David Peace - 1977

‘No,’ I say.

‘But why? You said you need all the friends you can get.’

‘Let me talk to Louise first.’

‘Yeah,’ says Jack Whitehead suddenly. ‘You should be with your wife. Your family’

‘You married?’ I ask him.

‘Was,’ he says. ‘A long time ago.’

I stand in the lobby, under the on/off strip lighting, and I die:

‘Louise?’

‘Sorry, it’s Tina. Is that Bob?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She’s at the hospital, love. He’s almost gone.’

In the lobby, under the on/off lighting, I wait, everything gone.

‘Bob? Bob?’

In the lobby, under the on and the off, I hang.

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Wednesday 15th June 1977

I sat in the Redbeck car park between two Bird’s Eye lorries, my head spinning from that room, those memories, and these options:

See Rudkin and Hall, or tail Fraser.

Heads or tails:

Heads.

I took out the scribble Fraser had given me:

Rudkin lived nearer, Eric Hall further.

Rudkin dirty, Hall dirtier

Hall dirty, Rudkin dirtier.

Heads or tails.

Staring across the car park at that room.

That room, those memories.

The writings on those wailing walls.

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie , always back to Eddie.

In the rearview mirror, Carol waited on the back seat; white flesh and bruised tones, red hair and broken bones, the pictures from the wall, the pictures from my Nursery Walls, the pictures from down the Memory Lane.

I sat there in a car full of dead women, a car full of Rippers, and tossed the two-pence coin again.

Heads or tails:

Heads.

Durkar, another Ossett, another Sandal:

Another piece of White Yorkshire -

Long drives and high walls.

I drove past Rudkin’s, saw two cars in the drive and pulled up on Durkar Lane and waited.

It was 9.30 on the morning of Wednesday 15 June 1977.

I wondered what I’d say if I walked up that drive, rang that bell:

‘Excuse me, Mr Rudkin. I think you might be Yorkshire Ripper and I was wondering if you had any comment to make?’

And just as I was thinking that, another car pulled into his drive.

Five minutes later and Rudkin pulled out of his drive in his bronze Datsun 260, another man in the passenger seat, and headed down Durkar Lane.

I followed them down into Wakefield, stalling at the lights on the way in, out along the Dewsbury Road, over Shawcross, past the tip, down through Hanging Heaton and into Batley, through the centre until they pulled up outside RD News on the Bradford Road, on the outskirts of Batley.

Batley, another Bradford, another Delhi:

Another piece of Black Yorkshire -

Low walls and high minarets.

I drove past RD News and pulled up just beyond a Chinese take-away and waited.

Rudkin and the other man stayed inside the car.

It was 10.30 and the sun had come out.

Five minutes later and a maroon BMW 2002 pulled up just past Rudkin’s Datsun and two men got out, one black, one white.

I span round in my seat and made sure:

Robert Craven.

Detective Inspector Robert Craven -

‘They are outstanding police officers who have our heartfelt thanks.’

Craven and his black buddy went over to Rudkin’s car and Rudkin and a fat man got out.

Mike Ellis, I was guessing.

Then the four of them went inside RD News.

I closed my eyes and saw again rivers of blood in a woman’s time, umbrellas up, bloody showers, puddles all blood, raining cats and blood.

I opened my eyes, the sky blue, clouds moving fast up the hills behind the shops.

I got out of my car and crossed the road to a telephone box.

I dialled her flat.

She answered: ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’

‘What?’

‘I want to know. About the pictures, I need to know.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘It’s important.’

‘What?’

‘Everything. Who took them? Who arranged it? Everything.’

‘Not on the phone.’

‘Why not?’

‘Jack, if I tell you on the phone, I’ll never see you again.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it?’

I stood in the red telephone box, in the middle of the red river of blood, below the blue sky, and I looked up at the window above the newsagent’s.

John Rudkin was looking out of the window, one hand on the frame, the other square, palms open, smiling from ear to ear.

‘Jack?’

‘I’ll come over then.’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

And I hung up, staring at John Rudkin.

I went back to the car and waited.

Thirty minutes later, Rudkin came out of the shop, shirtsleeves, jacket over his shoulder, followed by the fat man and Craven.

The black man didn’t come out.

Rudkin, Craven, and the fat man shook hands, and Rudkin and the fat man got into the Datsun. Craven waved them off. I sat there, waiting.

Craven went back inside the newsagent’s.

I sat there, waiting.

Ten minutes later, Craven came back out.

The black man didn’t.

Craven got into his car and drove off.

I sat there.

Five minutes later, I got out and went into the newsagent’s.

Inside it was bigger than it looked, selling Calor gas and toys as well as papers and fags.

There was a young Pakistani behind the counter.

I said to him, ‘Who owns this place?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Who’s the boss? Is it you?’

‘No, why?’

‘I wondered if the flat above was for rent?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘I’d like to put me name down if it ever comes up. Who would I see about that?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said, thinking about it, thinking about me.

I picked up a Telegraph & Argus and handed him the money.

‘Best speak to Mr Douglas,’ he said.

‘Bob Douglas?’ I nodded.

‘Yes, Bob Douglas.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said and left, thinking:

‘They are outstanding police officers who have our heartfelt thanks.’

Thinking, fuck off.

The Pride, Bradford, just down from the Telegraph & Argus . Tom was already there, coughing into his beer at the bar.

I put my hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Sorry, springing this on you.’

‘Yeah,’ he smiled. ‘Awful having to drink with the enemy.’

‘Sit down?’ I said, nodding at the table by the door.

‘Not getting a drink?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I said and ordered one and another for him.

We sat down.

‘Not very nice,’ I said. ‘That piece about the letter.’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said, palms up, genuine.

I took a sip and said, ‘They’re hoaxes anyway.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘They’re not from the bloody Ripper, tell you that.’

‘We had them tested.’

‘We? Thought it was nowt to do with you.’

‘There was evidence and all.’

‘Fuck it. It wasn’t why I phoned.’

‘Go on,’ he said, relaxing, relieved.

‘I want to know about one of yours, Eric Hall?’

‘What about him?’

‘Been suspended, yeah?’

‘Him and rest of them.’

‘Right. What you got on him?’

‘Not much.’

‘You know him?’

‘Say hello, that way.’

‘You know this last one, this Janice Ryan?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, I got me a bloke saying she was Eric’s bird, that Detective Inspector Hall pimped her a bit and all.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yep.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me like but, these days, not much bloody would.’