David Peace - 1983

‘What about this?’ you ask. ‘Was this his?’

Mrs Ashworth looks up at the tiny newspaper photograph in her face -

A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper -

‘You know who this is, don’t you?’

The tears streaming down her face -

‘It was in his wallet, in the lining.’

The tears down her face -

‘He’d cut it out.’

The tears -

‘No,’ she cries.

You hold it closer to her face, to the tears and the lies -

‘Why would he do a thing like that?’

But she’s turned her face to the dark grey sky, mumbling hymns and whispering prayers, saying over and over: ‘I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans. I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was…’

‘I’ll see you,’ you say -

In hell, another hell .

You walk down Newstead View -

The plastic bags and the dog shit.

You go up the path. You knock on 54 -

No answer.

You knock again.

‘Not your lucky day, is it?’

You turn round -

There are three men at the gate. They have pointed faces and pale moustaches. They are dressed in denim and grey. They are wearing trainers.

‘I’m a solicitor,’ you say.

They rock back and forwards on their heels. They spit.

‘You look like a fat cunt to me.’

‘A fat cunt who can’t keep his hands to himself.’

‘Fat cunt who’s going to get his head kicked in.’

They walk up the path towards you.

You swallow. You say: ‘I know who you are.’

‘And we know who you are,’ they laugh.

You look across the road -

The neighbours paired up, arms and brows folded -

You shout: ‘Will someone please call -’

The nearest man punches you hard in the face.

You put your hands up to your nose.

They grab your hair. They pull you off the step. They punch you in the stomach.

You fall forwards.

They knee you in the stomach. They hit you with a dustbin lid.

You fall on to the garden path.

They kick you in the back. They kick you in the front.

You put your hands and arms over your head. You curl up.

They smash the dustbin lid down into your head. Into your back.

You try to crawl down the path.

They grab your hair. They pull you down the path.

You reach up to your scalp.

They drop you by the gatepost. They jump on you.

You -

They close the gate in your face. Repeatedly.

‘Mr Piggott?’ Kathryn Williams is walking across the Yorkshire Post reception -

No outstretched hand today -

‘What on earth happened to you?’

You are swollen and wrapped in bandages. You pull yourself up out of your seat: ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

Kathryn Williams stares at you. She says: ‘You should be in hospital.’

‘A mental hospital?’

She doesn’t smile. She asks: ‘What can I do for you, Mr Piggott?’

‘Miss Williams, I -’

‘ Mrs Williams,’ she says.

‘OK, Mrs Williams,’ you say. ‘It’s about Jack Whitehead.’

‘Mr Piggott, I told you everything I know about Jack -’

‘You didn’t tell me about the flat.’

‘The flat?’

‘On Portland Square.’

‘I -’ she starts then stops.

You say: ‘ I what?’

‘I thought he was still in Stanley Royd.’

‘Well, he ain’t.’

‘He’s at home?’

‘If he is,’ you say. ‘He’s not answering his door.’

‘You’re sure he’s not back in Stanley Royd.’

‘He was signed out into the care of his son on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’

‘His son ?’

You nod. It hurts.

Mrs Williams asks: ‘You know where the son took him?’

‘The flat on Portland Square.’

‘But there’s no answer?’

You shake your head. It hurts.

She asks: ‘You went today?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Maybe they were just out?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You going round there again?’

You nod. It hurts. You stop.

She stares at you again. She says: ‘This isn’t just about Jack, is it?’

‘Not just Jack, no.’

She closes her eyes -

The two of you stood there in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area.

You say: ‘I read your piece on Hazel and Susan Ridyard. I went to Rochdale.’

She opens her eyes -

The two of you stood in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area, one of you swollen and wrapped in bandages -

Both of you in pain.

Off Calverley Street, tucked between Portland Way and Portland Crescent, up by the Poly and opposite the Civic Hall, it’s still raining:

Raining on the ruined grandeur, ill-gotten, squandered and damned -

Raining on Portland Square:

Mrs Williams and you tip-toe through the grass and weeds, the cracks and the stones; the pair of you picking your way along the terrace until you come to number 6, the front door still wide open and the tree still standing.

You walk up the three stone steps and through the front door -

You call out: ‘Hello? Hello?’

Still no answer.

You walk up the staircase on the left, over the leaves and the crisp packets, the unopened post and the papers, up the stairs to the first floor and Flats 3 and 4, cross the landing and up the second flight of stairs to Flats 5 and 6.

You stand before the door. You look at Mrs Williams. She shrugs.

You try the bell.

No answer.

You knock. You shout: ‘Hello? Hello?’

No answer.

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

No answer.

You let the flap go. You stand back up. You point down at the single word someone has scratched into the metal flap of the letterbox:

Ripper .

You show her the numbers on the door -

The number someone has scratched either side of the six:

6 6 6.

‘Be kids,’ says Kathryn Williams.

‘Or their dads.’

‘Is it locked?’ she whispers.

You press your fingertips into the wood and the door swings in and the smell runs to greet you; a tongue warm with saved spit and an unexpected bark that brings new tears to your black eyes.

She takes one step backwards. You take one step forwards -

This is the way .

You step inside. You can see the light at the end of the passage -

Through the old smells and the new, down the passage to his room -

Jack’s room:

Curtains billowing through the open and cracked windows, black sails -

The books and the papers scattered to the wind, their pages turning -

The spools and the tapes, streamers from an abandoned street party -

The suit and the shirts, the shoes and the socks, all spilling out from the chests of drawers, the stately wardrobes -

The sheets and the blankets, the pillow on the bed, stained and as cracked as the ceiling and the pelmets above -

Above the photographs and the words -

The photographs upon the floor, the words upon the wall.

You stand in Jack’s room and remember another room -

Room 27, the Redbeck Cafй and Motel:

The first and last time you met Jack Whitehead.

You remember the photographs and words upon those walls:

Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland .

Through the old tears and the new, down all those passages to that room and this -

This the place .

A mirror in four pieces, a stool with three legs -

A telephone dead in two halves, a clock stopped at 7.07 -

The time .

You swallow. You wipe your eyes -

Kathryn Williams is staring at a photograph on the mantelpiece -

A photograph of a young, handsome man with a bright, wide smile.