by David Peace
Friday 24 March 1972:
Medium Links Susan and Jeanette – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
Police last night refused to comment or speculate on reports that local medium and TV personality Mandy Wymer had found a connection between the missing Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland, known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home, who was eight years old when she disappeared from her Castleford street in 1969.
STOP.
STOP.
STOP -
Into the library toilets, dry-heaving -
Your stomach burning, bleeding again -
You retch. You puke. You spew -
Knowing it’ll soon be over, soon -
But you have to go back there:
Back to the room (back to all their rooms) -
Back to the shelf again (take them all down again):
The films, the spools -
STOP -
AGAIN -
Saturday 21 December 1974:
Murder Hunt – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
A fresh murder hunt was launched in Wakefield today following the discovery of the body -
STOP -
AGAIN AND AGAIN -
Monday 23 December 1974:
RL Star’s Sister Murdered – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
Police found the body of Mrs Paula Garland at her Castleford home early Sunday morning, after neighbours heard screams.
STOP -
AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN -
You retch. Puke. Spew -
Blood in your mouth, blood on your shirt, blood on your hands -
Again and again and again -
Until it stops.
You drive through Wakefield and up the Barnsley Road, out of Wakefield and along the Doncaster Road, past the Redbeck into Castleford -
You pull up by a red telephone box. You get out. You walk over to the telephone box and open the door.
The phone is ringing.
You pick up the receiver. You listen -
There is a foreign voice on the other end;
You hang up. You wait -
No-one phones.
You stand in the red telephone box. You listen to the relentless sound of the rain on the roof of the telephone box. You watch the silent cars with all their killers at the wheel, watch them speed up and down the road, watch them point and laugh at you, missing children in their boots, tiny hands pressed to their back windows -
You pick up the receiver. You listen -
There’s no-one there;
The world outside so sharp and full of pain.
Brunt Street, Castleford -
You’ve been here before.
The car stinks of sick. You wind the window down. You stare across at 11.
The red door opens. A woman comes out under a flowered umbrella. She locks the door behind her. She walks past the car, her boots on the wet pavement as she goes -
Down Brunt Street -
Echoing.
‘Terrible,’ says the old woman for the third time, her arms folded against the rain and the memories, the bruised and bandaged fat man on her doorstep.
You nod.
‘Just seemed to be one bloody thing after another,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘All started with the little lass though.’
You nod again.
‘If that’d never have happened,’ she sighs. ‘They could have had everything.’
And you nod again.
‘But he goes and kills himself, husband. Next their Johnny, he starts getting in all kinds of bother, letting his talent go to waste. Then -’
You look up.
She is staring down the street. ‘Then she’s murdered, mother. Right there.’
You follow her pointing bones down the street to number 11.
‘Right there on our own bloody doorstep,’ she sighs again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Terrible,’ you say.
‘Terrible,’ says the old woman across the road. ‘Never same again, mother was.’
You shake your head.
‘You wouldn’t be, would you?’
You shake your head again.
‘Lovely little lass,’ she sighs, folding the tea-towel in her hands. ‘Always so cheerful, she was. Always smiling.’
And you shake your head again.
‘I mean,’ she says. ‘That’s the thing about mongols, isn’t it? Always happy, aren’t they? I don’t reckon they know -’
You look up.
She is staring across the road. ‘They’re lucky that way.’
You turn round and look across at the red door.
‘Broad daylight it was,’ she sighs again. ‘Broad bloody daylight.’
‘Terrible,’ you say.
‘Terrible,’ says Mr Dixon, the man in the cornershop. ‘Back then didn’t used to open up until three of an afternoon so there always be a queue of kiddies and she’d be among them. Had to watch her with the money mind, being how she was.’
You nod.
‘Wasn’t there that last Saturday though,’ he sighs. ‘I remember that.’
You nod again, looking at the sweets and the crisps, the cigarettes and the alcohol, the pet food and the local papers.
You say: ‘Heard husband topped himself?’
‘Aye,’ says Mr Dixon. ‘Be a couple of years later, mind.’
You nod towards the door. ‘In that house?’
Mr Dixon shakes his head. ‘Wife would know, good with stuff like that she is. Know it wasn’t here though.’
‘The mother?’ you ask. ‘That was here though?’
Mr Dixon nods. ‘Oh aye, that was here.’
‘Not a very lucky family,’ you say.
‘This bloody street,’ whispers Mr Dixon, the bloody street listening at the door. ‘You know who else lived on here, don’t you?’
You shake your head.
‘The Morrisons,’ he says. ‘Clare and Grace?’
You stop shaking your head. You swallow. You stare. You wait.
‘Grace was one of them that got shot when them blokes did over Strafford in centre of Wakey?’
‘And Clare?’
‘They thought Ripper did her, over in Preston,’ he smiles. ‘He’s always denied it mind, has Ripper.’
‘Clare Strachan,’ you tell him.
He nods. ‘That’d be her married name.’
‘What about him?’ you say. ‘Ever see him round here?’
Mr Dixon takes the photo from you. He stares at the twenty-two-year-old face of Michael Myshkin -
Round and smiling.
Mr Dixon shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d remember him.’
You drive into Leeds. You park under the arches -
The Dark Arches;
Two black crows fighting with a fat brown rat over a bin-bag -
UK DK sprayed in white on a damp green wall;
You lock the car. You walk through the arches and out into the night -
It is Saturday 4 June 1983.
‘You shouldn’t keep coming here,’ says Kathryn Williams. ‘Folk’ll start talking.’
‘I wish they bloody would.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell me what you know about Jeanette Garland.’
‘I -’
‘Her father?’
‘John, I -’
‘Her mother?’
‘Please John, I -’
‘Her uncle?’
Kathryn Williams is squeezing her hands together in her lap, her eyes closed.
‘Her neighbour?’
She opens her eyes: ‘Who?’
‘Clare Strachan,’ you say -
She stands up: ‘Not here.’
You grab her arm -
She looks down at it. She says: ‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Am I?’
‘Please John, I -’
‘I want to know if you think Michael Myshkin killed Jeanette Garland?’
&n
bsp; ‘John, I -’
‘Susan Ridyard?’
‘I -’
‘Clare Kemplay?’
She looks at you. She closes her eyes. She shakes her head.
The Press Club -
In the sights of the two stone lions -
Leeds City Centre:
Almost ten.
You are waiting outside in the rain.
They come along the road under two separate umbrellas.
‘John Piggott,’ says Kathryn Williams. ‘This is Paul Kelly.’
Paul Kelly juggles his briefcase and umbrella to shake your hand.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet,’ you say.
He looks at you. Your bandages and your bruises.
‘He’s had a bad week,’ says Kathryn.
Paul Kelly shrugs. He opens the Press Club door:
Members Only.
‘After you,’ you say to Kathryn.
She smiles.
You follow her down the steps.
It is badly lit and half empty.
You sit down at a table against the far wall.
‘What can I get you?’ you ask them both.
‘Nothing,’ says Paul Kelly.
‘You sure,’ you say.
‘You’re not a member,’ he smiles. ‘They won’t serve you.’
Kathryn Williams stands up. ‘I’ll get them.’
You hold out a fiver. ‘At least let me pay.’
She waves it away: ‘What do you want?’
‘Bitter,’ says Paul.
‘Water,’ you say. ‘If they’ve got any.’
Kathryn Williams looks at you. She smiles. She walks over to the bar.
You’re sitting across the table from Paul Kelly, your back to the bar and the door -
In the corner is a pool table with a game in progress.
‘Used to be a stage there,’ says Paul Kelly.
‘Really?’
‘A long time ago,’ he says.
You look up at the walls, the dark walls with their dim photographs of the famous and the dead. You look back -
Paul Kelly is staring at you.
You smile.
‘Recognise anyone?’ he asks.
‘John Charles, Fred Trueman, Harvey Smith,’ you say.
‘Had them all in here,’ he nods.
‘Not Sir Geoffrey?’
He smiles. He shakes his head. ‘More’s pity.’
Kathryn brings the drinks over on a tray. She sets them down.
She hands you your water. ‘Having a nice time?’
‘Just chatting,’ you say.
She lights a cigarette. She says: ‘What about?’
‘Yorkshire,’ you say, looking at Paul Kelly. ‘And the past.’
Paul Kelly glances at his watch.
Let’s Dance is on the jukebox.
Kathryn’s knee touches yours beneath the table -
(You say run) -
You move your knee closer into hers. She doesn’t move away -
(You say hide) -
‘So go on,’ Kathryn tells you. ‘Ask him.’
Paul Kelly looks up at you. He is waiting -
His pint already gone.
You cough. You shift your weight. You say: ‘I wanted to ask you about your cousin Paula. Her daughter Jeanette.’
Kathryn moves her leg away from yours -
(For fear tonight) -
Paul Kelly looks at you again. He tips his glass up.
You say: ‘Do you want another?’
‘Murdered cousin and missing niece?’ he says and shakes his head. ‘No, thanks.’
Kathryn stubs out her cigarette. She says: ‘Same again?’
You both look up at her, but she’s already at the bar.
You turn back to him -
He is staring at you again.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I’m representing a man called Michael Myshkin and -’
‘I know.’
‘I do appreciate -’
He nods towards Kathryn at the bar. ‘I only came here because she asked me.’
‘I appreciate that,’ you say. ‘It was very good of you.’
He shakes his head. He looks at his watch again. ‘Not really. She suffered as much as anyone.’
You take a cigarette from the pack she’s left on the table. You light it.
‘I suppose you know about Eddie? Jack Whitehead?’
‘Yes,’ you nod.
Kathryn brings the next round over on a tray. She sets them down.
‘Still having a nice time?’ she laughs, handing you another water.
You hold up the cigarette: ‘I took one of yours, sorry.’
‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Everyone else does.’
Kelly takes a big sip from his bitter. He says: ‘This is fun.’
Let’s Dance has finished.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say again.
‘Look, Mr Piggott,’ he says. ‘Ask your questions. But I think you’ll find you’re talking to the wrong Kelly.’
Down by the dark arches under the railway -
She pulls you up, bringing your mouth to hers as you topple on to the back seat -
A pretty young damsel chanced my way -
Her tongue pushes down harder on yours -
Down by the dark arches under the railway -
The taste of her own cunt in her mouth pushing her harder -
Singing Vilikens and Dinah, so blithe and so gay -
You take off her knickers -
Then I stepped up to her so gay and so free -
And she takes your cock in her right hand and guides it in -
To her did I say will you my sweetheart be?
Using your right hand to move your cock clockwise around the lips of her cunt -
Oh no, my gay young man that cannot be -
She digs her nails into your arse, wanting you in deeper -
There is a chap here in blue and he is a-watching me -
You go in hard, your stomach fat and sick -
And if he should see me, what would he say -
Kiss her hard, moving from her mouth to her chin and on to her neck -
Down by the dark arches under the railway -
‘Eddie,’ she whispers -
Pop goes the weasel -
You slip out of her cunt and off her -
Down by the dark arches -
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
You want to go home and drink sweet white wine and smoke some fine Red Leb watch TV with Pete and Norm and fall asleep on their sofa and wake up about five go downstairs and wank yourself back to sleep and get up late eat crispy pancakes and listen to records and do the crossword on the bog meet Gareth for Yorkshire Pudding and onion gravy on the Springs then sit in half-empty pubs playing the jukebox and pool end up in a disco dancing to Culture Club with ugly girls in Boots No. 7 buying them an Indian or a Chinky and tapping off having a shag planning an away day a cheap holiday, wishing you were far away -
But you’re not:
You’re here -
Where everybody knows.
Break my heart in two -
In the black, broken heart of the black, broken night, you pull into the Redbeck -
The Viva back.
A man sat alone in the car -
Headlights on.
They are shining on a door -
The door banging in the wind, in the rain:
Room 27 -
A light on inside;
A photograph stuck on a wall -
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper;
A light on inside -
You don’t stop, you don’t stop, you don’t fucking stop -
For fear tonight is all.
Chapter 42
This man is at door to hell -
Preston, Sunday 28 December 1980.
Door is banging in wind and rain -
From station to station, this his destination:
The door to hell.
He
pulls it back and he sees BJ.
‘Afternoon,’ BJ say.
‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘You got a name?’
I am not who I want to be -
‘No names.’
He points to his own wounds: ‘What happened to you?’
‘Occupational hazard,’ BJ say. ‘Goes with places I go.’
He looks around hell and he says: ‘Is this what you wanted to talk about? The places you go? This place?’
‘You been here before, have you, Mr Hunter?’
He nods: ‘Have you?’
I don’t know how to leave -
‘Oh yes,’ BJ say. ‘Many times.’
‘Were you here on the night of Thursday 20 November 1975?’
BJ brush hair out of two black eyes. BJ try to smile: ‘You should see your fucking face?’
‘Yours isn’t that good.’
‘How’s that song go: if looks could kill they probably will?’
‘I don’t know.’
BJ take piece of paper out of jacket. BJ hand it to him. BJ say: ‘Well, I do.’
He opens it. He looks at it:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.
He looks up at BJ then back at piece of paper:
Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975.
He looks up at BJ again.
BJ say: ‘Here comes a copper to chop off your head?’
‘You do this?’
‘What?’
‘Any of it?’
‘No, Mr Hunter.’ BJ say. ‘I did not.’
‘But you know who did?’
BJ shrug. BJ wait.
‘Tell me.’
BJ shake BJ’s head.
‘I’ll fucking arrest you.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘For what?’
‘Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Obstruction. Murder?’
‘That’s what they want.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Well then, you’ve obviously been overestimated.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning a lot of people seem to have gone to a lot of bother to make sure you’re not in Yorkshire and not involved with Ripper.’
‘So why do they want you arrested?’
‘Mr Hunter, they want me dead,’ BJ say, spinning truths from lies and lies from truths. ‘Arresting me’s just a way to get their hands on me.’
‘Who?’
BJ shake BJ’s head again. BJ try not to laugh: ‘No names.’