David Peace - 1980

The pudding gone, we’re slumped in various chairs watching Top of the Pops , various new pens and socks, diaries and chocolates to our name, Joan’s parents telling us how they really liked the Beatles all along, Joan and John disputing the fact, the kids wanting us all to pipe down as after Kelly Marie it’s The Police, Carol insisting we play Monopoly later, although Carl’s got a new game about Napoleon he wants to play and his dad had promised him that Uncle Peter would want to play, which his dad denies and says Uncle Peter’s here for a rest and not to play with him, but Clare prefers Cluedo anyway, although her mum thinks Uncle Peter’s probably also had enough Cluedo to last him a lifetime, but I shake my head and tell her would that it were so, would that it were so.

There’s a round of ham sandwiches and jelly at half-five, just after it turns out to have been the Reverend Green in the study with the candlestick, just after Live and Let Die and just before Eric & Ernie’s Christmas Special, just before we say we really must get going as we’ve still to pop in at Hale on the way home.

With the kisses and the thank yous and all the merry Christmases and happy new years done, we pull away, Joan waving at the seven figures stood in the doorway, the kids racing off back into the house before we’re even at the end of the road, and I put the radio on and Joan asks:

‘What time is it?’

And I press the button that illuminates my new digital watch and say: ‘Six-thirty one and eight seconds.’

‘Thought Carl was going to have it off your wrist,’ she laughs.

‘Took a shine to it, didn’t he?’

She’s nodding: ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they?’

And I’m thinking the same too, nodding.

We pull in to her Aunty Edith’s drive and get out, Joan with another present.

I ring the doorbell and listen to the sound of laughter from the TV as Edith comes to the door of her bungalow -

‘Peter!’ she says. ‘Joan!’

And we hug and we kiss on her doorstep, wishing each other a merry Christmas and then she ushers us in.

And we get another cup of tea and some After Eight’s and Turkish Delight as Edith opens her present and gives us ours.

Then we sit and admire the tea-towels, the handkerchiefs, and the red and black striped tie, as a war film starts on the TV.

Joan’s asleep as we head down the Altrincham Road and on into Alderley Edge and we’re about to turn on to the Macclesfield Road when the first fire engine overtakes us and it’s then I know, know instantly what’s happened -

‘Joan,’ I’m saying. ‘Wake up, love!’

‘Are we back?’

‘It’s the house, love! Look!’

And I pull in to the side of the road and we stare up at the house, another fire engine and another and another -

The house in flames -

Lit match -

Gone.

my face and e shake my fists at the black sky that rains morning noon and night and cry who are these faceless people who forbid my entrance to the halls of grief has no one before descended to this sad hollows depths from that place where pain is host and all hope cut off transmission nine murdered in bradford in november nineteen seventy eight but not received until nineteen eighty noorjahan davit who was initially reported missing in September nineteen seventy eight after leaving an acquaintance looking after her two children and failing to get back in touch which was out of character on leaving home she had stated that she was going to visit her mother at her leeds address and would return later that day however she never arrived at her mothers house person in question is a convicted prostitute who left home in possession of only train fare and stated that she expected her mother to provide her with money for the children extensive inquiries in the manningham area have failed to trace subject this woman is on bail and due to appear at bradford magistrates court to answer charges of soliciting for prostitution at bradford conditions of bail are a curfew between nineteen hundred hours and seven hundred hours daily it is believed that miss davit intended to attend court and had made tentative enquiries to arrange for the custody of her children in the event of her losing her liberty which indicates that she had no intention of absconding also she thereafter failed to keep an appointment with her defending solicitor she is described as being Pakistani born february second nineteen fifty six five feet five inches tall of slim build wearing black polo necked jumper yellow trousers green and black wavy striped woollen jacket with wide sleeves black shoes and carrying a small handbag of the kind that is carried under the arm without strap or handles missing until her body found secreted under an old wardrobe on waste ground off arthington street bradford a post-mortem was carried out and death was due to massive head injuries possibly caused by a heavy blunt instrument it is thought that death occurred some weeks ago and the body is partially decomposed davit was living with a friend off lumb lane when she left home saying she was going away for a few days and was reported as missing from home one week later and in view of the recent spate of prostitute murders a large scale search was carried out and enquiries made regarding her whereabouts all of which proved negative and there had been no positive sightings of her from her being reported missing until the discovery of her body but it is thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected with the other prostitute murders publicly referred to as the ripper murders from the pattern of the injuries this death is connected with the other prostitute murders publicly referred to as the ripper murders connected with the other prostitute murders the ripper murders other prostitute murders the ripper in the red room the numbers upside down the tape playing singing along you are a pal and a confidant and it always will stay this way my hat is off see the biggest gift would be from me the card attached would say thank you for being a friend and when we both get older with walking canes and hair of grey have the fear for it is hard to hear so e stand real close as we walk on across this marsh of shades beaten down by the heavy rain our feet pressing on their emptiness that looks like human form we make our way through the filthy mess of muddy shades and slush moving slowly talking a little he says when we die and float away into the night the milky way you will hear me call as we ascend e will say my name then

Dawn -

Boxing Day:

Friday 26 December 1980 -

I stand in front of a burnt-out shell, thinking this is the second time in a week I’ve seen these marks and smelt this smell, tasted this taste, but this time -

This time I’m stood in front of the burnt-out shell of my own house, seeing those marks and smelling that smell, tasting that taste, this time -

This time the marks on my house, the smell of my house, the taste of my house, this time -

Getting tears in my eyes -

Unable to stop the tears, getting the fear -

Unable to stop the fear -

The stench of that fear and all it’s claimed stinging the inside of my nose and throat, but I can’t move away -

Unable to stop the fear -

And I can only walk through the places where there were doors and windows, where the walls are now black, can only keep walking along the side of the garage until I come to the War Room -

The War Room -

Where the smell is worse still, another door gone, more walls black, the photographs and the map gone, the cassette recorder and the reel to reel, the television and the typewriter, the computer parts melted, Anabasis gone – all of it gone, the metal filing cabinets stained black, the boxes of paper, the stacks of magazines and newspapers, charred and gone -