Are islands lost in fears -
But after the curry she’s sober and off the idea of a shag and you knew you should have done it before you had the curry or even back behind Raffles, but she’s getting a bit funny and telling you to get off her, it’s her time of the month, and you’re thinking there’s always trap two, but that’s not going to happen, not now, and the curtains are beginning to spin, the patterns in the carpet, the gold in the rug, but you can have her brother’s room if you promise not to puke or shit in his sheets, that’s if you’re not going to go home which you’re not, not now.
The room red, white and blue (just like you).
You wake afraid about five under a poster of Kenny Dalglish and you go into her room and into her bed and take off her knickers and have a good squeeze of her tits while she pretends to still be asleep as you lick her out and shag her, she never opens her eyes so you put a finger up her arse and have a last shag, meat and bone, fat and muscle, blood and come, then you go downstairs and steal their paper and an umbrella and let yourself out, standing in their drive under their umbrella, staring at that photo on the front of their paper when you realise this is Towngate -
Towngate, Ossett, where Michael Williams murdered his wife with a hammer and a twelve-inch nail back in 1974 or 75, the Exorcist killing -
About the same time they must have nicked Michael Myshkin -
About the same time Hazel Atkins was having her first birthday -
And you stand in their drive under their umbrella and you stare at her photo on the front of their paper and wish you were not you -
For there is no retreat, no escape -
Not now.
Chapter 9
On back seat again -
Another empty coach:
Tuesday 24 December 1974 -
Longest Christmas Eve.
Clare slumped against window, dirty blonde hair against dirty grey glass, her best friend and her sister dead, a small suitcase in rack above her head.
BJ look across aisle and out other window at rain and moors, bleak weather and land it makes, no suitcase above BJ’s head -
Just a pocket full of blood ‘n’ cum money, two stolen watches and some rings.
BJ look at rings on BJ’s fingers -
BJ look at ring Bill put on BJ’s finger -
Bill:
William Shaw.
BJ pull yesterday’s newspaper out of Clare’s carrier bag and look at photo -
Look at photo of his face and read that front page again:
COUNCILLOR RESIGNS
William Shaw, the Labour leader and Chairman of the new Wakefield Metropolitan District Council, resigned on Sunday in a move that shocked the city.
In a brief statement, Shaw, 58, cited increasing ill-health as the reason behind his decision.
Shaw, the older brother of the Home Office Minister of State Robert Shaw, entered Labour politics through the Transport and General Workers’ Union. He rose to be a regional organiser and represented the T.G.W.U. on the National Executive Committee of the Labour Party.
A former Alderman and active for many years in West Riding politics, Shaw was, however, a leading advocate of Local Government reform and had been a member of the Redcliffe-Maud Committee.
Shaw’s election as Chairman of the first Wakefield Metropolitan District Council had been widely welcomed as ensuring a smooth transition during the changeover from the old West Riding.
Local government sources last night expressed consternation and dismay at the timing of Mr Shaw’s resignation.
Mr Shaw is also Acting Chairman of the West Yorkshire Police Authority and it is unclear as to whether he will continue.
Home Office Minister of State Robert Shaw was unavailable for comment on his brother’s resignation. Mr Shaw himself is believed to be staying with friends in France.
Read that front page, stare at photo of his face:
Face not smiling -
Remembering when it was always smiling, smiling and laughing, laughing and joking -
That trip to Spain, mornings on beach and siestas in his arms, evenings full of fine wines and dodgy bellies, nights of -
Nights of love:
His grey hair and gentle words, his firm kisses and soft caresses before -
Before BJ fucked it all, fucked it alclass="underline"
All because of what and who BJ be.
Coach slows -
BJ lean into aisle -
Blue lights up ahead in grey:
Fuck.
Single-lane traffic, red sticks waving in dawn:
Fuck.
Driver has his window down, shouting: ‘What is it?’
‘IRA,’ comes a copper’s voice.
‘Not again?’
‘Irish bastards,’ says copper, but he waves coach through and coach picks up speed again.
Clare is staring at BJ, heavy rain against windows of coach.
‘We there?’ she asks, rubbing her black eyes.
‘Roadblock,’ BJ say.
‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Where are we?’
‘Heading down into Manchester.’
She wipes window, but it doesn’t help.
BJ say: ‘Not very Christmassy, is it?’
‘Used to have good ones, did you?’
BJ sigh: ‘Not really. And you?’
She shakes her head: ‘I’d love to see the girls though.’
‘I bet,’ BJ say, thinking -
Poor, poor fucking cow.
‘Said I’d be back by Christmas, you know.’
‘Give them a ring,’ BJ say.
She sucks in her lower lip and nods.
BJ put newspaper back in bag as coach pulls into Chorlton Street Bus Station.
‘Be half an hour,’ shouts driver. ‘You getting off?’
‘Aye,’ shouts Clare and walks down aisle with BJ and jumps off.
It’s going up to eight and fucking freezing is Manchester.
BJ and Clare cross Portland Street into Piccadilly Gardens and go into first cafй BJ and Clare find:
Piccadilly Grill.
Clare has a breakfast and BJ have her toast, stomachs full of hot sweet tea.
At eight o’clock radio turns them stomachs, turns them inside out:
‘West Yorkshire Police today launched a massive manhunt following an armed robbery on a Wakefield pub last night which left four people dead and two policemen seriously injured.
‘The incident took place at approximately one a.m. last night at the Strafford Arms public house in the centre of Wakefield when a masked gang of armed men broke into a first-floor private party. Officers responding to initial reports of shots fired interrupted the robbery and were themselves attacked.
‘The gang are believed to have escaped with the contents of the till and some cash and jewellery stolen from customers.
‘Roadblocks were immediately set up across the county and on the M62 and M1 and initial reports that the attack might be linked to armed Irish Republican terrorists have yet to be discounted.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, the man leading the hunt for the gang, asked members of the public with any information whatsoever to contact the police as a matter of some urgency, but he also cautioned the public not to approach these men as they are armed and extremely dangerous.
‘Mr Jobson admitted that the police were also taking very seriously suggestions that the attack upon the Strafford may be linked to a recent escalation in Yorkshire gangland violence which may also be behind the death early yesterday morning of local Wakefield businessman Donald Foster at his Sandal home.