David Peace - 1974

I gathered up the carrier bag and walked across the silent office.

George Greaves was looking out the window, Gaz from Sport was staring at the end of his pencil.

The telephone began to ring on my desk.

Jack Whitehead picked it up.

At the door, Fat Steph, with an armful of files, smiled and said, “I’m sorry, love.”

“It’s Sergeant Fraser,” shouted Jack from my desk.

“Tell him to fuck off. I’ve been sacked.”

“He’s been sacked,” said Jack, hanging up.

One two three four, down the stairs and through the door:

The Press Club, members only, going up to five.

At the bar, a member for now, a Scotch in one hand, the phone in the other.

“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”

Yesterday Once More on the jukebox, my money.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Fuck The Carpenters, my eyes stinging from my own smoke.

“Can you tell her Edward Dunford called?”

I hung up, downed the Scotch, lit another cigarette.

“Same again please, love.”

“And one for me, Bet.”

I looked round.

Jack fucking Whitehead taking the next stool.

“You fucking fancy me or something?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

“We should talk.”

“Why?”

The barmaid set two Scotches in front of us.

“Someone’s setting you up.”

“Yeah? Big fucking news, Jack.”

He offered me a cigarette. “Who is it then, Scoop?”

“How about we start with your mates, the Two Bobbies?”

Jack lit a cigarette for himself and whispered, “How’s that?”

I swung my right hand round, waving the bandages in his face, toppling forward and shouting, “How’s that? What the fuck do you think this is?”

Jack moved out of the way, catching my bandages in his own hand.

“They did that?” he said, pushing me back into my seat, eyes on the black wad at the end of my arm.

“Yeah, in between burning down gypsy camps, stealing post mortem photos, and beating confessions out of the retarded.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just the new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police going about their business, supported by the good old Yorkshire Post , the copper’s friend.”

“You’ve fucking lost it.”

I downed the Scotch. “So everyone keeps saying.”

“Fucking listen to them then.”

“Piss off, Jack.”

“Eddie?”

“What?”

“Think of your mother.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Hasn’t she been through enough? It’s barely been a week since you buried your father.”

I leant over and poked two fingers into his bony chest. “Don’t you ever fucking bring my family into this.”

I stood up and took out my car keys.

“You’re not fit to drive.”

“You’re not fit to write, but you do.”

He was stood up, holding me by the arms. “You’re being set up, just like Barry was.”

“Fucking let go.”

“Derek Box is as bad as it fucking gets.”

“Let go.”

He sat back down. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

“Piss off,” I hissed, climbing the stairs, hating his lying guts and the stinking world in which he dwelt.

The M1 southbound out of Leeds, seven o’clock busy, the rain beginning to sleet in my headlights. Always on My Mind on the radio.

In the fast lane, glances in the rearview mirror, glances to the left, the gypsy camp gone.

Flicking through the radio stations, avoiding the news.

Suddenly the Castleford turn-off came out of the dark like a lorry, its lights on full.

I swerved across three lanes, horns screaming at me, the trapped faces of angry ghosts in their cars cursing me.

Inches from death, thinking bring it on.

Bring it on.

Bring it on.

Knock on the door of…

“You’re drunk.”

“I just want to talk,” I said on the step of Number 11, waiting for that big red door in my face.

“You’d better come in.”

The fat Scottish woman from two down was sat on the sofa in front of Opportunity Knocks , staring at me.

“He’s had a few,” said Paula, closing the door.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” laughed the Scottish woman.

“I’m sorry,” I said and sat down on the sofa next to her.

Paula said, “I’ll make a cup of tea.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want another, Clare?”

“No, I’ll get off,” she said, following Paula into the kitchen.

I sat on the sofa in front of the TV, listening to whispers from the next room, watching a young girl tapdance into the hearts and homes of millions. Just above her, on top of the TV, Jeanette smiled her handicapped grin across the room at me.

“See you later, Eddie,” said Scotch Clare at the door.

I thought about getting up, but stayed put and mumbled, “Yeah, goodnight.”

“Aye. Be nice,” she said as she closed the big red door behind her.

There was applause on the screen.

Paula handed me a mug of tea. “Here you go.”

I said, “I’m sorry about this. And last night.”

She sat down next to me on the sofa. “Forget it.”

“Always turning up like this and then all that shit I said last night, I didn’t mean any of it.”

“It’s all right, forget it. You don’t have to say anything.”

Some robot aliens were eating instant mashed potato on the TV.

“I do care.”

“I know.”

I wanted to ask about Johnny but I put down the tea and leant over, bringing her face closer to my own with my left hand.

“How’s your hand?” she whispered.

“It’s fine,” I said, kissing her lips, her chin, and her cheeks.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

“I want to.”

“Why?”

A monkey in a flat cap was drinking a cup of tea on TV.

“Because I love you.”

“Please don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“So say it again.”

“I love you.”

Paula pushed me away and took my hand, switching off the TV and leading me up the steep, steep stairs.

Mummy and Daddy’s Room, the bedroom so cold I could see my breath.

Paula sat down on the bed and began to undo her blouse, her bare skin all covered in goose-bumps.

I pushed her back on to the eiderdown, kicking off my shoes with two loud thuds.

She squirmed beneath me, trying to wriggle free of her trousers.

I pushed up her blouse and black bra and began sucking at her pale brown nipples, biting her ever so slightly.

She was pulling off my jacket and pushing down my trousers.

“You’re filthy,” she giggled.

“Thanks,” I smiled, feeling the laughter in her belly.

“I love you,” she said and pulled her hands through my hair, pushing my head gently down.

I went where I was told, tugging down the zip of her trousers and pulling off her pale blue cotton knickers with them.

Paula Garland pushed my head into her cunt, wrapping her legs across my back.

My chin became wet, stinging as it dried.

She pushed me back.

I went.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you,” I mumbled, a face full of cunt.

She pulled me back up, over her tits.

I kissed her as I went, hitting her lips with the taste of herself.

Her tongue on mine, both tasting of cunt.

I pulled myself up, pain in my arm, and pushed her over on to her belly.

Paula lay on the eiderdown, her face in the pillow, wearing only her bra.

I looked down at my cock.

Paula raised her arse slightly and then back down.

I pushed her hair up and kissed her neck and the backs of her ears, working myself between her legs.

She raised her arse again, juices and sweat making it wet.