David Peace - 1983

Out of Nazi Germany .

And BJ is walking along, yellow lights coming, red lights leaving, practising German and thinking about trying to cross to other side where it’s just more playing fields and some woods, thinking at least there’d be somewhere to run if Krauts showed their sour Nazi faces -

Thinking of somewhere to run when a car stops -

A car stops and driver winds down his window -

Winds down his window and says -

He says: ‘Hello Barry, you’re all wet.’

We turn into Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July -

Big houses with their hearts cut into flats, losing their paintwork and their lead;

We turn into Blenheim Road and I am filled again with hate -

Filled with hate at Mystic Mandy, the medium and the fraud -

Hate at wasted time with sideshow freaks from the Feasts and the Fairs;

Hate at Wally Heywood, Georgie Oldman, and Badger Billy -

Hate at who and what they are -

What they know and will not do;

But most of all this day -

Saturday 19 July 1969 -

I am filled with hate at me;

Hate at me for who and what I am -

What I know and will not do:

(Just a lullaby in the local tongue) -

Hate.

We park on Blenheim Road -

The big trees with hearts cut into bark, the big houses with hearts cut into flats;

We park and finally I say: ‘What the fucking hell is this, Bill?’

He stinks of his lunch and guilt. He slurs: ‘George reckons -’

‘Since when did you give two shits what George fucking Oldman reckoned -’

‘Maurice -’

‘We know who fucking did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘Took her.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Yes, we fucking do.’

‘Maurice, it isn’t pantomime season yet.’

‘Oh yes it fucking is.’

‘Fuck off, Maurice,’ he says and opens the car door -

(Local, local hates) -

I get out. I slam my door.

We walk up the drive of 28 Blenheim Road -

One big tree with hearts cut into bark, one big house with her heart cut into flats;

We walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water -

The bottoms of our trousers, our socks and our shoes, muddy in July.

George Oldman is already here, waiting under the porch with a black umbrella. He puts out his cigarette. He nods: ‘Gentlemen.’

‘George,’ says Bill.

I’ve got nothing to say.

‘Going up?’ asks Bill.

‘Best wait for Jack,’ says George.

I say: ‘Jack?’

‘Jack Whitehead,’ says George.

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Thought he was your mate,’ says Bill.

‘He is, but -’

‘Him that set this up,’ says George. He hands me today’s Post -

I read aloud: ‘ Medium Contacts Police .’

I shake my head. I hand the paper back to George. I look at my watch:

It’s gone one -

Wasted, wasted time .

‘Talk of the Devil,’ says Bill -

Jack’s Jensen pulls into the drive. He parks at an angle and gets out. His face is grey and his eyes are red, another one pissed up. He sparks up. He waves his cigarette: ‘Hello, hello, hello. If it ain’t the boys in blue.’

‘Number 5, is it, Jack?’ asks George.

Jack nods. Jack stumbles -

(No local angels here) -

Jack drops his fag. Jack picks it up. Jack slaps me on the back.

We go inside 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

The big house with her heart cut into flats, losing her paintwork and her lead;

We go inside and walk up the stairs to Flat 5 -

The glass in the windows stained.

We walk up the stairs to Flat 5 on the first-floor landing -

The air cold and damp, the air stained.

Jacks knocks on the door: ‘Police, love. Open up in the name of the law.’

Bill looks at me. I look at the floor.

The door opens a crack, a chain on -

Between the wood of the door and the wood of the frame, the pale face of a beautiful woman, the metal chain across her mouth.

‘It’s Jack Whitehead, love. These are the police officers I was talking about.’

Between the wood, this pale and beautiful face nods.

The door closes briefly then opens again wider, the chain gone -

The woman is in her early thirties. She is wearing a white silk blouse and a dark wool skirt.

She is truly beautiful -

(Local beauty) -

She says: ‘Please, come in.’

We step inside Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road -

A flat cut out of its heart;

We follow the woman down a dim hall, the walls hung with dark paintings, and into a big room, the walls and chairs draped in Persian rugs -

The whole flat stinks of cat piss and petunia.

Jack does the introductions: ‘These two gentlemen are Detective Superintendents George Oldman and Bill Molloy, and this is Detective Inspector Maurice Jobson -

‘Gentlemen, this is Mrs Mandy Denizili, or -’

‘Mandy Wymer,’ she smiles, shaking our hands.

‘ Mystic Mandy,’ nods Jack. ‘As she is known professionally.’

She looks at Jack. She sighs. She gestures at the sofa and the armchair. She says: ‘Please sit down.’

George takes the armchair, Jack a cushion on the floor, Bill and I the sofa -

A low and ornately carved table pressing into our knees and shins.

‘Tea?’ she asks.

‘That’d be grand,’ smiles George, Bill and I nodding.

‘Not for me, love,’ says Jack. ‘Never touch the stuff.’

‘Excuse me for just a minute,’ she says. She goes off through another door.

‘Denizili?’ Bill asks Jack.

‘Husband was Turkish.’

I look up from the unlit candles on the table: ‘ Was? ’

‘Not about,’ says Jack.

Bill is laughing: ‘You think she knows owt about the two-thirty at York?’

‘I’m a medium, Mr Molloy, not a fortune-teller,’ says Mandy Wymer. She is stood in the doorway with a tray in her hands.

‘Sorry,’ says Bill, hands up in apology. ‘No offence.’

She brings in the tray of teacups and a teapot. She sets it down on the low table. She smiles at Bill: ‘None taken.’

It is a truly beautiful smile.

George sits forward in the armchair. He says: ‘Jack here tells us you have some information about this little girl who’s gone missing up Castleford way?’

She hands him his cup of tea. She nods: ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘We’re desperate,’ I add. ‘Must be.’

She looks at me. She smiles. She hands Bill and me our cups of tea. Then she kneels down on the other side of the low ornately carved table -

‘I am a medium, gentlemen,’ she says again. ‘And it is sometimes possible for me to hear, see, and feel things that other people perhaps cannot.’

We all nod -

Three coppers staring at the beautiful woman knelt before us, Jack struggling to keep his eyes open, Bill the grin off his chops.

‘It is also the case that on occasion the dead can speak through me.’

‘You think she’s dead then, Jeanette?’ asks George.

Mandy Wymer doesn’t answer him. She lights one of the fat white candles on the low table. She stands up. She goes over to the large windows. She draws the heavy crimson curtains -

The room dark but for the candlelight, she returns to the table.

Bill: ‘Mrs Denizili -’

She has her hand up in the shadows: ‘Please, Mr Molloy -’

‘But -’

I have my hand on Bill’s arm.

She lights a second fat white candle on the low table. Then another. And another. She says: ‘Now please take the hand of the person on your left and close your eyes.’