My watch had stopped again and I strained to hear the Cathedral bells beneath the noise; the deafening music from each shop I passed, the car horns punched in anger, hot angry words on every corner.
I looked for the spire in the sky, but there was only fire up there; the midday sun high and black across my brow.
I put my hand to my eyes just as someone walked straight into me, banging right through me, hard; I turned and watched a black shadow disappear down an alley.
I chased into the alley after it but heard horse’s hooves fast upon the cobbles behind me but then, when I turned, there was only a lorryload of beer trying to edge up the narrow street.
I pressed my face into the wall to let it pass and came away with red paint down the front of my suit, all over my hands.
I stepped back and stared at the ancient wall and the word written in red:
Tophet.
I stood in the alley in the shadows of the sun, watching the word dry, knowing I’d been here before, knowing I’d seen that shadow before, somewhere before.
‘It’s not a right good day to be walking around covered in blood,’ laughed Gaz Williams, the Sports Editor.
Stephanie, one of the typists, wasn’t laughing; she looked at me sadly and said, ‘What happened?’
‘Wet bloody paint,’ I smiled.
‘So you say,’ said Gaz.
The banter was light, same as it always was. George Greaves, the only one who’d been here longer than me or Bill, he’d got his head down on his desk, snoring his lunch off. There was local radio on somewhere, typewriters and telephones ringing, and a hundred ghosts waiting for me at my desk.
I sat down and took the cover off the typewriter and got a blank sheet and brought it up ready for business, back at my roots.
I typed:
POLICE HUNT FOR SADISTIC KILLER OF WOMAN
Detectives are hunting a killer who murdered Mrs Marie Watts, aged thirty-two, and dumped her body on playing fields not far from Leeds city centre. The body of Mrs Watts, of Francis Street, Leeds, was discovered by a jogger early yesterday morning.
It was lying on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay, near Roundhay High School and the Roundhay Hall Hospital. Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Noble, head of Leeds CID, said she had severe head injuries and other injuries, on which he did not wish to elaborate. The killer was sadistic and possibly a sexual pervert.
Sensationally, Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman confirmed that police are investigating possible links to two other unsolved murders of Leeds women:
It is believed that the latest victim, Mrs Watts, had moved to Leeds from London in October last year. The police would like to speak to anyone who has any information about Marie Watts, who was also known as Marie Owens. The police would also like to speak to Mr Stephen Barton of Francis Street, Leeds, a friend of Mrs Watts. It is believed that Mr Barton could have vital information about the last few hours of Mrs Watts’ life. It was stressed, however, that Mr Barton is not a suspect.
Assistant Chief Constable Oldman also appealed for any member of the public who was in the vicinity of Soldier’s Field last Saturday night to come forward. The police are particularly interested in the drivers of a white Ford Capri, a dark red Ford Corsair, and a Landrover. Mr Oldman stressed that they were attempting to trace these drivers for elimination purposes only and any information would be treated in the strictest confidence.
Anyone with information should contact their nearest police station or the Murder Room direct on Leeds 461212.
I pulled the paper and read it back.
Just a pile of rusty little words, all linked up to make a chain of horror.
I wanted a drink and a cig and not here.
‘You finished already?’ said Bill Hadden over my shoulder.
I nodded and handed him the sheet, like it was something I’d found. ‘What do you think?’
Out of the window there were clouds coming, turning the afternoon grey, spreading a sudden sort of quiet over the city and the office, and I sat there, waiting for Bill to finish reading, feeling as lonely as I’d ever felt.
‘Excellent,’ grinned Bill, his wager paying out.
‘Thanks,’ I said, expecting the orchestra to start up, the credits and the tears to roll.
But then the moment was gone, lost. ‘What are you going to do now?’
I leant back in my chair and smiled. ‘I quite fancy a drink. And yourself?’
This big man, with his red face and grey beard, sighed and shook his head. ‘Bit early for me,’ he said.
‘It’s never too early, only too late.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’ he said, hopefully.
I got up from my chair, giving him a tired wink and grin. ‘Undoubtedly.’
‘OK.’
‘George,’ I shouted.
George Greaves looked up from his desk. ‘Jack?’ he said, pinching himself.
‘Coming down the Press Club?’
‘Go on then, just a quick one,’ he replied, smiling sheepishly at Bill.
At the lift George gave the office a wave and I bowed, thinking, there are many ways a man can serve his time.
The Press Club, as dark as home.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in, but George was helping me.
‘Fuck, that was funny that was.’
I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
Behind the bar, Bet gave me a look that was too, too knowing. ‘Been a while, Jack?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How are you, love?’
‘OK. Yourself?’
‘My legs aren’t getting any younger.’
‘You don’t need them,’ laughed George. ‘Just get legless with us, eh Jack?’
And we all laughed and I remembered Bet and her legs and a couple of times back when I thought I could live forever, back when I wanted to, back before I knew what a curse it really was.
Bet said, ‘Scotch?’
‘And keep them coming,’ I smiled.
‘I always try.’
And we all laughed again, me with an erection and a Scotch.
Outside, I was pissed outside, leaning against a wall which said HATE in running white paint. No subject, no object, just HATE.
And it blurred and whirled and I was lost between the lines, between the things I should’ve written and the things I had.
Stories, I’d been telling stories in the bar again:
Yorkshire Gangsters and Yorkshire Coppers and, later, Cannock Chase and the Black Panther.
Stories, just stories. Stopping short of the real stories, of the true stories, the ones that put me here, up against this wall that said HATE.
Clare Kemplay and Michael Myshkin, the Strafford Shootings and The Exorcist killing.
Every dog had his day, every cat her cream, but every camel had his straw, every Napoleon his Waterloo.
True stories.
Black and white against a wall that spelt HATE.
I ran my fingers over the raised paint.
And there I was, wondering just where have all the Bootboys gone?
And then there they were, all around me:
Shaved heads and beer breath.
‘Aye-up Grandad,’ said one.
‘Piss off, puff,’ I said.
He stepped back among his mates. ‘What you fucking have to say that for, you silly old git?’ he said. ‘Cos you know I’m going have to fucking have you now, don’t you?’
‘You can try,’ I said, just before he hit me and stopped me remembering, stopped the memories for a bit.
Just for a bit.
I’m holding her there in the street in my arms, blood on my hands, blood on her face, blood on my lips, blood in her mouth, blood in my eyes, blood in her hair, blood in my tears, blood in hers.