David Peace - 1983

Everybody shouting -

Everybody except Bill;

Down the stairs and into the cars -

100 miles an hour;

Bill, Dick, and John Rudkin in the one car -

110 miles an hour;

Jim driving ours, Murphy in the back seat -

120 miles an hour;

Police radio still reporting shots fired -

120 miles an hour;

Me screaming at Jim: ‘Can’t you go any fucking faster?’

120 miles an hour;

Hammering into the radio: ‘This is Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, repeat: Do not approach the scene -’

120 miles an hour;

I tell them: ‘Armed officers are being deployed -’

120 miles an hour;

I order them: ‘Establish roadblocks in a five-mile radius, extending radius five miles every ten minutes -’

120 miles an hour;

I warn them: ‘DO NOT APPROACH THE CRIME SCENE!’

120 miles an hour;

John Murphy, head between the front seats -

Drunk and laughing, fucked forever -

‘Fuck they all call you the Owl for?’ he shouts.

‘Because of my glasses,’ I reply.

‘I see,’ he grins -

‘Now fuck off and let me do my job.’

He sits back -

I look into the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the dark Yorkshire night, the Christmas lights already broken or off -

Murphy crying, wishing he were somewhere else -

Someone else -

Other people;

Crying and wishing we were all dead -

Or maybe just me -

Just me .

Fuck him -

Fuck them all -

The bloody lot of them:

I am the Owl .

Prentice slams on the brakes:

It is 1.30 a.m. -

Tuesday 24 December 1974:

The Bullring -

Wakefield.

There is an ambulance and a couple of Pandas at the bottom of Wood Street -

Our two cars with all doors open;

Bill sat in the passenger seat of one car telling us how it’s going to be:

‘Dick and Jim, get up Wood Street and wait for the call. Start rewriting this; times, calls, the whole fucking thing.’

They nod. They go.

‘You hold the line here,’ he tells Rudkin. ‘Everyone out of sight, especially Brass.’

Rudkin nods.

Bill looks at his watch: ‘Put the call in for the SPG in three minutes.’

Rudkin nods again.

‘Me?’ asks Murphy.

‘You get fucking lost and fucking lost fast,’ hisses Bill. ‘Not your patch.’

He nods. He goes.

Bill looks at me -

I nod.

He stands up. He walks over to the back of the car -

I follow.

He hands me the Webley. He takes the L39 for himself.

He closes the boot of the car.

There are faint, distant screams on the wind.

Bill Molloy looks at me. He stares at me -

I stare back at him:

There is cancer in his eyes and he knows it; no-one at his bedside when he dies .

‘Know what we’re going to have to do, don’t you?’ he asks -

I nod.

‘Let’s get going then.’

I follow him across the Bullring -

Towards the screams.

I look up at the first floor of the Strafford -

The lights are on.

Bill looks at his watch. He opens the door -

The screams loud.

We go up the stairs. We go into the bar -

Into the screams. Into the smoke. Into the music:

Rock ’n’ Roll .

The record on the jukebox stuck -

In hell:

A woman is standing behind the bar with blood on her. She is screaming.

An old man is sat at a table by the window. He has one hand raised.

Bob Craven is standing in the centre of the room. He is not moving.

Bob Douglas is lying on his stomach by the toilets. He is crawling.

A big man is on his back on the floor. He is opening and closing his eyes -

Derek Box next to him, dead.

Bill walks up to Craven. He asks him: ‘What happened here, Bob?’

There is blood running from Craven’s ear -

He can’t hear.

Bill hits him across the face -

Craven blinks. He doesn’t speak.

I go over to Bob Douglas. I turn him over on to his back -

He stares up at me.

I ask him: ‘Who did this?’

He speaks but I cannot hear him.

I lean closer to his mouth: ‘Who?’

I listen -

I look up -

Bill Molloy standing over us -

I repeat: ‘Dunford.’

‘Kill the cunt,’ he says. ‘Kill them all.’

I nod.

Bill turns. He shoots the old man sat at the table by the window.

He shoots him dead.

Bill looks at his watch. He looks back down at me -

I stand up.

I walk over to the woman behind the bar.

She has stopped screaming.

She is curling herself into a ball on the floor between the open till and the bar.

She stares up at me -

I know her:

Her name is Grace Morrison.

I know her sister too -

Her name is Clare Morrison.

I have my finger on the trigger of the gun in my hand. I close my eyes -

I see my star, my angel -

My silent bloody angel -

In hell.

I open my eyes -

We all are -

The record on the jukebox stuck -

In hell -

‘Kill them,’ Bill is shouting. ‘Kill them all!’

You stop writing.

There is light outside among the rain -

The branches still tapping against the pane;

You put down your pen.

There are seven thick envelopes before you -

The branches tapping against the pain;

You seal the envelopes.

It is Tuesday 7 June 1983 -

The branches tapping against the pain;

D-2 .

You open the bathroom door. You step inside. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You turn on the taps. You take off your bandages. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You wash your wounds. You dry them. You stand before the sink. You open your eyes. You look up into the mirror.

In lipstick, it says:

Everybody knows .

You drive out of Wakefield for the last time, the radio on:

‘The pathologist who examined Mr Roach told the inquiry yesterday that he believed the injury was self-inflicted and that Mr Roach had put the gun in his own mouth. He admitted, however, that he could not be 100% certain. The inquiry was also told that Mr Roach was hearing voices before his death. Colin Roach, aged twenty-one, died of shotgun wounds in the entrance of Stoke Newington police station in January…’

You drive over the Calder for the last time, the radio on:

‘Mr Neil Kinnock said yesterday that it was a pity that people had had to leave their guts on Goose Green to prove Mrs Thatcher’s strength. Meanwhile, polls continue to predict a Tory landslide with the Alliance and Labour battling for a poor second…’

You drive into Fitzwilliam -

For the last time .

Fitz-fucking-william -

Newstead View -

The street quiet:

No fathers, no sons -

The men not here .

You pull up outside 69 -

What’s left of 69:

There are boards across the windows and the door.

There are black scorch marks stretching up the walls.

There are piles of burnt furniture and clothes in the garden.

There are letters sprayed upon the boards:

LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP .

There are words:

Pervert, Pervert, Pervert, Pervert .

You start the car. You drive slowly down the road to 54:

There is an Azad taxi parked outside, waiting.

Mrs Myshkin and her sister are coming down her garden path. They are wearing headscarves and raincoats. They are each carrying two suitcases.

You get out of the car.

Mrs Myshkin stops at her gate.

‘Where are you going?’ you ask her.

She looks back up the road at 69. She says: ‘You seen what they did?’