David Peace - 1983

Mrs Dawson looks at her husband.

I take out a large black Letts desk diary for 1974. I open it. I turn to the addresses and telephone numbers at the back. I find the names beginning with the initial D . I turn it around. I put it down on top of the newspaper and the plans. I point to one name and one number.

Marjorie Dawson leans forward. John Dawson doesn’t.

I smile. I say: ‘He’s got your number, has Mr Jenkins.’

Marjorie Dawson looks at her husband.

‘He’s got a lot of numbers,’ I say.

John Dawson is biting his lip.

‘Don Foster for one,’ I say. ‘Not that he’ll be answering his phone again.’

Marjorie Dawson looks at me.

‘He’s dead,’ I say.

She is opening and closing her mouth.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought you knew.’

Dawson tries to hold his wife’s hand -

She moves away from him.

He tells his wife. ‘I only just heard.’

‘That what Derek Box came to tell you, was it?’ I ask.

John Dawson puts his hands over his face.

‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news,’ I say.

Dawson looks up from his hands.

‘George Marsh is dead too.’

‘What?’ says Dawson.

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I killed him.’

‘What?’ he says again. ‘Why -’

I smile again. I put three photographs down on the table on top of his plans -

Jeanette. Susan. Clare .

His wife looks down at them. His wife looks up at him -

‘I wish you were dead,’ she says. ‘I wish we all were.’

I pick up the photographs.

He has his head in his hands again.

She stands up. She slaps him. She claws at his hands. She screams.

I leave.

I drive from Shangrila back home -

Home .

I park outside the house, my home.

There are no lights on, the curtains are not drawn -

Everything gone -

The children’s feet upon the stairs, the laughter and the telephones ringing through the rooms, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, the sounds of meals being cooked, served and eaten -

Everybody -

Judith, Paul, my Clare;

Jeanette, Susan, Clare Kemplay;

Mandy -

Everybody gone.

I drive back into Wakefield and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

I park on the road beneath the big trees with the hearts cut into their bark;

I look down the street at 28 Blenheim Road -

I stare at the policemen sat in the dark in their cars;

I close my eyes. I open them. I see no stars -

No stars or angels;

I look up at Flat 5 -

No star, no angel;

Not tonight.

There’s a tap on the glass -

I jump:

Bill -

He tries the passenger door.

It’s open. He gets in.

His hair grey. His skin yellow -

He stinks of death; We both do.

‘Don’s dead,’ he says. ‘So’s John Dawson.’

‘How?’

‘Derek fucking Box did Don. Looks like John and his wife topped themselves.’

I turn to look at him. ‘His wife too?’

Bill nods.

‘What we going to do?’

Bill looks at me. He smiles. He says: ‘We’re late.’

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

The Marmaville Club:

Posh mill brass house turned Country Club-cum-pub, favoured by the Masons -

Favoured by Bill Molloy:

The Badger .

The upstairs room, next to the toilets -

The curtains drawn, the lamps on, no cigars -

No cigars tonight:

Monday 23 December 1974 -

Christmas bloody carols up through the carpet -

The beautiful carpet, all gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -

Like the Chivas Regals and all our faces -

Stood and sat in a circle of big chairs, a couple of upturned and empty ones -

The gang half here:

Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin and Murphy -

John Murphy on his feet and off his rocker -

‘Sit down!’ Dick is shouting at the bastard -

The Manc bastard not listening:

‘No, I fucking won’t sit down,’ Murphy shrieks. ‘Not until someone fucking tells me what the hell is going on over here…’

Bill palms up, asking for calm: ‘John, John, John -’

‘No! No! No!’ Murphy shouts. ‘John Dawson and Don Foster are fucking dead. I want some fucking answers and I want them fucking now!’

We say nothing.

Murphy looks around the room. He points at me. ‘And that fucking cunt -’

Points and screams at me: ‘Now you tell me that fucking headcase has only gone and burned down half our fucking business!’

I say nothing -

‘Fuck only knows what he’s done with Jenkins.’

Nothing.

Bill is on his feet: ‘Believe me, John, we’re all as concerned as you are.’

We don’t nod.

Murphy stops. He stands in the centre of the circle. He is panting and staring -

‘John,’ Bill tells him. ‘What we’ve planned, what we’ve all worked so hard for; it’s not going to be thrown away.’

Murphy is shaking his head.

‘I won’t let that happen,’ Bill promises -

Just so we know -

Reminds us all: ‘Off the streets, out of the shop windows; under our wings and in our pockets.’

We all stare at Bill -

Bill smiles. Bill winks. Bill says: ‘Our very rich pockets.’

We don’t smile.

Bill puts an arm around Murphy. He sits him back down -

Tells him and the rest of us how it’s going to be: ‘We have got a bit to sort out, but then it’ll all be over and our investments secure.’

Jim Prentice shakes his head. He snorts: ‘A bit?’

‘Not talking about much,’ says Bill. ‘Two little problems, that’s all, Jim.’

We wait -

Wait for him to tell us what we know: ‘Derek fucking Box for bloody one.’

‘Two-faced fucking cunt,’ Dick spits -

‘Where is the twat?’ Jim asks.

‘Bastard’s meeting Bob Craven and Dougie at midnight,’ Bill says.

‘The heroes of the hour,’ smiles Rudkin.

‘More ways than one,’ nods Bill. ‘Upstairs in the Strafford.’

There’s a tap on the door. The waitress brings in another tray of whiskeys:

Doubles .

She picks up the empty glasses. She leaves.

Murphy asks Bill: ‘So what’s on the agenda for this meeting of the minds?’

‘You’ll find out,’ he winks -

‘What do you mean?’ says Murphy

Bill turns to Rudkin. ‘You got the guns?’

Rudkin nods.

‘Go get them then,’ he tells him.

Rudkin leaves the room.

Bill gets to his feet. He shouts: ‘Stand up!’

Everybody joins him on their feet, fresh drinks in their hands -

Me too:

For the body is not one member -

‘To us,’ Bill raises his glass. ‘The bloody lot of us.’

But -

‘The bloody lot of us,’ we mumble -

Many .

‘And the North,’ I shout. ‘Where we do what we want!’

‘The North,’ they reply and drain their whiskeys.

We sit back down.

‘And the second little problem,’ says John Murphy. ‘You said there were two?’

Bill turns. He looks over at me -

They all turn. They all look over at me.

‘Eddie Dunford,’ says Bill.

I close my eyes -

I see my star, my angel -

My silent bloody angel;

I open my eyes. I nod. I start to say: ‘I’ll take -’

But there are boots on the stairs -

Heavy boots .

Rudkin bursts through the door: ‘They got fucking shots fired at the Strafford!’

Bill and Dick on their feet first -

Jim and me right behind them -

Murphy fucked;

Everybody down the stairs fast, drunk and ugly -