David Peace - 1977

They had my tapes out of the drawers, spinning the reels, streamers in the wind, my books, my childhood crimes, tearing them to shreds -

Wailing: ‘The man I love is up in the gallery…’

‘You know who he is.’

‘I don’t. He could be anyone.’

‘No he couldn’t. You know he couldn’t.’

And then she put her mouth over mine, sucking out my breath, her tongue choking me.

‘Fuck me, Jack. Fuck me like you used to.’

I broke away, screaming over and over: ‘You’re dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.’

Whispering: ‘No, Jack. You are.’

They picked me up off the floor and carried me to my bed and laid me down, Carol stroking my face, Eddie gone and my Bible open, reading:

‘This will happen in the last days: I will pour out upon everyone a portion of my spirit; and your sons and daughters shall prophesy; your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.’ .

‘We love you, Jack. We love you,’ they sang.

Don’t lose yourself, not now .

In the last days.

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Saturday 4th June 1977

I wake alone from an empty sleep, alone in Janice’s empty sheets, alone in her empty bed, in her empty room.

It’s Saturday morning, 4 June, and I’ve had two hours fitful kip, hot sun coming up.

I lean over and switch on the radio:

Three policemen shot dead in Ulster, man on Nairac murder charge, ITV still on strike, Scotland fans arriving in London, Keegan joins Hamburg for half a million, temperatures expected to reach seventy .

Or more.

I sit on the edge of the bed, head waking:

Red lights, shotgun blasts, cancer wards, death camps, bodies under tan raincoats, terrible rooms peopled by the dead .

I put on my boots and walk across the hall and bang on Karen Burns’ door.

Dragging the waters, drowning gulps from the black river:

Keith Lee, another Spencer Boy, bare-chested in jeans: ‘What the fuck you want?’

‘Seen Janice?’

Karen lying on her stomach on the bed, Keith glances round: ‘This business or personal?’

I push him back into the room, ‘That’s not an answer Keith. That’s a question.’

Karen raises her head, ‘Fuck.’

‘I know what you did to Kenny, man. Used up a lot of goodwill.’

I slap him and tell him: ‘Kenny was sticking it into Marie Watts behind Barton’s back. Fuck another man’s woman you get everything that’s coming to you.’

Karen pulls a dirty grey sheet over her head, white arse my way.

Keith rubs his face and points a finger: ‘Yeah well, I’ll remember that next time Eric Hall or Craven come knocking.’

I stare him down.

He looks round the room, nodding to himself.

Something’s up with our Keith, something more than Kenny getting a slapping.

But fuck him .

I pull the sheet off Karen Burns, white, twenty-three, convicted prostitute, drug addict, mother of two, and slap her across the arse:

‘Janice? Where the fuck is she?’

She rolls over, tits flat, one hand over her cunt, the other chasing the sheet: ‘Fuck off, Fraser. I haven’t seen her since Thursday night.’

‘She wasn’t working last night?’

‘Fuck knows. All I’m saying is I didn’t see her.’

I let the sheet drop over her and turn back to Keith: ‘What about Joe?’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s keeping a low profile.’

‘Man hasn’t left his room in a week.’

‘Cos of that shit with Kenny?’

‘Fuck that. Two sevens, man.’

‘You believe that bollocks?’

‘I believe what I see.’

‘And what do you see, Keith?’

‘A million little apocalypses and a lot of bloody reckonings.’

I laugh: ‘Get a flag, Keith. It’s the Jubilee.’

‘Fuck off.’

I say, ‘Very patriotic,’ and shut the door on the pieces of shit and their shitty little world.

A key turns in the lock, the handle next.

And there she is, tired and full; tired from fucking, full from fucking.

‘What you doing here?’

‘I told you, I’m leaving her.’

‘Not now, Bob. Not now,’ and she goes into the bathroom, slamming the door.

I follow her.

She’s sat on the toilet, lid down, crying.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Leave it, Bob.’

‘Tell me.’

She’s swallowing, trying to stop the sobs.

I’m on the toilet floor, holding up her chin, asking, ‘What happened?’

In the backs of expensive motors, leather gloves gripping the back of her neck, cocks up her arse, bottles up her cunt…

‘Tell me!’

She’s shaking.

I hold her, kissing her tears.

‘Please…’

She stands up, pushing me off, over to the mirror, wiping her face, ‘Fuck it.’

‘Janice, I need to know…’

She turns square, hands on her hips: ‘All right. They picked me up…’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you fucking think?’

‘Vice?’

‘Yeah, Vice.’

‘Who?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘You saw their warrant cards?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake Bob.’

‘You told them to call Eric?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘And Eric told them to call you.’

There are ropes around my chest, thick heavy ropes, getting tighter with every second, every sentence.

‘What did they say?’

‘They laughed and called the station. Called your house.’

‘My house?’

‘Yes, your house.’

‘And then what?’

‘They couldn’t find you, Bob. You weren’t there.’

‘So what…’

‘You weren’t there, Bob?’

The ropes burning my chest, breaking my ribs.

‘Janice…’

‘You want to know what happened then? You want to know what they did next?’

‘Janice…’

‘They fucked me.’

Bile in my mouth, my eyes closed.

She’s screaming: ‘Look at me!’

I lift the lid and cough, her behind me.

‘Look at me!’

I turn around and there she is:

Naked and bitten, red streaks across her breasts, across her arse.

‘Who?’

‘Who what?’

‘Who was it?’

She slips down the wall and on to the bathroom floor, sobbing.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. Four of them.’

‘Uniforms?’

‘No.’

‘Where?’

‘A van.’

‘Where?’

‘Manningham.’

‘Fuck you doing in Bradford?’

‘You said it wasn’t safe round here.’

I’ve got her in my arms, cradling her, rocking her, kissing her.

‘You want a doctor?’

She shakes her head and then looks up. ‘They took photos.’

Fuck, Craven .

‘One of them have a beard, a limp?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

She looks away and swallows.

There’s bright sunlight on the window, creeping across the toilet mat, getting nearer.

‘They’re dead,’ I hiss. ‘All of them.’

And then suddenly there are car doors slamming outside, boots on the stairs, banging on the doors, banging on our door.

I’m out in the room, ‘Who is it?’

‘Fraser?’

I open the door and there’s Rudkin, Ellis behind him.

Rudkin: ‘Fuck you doing here? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

Visions of Bobby, broken eggs and red blood on white baby cheeks, cars braking too late .

Too late .

‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

But Rudkin’s staring past me into the bathroom, at Janice on the floor: