by David Peace
Bill and Rudkin on their feet first, Dawson and Foster next, Craven and Prentice following –
Murphy bemused, confused –
As confused as me as I stand and raise my own glass to myself thinking:
Make believers of us all.
Downstairs, drunk and ugly –
Everyone dancing –
Everyone except my wife and my children, sat to the side in the dark –
Everyone dancing or falling down:
‘State of her,’ whispers Dick with a nod to Anthea Rudkin –
Rudkin’s wife draped all over George Oldman –
Half in and half out of a long but low-cut pink dress –
Oldman’s wife and children getting their coats.
Bill is shaking his head, whispering to Rudkin –
Rudkin across the dancefloor, pulling his wife off George –
Her arms already bruised in his grip, she kicks her legs out and she screams: ‘Never marry a copper!’
In the family car on the drive home, Judith and Clare are asleep.
Paul puts his head between the seats. He says: ‘Why do they call you the Owl?’
‘Because of my glasses.’
‘Think it’s stupid,’ he says and sits back.
I look in the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the passing night, the lorries and the cars, the yellow lights and the red.
He is crying, wishing he were somewhere else –
Someone else –
Other people;
Or maybe just me –
Wishing I were someone else;
Crying and wishing we were all dead –
Or maybe just me –
Just me.
*
I lie in our double bed, listening to Simon and Garfunkel through the wall, doors slamming and the telephone ringing, no-one answering it –
The sound of things:
Terrifying, difficult and awesome –
The sound of things getting worse.
Lying in the double bed, thinking –
Please make me believe.
Chapter 35
You can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep –
You shut your eyes, you see her face –
You open your eyes, you see her face:
‘If Mrs Thatcher wins, Britain’s young men and women will be a lost generation, without jobs, without education –’
You shut your eyes, you see her face –
You open your eyes, you see her face:
‘No hope to make the life they want for themselves.’
You can’t go to sleep –
Thursday 2 June 1983:
D-7.
Down through the thunder and the rain and Wakefield, the car still retching and coughing, hacking its way over the Calder and out past the Redbeck, into Fitzwilliam –
Putting them together:
Jimmy Ashworth and Michael Myshkin –
Michael and Jimmy, Jimmy and Michael –
Putting them together and getting:
Hazel Atkins –
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper.
Sweating and then freezing, your clothes still itching with hate, you’ve got the shadows all over your heart again, a belly brimming over with fear –
Putting it all together to get:
Fear and hate, hate and fear –
A pocket full of paper, a pocketful of –
Hazel.
It is getting late –
Everywhere.
The silent houses of Newstead View, Fitzwilliam:
Fitz-fucking-william–
69 Newstead View:
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
‘Took your time?’ spits Ma Ashworth, almost closing the door in your face.
‘I’ve been busy.’
She stares at the dinner medals on your shirt. She says: ‘So I see.’
You put down the two large brown paper bags at her feet: ‘I brought you these.’
She holds open the front door. ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting your cup of tea with three sugars?’
You shake your head: ‘I’m not stopping.’
She shrugs. She looks at the bags. She says: ‘What about the belt?’
You lean down. You open the bag nearest her, the black leather belt coiled on top.
She bends down. She picks it up.
‘Was that his?’ you ask.
Her shoulders are shaking, her rough hands holding the worn belt.
‘Mrs Ashworth?’
She stares down at the belt in her hands, the tears falling from her face.
‘What about this?’ you ask. ‘Was this his?’
Mrs Ashworth looks up at the tiny newspaper photograph in her face –
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper –
‘You know who this is, don’t you?’
The tears streaming down her face –
‘It was in his wallet, in the lining.’
The tears down her face –
‘He’d cut it out.’
The tears –
‘No,’ she cries.
You hold it closer to her face, to the tears and the lies –
‘Why would he do a thing like that?’
But she’s turned her face to the dark grey sky, mumbling hymns and whispering prayers, saying over and over: ‘I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans. I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was …’
‘I’ll see you,’ you say –
In hell, another hell.
You walk down Newstead View –
The plastic bags and the dog shit.
You go up the path. You knock on 54 –
No answer.
You knock again.
‘Not your lucky day, is it?’
You turn round –
There are three men at the gate. They have pointed faces and pale moustaches. They are dressed in denim and grey. They are wearing trainers.
‘I’m a solicitor,’ you say.
They rock back and forwards on their heels. They spit.
‘You look like a fat cunt to me.’
‘A fat cunt who can’t keep his hands to himself.’
‘Fat cunt who’s going to get his head kicked in.’
They walk up the path towards you.
You swallow. You say: ‘I know who you are.’
‘And we know who you are,’ they laugh.
You look across the road –
The neighbours paired up, arms and brows folded –
You shout: ‘Will someone please call –’
The nearest man punches you hard in the face.
You put your hands up to your nose.
They grab your hair. They pull you off the step. They punch you in the stomach.
You fall forwards.
They knee you in the stomach. They hit you with a dustbin lid.
You fall on to the garden path.
They kick you in the back. They kick you in the front.
You put your hands and arms over your head. You curl up.
They smash the dustbin lid down into your head. Into your back.
You try to crawl down the path.
They grab your hair. They pull you down the path.
You reach up to your scalp.
They drop you by the gatepost. They jump on you.
You –
They close the gate in your face. Repeatedly.
‘Mr Piggott?’ Kathryn Williams is walking across the Yorkshire Post reception –
No outstretched hand today –
‘What on earth happened to you?’
You are swollen and wrapped in bandages. You pull yourself up out of your seat: ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’
Kathryn Williams stares at you. She says: ‘You should be in hospital.’
‘A mental hospital?’
She doesn’t smile. She asks:
‘What can I do for you, Mr Piggott?’
‘Miss Williams, I –’
‘Mrs Williams,’ she says.
‘OK, Mrs Williams,’ you say. ‘It’s about Jack Whitehead.’
‘Mr Piggott, I told you everything I know about Jack –’
‘You didn’t tell me about the flat.’
‘The flat?’
‘On Portland Square.’
‘I –’ she starts then stops.
You say: ‘I what?’
‘I thought he was still in Stanley Royd.’
‘Well, he ain’t.’
‘He’s at home?’
‘If he is,’ you say. ‘He’s not answering his door.’
‘You’re sure he’s not back in Stanley Royd.’
‘He was signed out into the care of his son on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’
‘His son?’
You nod. It hurts.
Mrs Williams asks: ‘You know where the son took him?’
‘The flat on Portland Square.’
‘But there’s no answer?’
You shake your head. It hurts.
She asks: ‘You went today?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Maybe they were just out?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You going round there again?’
You nod. It hurts. You stop.
She stares at you again. She says: ‘This isn’t just about Jack, is it?’
‘Not just Jack, no.’
She closes her eyes –
The two of you stood there in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area.
You say: ‘I read your piece on Hazel and Susan Ridyard. I went to Rochdale.’
She opens her eyes –
The two of you stood in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area, one of you swollen and wrapped in bandages –
Both of you in pain.
Off Calverley Street, tucked between Portland Way and Portland Crescent, up by the Poly and opposite the Civic Hall, it’s still raining:
Raining on the ruined grandeur, ill-gotten, squandered and damned –
Raining on Portland Square:
Mrs Williams and you tip-toe through the grass and weeds, the cracks and the stones; the pair of you picking your way along the terrace until you come to number 6, the front door still wide open and the tree still standing.
You walk up the three stone steps and through the front door –
You call out: ‘Hello? Hello?’
Still no answer.
You walk up the staircase on the left, over the leaves and the crisp packets, the unopened post and the papers, up the stairs to the first floor and Flats 3 and 4, cross the landing and up the second flight of stairs to Flats 5 and 6.
You stand before the door. You look at Mrs Williams. She shrugs.
You try the bell.
No answer.
You knock. You shout: ‘Hello? Hello?’
No answer.
You squat down. You lift the flap. ‘Mr Whitehead? Jack Whitehead? Anybody?’
No answer.
You let the flap go. You stand back up. You point down at the single word someone has scratched into the metal flap of the letterbox:
Ripper.
You show her the numbers on the door –
The number someone has scratched either side of the six:
6 6 6.
‘Be kids,’ says Kathryn Williams.
‘Or their dads.’
‘Is it locked?’ she whispers.
You press your fingertips into the wood and the door swings in and the smell runs to greet you; a tongue warm with saved spit and an unexpected bark that brings new tears to your black eyes.
She takes one step backwards. You take one step forwards –
This is the way.
You step inside. You can see the light at the end of the passage –
Through the old smells and the new, down the passage to his room –
Jack’s room:
Curtains billowing through the open and cracked windows, black sails –
The books and the papers scattered to the wind, their pages turning –
The spools and the tapes, streamers from an abandoned street party –
The suit and the shirts, the shoes and the socks, all spilling out from the chests of drawers, the stately wardrobes –
The sheets and the blankets, the pillow on the bed, stained and as cracked as the ceiling and the pelmets above –
Above the photographs and the words –
The photographs upon the floor, the words upon the wall.
You stand in Jack’s room and remember another room –
Room 27, the Redbeck Café and Motel:
The first and last time you met Jack Whitehead.
You remember the photographs and words upon those walls:
Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland.
Through the old tears and the new, down all those passages to that room and this –
This the place.
A mirror in four pieces, a stool with three legs –
A telephone dead in two halves, a clock stopped at 7.07 –
The time.
You swallow. You wipe your eyes –
Kathryn Williams is staring at a photograph on the mantelpiece –
A photograph of a young, handsome man with a bright, wide smile.
‘You know him?’
Her bottom lip is trembling, fingers pinching the end of her nose.
‘Who is it?’
‘Eddie,’ she says –
New tears streaming down another old face. ‘Eddie Dunford.’
It is night now.
You drive alone from Leeds into Wakefield, through the dead centre and out along the Donny Road, heading towards the Redbeck –
This the place, the time –
Tuesday 14 June 1977:
‘Fuck is this place?’ you said stood in the doorway, two teas in your hands, a chip butty in your pocket.
‘Just somewhere,’ smiled Bob Fraser.
‘How long you had it?’
‘It’s not really mine.’
‘But you got the key?’
‘It’s for a friend.’
‘Who?’
‘That journalist, Eddie Dunford.’
Haunted:
1977 all over again –
This the time, the place –
The Redbeck:
There was a knock on the door, you jumped.
Bob went to the door: ‘Who is it?’
‘Jack Whitehead. Let me in, it’s pissing down out here.’
Bob opened the door and in Jack stepped.
‘Fuck,’ Jack said, looking at the walls, the words and the photographs.
‘I’m John Piggott,’ you said. ‘I’m Bob’s solicitor.’
But Jack was still looking at the walls, the photographs and the words –
Haunted:
The words –
Jack Whitehead, Bob Fraser and Eddie Dunford –
Haunted:
The photographs –
Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland –
Haunted:
The photograph in your pocket –
Hazel.
You’ve got a photograph and a key in your pocket –
This the place –
The Redbeck;
The time –
1983.
You pull in behind the Redbeck –
There is one other car parked in the depressed, coarse car park.
A man is sat alone in the car –
It is an old Viva.
He is watching the row of deserted rooms –
He has his headlights on.
They are shining on a door –
A door banging in the wind, in the rain.
You don’t stop. You put your foot down –
Ninety miles an hour.
Haunted, old ghosts and new –
Tapping against the pane;
You are lying on your back alone –
Branches tapping against the pane;
You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages –
The branches tapping against the pane;
You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages, your mouth open –
Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;
You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, listening to the branches tapping against the pane –
Wishing she was here with you now:
Thursday 2 June 1983 –
D-7.
Chapter 36
The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ –
They come for BJ on Tuesday night.
They kick in door, splinters of wood and sevens flying.
They grab BJ.
They slap BJ.
They punch BJ.
They kick BJ.
They cuff BJ.
They gag BJ.
They put a bag on BJ’s head.
They drag BJ from room.
They throw BJ down stairs.
They kick BJ across Spencer Place.
They toss BJ in back of a van.
They slam doors.
They drive away with BJ.
They whisper.
They light cigarettes.
They burn BJ through shirt and trouser legs.
They laugh when BJ scream.
They laugh as BJ choke upon gag.
They slow down.
They stop.
They open doors of van.
They punch BJ.
They kick BJ.
They push BJ out of back of van.
They throw BJ through a wooden gate.
They pick BJ up off floor.
They drag BJ up some stairs.
They bounce BJ down some corridor walls.
They stand BJ in a room.
They whisper.
They kick BJ in balls.
They laugh when BJ fall to knees in pain.
They pick BJ up off floor.
They sit BJ on a chair.
They tie BJ to it, hands cuffed behind and a bag on BJ’s head.
They leave BJ.
The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis.
‘Skin the cunt alive!’ he screams into BJ’s blindfolded face.
BJ pass out in a pool of BJ’s own piss.
The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt.
