David Peace - 1980

Half past seven -

Sunday 21 December 1980:

Bradford Road, Batley, halfway between Leeds and Bradford.

I park by a woollen factory that has 229 as an address and cross the road -

I walk past an estate agents, cross another smaller road leading up to the Batley Grammar School, and there it is, between the Chop Suey and a chemist -

Number 230, Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks:

RD News .

I walk past the newsagents, cross the road by the red bus shelter with no glass left, and stand on the other side of the road, taking a good look:

One door, big window full of Christmas adverts and gas heaters downstairs -

One window, curtains drawn upstairs.

I cross back over and go inside the shop -

There’s a tall Indian or Pakistani putting the papers out in front of the counter.

He turns and he nods when he hears me come in -

I look at the piles of Sunday papers, the shelves of sweets and boxes of chocolates, the gas canisters and heaters, the cans of pet food and processed meat, the birthday and the Christmas cards, the beer and the spirits, the cigarettes behind the counter covered with more sweets.

I go through the top shelf -

Penthouse, Playboy, Escort, Razzle, Fiesta etc.

‘You got Spunk?’ I ask.

‘You what?’ says the Indian or Pakistani.

‘Magazine called Spunk?’

‘Never heard of it mate,’ he says.

‘Mucky mag, it is.’

‘Never heard of it,’ he says again, but he’s stopped what he’s doing and is moving back behind the counter.

I pick up a Sunday Mirror that promises photographs from Laureen Bell’s funeral -

I hand him the right money and ask him: ‘You own this place do you?’

‘You what?’ he says, putting the coins in the till.

‘Just asking if this is yours?’ I say, looking round.

‘Why?’

‘Just asking that’s all.’

‘We rent it actually, if you must know.’

‘And the upstairs, you rent that as well?’

He’s pissed off is the Indian or Pakistani and he lets me know: ‘What’s it to you?’

I take out my warrant card.

‘Why didn’t you just say?’ he asks me.

‘You got a licence for that lot?’ I ask him, nodding at the booze.

‘Yeah.’

‘There’s no sign.’

‘Sorry. We’re getting one.’

‘That’s all right then.’ I shrug.

He stands there behind the till, looking nervous.

I ask him again: ‘So what about upstairs?’

‘You what?’

‘That yours?’

‘I told you, we just rent it.’

Again: ‘The upstairs?’

‘No.’

‘Who’s upstairs then?’

‘Don’t know do I.’

‘You don’t know who lives upstairs? Come on.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Who does?’

‘Landlord, I suppose.’

‘Who is?’

‘Mr Douglas.’

Fuck -

‘And where’s he?’

Other side of Moors somewhere.’

‘You don’t have the address, do you?’

‘Not on me, no.’

‘So how do you pay him?’

‘He comes round once a month, doesn’t he.’

‘His first name Bob, is it?’

‘Yeah, it is. He was a copper and all – you probably know him.’

‘Probably do,’ I say. ‘Small world.’

I take the Bradford Road through Batley and into Dewsbury, then the Wakefield Road up through Ossett and into Wakefield, the radio talking about the Laureen Bell funeral:

‘A packed village church listened in tears and silence to Laureen’s favourite record, Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water, before which the vicar had read from St John.’

In the centre of Wakefield I park off the Bullring, staring up at the first floor of the Strafford -

The first floor of the Strafford still boarded up after all these years -

After all these years back again, back in this big black bloody world -

This big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells -

A million black and bloody hells in this big black bloody shrinking world -

Where hells collide:

Wakey Fear -

January 1975, that second week:

Black snow blowing across the Bullring, blue tape keeping the pavement and the entrance clear .

Clarkie and I climbed over the tape, Clarkie saying: ‘So half one, just as they’re about to knock off, Craven and Douglas get the call – shots fired at the Strafford and, while Wood Street are scratching around for the Specials, Craven and Douglas park right out front and head straight up here.’

‘Call logged 1:28 a.m., anonymous?’

‘Yep,’ said Clarkie. ‘Anonymous.’

We started to climb the stairs to the left of the entrance to the ground floor pub, me saying: ‘And they’re aware that shots have been fired and that the SPG are being deployed, yet still they charge right up here?’

‘Hero cops, remember?’

‘Dumb bastards, morelike.’

At the top of the stairs, I pushed open the door -

Two weeks on and the room still stank of smoke, still stank of the bad things that had gone on here, still stank of death -

The mirror and the optics behind the bar, shattered; the jukebox in the corner, in pieces; the carpets and the furniture in sticks, stained .

Clarkie said: ‘So in they come and see bodies and men in hoods and it’s bang! Douglas gets a bullet in the shoulder and thwack! Craven gets a butt to the skull and then the gunmen exit, just minutes before the Specials arrive.’

I was nodding, taking out the SPG report, reading out loud: ‘1:45 a.m., Tuesday 24 December 1974, officers deployed to the Strafford Public House in Wakefield in response to reports of shots fired. On arrival at the scene, officers found the downstairs empty and proceeded up the stairs. On entering the first floor bar, officers found three people dead at the scene and three seriously injured, two with gunshot wounds. There was no sign of the people responsible and calls were made to immediately set up roadblocks. Ambulances were called and arrived at 1:48 a.m.’

I stopped reading -

Clarkie was squatting down, eyes closed.

‘What you thinking?’ I asked him.

He looked up: ‘OK, let’s back up a bit?’

I nodded .

‘We’ve got to sort out what happened before Craven and Douglas, before the Specials.’

Me: ‘Go on.’

‘Well, looking at the sketches and the photographs,’ he said, doing just that. ‘We’ve got the barmaid Grace Morrison, dead behind here,’ and he walked behind the bar, putting the photograph down next to the till -

‘Then we’ve got the three men: Bell dead here,’ and Clarkie put a photo down on the sofa that ran along the window -

‘Box there,’ he pointed, handing me a photo to put down on the floor in front of the bar. ‘And Booker, bleeding to death next to him.’

Four photographs -

Four black and white photographs -

Stood there in the centre of the wreckage, Clarkie and me staring at the four black and white photographs laid out across the room.

‘Order?’ he asked me .

‘Well,’ I said. ‘We’ve got three guns: a shotgun, a Webley, and an L39 rifle.’

‘An L39? That’s the new police rifle,’ said Clarkie .

‘Yep. Popular weapon these days.’

‘So who got what?’

‘Box, Booker, and Douglas get the shotgun; Bell the L39 and the barmaid the pistol, the Webley.’

‘Well, Craven reckoned on a four-man team. We got three guns.’