Nineteen Seventy-seven

by David Peace

  Last night the police officer who has taken charge of the biggest multiple murder hunt in the North since the M62 coach-bomb explosion described the wanted man:

  ‘We are looking for a psychopathic killer who has a pathological hatred of women who he believes are prostitutes. It is crucial that this man is found quickly,’ said Mr George Oldman, Assistant Chief Constable of the West Yorkshire Police.

  Throughout yesterday, as the striking similarities between the five murders were matched up, Mr Oldman and other senior detectives spent time discussing the mind of the killer with psychiatrists.

  ‘We now have a clear picture in our minds of the type of man we are looking for, and obviously no woman is safe until he is found.

  ‘We believe he is probably being protected by someone because on several occasions he must have returned home with heavily bloodstained clothing. This person is in urgent need of help, and anyone who leads us to him will be doing him a service,’ added Mr Oldman.

  Police believe the man is from West Yorkshire, certainly with good knowledge of Leeds and Bradford, and has possibly developed a psychological hang-up about prostitutes, either at the hands of one or because his mother was one.

  Mr Oldman said that as well as forensic evidence, the details of which he was not prepared to discuss, other similarities included:

  all the victims were ‘good time girls’ except Rachel Johnson, who could have been attacked by mistake as she made her way home late on Tuesday night.

  no evidence of sexual assault or robbery on any of the victims apart from one.

  all suffered horrific head injuries and other injuries to their bodies, including frenzied knife wounds.

  Last night Rachel Johnson’s Chapeltown neighbours were collecting signatures on a petition calling on the Home Secretary Mr Merlyn Rees to restore the death penalty for murder.

  One of the organisers, Mrs Rosemary Hamilton, said: ‘We’re going to go round every house in Leeds if necessary. This kid never did anyone any harm in her life and when they catch her killer he won’t get what he deserves.’

  The Press Club.

  Dead, but for George, Bet, and me.

  ‘Some of the things they say he does,’ Bet was saying.

  George, nodding along, ‘Slices their tits off, right?’

  ‘Takes out their wombs, this copper was saying.’

  ‘Eats bits and all.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘And keep them coming,’ I said, sick.

  I staggered round the corner of my road and there he was, under the streetlight.

  A tall man in a black raincoat, a hat, and a battered briefcase.

  He was standing motionless, staring up at my flat, frozen.

  ‘Martin,’ I said, coming up behind him.

  He turned, ‘Jack. I was getting worried.’

  ‘I told you, I’m fine.’

  ‘Been drinking?’

  ‘About forty years.’

  ‘You need some new jokes, Jack.’

  ‘Got any?’

  ‘Jack, you can’t keep running.’

  ‘You going to exorcise my demons, are you? Put me out of my fucking misery?’

  ‘I’d like to come up. To talk.’

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘Jack, there might not be another time. It’s running out.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Jack, please.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  The telephone was ringing on the other side.

  I opened the door and answered it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Jack Whitehead?’

  ‘Speaking.’

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

  A man’s voice, young and local.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  ‘Where are you?’

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

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘On Saturday. Variety Club.’

  ‘Batley?’

  ‘Yeah. Between ten and eleven.’

  ‘OK, but I need a name?’

  ‘No names.’

  ‘You want money I suppose?’

  ‘No money’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘You just be there.’

  At the window, the Reverend Laws still under the streetlight, a lynched East End Jew in his black hat and coat.

  I sat down and tried to read, but I was thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her hair, thinking of her ears, thinking of her eyes, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her lips, thinking of her teeth, thinking of her tongue, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her neck, thinking of her collarbone, thinking of her shoulders, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her breasts, thinking of the skin, thinking of her nipples, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her stomach, thinking of her belly, thinking of her womb, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her thighs, thinking of the skin, thinking of the hair, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her piss, thinking of her shit, thinking of her hidden bits, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, and praying.

  I stood up and turned to the bed, to be under the sheets, thinking of her, touching me.

  I stood up, I turned, and there she was.

  Ka Su Peng gone.

  Carol home.

  ‘Did you miss me?’

  John Shark: I like this [reads]: According to Mr James Anderton, the Chief Constable of Greater Manchester, an increase in violence has put police forces’ backs to the wall, and the burden may get worse before it gets better.

  Caller: I think he’s right.

  John Shark: I don’t. I blame the police for the increase in violence. Fear and bloody indecision? That’s their doing.

  Caller: You’re talking bollocks John, utter bollocks. Your posh house got robbed, who you going to call?

  The John Shark Show

  Radio Leeds

  Friday 10th June 1977

  Chapter 13

  In my dream I was sitting on a sofa in a pink room. A dirty sofa with three rotting seats, smelling worse and worse, but I couldn’t stand.

  And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa in a playing field. A horrible sofa with three rusty springs, cutting into my arse and thighs, but I couldn’t stand, couldn’t get up.

  Someone’s tapping on my face.

  I open my eyes.

  It’s Bobby.

  He smiles, eyes alive, teeth tiny and white.

  He pushes a book on to my chest.

  I close my eyes.

  He taps on my face again.

  I open my eyes.

  It’s Bobby, in his blue pyjamas.

  I’m on the settee in the front room, the radio on in the back, the smell of breakfast in the house.

  I sit up and pick up Bobby and his blue pyjamas, put him on my knee and open his book.

  ‘Once upon a time there was a rabbit, a magic rabbit who lived on the moon.’

  And Bobby’s got his hands up, pretending they’re rabbit’s ears.

  ‘And the rabbit had a giant telescope, a magic telescope that looked down on the earth.’

  And Bobby’s making a telescope out of his hands, turning round to stare up at me, hands to his eye.

  ‘One day the magic rabbit pointed his magic telescope at the world and said: “Magic telescope, magic telescope, please show me Great Britain.”

  ‘And the magic rabbit put his eye to the magic telescope and looked down on Great Britain.’

  And suddenly Bobby jumps down from my knee and runs to the lounge door, arms flapping in his blue pyjamas, shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Magic Rabbit, Magic Rabbit!’

  And Louise is standing there, behind us, watching, and she says, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

  I sit down at the table, the neat cloth and three places, Bobby between us, and look out on the back garden.

  It�
�s seven, and the sun is on the other side of the house.

  Louise is pouring milk on Bobby’s Weetabix, her face fresh, the room slightly cold in the shadow.

  ‘How’s your Dad?’ I say.

  ‘Not good,’ she says, mashing the cereal for Bobby.

  ‘I’m off today. We can go up together if you want?’

  ‘Really? I thought they’d have cancelled all days off.’

  ‘They have, but I think Maurice must have swung me a day’

  ‘He was at the hospital Tuesday’

  ‘Yeah? Said he was going to try and get up.’

  ‘John Rudkin and all.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He’s kind, isn’t he? What did your Uncle John buy you?’ she asks Bobby.

  ‘Car, car,’ and he tries to get down.

  ‘Later, love,’ I say. ‘Eat your Weetabix first.’

  ‘Peace car. Peace car.’

  I look at Louise, ‘Peace car?’

  ‘Police car,’ she smiles.

  ‘What’s Daddy’s job?’ I ask him.

  ‘Peace Man,’ he grins, a mouth full of milk and cereal.

  And we laugh, all three of us.

  Bobby’s walking between us, one hand for Mummy, one for Daddy.

  It’s going to be really hot and all the gardens on the street smell of cut grass and barley water, the sky completely blue.

  We turn into the park and he slips out of our hands.

  ‘You’ve forgotten the bread,’ I shout, but he just keeps on running towards the pond.

  ‘It’s the slide he likes,’ says Louise.

  ‘He’s getting big, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And we sit on the swings among the quiet and gentle nature, the ducks and the butterflies, the sandstone buildings and black hills watching us from above the trees, waiting.

  I reach across and take her hand, give it a squeeze.

  ‘Should have gone to Flamingo Land or somewhere. Scarborough or Whitby.’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, remembering.

  ‘No, you’re right. We should do though.’

  And Bobby comes down the slide on his belly, his shirt all up and his tummy out.

  ‘Getting a paunch like his dad,’ I say.

  But she’s miles away.

  Louise is in the queue for the fish stall, Bobby tugging my arm to come and look in the toy shop window, to come and look at the Lone Ranger and Tonto.

  All around us, a Friday.

  And the sky is still blue, the flowers and the fruit bright, the telephone box red, the old women and the young mothers in their summer dresses, the ice-cream van white.

  All around us, a market day.

  Louise comes back and I take the shopping bags and we walk back up Kingsway, Bobby between us, a hand for both of us, back home.

  All around us, a summer’s day.

  A Yorkshire summer’s day.

  Louise cooks the lunch while Bobby and I play with his car and bricks, his Action Man and Tonka Toy, his Lego and teddies, the Royal Flotilla coming down the Thames on the TV.

  We eat fish in breadcrumbs, drenched in parsley sauce and ketchup, with chips and garden peas, and jelly for pudding, Bobby wearing his dinner medals with pride.

  After, I do the dishes and Louise and Bobby dry, the TV off before the news.

  Then we have a cup of tea and watch Bobby showing off, dancing on the settee to an LP of Bond themes.

  On the drive over to Leeds, Louise and Bobby sit in the back and Bobby falls asleep with his head in her lap, the sun baking the car, the windows open, listening to Wings and Abba, Boney ? and Manhattan Transfer.

  We park round the back and I lift Bobby out and we walk round to the front of the hospital, the trees in the grounds almost black in the sun, Bobby’s head hanging over my shoulder.

  In the ward we sit on tiny hard chairs, Bobby still asleep across the bottom of his Grandad’s bed, as Louise feeds her father tinned tangerines on a plastic spoon, the juice dribbling down his unshaven face and neck and over his striped Marks & Spencer pyjamas, while I make aimless trips to the trolley and the toilet and flick through women’s magazines and eat two Mars Bars.

  And when Bobby wakes up about three, we go out into the grounds, leaving Louise with her father, and we run across the bouncy grass playing Stop and Go, me shouting, ‘Stop,’ him shouting, ‘Go,’ the pair of us laughing, and then we go from flower to flower, sniffing and pointing at all the different colours, and when we find a dandelion clock we take it in turns to blow away the time.

  But when we go back upstairs, tired and covered in grass stains, she’s crying by the bed, him asleep with his mouth open and his dry cracked tongue hanging out of his bald shrunken head, and I put my arm round her shoulder and Bobby rests his head upon her knees and she squeezes us tight.

  On the drive back home, we sing nursery rhymes with Bobby and it’s a pity we had fish for lunch because we could have stopped at Harry Ramsden’s for a fish supper or something.

  We bath Bobby together, him splashing about in the bubbles, drinking the bathwater, crying when we take him out, and I dry him and then carry him up to our room and I read him a story, the same story three times:

  ‘Once upon a time there was a rabbit, a magic rabbit who lived on the moon.’

  And half an hour later I say:

  ‘Magic telescope, magic telescope, please show me Yorkshire …’

  And this time he doesn’t make a telescope with his hands, this time he just makes wet smacking sounds with his lips, and I kiss him night-night and go downstairs.

  Louise is sitting on the settee watching the end of Crossroads.

  I sit down next to her, asking, ‘Anything good on?’

  She shrugs, ‘Get Some In, that XYY Man thing you like.’

  ‘Is there a film?’

  ‘Later, I think,’ and she hands me the paper.

  ‘I Start Counting?’

  ‘Too late for me.’

  ‘Yeah, should have an early night.’

  ‘What time you on tomorrow?’

  ‘John was going to call.’

  Louise looks at her watch. ‘You going to call him?’

  ‘No, I’ll just go in for seven.’

  We sit and watch Max Bygraves, Bobby’s toys between us.

  And later, in the adverts before World in Action, I say, ‘Do you think we can get over this?’

  ‘I don’t know love,’ she says, staring at the TV. ‘I don’t know.’

  And I say, ‘Thanks for today.’

  I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up she’s gone and I’m on the settee alone, I Start Counting ending, and I turn off the TV and go upstairs, get undressed and get into bed, Bobby and Louise beside me, sleeping.

  In my dream I was sitting on a sofa in a pink room. A dirty sofa with three rotting seats, smelling worse and worse, but I couldn’t stand.

  And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa in a playing field. A horrible sofa with three rusty springs, cutting into my arse and thighs, but I couldn’t stand, couldn’t get up.

  And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa on wasteground. A terrible sofa thick with blood, seeping up into my palms and nails, but I still couldn’t stand, still couldn’t get up, still couldn’t walk away.

  Caller: That little girl in Luton, the four-year-old that was raped and murdered? You see they got a lad of twelve for it? Bloody twelve years old.

  John Shark: Unbelievable.

  Caller: And all papers can go on about is the Royal bloody Flotilla and Yorkshire Ripper.

  John Shark: There’s no end to it is there?

  Caller: Yeah there is. There’s the end of the world, that’s what there is. The end of the bloody world.

  The John Shark Show

  Radio Leeds

  Saturday 11th June 1977

  Chapter 14

  I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and started to pull on my trousers.

>   It was dawn, grey and wet, Saturday 11 June 1977.

  The dream hung like a lost ghost across her gloomy backroom, a dream of bloodstained furniture and fair-haired coppers, crime and punishment, holes and heads.

  Again, bruised from sleep.

  The windows rattled with the rain, my stomach with them.

  I was an old man sitting on a prostitute’s bed.

  I felt a hand on my hip.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ she said.

  I turned back round to the bed, to the sallow face on the pillow, and I leant in to kiss her, taking off my trousers again.

  She pulled the sheet over us and opened her legs.

  I put my left thigh between them, her damp on the skin and hair of my leg as I ran my hand through her hair, feeling again for the mark that he’d left.

  I drove back to Leeds through morning traffic and continued showers, the radio keeping her at bay:

  Widespread flooding expected, John Tyndall – the leader of the National Front – punched, 3,287 policemen left without a pension or gratuity, journalists’ strike to intensify.

  When I reached the dark arches, I switched off the engine and sat in the car thinking of all of the things I wanted to do to her, a cigarette burning down to the skin just below my nail.

  Bad things, things I’d never thought of before.

  I stubbed out the cigarette.

  The office, empty.

  Bored, I picked up today’s paper and re-read my inside piece:

  THE VICTIMS OF A BURNING HATE?

  Background by Jack Whitehead

  It’s becoming an all-too-familiar scene for the luckless residents of the so-called ‘red light’ district of Chapeltown, Leeds:

  A mobile police command post, a towering radio mast, a noisy generator, cordoned-off roads, detectives with clipboards knocking on doors, and children peeping through curtains at endless blue lights.

  The fifth woman savagely murdered in the middle of the night in the last two years, the fourth within a two-mile radius, was immediately marked down as the latest victim of a killer who has become known as Yorkshire’s own ‘Jack the Ripper.’

  Rachel Johnson, sixteen, like the others, was savagely attacked. Like two of the earlier victims her body was found in a playground-type area, a place for fun and games, and Rachel was also only a few hundred yards from her home.