by David Peace
“No. Clare is.”
“Fuck. Anything else?”
“Cambridge Rapist. Cup draw. Leeds have got Cardiff.”
“Nowt about that gypsy camp on the way in, one just off the M1?”
“No. Not that I’ve heard. Why?”
“Nothing. Heard there’d been a fire or something, that’s all.”
I lit another cigarette and sipped at my pint.
Kathryn took another cigarette from my pack.
“What about the white van? Did you turn anything up?” I asked, putting my cigarettes back in my pocket, trying to remember what kind of car Graham Goldthorpe had driven.
“I’m sorry love. I haven’t had the time. I don’t think there’s anything to it though. The police would have mentioned it and I’m sure it’s not in any of the reports.”
“Mr Ridyard was pretty fucking sure.”
“Well maybe they were just humouring them.”
“They should fucking burn in hell if they were.”
Kathryn’s eyes were shining through the low light, on the verge of tears.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Did you meet Barry?” Her voice was shaking.
“Mm. The post-mortem, how much detail did he put in?”
Kathryn downed her drink. “None. How much do you bloody think?”
“Do you know if Johnny Kelly was playing for Trinity today?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Gaz say what happened?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Gaz didn’t say why?”
“Nobody knows.” Kathryn picked up her empty glass and put it back down again.
“The press conference is tomorrow?”
Kathryn picked up her empty pack of cigarettes. “Of course.”
“What time?”
“I think they said ten. But I’m not sure.” She pulled out the silver foil from inside the packet.
“What did Hadden say about the post-mortem?”
“I don’t know Eddie. I don’t bloody know.” Her eyes were full again, her face red. “Edward, can I please have a cigarette?”
I took out my pack. “There’s only one.”
Kathryn sniffed hard. “Forget it. I’ll get some more.”
“Don’t be daft. Take it.”
“Did you go to Castleford?” She was rooting around in her bag.
“Yeah.”
“You saw Marjorie Dawson then? What’s she like?”
I lit my last cigarette. “I didn’t see her.”
“Eh?” Kathryn was counting out change for the cigarette machine.
“I saw Paula Garland.”
“Jesus, you never. Fucking hell.”
Her mother was sleeping, her father was snoring, and I was on my knees on her bedroom floor.
Kathryn pulled me up, bringing my mouth up to hers as we toppled back on to her bed.
I was thinking of Southern girls called Sophie or Anna.
Her tongue pushed down harder on mine, the taste of her own cunt in her mouth pushing her harder. I used my left foot to free her legs of her knickers.
I was thinking of Mary Goldthorpe.
She took my cock in her right hand and guided it in. I pulled back, using my own right hand to move my cock clockwise around the lips of her cunt.
I was thinking of Paula Garland.
She dug her nails into my arse, wanting me in deep. I went in hard, my stomach suddenly hollow and sick.
I was thinking of Clare Kemplay.
“Eddie,” she whispered.
I kissed her hard, moving from her mouth to her chin and on to her neck.
“Eddie?” There was a change in her voice.
I kissed her hard, moving from her neck to her chin and back to her mouth.
“Eddie!” A change not for the better.
I stopped kissing her.
“I’m pregnant.”
“What do you mean?” I said, knowing exactly what she fucking meant.
“I’m pregnant.”
I slipped out of her cunt and on to my back. “What are we going to do?” she whispered, putting her ear to my chest. “Get rid of it.”
Fuck, I still felt drunk.
It was almost 2 AM when the taxi dropped me off.
Fuck, I thought as I turned the key in the back door. There was a light still on in the back room.
Fuck, I needed a cup of tea and a sandwich.
I switched on the kitchen light and began to root through the fridge for some ham.
Fuck, I ought to at least say hello.
My mother was sat in her rocking chair, staring at the black TV.
“Do you want a cup of tea, Mum?”
“Your friend Barry…”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead, love.”
“Fuck,” I said automatically. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not joking.”
“How? What happened?”
“Car crash.”
“Where?”
“Morley.”
“Morley?”
“Police just said Morley.”
“The police?”
“They rang a couple of hours ago.”
“Why’d they ring here?”
“They found your name and address in the car.”
“My name and address?”
She was shaking. “I’ve been worried sick, Eddie.” She pulled her dressing gown tight, rubbing her elbow over and over again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where’ve you been all this time?” She was shouting. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her raise her voice.
“I’m sorry.” I went to put my arms around her just as the kettle in the kitchen began to whistle.
I went out into the kitchen and switched off the electric ring. I came back with two mugs of tea. “This’ll make you feel better.”
“He’s the one who was here this morning isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“He seemed ever so nice.”
“Yeah.”
Part 2
Whispering grass
Chapter 4
16 December 1974.
Brakes went. He goes straight into the back of the van. Bang!” Gilman smashed his fist into his open palm.
“Van was carrying windows wasn’t it?” whispered New Face, sitting down next to Tom.
“Aye. I heard one of the panes severed his fucking head,” said Another New Face behind us.
We all said, “Fuck.”
Wakefield Police Station, Wood Street, Wakefield.
Business as usual:
A dead mate and a dead little girl.
I looked at my father’s watch on the worst rainy day and Monday of them all.
It was almost ten.
We’d met up in the Parthenon at the top of Westgate, downed coffee and toast and watched the windows steam up and the rain come down.
Talking Barry.
At nine-thirty we’d run through the rain with rival papers on our heads, up to Wood Street Nick and Round 3.
Gilman, Tom, and me; two rows back and not giving a fuck. Nationals down the front. Familiar faces from before giving it to me cold. Me not giving a fuck. Or not much of one, any road.
“What the fuck was he doing in Morley?” said Gilman again, shaking his head from side to side.
“You know Barry, probably looking for Lucky,” smiled Tom from Bradford.
A big hand into my shoulder. “Drunk as a fucking skunk is what I heard.”
Everyone turning round.
Jack fucking Whitehead sitting directly behind me.
“Fuck off,” I said weakly, not turning round.
“And a good morning to you Scoop.” Whisky breath on the back of my neck.
“Morning Jack,” said Tom from Bradford.
“Missed quite a eulogy this morning. Not a dry pair in the office after Bill had finished. Quite moving it was.”
Tom said, “Really? That’s
…”
Jack Whitehead leant forward into my ear, but didn’t lower his voice. “Could have saved yourself a journey too, Scoop.”
Me, eyes front. “What?”
“Mr Hadden wants you back at base, Scoop. Like pronto. Asap. Etc.”
I could feel Jack’s smile behind me, boring into the back of my head.
I stood up, not looking at Gilman or Tom. “I’ll go and phone him.”
“You do that. Oh, and Scoop?”
I turned round, looking down at Jack in his seat.
“The police are looking for you.”
“What?”
“You were drinking with Barry, I heard.”
“Piss off.”
“Star witness. How many did you have?”
“Fuck off.”
“Yep,” winked Jack, looking around the crowded room. “Looks like you’re in just the right place at the right time. For once.”
I pushed past Tom, moving as fast as I could to the end of the row.
“Oh, and Scoop?”
I didn’t want to turn round. I didn’t want to look at that fucking grin again. I didn’t want to say, “What?”
“Congratulations.”
“What?” I said again, trapped against the legs of hacks and chairs.
“What the Lord taketh with one hand, he giveth with the other.”
I was the only person in the room standing who wasn’t a technician or a copper, the only one saying, “What?”
“The pitter-patter of tiny feet and all that?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
The whole room was looking from me to Jack and back.
Jack put his hands behind his head and gave the floor his best stage laugh. “Don’t tell me I’ve scooped Scoop?”
The room was smiling with Jack.
“Your girlfriend, Dunston?”
“Dunford,” I said, involuntarily.
“Whatever,” said Jack.
“What about her?”
“Told Stephanie she’s feeling a little under the weather this morning. But that it’s just something she’ll have to get used to.”
“You’re fucking joking?” said Tom from Bradford.
Gilman was looking at the floor, shaking his head from side to side.
I just stood there, Edward Dunford, North of England Red Face, the eyes of the room on me, National and Local.
“So?” I said lamely.
“Going to make an honest woman of her, I hope?”
“Honest! What the fuck would you know about honest?”
“Temper, temper.”
“Fuck off.” I started to edge along the row. It took an age to get there. Just long enough for Jack to get another laugh.
“I don’t know, young people these days.”
The whole room was smirking and tittering along.
“I think Mrs Whitehouse has got a point.”
The whole room giggling with Jack.
“The Permissive fucking Society, that’s what it is. Me, I’m with Keith Joseph. Sterilise the fucking lot of them!”
The whole room laughed out loud.
One hundred years later I got to the end of the row and the aisle.
Jack Whitehead shouted, “And don’t forget to turn yourself in.”
The whole room erupted.
I pushed past the wink-wink coppers and the nudge-nudge technicians and got to the back of the room.
I wanted to curl up and die.
There was a bang.
The whole room went dead.
The side door down the front slammed shut.
I turned around.
Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman and two other men in suits entered.
I turned my red face for one last look.
Oldman had aged another hundred years.
“Thank you for coming gentlemen. We’re going to keep this very brief as you all know where we’d rather be. The gentleman on my right is Dr Courts, the Home Office pathologist who conducted the post-mortem. On my left is Detective Superin tendent Noble who, along with myself, will be leading the hunt for the killer or killers of little Clare Kemplay.”
Detective Superintendent Noble was looking straight at me.
I knew what was coming and I’d had enough of it to last me a lifetime.
I turned away through the double doors.
“They’re saying Barry was drunk?”
Rain ran down the inside of the phonebox making a pool around my shoes. I stared through the dirty glass at the yellow lights of the Wood Street Nick across the road.
Hadden on the other end sounded gutted. “That’s what the police are saying.”
I fumbled through my pockets. “It’s what Jack’s saying as well.”
I stood in the puddle, my shoes taking in water, juggling a box of matches, a cigarette, and the receiver.
“When you coming back to the office?”
I got the cigarette lit. “This afternoon sometime.”
A pause and then, “I need to speak to you.”
“Of course.”
A longer pause and then, finally, “What happened yesterday, Eddie?”
“I got to see Enid Sheard. She’s only got a bleeding key to Goldthorpe’s house.”
Hadden, many more than ten miles away, said, “Really?”
“Yeah, but I need some photos. Can you get Richard or Norman to meet me there?”
“When?”
I checked my father’s watch. “About twelve. And maybe it’d be best if one of them brought the money.”
“How much?”
I stared down Wood Street, past the Police Station, as black clouds made an evening of the morning.
I inhaled deeply, a small pain in my chest. “Greedy bitch wants two hundred.”
Silence.
Later, “Eddie, what happened yesterday?”
“What?”
“With Mrs Dawson? What happened?”
“I never saw her.”
Hadden, anger in his voice, said, “But I asked you specifically…”
“I stayed in the car.”
“But I asked you…”
“I know, I know. Barry thought I’d make her too nervous.” I dropped my cigarette in the puddle at my feet and almost believed myself.
Hadden, down the line, suspicious: “Really?”
The cigarette hissed in the dirty water. “Yeah.”
“What time will you be back?”
“Sometime between two and three.”
“I need to see you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I hung up.
I watched as Gilly and Tom and the rest of the pack came running out of the Nick, jackets over their heads, making for their cars and offices with their warm yellow lights.
I pulled my jacket up over my head and got ready to make a run for it.
Thirty minutes later and the Viva stank of bacon.
I wound down the window and stared down Brunt Street, Castleford.
My fingers felt greasy from the sandwich.
The light was on in the front room of number 11, reflecting in the wet black pavement outside.
I took a mouthful of hot sweet tea.
The light went off and the red door opened.
Paula Garland came out of the house under a flowered umbrella. She locked the door and walked up the street towards the Viva.
I wound up the window and slid down in my seat. I could hear her tall brown boots approaching. I closed my eyes and swallowed and wondered what the fuck I’d say.
The boots came and went on the other side of the street.
I sat up and looked out of the back window.
The brown boots, the beige raincoat, and the flowered umbrella turned the corner and disappeared.
Barry Cannon had once said something like, “All great buildings resemble crimes.”
In 1970, according to the notes Hadden had given me, John Dawson had designed and built Shangrila to the acclaim of both the archite
ctural community and the general public. Television, newspapers, and magazines had all been invited inside to witness the equally lavish interior in dutiful double-page spreads. The cost of the enormous bungalow had been estimated at being in excess of half a million pounds, a present from Britain’s most successful postwar architect to his wife on the occasion of their Silver Wedding anniversary. Named after the mythical city in Marjorie Dawson’s favourite film, Lost Horizon, Shangrila had captured the imagination of the Great British Public.
Briefly.
My father used to say, “If you want to know the artist, look at the art.”
He was usually talking about Stanley Matthews or Don Bradman when he said it.
I vaguely recalled my father and mother taking a special Sunday drive over to Castleford in the Viva. I pictured them making the run over, talking a little bit but mainly listening to the radio. They had probably parked at the bottom of the drive, peering up at Shangrila through the car window. Had they brought sandwiches and a flask? I hoped to fuck they hadn’t. No, they’d probably popped into Lumbs for an ice-cream on the way back to Ossett. I saw my parents sitting in their parked car on the Barnsley Road, eating their ice-creams in silence.
When they got back home my father must have sat down to write his critique of Shangrila. He’d have been to see Town the day before, if they were at home, and he’d have written about that before giving his two-penneth on Shangrila and Mr John Dawson.
In 1970, Fleet Street still a year off, I was in my seaview flat in Brighton, skimming the weekly letter from up North which Southern girls called Anna or Sophie found so very endearing, throwing the half-read letter in the bin, thanking fuck The Beatles had come from Liverpool and not Lambeth.
In 1974 I sat in the same car at the bottom of the same drive and stared up through the rain at the same big bleached white bungalow, wishing to God I’d read my father’s two-penneth on Shangrila and Mr John Dawson.
I opened the door, pulled my jacket over my head, and wondered why the fuck I’d come this way at all.
There were two cars in the drive, a Rover and a Jaguar, but no-one was answering the door.
I pressed the chimes again and looked out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, to the Viva parked back down on the road. I thought I could make out two or three giant bright orange goldfish in the pond. I wondered if they liked the rain, if it made any difference to their lives at all.
