by David Peace
‘Would you mind telling us how you came to meet Mr Douglas and in what capacity he is employed by you?’
‘I was introduced to Bob Douglas at a local charity event organised for my son’s school. Mr Douglas’s daughter attends the same school and my wife and his wife are both on the PTA.’
‘And which school would this be?’
‘St Bernard’s in Burnage.’
‘Catholic?’
‘My wife is.’
‘OK. So…’
‘So I’ve known of Bob Douglas for a while and spoken to him on a number of occasions at school functions. My wife said he was a former police officer and I remember being vaguely aware that he had been involved in catching that Michael Myshkin and then he’d had to retire after being shot during some kind of robbery in Wakefield. Anyway, couple of months back there was a spate of burglaries in the Didsbury area and I decided it was as good a time as any to tighten up the security at home. I called Bob Douglas and he came out and did a very thorough but reasonably priced job for us. During the course of this we got on very well and since then he’s done other bits of work for me.’
‘Like?’
Still nodding, Richard Dawson says: ‘Security at the office, insurance estimates.’
‘Do you pay him a wage, Mr Dawson?’
‘A retainer, plus a fee for specific work.’
‘When did you last see or speak to him?’
To be honest, I can’t remember when I last saw him without looking at my diary. I have spoken to him though. Last Friday night he called to tell me he’d heard I was under investigation,’ he says, waving a hand at the assembled company.
‘And you’ve had no contact with Mr Douglas since then?’
‘None.’
A knock at the door.
Ronnie Allen comes in and hands a slip of paper to Roger Hook -
Hook glances at it and hands it to Smith -
Smith pulls his chair back from the table and reads the note -
He turns to Ronnie Allen: ‘Get everyone together. Eleventh floor, thirty minutes.’
Allen nods and leaves, careful to avoid my gaze.
Smith reads the paper again, then folds it up and puts it in his pocket -
He looks at Richard Dawson -
‘Mr Dawson,’ says Clement Smith, sitting forward in his chair. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that a security guard found Bob Douglas and his daughter murdered in a warehouse in Ashburys early this morning.’
Richard Dawson pales, swallows, shaking his head from side to side -
Looking into my face, searching -
Desperately lost, pleading -
Mouth opening and closing, choking -
‘Mr Dawson?’ says Smith.
Richard Dawson, blank -
Smith: ‘Do you have anything to say?’
Silence, a long dark silence -
Then Dawson whispers: ‘Nothing, but I’d like to see my lawyer now.’
‘Fine,’ says Smith and stands up. ‘Chief Inspector Hook will make the necessary arrangements and set up a time.’
Hook nods and says into the tape recorder: ‘Interview suspended at three thirty-five p.m. December 17 1980.’
He presses stop, eject, and takes out the tape and writes on the cassette:
Dawson int/1/171280.
Richard Dawson is still looking at me -
We all stand up, all except Dawson.
I’m following Smith and Hook out when -
‘Pete,’ says Richard Dawson.
I turn around -
‘Thanks for being a friend,’ he spits.
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
Catch-up:
Hook looking at me, Smith holding out the piece of paper -
I take it, read:
Prints on cassette, Jack Whitehead.
Hook staring, Smith waiting -
I say: ‘Jesus.’
Hook nodding, Smith waiting -
I say: ‘Someone called Stanley Royd?’
Hook nodding: ‘Never left his bed.’
Me: ‘Fuck.’
Smith: ‘First thing tomorrow. The pair of you.’
The room upstairs -
Twelve black suits and twelve blank faces.
‘What are we going to tell the press?’ asks someone.
‘Nothing,’ says Smith.
I stand up -
‘Where are you going?’ says someone.
‘Ashburys.’
‘Now?’
‘We’ve missed something. I know we have.’
Twelve dark suits and twelve darker faces -
Their patience gone, my time up:
Exit.
On the way back to Ashburys, a prayer:
O Blessed Lord, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comforts;
I beseech thee, look down in pity and compassion upon this thy afflicted servant.
Thou writest bitter things against me, and makest me to possess my former iniquities;
Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and my soul is full of trouble:
But, o merciful God, who hast written thy holy Word for our learning, that we, through patience and comfort of thy holy Scriptures, might have hope;
Give me a right understanding of myself, and of thy threats and promises;
That I may neither cast away my confidence in thee, nor place it anywhere but in thee.
Give me strength against all my temptations and heal all my distempers.
Break not the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax.
Shut not up thy tender mercies in displeasure;
But make me to hear of joy and gladness, that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.
Deliver me from fear of the enemy, and lift up the light of thy countenance upon me, and give me peace, through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
A prayer, on the way back to Ashburys.
Ashburys, cursed and godless:
Wednesday 17 December 1980 -
Five o’clock.
Seven days before Christmas -
In hell.
I get out of the car and walk towards the factory -
Sun gone, only night and looming buildings dark and towering with their dead eyes, their empty rooms -
Pitch-black and deathlike, silent but for the screams of passing freight -
The ring of wraiths around a yellow drum of fire, breaking to let me pass -
In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -
At the door, the tape in my head:
HISS -
Piano -
Drums -
Bass -
‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
Hell:
‘How can the world he as sad as it seems?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
More hell:
‘How much do you love me?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Cries -
Cries:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
STOP .
At the door, thinking of the prints on the tape:
Jack Whitehead.
At the door, the note in her mouth:
5 LUV .
At the door, messages -
Messages -
Messages and signs -
Messages, signs and symbols -
Of death.
Everywhere the distractions, everywhere but here -
Here, symbols -
Here, signs -
Here messages:
In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -
Here death -
Only death -
No distractions -
Only messages -
Messages -
Messages and signs -
Messages, signs and symbols -
Of death -
Only death, a friend:
In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -
I step inside -
Inside:
Silence, deathlike.
Heavy workbenches, oil and chains, tools; the stink of machines, oil and chains, tools; the sound of dirty water, oil and chains, tools; dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, tools:
Jack Whitehead.
High skylights, night and rain against the pane -
The workbench bare, the body gone:
Bob Douglas.
I walk across the wet and bloody concrete floor, walk to the door and with my boot I push it open -
Push and see a muddy bath affixed to the wall, its head towards the night from the skylight, bare:
Karen Douglas.
Head bowed, I stand before the empty bath -
Silence, deathlike:
Missed something -
Know we have -
Know -
I walk down the side of the garage to the shed at the back.
I take the key from my pocket and unlock the door.
I am cold, freezing.
I go inside, lock the door behind me and put on the light.
My room -
The War Room.
I sit down at the desk and stare at the wall above Anabasis:
One map, thirteen photographs -
Each photograph a face, each face a letter and a date, a number on each forehead.
I turn from one of the grey metal filing cabinets to the other -
From the one marked Ripper -
To the one marked Yorkshire.
I lean over to the grey metal filing cabinet marked Yorkshire and I take out a file – one from the front:
Douglas, Robert -
To an old newspaper dated:
Tuesday 24 December 1974 -
To the Front Page and the headline:
3 Dead in Wakefield Xmas Shoot-out -
To the sub-heading:
Hero Cops Foil Pub Robbery.
Then I lean over to the grey metal filing cabinet marked Yorkshire and again I take out a file – one from the back:
Whitehead, Jack -
To an old newspaper dated:
Monday 27 January 1975 -
To the Front Page and the headline:
Man Kills Wife in Exorcism -
To the sub-heading:
Local Priest Arrested.
Finally I open up a thick blank notebook.
Inside, I write one word in big black felt tip pen:
Exegesis -
Then I switch on the cassette and I begin:
And when we die
And float away
Into the night
The Milky Way
You’ll hear me call
As we ascend
I’ll say your name
Then once again
Thank you for being a friend.
I push open the bedroom door.
Joan is in bed, pretending to be asleep.
I go over to her and I kiss her forehead.
She opens her eyes: ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘The shed,’ I say.
‘All this time? It’s almost dawn.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s almost dawn.’
She closes her eyes again.
I undress and put on my pyjamas.
I switch off the light and get in beside her.
‘I love you,’ she says, snuggling up to me, closer -
‘Me too,’ I say, holding her in the cold bed and staring up at the ceiling, the smell of her hair, listening to the cars on the road and the rise and fall of her breathing.
They were here again, back -
People on the TV singing hymns with no face -
People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -
And at my feet, they had her down on the floor at my feet, her hands behind her back, stripped and beaten, three of them raping her, sodomising her, taking their turns with a bottle and a chair, cutting her hair, pissing and shitting on her, making her suck them, making her suck me, ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming -
Helen Marshall sucking me, Helen Marshall screaming:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
Awake, sweating and afraid, staring up at the ceiling, no cars on the roads -
Afraid again -
No more sleep, no more sleep, no more sleep -
Out of the grey morning, Joan reaching for me: ‘What’s wrong, love? What is it?’
Heart racing, beating, breaking -
I can feel come in my pyjamas again. ‘Nothing,’ I say, thinking -
Nothing -
Part 2. Nothing short of a total war
wearing tights and two pairs of panties one pair of panties removed my right leg out left leg in again the news from nowhere this from bradford Saturday the fourth of june nineteen seventy seven linda dark in a green jacket and a long black velvet dress in the shadow of the sikh temple on bowling back lane fresh from the mecca now tiffanys then the bali hai discotheque drunk and dancing he leads me into mystery where sighs cries and shrieks of lamentation echo throughout the starless summer air angry cadences shrill outcries the raucous groans and chants of a football crowd joined with the sounds of their hands him raising a whirling storm that turns itself forever through the starless summer air the day fading and the darkening air releasing all the creatures of the earth from their daily tasks drunk and dancing my plan was to walk until e saw a taxi rather than wait at the rank with the rest of them and as e was walking up pulled a white or yellow ford cortina mark two with a black satan look roof which stopped on the wakefield road the door opens and he leans across and offers me a lift and in e get the man is thirty five years old and maybe just six feet and of a large build with light brown shoulder length hair thick eyebrows puffy cheeks a big nose and big hands here this is the way but e am drunk from dancing and e keep nodding off and we are bumping up and down across some wasteland and e know what he wants but e am too drunk from dancing to care and e hate my husband who is a spoilsport does not like my drinking and dancing not that he has ever bothered to watch me dance and e ask the driver if he fancies me and he says he does so e tell him to drive to wasteland over yonder behind where pakis go nodding off bumping up and down across some wasteland e know what she wants and she says stop here because e have to have a pee and she gets out and is squatting down in the dark the sound of her urine on the wasteland under the starless endless black summer air of this here hell e hit her with the hammer and e rip her black velvet dress to the waist and e stab her repeatedly in the chest in the stomach and in the back but then e see lights going on in gypsy caravan an alsatian dog barking and e think she is dead so e drive away at high speed bumping up and down across wasteland and it is morning and e am not drinking or dancing e am cold freezing cold and crying people coming and looking at me lying on the wasteland my girdle pants and tights pulled down a blow to the back of the head stabbed four times in my chest in my stomach and in my back one a slashing stab wound that stretches from my breasts to below my belly button the surgeons they give me one of them life saving operations and e do not die e cannot die so e live with a hole in my head and scars across my belly where the sighs cries and shrieks of lamentation echo throughout the starless endless black night of this here hell wherein there is no hope of death alone in this starless endless night alone and banished from the disco mountain to never hear the songs that made me dance where he showed me the way where he won again no hope of death alone in this starless night alone among the junk and the rubbish where the dogs the ponies the cats the little gypsy children play with the old fridges and cookers the bicycles and prams and was it not here that one of them gypsy kids they hid in an old fridge and nobody found her and did she not die alone in that old fridge nobody looking for her among the broken sinks and meters the bits and pieces from the old council houses that have all been boa
rded up while them gypsy folk live in their caravans with their horses their dogs and drink in the farmyard while their
Chapter 8
Lit match, gone -
Dark Jack. Lit match, gone -
Like dark Jack, out -
Seeing through his eyes: Winter, collapse -
Dark Jack. Winter, collapse -
Like dark Jack, out -
Seeing through his eyes:
1980 -
Out, out, out.
Thursday 18 December 1980.
Stanley Royd Hospital, Wakefield.
I’m sitting in the car park, my back on fire -
In flames, waiting for Hook, striking matches -
The hum of pop times, Northern songs -
Listening to the news:
Civil Service strikes, air strikes, Ripper strikes,
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie -
Out, out, out.
No mention of Douglas and his daughter -
No mention of the war -
The murder and the lies, the lies and the murder.
Black and white, the sky and the snow -
Black and white, the photographs and news.
A tap on the window -
‘Morning,’ mouths Hook through the window.
I get out of the car -
It’s freezing -
The air grey, the trees black -
The nests still empty.
‘Nice place,’ says Hook, a black doctor’s bag in one hand.
‘Lovely,’ I smile and lead the way up the steps to the inside -
Again, the warm and sickly sweet smell of shit.
The woman in white puts down the black telephone and says: ‘Can I help you?’
Warrant cards out, Hook says: ‘We’re here to see Jack Whitehead.’
She nods.
I add: ‘Is Leonard about?’
She shakes her head: ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Quit.’
‘Bit sudden, wasn’t it? He was here on Tuesday’
‘Called up yesterday, said he’d had enough.’
‘We’ll need an address,’ says Hook. ‘And a surname,’ I say.
She looks from Hook to me and back again -
‘Marsh,’ she frowns. ‘Lived up Netherton way, I’ll have to look out the address.’
‘If you would,’ smiles Hook.