David Peace - 1983

A split fucking second in which he ends his life.

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. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor. He finishes and he blows the loose hair away. He picks up a Philips screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer. He stands behind me. He puts the point of the screwdriver on the crown of my skull. He brings the hammer down -

Down for a second time -

Down for a third -

Until they say: ‘He’s dead.’

He looks up at single, blood-specked light bulb and then down at man tied up and soaked in blood under it; two other men in overalls and masks with hammers and wrenches stood over Joe -

He takes off his mask and he looks at BJ, stares at BJ -

Tied up and splattered in Joe Rose’s blood under a single white light bulb.

He comes towards BJ.

He takes BJ’s face in his hands.

He wipes away Joe’s blood with BJ’s tears.

He kisses BJ’s forehead and he kisses BJ’s cheek.

He takes a photograph from inside his overalls.

He shows it to BJ.

It is BJ’s mother.

BJ mouth open and -

He puts a finger to BJ’s lips.

He says: ‘I think you need a new friend, Barry.’

BJ nod.

He says: ‘Can I be your friend?’

BJ nod.

He taps photograph of BJ’s mother: ‘I’ll help you then.’

BJ nod.

‘Will you help me?’

BJ nod.

‘Will you go to the Spencer Boys for me?’

BJ nod.

‘Will you tell them Joe is dead?’

BJ nod.

‘Will you tell them Eric Hall killed him?’

BJ -

‘Will you?’

BJ -

He taps photograph again: ‘I’ll help you, if you help me.’

BJ -

‘Isn’t that what friends are for?’

Head bobbed and wreathed, BJ nod -

It is 1977 -

Not heaven .

The family gone -

The telephone is ringing and ringing and ringing.

I don’t answer it -

I haven’t time.

Sunday 26 March 1972:

‘I think about you -’

Crawling through Huddersfield and on to the M62, over the moors and on to Rochdale, the stage bare but for the wraiths and the sheep, the pylons and the pile-ups, the sky black:

‘Heath names Roman Catholic as Minister of State in Northern Ireland as strikes cripple Ulster and soldiers face angry Protestant crowds and buildings blaze…’

I switch off the radio, talking to myself:

‘Susan Louise Ridyard, aged ten, missing seven days. Last seen at 3.55 p.m. on Monday 20 March outside Holy Trinity Junior and Infants School, Rochdale…’

The hard rain -

‘She knows, Maurice. She knows.’

The wraiths and the sheep -

‘She sees her.’

The pylons and the pile-ups -

‘She’s waiting for you.’

The sky black and only black -

‘I think about you all the time.’

I pull up on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a telephone box. It is the colour of dried, spilt blood.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m parking two doors down from Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a strained part of Rochdale -

Strained by the waiting ambulance, the two police cars and the men at the door.

It’s pissing down and there’s no sign of George.

Mr Ridyard is standing in the doorway talking to one of the uniforms.

I walk along the pavement and up their path, the rain in my face.

‘Nice weather for ducks,’ says Derek Ridyard.

I nod. I shake his hand. I show my warrant card to the uniform. I follow Mr Ridyard inside -

Through into their front room, dark with the rain -

Dark with their pain -

The seventh day :

Mrs Ridyard is sitting on the sofa in her slippers. She has her arms tight around her older son and other daughter, the children looking at the hands in their laps -

The patterns in the carpet.

‘Sit down,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

I sit down opposite the sofa. I smile at the kids. I look at Mrs Ridyard.

Mrs Ridyard is staring at the framed photograph on the top of the television -

The framed photograph of three children sat together in school uniforms, the older son and other daughter with their arms around the youngest girl:

Susan Louise Ridyard -

All big white teeth and a long fringe, smiling.

The framed photograph of two girls and one boy that’ll become just one girl and one boy in the photographs on the sideboard, the photographs in the hall, the photographs on the wall, the one girl and one boy growing -

Always growing but never smiling -

Never smiling because of the little girl they’ll leave behind on top of the TV, the little girl who’ll be always smiling -

Never growing but always smiling:

Susan Ridyard -

The one they’ll leave behind.

I look away out of the window at the new and detached houses across the road, the neighbours at their curtains, the rain hard against their windows.

‘Here we are,’ says Mr Ridyard, coming back in with the tea on a tray.

I smile.

Mr Ridyard puts down the tray. He looks up at me. He says: ‘Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Sweet enough already,’ he says, quietly.

I try not to stare -

Not to stare at the woman on the sofa in her slippers, arms tight around her older son and other daughter.

I look away again out of the window at the new and detached houses across the road, the neighbours at their curtains, the rain hard against their windows -

That same rain hard against the Ridyards’ leaking, rotting frames -

The only sound.

I say: ‘My name is Maurice Jobson and I’m with Leeds CID. Three years ago a little girl called Jeanette Garland went missing over Castleford way and I was involved in that investigation -’

They are looking at me now -

The children blankly, their father intently -

Their mother, his wife nodding -

Nodding and saying: ‘You never found her, did you?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Not yet?’

‘The investigation is still open.’

There are trails of tears down Mrs Ridyard’s face -

Trails of tears that leave red scars upon her cold, white skin.

Mrs Ridyard looks up through her tears and their trails -

Looks up through her tears and their trails with hate -

Hate and blame -

With hate and blame she looks into my face;

A face where she can see no trails of tears, no red scars upon my cold, white skin.

I say: ‘Mrs Ridyard, I think you know where your daughter is.’

Silence -

The rain hard against her leaking, rotting frames, the only sound -

The only sound before she howls -

Her mouth open, contorted and screaming -

She howls -

Her bone-white fingers digging into the faces of her older son and daughter -

Her husband on his feet: ‘What? What are you saying?’

I say: ‘You see her, don’t you?’

Howling -

Contorted and screaming, her mouth open -

Her face to the ceiling, her eyes wide with the pain -

The pain in the belly where she grew her -

Digging -

Digging bone-white fingers into the faces of her older son and daughter -

Shaking -

Shaking with tears, tears of sadness and tears of rage, tears of pain and tears of -

Horror -

Horror and pain, rage and sadness, raining down between her bone-white fingers, raining down between her bone-white fingers on to her children, the children she clutches between her bone-white fingers and broken arms, arms shaking with the tears, the tears of pain and the tears of horror, the tears of sadness and the tears of rage, the tears for -