David Peace - 1980

‘Every name I’ve read to you today is present in these photographs. Every name except McCardell, who was in Strangeways.’

‘So? What’s your point?’

‘Look at the photographs, Mr Hunter,’ he sighs. ‘Every person I’ve asked you about is sitting round that table with you, glasses raised.’

‘It was Richard Dawson’s fortieth birthday party,’ I say. ‘It was held at the Midland Hotel and half of bloody Manchester was there.’

‘That’s obvious from the photos, Mr Hunter,’ he smiles. ‘The question is which half? By the looks of these photographs it was strictly convicted criminals, homosexuals, pornographers, and you.’

I start counting, letting him smile – letting that smile get bigger and bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger and bigger – bigger and bigger and bigger until I lean forward and spread the photos across his desk, fingers to the faces, and tell him -

‘Actually sir, I don’t think it was strictly convicted criminals, homosexuals, and pornographers; not unless you’re implying that Chief Constable Smith or Chief Inspector Hook fall into any of those categories.’

Silence -

Silence while Chief Constable Ronald Angus decides whether or not to reach forward and take a magnifying glass to the photos, to the faces under my fingers, silence until -

Until he coughs and looks at Jobson and says: ‘Well we’ve obviously been given erroneous information, Mr Hunter.’

I nod, careful not to gloat, waiting.

‘And I am grateful to you for shedding light on the nature of these photographs,’ says Angus.

‘My pleasure,’ I tell him, unable to resist.

‘However,’ continues the Chief Constable. ‘I’m afraid we’re still going to have to ask you to make yourself available tomorrow afternoon in the hope that you’ll be able to shed similar light on your relationship with Richard Dawson and some of his associates.’

Fuck -

‘Where?’

Fuck, fuck -

‘Here.’

Thinking, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Asking: ‘Same time?’

He nods.

Silence again, silence until -

Until I stand up -

‘Good afternoon,’ I say.

They mumble as I see myself out.

I close the door behind me, stop for a moment outside - expecting to hear raised voices inside.

Disappointed, I turn and walk straight into Dick Alderman -

‘Letting you go, are they?’ he winks.

I smile back: ‘Good behaviour.’

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ he grins, knocking on the Chief Constable’s door. ‘From what I’ve heard.’

I smile, thinking -

I know the time, I know the way -

I know the place, know the place well .

Leeds, fucking Leeds:

Medieval Leeds, Victorian Leeds, Concrete Leeds -

Concrete decay, concrete murder, concrete hell -

A concrete city -

Dead city:

Just the crows, the rain, and the Ripper -

The Leeds Ripper -

King Ripper.

Monday Night in the City of the Dead -

I park under the dark arches, dripping and damp, walls running with water and rats -

The driest place in the whole bloody city.

I gather up the Exegesis and the various pieces of pornography and blackmail that litter the car and heap them into a Tesco’s bag, then I walk up through the arches, past the Scarborough, into the Griffin.

I ring the bell and wait, listening -

Electronic Beethoven.

The receptionist comes out of the back, a faint smile as he recognises me -

‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Good evening,’ I say.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hunter?’

‘I’d like a room, please.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘A couple of nights perhaps?’

‘Fine,’ he says and pushes the paperwork across the desk.

I put down my Tesco bag and pick up a pen from the desk.

The receptionist goes over to the keys hanging behind the desk, takes one from its hook and places it next to the forms I’m filling in.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, not looking up. ‘I was hoping to have my old room again? 77?’

‘That’s what I’ve given you, sir,’ he says.

I look at the key lying on the desk next to my hand -

‘Thank you,’ I say, but he’s already gone.

In the room, the dark room -

No sleep.

No more sleep, just -

Two huge wings that burst through the back, out of my skin, torn, two huge and rotting wings, big black things that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing -

Solemn and grave .

No more sleep, just -

Wings, wings that burst through my back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, big black wings that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing -

Solemn and grave from birth .

No sleep, just -

Just Exegesis etched into my chest, nails bloody, bleeding, broken -

Et sequentes .

Notes everywhere, across the floor, the bed, the Griffin furniture, I check my watch, turn the radio down, pick the phone up off the bed and get a dialling tone, check my watch against the speaking clock and dial, hoping her parents don’t answer again:

‘Joan?’

‘Peter? Where are you?’

‘Leeds.’

‘Why?’

‘They haven’t finished with me,’ I whisper. ‘I have to be back there at two tomorrow.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh how I wish you weren’t there,’ she says, voice splintered. ‘I hate that place, those people. Every time you’re ever there we’ve had nothing but bad luck and news.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t get any worse.’

‘Don’t tempt fate, Peter. Please…’

‘I won’t,’ I say, then ask: ‘How’s Linda?’

‘Sedated.’

‘What time did you get back?’

‘Tenish. But I went over to see her mum and dad, the kids.’

‘How are they?’

‘How do you think they are?’

‘Do the kids realise what’s happened?’

‘I think the army of reporters outside the house should help.’

‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘I’ll call Smith, tell him to get his act together.’

‘I already did,’ she says.

‘You called Clement Smith?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re joking? What did you say?’

‘Told him what I thought of his treatment of the Dawsons and us.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He told me he was only acting as duty dictated.’ ‘What did you say?’

‘Told him he would rot in hell for what he’d done.’

‘You didn’t? What did he say?’

‘I don’t know, I hung up.’

‘Joan!’

‘He’s a pompous fool, Peter.’

‘But he is only doing his job.’

‘So was Herod.’

‘Joan, please…’

‘If that’s the job, I honestly hope you won’t be doing it for much longer. I really do, Peter.’

Silence, silence as I wonder if anyone else is listening – silence as I wonder if I even am, silence until -

Until I say: ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this.’

‘Stop saying you’re sorry,’ she sighs.

‘But I am.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ she says. ‘Just be careful.’

‘I will.’

‘I love you.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

‘Night-night.’

‘Night, love,’ I say and hang up.

No sleep, just -

Tearing through the bedside drawers -

Flapping about through the sheets and the blankets -

Windows open -

Tipping over the bed -

Stripping every sheet and curtain -

Windows closed -

Tearing and flapping and tipping and stripping the whole fucking room until -

Until there it is -

There behind the radiator -

Behind the radiator -

The Holy Bible -