David Peace - 1983

‘I won’t forget, Mr Piggott,’ says Chief Superintendent Jobson. ‘I never forget.’

‘See you then,’ you say.

‘No doubt,’ he replies.

You close the door. You hear -

You swear you hear -

Hear him say:

‘In the place where there is no darkness.’

You walk down the corridor and back down the stairs and over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

No more Christmases .

The policeman on the desk is picking the scabs off his boils.

You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and the chair marks -

‘Mr Piggott?’

You look up.

‘Sign here please, sir,’ says a young, blond policeman -

A young Bob Fraser -

Smiling and holding out a clipboard, two large brown paper bags on the desk.

You take the clipboard and the pen from him. You sign the papers.

He hands you the large brown paper bags. ‘Here you go, sir.’

You stand up. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

You walk across the linoleum floor, the white squares and the grey, the boot marks and the chair marks, walk towards the double doors and out -

‘Sir,’ the young officer calls after you. ‘Just a minute.’

You turn back round -

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘You wanted a copy of the inventory, didn’t you?’

You nod.

He hands you a photocopied piece of A4. ‘The Chief would’ve had my guts for garters. He said to be sure you got it.’

You sit in the car in the car park between the bus station and the market, still in the shadow of Millgarth, the two large brown paper bags open on the passenger seat with the photocopied piece of A4 in your hand:

One pair of black leather motorcycle boots, size nine .

Two pairs of blue navy wool socks, size eight .

One pair of white underpants, size M .

One pair of Lee blue denim jeans, size 30, with black leather belt .

One brown handkerchief .

One pair of medium-sized black leather motorcycle gloves .

One white T-shirt, size M .

One blue and white cotton check shirt, size M .

One sleeveless Wrangler blue denim jacket with patches and badges, size M .

One black leather jacket, marked Saxon and Angelwitch with bird wing motif .

One pair of round-framed gold spectacles .

One Casio digital calculator wristwatch .

One black leather studded wristband .

One Star of David metal key-ring with three keys attached .

One brown leather wallet containing one five pound note, driving licence in the name of James Ashworth, 69 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam, a Mass card and stamps to the value of twenty-five pence .

One packet of Rothmans cigarettes containing five unsmoked cigarettes .

One disposable white plastic cigarette lighter .

One packet of Rizla cigarette papers .

Seventy-six-and-a-half pence in loose change .

You put the list down. You root through the bags for the belt.

You find the jeans first, but the belt isn’t in them -

It’s at the very bottom of the second bag.

You pull it out. You hold it up:

They open the door to Room 4 and there he is, his boots still turning as they struggle to cut him down, the stink of piss among the suds, his body attached to the ventilation grille, a belt holding him there by his neck, hanging in a jacket that says Saxon and Angelwitch between a pair of swan’s wings, his tongue swollen and eyes as big as plates, still struggling to cut him down and take him away, to put him in a hole in the ground and make it go away -

But it won’t and it never will -

Not for her -

Nor you.

But you cannot remember if it was this belt -

Holding him there by his neck -

This belt here in your hands.

You put the belt back in the bag. You close both large brown paper bags. You fold the photocopied piece of A4. You put it in your pocket. You start the car. You pull out without looking in your mirror.

A motorcycle brakes hard behind you.

You stop.

The rider dismounts. He tears off his helmet. He is coming towards you with his angry words and violent threats.

You start the car again. You drive off up George Street, drive off thinking -

No helmet .

At the top of George Street you piss around on the various one-way systems till you come out on to the Headrow. You check the rearview to be sure Sid fucking Snot isn’t still on your tail. You go up Cookridge Street.

You are looking for Portland Square -

Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds 1.

You park on Great George Street. You wander around behind the Law Courts and the Cathedral, the Infirmary and the Library -

Looking for Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds 1 -

Looking for Jack.

It is Wednesday 1 June 1983 -

D-8.

Off Calverley Street, tucked between Portland Way and Portland Crescent, up by the Poly and opposite the Civic Hall, you find it -

Suitably ruined Victorian grandeur, ill-gotten and squandered, waiting for the Wrecking Ball; two empty terraces staring down at the grass and the weeds rampant between the cracks and the stones:

Portland Square -

You pick your way along the line until you come to number 6:

The front door is wide open and there are no curtains in the windows of the ground floor. There is a tree stood in the patch of ground that sets the place back from where the pavement lies buried. The tree is taller than the building and hiding the lamppost, its branches scratching down the upstairs windows.

You walk up the three stone steps. You push the door open wider.

There is a staircase leading up to the left, leaves and crisp packets, old unopened post and papers, all scattered across the brown carpet.

You step inside. You call out: ‘Hello? Hello?’

No answer.

You walk up the stairs to the first floor and Flats 3 and 4.

The carpet is cleaner here.

You cross the landing. You go up the second flight of stairs.

At the top is Flat 5 and at the end of the landing is number 6.

The carpet is clear of leaves and crisp packets, unopened post and papers.

You try the bell on the door of Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds 1.

No answer.

You knock. You shout: ‘Hello? Hello?’

No answer.

There is a metal letterbox in the old wooden door.

You squat down. You lift the flap. ‘Mr Whitehead? Jack Whitehead?’

No answer.

You peer in through the letterbox:

The inside of the flat is dark and the smell unpleasant.

You can hear the bells ringing for Evensong, the trees scratching at the windows.

You let the flap go. You stand back up. You drop to your knees again -

Someone has scratched a single word into the metal flap of the letterbox:

Ripper .

You let the flap go again. You stand back upright. You stare at the door -

Someone has also scratched a number on either side of the six:

6 6 6.

You are thinking of your mother again -

The things they wrote on her walls and door.

Maybe Whitehead and son don’t want to be found.

Back outside among the grass and the weeds, the cracks and the stones, you follow the bells into St Anne’s. You want to ask if anyone knows any Whiteheads living local, but there’s no-one in a collar to pester.

Fat, bald and tired -

Scared to go home, you sit down at the back.

Down in the front pew there’s an old woman with a walking stick trying to stand. A little boy is helping her to her feet, a book under his arm.