David Peace - 1983

‘No,’ he says. ‘No.’

‘Well, shut up and relax,’ BJ hiss and pull Jim ’s limp cock out of his vest and pants, sweet and sour smell of old talc and dry piss in BJ’s face -

BJ stroke him until he is hard and then BJ start to suck -

And Jim closes his eyes and dreams he is fucking BJ up arse as BJ beg him to never stop, his muscular left forearm tight around BJ’s thin little neck, his right fist around BJ’s pale cock as his own slides in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and -

Out:

Jim comes and BJ spit.

Jim does himself up and asks: ‘You usually here, are you?’

BJ shake BJ’s head: ‘Your first time?’

Jim blushes and then nods.

‘I’m just passing through,’ BJ say.

‘That’s a shame.’

BJ nod.

‘Where are you from?’

‘I’m a space invader,’ BJ wink and open door and step out of cubicle.

Jim stays there, smiling.

‘You should go first,’ BJ tell Jim .

‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘Mention it.’

Jim looks confused like he wants to shake BJ’s hand, but BJ look away into mirror and Jim hurries off home for a safer and more leisurely wank on his bathroom mat.

BJ run tap into dirty sink and splash icy water on BJ’s face and rinse some round mouth and get dry with bottom of star shirt and then BJ count money and walk out across empty platforms through grey light to cafй and sign that promises all-day Christmas dinners today -

Christmas Eve.

BJ look at BJ’s watch:

It’s almost five.

BJ open door and step into cafй -

It’s empty but warm and radio is on.

A big woman with a red face comes out of back.

‘You open?’ BJ ask.

‘Just about,’ she smiles.

‘Ta,’ BJ say.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Tea please.’

‘Be five or ten minutes? I’ve just stuck it on.’

BJ nod and sit down opposite door.

There’s a paper on one of chairs, yesterday’s -

Two headlines:

RL STAR’S SISTER MURDERED .

COUNCILLOR RESIGNS .

By Jack Whitehead and George Greaves -

Two headlines and two faces:

Paula Garland and William Shaw -

Bill .

‘Hello?’

BJ look up into another face -

Clare’s face:

Streaked black with mascara rivers she’s cried, smudged black where she’s tried not to, her hair now blonde again -

‘Hello,’ BJ say and stand up and go towards her and take her in BJ’s arms and hold her as BJ and Clare shake with tears and shock of it all until woman comes out of kitchen with tea and asks if Clare wants one as well and BJ nod and say she does and BJ and Clare sit back down across table from each other, Clare’s hands in BJ’s hands, and woman brings another cup and asks if everything is OK and BJ tell her everything is OK but when she’s gone, Clare asks: ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Get out of here,’ BJ say.

‘Where?’

‘Scotland?’

‘It’s where the kids are,’ she says and hangs her head. ‘Be first place they’ll look.’

‘London?’

‘Second place.’

‘Preston?’

Clare looks up: ‘Why?’

‘There’s a coach at five-thirty.’

‘Aye,’ she nods and then she looks at BJ with her huge black eyes and asks: ‘Why Gracie?’

‘Loose ends,’ BJ say.

‘So what are we?’

I woke again after less than an hour and lay in the shadows and dead of the night, the house quiet and dark, listening for something, anything: animal or bird’s feet from below or above, a car in the street, a bottle on the step, the thud of a paper on the mat, but there was nothing; only the silence, the shadows and the dead, remembering when it wasn’t always so, wasn’t always this way, when there were human feet upon the stairs, children’s feet, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, bicycle bells and front doorbells, laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, the smells, sounds and tastes of meals being cooked, served and eaten, of drinks poured, glasses raised and toasts drunk by men with cigars in black velvet jackets, their women with their sherries in their long evening dresses, the spare room for the light summer nights when no-one could drive, when no-one could leave, no-one wanted to leave, before that last time; that last time when the telephone rang and brought the silence that never left, that was here with me now, lying here with me now in the shadows and dead of a house, quiet and dark, empty -

Thursday morning.

I reached for my glasses and got out of bed and went down the stairs to the kitchen and put on the light and filled the kettle and lit the gas and took a teapot from the cupboard and a cup and saucer and unlocked the back door to see if the milk had been delivered yet but it hadn’t though there was still enough milk in the fridge (there was always enough milk) and I poured it into the cup and put two teabags in the teapot and took the kettle off the ring and poured the water on to the teabags and let it stand while I washed the milk pan from last night and the Ovaltine mug and then dried them both up, staring out into the garden and the field behind, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a man fully dressed in dark brown trousers, a light blue shirt and a green V-necked pullover, wearing his thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a man old and fully dressed at four o’clock in the morning -

Thursday 19 May 1983.

I put the teapot and cup and saucer on a plastic blue tray and took it into the dining room and set it down on the table and poured the tea on to the milk and took a plain digestive from the biscuit barrel and then put on the gas fire and switched on the radio and sat in the chair opposite the fire to wait for the news on Radio 2:

‘Peter Williams, the Yorkshire Ripper, will again appear at Newport Magistrates’ Court on the Isle of Wight to give evidence against James Abbott, a fellow prisoner who is accused of wounding Williams with a piece of glass at Parkhurst Prison on January 10 this year; an attack that left Williams badly scarred and requiring surgery .

‘Williams, dressed in a grey suit, open-necked shirt with gold cross and chain, was booed upon his appearance in court. The defence first asked him if he was not a rather unpopular person, to which Williams replied that this was an opinion based upon ignorance. Williams was also asked whether he realised that his story was worth a lot of money to the press. Williams said that this was the trouble with society today, that people were motivated by greed and that there were no moral values at all .

‘Earlier Williams admitted that he continues to receive advice from the voices in his head. The trial of Mr Abbott continues.’

I switched off the radio. I took off my glasses.

I was sat in the chair in tears again;

In tears -

Knowing there was salvation in no-one else -

No other name here under heaven .

In tears -

Thursday 19 May 1983:

Day 8.

I drove out of Wakefield and into Castleford, black light becoming grey mist over Heath Common, the ponies standing chained and still, the roads empty but for lorries and their lights.

I parked behind a pub called the Swan. I walked into the centre of Castleford.

On the high street a bald newsagent was fetching in two bundles of papers from the pavement.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘Morning,’ he said, his face red.

‘You know where Ted Jenkins had his studio?’ I asked. ‘Photographers?’

He stood upright: ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’