Nineteen Eighty

by David Peace

‘Thought you might have. Well, when Ryan turned up dead under a sofa in Bradford, it turned out she was pregnant and Bob Fraser was the father.’

  I keep it shut now, letting him go on –

  ‘This is the same Bob Fraser who was married to Louise Molloy. Heard that name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bill Molloy?’

  I sit forward: ‘Badger Bill?’

  Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, one half of that same legend, nods –

  The Badger and the Owl, boyhood heroes from an Eagle world, a Dan Dare world, a different world –

  I say: ‘He was your partner wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. And Bob Fraser was married to his daughter, Louise.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I say.

  ‘It gets worse, Pete. Much worse.’

  I’m nodding, just nodding, my mind turning, spinning.

  He says: ‘When we found out the Ryan slag had been pregnant, we had Hall and Fraser straight in, Hall saying Fraser had done her, Fraser saying it was Hall, a right bloody mess – George doing all he could to keep it out of papers. Middle of all this, Bill dies; been on the cards, cancer. Next news, a letter turns up from bloody Ripper saying it was him, Ripper who did Ryan, so that was that again. We let Fraser go, but then Fraser only goes and finds out that his Louise has also been having an affair with John fucking Rudkin, his senior officer, and that Rudkin is father of his lad. Tips Fraser over edge this does, gasses himself up on Moors, as you know.’

  I nod.

  ‘Couple of days later, Eric Hall gets his throat cut and his wife raped.’

  ‘And you got that?’

  ‘For my sins, aye. Didn’t want Bradford on it, didn’t want you either,’ he laughs. ‘I was off Ripper, so it was me. Like I had nowt better to do.’

  ‘Never got anyone?’

  ‘No, and we never will.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But he was up to his fucking neck in shit, was their Eric. I mean, you were going to do him anyway?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Some reckon he was running a string of whores and maybe, just maybe, he was into it with a gang of nignogs who were knocking over sub post-offices. You remember that?’

  Nodding again, saying: ‘You get anywhere with that?’

  ‘You heard of the Spencer Boys?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Spend time over here and you will. Five of them: two brothers, Steve and Clive Barton, a Kenny somethingorother, a Keith Lee and a Joseph Rose. Thinking was that it were them that did the post offices, but Robbery couldn’t pin it on them. Anyway, pain in the fucking arse it was, – but what goes around comes around, as they say: Clive got banged up for GBH or something, Kenny and Keith got fitted up by Drug Squad, all in Armley doing big stretches. No parole. Steve did a runner and then the burned body of a nigger turned up on Hunslet Carr and we’ve always reckoned that was Joe Rose, who no-one’s seen hide nor hair of since 77.’

  ‘And you think they did Eric Hall?’

  ‘Don’t think it Pete, I know it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Two schools of thought here, but what we know for sure is Eric and these boys had a mutual acquaintance in Janice Ryan. Either Eric was in with them from the start or he wasn’t and Ryan told him about the Spencer Boys and their hobby and then Eric tried to blackmail them. Either way, they had to shut him up.’

  ‘Which way you lean?’

  ‘Me? The third way; I like to think best of people Pete, so I’d like to think he was building a case or something and they found out.’

  I smile: ‘That’s what his wife says.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to her?’

  ‘She came to see me. Said she had information about Janice Ryan. Said Eric was killed because he knew too much, that he had files and stuff, that she gave them to you.’

  ‘Poor cow,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘The things they did to her. She gave me them files but, between you and me, it’s just his bloody ramblings. But like I say, it’s a better way to remember a copper.’

  I nod and we fall back into the silence, rain outside the window, the room cold –

  Then I cough and ask: ‘What’s this journalist Jack Whitehead got to do with all this?’

  ‘Jack? Well, your Widow Hall claims Jack found out Eric was connected to Janice Ryan and tried to blackmail him.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No. Tell you Pete, 1977 was one hell of a summer, as they say’

  ‘Did you question him?’

  ‘Jack? Hardly’

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘Well, our Jack’s been a bit quiet lately’

  ‘What? He’s dead?’

  ‘Good as. He’s in Stanley Royd, isn’t he?’

  ‘Stanley Royd?’

  ‘The Bin, Loony Bin, Nut House, Funny Farm? Just up road from here.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Only went and tried to hammer a twelve inch bloody nail into his own fucking head, didn’t he?’

  Say again: ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Wish I were Pete, wish I bloody were.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Maurice Jobson looks at his watch and says: ‘You’re going to be late.’

  I look at my watch:

  Shit, the press conference –

  I stand up, shaking hands with him, saying: ‘Thank you, Maurice.’

  ‘Anytime, Pete. Anytime.’

  Then at the door: ‘Christ, Maurice, I almost forgot…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You never said …’

  ‘Never said what?’

  ‘What happened to Rudkin, he in the Bin too?’

  ‘As good as,’ he smiles. ‘Emigrated to Australia.’

  ‘With the Badger’s daughter?’

  ‘And the little lad,’ he says and hands me a photo from his wallet:

  A woman and a boy on a beach with a ball –

  ‘You got kids haven’t you?’ says Maurice Jobson.

  Summer Seventy Seven –

  The last miscarriage –

  The baby dead –

  One hell of a summer –

  One hell:

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  In dark winter the hounds of hate, the steam upon their tongues and backs, they await –

  Out of breath, I take my place at another showdown:

  The Training College gymnasium –

  ‘No-one,’ Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble is saying, ‘no-one wants to stop this man more than me and my men.’

  Ropes dangling from ceilings, hanging –

  ‘Furthermore, all attacks in the last fourteen months are being, as we speak, rechecked.’

  As we speak –

  ‘Have you gained any further insights into the mind of the Ripper?’

  ‘I would not have thought he is very clever. He has had a great deal of luck on his side. I am sure if the public are vigilant and report things early, probably the next time his luck may run out.’

  The next time –

  ‘You’re saying that he’s not very clever, but your predecessor, Assistant Chief Constable Oldman, he is on record as saying he thought the Ripper was very intelligent, crafty even, and that it would be a mistake to underestimate his intelligence.’

  ‘I am not underestimating him, I’m merely saying that he has had a lot of luck.’

  ‘Is it not true to say that to some extent the Police have gifted him certain pieces of luck; I’m thinking of the Manchester Fiver, of the mess in reporting Laureen Bell’s handbag and so on?’

  ‘I would dispute that and the insinuation, but these are obviously matters for due review.’

  ‘Did Mrs Bell’s appeal generate any fresh leads?’

  ‘It was a very brave thing to do and we got a lot of genuine responses, but some are sheer nonsense and they do slow…’

  ‘Would Mr Noble care to comment on The Ripper is a Coward posters?’

  ‘I have no comm
ent to make other than to repeat that me and my men share the public’s frustration and, once again, to assure members of the public and particularly the women out there that we are doing all we can to catch this man.’

  The women out there –

  ‘What about the reward of £100,000 offered by …’

  ‘I have nothing to add to what the Chief Constable said earlier.’

  ‘What about reports that morale in the West Yorkshire force is…’

  ‘Again, the Chief Constable has already answered that question.’

  ‘Have you got any feelings about the proposed film?’

  ‘Again, I have nothing to say except to add that I personally share the distaste voiced by some members of the community and press about such an idea.’

  Share the distaste –

  And then they turn to me:

  ‘Would Mr Hunter care to comment on the progress of the so-called brains trust review?’

  ‘It’s early days yet and, as you know, we are looking at the whole inquiry and when the entire review is complete I will be more than happy to answer any questions you might have.’

  Mark Gilman from the Manchester Evening News: ‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable care to comment on the arrest this morning of the Manchester businessman Richard Dawson?’

  On the dark stair, we miss our step.

  No beer and sandwiches today –

  Me at a payphone in the corner: ‘Joan? It’s me. I’ve just heard they’ve arrested Richard. You heard anything, heard from Linda or anyone?’

  ‘No, nothing. When did they arrest him?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Mark Gilman from the Evening News?’

  ‘No, there’s been nothing here, nothing on the radio.’

  ‘There will be. I’ll call again later.’

  ‘Bye-bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  *

  The Stanley Royd Mental Hospital is up behind the Training College, five minutes down the road from Pinderfields Hospital –

  Just off Memory bloody Lane:

  Pinderfields Hospital, January 1975 –

  The only time I’d ever met Jack Whitehead:

  I was sitting in the waiting room outside intensive care, Clarkie out getting fish and chips, still waiting to speak to Craven and Douglas, staring at a Yorkshire Post, thinking about Joan, when there was a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Yep?’ I said, looking up from the paper.

  ‘Whitehead, Jack Whitehead from the Evening Post. Have a word?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Well,’ said the thin-faced man in the Macintosh, sitting down beside me, ‘just have a chat about the shooting, the lads.’

  ‘The lads?’

  ‘Bob and Dougie.’

  ‘You know them, Mr Whitehead?’

  ‘Know them? Course I bloody do. Local heroes they are. They’re the lads that nicked Michael Myshkin. You heard of him, I take it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘George told me you’re over here helping out.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it I suppose.’

  Jack Whitehead touched my arm and said: ‘And what would be another?’

  And then I could hear my name over the tannoy: ‘Mr Peter Hunter. Telephone for a Mr Peter Hunter.’

  And Jack Whitehead, he let go of my arm and winked: ‘Let’s hope it’s good news.’

  But it wasn’t:

  It was Joan and another dead baby –

  Another dead dream.

  Five years on, five minutes down the road; no respite: Stanley Royd, a huge old house squatting back from the road amongst the bare trees and empty nests, its modern wings extending out into the shadows.

  Burned-black stone and the picked-grey bone of an Auschwitz, a Belsen –

  I drive through the gateway and up the long, tree-lined drive.

  Were they ash or were they oak?

  I park on the gravel and walk through the drizzle up a couple of steps and open the front door.

  A wave of warmth and the smell of sickness hits me, the smell of faeces.

  I show my warrant card at reception and ask to see Jack Whitehead.

  The woman in white behind the desk picks up the black telephone.

  I turn around to wait, watching a television hidden in the corner amongst the second-hand furniture, the large wardrobes, the dressers and the chairs, the heavy carpets and the curtains.

  I glance at my watch:

  Three.

  Thin skin and bones shuffle past in their striped pyjamas and their spotted nightgowns, the whisper of their slippers and their vespers, the scratchings and the mumblings of the day room.

  ‘Mr Hunter? Leonard will take you up,’ says the woman in white.

  A big skinhead in blue denim overalls leads me up the stairs and down corridor walls painted half green and half cream, across the landing and out of the main building, over a cold walkway and into one of the more recent extensions, locking and unlocking doors as we go.

  I say: ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘Jack? Best part of three years.’

  ‘And yourself?’

  ‘Worst part of five,’ smiles Leonard, proud of his progress.

  ‘You’ve known him a while then?’

  The orderly nods.

  ‘True they found him with a nail in his head?’

  ‘That’s what they say’

  ‘You didn’t see it though?’

  ‘He was next door for months.’

  ‘Pinderfields?’

  The orderly nods again.

  ‘Get many visitors does he?’

  ‘A vicar and some of your lot. Not that there’s much point.’

  ‘Doesn’t say much I heard.’

  Oh no, he talks all right. Not that he makes any sense.’

  ‘He’s drugged up, I take it?’

  The orderly nods one last time and turns another key, opening the door onto a long corridor of locked cells –

  ‘This the secure wing, is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this is where you keep Jack?’

  ‘He’s got his own room,’ says the orderly, pointing at the last door.

  He unlocks the door and opens it.

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he volunteers.

  ‘You sure that’s all right?’

  ‘He’s wearing restraints, but they’re to protect him not you.’

  ‘Protect him?’

  ‘From himself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say and step inside, closing the door behind me –

  The room is darker and warmer than the corridor, bare but for a bog and his bed, a single chair and a patch of light from a high window.

  I sit down next to the metal bed with the high barred sides.

  Jack Whitehead is lying on his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, his hands chained to the sides of the cot, his eyes open and fixed on the light above, his face bleak and unshaven except for his scalp back in the shadows.

  ‘Mr Whitehead,’ I begin. ‘My name is Peter Hunter. I’m a policeman from Manchester. You probably won’t remember, but we met a long time ago.’

  ‘I remember,’ he says, his voice dry and cracked. ‘Hexed, I remember everything.’

  The toilet is dripping –

  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions if I might; questions about some things that happened in 1977. About a policeman called Eric Hall?’

  Dripping, dripping –

  Jack Whitehead sighs, his eyes watering, a tear slipping down towards his ear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, softly.

  ‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘You haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Is…’

  Dripping, dripping, dripping –

  ‘Go on. Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, Mr Whitehead.’

  Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –

  ‘Really?’
/>   ‘Yes, really.’

  Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –

  With a deep breath, I ask: ‘Is it true that you met Eric Hall? True that you knew him?’

  ‘I know Eric, yes.’

  ‘You know he’s dead?’

  Jack Whitehead blinks, his damp eyes still fixed upon the ceiling –

  Dripping –

  ‘Why did you meet him?’

  ‘Information,’ says Jack Whitehead, slowly.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the dead.’

  ‘The dead?’

  Dripping, dripping –

  ‘You’re surprised?’ he smiles. ‘What did you think it’d be about? The living?’

  ‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, gripping the sides of my chair. ‘Did you try and blackmail Eric Hall?’

  Dripping, dripping, dripping –

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘How?’

  Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –

  ‘Information.’

  ‘You had information on him or you wanted information from him? Which was it?’

  Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –

  ‘Two pieces of a broken heart; but do they fit? That’s the question, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, leaning forward. ‘Was this about Janice Ryan?’

  Suddenly, a blink and he’s changed:

  In gargoyle pose he’s crouched upright on his feet, hands still chained and clipped to the sides of the bed, his face turned up to where the sky would be –

  I stand, knocking over the chair –

  Two doors, always open. Who makes the witches? Who casts the spells? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the doors. Futures and pasts, futures past, rats teeth into my belly both. The dead not dead, lorry loads of meat rotting in containers, the salt lost. Big black dogs, choking at said containers, the salt gone. The dead not dead, voices prophesizing war, endless war. Why won’t you let them sleep? Why won’t you let them be? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the door. Never tonnes undone, loose again, loose again, the dead not dead.’

  Silent, his head back, eyes white –

  I step towards him and then straight back as he spits and foams through teeth gritted and bleeding:

  ‘Hunter! Hunter! Jbd ias hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hunter! Hunter! Hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’

  ‘What?’

  Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –

  Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –