David Peace - 1983

You nod.

‘Wasn’t there that last Saturday though,’ he sighs. ‘I remember that.’

You nod again, looking at the sweets and the crisps, the cigarettes and the alcohol, the pet food and the local papers.

You say: ‘Heard husband topped himself?’

‘Aye,’ says Mr Dixon. ‘Be a couple of years later, mind.’

You nod towards the door. ‘In that house?’

Mr Dixon shakes his head. ‘Wife would know, good with stuff like that she is. Know it wasn’t here though.’

‘The mother?’ you ask. ‘That was here though?’

Mr Dixon nods. ‘Oh aye, that was here.’

‘Not a very lucky family,’ you say.

‘This bloody street,’ whispers Mr Dixon, the bloody street listening at the door. ‘You know who else lived on here, don’t you?’

You shake your head.

‘The Morrisons,’ he says. ‘Clare and Grace?’

You stop shaking your head. You swallow. You stare. You wait.

‘Grace was one of them that got shot when them blokes did over Strafford in centre of Wakey?’

‘And Clare?’

‘They thought Ripper did her, over in Preston,’ he smiles. ‘He’s always denied it mind, has Ripper.’

‘Clare Strachan,’ you tell him.

He nods. ‘That’d be her married name.’

‘What about him?’ you say. ‘Ever see him round here?’

Mr Dixon takes the photo from you. He stares at the twenty-two-year-old face of Michael Myshkin -

Round and smiling.

Mr Dixon shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d remember him.’

You drive into Leeds. You park under the arches -

The Dark Arches;

Two black crows fighting with a fat brown rat over a bin-bag -

UK DK sprayed in white on a damp green wall;

You lock the car. You walk through the arches and out into the night -

It is Saturday 4 June 1983.

‘You shouldn’t keep coming here,’ says Kathryn Williams. ‘Folk’ll start talking.’

‘I wish they bloody would.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tell me what you know about Jeanette Garland.’

‘I -’

‘Her father?’

‘John, I -’

‘Her mother?’

‘Please John, I -’

‘Her uncle?’

Kathryn Williams is squeezing her hands together in her lap, her eyes closed.

‘Her neighbour?’

She opens her eyes: ‘Who?’

‘Clare Strachan,’ you say -

She stands up: ‘Not here.’

You grab her arm -

She looks down at it. She says: ‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Am I?’

‘Please John, I -’

‘I want to know if you think Michael Myshkin killed Jeanette Garland?’

‘John, I -’

‘Susan Ridyard?’

‘I -’

‘Clare Kemplay?’

She looks at you. She closes her eyes. She shakes her head.

The Press Club -

In the sights of the two stone lions -

Leeds City Centre:

Almost ten .

You are waiting outside in the rain.

They come along the road under two separate umbrellas.

‘John Piggott,’ says Kathryn Williams. ‘This is Paul Kelly.’

Paul Kelly juggles his briefcase and umbrella to shake your hand.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet,’ you say.

He looks at you. Your bandages and your bruises.

‘He’s had a bad week,’ says Kathryn.

Paul Kelly shrugs. He opens the Press Club door:

Members Only .

‘After you,’ you say to Kathryn.

She smiles.

You follow her down the steps.

It is badly lit and half empty.

You sit down at a table against the far wall.

‘What can I get you?’ you ask them both.

‘Nothing,’ says Paul Kelly.

‘You sure,’ you say.

‘You’re not a member,’ he smiles. ‘They won’t serve you.’

Kathryn Williams stands up. ‘I’ll get them.’

You hold out a fiver. ‘At least let me pay.’

She waves it away: ‘What do you want?’

‘Bitter,’ says Paul.

‘Water,’ you say. ‘If they’ve got any.’

Kathryn Williams looks at you. She smiles. She walks over to the bar.

You’re sitting across the table from Paul Kelly, your back to the bar and the door -

In the corner is a pool table with a game in progress.

‘Used to be a stage there,’ says Paul Kelly.

‘Really?’

‘A long time ago,’ he says.

You look up at the walls, the dark walls with their dim photographs of the famous and the dead. You look back -

Paul Kelly is staring at you.

You smile.

‘Recognise anyone?’ he asks.

‘John Charles, Fred Trueman, Harvey Smith,’ you say.

‘Had them all in here,’ he nods.

‘Not Sir Geoffrey?’

He smiles. He shakes his head. ‘More’s pity.’

Kathryn brings the drinks over on a tray. She sets them down.

She hands you your water. ‘Having a nice time?’

‘Just chatting,’ you say.

She lights a cigarette. She says: ‘What about?’

‘Yorkshire,’ you say, looking at Paul Kelly. ‘And the past.’

Paul Kelly glances at his watch.

Let’s Dance is on the jukebox.

Kathryn’s knee touches yours beneath the table -

(You say run) -

You move your knee closer into hers. She doesn’t move away -

(You say hide) -

‘So go on,’ Kathryn tells you. ‘Ask him.’

Paul Kelly looks up at you. He is waiting -

His pint already gone.

You cough. You shift your weight. You say: ‘I wanted to ask you about your cousin Paula. Her daughter Jeanette.’

Kathryn moves her leg away from yours -

(For fear tonight) -

Paul Kelly looks at you again. He tips his glass up.

You say: ‘Do you want another?’

‘Murdered cousin and missing niece?’ he says and shakes his head. ‘No, thanks.’

Kathryn stubs out her cigarette. She says: ‘Same again?’

You both look up at her, but she’s already at the bar.

You turn back to him -

He is staring at you again.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I’m representing a man called Michael Myshkin and -’

‘I know.’

‘I do appreciate -’

He nods towards Kathryn at the bar. ‘I only came here because she asked me.’

‘I appreciate that,’ you say. ‘It was very good of you.’

He shakes his head. He looks at his watch again. ‘Not really. She suffered as much as anyone.’

You take a cigarette from the pack she’s left on the table. You light it.

‘I suppose you know about Eddie? Jack Whitehead?’

‘Yes,’ you nod.

Kathryn brings the next round over on a tray. She sets them down.

‘Still having a nice time?’ she laughs, handing you another water.

You hold up the cigarette: ‘I took one of yours, sorry.’

‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Everyone else does.’

Kelly takes a big sip from his bitter. He says: ‘This is fun.’

Let’s Dance has finished.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say again.

‘Look, Mr Piggott,’ he says. ‘Ask your questions. But I think you’ll find you’re talking to the wrong Kelly.’

Down by the dark arches under the railway -

She pulls you up, bringing your mouth to hers as you topple on to the back seat -

A pretty young damsel chanced my way -

Her tongue pushes down harder on yours -

Down by the dark arches under the railway -

The taste of her own cunt in her mouth pushing her harder -

Singing Vilikens and Dinah, so blithe and so gay -

You take off her knickers -

Then I stepped up to her so gay and so free -

And she takes your cock in her right hand and guides it in -

To her did I say will you my sweetheart be?

Using your right hand to move your cock clockwise around the lips of her cunt -