David Peace - 1980

The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where the Yorkshire Ripper took his hammer and his knife to Laureen Bell and shattered her skull and stabbed her fifty-seven times in her abdomen, in her womb, and once in her eye -

In this ordinary street in this ordinary suburb, this ordinary girl -

This ordinary girl, now dead.

‘I’m not sure about this,’ the woman in white is saying, trying to take hold of the sleeve of my raincoat. ‘I really think you should speak to Mr Papps.’

But I’m away -

Away through the second-hand furniture, the large wardrobes, the dressers and the chairs, the heavy carpets and the curtains -

Away through the skin and the bones, their striped pyjamas and their spotted nightgowns, their slippers and their vespers, their scratchings and their mumblings -

Away up their stairs, down their corridors -

Half green, half cream -

Fresh green, fresh cream -

Wet paint -

Away -

My wings, away -

The woman in white at my heels, still saying: ‘I’m not sure about this.’

My warrant card in her face: ‘Open the doors.’

And she starts turning keys, unlocking doors, until -

Until we come to the last door at the end of the last corridor -

Jack’s door.

We stand there, panting -

Panting until -

Until I say: ‘Open it, please.’

And she turns the key, unlocks the door.

‘Thank you,’ I say and open the door.

I step inside, closing the door behind me -

Behind me, so it’s just me and Jack -

Jack’s lying on his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, his hands loose at his sides, eyes open and face blank, his whole head and face shaven.

‘Mr Whitehead,’ I say.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he replies.

‘Sounds like someone fixed the toilet?’

He nods: ‘And I miss it.’

‘The dripping?’

‘Yes, the dripping.’

And there is silence -

Just silence -

Just silence until -

Until I ask: ‘How was Pinderfields?’

‘Blood on the floor.’

‘Pardon?’

‘There’s always blood on the floor over there.’

‘Pinderfields?’

And Jack sighs, eyes watering -

Tears slipping down his face -

Down his cheek -

His neck -

Onto his pillow -

The mattress -

Onto the floor in puddles -

Puddles of tears upon the stone floor -

The tips of my wings wet.

‘Carol?’ I say.

And he looks up at me, the tears streaming, and he nods: ‘Two pieces of a broken heart.’

‘But do they fit?’ I ask.

‘That’s the question,’ he weeps. ‘That’s the question.’

I look down at the tips of my wings -

The puddles of tears -

The blood on the floor and -

And I lean towards him and I ask him: ‘The things you’ve seen…’

He nods, the tears streaming -

‘All the things you’ve seen,’ I say. ‘Who did those things?’

The tears streaming -

I lean close, wings across us both -

‘Who?’

Tears streaming -

Closer, wings across us -

‘Who?’

His tongue against my face -

‘Who?’

His lips to my ears -

‘Who?’

His words in whispers -

‘Who?’

Whispers -

Whispers in the dark -

And I listen:

‘What looks like morning -’

Listen to the whispers in the dark:

‘It is the beginning of the endless night -’

To the whispers and the tears:

‘Hab rachmones.’

Foot down -

Empty streets, rain -

Straight onto Laburnum Road -

West Yorkshire Police Headquarters -

Voices singing -

Christmas songs and football songs -

Rugby songs and Ripper songs -

At the desk: ‘Angus? Chief Constable Angus?’

A uniform shaking his head, the smell of alcohol upon his breath: ‘He’s not here, sir.’

‘Pete Noble?’

‘Not here, sir.’

‘Bob Craven?’

‘No-one’s here.’

Me: ‘Where are they?’

‘Dewsbury.’

‘Dewsbury?’

‘They’ve got him, haven’t they’

Me: ‘Who?’

‘Ripper!’

‘What?’

‘The fucking Ripper!’

Me: ‘What about him?’

‘Caught the fucking Ripper, haven’t they,’ he laughs, bringing up a can of bitter from behind the desk and draining it -

‘The Yorkshire bloody Ripper!’

Dewsbury:

12:03:03 -

Tuesday 30 December 1980 -

The End of the World:

In a car park up the road from the police station, puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot -

Birds overhead, screaming -

Rain pouring -

The hills black above us, the clouds darker still.

Locking the door, coat up over my head, running -

Running for Dewsbury Police Station -

Dewsbury Police Station -

Modern bricks amongst the black -

Crowds gathering, word spreading -

Off-duty coppers coming in, shifts not going home -

I push on through, card out amongst the many:

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter to see Chief Constable Angus.’

‘Downstairs,’ shouts one of the men behind the desk, struggling to keep the pack at bay.

And downstairs I go -

Through the double doors and down the stairs -

Downstairs -

Underground -

Until I come upon them -

A dark room full of dark men:

Ronald Angus, Maurice Jobson, Peter Noble, Alec McDonald, John Murphy -

Plus two faces -

Familiar faces -

Familiar faces, dark faces -

Dark faces in a dark room -

A dark room with one wall half glass -

The glass, a two-way mirror -

Light from behind the glass -

Behind the glass, the stage set -

Three chairs and a table -

The players -

Alderman and Prentice -

Today’s special guest:

Peter David Williams of Heaton, Bradford -

34-year-old, married, lorry driver -

Black beard and curly hair, a blue jumper with a white v-neck band -

Behind the glass -

Prentice saying: ‘What about Wednesday 10 December?’

Williams: ‘I was at home with the wife.’ Alderman: ‘Every time you’ve been seen, you always have same story – at home with the wife.’

‘But it’s right.’

‘I think it’s strange.’

‘Why?’

‘How can you be so sure that’s where you were?’

‘I’m always at home every night when I’m not on an overnight stay’

Prentice: ‘So how come you were in Sheffield on Sunday?’

‘I picked up a couple hitchhikers and they paid us a tenner to take them to Sheffield.’

‘Where’d you pick them up, Peter?’

‘Bradford.’

‘So they paid you a tenner to take them to Sheffield?’

He nods: ‘Yes.’

Alderman: ‘Bollocks.’

‘It’s right.’

‘Is it fuck; you went to Sheffield to pick up a prostitute.’

‘That’s not true.’

Prentice: ‘So how come your car’s been clocked in all these daft bloody places?’

‘Daft places?’

‘Manchester, for one. Moss Side.’

‘Manchester?’

Alderman: ‘Been there, have you Pete? Moss Side?’

‘No, never.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘But I got it here: FHY 400K, Moss Side, Manchester.’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘I don’t know how either; but I tell you this – it’s bad bloody news, I know that.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, car’s there but you’re not. No-one’s going to swallow that in a month of bloody Sundays, are they?’

‘But I remember now. I left it outside Bradford Central Library one night after it broke down and then I went back and picked it up next day. Someone must have taken it for a ride over that way and then put it back.’

Alderman, laughing: ‘Fuck off.’