‘And you’ve had no contact with Mr Douglas since then?’
‘None.’
A knock at the door.
Ronnie Allen comes in and hands a slip of paper to Roger Hook -
Hook glances at it and hands it to Smith -
Smith pulls his chair back from the table and reads the note -
He turns to Ronnie Allen: ‘Get everyone together. Eleventh floor, thirty minutes.’
Allen nods and leaves, careful to avoid my gaze.
Smith reads the paper again, then folds it up and puts it in his pocket -
He looks at Richard Dawson -
‘Mr Dawson,’ says Clement Smith, sitting forward in his chair. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that a security guard found Bob Douglas and his daughter murdered in a warehouse in Ashburys early this morning.’
Richard Dawson pales, swallows, shaking his head from side to side -
Looking into my face, searching -
Desperately lost, pleading -
Mouth opening and closing, choking -
‘Mr Dawson?’ says Smith.
Richard Dawson, blank -
Smith: ‘Do you have anything to say?’
Silence, a long dark silence -
Then Dawson whispers: ‘Nothing, but I’d like to see my lawyer now.’
‘Fine,’ says Smith and stands up. ‘Chief Inspector Hook will make the necessary arrangements and set up a time.’
Hook nods and says into the tape recorder: ‘Interview suspended at three thirty-five p.m. December 17 1980.’
He presses stop, eject, and takes out the tape and writes on the cassette:
Dawson int/1/171280.
Richard Dawson is still looking at me -
We all stand up, all except Dawson.
I’m following Smith and Hook out when -
‘Pete,’ says Richard Dawson.
I turn around -
‘Thanks for being a friend,’ he spits.
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
Catch-up:
Hook looking at me, Smith holding out the piece of paper -
I take it, read:
Prints on cassette, Jack Whitehead.
Hook staring, Smith waiting -
I say: ‘Jesus.’
Hook nodding, Smith waiting -
I say: ‘Someone called Stanley Royd?’
Hook nodding: ‘Never left his bed.’
Me: ‘Fuck.’
Smith: ‘First thing tomorrow. The pair of you.’
The room upstairs -
Twelve black suits and twelve blank faces.
‘What are we going to tell the press?’ asks someone.
‘Nothing,’ says Smith.
I stand up -
‘Where are you going?’ says someone.
‘Ashburys.’
‘Now?’
‘We’ve missed something. I know we have.’
Twelve dark suits and twelve darker faces -
Their patience gone, my time up:
Exit.
On the way back to Ashburys, a prayer:
O Blessed Lord, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comforts;
I beseech thee, look down in pity and compassion upon this thy afflicted servant.
Thou writest bitter things against me, and makest me to possess my former iniquities;
Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and my soul is full of trouble:
But, o merciful God, who hast written thy holy Word for our learning, that we, through patience and comfort of thy holy Scriptures, might have hope;
Give me a right understanding of myself, and of thy threats and promises;
That I may neither cast away my confidence in thee, nor place it anywhere but in thee.
Give me strength against all my temptations and heal all my distempers.
Break not the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax.
Shut not up thy tender mercies in displeasure;
But make me to hear of joy and gladness, that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.
Deliver me from fear of the enemy, and lift up the light of thy countenance upon me, and give me peace, through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
A prayer, on the way back to Ashburys.
Ashburys, cursed and godless:
Wednesday 17 December 1980 -
Five o’clock.
Seven days before Christmas -
In hell.
I get out of the car and walk towards the factory -
Sun gone, only night and looming buildings dark and towering with their dead eyes, their empty rooms -
Pitch-black and deathlike, silent but for the screams of passing freight -
The ring of wraiths around a yellow drum of fire, breaking to let me pass -
In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -
At the door, the tape in my head:
HISS -
Piano -
Drums -
Bass -
‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
Helclass="underline"
‘How can the world he as sad as it seems?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
More helclass="underline"
‘How much do you love me?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Cries -
Cries:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
STOP .
At the door, thinking of the prints on the tape:
Jack Whitehead.
At the door, the note in her mouth:
5 LUV .
At the door, messages -
Messages -
Messages and signs -
Messages, signs and symbols -
Of death.
Everywhere the distractions, everywhere but here -
Here, symbols -
Here, signs -
Here messages:
In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -
Here death -
Only death -
No distractions -
Only messages -
Messages -
Messages and signs -
Messages, signs and symbols -
Of death -
Only death, a friend:
In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -
I step inside -
Inside:
Silence, deathlike.
Heavy workbenches, oil and chains, tools; the stink of machines, oil and chains, tools; the sound of dirty water, oil and chains, tools; dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, tools:
Jack Whitehead.
High skylights, night and rain against the pane -
The workbench bare, the body gone:
Bob Douglas.
I walk across the wet and bloody concrete floor, walk to the door and with my boot I push it open -
Push and see a muddy bath affixed to the wall, its head towards the night from the skylight, bare:
Karen Douglas.
Head bowed, I stand before the empty bath -
Silence, deathlike:
Missed something -
Know we have -
Know -
I walk down the side of the garage to the shed at the back.
I take the key from my pocket and unlock the door.
I am cold, freezing.
I go inside, lock the door behind me and put on the light.
My room -
The War Room.
I sit down at the desk and stare at the wall above Anabasis:
One map, thirteen photographs -
Each photograph a face, each face a letter and a date, a number on each forehead.