by David Peace
You shout: ‘What was in the shoebox?’
‘Susan,’ he sobs.
Chapter 30
‘Please give a big Yorkshire Clubland welcome to the New Zombies!’
Saturday 11 June 1977 –
Batley Variety Club:
She’s not there –
But he is and he doesn’t remember BJ, but BJ remember him and he has aged; aged in terror, terror of witnessing execution of his ex-wife on lawn of her new house by hand of her new husband, naked under a new and bloody moon but for a hammer and a twelve-inch nail.
‘Spot of late-night reading,’ BJ say and pass Jack bag under table.
Whitehead takes it and daft cunt starts to open it –
‘Not here,’ BJ say. ‘Bogs.’
Jack gets up and walks through empty tables at back towards gents, looking over his shoulder to check BJ still here –
‘Give you hand if you want,’ BJ shout but Jack scuttles off into toilets.
BJ finish drink as band give up on song. BJ take off every ring and put them all back on again. BJ light another cig and wonder what fuck’s taking old cunt so long. Maybe he has whipped it out for a quick one. BJ smiling until BJ see them:
Fuck, fuck, fuck –
Pigs –
Fucking pigs.
BJ slide out of seat and crawl off towards stage down front. BJ keep low against lights and only in shadows. BJ get to edge of stage. BJ duck under a curtain at side. BJ start running through cables and wires. BJ following red light that shines:
Exit –
BJ push down bar and through door, letting it slam shut. BJ outside in car park at back, rain still falling –
Rain a fall –
But Allegro’s round front and BJ be so fucking stupid BJ deserve all shit that’s coming down –
Fuck, fuck –
Can’t go back/can’t go forward; can’t go left/can’t go right; can’t go up/only down –
Fuck –
Crouched against fire door, heavy rain coming down/heavy shit with it, when out of shadows/darkness he steps –
A Black Angel –
And he says: ‘You’re all wet.’
My Black Angel –
BJ look up. BJ say: ‘Fuck do you want?’
The Father of Fear –
He raises brow of his black hat and stares up into black night and black rain. He watch black things fall from out of black skies. He smiles his black smile and says: ‘You’re going to catch your death, Barry.’
‘You got your car?’
‘Best hurry though,’ he nods. ‘Police will soon tire of Our Jack.’
BJ follow him over to his old dark car parked nearby, a Morris something –
BJ looking left and right, left and then right.
He unlocks doors and in BJ get, BJ sliding over and on to backseat –
Car damp and cold, a black briefcase beside BJ.
‘Keep your head down,’ he says, starting car.
BJ do as he says and off he sets but then car slows at front of club –
Fuck –
Man in hat leans across passenger seat. He winds down window: ‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’
‘Stolen car,’ says policeman. ‘You haven’t seen a youngish skinhead type, have you, sir?’
‘Fortunately, no.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Pig.
‘Goodnight, officer,’ he says and winds his window back up.
Then car turns left and heads into Dewsbury.
BJ sit up in backseat –
His eyes on BJ in mirror.
BJ say: ‘Where we going?’
‘Church.’
It is 1977.
He found me hiding –
In Church of Abandoned Christ on seventh floor of Griffin Hotel in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, BJ lost in room 77; hair already shaved and 8 eyes shined, BJ be Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt; Father of Fear is weeping, whispering from among wine his death songs:
Knew I was not happy –
‘And after this Joseph of Arimathæa, being a disciple of Jesus, but secretly for fear of thee Jews, besought Pilate that he might take away thee body of Jesus; and Pilate marveled if he were already dead and calling unto him thee centurion, he asked him whether he had been any while dead. And when he knew it of thee centurion, Pilate gave Joseph leave. He came therefore and took thee body of Jesus.’
Scratching my head –
‘And there came also Nicodemus, which at thee first came to Jesus by night and brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundred pound in weight. Then they took thee body of Jesus and wound it in linen clothes with thee spices, as thee manner of thee Jews is to bury their dead.’
Confused beyond existence –
‘Now in thee place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in thee garden a new sepulchre, wherein was never man yet laid, but when they laid him out upon thee rock, they saw his wounds were bloody and bleeding beneath thee white linen, they saw he was not dead –’
Sat in the corner, shivering from fright –
‘Only bleeding –’
Feeling strung up –
‘And as they were afraid and bowed their faces to thee earth, he said to them: Why seek ye thee living among thee Dead?’
Out of my clothes and into the bed –
‘E am here; E suffered and am now risen from thee Dead and ye are witnesses of these things. But know ye who did this thing, for only one person could do this, thee one who did not forsake me, for whom death is not thee end.’
The movements in his bed –
‘And they traveled out of thee Holy Lands and through Asia Minor and across thee mountains of Europe until they arrived at thee port in France and there thee White Ship was waiting to take them to thee Land of Angels and there was a mood of celebration amongst thee party for they were in sight of their goal and eager to reach this Pagan Place they set out to sea only after night had already fallen.’
So sorry sad and so, so confused –
‘But he was a jealous God and he was angry and thee White Ship hit a rock in thee gloom of thee night and thee port-side cracked wide-open to reveal a gaping hole whereupon Joseph quickly rushed thee Wounded Christ on deck and bundled Him into a smaller dinghy. They were away to safety as thee remaining crew struggled to wrest thee vessel off thee rocks. However, Christ could hear His wife calling to Him, begging Him not to leave her to thee sea and He ordered Joseph to turn around, but thee situation was hopeless.’
Between life and death –
‘As Christ drew nearer once more, thee White Ship began to descend beneath thee waves. Everyone was in thee water and they fought desperately for thee safety of thee dinghy. Thee turmoil and thee weight were too much. Christ’s boat was capsized and sunk without trace.’
Lost in room –
‘And it is said that thee only person to survive thee wreck to tell thee tale was Mary Magdalene, thee wife of Christ, but that she never spoke or smiled again but waited alone and lost in room for thee White Ship to rise again from beneath thee waves and bear thee linen body of thee Wounded, Abandoned Christ to these pagan shores, thee shores of this, thee Land of Angels.’
They found me hiding –
In Church of Abandoned Christ on seventh floor of Griffin Hotel in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost; drunk and all covered in sleep upon a double bed, BJ lost in room 77; hair already shaved and 8 eyes shined, BJ be Northern Son. Black Angel is beside BJ upon bed; his shabby clothes and burnt wings; Father of Fear, he weeps and whispers from among wine:
‘You must choose a side to be on.’
In the shadow –
BJ take off every ring –
In the shadow of the Horns –
Head bobbed.
Chapter 31
The telephone is ringing and ringing and ringing and I’m wondering where the fuc
k the wife is and why she won’t bloody answer the telephone ringing and ringing and ringing wondering where the fuck the wife is and why she won’t bloody answer the telephone ringing and ringing and ringing the fuck is the wife and why won’t she answer the fucking telephone is ringing and ringing and ringing –
‘I need to see you.’
‘I told you not to ring me here.’
‘So where am I supposed to call you? At work?’
‘I made a mistake, I –’
‘Please, I need to –’
I hang up. I go to the bathroom. I wash my hands –
Wash them and wash them and wash them –
Thanking Christ the wife is out, the kids at school.
Thursday 23 March 1972 –
Brotherton House, Westgate, Leeds:
Downstairs in my office, the door locked –
Cigs out and a pile of newspapers:
Front pages full of the Belfast Station bomb and the Heath-Faulkner talks –
Inside pages the biggest ever Littlewoods Pools win, Jimmy fucking Savile with his bloody OBE –
Then there she is –
Susan Search Widens – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
That same photograph for the past two days:
A long fringe and big teeth.
72 hours coming up –
Missing.
I light another cigarette. I pick up the phone: ‘News desk, please.’
I wait. I say: ‘Jack Whitehead, please.’
I wait. I hear: ‘Jack Whitehead speaking?’
‘Jack?’ I say. ‘Maurice Jobson.’
‘Maurice? And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Got something good for your Uncle Jack, have you?’
‘I was hoping you might have something for me.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
I look at my watch. I ask him: ‘What you doing for lunch?’
‘What I usually do for lunch.’
‘Press Club?’
‘I’m banned.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I can’t fucking remember. That’s the problem.’
‘Where they taking your money these days then?’
‘Taking my money? I’m not fucking paying to drink with you.’
‘There’s no such thing as a free pint, Jack. You should know that.’
I hear him light a cigarette. Exhale. He says: ‘Duck and Drake?’
‘Duck and fucking Drake? Jesus, Jack.’
‘You ought to drink in there more often, Maurice,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t need to keep crawling back to me then, would you.’
‘Twelve?’
‘Don’t be late.’
On my way out, I stop and ask Wilson on the front desk if he’s seen Bill today –
‘Off, isn’t he?’ says Wilson.
‘Yeah? Must be a first.’
‘The wedding on Saturday, isn’t it?’
‘Fuck, yeah.’
‘Don’t tell me you’d forgotten, not way he’s been going on.’
‘You’re off then?’
Wilson smiles: ‘Must have invited whole bloody force and then some.’
‘That’s the Badger,’ I agree, walking off.
‘Going to miss him when he’s gone.’
I stop. I turn back: ‘You what?’
Sergeant Wilson and his boils are a deep and crimson red: ‘Just a rumour.’
‘Is that right,’ I say. ‘Is that right?’
Duck and Drake, back of the bus station, down the side of the Kirkgate market:
Not a nice pub; even when it’s pissing it down on a black Thursday in March.
I’m five minutes late –
Jack’s on his second pint and whiskey.
I take off my coat. I say: ‘Same again?’
‘You’re a gentleman,’ he nods.
I go over to the bar.
The big bloke behind the bar looks over at Jack then back at me: ‘You feller he says is going to pay for his drinks?’
I nod: ‘Same again for him and a Guinness for me.’
‘That’s a fucking Mick drink,’ says a long-haired cunt –
A long-haired cunt with his back to me at the bar –
His mate grinning over the cunt’s shoulder at me.
‘You what?’ I say to the back of the cunt’s head.
‘You heard,’ says the cunt –
The cunt still with his back to me, nodding to his mate –
But his mate’s not grinning now.
The long-haired cunt slowly turns around. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth, the hair out of his eyes.
The barman puts the Guinness on the counter.
‘Drink it,’ I tell the long-haired cunt.
‘What?’
‘You heard,’ I say. ‘Drink it.’
‘Fuck off,’ the cunt says, straightening up.
I take my warrant card out of my inside pocket. I put it down next to the pint of Guinness.
The long-haired cunt stands there blinking at the card on the bar next to the pint.
‘Drink it,’ I hiss.
The cunt glances at his mate and at the barman. He picks up the Guinness and drinks it down in one. He puts the glass back on the bar next to the card. He wipes his lips on his sleeve. He says with a smile: ‘Ta very much, officer.’
‘Now pay for it,’ I say. ‘And don’t ever call anyone a Mick who isn’t, you dirty little gyppo cunt.’
The dirty little gyppo cunt looks at his mate and the barman again. He shrugs his shoulders. He takes out a pound note from his jeans. He hands it across the counter to the barman.
‘And these,’ I say, nodding at the whiskey and Tetleys on the counter –
The barman already pulling me a fresh Guinness.
‘What?’
‘You heard,’ I say.
‘You can’t fucking do that,’ says the cunt.
I pick up my warrant card and the tray of drinks. I say: ‘I just did.’
‘Fucking hell …’ the cunt starts to say before his mate touches his arm –
‘Leave it, Donny,’ says the cunt’s friend. ‘Not worth it.’
‘Wise man,’ I say.
‘Fuck off.’
I walk across the room to where Jack’s sat waiting –
‘Making friends with the locals,’ he winks.
I put the drinks down: ‘How’s the wife, Jack?’
‘Ex-wife,’ he smiles. ‘Remarried and living with a builder’s mate in sunny Ossett. And yours?’
‘My what?’
‘Wife? Family?’
‘Who the fuck knows.’
Jack raises his glass: ‘Ain’t that the truth, Maurice.’
‘Now there’s a funny thing,’ I nod, raising my glass. ‘The truth?’
‘What about it?’ laughs Jack.
‘Well I was rather hoping you could give me some?’
‘Give you some what? Some truth? Shouldn’t it be other way round, officer?’
‘In a perfect world,’ I smile.
Jack offers me a cig.
I lean across. I take it with a light –
‘Fucking pig bastard!’ comes a shout from the door –
‘Wanker!’ yells another –
I turn around to raise my glass but the cunt and his mate are already gone.
‘Perfect world, eh?’ says Jack.
I shake my head: ‘What’d one of them look like, I wonder?’
Jack stubs out his cig: ‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’
I sit forward. I say: ‘Susan Louise Ridyard.’
‘What about her?’ shrugs Jack.
‘Been reading your pieces.’
‘Rehashes from the Manchester Evening News, mate.’
‘You not been over there?’
‘Rochdale? Nah, why?’
‘George Oldman has.’
‘And your boss,’ nods Jack.
‘You don’t think this has all got a bit of a familiar ring to it then?’
&nbs
p; Jack sits back in his chair. He shakes his head. He takes out another cigarette. He says: ‘Not you and all?’
‘What? Someone else talked to you about this?’
‘Yeah,’ he nods.
‘Who?’
‘Your girlfriend.’
‘What you mean, my girlfriend?’
‘Mystic Mandy.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Come on, Maurice,’ he winks again. ‘Everyone fucking knows.’
‘Fucking knows what?’
‘That you’ve been having your fucking cards read a fair bit, what you think people fucking know?’
I sit there staring into my half-drunk Guinness, the sound of lorries and buses outside in the rain.
Jack stands up. He says: ‘I’ll get these.’
‘Miracles’ll never cease,’ I say. I take out my own cigs and light one, the sound of the slot machine and the jukebox in rhythm.
Jack comes back with two pints and two shorts: ‘Put a whiskey in your Guinness, that’ll put a smile on your face.’
I say: ‘Wasn’t owt serious or anything.’
‘Don’t fucking worry about it,’ grins Jack. ‘Nice looking bloody woman.’
‘She called you?’
‘This morning.’
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘What she say to you?’
‘Same as she told you probably.’
‘She didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Well, told me she was sensing some connection between Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland,’ laughs Jack. ‘You know how she talks?’
I nod, tipping the whiskey into the top of the Guinness.
‘I asked her what kind of connection,’ he says. ‘Then she tells me that she’s been having all these dreams but by this point, to be honest with you, I’d switched off.’
‘You tell her you were going to write anything?’
Jack shakes his head: ‘Said I might pop over this afternoon, if I had time.’
‘And have you?’
‘What?’
‘The time?’
‘No,’ says Jack.
I pick up my pint. I drink it down in one.
‘And you?’ winks Jack.
From Millgarth and Leeds into Wakefield and St John’s –
Big trees with hearts cut;
On to Blenheim Road –
Big houses with their hearts cut;
28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield –
Big tree with hearts cut into her bark, big house with her heart cut into flats;
I park in the drive, a bad taste in my mouth.
