by David Peace
I lead the way through the men and their greetings, dragging the wife and kids along -
‘Sir,’ says one.
‘Inspector,’ says another.
‘Mr Jobson.’
‘Maurice, Judith,’ smiles John Rudkin at the church door in his morning suit -
Bill’s Boy.
‘Where you hid Anthea?’ asks the wife.
‘Bottom of Winscar Reservoir,’ Rudkin laughs -
Laughs like he wishes it were true.
I say: ‘Which way to cheap seats, John?’
‘Anywhere on the right, but first two are for family.’
‘And what are we?’
He looks confused -
‘Just pulling your leg, Sergeant,’ I say. ‘Just pulling your leg.’
‘Isn’t he awful,’ says the wife. ‘You see what we have to put up with?’
He smiles -
A smile like he wishes us both dead.
I nod at another man in morning dress on the other side of the church. I ask: ‘That Bob’s brother, is it?’
Rudkin shakes his head. He says in a low voice: ‘Not got any family, has Bob.’
‘You’re joking?’ says Judith, her purple glove up over her red lipstick.
‘Mam died couple of years ago.’
I say: ‘His side of church is going to be a bit on thin side then.’
‘Boss filled it out with a lot of blokes Bob trained with and I reckon most of Morley station must be here.’
‘That’s all right then,’ says Judith.
‘See you later,’ I say and turn to my children. ‘Come on.’
We walk down the aisle, nodding to Walter Heywood and his wife -
Ronald Angus and his -
They’re all here:
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice shaking my hand -
Bob Craven not.
All here but one:
No George -
George still over in Rochdale, over where I want to be.
I hear my name again. I turn round:
Don Foster and his wife, John Dawson and his -
Big smiles and waves and they’ll talk to us later.
In our middle pew, Judith says: ‘That’s John Dawson, isn’t it?’
I nod, thinking:
Other people.
‘You never told me you knew John Dawson.’
‘I don’t.’
But she says: ‘You should see that house…’
(Inside a thousand voices cry) -
Then Clare whispers to her mother: ‘How did they meet?’
Judith looks at me. She says: ‘I’m not sure.’
‘What?’ I say.
‘How did they meet?’ sighs Clare, wincing.
I say: ‘Louise and Bob?’
‘No,’ she sneers. ‘Queen and Prince Philip.’
‘Bob’s a policeman, and -’
‘I don’t want to marry a policeman,’ she spits.
‘Clare,’ says my wife. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’
Me -
Her father, I say nothing.
So she says again, louder: ‘I’ll never marry a policeman.’
I look away at Robert Fraser -
Bob Fraser standing at the front of the church, the vicar in front of him, his best man at his side.
I don’t recognise the best man -
Not a policeman -
Not one of us.
The meandering tinkling from the organist stops. He hits all his keys at once and we all stand as Here Comes the Bride starts, turning round to see her -
The Bride -
Beautiful in white, her father at her side -
(Beautiful as the moon, as terrible as the night) -
Proud as punch in his morning dress -
The greys of his suit matching the streak that got him his name, the black his eyes.
Then it’s on with the show -
The celebration -
The hymns:
Lead us Heavenly Father, lead us;
Oh, Perfect Love;
Love Divine.
The readings -
The readings that say -
That say words like:
For the body is not one member, but many.
If the foot shall say, Because I am not the hand, I am not the body; is it therefore not of the body?
And if the ear shall say, Because I am not the eye, I am not of the body; is it therefore not of the body?
If the whole body were an eye, where were the hearing? If the whole were hearing, where were the smelling?
But now hath God set the members every one of them in the body, as it hath pleased him.
And if they were all one member, where were the body?
But now there are many members, yet but one body.
And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need for thee; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you.
Nay, much more those members of the body, which seem to be more feeble, are necessary:
And those members of the body which we think to be less honourable, upon these we bestow abundant honour; and our uncomely parts have more abundant comeliness.
For our comely parts have no need; but God hath tempered the body together, having given more abundant honour to that part which lacked;
That there should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same care one for another.
And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it.
Now ye are the body of Christ, and members in particular.
I look at my family beside me in the pew -
Paul eyes closed while Judith and Clare dab theirs as Mendelssohn strikes up.
Outside in the churchyard, the groups of coppers gather around their cigarettes again -
The girlfriends and wives off to the side, battling to keep their skirts down in the wind, bitching about the older folk, their kids tugging at their hems and their sleeves, their eager handfuls of confetti slipping through their tiny fingers -
The photographer desperately trying to corral us -
A black Austin Princess sat waiting to take the newlyweds away from all this.
‘He did invite the whole force, didn’t he?’ Judith laughs -
Laughs to herself.
I can see George -
George Oldman stood at the gates with his wife, his son and two daughters.
He sees me coming.
I shake his hand and nod to his wife. ‘George, Lillian.’
‘Maurice,’ he replies, his wife smiling then not.
‘Thought you weren’t going to make it?’
‘He nearly didn’t,’ says his wife with a squeeze on his arm.
‘Any luck?’
He shakes his head. He looks away. I leave it -
Leave them to it:
George, his wife, his son and two daughters.
‘Group shot, please,’ the photographer pleads as the sun comes out at long last, shining feebly through the trees and the gravestones.
I walk back over to pose with my wife, my son and daughter.
Clare asks: ‘Can we go home now?’
‘There’s the reception next, love,’ smiles her mum. ‘Be a lovely do, I bet.’
Paul whispers something to Clare. They both smile -
They are fifteen and thirteen and they pity their mother.
‘Family for the last time,’ shouts the photographer.
Judith looks from the kids to me, adjusting her hat with a shrug and smile -
We are forty-five and forty-two and we hate -
Just hate:
Married seventeen years ago this August at this church, so they say.
We drive in silence down into Dewsbury and up through Ravensthorpe to the outskirts of Mirfield, silence until Clare reminds us that Charlotte next door, her family have a car radio and her dad is only a teacher and, according to Paul, everyone at the Grammar School has a rad
io in their car and we must be the only family in the whole bloody world that doesn’t.
‘Don’t use that word, please, Paul,’ says his mother, turning round.
‘Which word?’
‘You know very well which word.’
‘Why not?’ asks Clare. ‘Dad says it all the time.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘Yes, he does,’ shouts Paul. ‘And worse.’
‘Well, your father is an adult,’ says Judith -
‘A policeman,’ spits Clare.
‘We’re here,’ I say.
The Marmaville Club:
Posh mill brass house turned Country Club-cum-pub, favoured by the Masons -
Favoured by Bill Molloy.
I get Judith a white wine. I leave her with the kids and the other wives and theirs. I head back to the bar -
‘Don’t forget you’re driving,’ shouts Judith and I laugh -
Laugh like I wish she was dead.
At the bar, a whiskey in my hand, there’s a hand at my elbow -
‘Isn’t that a Mick drink?’
I turn round:
Jack -
Jack bloody Whitehead.
‘What?’ grins Jack. ‘Didn’t think the Chief Superintendent would stoop to inviting scum like me?’
‘No,’ I say, looking around the room. ‘Not at all.’
Mr and Mrs Robert Fraser stand in the doorway to the dining room, waiting to greet their guests:
‘Uncle Maurice, Auntie Jane,’ says the Bride.
‘Auntie Judith,’ corrects the Groom.
‘Smart lad,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘You should be a copper.’
We all laugh -
All but Paul and Clare.
Louise kisses Judith on the cheek. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Not over yet,’ I say -
Not by a long chalk.
In the dining room we’re seated at the same table as Walter and Mrs Heywood, Ronald and Mrs Angus, the Oldmans and their son and two daughters -
The Brass.
We eat grapefruit, chicken, and some kind of trifle with a fair few glasses of wine and disapproving looks from the wives and kids to wash it all down.
Then come the speeches, with a fair few glasses more to help them go down.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. John Rudkin bends down to whisper: ‘Bill wants us all to have a drink upstairs. When dancing starts.’
I smile, hoping he’ll fuck off.
He glances at Walter Heywood and the West Riding boys. He says: ‘Be discreet.’
I smile again.
He fucks off.
An upstairs room, down the red and gold corridor past the toilets -
The curtains drawn, the lamps on, the cigars out -
The sound of music coming up through the carpet -
The beautiful carpet, all gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -
Like the whiskeys and our faces.
Sat in a circle in the big chairs, a couple of empty ones -
The gang’s all here:
Dick, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin, Bob Craven and -
‘Lads,’ says Bill. ‘Like you all to meet a good mate of mine from over other side of Pennines. This is John Murphy, Detective Inspector with Manchester.’
Similar age to me but with all his hair, Murphy is a good-looking bloke -
A younger Bill Molloy -
Another one.
John Murphy stands up -
‘Speech!’ shouts Dick Alderman.
‘I know some of you and the rest by reputation,’ smiles Murphy with a nod to me. ‘I also know that we’re all here because of one man -’
Nods and murmurs in Bill’s direction -
Bill all hands up, embarrassed and modest.
‘So let’s first raise our glasses,’ says Murphy. ‘To the Badger himself, on the marriage of his daughter.’
‘Cheers,’ we all say and stand up -
‘No,’ says Bill. ‘We all had enough of that bollocks downstairs -’
We laugh. He pauses. We stand there waiting -
Waiting for him to say -
‘Let’s drink to us,’ his voice and glass raised. ‘The bloody lot of us.’
‘The bloody lot of us,’ we reply and drain our whiskeys.
We sit back down.
Bill tells Rudkin to ring down for another round. He says: ‘We’ll have to keep this brief, as we don’t want too many questions, do we?’
‘They think we’re playing cards,’ laughs Jim Prentice.
‘Not talking about the wives, Jim,’ says Bill. ‘Thinking more about Old Walter and our country cousins.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks for putting us on same bleeding table.’
Hands up again, Bill grins: ‘I just wanted you lads to meet John here, and -’
There’s a knock on the door. Bill stops talking.
A young waitress brings in another tray of whiskeys -
Doubles.
She picks up the empties and leaves.
‘And?’ I say.
‘And,’ nods Bill. ‘A couple of other things.’
We sip our whiskeys. We wait.
‘John here’s acquired,’ smiles Bill. ‘Acquired some offices for us on Oldham Street in centre of Manchester. Got the printing and distribution end sewn up nicely.’
‘Got a few nice Vice connections too,’ adds Murphy. ‘Pete McCardell for one.’
Low whistles around the room.
Bill pats Murphy on the back. ‘This is just the beginning; what we planned, worked so hard for, it’s finally coming together -’
Nods.
‘Controlled vice,’ says Bill Molloy, quietly. ‘Off the streets and out the shop windows, under our wing and in our pocket.’
Smiles.
‘The whole of the North of England, from Liverpool to Hull, Nottingham up to Newcastle – it’s ours for the taking: the girls, the shops, the mags – the whole bloody lot.’
Grins.
‘It’s going to make us rich men,’ nods Bill. ‘Very bloody rich men.’
Lots of nods, smiles, grins and hear-hears.
I stare around the room at all the teeth. I ask Bill: ‘What about your son-in-law?’
Everyone stops smiling -
Rudkin shaking his head.
‘Never,’ says Bill. ‘I never want Robert near any of this.’
I stare around the room again: ‘Better all watch what we say then, hadn’t we?’
Some of them are looking at the carpet, the beautiful carpet -
All gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -
Like the whiskeys and their faces.
‘I do have some other new faces though,’ smiles Bill and turns back to Rudkin. ‘Invite our guests in and have them bring up some more drinks, will you, John?’
John Rudkin leaves the room.
‘We’ve got an opportunity here,’ Bill says. ‘An opportunity to invest the money from our little ventures and turn it into something even bigger -
‘Something great.’
There’s another knock. Rudkin holds open the door for John Dawson and Donald Foster.
Bill gets up. ‘Gentlemen. Please join us.’
Don and John take their seats in the circle. Bill makes the introductions -
Me thinking, too many cooks, too many chiefs.
The waitress brings in more drinks and leaves.
The introductions over and done, Bill gestures to John Dawson and Don Foster. ‘John and Don here have their own dreams, don’t you, gents?’
Foster nods. He clears his throat. ‘With your help, gentlemen, we’re going to build a shopping centre -’
‘The biggest of its kind in England or Europe,’ says Dawson.
‘One place where you can buy everything you need, where you can see a film or go bowling, where you can have breakfast, lunch or tea,’ says Foster.
‘Whatever the weather, all under one roof,’ adds Dawson. ‘Make the Merrion Centre look like the rabbit
hutch it is.’
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘The Hunslet and Beeston exit of the motorway,’ says Foster. ‘Be ideal.’
‘The Swan Centre,’ beams Dawson -
Beams Foster -
Beams everyone:
Too many cooks, too many chiefs.
Bill stands back up, his left hand open in the direction of Dawson and Don Foster: ‘With John’s brains, Don’s bricks, and our brass, we’re going to make this happen -’
Everyone clapping -
‘And we’re going to make some bloody money too -’
Everyone joining him on their feet with their drinks -
‘Some fucking real bloody money!’
All the cooks and all the chiefs -
Me too:
For the body is not one member -
Bill raises his glass: ‘To us all and to the North – where we do what we want!’
But -
‘The North,’ we reply as one and drain our whiskeys again.
Many.
Bill looks over at me, smiling to himself: ‘There’s one last thing.’
We sip our whiskeys. We wait.
‘You’ve all heard the rumours,’ he says. ‘But I wanted to tell you all face to face, here and now, in front of the lot of you -
‘I’m retiring.’
‘What?’ we all say.
‘I’ve had my time,’ he grins. ‘And I’m going to have plenty to keep me occupied.’
‘But what -’ Jim Prentice says.
Craven: ‘Who will -’
Bill looks at me. He nods. He says: ‘Maurice is taking over.’
I say nothing.
‘Old Walter signed the papers yesterday,’ laughs Bill. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, Head of Leeds CID.’
Before I can say anything -
Before anyone can say anything -
Dick Alderman stands up, his glass raised one final time: ‘To Maurice.’
Bill and Rudkin on their feet first, Dawson and Foster next, Craven and Prentice following -
Murphy bemused, confused -
As confused as me as I stand and raise my own glass to myself thinking:
Make believers of us all.
Downstairs, drunk and ugly -
Everyone dancing -
Everyone except my wife and my children, sat to the side in the dark -
Everyone dancing or falling down:
‘State of her,’ whispers Dick with a nod to Anthea Rudkin -
Rudkin’s wife draped all over George Oldman -
Half in and half out of a long but low-cut pink dress -
Oldman’s wife and children getting their coats.
Bill is shaking his head, whispering to Rudkin -
