And the flames are licking out the windows, touching up the walls -
I turn and see two uniforms at the other end of the alley, so I jog back the other way -
Back round on to the Bradford Road, melting into the crowd that’s forming back down the road, all muttering and chuntering on about gas -
Scanning the faces -
Then I ease myself away, back to the car -
And I get in and am gone.
Foot down, heading up through Hanging Heaton, making my way back through Morley and into Leeds.
I park under the arches near the station and switch on the light:
I’ve got cuts across my face, blood in my ears, blood in my hair, blood on my hands.
I switch off the light and take the bag of Spunks from the back seat and get out, locking the door, tearing back up to the Griffin.
‘Helen?’ I shout, banging on her door -
I keep knocking: ‘Helen?’
A door opens down the corridor:
It’s Hillman, a pair of blue pyjamas -
Shit.
‘What’s wrong?’ he’s saying, coming down the corridor. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, stood there covered in blood and clutching a bag of porn.
‘What happened to you?’
‘There was a fire. It’s nothing serious. Where’s Helen?’
‘A fire? Where?’ he’s asking, saying: ‘You look terrible, you should go to hospital.’
‘Mike,’ I say, grabbing him. ‘Where’s Helen?’
He’s shaking his head: ‘She was in the bar earlier.’
‘When?’ I say, looking at my watch.
‘I don’t know. What time is it now?’
‘Almost two,’ I say. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ he keeps saying. ‘I think she was going to meet someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says again. ‘She was acting a bit odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘Like she had something on her mind.’
‘What time?’
‘About eight, nine maybe.’
‘She say anything to John or Alec?’
‘Doubt it; I was sat with Mac and no-one’s seen Murphy since this afternoon.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Murphy? No idea.’ Then he says: ‘You’re hurting me, sir.’
And I look down at my hands gripping the tops of the arms of his pyjamas and I let him go, bloody marks across him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘You need to see someone,’ he says, an arm helping me along.
‘Who? See who?’
‘A doctor I mean.’
I pull away: ‘I can’t.’
‘You look bloody awful.’
‘Just cuts and bruises,’ I say, taking out my key.
‘You need to get them looked at.’
‘I’m going to my room, I’ll be fine.’
He stands in front of his own door, watching me.
I walk off: ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
I nod and raise my hand, a thumb up.
At my door, I turn and look back down the corridor -
But he’s gone.
I open my eyes -
The telephone’s ringing -
I reach across the bed, across the open copies of Spunk, the sheets from the Exegesis, and I pick up the phone: ‘Helen?’
‘Peter?’
I say: ‘Joan, I’m sorry.’
‘Been so worried about you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to sit up on the bed, grey light coming through the thin hotel curtains.
‘Where have you been?’
I look at my watch:
It’s seven o’clock -
Tuesday 23 December 1980.
‘Peter?’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘I asked where you’ve been?’
‘Surveillance.’
‘Surveillance?’
‘There was no phone, I’m sorry.’
‘I was just worried, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You sound terrible.’
‘Just tired.’
‘Were you asleep?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Have you heard from Linda?’
‘That’s why I’ve been trying to call; Richard hasn’t been home since Sunday and she thought he might be with you.’
‘With me?’
‘She drove over looking for you.’
‘Oh no.’
‘You don’t know where he is then?’
‘No; Roger Hook told me he didn’t show up for the questioning yesterday morning.’
‘Questioning?’
‘It was just routine. He knew it was, but then Clement Smith went and had Vice raid his offices.’
‘Vice?’
My head’s throbbing: ‘Yeah, Vice.’
Joan says: ‘You think he’s all right?’
‘I think he might have gone abroad, you know?’
‘No, not Richard. Not without telling Linda.’
‘He’s not been himself, love. Really nervous, paranoid.’
‘Where would he go?’
‘The house in France.’
‘No? You really think so?’
‘Where else would he go?’
‘Should I say anything to Linda?’
‘If she calls again, you could mention it,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember if it had a phone, can you?’
‘It didn’t.’
‘You sure?’
‘You said that was the best thing about the place.’
I’m sat on the bed, on one of the magazines, holding the phone, nodding -
My head splitting: ‘You’re right.’
Joan says: ‘When you coming home, love?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’
‘I know. I’ll be definitely back tomorrow night. Maybe before.’
‘Hope so.’
‘I love you.’
‘Me too,’ she says.
‘Bye-bye.’
‘Bye-bye.’
She hangs up and I sit on the bed, on one of the magazines, the phone dead in my hand, staring into the hotel mirror.
After a few minutes, I stand up and go into the bathroom and change my clothes and wash the blood from my face and my hair, off my hands, rinsing the sink clean after I’m done, clean of the brown water.
‘Helen?’ I say, banging on her door -
I keep knocking: ‘Helen?’
I try the door -
Locked -
Fuck.
Downstairs in the lobby of the Griffin, I ring the bell -
‘Can you tell me if Miss Marshall is in?’ I ask the receptionist.
He looks down his list and turns to the keys hanging on the pegs behind him and then looks back at me and shakes his head: ‘She’s out.’
I’m about to go but then ask him: ‘Any messages?’
‘Mr Hunter?’
I nod.
‘I believe your wife called a number of times last night.’
‘That all?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m sure.’
It takes the best part of an hour to Levenshulme, the rain sleet then snow then sleet then rain, the roads empty, the landscape dead.
At ten o’clock, local radio tells me the news:
‘An explosion last night destroyed a newsagents and badly damaged adjoining premises on the Bradford Road, Batley. Nine people were taken to hospital to be treated for shock and cuts caused by flying glass. One person had to be kept in for further treatment. Fire officers are investigating claims that the explosion was caused by gas canisters sold at the newsagents.
‘Many shops will again close early tonight as police continue to investigate a call made to the Daily Mirror from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper and threatening to kill again today. Meanwhile police released a new description and photofit of the man seen in the Alma Road vicinity of Headingley at the time police estimate Laureen Bell was brutally murdered.
‘The man is described as…’
I switch off the radio -
I know what he looks like.
I park on their road in the nice part of Levenshulme, the part on the way out to Stockport, the Exegesis on my lap, listening to the tapes in my head: