David Peace - 1974

The lane was quiet and dark.

I walked up the long drive towards Trinity View, triggering floodlights as I went. There was a Rover in the drive and lights on upstairs in the house. I wondered if it had been designed by John Dawson.

I pressed the doorbell and listened to the chimes cascade through the house.

“Yes? Who is it?” said a woman from behind the artificially aged door.

“The Yorkshire Post .”

There was a pause and then a lock turned and the door opened.

“What do you want?”

The woman was in her early forties with dark expensively permed hair, wearing black trousers, a matching silk blouse, and a surgical collar.

I held up my bandaged right hand and said, “Looks like we’ve both been in the wars.”

“I asked you what you wanted.”

Mr Long Shot Kick de Bucket said, “It’s about Johnny Kelly.”

“What about him?” said Mrs Patricia Foster, much too quickly.

“I was hoping either you or your husband might have some information about him.”

“Why would we know anything about him?” said Mrs Foster, one hand on the door, one hand on her collar.

“Well, he does play for your husband’s club and…”

“It’s not my husband’s club. He’s only the Chairman.”

“I’m sorry. You’ve not heard from him then?”

“No.”

“And you’ve no idea where he might be?”

“No. Look, Mr…?”

“Cannon.”

“Cannon?” said Mrs Patricia Foster slowly, her dark eyes and tall nose like an eagle’s looking down on me.

I swallowed and said, “Would it be possible to come inside and have a word with your husband?”

“No. He’s not home and I have nothing else to say to you,” Mrs Foster said, closing the door.

I tried to stop the door shutting in my face. “What do you flunk’s happened to him, Mrs Foster?”

“I’m going to call the police, Mr Cannon, and then I’m going to call my very good friend Bill Hadden, your boss,” she said from behind the door as the lock turned.

“And don’t forget to call your husband,” I shouted and then turned and ran down the floodlit drive, thinking a plague on both your houses.

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, in a phonebox on the Barnsley Road, beating the ground to startle the snakes.

Here goes nothing:

“Wakefield Town Hall, please?”

“361234.”

I looked at my father’s watch, thinking 50/50.

“Councillor Shaw, please?”

“I’m afraid Councillor Shaw’s in a meeting.”

“It’s a family emergency.”

“Can I have your name, please?”

“I’m a friend of the family. It’s an emergency.”

I looked across the road at the warm front rooms with their yellow lights and Christmas trees.

A different voice said, “Councillor Shaw’s up at County Hall. The number is 361236.”

“Thanks.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

I hung up, picked up, and dialled again.

“Councillor Shaw, please?”

“I’m sorry, the Councillor’s in a meeting.”

“I know. It’s a family emergency. I was given this number by his office.”

In one of the upstairs windows across the road, a child was staring out at me from a dark room. Downstairs a man and a woman were watching the TV with the lights off.

“Councillor Shaw speaking.”

“You don’t know me Mr Shaw, but it’s very important we meet.”

“Who is this?” a voice said, nervous and angry.

“We need to talk, sir.”

“Why would I want to talk to you? Who are you?”

“I believe someone is about to attempt to blackmail you.”

“Who?” the voice pleaded, afraid.

“We need to meet, Mr Shaw.”

“How?”

“You know how.”

“No I don’t.” The voice, shaking.

“You have an appendix scar and you like to have it kissed better by a mutual friend with orange hair.”

“What do you want?”

“What kind of car have you got?”

“A Rover. Why?”

“What colour?”

“Maroon, purple.”

“Be in the long-stay car park at Westgate Station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Alone.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ll find a way.”

I hung up, my heart beating ninety miles an hour.

I looked up at the window across the road but the child had gone.

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, bringing a plague to all their houses, bar one.

“Where’ve you been?”

“All over.”

“Did you see him?”

“Can I come in?”

Mrs Paula Garland held open the red front door, wrapping her arms tight around herself.

A cigarette was burning in a heavy glass ashtray and Top of the Pops was on low on the TV.

“What did he look like?”

“Shut the door, love. It’s cold.”

Paula Garland closed the red front door and stood staring at me.

On the TV, Paul Da Vinci was singing Your Baby Ain’t Your Baby Anymore .

A tear dripped from her left eye on to her milk-white cheek.

“She’s dead then.”

I walked over to her and put my arms around her, feeling for her spine beneath the thin red cardigan.

I had my back to the TV and I could hear applause and then the opening to Father Christmas Do Not Touch Me .

Paula lifted her head up and I kissed the corner of her eye, tasting the salt from her damp stained skin.

She was smiling at the TV.

I turned to one side and watched as Pan’s People, dressed as Sexy Santas, cavorted around the Goodies, their hair alight with tinsel and trimmings.

I lifted Paula up, moving her small stockinged feet on to the tops of my shoes, and we began to dance, banging the backs of our legs into the furniture until she was laughing and crying and holding me tight.

I woke with a start on her bed.

Downstairs, the room was quiet and smelt of old smoke.

I didn’t switch on a light, but sat down on the sofa in my underpants and vest and picked up the phone.

“Is BJ there? It’s Eddie,” I whispered.

The ticking of the clock filled the room.

“What luck. It’s been too long,” whispered back BJ down the line.

“You know Derek Box?”

“Unfortunately that’s a pleasure I’ve yet to have.”

“Well he knows you and he knew Barry.”

“It’s a small world.”

“Yeah, and not a pretty one. He gave me some photos.”

“That’s nice.”

“Don’t piss around BJ. They’re photos of you sucking the cock of Councillor William Shaw.”

Silence. Just Aladdin Sane on high at the other end of the world.

I said, “Councillor Shaw is Barry’s Third Man, yeah?”

“Give the boy a prize.”

“Fuck off.”

The light went on.

Paula Garland was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her red cardigan barely covering her.

I smiled and mouthed apologies, the phone wet in my hand.

“What are you going to do?” said BJ down the line.

“I’m going to ask Councillor Shaw the questions Barry never got to ask.”

BJ whispered, “Don’t get involved in this.”

I was staring at Paula as I said, “Don’t get involved? I’m already involved. You’re one of the fucking bastards who got me involved.”

“You’re not involved with Derek Box, neither was Barry.”

“Not according to Derek Box.”

“This is between him and Donald Foster. It’s their fucking war, leave them to it.”

“You’ve changed your tune. What are you saying?”

Paula Garland was staring at me, pulling down the bottom of her cardigan.

I raised my eyes in apology.

“Fuck Derek Box. Burn the photos or keep them for yourself. Maybe you’ll find another use for them,” giggled BJ.