David Peace - 1983

War songs, bad news, and the moon:

Jeanette Garland missing two years and eight months -

Susan Ridyard one day eight hours:

There’s a house with no door and no windows and this where I live -

Blood on my hands -

No turning back .

You drive; drive all night; drive in circles;

Disintegrating -

Disappearing -

Decreasing -

Declining -

Decaying -

Dying -

Dead -

Circles; circles of hell; local hells.

You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library in the grey dawn of the last day of May 1983 -

The car doors are locked and you are staring into the rearview mirror with the radio on:

‘Latest opinion polls suggest a Conservative landslide as the Tories open up an eighteen point gap on Labour; Healey accuses Mrs Thatcher of glorying in slaughter over the Falklands; a father is to sue Norman Tebbit over his son’s death on a youth opportunities scheme; a fourteen-year-old boy, charged with sending a letter bomb to Mrs Thatcher, was sent for trial to the Central Criminal Court…’

No Hazel.

You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library at half-past eight on the last day of May 1983 -

The radio is off now but you are still staring into the rearview mirror -

The car doors still locked -

Still no Hazel -

Not today:

Tuesday 31 May 1983 -

D-9 .

Up the stairs to the first floor of the library, the microfilms and the old newspapers, pulling just the one box down from the shelves:

March 1972 .

Threading through the film, winding the spools, searching -

STOP -

Tuesday 21 March 1972:

Rochdale Girl Missing – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year .

The parents of missing ten-year-old Susan Louise Ridyard made an emotional plea late last night for information that might lead police to their daughter’s whereabouts. Susan was last seen at four p.m. yesterday afternoon as she made her way home from school with friends .

STOP -

Wednesday 22 March 1972:

Oldman Joins Susan Search – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year .

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman of the West Yorkshire Constabulary crossed the Pennines today to help his Lancashire colleagues in their search for missing Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard .

STOP -

Friday 24 March 1972:

Medium Links Susan and Jeanette – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year .

Police last night refused to comment or speculate on reports that local medium and TV personality Mandy Wymer had found a connection between the missing Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland, known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home, who was eight years old when she disappeared -

STOP.

Jack, Jack, Jack -

Always back to Jack:

You turn off the main road and drive through the stone gates and up the long drive, the trees black with wet leaves and crows, the mental hospital nesting at the end of the road -

Waiting for you:

Stanley Royd Psychiatric Hospital, Wakefield.

You park in front of the old, main building and walk across the sharp, pointed gravel to the front door. The faces of mental people in their dressing gowns and cardigans are crowded at the windows. On the lawn a woman with bare feet and bloody knees is barking, her leg raised against a tree.

You open the door and go inside, thinking of your mother, thinking:

This is what she did not want .

You ring the bell on the desk, thinking of what she got:

Graffiti sprayed on her walls, a swastika and noose hung above her door, the shit through her letterbox and the brick through her window, anonymous calls and dirty calls, the heavy breathing and the dial tone, the taunts of children and the curses of their parents, all because -

‘Can I help you?’ the nurse in the white uniform says again.

‘I certainly hope so,’ you smile. ‘My name is John Piggott and I’m a solicitor. I was hoping to be able to see a patient of yours, a Jack Whitehead?’

The nurse shakes her head: ‘I’m afraid Mr Whitehead is no longer with us.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, I -’

‘Let me just double-check for you,’ she says and walks over to a large metal filing cabinet.

Fuck .

You turn away. You look down the corridor.

A man is stood at the end of the corridor in the shape of a cross, his pyjama-bottoms around his ankles.

You hate hospitals -

Hate the institutional smell of boiling cabbages and rags, the institutional walls of heavy green and magnolia cream, the institutional floors covered with stained carpet and linoleum -

Hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one alive.

The nurse comes back with a file. She is nodding to herself. She says: ‘Yes, Mr Whitehead left us on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’

‘Doesn’t say what he died of, does it?’

‘No, no, no,’ she smiles. ‘His son came and took him home.’

‘His son?’

She nods again. She taps the file: ‘What it says here.’

You strain to read the upside-down writing: ‘Is there an address?’

She pulls the file back: ‘I’m not sure I should -’

‘It’s good news,’ you smile. ‘Stands to inherit a small fortune.’

‘Well then,’ she laughs. ‘Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds.’

‘Thank you very much,’ you wink.

‘Be sure to tell him how you found him,’ she giggles.

You wink again. You open the doors. You walk back down the steps and across the sharp, pointed gravel.

The woman on the lawn is chasing her tail.

You hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one -

Nobody but Jack.

Tuesday 31 May 1983 -

The first spits of another rain.

Crawling along the M62 towards Rochdale, the fields black and brown, the sky black and grey:

‘She wraps herself in the Union Jack and exploits the sacrifices of our soldiers, sailors and airmen in the Falkland Islands for purely party advantage – and hopes to get away with it.’

You switch off the radio. You glance in the mirrors. You pull over on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a smashed-up phonebox -

You pray that it works.

D-9 .

Fifteen minutes later you are reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a silent part of Rochdale.

It is pissing down now, the houses across the road with their lights already on.

Mr Ridyard is standing in the doorway.

You get out of the car. You say: ‘Afternoon.’

‘Nice weather for ducks,’ he says.

You nod. You shake his hand. You follow him into a small hall and through into their front room.

‘The wife’s having her lie-down,’ he whispers. ‘Afraid you’ll have to make do with just me.’

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘It’s very good of you to see me.’

‘Sit down,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘I’ll make us a quick brew.’

You stand back up when he leaves the room. You walk over to have a closer look at the two framed photographs on top of the television -

One is of three children dressed in their school uniforms; the other of just the youngest child sat on her own:

Susan Louise Ridyard .

Mr Ridyard comes back in with the tea: ‘Here we are.’

You put the photograph back down in its place. You go back over to the sofa.

Mr Ridyard sits down in the chair opposite you: ‘Sugar, Mr Piggott?’

‘Three please.’

He hands you your tea: ‘There you go.’

You take a sip. You watch him pick up his cup -

He looks at it. He doesn’t drink.