by David Peace
Chapter 2
Ancient English shitty city? How can this ancient English shitty city be here! The well-known massive grey chimney of its oldest mill? How can that be here! There is no spike of rusty iron in the air, between the eye and it, from any point of the real prospect. What is the spike that intervenes, and who has set it up? Maybe it is set up by the Queen’s orders for the impaling of a horde of Commonwealth robbers, one by one. It is so, for the cymbals clash, and the Queen goes by to her palace in long procession. Ten thousand swords flash in the sunlight, and thrice ten thousand dancing girls strew flowers. Then follow white elephants caparisoned in red, white and blue, infinite in number and attendants. Still, the chimney rises in the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure is on the grim spike. Stay! Is the chimney so low a thing as the rusty spike on the top of a post of an old bedstead that has tumbled all awry. Stay! I am twenty-five years and more, the bells chime in jubilation. Stay.
The telephone was ringing.
I knew it was Bill. And I knew what he wanted from me.
I stretched across the other brown pillow, the old yellow novels, the strewn grey ashes, and I said:
‘Whitehead residence.’
‘There’s been another one. I need you here.’
I put down the telephone and lay back in the shallow ditch I’d dug myself among the sheets and the blankets.
I stared up at the ceiling, the ornate brocade around the light, the chipped paint and the cracked veins.
And I thought about her and I thought about him as St Anne pealed the dawn.
The telephone was ringing again, but I’d closed my eyes.
I woke in a rapist sweat from dreams I prayed were not my own. Outside trees hung in the heat, moping in willow pose, the river black as a lacquer box, the moon and stars cut from drapes up above, peeping down into my dark heart:
The World’s Forgotten Boy.
I hauled my tried bag from Dickens to the chest of drawers, across the threadbare flooring, pausing before the mirror and the lonely bones that filled the shabby suit in which I slept, in which I dreamt, in which I hid my hide.
Love you, love you, love you.
I sat before the chest of drawers upon a stool I made in college and took a sip of Scotland and pondered Dickens and his Edwin, me and mine, and all that’s thine:
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
I sang and hummed along:
One Day My Prince Will Come, or was it, If I’d Have Known You Were Coming I’d Have Baked A Cake?
The lies we speak and the ones we don’t:
Carol, Carol, Carol.
Such a wonderful person:
All wanked out on my bathroom floor, on my back, feeling for the toilet paper.
I wiped the come off my belly and squeezed the tissues into a ball, trying to shut them out.
The Temptations of St Jack.
Again the dream.
Again the dead woman.
Again the verdict and the sentence come.
Again, it was happening all over again.
I woke on my floor on my knees by my bed, hands together thanking Jesus Christ My Saviour that I was not the killer of my dreams, that he was alive and he forgave me, that I had not murdered her.
The letterbox rattled.
Children’s voices sang through the flap:
Junky Jack, Druggy Jack, Fuck You Jack Shitehead.
I couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon or whether they were just another gang of truants sent to stake my nerves out in the sun for the ants.
I rolled over and went back to Edwin Drood and waited for someone to come and take me a little bit away from all this.
The telephone was ringing again.
Someone to save my soul.
‘You OK? You know what time it is?’
Time? I didn’t even know what fucking year it was, but I nodded and said, ‘Couldn’t get out of bed.’
‘Right. Well, at least you’re here. Small mercies, etc’
You’d think I’d have missed it, the hustle/bustle/tussle etc of the office, the sounds and the smells, but I hated it, dreaded it. Hated and dreaded it like I’d hated and dreaded the corridors and classrooms of school, their sounds and their smells.
I was shaking.
‘Been drinking?’
‘About forty years.’
Bill Hadden smiled.
He knew I owed him, knew he was calling in his debts. Looking down at my hands, I couldn’t quite think why.
The prices we pay, the debts we incur.
And all on the never-never.
I looked up and said, ‘When did they find her?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘I’ve missed the press conference then?’
Bill smiled again. ‘You wish.’
I sighed.
‘They issued a statement last night, but they’ve held the meet over until eleven this morning.’
I looked at my watch.
It had stopped.
‘What time is it?’
‘Ten,’ he grinned.
I took a taxi from the Yorkshire Post building over to the Kirkgate Market and sat in a gutter in the low morning sun with all the other dumb angels, trying to get it together. But the crotch of the trousers of my suit stank and there was dandruff all over my collar and I couldn’t get the tune of The Little Drummer Boy out of my mind and I was surrounded by pubs, all closed for another hour, and there were tears in my eyes, terrible tears that didn’t stop for quarter of an hour.
‘Well look what the bloody cat dragged in.’
Sergeant Wilson was still on the desk, taking me back.
‘Samuel,’ I nodded.
‘How long’s it been?’ he whistled.
‘Not long enough.’
He was laughing, ‘You here for the press conference?’
‘Not for the bloody good of my health, am I?’
‘Jack Whitehead? Good health? Never.’ He pointed upstairs. ‘You know the way’
‘Unfortunately’
It was not as busy as I thought it would be and I didn’t recognise anyone.
I lit a cigarette and sat at the back.
There were a lot of chairs down at the front and a WPC was putting out about ten glasses of water and I wondered if she’d let me have one, but I knew she wouldn’t.
The room started to fill with men who looked like footballers and a couple of women and for a moment I thought one of them was Kathryn, but when she turned round she wasn’t.
I lit another cigarette.
A door opened down the front and out came the police, damp suits and ties, red necks and faces, no sleep.
The room was suddenly full, the air gone.
It was Monday 30 May 1977.
I was back.
Thanks, Jack.
George Oldman, in the middle of the table, began:
‘Thank you. As I’m sure you are aware,’ he was smiling, ‘the body of a woman was found on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay, early yesterday morning. The body has been identified as that of Mrs Marie Watts, formerly Marie Owens, aged thirty-two, of Francis Street, Leeds.
‘Mrs Watts was the victim of a particularly brutal attack, the details of which we are unable to reveal at this stage of our inquiry. However, a preliminary post-mortem by Professor Farley of the Department of Forensic Medicine at Leeds University, has determined that Mrs Watts was killed by a substantial blow to the head from a heavy blunt object.’
A substantial blow and I knew I shouldn’t be here, letting him take me there:
Soldier’s Field: under a cheap raincoat, another rollneck sweater and pink bra pushed up over flat white tits, snakes pouring from her stomach wounds.
Oldman was saying, ‘Mrs Watts had been living in the city since October last year, after moving up from the London area where it is believed she worked in a number of hotels. We are particularly interested in talking to anyone who can give us more information about Mrs Watts and her life in London.
‘We would also appeal to any member of the public who was in the vicinity of Soldier’s Field on Saturday night, Sunday morning, to come forward for purposes of elimination only. We are particularly interested in speaking to the drivers of the following cars:
‘A white Ford Capri, a red or maroon Ford Corsair, and a dark-coloured Landrover.
‘Again, I would stress that we are trying to trace these vehicles and their drivers for elimination purposes only and that any information received will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
Oldman took a sip of water, before continuing:
‘Furthermore, we would like to appeal for a Mr Stephen Barton of Francis Street, Leeds, to come forward. It is believed that Mr Barton was a friend of the deceased and could have valuable information about the last few hours of Mrs Watts’ life.’
Oldman paused, then smiled: ‘Again, this is for elimination purposes only and we would like to emphasise that Mr Barton is not a suspect.’
There was another pause as Oldman went into a whispered huddle with the two men next to him. I tried to put names to the faces: Noble and Jobson I knew, the other four were familiar.
Oldman said, ‘As some of you are no doubt aware, there are some similarities between this murder and those of Theresa Campbell in June 1975 and Joan Richards in February 1976, both of whom were prostitutes working in the Chapeltown area of the city.’
The room erupted and I sat there shocked that Oldman had said this so openly, given all his previous form.
George moved his hands up and down, trying to calm everyone: ‘Gentlemen, if you’ll let me finish.’
But he couldn’t stop it, and neither could I:
It was worse than I thought it would be, more than I thought it would be: white panties off one leg, sandals placed on the flab of her thighs.
Oldman had paused, his best Headmaster stare on show until the room went quiet. ‘As I say,’ he continued, ‘there are some similarities that cannot be ignored. At the same time, we cannot categorically say that all three murders are the work of the same individual. However, a possible link is one avenue of inquiry we are pursuing.
‘And, to that end, I’m announcing the formation of a task force under Detective Chief Superintendent Noble, here.’
That was it, chaos; the room couldn’t contain these men and their questions. All around me, men were on their feet, shouting and screaming at Oldman and his boys.
George Oldman was smiling, staring straight back at the pack. He pointed at one reporter, cupping his ear to the question, then feigning indignation and exasperation that he couldn’t hear the man. He put up his hands, as if to say, no more.
The noise subsided, people sat back down on the edge of their seats, poised to pounce.
Oldman pointed at the man still standing.
‘Yes, Roger?’ he said.
‘Was this latest victim, Marie Watts, was she a prostitute then?’
Oldman turned to Noble, and Noble leant into Oldman’s microphone and said, ‘At this point in our investigation, we can neither confirm nor deny such reports. However, we have received information that Mrs Watts was known in the city as something of what we would describe as a good-time girl.’
Good-time girl.
The whole room thinking, slag.
Oldman pointed to another man.
The man stood and asked, ‘What specific similarities have led you to investigate a possible connection?’
Oldman smiled, ‘As I say, there are some details of these crimes that we are unable to make public. However, there are some obvious similarities in the location of the murders, the age and lifestyles of the victims, and the way in which they were killed.’
I was drowning:
Blood, thick, black, sticky blood, matting her hair with pieces of bone and lumps of grey brain, slowly dripping into the grass on Soldier’s Field, slowly dripping over me.
At the back, I raised a hand above the water.
Oldman looked over the heads at me, frowned for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Jack?’ he said.
I nodded.
A couple of people down the front turned round.
‘Yes, Jack?’ he said again.
I stood up slowly and asked, ‘Are these the only three murders under consideration at the moment?’
‘At the moment, yes.’
Oldman nodded and pointed at another man.
I sat back in my chair, drained, relieved, the questions and answers still flying around me.
I closed my eyes, just for a bit, and let myself go under.
The dream is strong, black and blinding at first, then slowly settling, hovering quietly behind my lids.
Open my eyes and she’ll still be there:
A white Marks & Spencer’s nightie, soaked black with blood from the holes he’s left.
It’s January 1975, just a month after Eddie.
The fires behind my eyes, I can feel the fires behind my eyes and I know she’s back there, playing with matches behind my eyes, lighting her own beacons.
Full of holes, for all these heads so full of holes. Full of holes, all these people so full of holes. Full of holes, Carol so full of holes.
‘Jack?’
There was a hand on my shoulder and I was back.
1977.
It was George, a copper holding the door for him, the room now empty.
‘Lost you for a minute back there?’
I stood up, my mouth dirty with old air and spit.
‘George,’ I said, reaching for his hand.
‘Good to see you again,’ he smiled. ‘How’ve you been keeping?’
‘You know.’
‘Aye,’ he nodded, because he knew exactly how I’d been keeping. ‘Hope you’re taking it easy?’
‘You know me, George.’
‘Well, you tell Bill from me that he better be taking good care of you.’
‘I will.’
‘Good to see you again,’ he said again, walking over to the door.
‘Thanks.’
‘Give us a call if you need anything,’ he shouted over from the door, saying to the younger officer, ‘Finest journalist I ever met, that man.’
I sat back down, the finest journalist Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman ever met, alone in the empty room.
I walked back through the heart of Leeds, a tour of a baked, bone-dry hell.
My watch had stopped again and I strained to hear the Cathedral bells beneath the noise; the deafening music from each shop I passed, the car horns punched in anger, hot angry words on every corner.
I looked for the spire in the sky, but there was only fire up there; the midday sun high and black across my brow.
I put my hand to my eyes just as someone walked straight into me, banging right through me, hard; I turned and watched a black shadow disappear down an alley.
I chased into the alley after it but heard horse’s hooves fast upon the cobbles behind me but then, when I turned, there was only a lorryload of beer trying to edge up the narrow street.
I pressed my face into the wall to let it pass and came away with red paint down the front of my suit, all over my hands.
I stepped back and stared at the ancient wall and the word written in red:
Tophet.
I stood in the alley in the shadows of the sun, watching the word dry, knowing I’d been here before, knowing I’d seen that shadow before, somewhere before.
‘It’s not a right good day to be walking around covered in blood,’ laughed Gaz Williams, the Sports Editor.
Stephanie, one of the typists, wasn’t laughing; she looked at me sadly and said, ‘What happened?’
‘Wet bloody paint,’ I smiled.
‘So you say,’ said Gaz.
The banter was light, same as it always was. George Greaves, the only one who’d been here longer than me or Bill, he’d got his head down on his desk, snoring his lunch off. There was local radio on somewhere, typewriters and telephones ringing, and a hundred gho
sts waiting for me at my desk.
I sat down and took the cover off the typewriter and got a blank sheet and brought it up ready for business, back at my roots.
I typed:
POLICE HUNT FOR SADISTIC KILLER OF WOMAN
Detectives are hunting a killer who murdered Mrs Marie Watts, aged thirty-two, and dumped her body on playing fields not far from Leeds city centre. The body of Mrs Watts, of Francis Street, Leeds, was discovered by a jogger early yesterday morning.
It was lying on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay, near Roundhay High School and the Roundhay Hall Hospital. Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Noble, head of Leeds CID, said she had severe head injuries and other injuries, on which he did not wish to elaborate. The killer was sadistic and possibly a sexual pervert.
Sensationally, Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman confirmed that police are investigating possible links to two other unsolved murders of Leeds women:
June 1975: Theresa Campbell, aged twenty-six, a mother of three, of Scott Hall Avenue, found dead on the Prince Philip Playing Fields.
Feb 1976: Joan Richards, aged forty-five, a mother of four, of New Farnley, found dead in a Chapeltown cul de sac.
It is believed that the latest victim, Mrs Watts, had moved to Leeds from London in October last year. The police would like to speak to anyone who has any information about Marie Watts, who was also known as Marie Owens. The police would also like to speak to Mr Stephen Barton of Francis Street, Leeds, a friend of Mrs Watts. It is believed that Mr Barton could have vital information about the last few hours of Mrs Watts’ life. It was stressed, however, that Mr Barton is not a suspect.
Assistant Chief Constable Oldman also appealed for any member of the public who was in the vicinity of Soldier’s Field last Saturday night to come forward. The police are particularly interested in the drivers of a white Ford Capri, a dark red Ford Corsair, and a Landrover. Mr Oldman stressed that they were attempting to trace these drivers for elimination purposes only and any information would be treated in the strictest confidence.
Anyone with information should contact their nearest police station or the Murder Room direct on Leeds 461212.
I pulled the paper and read it back.
Just a pile of rusty little words, all linked up to make a chain of horror.
I wanted a drink and a cig and not here.