.’

He nods. He goes.

Bill looks at me -

I nod.

He stands up. He walks over to the back of the car -

I follow.

He hands me the Webley. He takes the L39 for himself.

He closes the boot of the car.

There are faint, distant screams on the wind.

Bill Molloy looks at me. He stares at me -

I stare back at him:

There is cancer in his eyes and he knows it; no-one at his bedside when he dies.

‘Know what we’re going to have to do, don’t you?’ he asks -

I nod.

‘Let’s get going then.’

I follow him across the Bullring -

Towards the screams.

I look up at the first floor of the Strafford -

The lights are on.

Bill looks at his watch. He opens the door -

The screams loud.

We go up the stairs. We go into the bar -

Into the screams. Into the smoke. Into the music:

Rock ’n’ Roll.

The record on the jukebox stuck -

In hell:

A woman is standing behind the bar with blood on her. She is screaming.

An old man is sat at a table by the window. He has one hand raised.

Bob Craven is standing in the centre of the room. He is not moving.

Bob Douglas is lying on his stomach by the toilets. He is crawling.

A big man is on his back on the floor. He is opening and closing his eyes -

Derek Box next to him, dead.

Bill walks up to Craven. He asks him: ‘What happened here, Bob?’

There is blood running from Craven’s ear -

He can’t hear.

Bill hits him across the face -

Craven blinks. He doesn’t speak.

I go over to Bob Douglas. I turn him over on to his back -

He stares up at me.

I ask him: ‘Who did this?’

He speaks but I cannot hear him.

I lean closer to his mouth: ‘Who?’

I listen -

I look up -

Bill Molloy standing over us -

I repeat: ‘Dunford.’

‘Kill the cunt,’ he says. ‘Kill them all.’

I nod.

Bill turns. He shoots the old man sat at the table by the window.

He shoots him dead.

Bill looks at his watch. He looks back down at me -

I stand up.

I walk over to the woman behind the bar.

She has stopped screaming.

She is curling herself into a ball on the floor between the open till and the bar.

She stares up at me -

I know her:

Her name is Grace Morrison.

I know her sister too -

Her name is Clare Morrison.

I have my finger on the trigger of the gun in my hand. I close my eyes -

I see my star, my angel -

My silent bloody angel -

In hell.

I open my eyes -

We all are -

The record on the jukebox stuck -

In hell -

‘Kill them,’ Bill is shouting. ‘Kill them all!’


Chapter 50

You stop writing.

There is light outside among the rain -

The branches still tapping against the pane;

You put down your pen.

There are seven thick envelopes before you -

The branches tapping against the pain;

You seal the envelopes.

It is Tuesday 7 June 1983 -

The branches tapping against the pain;


D-2 .


You open the bathroom door. You step inside. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You turn on the taps. You take off your bandages. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You wash your wounds. You dry them. You stand before the sink. You open your eyes. You look up into the mirror.

In lipstick, it says:

Everybody knows.

You drive out of Wakefield for the last time, the radio on:

‘The pathologist who examined Mr Roach told the inquiry yesterday that he believed the injury was self-inflicted and that Mr Roach had put the gun in his own mouth. He admitted, however, that he could not be 100% certain. The inquiry was also told that Mr Roach was hearing voices before his death. Colin Roach, aged twenty-one, died of shotgun wounds in the entrance of Stoke Newington police station in January…’

You drive over the Calder for the last time, the radio on:

‘Mr Neil Kinnock said yesterday that it was a pity that people had had to leave their guts on Goose Green to prove Mrs Thatcher’s strength. Meanwhile, polls continue to predict a Tory landslide with the Alliance and Labour battling for a poor second…’

You drive into Fitzwilliam -

For the last time.

Fitz-fucking-william -

Newstead View -

The street quiet:

No fathers, no sons -

The men not here.

You pull up outside 69 -

What’s left of 69:

There are boards across the windows and the door.

There are black scorch marks stretching up the walls.

There are piles of burnt furniture and clothes in the garden.

There are letters sprayed upon the boards:


LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP .


There are words:

Pervert, Pervert, Pervert, Pervert.

You start the car. You drive slowly down the road to 54:

There is an Azad taxi parked outside, waiting.

Mrs Myshkin and her sister are coming down her garden path. They are wearing headscarves and raincoats. They are each carrying two suitcases.

You get out of the car.

Mrs Myshkin stops at her gate.

‘Where are you going?’ you ask her.

She looks back up the road at 69. She says: ‘You seen what they did?’

You nod. ‘When?’

‘Two nights ago, a mob of them just set the place ablaze.’

‘Terrible,’ says her sister.

‘Where are you going?’ you ask again.

Mrs Myshkin nods at her sister. ‘Leeds eventually.’

You step forward. You take their cases. You say: ‘Eventually?’

‘I need to be near Michael,’ she says. ‘I’m going over to Liverpool today.’

‘I saw him yesterday,’ you say.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’ve spoken to them today?’

‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘Every day at the moment.’

You carry the cases round to the boot of the taxi. You bang on the boot.

The driver releases it.

You put the cases inside.

‘Thank you,’ say Mrs Myshkin and her sister.

‘Just hang on a minute,’ you say.

They nod.

You go over to your car. You take out two of the envelopes. You walk back to the two little women. You hand the two envelopes to Mrs Myshkin.

‘What are these?’ she asks.

‘One’s for you and Michael,’ you say. ‘The other is for Mrs Ashworth.’

‘You want me to give it to her?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘But I don’t know when I’ll next -’

‘I’m sure you’ll see her before me.’

Mrs Myshkin looks at you -

There are tears in her eyes -

Tears in yours.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For everything.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ you say.

Mrs Myshkin steps forward. She stands on her tiptoes. She kisses your cheek.

‘Yes, you did,’ she says. ‘Yes, you did.’

You shake your head.

She takes your hand. She squeezes it. She says: ‘I heard what they did to you.’

You shake your head again. ‘It wasn’t about Michael.’

She squeezes your hand once more. She lets go. She walks back over to her sister.

They get in the taxi. They close the doors. They wave at you.

You stand in Newstead View -

Among the plastic bags and the dogshit.

You wave back. You watch them go -

Your dried blood on the gatepost.

You park outside another boarded-up house on another street in another part of Fitzwilliam.

You get out. You walk up the path. You read the letters:


LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP .


You read the words:


LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS .


You stare at the swastika and noose painted above the door.

You turn away.

You look down the side of the house. You can see the edge of the back garden.

You walk slowly down the side of the house. You turn the corner. You stop -

You look down the back garden. You see the shed -

The shed with your trains and your tracks;

The shed -

Where you thought you could see your dad inside;

The shed -

You walked towards the door;

The shed -

You opened the door;

The shed -

You smelt the smoke;

The shed -

You saw the blood;

The shed -

You saw your dad;

The shed door banging in the wind, in the rain -

Your mother’s mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling;

You turn away -

‘Why?’

You close your eyes -

‘Why?’

You open your eyes -

You look over the broken fence. You stare up at another empty house next door -

You remember a family that lived there a long time ago -

The two little kids, the mother and father -

‘A very nice man’.

The father -

‘So good with the kids.’

The father -

George Marsh.

Haunted, you drive -

She is dripping wet and as skinny as a rake;

Haunted -

Silently she points.

You park in front of a little white bungalow with a little green garden and nothing in it:

16 Maple Well Drive, Netherton.

You knock on the glass door. You have a mouthful of brackish water. You spit.

A chubby woman with grey permed hair opens the door.

You wipe your mouth. You ask: ‘Mrs Marsh?’

She shakes her head. She says: ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I thought -’

‘They used to live here, the Marshes,’ she nods. ‘Years ago.’

‘Don’t know where they went, do you?’

She shakes her head again. ‘They flit, didn’t they?’

‘Flit?’

‘Almost ten year ago,’ she says. ‘Bank repossessed place.’

‘They just vanished?’

‘Thin air,’ she nods.

‘I remember they had an allotment or something -’

She shakes her head. ‘Some up field behind here, but we don’t -’

‘Didn’t come with the house then?’

‘No,’ she laughs.

‘Who owns them then?’

‘Them allotments?’

You nod.

‘Don’t know,’ she says. ‘Coal Board, maybe?’

‘Thanks,’ you say.

She nods.

You turn. You walk back down the garden path.

‘Sorry,’ she calls after you. ‘Who are you anyway?’

‘Solicitor,’ you say. ‘John Piggott.’

‘No trouble is there, I hope?’ she asks. ‘About the house?’

‘No,’ you say. ‘Friends of my parents, that’s all.’

The gate to the field behind the bungalow won’t open.

You climb up over the stone wall. You lumber up the muddy tractor path towards the row of dark sheds at the top of the hill.

The sky is heavy and about to piss all over you again.

Halfway up the hill, you turn around. You look back down at the little white bungalow and the little green garden next to all the other little white bungalows and little green gardens.

You can see the chubby woman with the grey permed hair at her kitchen window.

You take out your handkerchief. You wipe your face.

Your breath smells of shit.

You spit again. You start walking again.

You reach the row of sheds -

You peer in through the gaps in the wood, the cracks between the bricks:

Seed trays and yellow newspapers, plant pots and old copies of the Radio Times -

All seed trays and plant pots until you come to the last one:

The one with the bricked-up window. The padlocked black door.

You knock on the door -

No answer.

You rattle the padlock -

Nothing.

You pick up half a house brick. You batter the padlock off the door.

You open the door -

You open the door and you see the pictures on the wall -

Pictures you’ve seen on a wall once before:

Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, Clare Kemplay and -

One new photograph, cut from paper, dirty paper -

Hazel.

You know where she is.


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