1983 Page 4
You push your way along between the settee and the table, edging towards the door, your shirt wringing, sticking to your stomach and back.
‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin again. ‘He did not do it.’
Men not here.
You stop just to say again: ‘And I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be of any use.’
The two little women in the little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone missing -
Not here -
The two little women watching another man go.
In the doorway, you turn to say goodbye but Mrs Myshkin is on her feet:
‘Mr Piggott,’ she says. ‘I knew your father.’
You stand in the doorway with your back to her now, your mouth dry and your clothes wet.
‘He was a good man,’ she says. ‘I can remember him with you and your brother, playing football on that field over there.’
Men not here.
‘It’s not enough,’ you tell her. ‘Not enough.’
‘No,’ she says, a hand upon your arm (upon your heart). ‘It’s too much.’
You walk out into the hall.
There is an evening paper sticking through the letterbox. You pull it out and open it up.
There’s that photograph of Hazel Atkins, that word:
MISSING -
You turn back to hand the paper to Mrs Myshkin.
‘It’s happening again,’ whispers her sister behind her.
‘Never stops,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘Not round here.’
Not here -
‘You know that,’ she says, her hand squeezing your hand (your heart) -
Here.
Chapter 6
Phone is ringing and ringing and ringing -
Come on, come on, come on -
Hopping from foot to foot in a Bradford Bus Station phonebox -
Please, please, please -
And Clare picks up and BJ know she knows -
Knows her sister is dead, slurring: ‘What now?’
‘It’s BJ.’
‘BJ love,’ she’s sobbing. ‘Gracie’s dead.’
‘I know,’ BJ say. ‘I was there.’
‘Bastards,’ she’s howling. ‘Bastards!’
‘Clare, listen to me,’ BJ whisper. ‘You’ve got to get a cab and come and meet me.’
‘Fucking filth are sending a car over, aren’t they?’ she’s crying. ‘Got to go and fucking identify -’
‘You got to run -’
‘I’m too fucking tired -’
‘Clare, listen to me -’
‘Paula and now Gracie -’
‘And it’ll be you next,’ BJ shout. ‘Come on.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Bradford Bus Station,’ BJ say. ‘Cafй opens in an hour.’
‘But they’re coming -’
‘Well, fucking run -’
‘…’
‘Hello? Hello?’
Line dead, BJ hang up and dial again but it’s engaged, again but it’s engaged.
BJ stand in phonebox freezing BJ’s tits off, staring at season’s greetings:
Derek Shags Convicts Wives.
BJ dial one last time.
BJ hang up and turn and open door.
A man is sat on bench next to phonebox.
BJ look at BJ’s watch:
Four in morning.
Man on bench says: ‘Excuse me?’
BJ look at him: ‘Yes?’
‘Do you have the time?’ he asks.
‘You’ve got a watch.’ BJ nod at edge of sleeve of man’s coat.
‘So I have,’ he smiles. ‘Silly me.’
BJ smile back: ‘Silly you.’
He is middle-class and middle-aged and most likely married or recently divorced, dressed in corduroy trousers and an anorak. He says: ‘I’m Jim. What’s your name?’
‘BJ.’
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘BJ’s name, BJ’s game.’
‘I like games,’ says Jim.
‘Me too,’ BJ say. ‘But they’re not cheap.’
‘I didn’t think they would be,’ he sighs.
‘Ten pounds.’
He nods.
BJ look around bus station -
It’s empty.
‘I’ve got my car,’ says Jim.
BJ shake head: ‘Follow me.’
BJ and Jim walk across deserted platforms and into toilets and into far cubicle -
BJ put bog lid down and tell him to sit down.
He sits down.
‘Give us tenner.’
Jim reaches inside his anorak and takes out a brown wallet and hands BJ two five pound notes.
BJ put them in trouser pocket and kneel down in front of him pushing his legs open.
‘Just a minute,’ says Jim and unzips his anorak.
‘And trousers,’ BJ say.
‘They never check this place, do they?’ he asks.
‘Who?’
‘The police? The bus company?’
‘Shoosh,’ BJ smile and reach into Jim’s fly and his underpants.
‘What if -’
BJ glance at BJ’s watch: ‘Do you want to stop?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘No.’
‘Well, shut up and relax,’ BJ hiss and pull Jim’s limp cock out of his vest and pants, sweet and sour smell of old talc and dry piss in BJ’s face -
BJ stroke him until he is hard and then BJ start to suck -
And Jim closes his eyes and dreams he is fucking BJ up arse as BJ beg him to never stop, his muscular left forearm tight around BJ’s thin little neck, his right fist around BJ’s pale cock as his own slides in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and -
Out:
Jim comes and BJ spit.
Jim does himself up and asks: ‘You usually here, are you?’
BJ shake BJ’s head: ‘Your first time?’
Jim blushes and then nods.
‘I’m just passing through,’ BJ say.
‘That’s a shame.’
BJ nod.
‘Where are you from?’
‘I’m a space invader,’ BJ wink and open door and step out of cubicle.
Jim stays there, smiling.
‘You should go first,’ BJ tell Jim.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
‘Mention it.’
Jim looks confused like he wants to shake BJ’s hand, but BJ look away into mirror and Jim hurries off home for a safer and more leisurely wank on his bathroom mat.
BJ run tap into dirty sink and splash icy water on BJ’s face and rinse some round mouth and get dry with bottom of star shirt and then BJ count money and walk out across empty platforms through grey light to cafй and sign that promises all-day Christmas dinners today -
Christmas Eve.
BJ look at BJ’s watch:
It’s almost five.
BJ open door and step into cafй -
It’s empty but warm and radio is on.
A big woman with a red face comes out of back.
‘You open?’ BJ ask.
‘Just about,’ she smiles.
‘Ta,’ BJ say.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Tea please.’
‘Be five or ten minutes? I’ve just stuck it on.’
BJ nod and sit down opposite door.
There’s a paper on one of chairs, yesterday’s -
Two headlines:
RL STAR’S SISTER MURDERED.
COUNCILLOR RESIGNS .
By Jack Whitehead and George Greaves -
Two headlines and two faces:
Paula Garland and William Shaw -
Bill.
‘Hello?’
BJ look up into another face -
Clare’s face:
Streaked black with mascara rivers she’s cried, smudged black where she’s tried not to, her hair now blonde again -
‘Hello,’ BJ say and stand up and go towards her and take her in BJ’s
arms and hold her as BJ and Clare shake with tears and shock of it all until woman comes out of kitchen with tea and asks if Clare wants one as well and BJ nod and say she does and BJ and Clare sit back down across table from each other, Clare’s hands in BJ’s hands, and woman brings another cup and asks if everything is OK and BJ tell her everything is OK but when she’s gone, Clare asks: ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Get out of here,’ BJ say.
‘Where?’
‘Scotland?’
‘It’s where the kids are,’ she says and hangs her head. ‘Be first place they’ll look.’
‘London?’
‘Second place.’
‘Preston?’
Clare looks up: ‘Why?’
‘There’s a coach at five-thirty.’
‘Aye,’ she nods and then she looks at BJ with her huge black eyes and asks: ‘Why Gracie?’
‘Loose ends,’ BJ say.
‘So what are we?’
Chapter 7
I woke again after less than an hour and lay in the shadows and dead of the night, the house quiet and dark, listening for something, anything: animal or bird’s feet from below or above, a car in the street, a bottle on the step, the thud of a paper on the mat, but there was nothing; only the silence, the shadows and the dead, remembering when it wasn’t always so, wasn’t always this way, when there were human feet upon the stairs, children’s feet, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, bicycle bells and front doorbells, laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, the smells, sounds and tastes of meals being cooked, served and eaten, of drinks poured, glasses raised and toasts drunk by men with cigars in black velvet jackets, their women with their sherries in their long evening dresses, the spare room for the light summer nights when no-one could drive, when no-one could leave, no-one wanted to leave, before that last time; that last time when the telephone rang and brought the silence that never left, that was here with me now, lying here with me now in the shadows and dead of a house, quiet and dark, empty -
Thursday morning.
I reached for my glasses and got out of bed and went down the stairs to the kitchen and put on the light and filled the kettle and lit the gas and took a teapot from the cupboard and a cup and saucer and unlocked the back door to see if the milk had been delivered yet but it hadn’t though there was still enough milk in the fridge (there was always enough milk) and I poured it into the cup and put two teabags in the teapot and took the kettle off the ring and poured the water on to the teabags and let it stand while I washed the milk pan from last night and the Ovaltine mug and then dried them both up, staring out into the garden and the field behind, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a man fully dressed in dark brown trousers, a light blue shirt and a green V-necked pullover, wearing his thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a man old and fully dressed at four o’clock in the morning -
Thursday 19 May 1983.
I put the teapot and cup and saucer on a plastic blue tray and took it into the dining room and set it down on the table and poured the tea on to the milk and took a plain digestive from the biscuit barrel and then put on the gas fire and switched on the radio and sat in the chair opposite the fire to wait for the news on Radio 2:
‘Peter Williams, the Yorkshire Ripper, will again appear at Newport Magistrates’ Court on the Isle of Wight to give evidence against James Abbott, a fellow prisoner who is accused of wounding Williams with a piece of glass at Parkhurst Prison on January 10 this year; an attack that left Williams badly scarred and requiring surgery.
‘Williams, dressed in a grey suit, open-necked shirt with gold cross and chain, was booed upon his appearance in court. The defence first asked him if he was not a rather unpopular person, to which Williams replied that this was an opinion based upon ignorance. Williams was also asked whether he realised that his story was worth a lot of money to the press. Williams said that this was the trouble with society today, that people were motivated by greed and that there were no moral values at all.
‘Earlier Williams admitted that he continues to receive advice from the voices in his head. The trial of Mr Abbott continues.’
I switched off the radio. I took off my glasses.
I was sat in the chair in tears again;
In tears -
Knowing there was salvation in no-one else -
No other name here under heaven.
In tears -
Thursday 19 May 1983:
Day 8.
I drove out of Wakefield and into Castleford, black light becoming grey mist over Heath Common, the ponies standing chained and still, the roads empty but for lorries and their lights.
I parked behind a pub called the Swan. I walked into the centre of Castleford.
On the high street a bald newsagent was fetching in two bundles of papers from the pavement.
‘Morning,’ I said.
‘Morning,’ he said, his face red.
‘You know where Ted Jenkins had his studio?’ I asked. ‘Photographers?’
He stood upright: ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’
I showed him my warrant card.
He shrugged: ‘Was up road on right, not there now though.’
‘Since when was that then?’
Another shrug: ‘Since it burned down – seven, maybe even ten years ago now.’
‘So I’m actually a bit late then, aren’t I?’
He smiled.
‘Can I have one of them?’ I said, pointing down at a Yorkshire Post and Hazel.
He nodded and took out a small pocket-knife. He cut the string that bound the papers together.
I handed him the money but he refused it: ‘Go on, you’re all right.’
‘Which one was it then?’ I asked him. ‘His studio?’
He peered up the road: ‘Where that Chinkie is.’
‘Knew Ted well, did you?’
He shook his head: ‘Just to say how do, like.’
‘Never turned up, did he?’ I said, looking up the road.
He sighed: ‘Long time ago now.’
‘After fire?’ I said. ‘No-one ever heard of him after that?’
Another shake of the head: ‘Thought your mob reckoned he did a bloody Lord Lucan on us?’
I nodded: ‘Long time ago.’
‘Here,’ he winked. ‘I’ll tell you who else worked there -’
‘Thanks for the paper,’ I nodded again and started walking away -
‘Michael bloody Myshkin,’ he shouted after me. ‘Pervert who did all them little lasses.’
I kept walking, walking away, crossing by a shoe shop -
‘Should have hung him, evil little bastard…’
Long time ago.
I came to the Lotus Chinese Restaurant & Take Away. I peered in over the menu in the window, white tablecloths and red napkins, the chairs and the tables, all stood there in silence and shadow -
A long time ago.
Across the road was another empty shop, just a name and a big weatherbeaten sign declaring that the property was to be redeveloped by Foster’s Construction, builders of the new Ridings Shopping Centre, Wakefield:
Shopping centres -
Such a long time ago -
Fucking shopping centres -
Such a long, long time ago -
But the lies survived, those accepted little fictions we called history -
History and lies -
They survived us all.
Morley Police Station -
The Incident Room:
Alderman, Prentice, Gaskins, and Evans.
We were looking at a photograph and a poster -
One big word in red:
MISSING -
Above a picture of a ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket, carrying a black drawstring gym bag.
I said: ‘What happened to
the H embroidered on the bag?’
‘It was difficult -’ began Evans with the excuses.
I put up my hand to stop him. I held up the poster. ‘Just tell me these’ll be back from the printers by this afternoon?’
Evans was nodding: ‘They’ll be here for two.’
‘Good,’ I sighed. ‘What about the school? You spoke with the Head, they know what they’re doing?’
Evans still nodding: ‘I said we’d be there from three.’
‘Calendar and Look North?’
‘Yep, but Calendar can only go with the photos at six; say they’ll use the film after the News at Ten. Timing’s not good.’
‘Not going to be National then?’
Evans shook his head: ‘Not at this stage, no.’
I turned to Gaskins: ‘How many uniforms we got?’
‘Hundred and fifty with roadblocks set up at both ends of Victoria Road and one at the top of Rooms Lane, another on Church Street.’
I looked up at the map of Morley pinned to the board beside her photograph: ‘Where are the ones on Victoria Road?’
Gaskins stood and pointed at the map: ‘One here at the junction with Springfield Road, other up here before King George Avenue.’
‘They know what to do?’
‘Drivers’ licences and registrations,’ he nodded. ‘Show them the picture, spot of where were you last Thursday, and let them on their way.’
I turned to Prentice: ‘Jim, you got me the unmarked cars?’
‘Where you want them, Boss?’
My turn to stand and point and say: ‘Junction with Asquith Avenue, here. Another up by this farm, here. Get one for centre as well, here by Chapel Hill.’
‘Right,’ he said.
‘I want numbers,’ I told him. ‘Any vehicle stopping or reversing or changing direction when they see the roadblocks, take down their plate and call it through.’
Dick: ‘You think he’ll show.’
I nodded.
‘Who?’ asked Evans.
I picked up a piece of chalk. I turned to the board. I wrote up two names:
Jenkins and Ashworth.
Jim pointed at the first name: ‘I thought he were dead?’
‘Either of these names show,’ I said. ‘You detain them and call me. Immediately.’
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, all good children go to heaven -
‘Fuck is this?’ I said to Dick Alderman as we parked outside Morley Grange Junior and Infants, the playground full of children and parents, TV camera crews and journalists, their vans and their cars -