David Peace - 1983

‘You know him?’

Her bottom lip is trembling, fingers pinching the end of her nose.

‘Who is it?’

‘Eddie,’ she says -

New tears streaming down another old face. ‘Eddie Dunford.’

It is night now.

You drive alone from Leeds into Wakefield, through the dead centre and out along the Donny Road, heading towards the Redbeck -

This the place, the time -

Tuesday 14 June 1977:

‘Fuck is this place?’ you said stood in the doorway, two teas in your hands, a chip butty in your pocket .

‘Just somewhere,’ smiled Bob Fraser .

‘How long you had it?’

‘It’s not really mine.’

‘But you got the key?’

‘It’s for a friend.’

‘Who?’

‘That journalist, Eddie Dunford.’

Haunted:

1977 all over again -

This the time, the place -

The Redbeck:

There was a knock on the door, you jumped .

Bob went to the door: ‘Who is it?’

‘Jack Whitehead. Let me in, it’s pissing down out here.’

Bob opened the door and in Jack stepped .

‘Fuck,’ Jack said, looking at the walls, the words and the photographs .

‘I’m John Piggott,’ you said. ‘I’m Bob’s solicitor.’

But Jack was still looking at the walls, the photographs and the words -

Haunted:

The words -

Jack Whitehead, Bob Fraser and Eddie Dunford -

Haunted:

The photographs -

Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland -

Haunted:

The photograph in your pocket -

Hazel.

You’ve got a photograph and a key in your pocket -

This the place -

The Redbeck;

The time -

1983.

You pull in behind the Redbeck -

There is one other car parked in the depressed, coarse car park.

A man is sat alone in the car -

It is an old Viva.

He is watching the row of deserted rooms -

He has his headlights on.

They are shining on a door -

A door banging in the wind, in the rain.

You don’t stop. You put your foot down -

Ninety miles an hour .

Haunted, old ghosts and new -

Tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone -

Branches tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages -

The branches tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages, your mouth open -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;

You are lying on your back alone, swollen and wrapped in bandages, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, listening to the branches tapping against the pane -

Wishing she was here with you now:

Thursday 2 June 1983 -

D-7 .

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ -

They come for BJ on Tuesday night.

They kick in door, splinters of wood and sevens flying.

They grab BJ.

They slap BJ.

They punch BJ.

They kick BJ.

They cuff BJ.

They gag BJ.

They put a bag on BJ’s head.

They drag BJ from room.

They throw BJ down stairs.

They kick BJ across Spencer Place.

They toss BJ in back of a van.

They slam doors.

They drive away with BJ.

They whisper.

They light cigarettes.

They burn BJ through shirt and trouser legs.

They laugh when BJ scream.

They laugh as BJ choke upon gag.

They slow down.

They stop.

They open doors of van.

They punch BJ.

They kick BJ.

They push BJ out of back of van.

They throw BJ through a wooden gate.

They pick BJ up off floor.

They drag BJ up some stairs.

They bounce BJ down some corridor walls.

They stand BJ in a room.

They whisper.

They kick BJ in balls.

They laugh when BJ fall to knees in pain.

They pick BJ up off floor.

They sit BJ on a chair.

They tie BJ to it, hands cuffed behind and a bag on BJ’s head.

They leave BJ.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis .

‘Skin the cunt alive!’ he screams into BJ’s blindfolded face.

BJ pass out in a pool of BJ’s own piss.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt .

They slap BJ’s face.

BJ awake inside bag.

They slap BJ again.

BJ nod.

They kick chair.

BJ try to speak through gag.

They laugh.

BJ cry.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed .

There is light.

Maybe it is morning.

There is bright light.

BJ’s mouth dry and cracked on gag, wrists cut and bleeding from handcuffs.

Piss has dried upon BJ’s crotch, upon BJ’s trousers.

Maybe BJ be alone in room.

BJ move slightly toward light.

Telephone rings.

Footsteps coming.

BJ drop down head.

Someone picks up phone.

A voice, a voice BJ know saying: ‘Eric, you worry too much.’

I got to think -

‘Don’t say a bloody word, Eric.’

Think, think fucking fast:

‘Eric for fuckssake.’

Eric Hall, Bradford Vice; dirty every which way, dealing drugs with Spencer Boys, pimping Karen Burns and Janice Ryan; Janice stepping out with Bobby the Bobby Fraser, Leeds Murder Squad and son-in-law of Badger Bill ; Janice dead, some saying Eric, some saying Bobby, some saying Leeds bloody Ripper .

‘Eric, I know Peter Hunter and he’s not a problem.’

Peter Hunter, White Knight; Mr Manchester Clean .

‘Yeah, that’s what I say and you’ll do what I fucking say.’

Eric shitting bricks .

‘Eric, don’t fucking start.’

I got to think, think -

‘Eric, we’re the only friends you’ve got,’ he says. ‘So stop fucking around.’

Think, think fucking fast:

‘Or we’ll start fucking around with you.’

They got BJ over Morley or they got BJ over Jack?

Long pause, then: ‘I know you are. We all are.’

They gonna kill BJ or they gonna not?

‘No, you’re not.’

I got to think, think, think -

‘It won’t come to that.’

Think, think fucking fast:

‘We’ll look after you.’

Eric Hall already dead .

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room .

Head down, out for count .

Same voice, same phone: ‘It’s me.’

Me: West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Force .

‘He’s still out.’