by David Peace
‘That’s not right,’ said the new one.
I stood there, thinking fuck, fuck, fuck.
There were shouts from the playground and a charge of monkey boots.
‘They’re going to put that bloody window through,’ sighed the largest woman.
I said, ‘You two worked with Mrs Myshkin, yeah?’
‘For more than five years, aye,’ said the oldest.
‘What’s she like then?’
‘Had a hard life, she has.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well he’s on Sick because of dust …’
‘The husband was a miner?’
‘Aye. Worked with our Pat,’ said the largest.
‘What about Michael?’
The women looked at each other, grimacing.
‘He’s not all there,’ whispered the new woman.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Bit slow, I heard.’
‘Does he have any mates?’
‘Mates?’ said two of the women together.
‘He plays with some of the young ones on his street, like,’ said the oldest woman, shuddering. ‘But they’re not mates.’
‘Ugh, makes you feel sick, doesn’t it?’ said the new woman.
‘There must be someone?’
‘Don’t pall around with anyone much, not that I know.’
The other two women both nodded their heads.
‘What about people from work?’
The fattest woman shook her head, saying, ‘Doesn’t work round here, does he? Castleford way?’
‘Aye. Our Kevin said he’s at some photographer’s.’
‘Mucky books, I heard,’ said the new one.
‘You’re having me on?’ said the oldest woman.
‘What I heard.’
The man in the blue overalls was stood back at the school gates, a padlock and a chain in his hands, shouting at the children.
‘Bloody kids these days,’ said the largest woman.
‘Bloody nuisance they are.’
I said, ‘Thanks for your time, ladies.’
‘You’re welcome, love,’ smiled the older one.
‘Anytime,’ said the largest lady.
The women giggled as they walked away, the new one turning round to wave at me.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she called.
‘Merry Christmas.’
I took out a cigarette and fumbled in my pockets for some matches, finding Paul’s heavy Ronson lighter.
I weighed the lighter in my left hand and then lit the cigarette, trying to remember when I’d picked it up.
The pack of children ran past me on the pavement, kicking their cheap orange football and swearing at the caretaker.
I walked back to the padlocked school gates.
The caretaker in the blue overalls was walking across the playground, back to the main building.
‘Excuse me,’ I shouted over the top of the red painted gates.
The man kept walking.
‘Excuse me!’
At the door to the school the man turned round and looked straight at me.
I cupped my hands. ‘Excuse me. Can I have a word?’
The man turned away, unlocked the door, and went inside the black building.
I leant my forehead against the gate.
Someone had tattooed Fuck out of the red paint.
Into the night, wheels spinning.
Farewell Fitzwilliam, where the night comes early and nowt feels right, where the kids kill cats and the men kill kids.
I was heading back to the Redbeck, turning left on to the A655, when the lorry came screaming out of the night, slamming its brakes on hard.
I braked, horns blaring, skidding to a stop, the lorry inches from my door.
I stared into the rearview mirror, heart pounding, headlights dancing.
A big bearded man in big black boots jumped down from his cab and walked towards the car. He was carrying a big black fucking bat.
I turned the ignition, slamming my foot down on to the accelerator, thinking Barry, Barry, Barry.
The Golden Fleece, Sandal, just gone six on Thursday 19 December 1974, the longest day in a week of long days.
A pint on the bar, a whisky in my belly, a coin in the box.
‘Gaz? It’s Eddie.’
‘Where the fuck you sneak off to?’
‘Didn’t fancy Press Club, you know.’
‘You missed a right bloody show.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, Jack totally fucking lost it, crying …’
‘Listen, do you know Donald Foster’s address?’
‘What the fuck do you want that for?’
‘It’s important, Gaz.’
‘This to do with Paul Kelly and their Paula?’
‘No. Look, I know it’s Sandal …’
‘Yeah, Wood Lane.’
‘What number?’
‘They don’t have fucking numbers on Wood Lane. It’s called Trinity Towers or something.’
‘Cheers, Gaz.’
‘Yeah? Just don’t fucking mention my name.’
‘I won’t,’ I said, hanging up and wondering if he was fucking Kathryn.
Another coin, another call.
‘I need to speak to BJ.’
A voice on the other end, mumbling from the other end of the world.
‘When will you see him? It’s important.’
A sigh from the ends of the earth.
‘Tell him, Eddie called and it’s urgent.’
I went back to the bar and picked up my pint.
‘That your bag over there?’ said the landlord, nodding at a Hillards plastic bag under the phone.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I said and drained my pint.
‘Don’t be leaving bloody plastic bags lying around, not in pubs.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, walking back over to the phone, thinking fuck off.
‘There’s me thinking it could be a bomb or anything.’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ I muttered as I picked up Michael John Myshkin’s sketch book and the photos of Councillor William Shaw and Barry James Anderson, thinking it is a bomb you stupid fucking cunt.
I parked up on the pavement outside Trinity View, Wood Lane, Sandal.
I stuffed the plastic bag back under the driver’s seat with A Guide to the Canals of the North, stubbed out my cigarette, took two painkillers, and got out.
The lane was quiet and dark.
I walked up the long drive towards Trinity View, triggering floodlights as I went. There was a Rover in the drive and lights on upstairs in the house. I wondered if it had been designed by John Dawson.
I pressed the doorbell and listened to the chimes cascade through the house.
‘Yes? Who is it?’ said a woman from behind the artificially aged door.
‘The Yorkshire Post.’
There was a pause and then a lock turned and the door opened.
‘What do you want?’
The woman was in her early forties with dark expensively permed hair, wearing black trousers, a matching silk blouse, and a surgical collar.
I held up my bandaged right hand and said, ‘Looks like we’ve both been in the wars.’
‘I asked you what you wanted.’
Mr Long Shot Kick de Bucket said, ‘It’s about Johnny Kelly.’
‘What about him?’ said Mrs Patricia Foster, much too quickly.
‘I was hoping either you or your husband might have some information about him.’
‘Why would we know anything about him?’ said Mrs Foster, one hand on the door, one hand on her collar.
‘Well, he does play for your husband’s club and …’
‘It’s not my husband’s club. He’s only the Chairman.’
‘I’m sorry. You’ve not heard from him then?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve no idea where he might be?’
‘No. Look, Mr …?’
‘Gannon.’
‘Gannon?’ said Mrs Pat
ricia Foster slowly, her dark eyes and tall nose like an eagle’s looking down on me.
I swallowed and said, ‘Would it be possible to come inside and have a word with your husband?’
‘No. He’s not home and I have nothing else to say to you,’ Mrs Foster said, closing the door.
I tried to stop the door shutting in my face. ‘What do you think’s happened to him, Mrs Foster?’
‘I’m going to call the police, Mr Gannon, and then I’m going to call my very good friend Bill Hadden, your boss,’ she said from behind the door as the lock turned.
‘And don’t forget to call your husband,’ I shouted and then turned and ran down the floodlit drive, thinking a plague on both your houses.
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, in a phonebox on the Barnsley Road, beating the ground to startle the snakes.
Here goes nothing:
‘Wakefield Town Hall, please?’
‘361234.’
I looked at my father’s watch, thinking 50/50.
‘Councillor Shaw, please?’
‘I’m afraid Councillor Shaw’s in a meeting.’
‘It’s a family emergency.’
‘Can I have your name, please?’
‘I’m a friend of the family. It’s an emergency.’
I looked across the road at the warm front rooms with their yellow lights and Christmas trees.
A different voice said, ‘Councillor Shaw’s up at County Hall. The number is 361236.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
I hung up, picked up, and dialled again.
‘Councillor Shaw, please?’
‘I’m sorry, the Councillor’s in a meeting.’
‘I know. It’s a family emergency. I was given this number by his office.’
In one of the upstairs windows across the road, a child was staring out at me from a dark room. Downstairs a man and a woman were watching the TV with the lights off.
‘Councillor Shaw speaking.’
‘You don’t know me Mr Shaw, but it’s very important we meet.’
‘Who is this?’ a voice said, nervous and angry.
‘We need to talk, sir.’
‘Why would I want to talk to you? Who are you?’
‘I believe someone is about to attempt to blackmail you.’
‘Who?’ the voice pleaded, afraid.
‘We need to meet, Mr Shaw.’
‘How?’
‘You know how.’
‘No I don’t.’ The voice, shaking.
‘You have an appendix scar and you like to have it kissed better by a mutual friend with orange hair.’
‘What do you want?’
‘What kind of car have you got?’
‘A Rover. Why?’
‘What colour?’
‘Maroon, purple.’
‘Be in the long-stay car park at Westgate Station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Alone.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’ll find a way.’
I hung up, my heart beating ninety miles an hour.
I looked up at the window across the road but the child had gone.
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, bringing a plague to all their houses, bar one.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘All over.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Can I come in?’
Mrs Paula Garland held open the red front door, wrapping her arms tight around herself.
A cigarette was burning in a heavy glass ashtray and Top of the Pops was on low on the TV.
‘What did he look like?’
‘Shut the door, love. It’s cold.’
Paula Garland closed the red front door and stood staring at me.
On the TV, Paul Da Vinci was singing Your Baby Ain’t Your Baby Anymore.
A tear dripped from her left eye on to her milk-white cheek.
‘She’s dead then.’
I walked over to her and put my arms around her, feeling for her spine beneath the thin red cardigan.
I had my back to the TV and I could hear applause and then the opening to Father Christmas Do Not Touch Me.
Paula lifted her head up and I kissed the corner of her eye, tasting the salt from her damp stained skin.
She was smiling at the TV.
I turned to one side and watched as Pan’s People, dressed as Sexy Santas, cavorted around the Goodies, their hair alight with tinsel and trimmings.
I lifted Paula up, moving her small stockinged feet on to the tops of my shoes, and we began to dance, banging the backs of our legs into the furniture until she was laughing and crying and holding me tight.
I woke with a start on her bed.
Downstairs, the room was quiet and smelt of old smoke.
I didn’t switch on a light, but sat down on the sofa in my underpants and vest and picked up the phone.
‘Is BJ there? It’s Eddie,’ I whispered.
The ticking of the clock filled the room.
‘What luck. It’s been too long,’ whispered back BJ down the line.
‘You know Derek Box?’
‘Unfortunately that’s a pleasure I’ve yet to have.’
‘Well he knows you and he knew Barry.’
‘It’s a small world.’
‘Yeah, and not a pretty one. He gave me some photos.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Don’t piss around BJ. They’re photos of you sucking the cock of Councillor William Shaw.’
Silence. Just Aladdin Sane on high at the other end of the world.
I said, ‘Councillor Shaw is Barry’s Third Man, yeah?’
‘Give the boy a prize.’
‘Fuck off.’
The light went on.
Paula Garland was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her red cardigan barely covering her.
I smiled and mouthed apologies, the phone wet in my hand.
‘What are you going to do?’ said BJ down the line.
‘I’m going to ask Councillor Shaw the questions Barry never got to ask.’
BJ whispered, ‘Don’t get involved in this.’
I was staring at Paula as I said, ‘Don’t get involved? I’m already involved. You’re one of the fucking bastards who got me involved.’
‘You’re not involved with Derek Box, neither was Barry.’
‘Not according to Derek Box.’
‘This is between him and Donald Foster. It’s their fucking war, leave them to it.’
‘You’ve changed your tune. What are you saying?’
Paula Garland was staring at me, pulling down the bottom of her cardigan.
I raised my eyes in apology.
‘Fuck Derek Box. Burn the photos or keep them for yourself. Maybe you’ll find another use for them,’ giggled BJ.
‘Fuck off. This is serious.’
‘Of course it’s fucking serious, Eddie. What did you think it was? Barry’s fucking dead and I couldn’t even go to his funeral cos I’m too fucking frightened.’
‘You’re a lying little prick,’ I hissed and hung up.
Paula Garland was still staring at me.
Me, the circles in my head.
‘Eddie?’
I stood up, the leather sofa stinging the backs of my bare legs.
‘Who was that?’
‘No-one,’ I said, pushing past her up the stairs.
‘You can’t keep doing this to me,’ she shouted after me.
I went into the bedroom and took a painkiller from my jacket pocket.
‘You can’t keep cutting me out like this,’ she said, coming up the stairs.
I picked up my trousers and put them on.
Paula Garland was standing in the bedroom doorway. ‘It’s my little girl that’s dead, my husband that killed himself, my brother that’s gone.’
I was struggling with the buttons of my shirt.
‘You chose to get involved with this whole fucking bloody mes
s,’ she whispered, tears falling on to the bedroom carpet.
My shirt buttons still undone, I put on my jacket.
‘No-one made you.’
I pushed a dirty grey bandaged fist into her face and said, ‘What about this? What do you think this is?’
‘The best thing that ever happened to you.’
‘You shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Why? What you going to do?’
We were stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs, surrounded by silence and night, staring at each other.
‘But you don’t care, do you Eddie?’
‘Fuck off,’ I cursed, down the stairs and out the door.
‘You don’t really fucking care, do you?’
Chapter 8
Hate Week.
Dawn on Friday 20 December 1974.
Awake on the floor of Room 27, covered in the ripped-up snow of a hundred sheets of red penned lists.
Lists, I’d been writing lists since I’d left Paula’s.
A big fat red felt-tip pen in my left hand, circles in my head, scrawling illegible lists across the backs of sheets of wallpaper.
Lists of names.
Lists of dates.
Lists of places.
Lists of girls.
Lists of boys.
Lists of the corrupt, the corrupted, and the corruptible.
Lists of the police.
Lists of the witnesses.
Lists of the families.
Lists of the missing.
Lists of the accused.
Lists of the dead.
I was drowning in lists, drowning in information.
About to write a list of journalists, but tearing the whole fucking lot into confetti, cutting my left hand and numbing my right.
DON’T TELL ME I DON’T FUCKING CARE.
On my back, thinking of lists of the women I’d fucked.
Dawn on Friday 20 December 1974.
Hate Week.
Bringing the pain.
9 a.m. in the long-stay car park, Westgate Station, Wakefield.
I sat frozen in the Viva, watching a dark purple Rover 2000 pull into the car park, a single black and white photograph in a manila envelope beside me.
The Rover parked in the furthest space from the entrance.
I sat and let him wait through the radio news, through the IRA ceasefire, through Michael John Myshkin’s continuing efforts to help the police with their enquiries, through sightings of Mr John Stonehouse MP in Cuba, and through Reggie Bosanquet’s failing marriage.
No-one moved inside the Rover.
I lit another fucking cigarette and, just to show him who was the fucking boss, I sat through Petula’s Little Drummer Boy.