David Peace - 1983

‘He’s dead.’

Preston:

Lunchtime -

Tuesday 24 December 1974 -

Never-ending .

Sitting in corner of a pub in centre of concrete city, office workers in their party hats already drunk and puking in bogs -

Never-ending .

Shouting along to Slade and Sweet, people snogging and glasses smashing and punches flying and coppers wading in -

Never-ending .

Walking up hill away from station, streets empty and buildings black, trains lit and cars dark -

Never-ending .

Weaving arm-in-arm through cold and dirty rain that falls from cold and dirty sky -

Never-ending .

Stepping out of one shadow and into another -

Another kind of pub, BJ and Clare’s kind of pub, St Mary’s -

Never-ending .

Roger Kennedy drops bloody key three or four fucking times before he finally opens door, not that Clare notices.

‘Here we are,’ he says, his fat face as red as stupid Santa hat he’s wearing.

BJ and Clare follow him inside:

St Mary’s Hostel -

Fifty yards back down road from pub of same name -

Blood and Fire etched in stone above door.

Roger Kennedy finds light switch and ducks into a small office.

BJ and Clare stand in corridor, Clare leaning against green and cream wall with her small suitcase in her hand.

Kennedy comes back out with two keys and smiles: ‘Take care of the paperwork later.’

BJ and Clare follow him up steep stairs to a narrow corridor of bedrooms.

‘There’s only Old Walter in the end one at the moment,’ says Kennedy. ‘But no doubt some of the other bad pennies will turn up again after New Year.’

He opens one door at top of stairs and winks at Clare: ‘You take this one, love.’

‘Ta very much,’ she smiles.

He hands BJ a key: ‘You take the second one on the right.’

BJ walk down corridor until BJ come to second one down on right. BJ unlock door and BJ step inside:

A bed and a wardrobe that doesn’t close, a chair and a window that doesn’t open, stink of damp that will never leave -

Home sweet bloody home .

BJ sit down on edge of bed and BJ think about little room over in Leeds with Ziggy and Karen, records and posters, clothes and memorabilia.

BJ get up off bed and walk down corridor about to go into Clare’s room when BJ hear Roger Kennedy fucking her inside. BJ go back to room and BJ sit on edge of bed and BJ count stars on BJ’s shirt.

It’s cold and dark and BJ lie in bed watching rain and lights on cracks in ceiling when she knocks on door and comes in with two plastic bags -

‘Room for a wee one?’ she asks.

‘Be my guest.’

‘Got some wine and some cider and some Twiglets,’ she smiles. ‘Thought we’d have our own Christmas party.’

‘What about lover?’

‘Passed out.’

‘He pay?’

‘No rent he said.’

‘No rent?’

‘Aye,’ she laughs and lies down on bed next to BJ. ‘No rent.’

‘Maybe our luck’s beginning to change?’

‘Be about fucking time,’ she says and pulls thin eiderdown over BJ and Clare.

‘Said they were going to make me famous,’ she laughs suddenly, leaning across BJ for last of wine.

‘How?’ BJ say, room hot and spinning.

‘Here,’ she says, jumping out of bed. ‘I’ll show you if you promise not to laugh.’

She squats down beside bed, searching through her plastic bags until she finds what she’s looking for: ‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart.’

She hands BJ a photograph.

BJ take it from her and sit up in bed:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt .

‘What do you think?’

‘Doesn’t look like you,’ BJ say, thinking about photos they took of BJ -

Photos they took of BJ and Bill.

‘Don’t say that,’ she’s saying. ‘Don’t say that.’

It’s night before Christmas and I’m coming up hill, swaying, bags in my hand. Plastic bags, carrier bags, Tesco bags. A train passes and I bark, stand in middle of road and bark at train. I am a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three-quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it and dark brown trousers and brown suede calf-length boots. I turn left and see a row of six deserted narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti and their doors showing remnants of green paint, last door banging in wind, in rain. I hold open door and I step inside. It is small, about twelve feet square, and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex. There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish. In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty. A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing. A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing. On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint. I hear door open behind me and I turn around and I’m -

Screaming, Clare is screaming and screaming -

Horrible, terrible, miserable screams.

‘Wake up! Wake up!’ BJ shouting, shouting and shouting -

Horrible, terrible, miserable shouts.

Her eyes white and wide in dark, she tears open her blouse and pulls up her bra, three words there written in blood on her chest:

‘Madness is to think of too many things in succession too fast; – or of one thing exclusively.’

– Voltaire

It’s 1969 again -

July 1969:

All across the UK, they’re staring at the sun, waiting for the moon -

Ann Jones, Biafra, the Rivers of Blood ,

Brian Jones, Free Wales, the Dock Strikes ,

Marianne Faithfull and Harvey Smith ,

Ulster .

But here’s the news today, oh boy -

Memo from Maurice:

Jeanette Garland, 8, missing Castleford .

It’s a Sunday -

Sunday 13 July 1969.

Leeds -

Brotherton House, Leeds:

Lot of bloody suits for one little girl missing just one day; Leeds City doing their County Cousins a huge fucking favour:

Blame it on Brady, blame it on Hindley -

Blame it on Stafford and Cannock Chase.

Walter Heywood, Badger Bill Molloy, Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, and me:

Maurice Jobson; Detective Inspector Maurice Jobson -

Not forgetting Georgie Boy:

George Oldman; the County Cunt himself.

A lot of blue suits, a lot more politics, all of it bullshit -

Georgie Boy getting fat and red, huffing and puffing, about to blow -

Nobody listening, everybody straining to hear the radio next door:

Across the city, up in Headingley, England playing the West Indies; trying to regain the initiative after losing Boycott LBW to Sobers.

‘Be a press conference tomorrow,’ George is saying, giving a toss -

No-one else but me.

‘Big appeal on telly,’ he says. ‘We’ll find her.’

‘Not if GPO have their way,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Bloody strike coming, isn’t there?’ nods the Badger.

‘Marvellous,’ sighs George. ‘Bloody marvellous.’

It’s all over his face; fat and red and written as large:

Personal-

NO MOORS MURDERS HERE.

The car out to Castleford -

No-one speaking, not one bloody word -

Just the cricket on a tranny, the sky clouding over -

Bad light.

Brunt Street, Castleford -

Out on the pavement in front of the terrace, George nodding at the uniform -