by David Peace
‘I can call back later?’
‘No, you get off home Mr Hunter.’
‘Thank you,’ I’m saying, but the line’s already dead.
I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, listening to the radio:
The football scores coming in:
Thirteen-nil.
After a few minutes I get up, take my coat from the back of the door, switch out the light and leave, locking the door behind me -
Back a minute later to check, then gone again.
The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys -
The scene of the crime:
It’s dark as I park on the empty wasteland, just a police car sitting in the gloom, here to watch:
DEATH -
All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund -
Trains pass, a dog barks, a man screams words I can’t catch.
I stumble across craters still filled with dead water, torch in hand, nodding at the officers in the car -
Before me, the building looms – dark and towering, eyes dead, here to stare:
DEATH -
A figure walks, dreadful -
Trains pass, a dog screams, a man barks words I can’t catch -
I turn, but there’s no-one.
In the doorway I switch off the tapes in my head, here to listen:
DEATH -
This is the place, the swans loose -
I step inside -
The workbenches, the chains and the tools; the machines silent.
I step forward, listening: DEATH -
Wings nailed to the ash, pornography -
I run my hand across the heavy bench, across the dark stains, across the etchings and the carvings, the messages, the signs and the symbols -
The cry of the wind through the pane -
The torchlight across the chains, a searchlight:
DEATH -
All this and heathen too -
The beam falls upon the door, ajar -
I walk across the floor to the door and push it open, a third time -
The muddy bath, the dirty water, the light from up above, from:
DEATH -
On the dark stair, we miss our step -
I bend down and nm my hand over the dark sides, over the heavy water, across the scratchings and the markings, the messages, the signs and the symbols -
In my hand, black and bloody water -
I turn the torch upon my own hands, looking:
DEATH -
Never let her slip -
I turn and walk back out towards the door, following the light from the torch, ceiling to floor, wall to wall, and back to the floor -
Above the door, in the beams above the door -
Swastikas, huge white swastikas and two words: HTAED -
Yrotcaf htaed.
I’m sat in the car in the drive outside my house.
The Christmas tree lights are on inside.
I switch off the radio and go in -
Joan’s watching the TV.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘I wasn’t expecting you back tonight,’ she says, getting up, kissing me on the cheek. ‘You’re cold, freezing.’
‘Had some stuff to take care of at the office.’
‘Should have said,’ she says, going into the kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Sandwich?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
She comes back in with a cup of tea: ‘There you go.’
‘What are you watching?’ I ask.
‘Christmas at Robin’s Nest,’ she laughs, sitting down beside me on the settee.
‘Funny?’
‘Mm, suppose,’ she shrugs.
I lean forward and pick up the pamphlet on adoption from the coffee table -
‘A Vietnamese baby?’ I ask.
She nods: ‘What do you think?’
‘I told you, I think it’s a good idea.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ I say. ‘What do we have to do?’
She hands me an application form and says: ‘We both have to complete one of these, send it off, and then they’ll call us for an interview.’
‘Sounds straightforward enough,’ I say. ‘Better pass me a pen then hadn’t you.’
‘You’re sure then?’ she asks.
‘Positive, love.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiles. ‘Thank you.’
I catch him, stop him murdering mothers, orphaning children, then you give us one, just one.
In the middle of the film, the telephone:
‘Peter Hunter speaking?’
‘Peter? This is Richard.’
Fuck -
‘What can I do for you, Richard?’
‘You were at the office today?’
‘Yes.’
‘What the bloody hell were you doing there?’
‘Looking for you.’
‘Me? Why? What now?’
‘Look, calm down.’
‘Fuck off, this has got completely out of hand.’
‘Richard, look: I just wanted to ask you about some property you rented to a company. That was all.’
‘Company? Which company?’
‘Not on the phone, Richard. We’ll talk about it on Monday.’
‘No we bloody won’t. We’ll talk about it now.’
‘That’s not a good idea.’
‘Well neither was gaining entry to my office without a warrant.’
Fuck, fuck -
‘Richard -’
‘Which company?’
Fuck, fuck, fuck -
‘MJM Publishing.’
A pause, silence, then: ‘What about them?’
‘Look Richard, we’ll go into it on Monday.’
‘Fuck off, Peter. What about them?’
‘Look, it’s probably nothing to do with you.’
‘Probably nothing to do with me? What then?’
‘OK, look: their name came up in connection with something to do with the Ripper Inquiry.’
‘The Ripper? The Leeds Ripper?’
‘Yes.’
‘So?’
‘So when we did a check it turned out the building they’d been renting was one of yours.’
Another pause, silence, then: ‘And that’s it?’
‘You tell me?’
A longer pause, silence, finally: ‘There’s nothing to tell; Colin dealt with them anyway.’
‘Fine. Don’t worry about it then.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Goodbye Richard.’
‘See you on Monday,’ he says and hangs up -
Fuck.
In the War Room, in the night -
The photographs and maps -
The computer and cassettes -
The papers and pornography -
The words and the notes, the Exegesis -
The bodies and the faces, Spunk -
A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come on her lips -
In the War Room, in the night, on my knees -
Before the photos and the maps -
The computer and the cassettes -
The papers and pornography -
The words and the body, the notes and her face -
Exegesis and Spunk -
A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come.
Early June, 1977 -
We were sitting in the A10 suite at Manchester Police HQ -
On the blackboard I had written two words:
Bradford Vice.
‘Any idea on where the tip came from?’ asked Mike Hillman.
I shook my head: Obviously someone inside, but the deal was no names.’
‘It’s bound to come out,’ Murphy shrugged.
I nodded: ‘Not much we can do about that.’
‘Be nice for whoever it is when it does,’ smiled Murphy.
‘So who we got?’ asked Hillman.
‘The statement implies a number of senior officers
‘Fuck,’ tutted Murphy.
‘But,’ I continued. ‘Only one officer is actually named, this Detective Inspector.’
I stood up and wrote two more words on the board: Eric Hall.
I wake in the War Room, in the night, on my knees -
I put the stuff away and switch off the computer, the cassette recorder, the heater and the light.
I go back inside and upstairs -
Joan is asleep.
I switch on the radio and undress and get into bed next to her -
I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the country music, trying to stay awake, but -
Yrotcaf Htaed, in blood and above the door.
The moon was shining through the skylight, and I was gazing at the little girl lying in the bath. Thin and pathetic, in a shroud-like garment, lips crooked into a faint and dreadful smile, her hands pressed tightly over her heart. And all around us, people were singing hymns, people with no face, no features, machines -
Yrotcaf Htaed, in blood and swastikas above the door.
And I turned and walked away and everything outside was white and also without feature, without feature except for the parked police car, except for the police car and the white gulls and the black ravens, the white gulls and black ravens circling overhead screaming, circling overhead screaming -
Helen Marshall and the girl screaming:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
– and then there was a shot.
denly and e said just good timing you can put it down to fate and off we set transmission five from the office of the dead found on monday the twenty eighth of november nineteen seventy seven in southern cemetery manchester elizabeth mcqueen dead a week or more from brain damage caused by blows to the head from a hammer or an axe with a number of postmortem lacerations being in total eighteen stab wounds to the breasts and chest the stomach and vagina stomach ripped open intestines pulled out knife wounds from her left shoulder to her right knee and there were six further wounds to her right side some of the gashes were eight inches deep an unsuccessful attempt had been made to sever her head body was then attacked by the vermin of the field alas a handbag was not recovered vinyl leather look believed to be dark brown nine inches long seven inches high three inches wide with two carrying handles and one shoulder made of the same material zip fastener and wrap over strap which fastens with a clasp on the side of the bag on which there are two external pockets it contained approximately fifteen pounds in bank of england notes items of cosmetics and a few pieces of yellow tissue paper alas the children in bed missing mummy the children wake missing mummy the children eat cornflakes for breakfast missing mummy the children get dressed missing mummy the children go to school missing mummy the children play with their friends in the cold missing mummy the children eat spam for lunch missing mummy the children listen to the teacher read a story about a spider missing mummy the children buy a texan on their way home from school missing mummy the children eat beans for tea missing mummy the children have a bath missing mummy the children watch starsky and hutch missing mummy the children fight missing mummy the children cry missing mummy the children sleep missing mummy the children dream missing mummy the children dream terrible dreams of missing mummy with no head moving along no differently from all the rest mummy holds her severed head up by its hair swinging it in one hand just like a lantern and it looks at them and says alas from the office of the dead out of the terrible depths have e cried unto thee lord hear my voice o lord let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications if thou lord should mark iniquities o lord who should stand but there is forgiveness with thee and e have stood by thee according to thy law my soul has waited on thy word my soul has hoped in thee o lord from the morning watch unto the evening there is hope in the lord for with the lord there is mercy and with him is redemption and he shall redeem me from all my iniquities give me eternal rest o lord and let perpetual light shine upon me lord our father have mercy Christ have mercy on e who was known in the reno and the nile as mad lizzie but am now known only as the spaghetti lady two kerbies waiting but e had to go and choose him did e not with his nice smile and clean clothes that would not frighten anybody we drove up to the southern cemetery because it is dead quiet here e laughed and he smiled and said e bet it is and e lead him into the darkness where he hit me with the hammer and e fell to the ground and e was moaning and he hit me again and again eleven times then he left me alone until one week later he comes again drags me out of the bushes strips me of everything e am wearing even my boots stabs me in my breasts and chest and with a knife he cuts me open from my knee to shoulder with a piece of broken pane
Chapter 11
Half past seven -
Sunday 21 December 1980:
Bradford Road, Batley, halfway between Leeds and Bradford.
I park by a woollen factory that has 229 as an address and cross the road -
I walk past an estate agents, cross another smaller road leading up to the Batley Grammar School, and there it is, between the Chop Suey and a chemist -
Number 230, Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks:
RD News.
I walk past the newsagents, cross the road by the red bus shelter with no glass left, and stand on the other side of the road, taking a good look:
One door, big window full of Christmas adverts and gas heaters downstairs -
One window, curtains drawn upstairs.
I cross back over and go inside the shop -
There’s a tall Indian or Pakistani putting the papers out in front of the counter.
He turns and he nods when he hears me come in -
I look at the piles of Sunday papers, the shelves of sweets and boxes of chocolates, the gas canisters and heaters, the cans of pet food and processed meat, the birthday and the Christmas cards, the beer and the spirits, the cigarettes behind the counter covered with more sweets.
I go through the top shelf -
Penthouse, Playboy, Escort, Razzle, Fiesta etc.
‘You got Spunk?’ I ask.
‘You what?’ says the Indian or Pakistani.
‘Magazine called Spunk?’
‘Never heard of it mate,’ he says.
‘Mucky mag, it is.’
‘Never heard of it,’ he says again, but he’s stopped what he’s doing and is moving back behind the counter.
I pick up a Sunday Mirror that promises photographs from Laureen Bell’s funeral -
I hand him the right money and ask him: ‘You own this place do you?’
‘You what?’ he says, putting the coins in the till.
‘Just asking if this is yours?’ I say, looking round.
‘Why?’
‘Just asking that’s all.’
‘We rent it actually, if you must know.’
‘And the upstairs, you rent that as well?’
He’s pissed off is the Indian or Pakistani and he lets me know: ‘What’s it to you?’
I take out my warrant card.
‘Why didn’t you just say?’ he asks me.
‘You got a licence for that lot?’ I ask him, nodding at the booze.
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s no sign.’
‘Sorry. We’re getting one.’
‘That’s all right then.’ I shrug.
He stands there behind the till, looking nervous.
I ask him again: ‘So what about upstairs?’
‘You what?’
‘That yours?’
‘I told you, we just rent it.’
Again: ‘The upstairs?’
‘No.’
‘Who’s upstairs then?’
‘Don’t know do I.’
‘You don’t know who lives upstairs? Come on.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Who does?’
‘Landlord, I suppose.’
‘Who is?’
‘Mr Douglas.’
Fuck -
‘And where’s he?’
Other side of Moors somewhere.’
‘You don’t have the address, do you?’
‘Not on me, no.’
‘So how do you pay him?’
‘He comes round once a month, doesn’t he.’
‘His first name Bob, is it?’
‘Yeah, it is. He was a copper and all – you probably know him.’
‘Probably do,’ I say. ‘Small world.’
I take the Bradford Road through Batley and into Dewsbury, then the Wakefield Road up through Ossett and into Wakefield, the radio talking about the Laureen Bell funeral:
‘A packed village church listened in tears and silence to Laureen’s favourite record, Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water, before which the vicar had read from St John.’
In the centre of Wakefield I park off the Bullring, staring up at the first floor of the Strafford -
The first floor of the Strafford still boarded up after all these years -
After all these years back again, back in this big black bloody world -
This big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells -
A million black and bloody hells in this big black bloody shrinking world -
Where hells collide:
Wakey Fear -
January 1975, that second week:
Black snow blowing across the Bullring, blue tape keeping the pavement and the entrance clear.
Clarkie and I climbed over the tape, Clarkie saying: ‘So half one, just as they’re about to knock off, Craven and Douglas get the call – shots fired at the Strafford and, while Wood Street are scratching around for the Specials, Craven and Douglas park right out front and head straight up here.’
‘Call logged 1:28 a.m., anonymous?’
‘Yep,’ said Clarkie. ‘Anonymous.’
We started to climb the stairs to the left of the entrance to the ground floor pub, me saying: ‘And they’re aware that shots have been fired and that the SPG are being deployed, yet still they charge right up here?’
‘Hero cops, remember?’
‘Dumb bastards, morelike.’
At the top of the stairs, I pushed open the door -
Two weeks on and the room still stank of smoke, still stank of the bad things that had gone on here, still stank of death -
The mirror and the optics behind the bar, shattered; the jukebox in the corner, in pieces; the carpets and the furniture in sticks, stained.
