David Peace - 1974

Wilson Denies Stonehouse Spying, Man Killed as Three Bombs Explode, Petrol Up to 74p

Johnny Kelly on the back pages, going National:

League’s Lord Lucan? Where’s Our Likely Lad?

Two policemen came in, hats off, sitting down at a window table.

My heart stopped, flopping across the scratches in my notebook:

Arnold Fowler, Marforie Dawson , and James Ashworth .

Three dates.

Back in the Redbeck lobby, a fresh stack of change.

“Arnold Fowler speaking.”

“This is Edward Dunford from the Post . I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m doing a piece on the attacks on the swans up in Bretton Park.”

“I see.”

“I was hoping we’d be able to get together.”

“When?”

“Sometime this morning? I know it’s a bit short notice.”

“I’m actually up at Bretton this morning. I’m doing a Nature Walk with Horbury Juniors, but it doesn’t start till half-ten.”

“I can be up there for half-past nine.”

“I’ll meet you in the Main Hall.”

“Thank you.”

“Bye.”

Bright brittle winter sunshine pierced the windscreen on the drive over to Bretton, the heater turning as loud as the radio: The IRA and Stonehouse, the race to be the Christmas Number One, Clare Kemplay dying all over again on the National Stage.

I checked the rearview mirror.

One hand on the tuner, I went local:

Clare still breathing on Radio Leeds, phone-ins demanding that something be done about this kind of thing and what kind of animal would do such a thing and, anyroad, hanging’s too good for the likes of thems that do this kind of thing.

The police suddenly quiet, no leads, no press conference.

Me thinking, the calm before the fucking shit-storm.

“Nice day for it,” I said, all smiles.

“For a change,” said Arnold Fowler, sixty-five and clothes to match.

The Main Hall was large and cold, the walls plastered with children’s drawings and paintings of birds and trees.

High above, a huge papier-mache swan hung from the roof beams.

The hall stank like another church in winter and I was thinking of Mandy Wymer.

“I knew your father,” said Arnold Fowler, leading me into a small kitchen with two chairs and a pale blue Formica-topped table.

“Really?”

“Oh aye. Fine tailor.” He unbuttoned his tweed jacket to show me a label I’d seen every day of my life: Ronald Dunford, Tailor .

“Small world,” I said.

“Aye. Though not like it used to be.”

“He’d be very flattered.”

“I don’t reckon so. Not if I remember Ronald Dunford.”

“You’re right there,” I smiled, thinking it had only been a week.

Arnold Fowler said, “I was very sorry to hear of his passing.”

“Thank you.”

“How’s your mother?”

“You know, bearing up. She’s very strong.”

“Aye. Yorkshire lass through and through.”

I said, “You know, you came to Holy Trinity when I was there.”

“I’m not surprised. I reckon I’ve been to every school in the West Riding at some time or other. Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah. I can remember it well, but I couldn’t draw to save me life.”

Arnold Fowler smiled. “You never joined my Nature Club then?”

“No, sorry. I was Boy’s Brigade.”

“For the football?”

“Yeah.” I laughed for the first time in a long time.

“We still lose out to this day.” He handed me a mug of tea. “Help yourself to sugar.”

I heaped in two big spoonfuls and stirred them for a long time.

When I looked up, Arnold Fowler was staring at me.

“What’s with Bill Hadden’s sudden interest in the swans then?”

“It’s not Mr Hadden. I did a piece on the injuries to those ponies over Netherton way and then I heard about the swans.”

“How did you hear about them?”

“Just talk at the Post . Barry Cannon, he…”

Arnold Fowler was shaking his head. “Terrible, terrible business. I know his father too. Know him very well.”

“Really?” I asked, playing it typecast, playing it dumb.

“Aye. Such a shame. Very talented young man, Barry.”

I took a scalding mouthful of sweet tea and then said, “I don’t know any of the details.”

“I’m sorry?”

“About the swans.”

“I see.”

I took out my notebook. “How many of these attacks have there been?”

“Two this year.”

“When were they?”

“One was in August sometime. Other was just over a week ago.”

“You said this year?”

“Aye. There are always attacks.”

“Really?”

“Aye. Sickening it is.”

“The same kind?”

“No, no. These ones this year, they were just plain barbaric.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tortured, they were.”

“Tortured?”

“They hacked the bloody wings off. Swans were alive and all.”

My mouth was bone-dry as I spoke. “And usually?”

“Crossbows, air rifles, pub darts.”

“What about the police? You always report them?”

“Aye. Of course.”

“And what did they say?”

“Last week?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Nothing. I mean, what can they say?” Arnold Fowler was suddenly fidgeting, playing with the sugar spoon.

“The police haven’t been back to see you at all since last week then?”

Arnold Fowler looked out of the kitchen window, across the lake.

“Mr Fowler?”

“What kind of story are you writing Mr Dunford?”

“A true one.”

“Well, I’ve been asked to keep my true stories to myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are things I’ve been asked to keep to myself.” He looked at me as though I was dumb.

I picked up my mug and drained the tea.

“Have you got time to show me where you found them?” I asked.

“Aye.”

We stood up and walked out through the Main Hall, under the swan.

At the big door, I asked him, “Did Clare Kemplay ever come here?”

Arnold Fowler walked over to a pencil drawing curling on the wall above a heavy painted radiator. It was a picture of two swans kissing on the lake.

He smoothed down one of the corners. “What a bloody world we live in.”

I opened the door to the hollow sunshine and went outside.

We walked down the hill from the Main Hall towards the bridge that crossed Swan Lake.

On the other side of the lake the clouds were moving quickly across the sun, making shadows along the foot of the Moors, the purples and browns like some bruised face.

I was thinking of Paula Garland.

On the bridge, Arnold Fowler stopped.

“The last one looked like it had just been tossed over the side here, back into the lake.”

“Where did they cut the wings off?”

“I don’t know. To tell the truth, no-one’s really looked either.”

“And the other one, the one in August?”

“Hanging by her neck from that tree.” He pointed to a large oak on the other side of the lake. “They’d crucified her first, then cut off the wings.”

“You’re joking?”

“No, I’m not joking at all.”

“And no-one saw anything?”

“No.”

“Who found them?”

“The one on the oak was some kids, the last one was one of the park-keepers.”

“And the police haven’t done anything?”

“Mr Dunford, we’ve made a world where crucifying a swan is seen as a prank, not a crime.”

We walked back up the hill in silence.

In the car park a coach was unloading a class of children, pushing and pulling at each other’s coats as they got off.

I unlocked the car door.

Arnold Fowler held out his hand. “Take care, Mr Dunford.”