David Peace - 1983

A woman is weeping at side of road, her dog barking at first train out of here -

Just like Clare used to .

Then BJ see him, standing at top of street by open door of his car -

Looking at BJ.

He smiles.

BJ run.

Thursday 17 July 1969:

Apollo 11 starts with a beautiful ride on the way to the moon -

I’m on an ugly ride out to Castleford:

The overture to a new era of civilisation -

The radio full of war songs and bad news:

London Wharf explosion kills five firemen, local girl still missing -

War songs, bad news, and the moon.

The site is visible for two or three miles before we reach it, the skeleton of an enormous bungalow on the top of a hill, its stark white bones rising out of the ground.

‘Must have some bloody brass,’ I say -

Bill smiles. Bill nods. Bill says nothing.

I turn off the main road.

It is raining as we park at the bottom of the hill.

‘He expecting us?’ I ask.

‘Looks that way,’ says Bill -

Two men are coming down the tracks from the top of the hill. They are walking under two large red golfing umbrellas. They are wearing Wellington boots.

Bill and I get out into the drizzle and the mud.

‘Long time no see, Don,’ says Bill to the big man with the Spanish tan -

Donald Foster, Yorkshire’s Construction King .

Donald Foster shakes Bill’s hand: ‘Too long, Bill.’

‘Didn’t expect to see you here today,’ says Bill. ‘Pleasant surprise.’

‘The bad penny,’ winks Foster. ‘That’s me.’

‘Fair few of them too, I hear,’ smiles Bill.

Donald Foster slaps Bill on the back. He laughs and gestures at the other man: ‘Bill, this is John Dawson; a good man and a very good friend of mine.’

Bill sticks out his hand: ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Dawson.’

Dawson takes it.

Foster says to Dawson: ‘John, this is Detective Superintendent Bill Molloy; also a good man and also a very good friend of mine.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Superintendent,’ replies the gaunt and paler man -

John Dawson, the Prince of Architecture himself .

Bill says: ‘Mr Dawson, Don; this is my colleague and friend, Maurice Jobson.’

Don Foster shakes my hand: ‘Bill’s told me a lot about you, Inspector.’

I say: ‘Only the good things, I hope.’

Foster still has my hand in his. He grins: ‘Now where would fun be in that.’

John Dawson has his hand out, waiting. He says: ‘John Dawson.’

Foster lets my hand go. I take Dawson’s. I nod. I say nothing.

Bill is looking up at the top of the rise, at the bones of the bungalow. He says: ‘Mind if we have a look?’

‘Be my guest,’ says Dawson.

‘We’ve buried bodies deep mind,’ laughs Foster.

‘I should bloody well hope so,’ says Bill.

John Dawson hands us his large umbrella.

‘Thank you,’ says Bill.

I say nothing.

We start up the track towards the site. Dawson and Foster are under one umbrella, Bill and I under the other, the umbrellas failing to keep us dry -

Our shoes and our socks sinking into the sod.

Foster strides ahead back up the hill, Dawson beside him. Foster stops. He turns round: ‘Keep you busy behind that desk, do they, Bill?’

‘Not busy enough,’ Bill shouts back.

They are waiting for us when we reach the top, waiting under their red umbrella among the stark white bones.

John Dawson asks: ‘Have either of you seen the film Lost Horizon ?’

‘No,’ says Bill.

Dawson shrugs. He surveys the site. He says: ‘It’s my wife Marjorie’s favourite. In the film there’s a mythical city called Shangrila; that’s what I’m going to call this place – Shangrila. It’s going to be her present for our Silver Wedding next year.’

‘Does she know?’ Bill asks.

‘If she does, she’s not saying,’ he smiles.

The rain is falling fast on our red umbrellas, the four of us stood in the foundations, among the white scaffolding, looking out across Castleford and the Aire -

The silence and the grey sky.

‘I’ve designed it to reflect a swan,’ says Dawson.

‘John loves swans,’ nods Don Foster.

‘Beautiful creatures,’ Dawson continues. ‘I suppose you both know that once swans mate, they mate for life?’

‘If one of them dies,’ I nod. ‘The other one pines to death.’

‘Very romantic,’ says Bill -

There’s something in his voice, something he doesn’t like, something I don’t -

From under our umbrella, Bill points: ‘What’s that going to be down there?’

Halfway back down the slope, there is a large and freshly dug hole in the ground.

‘Fish pond,’ says Don Foster. ‘For his goldfish.’

‘Not Swan Lake then?’ laughs Bill.

‘Not quite,’ says Dawson.

Bill tilts the umbrella back so he can look at both of them; his old mate Don and his new mate John. Bill says: ‘Is there somewhere we can have a word?’

‘A word ?’ repeats Don Foster, his tan fading with the light and the rain.

‘Aye,’ nods Bill. ‘A word.’

Foster looks at Dawson. Dawson looks over at a small cabin on the edge of the site. Foster looks back at Bill. He says: ‘The hut?’

Bill and I follow them over there.

John Dawson unlocks the door. We go inside. Don Foster lights a paraffin heater. Dawson pours out the tea from two large flasks. Bill flashes the ash. We sit there, like four blokes about to play a hand of cards.

It is raining hard now against the hut, against the window.

I look at Bill. I look at my watch. I look at Bill again.

Bill stamps his cigarette out on the floor. He takes a swig of his tea. He asks them: ‘I take it you both know we’ve got George Marsh at Brotherton?’

John Dawson and Don Foster glance at each other for a split second -

A split second in which you can see them thinking -

Thinking of denying that they actually know George Marsh -

A split second in which they change my life -

All our fucking lives -

A split second before Don Foster shakes his head. A split second before he says: ‘I wish you’d have come to us before, Bill.’

‘Why’s that then, Don?’

‘Could have saved us all a lot of bother.’

‘How’s that then, Don?’

Don Foster looks at John Dawson.

John Dawson looks at Bill.

Bill waits.

John Dawson says: ‘He was with me.’

Bill waits.

John Dawson says: ‘On Saturday.’

Bill waits.

John Dawson says: ‘Bit of cash in hand.’

Bill waits.

John Dawson stands up. He goes over to the window and the rain. He looks out at the skeleton of the enormous bungalow, its stark white bones rising out of the ground. John Dawson says: ‘He was here with me.’

I look at Bill.

Bill smiles. Bill turns to Don Foster. Bill says: ‘Wish you’d have come to us before, Don.’

Don Foster doesn’t smile. He just blinks.

‘Could have saved us all a lot of bother,’ says Bill. ‘A lot of bother.’

On the road home we stop by a telephone box.

Bill makes the call.

I sit and feel hollow and sick inside.

Bill opens the passenger door. It’s written all over his bloody face. All over the bloody Action form in his hand.

‘It’s bollocks,’ I say. ‘Fucking bollocks.’

‘Got no reason to hold him now.’

‘Fucking bollocks.’

‘Maurice -’

‘Load of fucking bollocks.’

‘What? They’re all fucking lying?’

‘It’s a load of fucking bollocks and you fucking well know it!’

‘Finished?’ Bill asks.

I clutch the wheel, my knuckles white when they should be bloody and scabbed.