David Peace - 1980

‘You’re a policeman. Not everyone else thinks like that.’

‘Know a lot about the police, do you Mr Laws?’

‘No.’

‘Know a lot about Helen Marshall though, don’t you?’

‘Is that what this is about? Helen?’

‘Helen? Detective Sergeant Marshall to you.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you? Privately?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Hunter, I can’t tell you that.’

‘She wants your help though?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

I grab the sleeve of his raincoat, cold and wet, grab it and turn him to face me: ‘Tell me!’

He’s shaking his head, asking me: ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going to try and fucking exorcise her or whatever it is you fucking do.’

‘Sticks and stones, Mr Hunter,’ he says. ‘But this is my Father’s house, so please…’

‘Fuck off!’ I shout, standing up: ‘She’s not going to end up here like Libby Hall, not going to end up like Carol fucking Whitehead.’

‘Please…’

‘Leave her alone or I’ll kill you,’ I say, pulling him up by his coat.

‘You don’t believe in demons, Mr Hunter?’ Laws is laughing. ‘Don’t believe in them, do you?’

‘No!’

‘After all you’ve seen, all they’ve done to you?’

‘No!’

‘You still don’t believe in them?’

‘No!’

‘All those miscarriages, those…’

And I punch him once, hard -

Breaking his nose, dark blood across his pale skin -

My arm back and coming in again when -

When Murphy gets a hold of me, a hold of my arm, pulling me back, pulling me away, pulling me off, dragging me back, dragging me away, dragging me off -

Blood on my knuckles -

Tears on my face -

Tears and rage -

Raw.

Sat in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under the small stones with the small names, dead flowers, the cigarette ends and the crisp packets, dead leaves, the only sound John Murphy asking me:

‘What the fuck was that all about?’

‘He’s an evil man and he’s got inside Marshall’s head, I know he has.’

‘Long as it’s only her head he’s inside.’

‘Fuck off,’ I say.

‘Pete, he’s just a dirty old priest. Probably a puff.’

‘No, he’s…’ I’m shaking my head, saying: ‘I don’t know what he is.’

‘I’ll tell you what he could be,’ says Murphy. ‘He’s a priest who could bloody well press charges, and then you’d be fucked – boat you’re in.’

I’m nodding: ‘I know, I know.’

‘Go home,’ says Murphy. ‘Please -’

‘Home?’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Joan’s folks or wherever, anywhere but bloody Yorkshire.’

‘Got an interview with Angus at two,’ I say, looking at my watch:

11:22:12 .

‘Where?’

‘Wakefield.’

Murphy furious: ‘You’re fucking joking?’

I shake my head.

‘Why there?’

‘They’re too busy to keep coming over to Manchester.’

‘It’s bollocks, isn’t it. The whole bloody thing.’

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t you all be back at work?’

‘Monday week,’ he says. ‘If they let us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know, there’s talk of another force coming in,’ he sighs. ‘And to be honest with you Pete, I don’t bloody care.’

I stare up at the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, only sound the clock in the car, the only sound until -

Until I ask him: ‘You heard about Dawson then?’

He nods: ‘Alderman’s tearing his hair out looking for some fucking rent boy.’

‘Rent boy?’

‘Yeah, apparently some little puff was renting the flat above the shop.’

‘What?’

‘The flat above the newsagents. Where they found Dawson.’

‘No?’

He nods: ‘Alderman reckons your mate Dicky was definitely tricky.’

‘Fuck off, John,’ I say.

‘Just telling you what I heard,’ he says, palms up. ‘Just telling you what I heard.’

‘You hear a name?’

‘For who?’

‘The rent boy?’

‘BJ something. Get it?’

‘BJ what?’

He shakes his head, smiling: ‘Sorry, can’t remember that part.’

I say: ‘I think I saw him yesterday.’

‘Shit, no?’

I nod.

‘Where?’

‘Preston.’

‘Fucking hell, Pete.’

I nod.

‘What did he say? Say anything about Dawson?’

I shake my head: ‘But he gave me this.’

Murphy takes the piece of paper from me -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

Clare Strachan.

Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:

Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975 .

Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:

Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975 .

Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:

A target, a dartboard .

Sat in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under the small stones with the small names, dead flowers, the cigarette ends and the crisp packets, dead leaves, the only sound the piece of paper in his hand:

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

‘A bullseye,’ says Murphy, quietly.

I nod.

‘He give you names?’

I say: ‘Just one.’

‘One?’

I nod: ‘Morrison.’

‘Morrison?’

‘Clare Morrison.’

‘Clare Morrison? Who’s that?’

I tap the piece of paper -

The piece of paper in his hands -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

‘Thought her name was Strachan?’

‘Morrison was Clare Strachan’s maiden name.’

‘So?’

‘You know any other Morrisons?’

John Murphy sits there in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, only sound the clock in the car, the only sound until -

Until John Murphy whispers: ‘Grace Morrison?’

I nod.

Whispers: ‘The Strafford.’

I nod.

‘Fuck.’

I nod.

‘What you going to do?’ says Murphy.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You going to tell anyone?’

‘Like who?’

‘Alderman? Smith?’

‘Why? What will they do?’

He shakes his head: ‘What will you do?’

‘You wait and see.’

‘What?’

‘Wait and see, John.’

‘You’re going to rip this thing open, aren’t you? The whole fucking place?’

‘Wait and see,’ I smile. ‘Wait and see.’

‘Fuck, Pete.’

I nod.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

I nod, thinking -

I know the time, I know the way -

I know the place, know the place well .

Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:

Monday 29 December 1980 -

The same ill-feelings and same memories, the same thwarted investigations and same walls of silence, the same black secrets and paranoia, the same hell:

January 1975 -

The same ill-feelings and same memories, the same thwarted investigations and same walls of silence, the same black secrets and paranoia, the same hell:

December 1980 -

The same impotent prayers and the same broken promises, the same blame and the same guilt, reneged and returned: