by David Peace
Into the rain -
Under the arches -
Into the car -
Hit the radio:
‘… asked him, “Are you Peter David Williams of 6 Park Lane, Heaton, Bradford?” to which Williams replied, “Yes, I am.”
‘The Court Clerk then told Williams, “You are accused that between 10 December and 11 December 1980 you did murder Laureen Bell against the peace of our Sovereign Lady the Queen. Further, you are charged that at Mirfield between 6 December and 27 December, you stole two motor vehicle registration-plates to the total value of 50p, the property of Cyril Miller.”
‘Williams was then asked if he had any objection to the remand in custody and whether he wanted reporting restrictions lifted. Williams replied, “No” on both counts…’
Punch the radio -
Out the city -
Onto the motorway -
To the end, thinking -
Know the way, know the time -
Know the place, know it well.
The End of the World:
Wednesday 31 December 1980 -
Dawn or dusk, the whole thing fucked:
River brown, sky grey -
Seven shades of shit -
Wings, my wings on fire -
Into Wakefield city centre -
Sky blood, city dead -
The Bullring -
The End of my World:
The Strafford.
Everyone gets everything they want -
The Strafford -
The first floor, boarded up:
Closed.
I drive past and turn left -
Drive slowly round the back of the buildings -
Round and into a car park, dark under a row of first floor rooms -
Empty upstairs rooms, back rooms -
Blind eyes out onto a rotten, uneven car park -
A car park deserted but for puddles of rain water and motor oil -
Deserted but for one dark green Rover.
I park, waiting -
Watching -
Watching the row of rooms up above -
Their boarded glass, their blind eyes -
Knowing he’s near, here.
I get out of the car and open the boot -
I take out a hammer -
Take out a hammer and put it in the pocket of my raincoat -
Then I take out a can of petrol -
A half empty can of petrol -
And I close the boot of the car -
I walk across the car park -
The rotten, uneven car park -
Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot, heading for the stairs and a door -
A door to an upstairs room -
A door banging in the wind, in the rain -
I climb the dark stone stairs one at a time and stop before the door -
The door banging in the wind, in the rain -
I pull open the door -
The backdoor to the Strafford -
The backdoor to a passage -
The passage is dark and I can smell the stink of a shotgun -
The stink of bad things, the stink of death -
The stink of the Strafford.
I step inside -
A rotting, eaten mattress against a window -
I walk down the passage to the front -
To the bar -
I pull open another door -
The door to the bar -
The walls of the bar tattooed with shadows, tattooed with pain -
Maps, charts, photographs of pain -
The pain of the photographs -
Joyce Jobson, Anita Bird, Theresa Campbell, Clare Strachan, Joan Richards, Ka Su Peng, Marie Watts, Linda Clark, Rachel Johnson, Janice Ryan, Elizabeth McQueen, Kathy Kelly, Tracey Livingston, Candy Simon, Doreen Pickles, Joanne Thornton, Dawn Williams, and Laureen Bell -
Across the maps, the charts, and the photographs -
Across them all -
Swastikas and sixes -
Shadows, swastikas and sixes -
Across every surface -
Six six sixes -
(Out of the shadows).
I put down the can of petrol and try the light switch -
Nothing, only darkness -
Darkness, shadow, pain.
I step further inside -
Underfoot smashed furniture and splintered wood, stained carpets and shattered glass -
Behind the bar, the broken mirrors and the optics -
The jukebox in the corner, the silent bloodstained pieces -
Beneath the boarded windows, the long sofa full of holes -
A low table pulled out into the centre of the room -
On the table, pornography -
Spunk -
Pornography and a portable tape recorder -
A cassette case:
All this and Heaven too.
I walk towards the table -
Walk towards the table and see him -
See his boots -
On the floor, between the table and the bar -
His boots, him -
Him -
Lying on his face between the table and the bar -
Bob Craven -
His head blown off, a shotgun across one leg -
I look away -
Look up -
Two holes in the ceiling, above the bar -
Look down -
The head blown off -
Kneeling, I reach down between the table and the bar, reach down and turn him over -
Head off, face gone, beard gone -
Blood across the wall -
Across the shadows -
Across the swastikas and across the sixes -
Six six sixes -
(If the shadows could talk).
I pick up the shotgun from off his legs and I step back -
Step back beside the table and the portable tape recorder -
Machines the only survivors -
I press play:
Pause, hiss -
‘I’m Jack. I see you are still having no luck catching me. I have the greatest respect for you George, but Lord! You are no nearer catching me now than four years ago when I started. I reckon your boys are letting you down George. They can’t be much good can they?
‘The only time they came near catching me was a few months back in Chapeltown when I was disturbed. Even then it was a uniformed copper not a detective.
‘I warned you in March that I’d strike again. Sorry it wasn’t Bradford. I did promise you that but I couldn’t get there. I’m not quite sure where I’ll strike again but it will be definitely some time this year, maybe September, October, even sooner if I get the chance. I am not sure where, maybe Manchester, I like it there, there’s plenty of them knocking about. They never learn do they George? I bet you’ve warned them, but they never listen.’
Thirteen seconds of hiss, count them:
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen seconds of hiss, then -
‘Take her in Preston, and I did, didn’t I George? Dirty cow. Come my load up that.
‘At the rate I’m going I should be in the book of records. I think it’s eleven up to now isn’t it? Well, I’ll keep on going for quite a while yet. I can’t see myself being nicked just yet. Even if you do get near I’ll probably top myself first. Well it’s been nice chatting to you George. Yours, Jack the Ripper.
‘No use looking for fingerprints. You should know by now it’s as clean as a whistle. See you soon. Bye.
‘Hope you like the catchy tune at the end. Ha. Ha.’
Then -
‘I’ll say your name -
‘Then once again -
‘Thank you for being a friend.’
Silence -
The tape still turning -
Still turning in the portable tape recorder -
The portable tape recorder on the table -
The table -
Between the table and the bar -
Bob Craven -
His head blown off -
Head off, face gone, beard gone -
Blood across the wall -
Across the shadows -
Across the swastikas and across the sixes -
Six six sixes -
(The shadows talking).
Beside the portable tape recorder, the tape still turning:
Pause, hiss -
HISS -
Piano -
Drums -
Bass -
‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
Hell:
‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
More hell:
‘How much do you love me?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Cries -
Cries:
‘Spirits will kill Hunter!’
STOP
Silence -
Tape over.
Silence -
Between these walls, silence -
Walls tattooed with shadows silent, silent pain -
Maps, charts, photographs of pain -
The silent pain of the photographs -
Grace Morrison, Billy Bell, Paul Booker, and Derek Box -
Across the maps, the charts, and the photographs -
Swastikas and sixes -
Shadows, swastikas and sixes -
Six six sixes -
(Silent shadows, silent sixes).
Sat among the silence, sat upon the table -
The smashed and splintered, stained and shattered table -
Sat upon the low table in the centre of the room -
Wings, huge and rotting things -
Big black things that weigh me down, heavy -
Stop me standing -
Sitting on the table, his shotgun on my knees -
Staring at the sixes -
Silent sixes, waiting -
Six six sixes.
Across the sixes -
Across the swastikas, across the shadows -
Across them all -
The blood across the wall -
Head off, face gone, beard gone -
His head blown off -
Bob Craven -
Between the table and the bar -
Bob Craven, silent -
Tape off.
Silence -
Silence until -
Until outside I hear car tires on the car park -
The rotten, uneven car park -
Puddles of rain water and motor oil under wheels -
Car lights illuminating a door -
A door to an upstairs room -
A door banging in the wind, in the rain -
The car lights stop before the door -
The door to an upstairs room -
The door banging in the wind, in the rain -
More doors banging, slamming -
Car doors slamming -
Boots across the car park -
The rotten, uneven car park -
Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot -
Boots upon the dark stone stairs;
I look down at the shotgun across my knees -
Sat among the silent sixes, on the table -
On the table -
Wings, huge and rotting things -
Big black raven things that weigh me down, heavy -
Stop me standing -
Sitting on the table, the shotgun on my knees -
Staring at the sixes -
Silent sixes, waiting -
The door banging in the wind, in the rain -
They open the door -
Two figures in the doorway at the end of the passage -
Two shotguns -
The passage is dark and they can smell the stink of another shotgun -
The stink of bad things, the stink of death -
The stink of the Strafford.
They step inside -
A rotting, eaten mattress against a window -
They walk down the passage to the front -
To the bar -
They pull open another door -
The door to the bar -
The last door -
Two figures in the doorway -
Two shotguns -
Two figures and two shotguns:
Alderman and Murphy -
Richard Alderman and John Murphy -
The shotgun across my knees -
The silent sixes, the shadows -
Wings, huge and rotting things -
Big black raven things that -
That weigh me down, heavy and burnt -
That stop me standing -
That stop me -
Stop me -
– a shot.
David Peace
David Peace is the author of The Red Riding Quartet, GB84, The Damned Utd, and Tokyo Year Zero. He was chosen as one of Granta’s Best Young British Novelists, and has received the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, the German Crime Fiction Award, and the French Grand Prix de Roman Noir for Best Foreign Novel. He lives in Yorkshire.
***
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