David Peace - 1983

‘Is that right,’ I say. ‘Is that right?’

Duck and Drake, back of the bus station, down the side of the Kirkgate market:

Not a nice pub; even when it’s pissing it down on a black Thursday in March.

I’m five minutes late -

Jack’s on his second pint and whiskey.

I take off my coat. I say: ‘Same again?’

‘You’re a gentleman,’ he nods.

I go over to the bar.

The big bloke behind the bar looks over at Jack then back at me: ‘You feller he says is going to pay for his drinks?’

I nod: ‘Same again for him and a Guinness for me.’

‘That’s a fucking Mick drink,’ says a long-haired cunt -

A long-haired cunt with his back to me at the bar -

His mate grinning over the cunt’s shoulder at me.

‘You what?’ I say to the back of the cunt’s head.

‘You heard,’ says the cunt -

The cunt still with his back to me, nodding to his mate -

But his mate’s not grinning now.

The long-haired cunt slowly turns around. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth, the hair out of his eyes.

The barman puts the Guinness on the counter.

‘Drink it,’ I tell the long-haired cunt.

‘What?’

‘You heard,’ I say. ‘Drink it.’

‘Fuck off,’ the cunt says, straightening up.

I take my warrant card out of my inside pocket. I put it down next to the pint of Guinness.

The long-haired cunt stands there blinking at the card on the bar next to the pint.

‘Drink it,’ I hiss.

The cunt glances at his mate and at the barman. He picks up the Guinness and drinks it down in one. He puts the glass back on the bar next to the card. He wipes his lips on his sleeve. He says with a smile: ‘Ta very much, officer.’

‘Now pay for it,’ I say. ‘And don’t ever call anyone a Mick who isn’t, you dirty little gyppo cunt.’

The dirty little gyppo cunt looks at his mate and the barman again. He shrugs his shoulders. He takes out a pound note from his jeans. He hands it across the counter to the barman.

‘And these,’ I say, nodding at the whiskey and Tetleys on the counter -

The barman already pulling me a fresh Guinness.

‘What?’

‘You heard,’ I say.

‘You can’t fucking do that,’ says the cunt.

I pick up my warrant card and the tray of drinks. I say: ‘I just did.’

‘Fucking hell…’ the cunt starts to say before his mate touches his arm -

‘Leave it, Donny,’ says the cunt’s friend. ‘Not worth it.’

‘Wise man,’ I say.

‘Fuck off.’

I walk across the room to where Jack’s sat waiting -

‘Making friends with the locals,’ he winks.

I put the drinks down: ‘How’s the wife, Jack?’

‘Ex-wife,’ he smiles. ‘Remarried and living with a builder’s mate in sunny Ossett. And yours?’

‘My what?’

‘Wife? Family?’

‘Who the fuck knows.’

Jack raises his glass: ‘Ain’t that the truth, Maurice.’

‘Now there’s a funny thing,’ I nod, raising my glass. ‘The truth?’

‘What about it?’ laughs Jack.

‘Well I was rather hoping you could give me some?’

‘Give you some what? Some truth? Shouldn’t it be other way round, officer?’

‘In a perfect world,’ I smile.

Jack offers me a cig.

I lean across. I take it with a light -

‘Fucking pig bastard!’ comes a shout from the door -

‘Wanker!’ yells another -

I turn around to raise my glass but the cunt and his mate are already gone.

‘Perfect world, eh?’ says Jack.

I shake my head: ‘What’d one of them look like, I wonder?’

Jack stubs out his cig: ‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’

I sit forward. I say: ‘Susan Louise Ridyard.’

‘What about her?’ shrugs Jack.

‘Been reading your pieces.’

‘Rehashes from the Manchester Evening News , mate.’

‘You not been over there?’

‘Rochdale? Nah, why?’

‘George Oldman has.’

‘And your boss,’ nods Jack.

‘You don’t think this has all got a bit of a familiar ring to it then?’

Jack sits back in his chair. He shakes his head. He takes out another cigarette. He says: ‘Not you and all?’

‘What? Someone else talked to you about this?’

‘Yeah,’ he nods.

‘Who?’

‘Your girlfriend.’

‘What you mean, my girlfriend ?’

‘ Mystic Mandy.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Come on, Maurice,’ he winks again. ‘Everyone fucking knows.’

‘Fucking knows what?’

‘That you’ve been having your fucking cards read a fair bit, what you think people fucking know?’

I sit there staring into my half-drunk Guinness, the sound of lorries and buses outside in the rain.

Jack stands up. He says: ‘I’ll get these.’

‘Miracles’ll never cease,’ I say. I take out my own cigs and light one, the sound of the slot machine and the jukebox in rhythm.

Jack comes back with two pints and two shorts: ‘Put a whiskey in your Guinness, that’ll put a smile on your face.’

I say: ‘Wasn’t owt serious or anything.’

‘Don’t fucking worry about it,’ grins Jack. ‘Nice looking bloody woman.’

‘She called you?’

‘This morning.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘What she say to you?’

‘Same as she told you probably.’

‘She didn’t tell me anything.’

‘Well, told me she was sensing some connection between Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland,’ laughs Jack. ‘You know how she talks?’

I nod, tipping the whiskey into the top of the Guinness.

‘I asked her what kind of connection ,’ he says. ‘Then she tells me that she’s been having all these dreams but by this point, to be honest with you, I’d switched off.’

‘You tell her you were going to write anything?’

Jack shakes his head: ‘Said I might pop over this afternoon, if I had time.’

‘And have you?’

‘What?’

‘The time?’

‘No,’ says Jack.

I pick up my pint. I drink it down in one.

‘And you?’ winks Jack.

From Millgarth and Leeds into Wakefield and St John’s -

Big trees with hearts cut;

On to Blenheim Road -

Big houses with their hearts cut;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

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

I park in the drive, a bad taste in my mouth.

I put a finger to my lips. It comes away all bloody, smeared. I touch my handkerchief to my lips. There are brown stains when I look, smudged.

I get out. I walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water.

It’s still raining, the branches scratching the grey sky.

I open the downstairs door. I walk up the stairs. I knock on the door of Flat 5.

‘Who is it?’

‘Police, love,’ I say -

The door flies open, no chain, and there she is, stood in the doorway -

That pale face between the wood, that beautiful face -

Truly beautiful.

‘Hello Mandy,’ I say.

‘I knew you’d come,’ she smiles.

‘I thought you weren’t a fortune teller?’

‘I’m not,’ she laughs.

She takes my hand. She leads me down the dim hall hung with dark oils into the big room -

The smell of cat piss and petunia.

We sit side by side on her sofa, on Persian rugs and cushions -

The low ornately carved table at our shins.

She is still holding my hand, our bodies touching at our elbows and our knees.

‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I say.

She tightens her hand round mine. ‘No, I shouldn’t call you there.’

‘No-one else was home, it doesn’t -’

‘But you’ve felt it too, haven’t you?’