David Peace - 1974

“What about here?”

I heard banging inside the van.

“Take the fucking bastard’s hood off.”

“Here?”

The van suddenly seemed colder.

They took off the blanket.

I was alone with Moustache, Grey, and Brown.

The doors to the back of the van were open.

It looked like dawn outside.

“Uncuff the fucking bastard.”

Moustache pulled me forward by the hair and took the hand cuffs off.

I could see flat brown fields flying past.

“Kneel him over here,” said Brown.

Moustache and Grey pulled me to the doors of the van, kneeling me down with my back to the open brown fields.

Brown crouched down in front of me.

“This is it.”

He took out a revolver.

“Open your mouth.”

I saw Paula lying naked face down on her bed, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

“Open your mouth!”

I opened my mouth.

He shoved the muzzle into my mouth.

“I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”

I closed my eyes.

There was a click.

I opened my eyes.

He took the gun out of my mouth.

“There’s something fucking up with this one,” he laughed.

“Lucky fucking bastard,” said Moustache.

“Get it done,” said Grey.

“I’ll try again.”

I could feel the air, the cold, the fields behind me.

“Open your mouth.”

I saw Paula lying naked face down on her bed, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

I opened my mouth.

Brown shoved the muzzle back into my mouth.

I closed my eyes.

There was a click.

“Fucking bastard must have a charmed life.”

I opened my eyes.

He took the gun out of my mouth.

“Third time lucky, eh?”

“Fuck that,” said Moustache, grabbing the revolver and pushing Brown away.

He had the gun by the muzzle, raising it over his head. I saw Paula lying naked face down on her bed, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

He brought the gun down upon my head:

“THIS IS THE NORTH. WE DO WHAT WE WANT!”

I fell backwards seeing Paula lying naked on the road, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

We were jumping into a river holding hands. The water was cold. I let go of her hand. I opened my eyes. It felt like a morning. I was lying at the side of a road in the rain and Paula was dead.

I sat up, my head splitting, my body numb.

A man was getting out of a car further up the road.

I looked out across empty brown fields and tried to stand.

The man came running towards me.

“I almost bloody killed you!”

“Where am I?”

“What the hell happened to you?”

A woman was standing by the passenger door of the car, looking down the road at us.

“I was in an accident. Where am I?”

“Doncaster Road. Do you want us to call an ambulance or something?”

“No.”

“The police?”

“No.”

“You don’t look so good.”

“Could you give me a lift?”

The man looked back at the woman standing by the car. “Where to?”

“Do you know the Redbeck Cafe, on the way into Wakefield?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking from me to the car and back again. “OK.”

“Thanks.”

We walked slowly back down the road to the car.

I got in the back.

The woman was sitting in the front, looking straight ahead. She had blonde hair the same shade as Paula’s, only longer.

“He’s been in an accident. We’re going to drop him down the road,” said the man to the woman, starting the engine.

The clock in the front said six.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What day is it?”

“Monday,” said the woman, not turning round.

I stared out at the empty brown fields.

Monday 23 December 1974.

“So tomorrow’s Christmas Eve then?”

“Yes,” she said.

The man was looking at me in his rearview mirror.

I turned back to the empty brown fields.

“This OK?” asked the man, pulling over by the Redbeck.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You sure you don’t want a doctor or anything?”

“I’m sure, thanks,” I said, getting out.

“Bye then,” said the man.

“Bye and thanks very much,” I said, shutting the door.

The woman was still looking straight ahead as they drove away.

I walked across the car park, through the holes filled with muddy rain water and lorry oil, round the back to the motel rooms.

The door to Room 27 was open a crack.

I stood before the door listening.

Silence.

I pushed open the door.

Sergeant Fraser, in uniform, was asleep on a blanket of papers and folders, tapes and photographs.

I closed the door.

He opened his eyes, looked up, then stood up.

“Fuck,” he said, looking at his watch.

“Yeah.”

He stared at me.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

He went over to the sink and began to run some water.

“You’d better sit down,” he said, leaving the sink to tip over the base of the bed.

I walked across the papers and the files, the photos and the maps, and sat down on the bare base of the bed.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to be suspended.”

“What the fuck did you do?”

“Know you.”

“So?”

“So I don’t want to be suspended.”

I could hear the rain coming down hard outside, lorries reversing and parking, their drivers running for cover.

“How did you find this place?”

“I’m a policeman.”

“Really?” I said, holding my head.

“Yeah, really,” said Sergeant Fraser, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

“Have you been here before?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason,” I said.

Fraser soaked the only towel in the sink, wrung it out, and tossed it across to me.

I put it to my face, ran it through my hair.

It came away the colour of rust.

“I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Fraser picked up a grey bedsheet and began tearing off strips.

“Why’d they let me go?”

“I don’t know.”

The room was going black, Fraser’s shirt grey.

I stood up.

“Sit down.”

“It was Foster, wasn’t it?”

“Sit down.”

“It was Don Foster, I fucking know it.”

“Eddie…”

“They fucking know it, don’t they?”

“Why Foster?”

I picked up a fistful of foolscap. “Because he’s the link in all this shit.”

“You think Foster killed Clare Kemplay?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Bollocks. And Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard?”

“Yeah.”

“And Mandy Wymer and Paula Garland?”

“Yeah.”

“So why stop there? What about Sandra Rivett? Maybe it wasn’t Lucan after all, maybe it was Don Foster. And what about the bomb in Birmingham?”

“Fuck off. She’s dead. They’re all dead.”

“No but why? Why Don Foster? You haven’t given me a single fucking reason.”

I sat back down on the bed with my head in my hands, the room black, nothing making sense.

Fraser handed me two strips of grey bedsheet.

I wrapped the strips around my right hand and pulled tight.

“They were lovers.”

“So?”

“I have to see him,” I said.

“You’re going to accuse him?”

“There are things I need to ask him. Things only he knows.”

Fraser picked up his jacket. “I’ll drive you.”

“You’ll be suspended.”

“I told you, I’m going to be suspended anyway.”

“Just give me the keys.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re all I’ve got.”

“Then you’re fucked.”