by David Peace
Jack Whitehead is lying flat upon bed in a pair of white pyjamas -
Staring up at light from window high in wall -
His head shaved, his hole in shadow.
‘Jack?’ whispers Reverend.
‘Father,’ he smiles.
‘We have come to take you home.’
Jack sighs, eyes watering -
Tears slipping down his face -
Down his cheek -
His neck -
Off his pillow -
From mattress -
On to floor -
Puddles -
Rivers -
Rivers of tears upon stone floor -
Lapping around tips of all our wings.
Jack turns his head towards door: ‘So many broken hearts.’
‘So many pieces,’ Reverend softly says.
‘But do they fit?’ BJ ask.
‘That’s the question,’ whispers Jack. ‘That is the question.’
*
Papps leads Jack in his white pyjamas out of door and down corridor, unlocking and locking doors, crossing from wing back to main building, along corridors and down stairs.
At reception, Reverend hands bad doctor a fat brown manila envelope and smiles: ‘I believe this will help take care of any outstanding paperwork.’
Papps is touching envelope and his lips, nodding.
Reverend puts on his black hat: ‘Good day, Dr Papps.’
‘Good day, Father.’
Nurse White holds open front door as BJ and Reverend help Jack down stone steps and across gravel to car.
‘Wait,’ cries Nurse White. ‘He hasn’t any slippers, any shoes!’
BJ look down at Jack’s bare feet, a tiny trail of blood upon cold, sharp gravel -
Reverend is holding open car door: ‘He’ll soon be home, don’t worry.’
BJ push Jack’s head down into back seat. BJ slide in next to him.
Reverend puts seat back and gets in. He closes door -
‘Soon be home,’ he repeats as he turns car around and heads back down long drive to stone gateposts and main road, trees black and bare but for old nests and carved hearts that cry:
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex.’
It is raining and it is night in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis when big black car turns off Calverley Street and on to Portland Square, in shadows of Cathedral and Court.
Reverend parks before number 6.
There is a light in a second-floor window.
Reverend opens door and pulls back seat.
BJ help Jack from car and up three stone steps and through front door. BJ lead him across carpet of brittle leaves and buried letters and up staircase to first floor, across landing and up stairs to second -
To door of Flat 6 -
Door where someone has written on letterbox:
Ripper -
Door where someone has added two sixes to first:
6 6 6 -
But there are so many, many doors:
Many doors to hell;
Open -
All of them open:
Everybody steps inside.
There is smell of amaranth and aldehyde.
BJ and Jack walk down passage into front room:
There are curtains whipped and candles fervid, there are words upon walls and photographs upon floor, there are shadows and there are sounds:
‘… no not she e loved her e destroyed thee evil within her it had to be done e am relaxed what had to be done has been done thee evil in her was destroyed carol was good but they had put thee evil into her e had to kill it he primed me to do it this last night we went to his church in fitzwilliam and stayed all night he will tell you it was a long night he danced around me and he burned my cross but he was too late my cross was tainted with evil he tried oh how he tried but e had to do it e had to destroy it e am relaxed e am at peace it was terrible he had me in thee church all night look at my hands e was banging them upon thee floor thee power was in me e could not get rid of it and neither could he e was compelled by a force within me which he could not get rid of e felt compelled to destroy everything living within thee house everything living including thee dog everything living but that was a lesser evil it is done now it is done thee evil in her has been destroyed it was in carol it used my wife my love oh hell e loved that woman no not carol she was good e loved her…’
Tape stops.
There is a white towel upon bed.
Reverend Laws draws curtains.
He places a wicker chair in centre of room.
‘Come here,’ he says.
Jack doesn’t move.
‘Come to me,’ he says again.
He is not looking at Jack -
He is looking at BJ.
BJ do as he says.
He takes off BJ’s shirt.
‘Sit here,’ he says.
BJ do as he says.
He picks up a razor from white towel.
Jack is stood in middle of his room in his white pyjamas and his bleeding feet, tears in his eyes.
Reverend finishes. He blows across top of BJ’s head. He brushes loose hairs away. He walks back over to bed. He puts down razor. He stands behind BJ.
He is facing Jack, whispering:
‘Thy way is thee sea and thy path in thee great waters, and thy footsteps are unknown.’
Bathroom door opens.
A big skinhead in blue overalls is standing in doorway.
He has a Philips screwdriver in one hand and a ball-peen hammer in other.
‘This is Leonard,’ says Martin Laws. ‘You remember Little Leonard?’
BJ close his eyes.
BJ wait.
BJ feel cold point of screwdriver on crown of skull -
Head bobbed and wreathed, this is BJ’s choice.
Chapter 49
It was the night before Christmas. There was an enormous bungalow made of white feathers sat on the top of a big black hill, fat white candles burning in the windows. I was walking up the hill in the rain and the sleet, past the giant orange goldfish in the pond. I rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I opened the door. I went inside. A fire was burning in the hearth, the room filled with the sounds and smells of good cooking. Under a perfect Christmas tree, there were boxes of beautifully wrapped presents. I went down the hall to the bedroom. I stood before the door. I closed my eyes. I opened them. I saw stars, stars and angels. I tried the door. It swung open. I saw her; my star, my angel. She was lying on the bed under a beautiful new carpet, her beautiful, beautiful hair splayed out across the cushions, her eyes closed. I sat down on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning my uniform. I slid quietly under the carpet, nuzzling up to her. She was cold. She was wet. Her hair all gone. I tried to get up out of the bed but arms held me down, children’s arms, branches -
‘Uncle Maurice! Uncle Maurice!’
I open my eyes.
Bill’s daughter is looking down at me.
I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
I blink. I am lying in a big double bed. I am wearing a pair of pyjamas.
‘It’s me,’ she says. ‘Louise.’
I sit up in the bed. It is not my bed. Not my pyjamas.
‘You’re at John and Anthea’s house,’ she says. ‘In Durkar.’
I blink. I nod.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks. ‘A cup of tea?’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘My dad said you needed to rest.’
‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Monday,’ she says. ‘Monday morning.’
I look at my watch. It’s stopped.
‘It’s just after ten,’ she says.
‘Where is everybody?’
She starts to speak. She stops. She puts her hand to her mouth.
‘Tell me, love,’ I say. ‘Please -’
‘Sandal,’ she says.
I look at her. I wait.
She sighs. She says: ‘Donald Foster’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘Bob found him.’
‘Your Bob?’
‘At his house this morning,’ she nods. ‘Murdered.’
I push back the covers. I get up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I can’t stay here, love.’
‘But my dad said -’
‘Where are my clothes?’
She points at the stool in front of the dressing table. ‘Over there.’
On the stool are a clean set of clothes and my spare pair of glasses.
‘I went to your house,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t -’
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asks again.
‘Wood Street,’ I say. ‘Can I borrow your car?’
‘Your Triumph’s outside.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again.
‘But are you sure, you’re -’
‘I’m fine,’ I smile. ‘Honestly.’
‘Do you want me to call my dad?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘You know how he worries.’
I drive from Durkar into Wakefield. I don’t turn off to Sandal. I go straight to Wood Street. I don’t go in the front way. I go in the back. I don’t speak to anyone. No-one speaks to me. I run up the stairs. I go into my office. I unlock the bottom drawer. I take out two thick old files and a third thin new one. I close the drawer. I pick up the files. I leave the office. I walk back down the stairs. I go out the way I came in. I don’t see anyone. No-one sees me. I run back to the car. I drive out of Wakefield past the Redbeck. I come to the edge of Castleford -
To Shangrila.
I don’t stop -
There is a dark red Jaguar parked at the bottom of the drive.
I drive to the end of the road. I turn left. I drive to a lay-by. I turn the car around.
I wait.
I don’t close my eyes. I don’t dare.
I watch.
Thirty minutes later, I watch the dark red Jaguar pull out of the end of the road -
There are two big men in the car.
I know the big man sat in the passenger seat -
Derek fucking Box.
The Jag turns right. It disappears around the bend in the road.
I start the car. I go back the way I came.
I park at the bottom of the drive. I get out. I look up the hill -
Shangrila.
I remember this place when it was only bones -
Stark white bones rising out of the ground;
I remember this place in the moonlight -
The ugly moonlight;
I remember this place and I remember the lies -
‘He was here with me.’
I walk up the drive. I pass the goldfish -
I am not empty-handed.
I come to the door. I press the bell. I listen to the chimes.
The door opens:
John Dawson, the Prince of Architecture himself -
‘Maurice?’ he says. ‘This is an unexpected -’
‘Shut up,’ I tell him.
‘What?’
I push him back into his hall.
His wife is coming down the stairs in her dressing-gown: ‘Who is it now?’
‘It’s the police,’ I say.
‘Maurice?’ she says. ‘What on earth’s going on?’
I point to the living room on the left. ‘Both of you in there.’
They go into the large white living room.
I follow them -
The whole room white. The whole room decorated with images of swans.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ says Dawson.
I punch him in the back of his head. ‘Sit down and shut up.’
They sit down on the huge cream sofa, side by side.
On the glass table in front of them are architect’s plans and today’s paper -
I stare down at an upside-down photograph:
Paula Garland.
I read an upside-down headline:
RL STAR’S SISTER MURDERED.
I look back up at them. I say: ‘You know why I’m here.’
‘No, I don’t actually,’ says Dawson. ‘And what’s more, I believe Bill Molloy -’
‘Fucking shut up!’ I shout. ‘Shut up!’
‘Mr Jobson, I -’
‘John,’ whispers his wife. ‘Please be quiet.’
I look at Marjorie Dawson -
Her expensive dressing-gown. Her tired, lonely eyes;
I look at her and I know she knows.
I look at her husband -
His expensive clothes. His timid, licentious eyes;
I look at him and I know he knows -
Knows she knows, knows I know.
‘Ted Jenkins,’ I say.
‘Who?’ asks Dawson.
‘Photographer and purveyor of pornography. Child pornography to be exact.’
Mrs Dawson looks at her husband.
I take out a large black Letts desk diary for 1974. I open it. I turn to the addresses and telephone numbers at the back. I find the names beginning with the initial D. I turn it around. I put it down on top of the newspaper and the plans. I point to one name and one number.
Marjorie Dawson leans forward. John Dawson doesn’t.
I smile. I say: ‘He’s got your number, has Mr Jenkins.’
Marjorie Dawson looks at her husband.
‘He’s got a lot of numbers,’ I say.
John Dawson is biting his lip.
‘Don Foster for one,’ I say. ‘Not that he’ll be answering his phone again.’
Marjorie Dawson looks at me.
‘He’s dead,’ I say.
She is opening and closing her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought you knew.’
Dawson tries to hold his wife’s hand -
She moves away from him.
He tells his wife. ‘I only just heard.’
‘That what Derek Box came to tell you, was it?’ I ask.
John Dawson puts his hands over his face.
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news,’ I say.
Dawson looks up from his hands.
‘George Marsh is dead too.’
‘What?’ says Dawson.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I killed him.’
‘What?’ he says again. ‘Why -’
I smile again. I put three photographs down on the table on top of his plans -
Jeanette. Susan. Clare.
His wife looks down at them. His wife looks up at him -
‘I wish you were dead,’ she says. ‘I wish we all were.’
I pick up the photographs.
He has his head in his hands again.
She stands up. She slaps him. She claws at his hands. She screams.
I leave.
I drive from Shangrila back home -
Home.
I park outside the house, my home.
There are no lights on, the curtains are not drawn -
Everything gone -
The children’s feet upon the stairs, the laughter and the telephones ringing through the rooms, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, the sounds of meals being cooked, served and eaten -
Everybody -
Judith, Paul, my Clare;
Jeanette, Susan, Clare Kemplay;
Mandy -
Everybody gone.
I drive back into Wakefield and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
I park on the road beneath the big trees with the hearts cut into their bark;
I look down the street at 28 Blenheim Road -
I stare at the policemen sat in the dark in their cars;
I close my eyes. I open them. I see no stars -
No stars or angels;
I look up at Flat 5 -
No star, no angel;
&nbs
p; Not tonight.
There’s a tap on the glass -
I jump:
Bill -
He tries the passenger door.
It’s open. He gets in.
His hair grey. His skin yellow -
He stinks of death; We both do.
‘Don’s dead,’ he says. ‘So’s John Dawson.’
‘How?’
‘Derek fucking Box did Don. Looks like John and his wife topped themselves.’
I turn to look at him. ‘His wife too?’
Bill nods.
‘What we going to do?’
Bill looks at me. He smiles. He says: ‘We’re late.’
Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?
The Marmaville Club:
Posh mill brass house turned Country Club-cum-pub, favoured by the Masons -
Favoured by Bill Molloy:
The Badger.
The upstairs room, next to the toilets -
The curtains drawn, the lamps on, no cigars -
No cigars tonight:
Monday 23 December 1974 -
Christmas bloody carols up through the carpet -
The beautiful carpet, all gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -
Like the Chivas Regals and all our faces -
Stood and sat in a circle of big chairs, a couple of upturned and empty ones -
The gang half here:
Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin and Murphy -
John Murphy on his feet and off his rocker -
‘Sit down!’ Dick is shouting at the bastard -
The Manc bastard not listening:
‘No, I fucking won’t sit down,’ Murphy shrieks. ‘Not until someone fucking tells me what the hell is going on over here…’
Bill palms up, asking for calm: ‘John, John, John -’
‘No! No! No!’ Murphy shouts. ‘John Dawson and Don Foster are fucking dead. I want some fucking answers and I want them fucking now!’
We say nothing.
Murphy looks around the room. He points at me. ‘And that fucking cunt -’
Points and screams at me: ‘Now you tell me that fucking headcase has only gone and burned down half our fucking business!’
I say nothing -
‘Fuck only knows what he’s done with Jenkins.’
Nothing.
Bill is on his feet: ‘Believe me, John, we’re all as concerned as you are.’
We don’t nod.
Murphy stops. He stands in the centre of the circle. He is panting and staring -
‘John,’ Bill tells him. ‘What we’ve planned, what we’ve all worked so hard for; it’s not going to be thrown away.’