‘Eric, Eric
‘Don’t fucking Eric, Eric me. This cunt’s got my fucking car. Broke into my fucking house.’
‘Eric, Eric
‘I want Eraser done and done fucking right’
‘Eric, shut up and listen.’
‘No, you shut up and you listen: I’m telling you he broke into my house, my own bloody house, he’s driving around in my fucking car, and he knows everything. Everything. So you tell me what the fuck you’re going do about the cunt.’
‘Eric, I mean it. Listen: it’s done.’
‘Done? What is?’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s finished.’
‘Finished? What about the car? Where the fuck’s my car?’
One of the lads’ll bring it round.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Eric, another time. Not now.’
I want to know?’
‘No, you don’t Eric’
Eject, flip, press play -
‘I’ve had enough. I can’t take anymore of this shit. First Eraser and now fucking Hunter.’
I stop reading -
‘Eric, you worry much too much.’
Same voices:
‘Peter Hunter’s coming and you’re telling me I worry too much. I’m already fucked up thanks to that fucking Fraser twat and now I’ve got to fucking talk to Hunter the Cunt.’
‘Don’t say a bloody word, Eric’
‘It’s alright for you, isn’t it? Not Leeds or Manchester, is it? Has to be sodding Bradford.’
‘Eric, for fuckssake.’
‘Look what happened to Porn Squad, – Moody and Virago.’
‘Eric, I know Peter Hunter and he’s not a problem.’
‘That’s what you say.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I say and you’ll fucking do what I say.’
Or what?’
‘Eric, don’t fucking start.’
‘No. I want to know what you’ll do if I’m not a good boy, if I don’t do what I’m told.’
‘Eric, we’re the only friends you’ve got. So stop fucking around.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or we’ll start fucking around with you.’
A pause, silence -
‘I’m sorry, I’m just upset.’
‘I know you are. We all are.’
‘I’m going to have to take a fall, aren’t I?’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I can’t do fucking time, Richard. I can’t.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll look after you.’
Stop.
My heart’s beating fast, mouth dry -
I’m thinking:
June 1977.
I’m wondering:
Richard?
I’m writing:
Leeds? Manchester?
I say out aloud, say alone:
‘Saint Cunt.’
I take out cassette A and replace it with B:
‘She’s dead.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
A different voice, familiar -
‘I want to know who fucking did it?’
‘Eric, she’s dead. Just leave it.’
‘Was it Eraser?’
‘Eric, you’ve got to fucking get it together mate. Eraser’s saying it was you. They’re going to come and have a word.’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘You’ve got to.’
‘Was it him?’
‘Fuck knows. Doesn’t matter.’
‘Course it fucking matters.’
‘No, it doesn’t. What matters is you keeping it together and getting through this.’
Stop.
Eject, flip, press play:
‘He had the fucking mag, didn’t he?’
‘What did he want?’
‘Money. Brass, what else.’
‘How much?’
‘Five grand.’
‘Pay him.’
‘But he’s a fucking journalist, he’ll just keep coming back.’
‘No he won’t.’
‘You sure?’
‘Trust your Uncle Bob.’ Stop.
My heart’s beating fast, mouth dry -
Wondering:
June 1977.
Thinking:
Uncle Bob?
Writing:
Detective Inspector Robert Craven?
At the bottom of the box, a magazine -
A porno mag:
Spunk.
Issue 13, March 1976.
65p .
Inside -
SPUNK is published by MJM Publishing Ltd, printed and distributed by MJM Printing Ltd, 270 Oldham Street, Manchester.
I turn the pages, the bodies and the hair, the faces and that stare -
A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come on her lips -
Saying out loud, alone:
‘Janice Ryan.’
No more sleep.
No more sleep, just -
Two huge wings that burst through the back, out of my skin, torn, two huge and rotting wings, big black things that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing.
No more sleep, just -
Wings, wings that burst through my back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, big black wings that weigh me down, heavy, that -
And then they’re gone.
Just like that -
Just Exegesis etched into my chest, my nails bloody, broken -
Et sequentes.
embedded in her chest a broken bottle of pop the screw top still on the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal thoughts lost and thoughts found transmission twelve noon Sunday the twelfth of june nineteen seventy seven the body of Janice ryan a twenty two year old known prostitute found secreted under an old settee on waste ground off white abbey road bradford death due to massive head injuries caused by a blunt instrument or boulder or rock and is thought that death occurred some seven days before due to partial decomposition of the body the killer had jumped on her chest causing broken ribs which ruptured the liver there were no stab wounds and is thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected with the other circulated prostitute murders publicly referred to as ripper murders the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal occult dreams psychic themes war crimes to map out the demon spheres with webs and wires that bind the days together man in amongst the golems dwells and scars them with his thoughts lost and thoughts found such terror can his hammer do her brassiere had been pulled above her breasts her panties pulled down to the pubic region her skirt which had been removed was found under her body she was killed in some other place and had then been dragged by her collar to the settee her handbag not found when her body was discovered her left arm was tangled in the springs of the settee indicating that the killer had placed it on her body after rigor mortis had set in a period of at least four hours after death some days after death the body had been moved and a yorkshire post dated Saturday the eleventh of june nineteen seventy seven headline victims of a burning hate placed underneath it could not have blown there it had been deliberately placed there the body then moved on top of the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal occult dreams psychic themes war crimes to map out the demon spheres with webs and wires that bind the days together man in amongst the golems dwells and scars them with his thoughts lost and thoughts found such terror can his hammer do six six six times a killer more victims as murder hunt police say there is no copy cat dear george from hell e am sorry e cannot give my name for obvious reasons e am the ripper e have been dubbed a maniac by the press but not by you you call me clever because you know e am you and your boys have not a clue that photo in the paper gave me fits and that bit about killing myself no chance e have got things to do my purpose is to rid streets of them sluts my one regret is that young lassie Johnson did not know cause changed routine that nite but warned you and jack at the post up to five now you say but there is a surprise in bradford get about you know warn whores to keep off streets cause e feel it coming on again sorry about young lassie yours respectfully jack the ripper might write again later e not sure last one really deserved it whores getting younger each time old slut next time hope initially the corpse had been well concealed soil rubble turf had been piled on top of it then the abandoned sofa placed on top of the heap apparently some time after rigor mortis had set in because the arm was well entangled in the sofa springs horse hair from the sofa had been stuffed into her mouth and the autopsy revealed she was also pregnant and told a friend e was going to earn some money and he was cruising along slowly when he had to brake suddenly because of the car in front e recognised the car and e tapped on the window and got in and he said where did you spring from so sud-