David Peace: 1983

Paul on his back, eyes opening and closing, dying -

Boss man Derek Box already there -

Dead.

‘Fuck,’ BJ say, thinking -

Think, think fucking fast:

Over to Derek and open his jacket and take out his wallet, have his watch and rings for good measure -

Paul still whistling air, BJ take his money and his watch -

‘Cunt,’ he hisses.

‘Shoosh,’ BJ spit back -

Then sirens, BJ can hear sirens -

Fuck -

BJ leave him pennies and BJ say to Grace: ‘We got to get out of here, love.’

But she’s still all shock and screams, blood on her blouse and blood in hair -

‘Come on!’ BJ yell. ‘They’re going to be here any fucking second.’

She doesn’t move.

‘You don’t want to be here.’

Behind bar to give her a shake but it’s no fucking use so BJ grab night’s takings from till, shouting in her face: ‘They’ll kill us all!’

Nothing -

BJ slap her -

Tyres and brakes and car doors outside -

Fuck, fuck -

BJ jump bar -

Fuck, fuck, fuck -

BJ can’t go out front, BJ have to take back -

‘Grace!’ BJ shout for last fucking time. ‘Come on!’

But she doesn’t fucking move -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Fuck her.

BJ head down passage and push open back door, hit night and stone steps running when BJ hear:

BANG!

Sound of another shotgun -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Down stone steps, bottom of stone steps when BJ hear another:

BANG!

Another gun -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Across empty car park, crouching and running through puddles of rain water and oil, out back way then flat in a doorway as police car circles past, ducking over road and down side of bus station, thinking what the -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Fuck BJ going to do now?

Through shadows of deserted bus station, into coach station when thank -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

BJ see it -

See it standing there, all lit up in silver and lit up in gold:

A coach.

Panting, BJ ask driver: ‘You running?’

‘About six bloody hours behind.’

‘Where you going?’

‘Preston via Bradford and Manchester.’

‘When you leaving?’

‘Now.’

‘How much?’

‘Ticket office is closed,’ he winks.

BJ smile: ‘So how much you want?’

‘Tenner?’

‘Done,’ BJ say and hand him a stolen bloody note.

‘A Merry Christmas to you too,’ he says.

BJ get on and head for back seat.

Two other folk; one sleeping and other pissed off.

BJ take back seat and get BJ’s head down.

Coach pulls out of station but heads back into Bullring -

Towards Strafford.

BJ want to look but BJ dare not.

Coach slows -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Driver opens door -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

‘What’s going on?’

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

‘Been a shooting,’ comes copper’s voice.

‘Shooting?’

‘Strafford Arms.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘Looks like a robbery.’

‘Robbery?’ repeats driver with his stolen tenner burning a hole in his unwashed pocket and his jelly heart -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

‘You’ll have to go down Springs,’ says copper.

‘Will do,’ says driver.

‘Some bloody Christmas,’ says copper.

‘Aye,’ says driver. ‘Hope you catch the bastard.’

‘We will,’ says copper. ‘We always do.’

Driver closes door and coach turns left and heads down Springs and out of Wakefield, snaking its way through Dewsbury and Batley into Bradford -

Sat on back seat, BJ suddenly shaking and crying and BJ can’t stop shaking and crying because of all things BJ seen and all things BJ done, things they’ve made BJ see and things they’ve made BJ do, all those fucking things they’ve made BJ do and BJ thinking of Grace and BJ shaking and crying because BJ know what they’ll have done to her and what they’re going to do to BJ, all people they’ve killed and all people they’re going to have to fucking kill, and BJ know BJ should have done it right, should have done bloody lot of them because now BJ be truly -

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Fucked forever.

When he pulls into Bradford Bus Station, driver comes up to back.

BJ close BJ’s eyes -

‘Get off,’ he whispers.

BJ open BJ’s eyes: ‘I want to go to Manchester.’

‘Don’t give a fuck where you want to go,’ he spits. ‘It’s all over bloody radio and all over your fucking face.’

‘I…’

‘I don’t want to know,’ he says and chucks Derek Box’s tenner at BJ.

BJ pick it up. BJ walk past him down aisle.

BJ get off. BJ stand on freezing platform.

BJ watch coach pull out and away.

It’s three in morning:

Christmas Eve, 1974 -

Three in morning, Christmas Eve 1974 when BJ remember Clare -

Scotch Clare.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Holy fuck, no.

Wakefield Metropolitan Police Headquarters -

Day 5:

Monday 16 May 1983 -

Five thousand buildings searched, thirty thousand folk interviewed -

Widening search radius to twenty-five square miles, frogmen dragging rivers, sewers;

Family flattened, relatives leant on -

Dawn raids on the perverted and recently paroled .

‘Go straight in,’ said the Chief Constable’s secretary. ‘He’s expecting you.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, adjusting my glasses.

I knocked once. I opened the door.

Chief Constable Angus was sat behind a big desk with his back to the window and another grey sky. He was writing. He glanced up. He nodded at the seat across from him.

I sat down.

‘Any news?’ he asked, knowing the answer.

I shook my head.

He stopped writing. He put down his pen. ‘What about the Press?’

‘Reconstruction would keep them quiet.’

‘Bit premature that, don’t you think?’

‘Anniversary Check.’

‘You want to do it Thursday?’

‘Long as we can let them know today or tomorrow.’

‘The Press?’

‘And the family.’

He nodded: ‘Fine.’

‘Could go National?’

‘Thought you reckoned it was local?’

‘Still do.’

He shrugged.

I opened the file on my knee. I handed him a black and white photograph: ‘Remember her?’

‘Very funny, Maurice,’ he said, not laughing.

‘Seems like a lot of folk do.’

‘What?’

‘Remember her.’

‘Heard you were sniffing around.’

‘You blame me?’

‘It’s a coincidence.’

‘There’s no such thing.’

‘He’s behind lock and key,’ said Angus. ‘Where he belongs and where you helped put him.’

‘What if he had help?’

‘He’d have said.’

‘He says he didn’t do it.’

‘He never did before.’

‘We never let him.’

‘Maurice, listen to me,’ he pleaded. ‘Michael Myshkin might have been soft in the head, but his heart was hard, rock hard. He did those things, killed them girls. Sure as I’m sitting here and you’re sitting there.’

I said nothing.

‘You know it in your heart,’ he said. ‘You know it in your heart.’

In my heart -