David Peace - 1983

Oh no, my gay young man that cannot be -

She digs her nails into your arse, wanting you in deeper -

There is a chap here in blue and he is a-watching me -

You go in hard, your stomach fat and sick -

And if he should see me, what would he say -

Kiss her hard, moving from her mouth to her chin and on to her neck -

Down by the dark arches under the railway -

‘Eddie,’ she whispers -

Pop goes the weasel -

You slip out of her cunt and off her -

Down by the dark arches -

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

You want to go home and drink sweet white wine and smoke some fine Red Leb watch TV with Pete and Norm and fall asleep on their sofa and wake up about five go downstairs and wank yourself back to sleep and get up late eat crispy pancakes and listen to records and do the crossword on the bog meet Gareth for Yorkshire Pudding and onion gravy on the Springs then sit in half-empty pubs playing the jukebox and pool end up in a disco dancing to Culture Club with ugly girls in Boots No. 7 buying them an Indian or a Chinky and tapping off having a shag planning an away day a cheap holiday, wishing you were far away -

But you’re not:

You’re here -

Where everybody knows.

Break my heart in two -

In the black, broken heart of the black, broken night, you pull into the Redbeck -

The Viva back.

A man sat alone in the car -

Headlights on.

They are shining on a door -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain:

Room 27 -

A light on inside;

A photograph stuck on a wall -

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

A light on inside -

You don’t stop, you don’t stop, you don’t fucking stop -

For fear tonight is all .

This man is at door to hell -

Preston, Sunday 28 December 1980.

Door is banging in wind and rain -

From station to station, this his destination:

The door to hell .

He pulls it back and he sees BJ.

‘Afternoon,’ BJ say.

‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘You got a name?’

I am not who I want to be -

‘No names.’

He points to his own wounds: ‘What happened to you?’

‘Occupational hazard,’ BJ say. ‘Goes with places I go.’

He looks around hell and he says: ‘Is this what you wanted to talk about? The places you go? This place?’

‘You been here before, have you, Mr Hunter?’

He nods: ‘Have you?’

I don’t know how to leave -

‘Oh yes,’ BJ say. ‘Many times.’

‘Were you here on the night of Thursday 20 November 1975?’

BJ brush hair out of two black eyes. BJ try to smile: ‘You should see your fucking face?’

‘Yours isn’t that good.’

‘How’s that song go: if looks could kill they probably will ?’

‘I don’t know.’

BJ take piece of paper out of jacket. BJ hand it to him. BJ say: ‘Well, I do.’

He opens it. He looks at it:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt .

He looks up at BJ then back at piece of paper:

Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975 .

He looks up at BJ again.

BJ say: ‘Here comes a copper to chop off your head?’

‘You do this?’

‘What?’

‘Any of it?’

‘No, Mr Hunter.’ BJ say. ‘I did not.’

‘But you know who did?’

BJ shrug. BJ wait.

‘Tell me.’

BJ shake BJ’s head.

‘I’ll fucking arrest you.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘For what?’

‘Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Obstruction. Murder?’

‘That’s what they want.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Well then, you’ve obviously been overestimated.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning a lot of people seem to have gone to a lot of bother to make sure you’re not in Yorkshire and not involved with Ripper.’

‘So why do they want you arrested?’

‘Mr Hunter, they want me dead,’ BJ say, spinning truths from lies and lies from truths. ‘Arresting me’s just a way to get their hands on me.’

‘Who?’

BJ shake BJ’s head again. BJ try not to laugh: ‘No names.’

Not yet:

It isn’t working yet -

Hunter’s pissed off.

‘Stop wasting my time,’ he shouts and opens door -

The door out of hell .

But BJ there first, at door -

The door to hell .

BJ slam it shut.

‘Here,’ BJ tell him. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

He holds piece of paper up to BJ’s face. He says: ‘Start fucking talking then.’

BJ push him and paper away: ‘Fuck off.’

‘You called me,’ he shouts. ‘Why?’

‘I didn’t bloody want to, believe me,’ BJ say, moving away from him. ‘I had some serious doubts.’

‘So why?’

‘I was going to just post picture,’ BJ mutter. ‘Then I heard about your suspension and I didn’t know how long you’d be about.’

‘Just this,’ he says, holding up piece of paper. ‘That was all?’

BJ nod.

‘Why?’

‘I just want it to stop,’ BJ say. ‘Want them to stop.’

‘Who?’

‘No fucking names!’ BJ scream. ‘How many more times?’

He looks at BJ then back down at Clare: ‘So why here? Is this where it all started? With her?’

‘Started?’ BJ laugh. ‘Fuck no.’

‘Where it ended?’

‘Beginning of end, shall we say.’

‘For who?’

‘You name them?’ BJ whisper. ‘Me, you, her, – half fucking coppers you’ve ever met.’

He looks back down at piece of paper in his hands:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt .

‘Why Strachan?’ he asks. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk ?’

‘Why they murdered Clare?’ BJ shake BJ’s head. ‘No.’

‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

‘No.’

‘I want names -’

‘I’ll give you one name,’ repeating today’s instructions for today’s mission, BJ whisper. ‘And one name only.’

‘Go on?’

‘Her name was Morrison.’

‘Who?’

‘Clare – her maiden name was Morrison.’

‘Morrison?’

‘Know any other Morrisons, do you, Mr Hunter?’

‘Grace Morrison.’

‘And?’

‘The Strafford,’ he says. ‘She was the barmaid at the Strafford.’

‘And?’

‘They were sisters,’ he whispers.

‘And?’

He looks down at piece of paper in his hand:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt .

He looks up again, his eyes open: ‘The Strafford.’

‘Bullseye.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘I was there.’

‘Where? You were where?’

‘Strafford,’ BJ say and BJ open door -

The door out of hell .

But he is there first, at door -

The door to hell .

He slams it shut.

‘You’re not going anywhere, pal,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’

‘But that’s your lot, Mr Hunter.’

‘Fuck off,’ he screams. ‘You tell me what happened that night?’

‘Ask someone else.’

‘You mean Bob Craven? There isn’t anybody else, they’re all dead.’

Mission for Dead accomplished, BJ smile: ‘Exactly.’

‘Fuck off,’ he says, grabbing BJ’s jacket.

BJ push him away.

He grabs BJ again.

BJ punch him.

He goes down.

BJ have fingers round his throat but he still has hold of BJ. BJ shout: ‘What fuck are you doing?’