by David Peace
“You’re not fucking listening to me! I’ll spell it out in your talk.”
“Please…”
“Power’s like glue. It sticks men like us together, keeps every thing in place.”
“You and Foster are…”
“We’re peas in a pod, me and him. We like to fuck and make a buck and we’re not right choosey how we do either. But he’s got too big for his fucking boots and now he’s cutting me out and it pisses me off.”
“So you use me and Barry to blackmail his mates?”
“We had a deal, me and Foster and another man. That other man is dead. They waited until he came back from Australia and took him as he came out of his mother’s flat in Blackpool. They bound his arms behind him with a towel and then wrapped him in twenty foot of tape from his shoulders to his hips. Then they stuffed him into the boot of his car and drove him on to Moors. When it was dawn, three men held him upright and a fourth thrust a knife into his heart five times.”
I was looking down into my whisky glass, the room slightly spinning.
“That was my brother they killed. He’d been back home one fucking day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“At the funeral, there was a card. No name, just said, Three can keep a secret, if two are dead.”
“I don’t want any part of this,” I said quietly.
Box nodded once at Paul sat over by the bar and said loudly, “It seems like we overestimated you, Mr Dunford.”
“I’m just a journalist.”
Paul came up behind me, a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Then you’ll do as you’re told, Mr Dunford, and you’ll get your story. Leave the rest to us.”
I said again, “I don’t want to be part of this.”
Box cracked his knuckles and smiled. “Tough shit. You are a part of it.”
Paul picked me up by my collar.
“Now piss off!”
Mud Man on the run.
Back down Westgate.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Barry and Clare.
Little dead Clare Kemplay, kissed this boy and made him cry.
Clare and Barry.
Dirty Barry, when he’d been good he’d been very, very good, when he’d been bad he’d been very, very bad.
A policeman stood in a doorway, keeping out of the rain. Me, the urge to fall to my knees at his feet, praying he was a good man, and tell him the whole fucking sad story, to come in out of the rain.
But tell him what?
Tell him I was in over my head, covered in mud and drunk as fuck.
Mud Man, straight into Leeds, dirt cracking as I drove.
Mud Man, straight into the office bogs, caked in shit.
A clean face and one clean hand, a dirty suit and a black bandage, sitting down behind my desk at 3 PM on Friday 20 December 1974.
“Nice suit, Eddie lad.”
“Fuck off, George.”
“Merry Christmas to you too.”
Messages and cards littered the desk; Sergeant Fraser calling twice that morning, Bill Hadden requesting my presence at my earliest convenience.
I slumped back in my chair, George Greaves farting to the applause of the few back from lunch.
I smiled and picked up the cards; three ‘from Down South, plus one with my name and office punched into plastic Dymo tape and stuck to the envelope.
On the other side of the office, Gaz was taking bets on the Newcastle-Leeds game.
I opened the envelope and pulled out the card with my teeth and my left hand.
“Do you want in, Eddie?” shouted Gaz.
On the front of the card was a cabin made of logs in the middle of a snow-covered forest.
“Ten bob on Lorimer,” I said, opening the card.
“Jack’s got him.”
Inside the card, over the Christmas message, were stuck two more strips of Dymo tape.
Quietly I said, “I’ll have Yorath then.”
Punched into the top plastic strip was: KNOCK ON THE DOOR OF…
“You what?”
Punched into the bottom plastic strip was: FLAT 405, CITY
HEIGHTS .
“Yorath,” I said, staring at the card. “Anyone I know?” I looked up.
Jack Whitehead said, “I just hope it’s from a woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard you were hanging around with young boys,” smiled Jack.
I put the card inside my jacket pocket. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. With orange hair.”
“Who’d you hear that from then, Jack?”
“A little bird.”
“You stink of drink.”
“So do you.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“Not for much longer,” grinned Jack. “Boss wants to see you.”
“I know,” I said, not moving.
“He asked me to come and find you, make sure you didn’t get lost again.”
“Going to hold my hand?”
“You’re not my type.”
“Bollocks.”
“Fuck off, Jack. Listen.”
I pressed play again:
“I couldn’t believe it was her. She looked so different, so white.”
“Bollocks,” said Jack again. “He’s talking about the photo graphs in the papers, on TV.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Her face was everywhere.”
“Ashworth knows more than that.”
“Myshkin fucking confessed.”
“That means fuck all and you know it.”
Bill Hadden sat behind his desk, his glasses halfway down his nose, stroking his beard and saying nowt.
“You should see all the shit they took from the little pervert’s room.”
“Like what?”
“Photos of little girls, boxes of them.”
I looked at Hadden and said, “Myshkin didn’t do it.”
He said slowly, “But why make a scapegoat of him?”
“Why do you think? Tradition.”
“Thirty years,” said Jack. “Thirty years and I know firemen never lie and coppers often do. But not this time.”
“They know he didn’t do it and you know he didn’t.”
“He did it. He coughed.”
“So fucking what?”
“You ever heard the word forensic?”
“That’s bullshit. They’ve got nothing.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Hadden, leaning forward in his chair. “It seems like we’ve had this conversation before.”
“Exactly,” muttered Jack.
“No, before I believed Myshkin did it, but…”
Hadden raised his hands. “Edward, please.”
“Sorry,” I said, staring at the cards on his desk.
He said, “When are they going to remand him again?”
“First thing Monday,” said Jack.
“More charges?”
“He’s already coughed to Jeanette Garland and that Rochdale lass…”
“Susan Ridyard,” I said.
“But I’ve heard there’s more in offing.”
I said, “He said owt about where the bodies are?”
“Your back garden, Scoop.”
“Right then,” said Hadden, being Dad. “Edward, you have that background piece on Myshkin ready for Monday. Jack, you do the remand.”
“Will do, Chief,” said Jack, getting up.
“Nice piece on those two coppers,” nodded Hadden, ever the proud father.
“Thanks. Nice blokes, I’ve known them a while,” said Jack at the door.
Hadden said, “See you tomorrow night, Jack.”
“Yep. See you Scoop,” laughed Jack as he left.
“Bye.” I was on my feet, still looking at the cards on Hadden’s desk.
“Sit down for a moment, will you,” said Hadden, standing up.
I sat back down.
“Edward, I want you to take the rest of the month off.”
“What?”
Hadden had his back to me, staring out at the dark sky.
“I don’t understand,” I said, understanding him exactly, focusing on one small card tucked in amongst the rest.
“I don’t want you coming into the office like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this,” he said, turning and pointing at me.
“I was on a building site this morning, getting the story.”
“What story?”
“Clare Kemplay.”
“It’s over.”
I stared at the desk, at that one card, at another cabin made of logs in the middle of another snow-covered forest.
“Take the rest of the month off. Get that hand seen to,” said Hadden, sitting back down.
I stood up. “You still want that Myshkin piece?”
“Yeah, of course. Type it up and give it to Jack.”
I opened the door, last ditch, thinking fuck ‘em all:
“Do you know the Fosters?”
Hadden didn’t look up from his desk.
“Councillor William Shaw?”
He looked up. “I’m sorry, Edward. Really I am.”
“Don’t be. You’re right,” I said. “I need help.”
At my desk for the last time, thinking take it fucking national, sweeping the whole bloody table-top into a dirty old Co-op carrier bag, not giving a fuck who knew I was gone.
Jack fucking Whitehead slapped an Evening News on to the empty desk, beaming, “Something to remember us by.”
I looked up at Jack, counting backwards.
The office silent, all eyes on me.
Jack Whitehead right back in my face, not blinking.
I looked down at the folded paper, the banner headline:
WE SALUTE YOU.
“Turn it over.”
A telephone was ringing on the other side of the office, no-one answering it.
I turned over the bottom half of the paper to a photograph of two uniformed coppers shaking hands with Chief Constable Angus.
Two uniformed coppers, naked:
A tall one with a beard, a short one without.
I stared down at the paper, at the photograph, at the words beneath the photograph:
Chief Constable Angus congratulates Sergeant Bob Craven and PC Bob Douglas on a job well done.
“They are outstanding police officers who have our heartfelt thanks.”
I picked up the paper and folded it in two, stuffing it into the carrier bag, winking, “Thanks, Jack.”
Jack Whitehead said nothing.
I gathered up the carrier bag and walked across the silent office.
George Greaves was looking out the window, Gaz from Sport was staring at the end of his pencil.
The telephone began to ring on my desk.
Jack Whitehead picked it up.
At the door, Fat Steph, with an armful of files, smiled and said, “I’m sorry, love.”
“It’s Sergeant Fraser,” shouted Jack from my desk.
“Tell him to fuck off. I’ve been sacked.”
“He’s been sacked,” said Jack, hanging up.
One two three four, down the stairs and through the door:
The Press Club, members only, going up to five.
At the bar, a member for now, a Scotch in one hand, the phone in the other.
“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”
Yesterday Once More on the jukebox, my money.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
Fuck The Carpenters, my eyes stinging from my own smoke.
“Can you tell her Edward Dunford called?”
I hung up, downed the Scotch, lit another cigarette.
“Same again please, love.”
“And one for me, Bet.”
I looked round.
Jack fucking Whitehead taking the next stool.
“You fucking fancy me or something?”
“No.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
“We should talk.”
“Why?”
The barmaid set two Scotches in front of us.
“Someone’s setting you up.”
“Yeah? Big fucking news, Jack.”
He offered me a cigarette. “Who is it then, Scoop?”
“How about we start with your mates, the Two Bobbies?”
Jack lit a cigarette for himself and whispered, “How’s that?”
I swung my right hand round, waving the bandages in his face, toppling forward and shouting, “How’s that? What the fuck do you think this is?”
Jack moved out of the way, catching my bandages in his own hand.
“They did that?” he said, pushing me back into my seat, eyes on the black wad at the end of my arm.
“Yeah, in between burning down gypsy camps, stealing post mortem photos, and beating confessions out of the retarded.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just the new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police going about their business, supported by the good old Yorkshire Post, the copper’s friend.”
“You’ve fucking lost it.”
I downed the Scotch. “So everyone keeps saying.”
“Fucking listen to them then.”
“Piss off, Jack.”
“Eddie?”
“What?”
“Think of your mother.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Hasn’t she been through enough? It’s barely been a week since you buried your father.”
I leant over and poked two fingers into his bony chest. “Don’t you ever fucking bring my family into this.”
I stood up and took out my car keys.
“You’re not fit to drive.”
“You’re not fit to write, but you do.”
He was stood up, holding me by the arms. “You’re being set up, just like Barry was.”
“Fucking let go.”
“Derek Box is as bad as it fucking gets.”
“Let go.”
He sat back down. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“Piss off,” I hissed, climbing the stairs, hating his lying guts and the stinking world in which he dwelt.
The M1 southbound out of Leeds, seven o’clock busy, the rain beginning to sleet in my headlights. Always on My Mind on the radio.
In the fast lane, glances in the rearview mirror, glances to the left, the gypsy camp gone.
Flicking through the radio stations, avoiding the news.
Suddenly the Castleford turn-off came out of the dark like a lorry, its lights on full.
I swerved across three lanes, horns screaming at me, the trapped faces of angry ghosts in their cars cursing me.
Inches from death, thinking bring it on.
Bring it on.
Bring it on.
Knock on the door of…
“You’re drunk.”
“I just want to talk,” I said on the step of Number 11, waiting for that big red door in my face.
“You’d better come in.”
The fat Scottish woman from two down was sat on the sofa in front of Opportunity Knocks, staring at me.
“He’s had a few,” said Paula, closing the door.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” laughed the Scottish woman.
“I’m sorry,” I said and sat down on the sofa next to her.
Paula said, “I’ll make a cup of tea.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want another, Clare?”
“No, I’ll get off,” she said, following Paula into the kitchen.
I sat on the sofa in front of the TV, listening to whispers from the next room, watching a young girl tapdance into the hearts and homes of millions. Just above her, on top of the TV, Jeanette smiled her handicapped grin across the room at me.
“See you later, Eddie,” said Scotch Clare at the door.
I thought about getting up, but stayed put and mumbled, “Yeah, goodnight.”
“Aye. Be nice,” she s
aid as she closed the big red door behind her.
There was applause on the screen.
Paula handed me a mug of tea. “Here you go.”
I said, “I’m sorry about this. And last night.”
She sat down next to me on the sofa. “Forget it.”
“Always turning up like this and then all that shit I said last night, I didn’t mean any of it.”
“It’s all right, forget it. You don’t have to say anything.”
Some robot aliens were eating instant mashed potato on the TV.
“I do care.”
“I know.”
I wanted to ask about Johnny but I put down the tea and leant over, bringing her face closer to my own with my left hand.
“How’s your hand?” she whispered.
“It’s fine,” I said, kissing her lips, her chin, and her cheeks.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said.
“I want to.”
“Why?”
A monkey in a flat cap was drinking a cup of tea on TV.
“Because I love you.”
“Please don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“So say it again.”
“I love you.”
Paula pushed me away and took my hand, switching off the TV and leading me up the steep, steep stairs.
Mummy and Daddy’s Room, the bedroom so cold I could see my breath.
Paula sat down on the bed and began to undo her blouse, her bare skin all covered in goose-bumps.
I pushed her back on to the eiderdown, kicking off my shoes with two loud thuds.
She squirmed beneath me, trying to wriggle free of her trousers.
I pushed up her blouse and black bra and began sucking at her pale brown nipples, biting her ever so slightly.
She was pulling off my jacket and pushing down my trousers.
“You’re filthy,” she giggled.
“Thanks,” I smiled, feeling the laughter in her belly.
“I love you,” she said and pulled her hands through my hair, pushing my head gently down.
I went where I was told, tugging down the zip of her trousers and pulling off her pale blue cotton knickers with them.
Paula Garland pushed my head into her cunt, wrapping her legs across my back.
My chin became wet, stinging as it dried.
She pushed me back.
I went.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” I mumbled, a face full of cunt.
She pulled me back up, over her tits.
