Nineteen Eighty

by David Peace

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know that.’

  ‘So,’ grins Alderman. ‘You want me and Jim to go through every fucking unsolved murder in Yorkshire?’

  ‘A lot are there?’ winks Murphy.

  Alderman ignores him, but the grin’s gone: ‘And you want us to tell you why or why they’re not Ripper cases?’

  ‘Not every one,’ I say. ‘Just one.’

  Silence –

  Then: ‘Just Janice Ryan.’

  Bull’s eye –

  Eye to eye with Alderman across the table –

  Hate, naked fucking hate –

  You could cut it with a knife, the fucking hate in this room –

  The fucking hate across this table down here in the Belly –

  Cut big slices, big fucking slices off the bone until –

  ‘So what do you want to know about Janice?’ asks Prentice, playing the Smart Man.

  ‘Well from what we’ve read, the two of you were put in charge after Bradford passed it to the Ripper Room. But neither of you thought it was the Ripper until that letter turned up at the Telegraph & Argus.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got everything,’ says Alderman and stands up –

  ‘Sit down,’ I say, quietly.

  Prentice reaches up and pulls him down into his seat.

  I say to them both: ‘I want you to tell us why you thought Janice Ryan wasn’t murdered by the Yorkshire Ripper.’

  Prentice: ‘The injuries; there were no stab wounds.’

  ‘Same as Strachan,’ I say.

  Prentice shrugs.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’re both senior detectives, good at your jobs some folks reckon. But the way this looks to me, pair of you didn’t recognise a Ripper job when you saw one – losing days and days trying to fit up Bob Fraser, another bleeding copper.’

  Alderman’s on his feet again: ‘Fuck off! You can fucking talk, fitting up coppers, you hypocritical fucking cunt …’

  Bull’s eye –

  But Prentice is again pulling him back down, again playing the Smart Man: ‘Sit down, Dick.’

  But I’m leaning across the table, into Dick’s face: ‘So what were you doing, letting him get away?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘No, fuck you Dick!’ says Murphy, between us. ‘We’re asking you how come you didn’t think it was Ripper. You’d worked on enough …’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Bit of a balls up, all in all,’ I smile –

  He’s red-faced is Alderman –

  Red-faced and ready to fucking pop –

  ‘Lucky he fucking wrote that letter,’ I say. ‘Else you’d never have put it together. She’d have just been another one of those many unsolved …’

  And he’s across the table again, shouting: ‘Because it wasn’t the fucking Ripper, was it. It was fucking Fraser, everyone knows that. Tell him Jim.’

  Bull’s eye –

  ‘Shut up, Dick. Shut up,’ Prentice is saying, the last of the Smart Men –

  Dick Alderman out of his tree and control: ‘No, you fuck off. I’m not having this fucking piece of shit stroll into here and tell me I can’t…’

  Murphy: ‘Jim? Jim? What’s he talking about?’

  Prentice: ‘He’s talking bollocks, course it was Ripper.’

  Alderman: ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘No, you fuck off Dick!’

  I stand up and say: ‘I think we’d better leave you gentlemen to it.’

  They stop arguing, staring up at me –

  ‘We’ll come back another time,’ I say. ‘When you’ve got your stories straight.’

  I’m sat in our room, the one next to the Ripper Room –

  Hillman and Marshall are cross-checking cars from the Joanne Thornton inquiry.

  The door opens, no knock –

  It’s Peter Noble, a face of bloody black thunder.

  ‘Pete?’ I say.

  ‘Can I see you in my office?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Give us a minute, will you?’

  He nods and slams the door –

  Hillman and Marshall are looking at me.

  ‘What’s all that about?’ asks Hillman.

  ‘Can’t imagine,’ I smile and stand up.

  I knock on Noble’s door –

  ‘Come,’ he says and I do.

  ‘Pete,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You spoke with Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you mean, what happened?’

  ‘What I say I mean, what happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I shrug.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Look, no offence, but I’m not obliged to report to you on interviews conducted for a Home Office review.’

  Bad move –

  He’s furious, absolutely seething, fucking livid: ‘No, but you are obliged to disclose information you might have that would assist in an on-going investigation.’

  ‘And who told you that?’

  ‘The Chief Constable, just after he’d got off the phone with Philip Evans, the man who drew up the parameters of your review.’

  ‘Well firstly, I’d have to check that myself with Mr Evans and, secondly, it’s an academic argument anyway seeing as we don’t have any information that is not already available to your inquiry.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ he shouts.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I say.

  ‘No need for that,’ he laughs. ‘What about this?’

  And he tosses a copy of Spunk across the table, Issue 13.

  I ask him: ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Manchester, who tell me you’ve had it at least two bloody days.’

  ‘So what? You’ve had it best part of three bloody years.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ask George and Maurice.’

  ‘Ask George and Maurice what?’

  ‘Copies were given to them by Eric Hall’s widow.’

  He’s shaking his head: ‘You should have said something.’

  ‘I thought you knew.’

  He lights a cigarette: ‘This still doesn’t mean you can come in here and intimidate my officers.’

  ‘Intimidate your officers?’ I say. ‘Like who?’

  ‘Prentice and Alderman.’

  ‘Intimidate Dick Alderman? Now that is bollocks, Pete.’

  ‘No it’s bloody not,’ says Noble, gathering steam again. ‘I’ve had Dick in here threatening to resign, saying you insulted him, insulted his reputation.’

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Dick lost his temper. He said things I’m sure he regrets and we will need to speak to him again. But that’s as far as it went.’

  ‘Not according to Dick and Jim.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Said you made insinuations about their handling of the Janice Ryan inquiry.’

  ‘Yep, I did. And Dick Alderman refuted those insinuations, saying he didn’t believe Janice Ryan was in fact killed by the same man responsible for the other Ripper murders.’

  ‘Come on Peter, that’s rubbish.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘In my opinion, absolute rubbish.’

  I shrug: ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, furious again.

  ‘OK,’ I nod.

  ‘Nothing until we speak to the Chief Constable tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say and leave him to it.

  The Griffin, the bar downstairs –

  It’s late and everyone else has gone to bed, everyone but me and Helen Marshall and the bloke behind the bar who wishes we would:

  ‘I’d have liked to have seen the look on his face,’ she’s laughing –

  ‘Priceless,’ I’m saying, miles away – no idea who or what we’re talking about.

  She’s drunk I think, saying: ‘They don’t like us, do they?’

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘It’s late. You should go up.’

  �
�What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got some things to do.’

  ‘What?’ she laughs, looking at her watch.

  ‘Just going for a drive, that’s all.’

  ‘Can I come?’ she says, not looking so drunk anymore.

  ‘If you want,’ I say and stand up, my hand out.

  It’s gone midnight –

  We walk through the deserted city centre, freezing.

  ‘Horrible place,’ she says, looking up at the ugly black buildings, then down at the dirty pavement.

  I nod and lead the way through the Kirkgate Market, grateful for the cold and the night.

  Minutes later, we pull out of the Millgarth car park and are away.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asks as I switch on Radio 2.

  ‘Batley,’ I say.

  ‘Batley?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say and then I tell her about Janice Ryan and Eric Hall, about Eric Hall and Jack Whitehead, about Jack Whitehead and Bob Douglas, about Bob Douglas and Richard Dawson, about Richard Dawson and MJM Limited, about MJM Limited and Richard Dawson and Bob Douglas and Jack Whitehead and Eric Hall and Janice Ryan –

  About murder and lies, lies and murder –

  War.

  And after all that she just sits and stares out of the window until she says again: ‘Horrible place.’

  Parked on the Bradford Road, the light on in the car, I show her the magazine –

  I say –

  And she flicks through the pages until she comes to Janice Ryan.

  Helen Marshall, ex-Vice Squad, glances at the photo and nods and hands it back.

  ‘You heard of it?’ I ask –

  ‘No,’ she says.

  ‘Wait here,’ I say and get out of the car, hard.

  I’ve not put on the torch yet as I stumble around in the alley behind RD News –

  There are cardboard boxes and piles of rubbish heaped up in front of the back-gate to the shop –

  And it’s locked, the gate –

  I jump up and hoist myself far enough over to slip the bolt at the top of the gate –

  And I jump back down, but the gate still won’t open –

  So I jump back up and hoist myself over and down the other side and into the tiny yard –

  I go to the back door and knock –

  There’s a dog barking somewhere down the alley, but no lights go on.

  I’m frozen, but I’ve got my gloves on now –

  I take out my key-kit and break the lock and more laws than I can think of, but fuck ‘em all – locks and laws.

  I turn the handle and open the door –

  The hallway is cluttered, full of boxes and gas canisters, stairs going up on the right –

  And I’ve got the torch on now, heading up the stairs –

  At the top, there’s a wooden door, solid –

  I knock, wait, and then I take out the kit again –

  And it’s a fucker this one, especially with the light on the floor and these gloves, but it gives in the end, – like they all do.

  I turn the handle and open the door –

  Another hall, the air stale, dead –

  I walk down the hall to the front of the flat, the place deserted, no carpet –

  In the front room, I pull back a curtain and can see the car and Helen Marshall parked down the road –

  The light from the street, the torch, they show me what I already know:

  No-one lives here –

  Just scraps of furniture, – a sofa, two chairs, a table, a telephone –

  I shine the torch on the dial, but there’s no number –

  I pick up the phone and get a dialling tone that tells me what I already suspect:

  Someone comes here.

  I put the receiver down, but leave it off the hook –

  I walk back down the hall, an empty kitchen to the right, a bathroom and toilet next to it, a bedroom to the left –

  I step into the bedroom –

  I take a chance and switch on the light:

  A big bedroom, a big bed with a stained orange-patterned mattress, a pair of black curtains –

  Fitted cupboards down the side of the bed –

  I take out Spunk –

  I turn:

  Under the spread legs, below her cunt, an orange-patterned mattress –

  Back behind her open mouth and closed eyes, above that cock, black curtains –

  I drop the magazine on the bed and open the cupboards –

  Lights, cameras, the action:

  In piles –

  Spunks, the whole bloody lot –

  And I want photos, all the photos I can get –

  I race through the piles, taking out all the different ones I can find –

  They’re in order, the piles, and in the end I’ve ten copies; only issues 3, 9, and 13 missing –

  But I’ve already got 13, the last one.

  I close the cupboard door and gather the magazines –

  I turn off the light with my elbow and walk back down the hall –

  I kick open the door and close it with my back –

  It won’t lock and they’ll know I’ve been –

  But that’s OK:

  I WANT THEM TO KNOW I’VE BEEN HERE.

  I go back downstairs and leave the back door open and kick off the lock on the gate:

  JUST SO THEY’LL KNOW ABOUT IT SOON.

  I walk down the alley and back round to the car –

  Helen Marshall sees me coming and gets out –

  ‘What’s all that?’

  ‘Spunk,’ I say –

  She opens the driver’s door and I get in –

  She comes back round and sits down beside me in the passenger seat –

  I’ve got the Spunks in a pile on my knee –

  She takes them from me, silently skimming the covers, the spreads –

  ‘What we going to do?’ she asks.

  ‘Go through these, keep an eye on that place, and see what happens.’

  ‘I see,’ she says.

  ‘You tired?’ I ask her.

  ‘No,’ she says, defensive.

  ‘Good,’ I smile. ‘Because we’re going to have to do this in shifts.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re going to need to watch this place twenty-four hours.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  I shake my head: ‘Maybe later, but for now I want it to be just you and me.’

  ‘Me, you mean.’

  ‘If you don’t want to do it, just say.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, like it’s not.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say –

  ‘Mention it,’ she says.

  I’m drifting –

  Pornographic dreams of empty rooms, black curtains and orange-patterned mattresses –

  Empty TV sets, black birds and –

  ‘What?’

  I open my eyes –

  The car – the air dirty, the dawn grey.

  ‘What did you say?’ Helen Marshall is asking me –

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Think I must have nodded off.’

  ‘You said my name, that’s all.’

  ‘Sorry, must have been dreaming.’

  She laughs: ‘Should I be flattered?’

  ‘No, it was a nightmare,’ I say.

  ‘Charming first thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I smile. ‘I better go.’

  ‘Taxi?’

  ‘Have to be,’ I say and get out of the car.

  ‘What about these?’ she asks, pointing at the pile of Spunks on the back seat.

  ‘Best pass them here,’ I say.

  ‘You got a bag for them?’

  ‘In the boot,’ I say and go and get it –

  After we’ve done that, I lean back into the car and say: ‘Take care and thank you.’

  ‘Mention it,’ she says again, an echo.

  ‘Call Millgarth or the Griffin if you see anyone.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’
she’s saying.

  ‘And get the plates,’ I say, handing her the keys and closing the door, – her sliding into the driver’s seat.

  And then I turn away and walk off towards Batley Bus Station and as I go she presses the horn once and I turn back and wave – but I can’t actually see her, and in the Bus Station I use the phone and call Joan and then I get a taxi back to the Griffin, eleven issues of a pornographic magazine on my lap but, as I count them there in the back of the taxi, there’s only ten and for a sudden moment my blood runs cold thinking I left Issue 13 on the bed above RD News, but it’s here, so I think I must have miscounted and I’m another issue short, but they’ll turn up, the missing ones, they always do, – eventually.

  from a greenhouse and e smell bad lying there for over a week and he vomits and tries to cut off my head with a hacksaw because he wants to make a big mystery of me but alas this is still nineteen seventy seven and it is december now and e am cold down garthorne terrace hoping to do a bit of business outside the gaiety before e go home and now e am on gipton avenue a dark coloured car driving slowly along looking for love the car parked by the kerb the driver waving to someone in a-house bye now see you later take care and he is all right about thirty years old stocky around five feet six inches tall with dark wavy hair and beard wearing a yellow shirt and a dark anorak with a zip and a pair of blue jeans he turns to me he says are you doing business e say yes and he says five pounds e say yes and e get in his car he says he knows a right quiet place on spare ground off scott hall street and e know it is about a mile and a half away and he is very chatty and friendly and says his name is david but he prefers dave e say very well dave it is and he says what is yours e say carol but my name is really kathy kathy kelly e ask him what he was doing back on frankland place he says he was saying goodnight to his girlfriend who is sick and he has his needs you know e say yes e know do not we all and he has them come to bed eyes and it might sound daft now but e quite fancy him a bit of a good looking and he knows it type and he would not frighten anybody because he knows a lot of the girls he is a regular punter and he is talking away about hilary and gloria and is not hilary the one with Jamaican boyfriend so e am thinking that he cannot be leeds ripper can he we get to spare ground off scott hall street and dave says we should have sexual intercourse in the back of the car e say ok but you must pay me first and he says he will pay me after e say you can fuck right off e know your plan my knickers off with your muck up me and fuck all else as you drive off with your bloody fiver and e get out but wait he says there is no need for that he has his wallet out so e try the back passenger door but it is locked and he says he will come round and open it and as he passes behind me e feel a searing sickening blow on top of my head and e am screaming loudly holding my head e am falling to the floor trying to grab hold of his blue denim jeans and e can feel more blows coming until there is only darkness blackness dirty prostitute bitch you whore you bitch you dirty stinking prostitute bitch e can hear a dog barking and him walking back to his car the slam of the door the back wheels skidding with a lot of spin as he drives off e just lie there on the spare ground the terrible pain in my head the dog barking no one coming no siren so e try to stand walk across the rough ground on to road try and get to a telephone e see this lad and lass and they see my head and face all covered in blood and she starts screaming he runs off to phone an ambulance and e am sitting there in street with this girl who is hysterical and one of girls e know comes up asks me what has happened here e tell her and she says you have come in your hair with the blood e say it was the ripper then that is rippers come she says you are luckiest woman in england and e sit there in road with blood and come in my hair my head with a hole young lass screaming freezing to death and e say e do not feel lucky she says you will mark my words you lucky cow with a depressed fracture behind my ear on the left side of my head measuring one and a half inches by one inch and the seven lacerations each about two inches long plus a four inch scar on my left hand where bruises were and police said it was definitely him ripper because they found