David Peace - 1980

‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Yep?’ I said, looking up from the paper .

‘Whitehead, Jack Whitehead from the Evening Post. Have a word?’

‘What about?’

‘Well,’ said the thin-faced man in the Macintosh, sitting down beside me, ‘just have a chat about the shooting, the lads.’

‘The lads?’

‘Bob and Dougie.’

‘You know them, Mr Whitehead?’

‘Know them? Course I bloody do. Local heroes they are. They’re the lads that nicked Michael Myshkin. You heard of him, I take it?’

I nodded .

‘George told me you’re over here helping out.’

‘That’s one way of putting it I suppose.’

Jack Whitehead touched my arm and said: ‘And what would be another?’

And then I could hear my name over the tannoy: ‘Mr Peter Hunter. Telephone for a Mr Peter Hunter.’

And Jack Whitehead, he let go of my arm and winked: ‘Let’s hope it’s good news.’

But it wasn’t:

It was Joan and another dead baby -

Another dead dream.

Five years on, five minutes down the road; no respite: Stanley Royd, a huge old house squatting back from the road amongst the bare trees and empty nests, its modern wings extending out into the shadows.

Burned-black stone and the picked-grey bone of an Auschwitz, a Belsen -

I drive through the gateway and up the long, tree-lined drive.

Were they ash or were they oak?

I park on the gravel and walk through the drizzle up a couple of steps and open the front door.

A wave of warmth and the smell of sickness hits me, the smell of faeces.

I show my warrant card at reception and ask to see Jack Whitehead.

The woman in white behind the desk picks up the black telephone.

I turn around to wait, watching a television hidden in the corner amongst the second-hand furniture, the large wardrobes, the dressers and the chairs, the heavy carpets and the curtains.

I glance at my watch:

Three .

Thin skin and bones shuffle past in their striped pyjamas and their spotted nightgowns, the whisper of their slippers and their vespers, the scratchings and the mumblings of the day room.

‘Mr Hunter? Leonard will take you up,’ says the woman in white.

A big skinhead in blue denim overalls leads me up the stairs and down corridor walls painted half green and half cream, across the landing and out of the main building, over a cold walkway and into one of the more recent extensions, locking and unlocking doors as we go.

I say: ‘How long has he been here?’

‘Jack? Best part of three years.’

‘And yourself?’

‘Worst part of five,’ smiles Leonard, proud of his progress.

‘You’ve known him a while then?’

The orderly nods.

‘True they found him with a nail in his head?’

‘That’s what they say’

‘You didn’t see it though?’

‘He was next door for months.’

‘Pinderfields?’

The orderly nods again.

‘Get many visitors does he?’

‘A vicar and some of your lot. Not that there’s much point.’

‘Doesn’t say much I heard.’

Oh no, he talks all right. Not that he makes any sense.’

‘He’s drugged up, I take it?’

The orderly nods one last time and turns another key, opening the door onto a long corridor of locked cells -

‘This the secure wing, is it?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘And this is where you keep Jack?’

‘He’s got his own room,’ says the orderly, pointing at the last door.

He unlocks the door and opens it.

‘I’ll wait outside,’ he volunteers.

‘You sure that’s all right?’

‘He’s wearing restraints, but they’re to protect him not you.’

‘Protect him?’

‘From himself.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and step inside, closing the door behind me -

The room is darker and warmer than the corridor, bare but for a bog and his bed, a single chair and a patch of light from a high window.

I sit down next to the metal bed with the high barred sides.

Jack Whitehead is lying on his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, his hands chained to the sides of the cot, his eyes open and fixed on the light above, his face bleak and unshaven except for his scalp back in the shadows.

‘Mr Whitehead,’ I begin. ‘My name is Peter Hunter. I’m a policeman from Manchester. You probably won’t remember, but we met a long time ago.’

‘I remember,’ he says, his voice dry and cracked. ‘Hexed, I remember everything.’

The toilet is dripping -

‘I’d like to ask you some questions if I might; questions about some things that happened in 1977. About a policeman called Eric Hall?’

Dripping, dripping -

Jack Whitehead sighs, his eyes watering, a tear slipping down towards his ear.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, softly.

‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘You haven’t done anything.’

‘Is…’

Dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Go on. Don’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid, Mr Whitehead.’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

With a deep breath, I ask: ‘Is it true that you met Eric Hall? True that you knew him?’

‘I know Eric, yes.’

‘You know he’s dead?’

Jack Whitehead blinks, his damp eyes still fixed upon the ceiling -

Dripping -

‘Why did you meet him?’

‘Information,’ says Jack Whitehead, slowly.

‘About what?’

‘About the dead.’

‘The dead?’

Dripping, dripping -

‘You’re surprised?’ he smiles. ‘What did you think it’d be about? The living?’

‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, gripping the sides of my chair. ‘Did you try and blackmail Eric Hall?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Yes, I did.’

‘How?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Information.’

‘You had information on him or you wanted information from him? Which was it?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Two pieces of a broken heart; but do they fit? That’s the question, isn’t it?’

‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, leaning forward. ‘Was this about Janice Ryan?’

Suddenly, a blink and he’s changed:

In gargoyle pose he’s crouched upright on his feet, hands still chained and clipped to the sides of the bed, his face turned up to where the sky would be -

I stand, knocking over the chair -

Two doors, always open. Who makes the witches? Who casts the spells? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the doors. Futures and pasts, futures past, rats teeth into my belly both. The dead not dead, lorry loads of meat rotting in containers, the salt lost. Big black dogs, choking at said containers, the salt gone. The dead not dead, voices prophesizing war, endless war. Why won’t you let them sleep? Why won’t you let them be? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the door. Never tonnes undone, loose again, loose again, the dead not dead.’

Silent, his head back, eyes white -

I step towards him and then straight back as he spits and foams through teeth gritted and bleeding:

‘Hunter! Hunter! Jbd ias hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’

‘What?’

‘Hunter! Hunter! Hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’

‘What?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Hunter! Hunter! Sti rip sll iwl lik!’