David Peace - 1974

There was a tap on the front window, then a knock on the door, and I suddenly froze, remembering where I was and what I’d done.

“Who is it?” I said, stood up in the middle of the room.

“It’s Clare. Who’s that?”

“Clare?” I turned the latch and opened the door, my heart beating ninety miles an hour.

“Ah, it’s you Eddie.”

A heart dead in its tracks. “Yeah.”

Scotch Clare said, “Paula in, is she?”

“No.”

“Oh, right. Saw the light and I thought she must be back. Sorry,” smiled Scotch Clare, squinting into the light.

“No she’s not back yet, sorry.”

“Never mind. I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I’ll tell her.”

“Are you OK, love?”

“Fine.”

“OK. See you then.”

“Night,” I said, my breathing coming fast and shallow as I shut the door.

Scotch Clare said something I didn’t catch and then her footsteps went away, back down the street.

I sat back down on the sofa and stared at the school photo graph of Jeanette on top of the TV. There were two cards beside her, one of a cabin made of logs in the middle of a snow-covered forest, the other plain white.

I took Johnny Kelly’s plain white invitation from Donald Foster out of my pocket and walked over to the TV.

I switched off Max Wall and Emerson Fittipaldi and went back out into the silent night.

Snap.

Back to the big houses.

Wood Lane, Sandal, Wakefield.

The lane was strung with parked cars. I picked my way through the Jags and the Rovers, the Mercs and the BMWs.

Trinity View, all floodlit and party decked.

A huge Christinas tree stood on the front lawn, dripping in white lights and tinsel.

I walked up the drive towards the party, following the com peting strains of Johnny Mathis and Rod Stewart.

The front door was open this time and I stood for a moment in the doorway, watching women in long dresses carrying paper plates of food from one room to the next and forming queues up the stairs for the bathroom, while men in velvet tuxedos stood around with tumblers of Scotch and fat cigars.

Through the door to the left I could see Mrs Patricia Foster, minus collar, refilling the glasses of a group of big men with red faces.

I walked into the room and said, “I’m looking for Paula.”

The room went dead.

Mrs Foster opened her mouth but didn’t speak, her eagle eyes darting about the room.

“Do you want to step outside, son?” said a voice behind me.

I turned round into Don Foster’s smiling face.

“I’m looking for Paula?”

“I heard. Let’s go outside and talk about it.”

Two big men with moustaches stood behind Foster, the three of them all in tuxedos and bow ties, frills down the fronts of their shirts.

“I’m here for Paula.”

“You weren’t invited. Let’s go.”

“Merry bloody Christmas from Johnny Kelly,” I said, flicking Kelly’s invitation at Foster.

Foster glanced at his wife and then turned slightly to one of the men and muttered, “Outside.”

One of the men stepped towards me. I raised my hands in surrender and walked towards the door.

Turning round at the door, I said, “Thanks for the Christmas card, Pat.”

I watched the woman swallow and look at the carpet.

One of the men gently pushed me forward into the hall.

“Is everything all right, Don?” asked a man with grey curly hair and a fist full of Scotch.

“Yeah. This gentleman was just leaving,” said Foster.

The man tilted his head my way. “Do I know you?”

“Probably,” I said. “I used to work for that bloke over there with the beard.”

Chief Constable Ronald Angus turned and looked into the other room, where Bill Hadden was stood talking with his back to the door.

“Really? How interesting,” said Chief Constable Angus, taking another mouthful of whisky and rejoining the party.

Donald Foster was holding open the door for me and I got another gentle push in the back.

There was laughter coming from an upstairs room; a woman’s laugh.

I walked out of the house, the two men at my side, Foster behind me. I thought about sprinting across the lawn, making a dash for the Golden Fleece, wondering if they’d try and stop me in front of the party, knowing they would.

“Where are we going?”

“Just keep walking,” said one of the men, the one wearing a claret shirt.

We were at the top of the drive and I could see a man coming up from the gate towards us, half running, half walking.

“Shit,” said Don Foster.

We all stopped.

The two men looked at Foster, waiting for an order.

“It never bloody rains,” muttered Foster.

Councillor Shaw was out of breath, shouting, “Don!”

Foster walked a little way down to meet him, arms open, palms up, “Bill, nice to see you.”

“You shot my dog! You shot my bloody dog.”

Shaw was shaking his head, crying, trying to push Foster away.

Foster took him in a big bear hug, hushing him.

“You shot my dog!” screamed Shaw, breaking free.

Foster pulled him back into his arms, burying the man’s head inside his velvet tux.

Behind us on the steps to the door, Mrs Foster and a few guests stood shivering.

“What’s going on, love?” she said, her teeth and glass chat tering.

“Nothing. Everyone go back and have a good time.”

They all stood there on the steps, frozen.

“Go on. It’s bloody Christmas!” shouted Foster, Santa rucking Claus himself.

“Who wants to dance with me?” laughed Pat Foster, shaking her skinny tits and turning everyone back inside.

Dancing Machine thumped through the door, the fun and games resumed.

Shaw stood there, sobbing into Foster’s black velvet jacket.

Foster whispering, “This isn’t the time, Bill.”

“What about him?” said the man in the claret shirt.

“Just get him out of here.”

The other man in the red shirt took my elbow and started to lead me down the drive.

Foster didn’t look up, whispering into Shaw’s ear, “This is special, special for John.”

We walked past them, down the drive.

“You drive here did you?”

“Yeah.”

“Pass us your keys,” said Claret.

I did as I was told.

“That yours?” said Red pointing at the Viva, up on the pavement.

“Yeah.”

The men smiled at each other.

Claret opened the passenger door and lifted up the seat. “Get in the back.”

I got in the back with Red.

Claret got in behind the wheel and started the engine. “Where to?”

“New houses.”

I was sat in the back wondering why I hadn’t even bothered to try and get away, thinking maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as all that and how it couldn’t be any worse than the beating I’d taken at the Nursing Home, when Red hit me so fucking hard my head cracked the plastic side window.

“Shut the bloody fuck up,” he laughed, grabbing me by the hair and forcing my head down between my knees.

“If he were a nig-nog, he’d make you suck his cock,” shouted Claret from the front.

“Let’s have some fucking music,” said Red, still holding my head down.

Rebel Rebel filled the car.

“Turn it up,” shouted Red, lifting me back up by the hair, whispering, “Fucking puff.”

“Is he bleeding?” shouted Claret over the music.

“Not enough.”

He pushed me back towards the window, gripped me by the throat with his left hand, sat back a little way and rabbit-punched me on the bridge of my nose, sending hot blood across the car.

“That’s better,” he said and gently laid my head against the cracked glass.

I looked out at the centre of Wakefield on the Saturday before Christmas, 1974, the warm blood trickling from my nose to my lips and down on to my chin, thinking it’s quiet for a Saturday night.