Nineteen Seventy-seven
Page 15
‘I want to do it here,’ I said, turning on to the playing fields off White Abbey Road.
‘But this is …’
I could feel her heart beating inside the car, feel her fear, but said, ‘I know and I want you to show me where.’
‘No,’ she was twisting in her seat.
‘You’ll feel better after, much better.’
‘The fuck you know.’
‘It’ll be over, finished.’
She was taking the money out of her bag, saying, ‘Let me out, let me out right now’
I pulled up on the grass before a line of trees and turned off the engine.
She darted for the door.
I held on to her arm.
‘Ka Su Peng, please. I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Then let me go. You’re scaring me.’
‘Please, I can help.’
She had the door open, one foot on the grass.
‘Please.’
She turned and stared at me, black eyes in a ghost’s face, a death mask made flesh, and said: ‘What then?’
‘Get in the back.’
We got out and stood in the night, looking across the roof of the car at each other, two white ghosts, death-made, black eyes on pale faces, masks flesh, and she went to open the back door but it was locked.
‘Here,’ I said, and I walked round the back of the car, a hand in my pocket, her face on mine, mine on hers, the moon in the trees, the trees in the sky, the sky in that black hell up, up above, looking down, down on the playing field, the field where the children played their games and their fathers murdered their mothers.
And I came up behind her and I unlocked the back door.
‘Get in.’
She sat down on the edge of the back seat.
‘Lie down.’
And she lay back on the black leather.
I stood by the door and undid my belt and buckle.
She watched me and raised up her arse to take down her black tights and white knickers.
I put one knee on the edge of the seat, the door still open.
She pulled up the black dress and reached up for me.
And then I fucked her on the back seat and came on her belly and wiped the come off the inside of her dress with my sleeve and held her there, held her in my arms while she cried, there on the back seat of my car with her tights and her pants hanging off one foot, there in the field, there in the night, under the Jubilee moon, watching the fireworks and the beacons light up the maroon sky, and as another silent firework span towards the earth, she asked:
‘What does Jubilee mean?’
‘It’s Jewish. Every fifty years there was a year of emancipation, a time of remission and forgiveness from sin, an end to penance, so it was a time of celebration.’
‘Jubilation?’
‘Yeah.’
I drove her back to the flat where she lived and we parked outside in the dark, and I asked:
‘Am I forgiven?’
‘Yes,’ she said and got out.
She had left the ten quid on the dashboard.
I drove back to Leeds with a warm stomach, a stomach like that time I’d dropped my fiancée back home and driven away with her waving, her parents too, that time twenty-five years ago, with a warm stomach.
A glow.
I took my time on the stairs, dreading them.
I turned the key in the lock and listened, knowing I could never bring her here.
The telephone was ringing on the other side.
I opened the door and answered it.
‘Jack?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Martin.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘Well, don’t be.’
From sleep I awoke into the darkest half of a silent night, the fireworks spent, drowning in sweat.
Kiss you then you wake.
Awoke to feel the softness of her kiss upon my brow, to see her sat upon the edge of my bed, legs apart, to hear her lullaby.
Fuck you then you sleep.
Awoke to fall back into sleep.
Dark panting streets, the leering terrace backs, surrounded by the silent stones, buried by the black briete, through courtyards and alleyways where no trees grow, or grass too, foot upon brick, brick upon head, these are the houses that Jack built.
An adventure playground.
Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.
Mary-Ann, Annie, Liz, Catherine and Mary, hands together round the mulberry bush, singing:
‘Where you seek one there’s two, two three, three four.’
A shocking place, an evil plexus of slums that hide the human creeping things, where men and women live on penn’orths of gin, where collars and clean shirts are decencies unknown, where every citizen wears a black eye, and none ever combs his hair.
An adventure playground.
Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.
Theresa, Joan, and Marie, hands together round the mulberry bush, singing:
‘Where you seek four there’s three, three two, two one and so on.’
Within a short distance of the heart, a narrow court, a quiet thoroughfare, with two large gates, in one of which is a small wicket for use when the gates are closed, though at every hour these gates are open, indeed, according to the testimony of those living near, the entrance to the court is seldom closed.
An adventure playground.
Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.
Joyce, Anita, and Ka Su Peng, hands together under the mulberry bush, whispering in my ear:
‘But you know this anyway.’
For a distance of 18ft or 20ft from the street there is a deadwall on each side of the place, the effect of which is to enshroud the intervening space in absolute darkness after sunset. Further back some light is thrown into the court from the window of a Working Men’s club, which occupies the whole length of the court on the right, and from a number of terraces, all of which have been extinguished by this time.
An adventure playground.
Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.
I have my hand on the cold metal of the gate, staring dead ahead into the gloom, Carol beckoning me in.
An adventure playground.
Dead ahead.
Ripped from that hell into this:
Shrieking: HE’S COMING, HE’S COMING, HE’S COMING.
Howling: Fuck you then you sleep.
Shrieking: HE’S COMING, HE’S COMING, HE’S COMING.
Howling: Kiss you then you wake.
Shrieking: HE’S COMING, HE’S COMING, HE’S COMING.
Ripped from that into this, this into that, and back to this:
The dawn, the rattle of the flap, the letter on the mat.
HE WAS HERE.
Back.
Part 3
God save the queen
John Shark: Next caller?
Caller: I just want to say, she’s a good Queen, she’s Britain.
John Shark: Is that it?
Caller: Yes.
The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Wednesday 8th June 1977
Chapter 11
Leeds.
Wednesday 8 June 1977.
It’s happening again:
When the two sevens clash …
Shot through another hot dawn to another ancient stage with her littered dead, from Soldier’s Field to here, it’s happening again.
Wednesday morning, doors wide open, the morning after the night before, the bunting tattered, the Union Jacks down.
Knuckles white and tight in prayer around the steering wheel, foot down.
The voices in my head, alive with death:
Wednesday morning – a jacket over her, her boots placed on her thighs, a pair of white panties left on one leg, a pink bra pushed up, her stomach and breasts hollowed out with a screwdriver, her skull caved in with a hammer.
Ca
rs and vans screaming in from every direction, wailing:
Proceeding to Chapeltown.
I park, I pray, I make my deal:
Please God, dear God, please let her be safe, please let it be someone else and if she’s safe and someone else, I’ll let her be and go back to Louise and try again. Amen.
Me ditching Eric’s Granada round the back, following the sirens down across Chapeltown.
Chapeltown – our town for one year; the leafy street with its grand old house, the shabby little flat which we filled full of sex, hiding out from the rest of the world, the rest of my world.
And I turn the corner on to Reginald Street, the blue lights spinning silently, the waking dead on every doorstep with their bottles of milk and their open mouths, and I walk up past the Community Centre, past the uniforms, under the tape and through the gates, into the adventure playground, this the ancient stage where we the players move our wooden limbs and scratch our wooden heads with our wooden hands, and Ellis looks up and says, ‘Christ. The fuck …’
And they’re all here:
Oldman, Noble, Prentice, Alderman, and Farley; Rudkin sprinting across the playground towards me.
And I’m staring at the body on the floor under the jacket, cursing God and all his fucking angels, tasting blood and the end:
I can see black hair lying in the dirt.
Rudkin catches me, spins me round, and he’s saying, ‘The fuck you been, the fuck you been, the fuck you been,’ over and over, again and again.
And I’m staring at the body on the floor under the jacket, still cursing God and all his fucking angels, thinking:
There is no hell but this one.
Cursing all those false hells stuffed full of pretenders: those generals and their witches.
I can see black hair.
And Rudkin is staring into my eyes, my eyes past him, and I get free and I’m gone, away, across the playground, pushing Prentice and Alderman to the ground, dropping on to my knees, the jacket in my hands, the face between my Angers, the hair blood not black, the prayers answered, the deal made, and they’re pulling me off, shouting:
‘Get him fucking out of here.’
And Rudkin picks me up and leads me away into the path of a man in his dressing gown and pyjamas clutching a bottle of milk, walking across the playground towards us, f-a-t-h-e-r tattooed across his face, eyes closed to the horror and death, and he stares at us as he passes and we stop and we watch as he gets nearer and nearer, until he drops the bottle of milk and falls to the ground that killed his daughter and starts to dig through the hard-packed dirt, searching for an exit which a year from now he’ll find, dead in the same pyjamas, his broken heart unhealed, unmended, this unending.
My deal, my prayer; his hell.
Rudkin pushes my head down and into the back of the car and Ellis turns and is speaking to me but I can’t hear him.
And they take me in.
They put me in a cell, chuck in some clean clothes, and bring in breakfast.
‘Briefing’s in ten minutes,’ says Rudkin, sitting down opposite. ‘They want you there.’
‘Why?’
‘They know fuck all. We covered for you.’
‘You didn’t need to do that.’
‘I know, Mike kept saying.’
‘What happens now?’
Rudkin leans across the table, hands together. ‘She’s gone, go back to your family. They need you, she doesn’t.’
‘I broke into Eric Hall’s house, stole his car, beat him up.’
‘I know.’
‘You can’t cover that up.’
‘Word is they’re sending in Peter Hunter to do the number on Bradford Vice.’
‘You’re fucking joking?’
‘No.’
‘What’s going to happen to Eric?’
‘He’s been sent home for a bit.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Craven’s shitting himself. Reckons Leeds’ll be next.’
I start to smile.
‘Don’t think for a moment Eric’ll forget.’
I nod.
Rudkin stands up.
I say, ‘Thanks, John.’
‘You won’t thank me, not when see what he did last night.’
‘But thanks for helping me.’
‘She’s gone, Bob. Go back to your family and everything’ll be all right.’
I nod.
‘I can’t hear you,’ he says.
‘OK,’ I say.
Oldman stands up, looks at us, like this is all he ever sees.
No days off.
We wait, but it’s not like before.
The game’s over.
‘At about 5.45 a.m. this morning, the body of Rachel Louise Johnson, sixteen years of age, shop assistant, of 66 St Mary’s Road, Leeds 7, was found in the adventure playground compound, between Reginald Terrace and Reginald Street, Chapeltown, Leeds. She was last seen at 10.30 p.m. Tuesday 7th June in the Hofbrauhaus in the Merrion Centre, Leeds.
‘She is described as follows: five feet four inches with proportionate build, shoulder-length fair hair and wearing a blue-and-yellow check gingham skirt, a blue jacket, dark blue tights and high-heeled clog-fronted shoes in black and cream with brass studs around the front.
‘A post-mortem is being carried out by the Home Office Pathologist, Professor Farley. So far as can be ascertained the deceased had been subjected to violent blows about the head with a blunt instrument and had not been sexually assaulted.
‘The body had been dragged a distance of some fifteen or twenty yards from where the initial assault took place. Her assailant’s clothing will be heavily bloodstained, particularly the front of any jacket, shirt, or trousers worn by him.
“There is no evidence that Rachel Louise Johnson was an active prostitute.’
Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman sits down, his head in his hands, and we say nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing until Detective Chief Superintendent Noble stands up in front of the board, the board that says in big bold letters:
Theresa Campbell.
Clare Strachan.
Joan Richards.
Marie Watts.
Until he stands there and says, ‘Dismissed.’
Noble looks up and says, ‘What about Fairclough?’
‘We lost him,’ says Rudkin.
‘You lost him?’
Ellis is burning a hole into the side of my face.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s my fault, sir,’ I say.
Noble has his hand up, ‘Whatever. Where is he now?’
Ellis says, ‘At home. Asleep.’
‘Then you’d better go and fucking wake him up, hadn’t you.’
He’s on his knees, on the floor, in the corner, hands up, nose bloody.
My body weak.
‘Come on,’ shouts Rudkin. ‘Where the fuck were you?’
I was battering down doors, battering down people, kicking in doors, kicking in people.
‘Working,’ he screams.
Ellis, fists into the wall, ‘Liar!’
I was raping whores, fucking them up the arse.
‘I was.’
‘You murdering bastard. You tell me now!’
I was breaking into houses, stealing cars, beating up cunts like Eric Hall.
‘I was working.’
‘The fucking truth!’
I was searching for a whore.
‘Working, I was fucking working.’
Rudkin picks him up off the floor, rights the chair and sits him in it, nodding at the door.
‘You fucking sit here and you think about where the fuck you were at two o’clock this morning and what you were bloody doing?’
I was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears.
We’re standing outside the Belly, Noble staring through the peephole into the cell.
‘What’s the cunt doing?’ asks Ellis.
‘Not much,’ says Noble.
Rudkin looks up from the
end of his cigarette, asks, ‘What next?’
Noble comes away from the hole, the four of us in a prayer circle. He looks up at the low ceiling, eyes wide like he’s trying not to cry, and says:
‘Fairclough’s the best we got for now. Bob Craven’s out pulling in witnesses, Alderman’s door-to-door, Prentice is down the cab firm. Just keep at him.’
Rudkin nods and stamps out his cigarette, ‘Right then. Back to work.’
Rudkin and I sit down across the table from Donny Fairclough, Ellis leaning against the door.
I sit forward, elbows on the table: ‘OK, Don. We all want to go home, right?’
Nothing, head down.
‘You do want to go home, don’t you?’
A nod.
‘That makes four of us. So help us out, will you?’
Head still down.
‘What time did you clock on yesterday?’
He looks up, sniffs, and says: ‘Just after lunch. One-ish.’
‘And what time did you finish?’
‘Like I said, about one in morning.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I went to a party.’
‘Where? Whose?’
‘Chapeltown, one of them kind. I don’t know whose it was.’
‘You remember where?’
‘Off Leopold Street.’
‘And this was?’
‘About half-one.’
‘Till?’
‘Two-thirty, three o’clock.’
‘See anyone you know?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know their names.’
Rudkin looks up, ‘That’s unfortunate that is, Donald.’
I say, ‘Would you know them again, if you saw them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Men or women?’
‘A couple of the black lads, couple of the girls.’
‘The girls?’
‘You know?’
‘No, I don’t. Be more specific’
‘Prostitutes.’
‘Whores, you mean?’ says Rudkin.
He nods.
I ask, ‘You go with whores, do you Donny?’
‘No.’
‘So how come you know they’re prostitutes?’
‘I pick them up, don’t I? Get talking.’
‘They offer you discounts, do they? For cheap lifts?’
‘No.’
‘Right, so you’re at the party. What did you?’
‘Had a drink.’