by David Peace
The woman was still looking straight ahead as they drove away.
I walked across the car park, through the holes filled with muddy rain water and lorry oil, round the back to the motel rooms.
The door to Room 27 was open a crack.
I stood before the door listening.
Silence.
I pushed open the door.
Sergeant Fraser, in uniform, was asleep on a blanket of papers and folders, tapes and photographs.
I closed the door.
He opened his eyes, looked up, then stood up.
‘Fuck,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Yeah.’
He stared at me.
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah.’
He went over to the sink and began to run some water.
‘You’d better sit down,’ he said, leaving the sink to tip over the base of the bed.
I walked across the papers and the files, the photos and the maps, and sat down on the bare base of the bed.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m going to be suspended.’
‘What the fuck did you do?’
‘Know you.’
‘So?’
‘So I don’t want to be suspended.’
I could hear the rain coming down hard outside, lorries reversing and parking, their drivers running for cover.
‘How did you find this place?’
‘I’m a policeman.’
‘Really?’ I said, holding my head.
‘Yeah, really,’ said Sergeant Fraser, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘No. Why?’
‘No reason,’ I said.
Fraser soaked the only towel in the sink, wrung it out, and tossed it across to me.
I put it to my face, ran it through my hair.
It came away the colour of rust.
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘I didn’t ask.’
Fraser picked up a grey bedsheet and began tearing off strips.
‘Why’d they let me go?’
‘I don’t know.’
The room was going black, Fraser’s shirt grey.
I stood up.
‘Sit down.’
‘It was Foster, wasn’t it?’
‘Sit down.’
‘It was Don Foster, I fucking know it.’
‘Eddie …’
‘They fucking know it, don’t they?’
‘Why Foster?’
I picked up a fistful of foolscap. ‘Because he’s the link in all this shit.’
‘You think Foster killed Clare Kemplay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
‘Bollocks. And Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And Mandy Wymer and Paula Garland?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why stop there? What about Sandra Rivett? Maybe it wasn’t Lucan after all, maybe it was Don Foster. And what about the bomb in Birmingham?’
‘Fuck off. She’s dead. They’re all dead.’
‘No but why? Why Don Foster? You haven’t given me a single fucking reason.’
I sat back down on the bed with my head in my hands, the room black, nothing making sense.
Fraser handed me two strips of grey bedsheet.
I wrapped the strips around my right hand and pulled tight.
‘They were lovers.’
‘So?’
‘I have to see him,’ I said.
‘You’re going to accuse him?’
‘There are things I need to ask him. Things only he knows.’
Fraser picked up his jacket. ‘I’ll drive you.’
‘You’ll be suspended.’
‘I told you, I’m going to be suspended anyway.’
‘Just give me the keys.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because you’re all I’ve got.’
‘Then you’re fucked.’
‘Yeah. So let’s leave it at me.’
He looked like he was going to puke, but tossed me his keys.
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
I went over to the sink and rinsed the old blood off my face.
‘Did you see BJ?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘You didn’t go to the flat?’
‘I went to the flat.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s either done a runner or been nicked. Fuck knows which.’
I heard dogs barking and men screaming.
‘I should phone my mother,’ I said.
Sergeant Fraser looked up. ‘What?’
I was standing at the door, his keys in my hand. ‘Which one is it?’
‘The yellow Maxi,’ he said.
I opened the door. ‘Bye then.’
‘Bye.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, like I’d never see him ever again.
I closed the door to Room 27 and walked across the car park to his dirty yellow Maxi, parked between two Findus lorries.
I pulled out of the Redbeck and switched on the radio: the IRA had blown up Harrods, Mr Heath had missed a bomb by minutes, Aston Martin was going bust, Lucan had been spotted in Rhodesia, and there was a new Mastermind.
It was going up to eight as I parked beside the high walls of Trinity View.
I got out of the car and walked up to the gates.
They were open, the white lights on the tree still on.
I looked up the drive, across the lawn.
‘Fuck!’ I shouted aloud, running up the drive.
Halfway up, a Rover had hit the back of a Jaguar.
I cut across the grass, slipping in the cold dew.
Mrs Foster, in a fur coat, was bent over something on the lawn by the front door.
She was screaming.
I made a grab for her, my arms around her.
She lashed out in every direction with every available limb as I tried to push her back, back towards the house, back from whatever was on the lawn.
And then I got a look at him, a good look:
Fat and white, trussed with a length of black flex that ran round his neck and bound his hands behind him, in a pair of soiled white underpants, his hair all gone, his scalp red raw.
‘No, no, no,’ Mrs Foster was screaming.
Her husband’s eyes were wide open.
Mrs Foster, the fur coat streaked black with rain, made another rush for the body.
I blocked her hard, still staring down at Donald Foster, at the white flabby legs running in mud, at the knees smeared in blood, at the triangular burns on his back, at the tender head.
‘Get inside,’ I shouted, holding her tight, pushing her back through the front door.
‘No, cover him.’
‘Mrs Foster, please …’
‘Please cover him!’ she cried, thrashing out of her coat.
We were inside the house at the foot of the staircase.
I pushed her down on to the bottom stair.
‘Wait here.’
I took the fur coat and walked back outside.
I draped the damp coat over Donald Foster.
I went back inside.
Mrs Foster was still sat on the bottom step.
I poured two glasses of Scotch from a crystal decanter in the living room.
‘Where were you?’ I handed her a large glass.
‘With Johnny.’
‘Where’s Johnny now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who did this?’
She looked up. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Johnny?’
‘God no.’
‘So who did?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’
‘Who did you hit that night on the Dewsbury Road?’
‘What?’
‘Who did you hit on the Dewsbury Road?’
‘Why?’
‘Tell me.’
‘You tell me why, why does it matter now?’
Falling, grasping, clutching. Like the dead were living and the living dead, saying: ‘Because I think whoever it was you hit, I think they killed Clare Kemplay, and whoever killed Clare, they killed Susan Ridyard, and whoever that was, they killed Jeanette Garland.’
‘Jeanette Garland?’
‘Yeah.’
Her eagle eyes had suddenly flown and I was staring into big black panda eyes, full of tears and secrets, secrets she couldn’t keep.
I pointed outside. ‘Was it him?’
‘No, god no.’
‘So who was it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her mouth and hands were trembling.
‘You know.’
The glass was loose in her hands, tipping whisky over her dress and the stairs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do,’ I hissed and looked back at the body, framed in the doorway with that huge fucking Christmas tree.
I clenched my fist as best I could and turned back round, bringing up my arm.
‘Tell me!’
‘Don’t fucking touch her!’
Johnny Kelly was standing at the top of the stairs, covered in blood and mud, a hammer in his good hand.
Patricia Foster, miles from home, didn’t even glance round.
I edged back into the doorway. ‘You killed him?’
‘He killed our Paula and Jeanie.’
Wishing he was right, knowing he was wrong, telling him, ‘No he didn’t.’
‘The fuck you know about it?’ Kelly stepped down on to the stairs.
‘Did you kill him?’
He was coming down the stairs, staring straight at me, tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, a hammer in his hand.
I took another step back, seeing way too fucking much in those tears.
‘I know you didn’t do it.’
He kept coming, the tears too.
‘Johnny, I know you’ve done some bad things, some terrible things, but I know you didn’t do this.’
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, the hammer an inch from Mrs Foster’s hair.
I walked towards him.
He dropped the hammer.
I went over and picked it up, wiping it with a dirty grey handkerchief like all the bad guys and dirty cops on Kojak.
Kelly was staring down at her hair.
I dropped the hammer.
He started stroking her hair, pulling it rougher and rougher, someone else’s blood tangling and knotting the curls.
She didn’t flinch.
I pulled him away.
I didn’t want to know any more; I wanted to buy some drugs, buy some drink, and get the fuck out of there.
He looked me in the eye and said, ‘You should get out of here.’
But I couldn’t. ‘You too,’ I said.
‘They’ll kill you.’
‘Johnny,’ I said, taking him by the shoulder. ‘Who was it you hit on the Dewsbury Road?’
‘They’ll kill you. You’ll be next.’
‘Who was it?’ I pushed him back against the wall.
He said nothing.
‘You know who did it don’t you, you know who killed Jeanette and the other two?’
He pointed outside. ‘Him.’
I hit Kelly hard, a shot of sheer pain shooting stars to my eyes.
The star of Rugby League fell back on to the shagpile. ‘Fuck.’
‘No. You fuck off.’ I was bending over him, champing to crack open his skull and scoop out all his dirty little fucking secrets.
He lay on the floor at her feet, looking up like he was ten bloody years old, Mrs Foster rocking back and forth like it was all on someone else’s TV.
‘Tell me!’
‘It was him,’ he whimpered.
‘You’re a fucking liar.’ I reached behind me, grabbing the hammer.
Kelly slid out from between my legs, crawling through a patch of whisky towards the front door.
‘You fucking wish it was him.’
‘No.’
I grabbed him by his collar, twisting his face back round into mine. ‘You want it to be him. Want it to be that easy.’
‘It was him, it was him.’
‘It wasn’t, you know it wasn’t.’
‘No.’
‘You want your bloody vengeance, then tell me who the fuck it was that night.’
‘No, no, no.’
‘You’re not going to do anything about it, so fucking tell me or I’ll smash your fucking skull in.’
He was pushing my face away with his hands. ‘It’s over.’
‘You want it to be him so it’s over. But you know it’s not over,’ I screamed, smashing the hammer into the side of the stairs.
She was sobbing.
He was sobbing.
I was sobbing.
‘It’ll never be over until you tell me who you fucking hit.’
‘No!’
‘It’s not over.’
‘No!’
‘It’s not over.’
‘No!’
‘It’s not over, Johnny.’
He was coughing tears and bile. ‘It is.’
‘Tell me, you piece of shit.’
‘I can’t.’
I saw the moon in the day, the sun in the night, me fucking her, her fucking him, Jeanette’s face on every body.
I had him by the throat and hair, the hammer in my bandaged hand. ‘You fucked your sister.’
‘No.’
‘You were Jeanette’s fucking father, weren’t you?’
‘No!’
‘You were her father.’
His lips were moving, bubbles of bloody spit bursting on them.
I leant close into his face.
Behind me, she said, ‘George Marsh.’
I span round, reaching out and pulling her into us. ‘Say again.’
‘George Marsh,’ she whispered.
‘What about him?’
‘On the Dewsbury Road. It was George Marsh.’
‘George Marsh?’
‘One of Donny’s foremen.’
‘Under those beautiful new carpets, between the cracks and the stones.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
I let go of them and stood up, the hall suddenly much bigger and lighter.
I closed my eyes.
I heard the hammer drop, Kelly’s teeth chattering, and then everything was small and dark again.
I went over to the phone and took out the telephone directory. I went to the Ms and the Marshes and found the G. Marshes. There was one in Netherton at 16 Maple Well Drive. The telephone number was 3657. I closed the directory.
I picked up a soft floral phonebook and turned to the Ms.
In fountain pen, George 3657.
Bingo.
I closed the book.
Johnny Kelly had his head in his hands.
Mrs Foster was staring up at me.
‘Under those beautiful new houses, between the cracks and the stones.’
‘How long did you know?’
The eagle eyes were back. ‘I didn’t,’ she said.
‘Liar.’
Mrs Patricia Foster swallowed, ‘What about us?’
‘What about you?’
‘What are you going to do with us?’
‘Pray God forgives the fucking lot of you.’
I walked towards the front door and Donald Foster’s body. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘To finish it.’
Johnny Kelly looked up, bloody fingerprints on his face. ‘You’re too late.’
I left the door open.
‘Under those beautiful new carpets, between the cracks and the stones.’
I drove Fraser’s Maxi back into Wakefield and out through Horbury, the rain beginning to sleet.
I sang along to Christmas songs on Radio 2 and changed to Radio 3 to avoid the News at Ten, listening to England lose the Ashes down under instead, shouting out my own news at ten:
Two fucking killers, maybe three.
Me next?
Counting the killers.
Pushing the Maxi out Netherton way, the sleet now suddenly rain again.
Counting the dead.
Tasting gun metal, smelling my own shit.
Dogs barking, men screaming.
Paula dead.
There were things I had to do, things I must finish.
‘Under those beautiful new carpets, between the cracks and the stones.’
I asked in Netherton Post Office and an old woman who didn’t work there told me where Maple Well Drive was.
Number 16 was a bungalow like the rest of the street, much like Enid Sheard’s, much like the Goldthorpe’s. A neat little garden with a low hedge and a bird table.
Whatever George Marsh had done, it hadn’t been here.
I opened the little black metal gate and walked up the path. I could see TV pictures through the nets.
I knocked on the glass door, the air making me gyp.
A chubby woman with grey permed hair and a tea-towel opened the door.
‘Mrs Marsh?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs George Marsh?’
‘Yes?’
I pushed the door hard back into her face.
‘What the bloody hell?’ She fell back on her arse into the house.
I barged in over the Wellington boots and the gardening shoes. ‘Where is he?’
She had the tea-towel over her face.
‘Where is he?’
‘I haven’t seen him.’ She was trying to stand.
I slapped her hard across her face.
She fell back down.
‘Where is he?’
‘I haven’t seen him.’
The hard-faced bitch was wide-eyed, thinking about some tears.
I raised my hand again. ‘Where?’
‘What did he do?’ There was a gash above her eye and her lower lip was already swelling.
‘You know.’
She smiled, a pinched little fucking smile.
‘Tell me where.’
She lay there on top of the shoes and the umbrellas looking straight back up into my face, her dirty mouth in a half-open smile like we were thinking about having a fuck.
‘Where?’
‘The shed, up on the allotments.’
I knew then what I would find.
‘Where is it?’
She was still smiling. She knew what I would find.
‘Where?’
She raised up the tea-towel. ‘I can’t …’
‘Show me,’ I hissed, grabbing her by the arm.
‘No!’
I pulled her up on her feet.
‘No!’
I swung the door back.
‘No!’
I dragged her down the path, her scalp red raw beneath her tight grey perm.
