David Peace - 1974

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Gaz say what happened?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Gaz didn’t say why?”

“Nobody knows.” Kathryn picked up her empty glass and put it back down again.

“The press conference is tomorrow?”

Kathryn picked up her empty pack of cigarettes. “Of course.”

“What time?”

“I think they said ten. But I’m not sure.” She pulled out the silver foil from inside the packet.

“What did Hadden say about the post-mortem?”

“I don’t know Eddie. I don’t bloody know.” Her eyes were full again, her face red. “Edward, can I please have a cigarette?”

I took out my pack. “There’s only one.”

Kathryn sniffed hard. “Forget it. I’ll get some more.”

“Don’t be daft. Take it.”

“Did you go to Castleford?” She was rooting around in her bag.

“Yeah.”

“You saw Marjorie Dawson then? What’s she like?”

I lit my last cigarette. “I didn’t see her.”

“Eh?” Kathryn was counting out change for the cigarette machine.

“I saw Paula Garland.”

“Jesus, you never. Fucking hell.”

Her mother was sleeping, her father was snoring, and I was on my knees on her bedroom floor.

Kathryn pulled me up, bringing my mouth up to hers as we toppled back on to her bed.

I was thinking of Southern girls called Sophie or Anna.

Her tongue pushed down harder on mine, the taste of her own cunt in her mouth pushing her harder. I used my left foot to free her legs of her knickers.

I was thinking of Mary Goldthorpe.

She took my cock in her right hand and guided it in. I pulled back, using my own right hand to move my cock clockwise around the lips of her cunt.

I was thinking of Paula Garland.

She dug her nails into my arse, wanting me in deep. I went in hard, my stomach suddenly hollow and sick.

I was thinking of Clare Kemplay.

“Eddie,” she whispered.

I kissed her hard, moving from her mouth to her chin and on to her neck.

“Eddie?” There was a change in her voice.

I kissed her hard, moving from her neck to her chin and back to her mouth.

“Eddie!” A change not for the better.

I stopped kissing her.

“I’m pregnant.”

“What do you mean?” I said, knowing exactly what she fucking meant.

“I’m pregnant.”

I slipped out of her cunt and on to my back. “What are we going to do?” she whispered, putting her ear to my chest. “Get rid of it.”

Fuck, I still felt drunk.

It was almost 2 AM when the taxi dropped me off.

Fuck, I thought as I turned the key in the back door. There was a light still on in the back room.

Fuck, I needed a cup of tea and a sandwich.

I switched on the kitchen light and began to root through the fridge for some ham.

Fuck, I ought to at least say hello.

My mother was sat in her rocking chair, staring at the black TV.

“Do you want a cup of tea, Mum?”

“Your friend Barry…”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead, love.”

“Fuck,” I said automatically. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not joking.”

“How? What happened?”

“Car crash.”

“Where?”

“Morley.”

“Morley?”

“Police just said Morley.”

“The police?”

“They rang a couple of hours ago.”

“Why’d they ring here?”

“They found your name and address in the car.”

“My name and address?”

She was shaking. “I’ve been worried sick, Eddie.” She pulled her dressing gown tight, rubbing her elbow over and over again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Where’ve you been all this time?” She was shouting. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her raise her voice.

“I’m sorry.” I went to put my arms around her just as the kettle in the kitchen began to whistle.

I went out into the kitchen and switched off the electric ring. I came back with two mugs of tea. “This’ll make you feel better.”

“He’s the one who was here this morning isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“He seemed ever so nice.”

“Yeah.”

16 December 1974.

Brakes went. He goes straight into the back of the van. Bang!” Gilman smashed his fist into his open palm.

“Van was carrying windows wasn’t it?” whispered New Face, sitting down next to Tom.

“Aye. I heard one of the panes severed his fucking head,” said Another New Face behind us.

We all said, “Fuck.”

Wakefield Police Station, Wood Street, Wakefield.

Business as usual:

A dead mate and a dead little girl.

I looked at my father’s watch on the worst rainy day and Monday of them all.

It was almost ten.

We’d met up in the Parthenon at the top of Westgate, downed coffee and toast and watched the windows steam up and the rain come down.

Talking Barry.

At nine-thirty we’d run through the rain with rival papers on our heads, up to Wood Street Nick and Round 3.

Gilman, Tom, and me; two rows back and not giving a fuck. Nationals down the front. Familiar faces from before giving it to me cold. Me not giving a fuck. Or not much of one, any road.

“What the fuck was he doing in Morley?” said Gilman again, shaking his head from side to side.

“You know Barry, probably looking for Lucky,” smiled Tom from Bradford.

A big hand into my shoulder. “Drunk as a fucking skunk is what I heard.”

Everyone turning round.

Jack fucking Whitehead sitting directly behind me.

“Fuck off,” I said weakly, not turning round.

“And a good morning to you Scoop.” Whisky breath on the back of my neck.

“Morning Jack,” said Tom from Bradford.

“Missed quite a eulogy this morning. Not a dry pair in the office after Bill had finished. Quite moving it was.”

Tom said, “Really? That’s…”

Jack Whitehead leant forward into my ear, but didn’t lower his voice. “Could have saved yourself a journey too, Scoop.”

Me, eyes front. “What?”

“Mr Hadden wants you back at base, Scoop. Like pronto. Asap. Etc.”

I could feel Jack’s smile behind me, boring into the back of my head.

I stood up, not looking at Gilman or Tom. “I’ll go and phone him.”

“You do that. Oh, and Scoop?”

I turned round, looking down at Jack in his seat.

“The police are looking for you.”

“What?”

“You were drinking with Barry, I heard.”

“Piss off.”

“Star witness. How many did you have?”

“Fuck off.”

“Yep,” winked Jack, looking around the crowded room. “Looks like you’re in just the right place at the right time. For once.”

I pushed past Tom, moving as fast as I could to the end of the row.

“Oh, and Scoop?”

I didn’t want to turn round. I didn’t want to look at that fucking grin again. I didn’t want to say, “What?”

“Congratulations.”

“What?” I said again, trapped against the legs of hacks and chairs.

“What the Lord taketh with one hand, he giveth with the other.”

I was the only person in the room standing who wasn’t a technician or a copper, the only one saying, “What?”

“The pitter-patter of tiny feet and all that?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

The whole room was looking from me to Jack and back.

Jack put his hands behind his head and gave the floor his best stage laugh. “Don’t tell me I’ve scooped Scoop?”

The room was smiling with Jack.

“Your girlfriend, Dunston?”

“Dunford,” I said, involuntarily.

“Whatever,” said Jack.