‘McGuinness and Craig,’ says a woman’s voice.
One finger in your ear you say: ‘Could I speak to Mr McGuinness please?’
‘Whom shall I say is calling?’
‘John Piggott.’
‘Just one moment, Mr Piggott.’
There is a pause before she’s back: ‘I’m sorry, Mr Piggott, I’m afraid Mr McGuinness has left for the day.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Really.’
‘What’s your name, love?’
‘Karen Barstow.’
‘Karen, it’s very, very important that I speak with Mr McGuinness as soon as possible. So could you please tell me where I can reach him?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where Mr McGuinness is.’
‘Do you have his home phone number?’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t possibly give that number out -’
‘What about if I came round and fucking beat it out of you, you stupid fucking bitch. Would that possibly help?’
‘Mr Piggott -’
But you’ve hung up.
‘That’s unfortunate, that is,’ smiles the policeman on the desk.
You smile back: ‘Would you let his mother see him?’
‘Long as she was here before eight.’
You look at your watch:
Just gone seven -
Fuck.
‘Before eight?’
‘Best get your skates on,’ he nods.
M1 out of Leeds, windscreen wipers and the radio on:
‘Ken, Deirdre and Mike named Personalities of the Year.’
Off the motorway, through Wakefield -
‘Bonn says Hitler diaries are forged.’
Out and on the road to Fitzwilliam -
‘Foot launches bitter attack on Thatcher-Tebbit Toryism as a philosophy from which all compassion and generosity of spirit has been squeezed.’
On to Newstead View, past 54, braking hard outside 69 -
‘A local man arrested in Morley last week is to appear before Leeds Magistrates tomorrow morning in connection with the disappearance of Morley schoolgirl, Hazel…’
Up the path and banging on the door -
Mrs Ashworth, a tea-towel in her hand, the telly on -
Crossroads.
‘Get your coat,’ you say. ‘You’re coming to see Jimmy.’
‘What?’
‘Come on, there isn’t much time.’
She shouts something into the room, grabs her coat from the hook and runs down the path behind you -
You lean across her and slam the passenger door shut -
‘Clunk-click,’ she says, putting on the seat belt.
You start the car, looking at the clock:
Half-seven.
Out of Fitzwilliam and into Wakefield -
Through Wakey and on to the motorway -
Down the M1 and into Leeds -
Park bang outside Millgarth and up the steps -
Through the double doors -
The stink of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables -
The policeman on the desk on the telephone, his face white -
‘She’s here to see her son, James Ashworth,’ you say, looking up at the clock on the walclass="underline"
Almost eight.
He’s putting down the telephone, the policeman on the desk, shaking his head: ‘I’m sorry, but -’
‘No buts,’ you’re shouting. ‘She’s entitled to -’
But the room is suddenly full of policemen, policemen in uniform and policemen in suits, two of the policemen in suits leading Mrs Ashworth over to the tiny plastic chairs under the dull yellow strip lights that blink on and off, on and off, sitting her down beneath the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, you turning back to see how really bloody white the policeman on the desk has gone, his head and hands shaking, looking back round at Mrs Ashworth, her mouth open as she slips off the tiny plastic chair to lie prostrate upon the linoleum floor, upon the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the policeman on the desk, his mouth dry and voice cracking as he says:
‘He’s dead.’
Chapter 12
Preston:
Lunchtime -
Tuesday 24 December 1974 -
Never-ending.
Sitting in corner of a pub in centre of concrete city, office workers in their party hats already drunk and puking in bogs -
Never-ending.
Shouting along to Slade and Sweet, people snogging and glasses smashing and punches flying and coppers wading in -
Never-ending.
Walking up hill away from station, streets empty and buildings black, trains lit and cars dark -
Never-ending.
Weaving arm-in-arm through cold and dirty rain that falls from cold and dirty sky -
Never-ending.
Stepping out of one shadow and into another -
Another kind of pub, BJ and Clare’s kind of pub, St Mary’s -
Never-ending.
Roger Kennedy drops bloody key three or four fucking times before he finally opens door, not that Clare notices.
‘Here we are,’ he says, his fat face as red as stupid Santa hat he’s wearing.
BJ and Clare follow him inside:
St Mary’s Hostel -
Fifty yards back down road from pub of same name -
Blood and Fire etched in stone above door.
Roger Kennedy finds light switch and ducks into a small office.
BJ and Clare stand in corridor, Clare leaning against green and cream wall with her small suitcase in her hand.
Kennedy comes back out with two keys and smiles: ‘Take care of the paperwork later.’
BJ and Clare follow him up steep stairs to a narrow corridor of bedrooms.
‘There’s only Old Walter in the end one at the moment,’ says Kennedy. ‘But no doubt some of the other bad pennies will turn up again after New Year.’
He opens one door at top of stairs and winks at Clare: ‘You take this one, love.’
‘Ta very much,’ she smiles.
He hands BJ a key: ‘You take the second one on the right.’
BJ walk down corridor until BJ come to second one down on right. BJ unlock door and BJ step inside:
A bed and a wardrobe that doesn’t close, a chair and a window that doesn’t open, stink of damp that will never leave -
Home sweet bloody home.
BJ sit down on edge of bed and BJ think about little room over in Leeds with Ziggy and Karen, records and posters, clothes and memorabilia.
BJ get up off bed and walk down corridor about to go into Clare’s room when BJ hear Roger Kennedy fucking her inside. BJ go back to room and BJ sit on edge of bed and BJ count stars on BJ’s shirt.
It’s cold and dark and BJ lie in bed watching rain and lights on cracks in ceiling when she knocks on door and comes in with two plastic bags -
‘Room for a wee one?’ she asks.
‘Be my guest.’
‘Got some wine and some cider and some Twiglets,’ she smiles. ‘Thought we’d have our own Christmas party.’
‘What about lover?’
‘Passed out.’
‘He pay?’
‘No rent he said.’
‘No rent?’
‘Aye,’ she laughs and lies down on bed next to BJ. ‘No rent.’
‘Maybe our luck’s beginning to change?’
‘Be about fucking time,’ she says and pulls thin eiderdown over BJ and Clare.
‘Said they were going to make me famous,’ she laughs suddenly, leaning across BJ for last of wine.
‘How?’ BJ say, room hot and spinning.
‘Here,’ she says, jumping out of bed. ‘I’ll show you if you promise not to laugh.’
She squats down beside bed, searching through her plastic bags until she finds what she’s looking for: ‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart.’
She hands BJ a photograph.
BJ take it from her and sit up in bed: