David Peace - 1983

‘Why?’ says one of the lads.

‘Never know when you might need a solicitor, do you?’

The girl looks at the two lads and then takes the paper.

You drink your pint in one, belch, and set the glass on the table. You take out two pound notes. You put them down next to the empty pint pot.

‘What’s that for?’ says one of the boys.

‘Have one on me, lads,’ you say and walk back to the bar. You buy your take-outs and leave.

Outside it’s raining again. You go into the Chinky and get some lunch to take out. You get it cheap because you once defended one of the staff in an assault case.

You come out and there she is, crouched down on the other side of the road in front of the Army Recruitment, head on her knees.

You cross the road and say: ‘Not thinking of joining up, are you?’

Tessa looks up: ‘What?’

‘After a free trip to the Malvinas, are you? See the world?’

‘The where?’

You nod at the picture in the window: ‘The Falklands.’

‘Piss off,’ she says, fiddling with one of her badges.

You point up the stairs to Polish Joe’s: ‘How about a haircut?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘OK. See you then.’

‘Hang on,’ she says, suddenly. ‘Where you off?’

‘Home.’

‘Where’s that?’

You point up the road past the College pub: ‘Just up there.’

She looks at your carrier bags: ‘What’s in them?’

‘Lunch.’

She smiles.

‘You want some?’

She nods and holds up her hand.

You pull her up.

‘You got any blow?’ she asks.

‘I might have.’

She smiles again: ‘What we waiting for then?’

You set off up the road, past the College and the Grammar School -

‘Bet you went there, didn’t you?’ she laughs.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Where you go then?’

‘Hemsworth, a long time ago,’ you say. ‘And you?’

‘Thornes.’

You turn on to Blenheim Road and walk along, the big trees keeping the rain off.

You’re going up the drive of number 28 when she says: ‘Isn’t this where that woman was murdered? That witch?’

‘Ages ago.’

‘You’re joking?’

You hold open the front door. ‘We all live in dead people’s houses.’

‘Fuck off,’ she says. ‘Which flat was it?’

‘Mine,’ you say.

‘You better be fucking joking?’ she says.

‘I have decorated.’

She is shivering and staring at you, the rain running off the guttering.

‘Up to you,’ you shrug. ‘Do what you want.’

She looks back out at the rain and steps inside: ‘Long as you’re not planning any bloody seances.’

‘Thought that’d be right up your street.’

‘Fuck off,’ she says again and follows you up the stairs.

You open the door to the flat. You go in first putting on the lights.

‘Come in,’ you say.

She walks down the hall and into the front room.

‘Have a seat,’ you say.

She sits down on the sofa.

‘What do you want to drink?’

‘What you having?’

‘Think I’ll have a lager to start with.’

She nods: ‘Stick some lemonade in ours, will you?’

You go into the kitchen. You open the fridge. There’s no lemonade.

‘Got enough bloody records, haven’t you?’ she shouts.

‘But no lemonade,’ you call back.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

You wash the glasses and find a tray and bring it back through with the Chinese. You have three cans in a carrier bag on your arm. You say: ‘Won’t be a minute.’

She stands up: ‘Where you going?’

‘Just got to nip upstairs.’

‘You’re never going to leave me on my own in here, are you?’

‘Be two minutes,’ you say. ‘Less you don’t want any draw?’

‘Two minutes?’

‘Stick a record on,’ you say. ‘It switches on at the wall.’

‘Two minutes -’

‘Two minutes,’ you say. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

You knock twice on Stopper and Norm’s door. You wait and then knock once again.

‘Who is it?’ whispers Norman.

Two fingers up at the spy-hole, you say: ‘JP.’

The three bolts slide back. The two locks turn. The door opens an inch.

‘What’s the password?’ says Norm over the chain.

‘Fuck off,’ you say.

‘What day is it?’

‘Fucking hell, Norm, it’s Thursday,’ you moan. ‘Just let us in, will you?’

He takes off the chain. He opens the door.

‘Thank you,’ you say.

He locks the locks. He bolts the bolts. He chains the door behind you.

You follow the sounds of Tomita down the hall into the front room.

Stopper’s on the sofa watching the snooker.

‘Aye-up, Peter,’ you say.

He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and winks.

‘How much you want?’ asks Norm.

You put a tenner and the cans on the table: ‘Just an eighth and a couple of wraps.’

Norm picks up one of the cans and leaves the room.

You crack the other two cans. You hand one to Stopper.

‘Ta,’ he says. ‘You out tonight?’

You look at your watch: ‘Maybe. And you?’

He shakes his head: ‘Tomorrow.’

Norm comes back in. He gives you an envelope.

‘Thanks,’ you say.

‘You stopping?’ he asks.

‘Can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow though, yeah?’

‘Nice one,’ nods Norm.

‘See you, Peter,’ you say to Stopper.

‘See you, John.’

You walk down the hall to the front door.

Norm unbolts the bolts. He unlocks the locks. He unchains the chain. He says: ‘You haven’t got a fucking lass downstairs, have you?’

‘Why?’

He puts his finger to his ear: ‘That’s fucking Ziggy , isn’t it?’

You smile.

‘You dirty bastard,’ he winks.

‘Just a friend.’

Pissed and stoned, you sleep fully clothed in the same bed, dreaming of King Herod and dead kids, the Baptist and Salome -

John and Salome, the wounds of Christ and the Spear of Destiny -

Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini, Jimmy Young and Jimmy Ashworth -

Mouths open, contorted and screaming and howling:

‘Hazel!’

You wake and hold her and touch her -

Hold her and touch her and fuck her -

You fuck her, hungover and hard -

Hard as her nails in your back:

‘Murder me!’

Blood on the sheets, blood on the walls -

She opens her eyes, she looks into yours: ‘This place stinks.’

‘I’m sorry -’

‘Of memories,’ she whispers. ‘Bad memories.’

Clare is screaming: ‘Just fucking walked up to me, bold as fucking brass, and gives it a fucking Long time no see Clare .’

BJ speechless.

‘The cunt! Fucking cunt!’

BJ finding words: ‘Where?’

‘St Mary’s.’

‘Shit.’

‘Bold as fucking brass, he was.’

‘Fuck.’

Her room is trashed and smashed, her clothes and make-up lost among bottles and cans, papers and bags; wind howling around hostel, up stairs and down corridors, under doors and into room, rain hard against window -

This is Preston, Lancashire.

‘How did they find us, BJ?’ she cries. ‘How the fucking hell did they find us?’

BJ look up from floor: ‘Be kids.’

Clare is screaming.

BJ been up and down for days, Clare drunk for same -

Drunk and down since day BJ and Clare got here -

Almost one year now .

But never this down, never this drunk -

BJ a mess and Clare a mess -

Fucked .

BJ fucked, Clare fucked -

Fucked and now found.

‘What we going to do?’

‘Run,’ BJ say.

‘No fucking point,’ she sighs. ‘They’ll find us.’