David Peace - 1974

“Yeah. So let’s leave it at me.”

He looked like he was going to puke, but tossed me his keys.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I went over to the sink and rinsed the old blood off my face.

“Did you see BJ?” I asked.

“No.”

“You didn’t go to the flat?”

“I went to the flat.”

“And?”

“And he’s either done a runner or been nicked. Fuck knows which.”

I heard dogs barking and men screaming.

“I should phone my mother,” I said.

Sergeant Eraser looked up. “What?”

I was standing at the door, his keys in my hand. “Which one is it?”

“The yellow Maxi,” he said.

I opened the door. “Bye then.”

“Bye.”

“Thanks,” I said, like I’d never see him ever again.

I closed the door to Room 27 and walked across the car park to his dirty yellow Maxi, parked between two Findus lorries.

I pulled out of the Redbeck and switched on the radio: the IRA had blown up Harrods, Mr Heath had missed a bomb by minutes, Aston Martin was going bust, Lucan had been spotted in Rhodesia, and there was a new Mastermind.

It was going up to eight as I parked beside the high walls of Trinity View.

I got out of the car and walked up to the gates.

They were open, the white lights on the tree still on.

I looked up the drive, across the lawn.

“Fuck!” I shouted aloud, running up the drive.

Halfway up, a Rover had hit the back of a Jaguar.

I cut across the grass, slipping in the cold dew.

Mrs Foster, in a fur coat, was bent over something on the lawn by the front door.

She was screaming.

I made a grab for her, my arms around her.

She lashed out in every direction with every available limb as I tried to push her back, back towards the house, back from whatever was on the lawn.

And then I got a look at him, a good look:

Fat and white, trussed with a length of black flex that ran round his neck and bound his hands behind him, in a pair of soiled white underpants, his hair all gone, his scalp red raw.

“No, no, no,” Mrs Foster was screaming.

Her husband’s eyes were wide open.

Mrs Foster, the fur coat streaked black with rain, made another rush for the body.

I blocked her hard, still staring down at Donald Foster, at the white flabby legs running in mud, at the knees smeared in blood, at the triangular burns on his back, at the tender head.

“Get inside,” I shouted, holding her tight, pushing her back through the front door.

“No, cover him.”

“Mrs Foster, please…”

“Please cover him!” she cried, thrashing out of her coat.

We were inside the house at the foot of the staircase.

I pushed her down on to the bottom stair.

“Wait here.”

I took the fur coat and walked back outside.

I draped the damp coat over Donald Foster.

I went back inside.

Mrs Foster was still sat on the bottom step.

I poured two glasses of Scotch from a crystal decanter in the living room.

“Where were you?” I handed her a large glass.

“With Johnny.”

“Where’s Johnny now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who did this?”

She looked up. “I don’t know.”

“Johnny?”

“God no.”

“So who did?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Who did you hit that night on the Dewsbury Road?”

“What?”

“Who did you hit on the Dewsbury Road?”

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“You tell me why, why does it matter now?”

Falling, grasping, clutching. Like the dead were living and the living dead, saying: “Because I think whoever it was you hit, I think they killed Clare Kemplay, and whoever killed Clare, they killed Susan Ridyard, and whoever that was, they killed Jeanette Garland.”

“Jeanette Garland?”

“Yeah.”

Her eagle eyes had suddenly flown and I was staring into big black panda eyes, full of tears and secrets, secrets she couldn’t keep.

I pointed outside. “Was it him?”

“No, god no.”

“So who was it?”

“I don’t know.” Her mouth and hands were trembling.

“You know.”

The glass was loose in her hands, tipping whisky over her dress and the stairs. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” I hissed and looked back at the body, framed in the doorway with that huge fucking Christmas tree.

I clenched my fist as best I could and turned back round, bringing up my arm.

“Tell me!”

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

Johnny Kelly was standing at the top of the stairs, covered in blood and mud, a hammer in his good hand.

Patricia Foster, miles from home, didn’t even glance round.

I edged back into the doorway. “You killed him?”

“He killed our Paula and Jeanie.”

Wishing he was right, knowing he was wrong, telling him, “No he didn’t.”

“The fuck you know about it?” Kelly stepped down on to the stairs.

“Did you kill him?”

He was coming down the stairs, staring straight at me, tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, a hammer in his hand.

I took another step back, seeing way too fucking much in those tears.

“I know you didn’t do it.”

He kept coming, the tears too.

“Johnny, I know you’ve done some bad things, some terrible things, but I know you didn’t do this.”

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, the hammer an inch from Mrs Foster’s hair.

I walked towards him.

He dropped the hammer.

I went over and picked it up, wiping it with a dirty grey handkerchief like all the bad guys and dirty cops on Kojak .

Kelly was staring down at her hair.

I dropped the hammer.

He started stroking her hair, pulling it rougher and rougher, someone else’s blood tangling and knotting the curls.

She didn’t flinch.

I pulled him away.

I didn’t want to know any more; I wanted to buy some drugs, buy some drink, and get the fuck out of there.

He looked me in the eye and said, “You should get out of here.”

But I couldn’t. “You too,” I said.

“They’ll kill you.”

“Johnny,” I said, taking him by the shoulder. “Who was it you hit on the Dewsbury Road?”

“They’ll kill you. You’ll be next.”

“Who was it?” I pushed him back against the wall.

He said nothing.

“You know who did it don’t you, you know who killed Jeanette and the other two?”

He pointed outside. “Him.”

I hit Kelly hard, a shot of sheer pain shooting stars to my eyes.

The star of Rugby League fell back on to the shagpile. “Fuck.”

“No. You fuck off.” I was bending over him, champing to crack open his skull and scoop out all his dirty little fucking secrets.

He lay on the floor at her feet, looking up like he was ten bloody years old, Mrs Foster rocking back and forth like it was all on someone else’s TV.

“Tell me!”

“It was him,” he whimpered.

“You’re a fucking liar.” I reached behind me, grabbing the hammer.

Kelly slid out from between my legs, crawling through a patch of whisky towards the front door.

“You fucking wish it was him.”

“No.”

I grabbed him by his collar, twisting his face back round into mine. “You want it to be him. Want it to be that easy.”

“It was him, it was him.”

“It wasn’t, you know it wasn’t.”. “No.”

“You want your bloody vengeance, then tell me who the fuck it was that night.”

“No, no, no.”

“You’re not going to do anything about it, so fucking tell me or I’ll smash your fucking skull in.”

He was pushing my face away with his hands. “It’s over.”

“You want it to be him so it’s over. But you know it’s not over,” I screamed, smashing the hammer into the side of the stairs.