David Peace - 1974

I pressed the chimes again and looked out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, to the Viva parked back down on the road. I thought I could make out two or three giant bright orange goldfish in the pond. I wondered if they liked the rain, if it made any difference to their lives at all.

I turned back to give the chimes one last go and found myself face to face with the unkind face of a heavy-set man, tanned and dressed for golf.

“Is Mrs Dawson home by any chance?”

“No,” said the man.

“Do you know when she might be back?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I might be able to reach her?”

“No.”

“Is Mr Dawson at home?”

“No.”

I vaguely placed the face. “Well, I won’t keep you then Mr Foster. Thank you for your help.”

I turned and walked away.

Halfway down the drive I looked back and caught the twitch of a curtain. I turned right on to the lawn and walked across the soft grass to the pond. The raindrops were making beautiful patterns on the surface. Down below the bright orange fish were still.

I turned and stared back at Shangrila in the rain. The curved white tiers looked like a rack of oyster shells or the Sydney fucking Opera House. And then I remembered my father’s two-penneth about Shangrila and Mr John Dawson:

Shangrila looked like a sleeping swan .

Noon, Willman Close, Pontefract.

Knuckles rapped on the steamed-up window of the Viva. Back to earth with a bump, I wound down the window.

Paul Kelly leant into the car. “What about Barry? Fucking hell, eh?” He was out of breath and didn’t have an umbrella.

I said, “Yeah.”

“Heard his head came right off.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“What a way to go. And in fucking Morley, eh?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Paul Kelly grinned, “It stinks in here, man. What the fuck you been doing?”

“I had a bacon sandwich. Mind yourself,” I said as I wound the window back up, though not all the way, and got out.

Fuck.

Paul Kelly, photographer. Cousin of the more famous John and sister Paula.

The rain was coming down even harder, with it all my fucking paranoia:

Why Kelly and not Dicky or Norm?

Why today?

Coincidence?

“Which one is it?”

“Eh?” I said, locking the car door, pulling my jacket over my hea_d.

“The Goldthorpe’s?” Kelly was looking at the bungalows. “Which one is it?”

“Number 6.” We walked across the Close to the houses at the end.

Kelly took a huge fucking Japanese camera out of his bag. “The old bag’s in 5 then?”

“Yeah. Did Hadden give you the money for her?”

“Yeah,” said Kelly, stuffing the camera inside his jacket.

“How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“Cash?”

“Aye,” grinned Kelly, tapping his jacket pocket.

“Half and half?” I said, knocking on the glass door.

“That’ll do nicely, sir,” said Kelly as the door opened.

“Good morning Mrs Sheard.”

“Good afternoon Mr Dunford and…”

“Mr Kelly,” said Mr Kelly.

“A much more civilised hour, don’t you think Mr Dunford?” Enid Sheard was smiling at Paul Kelly.

“I think so,” said Kelly, smiling back.

“Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea?”

Quickly I said, “Thank you but I’m afraid we’re a little pushed for time.”

Enid Sheard puckered her lips. “This way then gentlemen please.”

She led us down the path between the two bungalows. When we reached the back door to Number 6, Kelly jumped at the sudden barking from Number 5 next door.

“Hamlet,” I said.

“My money, Mr Dunford?” said Enid Sheard, clutching the key.

Paul Kelly handed her a plain brown envelope. “One hundred pounds cash.”

“Thank you, Mr Kelly,” said Enid Sheard and stuffed the money into her apron pocket.

I said, “Our pleasure.”

She unlocked the back door to Number 6, Willman Close. “I’ll be putting on the kettle, so you gentlemen just knock on the door when you’re finished.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind,” said Kelly as we went inside.

I shut the door in her face.

“You want to watch yourself there. Get her sexual motor running, you best know how to turn it off,” I laughed.

“You can talk,” said Paul laughing along, his face then sud denly falling.

I stopped laughing, staring at the candle on the draining board, thinking about A Guide to the Canals of the North , won dering where the fuck it was.

Kathryn’s house.

“The Lair of the Ratcatcher,” whispered Kelly.

“Aye. Not much to it is there?”

“How many do you want?” Kelly was attaching a flash to one of his cameras.

“I reckon a couple of each room and a few more of the front room.”

“A couple of each room?”

“Well, between you and me, I’m thinking of doing a book on it, so I’m going to need a fair few photos. Cut you in if you’re interested?”

“Yeah? Cheers Eddie.”

I kept out of the light as Kelly moved from the kitchen into the hall and to the door of Mary Goldthorpe’s bedroom.

“This her room then?”

“Yeah,” I said, pushing past Kelly.

I went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top right hand one. I rooted down through the knickers until I found what I was looking for. I draped a single stocking over the edge of the drawer and hated my own fucking guts.

“Magic,” clicked Kelly as I moved out of the way.

I stared out on the back garden and the rain, thinking of my own sister.

“Do you reckon they were at it?”

“Probably.” I put the stocking back and closed the drawer on Mary Goldthorpe’s underwear.

“Dirty bastards.”

I led the way into Graham’s room. I took a book from the shelf and opened it up. “Try and get a good one of this,” I said, pointing at the sticker of the owl and the threat it carried.

“This book belongs to Graham and Mary Goldthorpe. Do not steal it or you will be hunted down and killed,” read Kelly. “Fucking hell.”

“Get one of the bookcase and all.”

“Some real page-turners,” laughed Kelly.

I walked across the small dark hall and opened the door to the front room.

The fireplace was the first thing I saw.

Kelly came up behind me, camera flashes exploding across the dim room. “This is where he did it then?”

“Yeah.”

Naked and strangled .

“In the fireplace, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hung in the fireplace .

“You’ll want a few of that then?”

“Yeah.”

The shotgun in his mouth .

“Gives me the fucking creeps, it does.”

“Yeah,” I said into the space above the hearth.

The finger on the trigger .

“Why’d he do it?”

“Fuck knows.”

Kelly snorted, “You must have some bloody notion, you’ve been living the thing for God knows how long.”

“Police reckon he hated noise. Wanted silence.”

“Well he’s got that all right.”

“Yeah.”

I looked at Kelly clicking away, white stars shooting across the room.

Paula’s husband had shot himself too.

“You wonder why they bother with chimneys in this day and age,” said Kelly, still snapping away.

“They have their uses.”

“If you’re fucking Santa Claus, aye.”

“Style?” I suggested.

“Well these ones have got that. Remember all the fucking fuss about them?”

“About what?”

“These bungalows?”

“No.”

Kelly began changing films. “Oh aye, right to-do there was. I remember because we wanted to get my Nana and Daddy Kelly in one of these or one of them others in Castleford.”