‘Fuck off.’
‘Where you go then?’
‘Hemsworth, a long time ago,’ you say. ‘And you?’
‘Thornes.’
You turn on to Blenheim Road and walk along, the big trees keeping the rain off.
You’re going up the drive of number 28 when she says: ‘Isn’t this where that woman was murdered? That witch?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘You’re joking?’
You hold open the front door. ‘We all live in dead people’s houses.’
‘Fuck off,’ she says. ‘Which flat was it?’
‘Mine,’ you say.
‘You better be fucking joking?’ she says.
‘I have decorated.’
She is shivering and staring at you, the rain running off the guttering.
‘Up to you,’ you shrug. ‘Do what you want.’
She looks back out at the rain and steps inside: ‘Long as you’re not planning any bloody seances.’
‘Thought that’d be right up your street.’
‘Fuck off,’ she says again and follows you up the stairs.
You open the door to the flat. You go in first putting on the lights.
‘Come in,’ you say.
She walks down the hall and into the front room.
‘Have a seat,’ you say.
She sits down on the sofa.
‘What do you want to drink?’
‘What you having?’
‘Think I’ll have a lager to start with.’
She nods: ‘Stick some lemonade in ours, will you?’
You go into the kitchen. You open the fridge. There’s no lemonade.
‘Got enough bloody records, haven’t you?’ she shouts.
‘But no lemonade,’ you call back.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
You wash the glasses and find a tray and bring it back through with the Chinese. You have three cans in a carrier bag on your arm. You say: ‘Won’t be a minute.’
She stands up: ‘Where you going?’
‘Just got to nip upstairs.’
‘You’re never going to leave me on my own in here, are you?’
‘Be two minutes,’ you say. ‘Less you don’t want any draw?’
‘Two minutes?’
‘Stick a record on,’ you say. ‘It switches on at the wall.’
‘Two minutes -’
‘Two minutes,’ you say. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
You knock twice on Stopper and Norm’s door. You wait and then knock once again.
‘Who is it?’ whispers Norman.
Two fingers up at the spy-hole, you say: ‘JP.’
The three bolts slide back. The two locks turn. The door opens an inch.
‘What’s the password?’ says Norm over the chain.
‘Fuck off,’ you say.
‘What day is it?’
‘Fucking hell, Norm, it’s Thursday,’ you moan. ‘Just let us in, will you?’
He takes off the chain. He opens the door.
‘Thank you,’ you say.
He locks the locks. He bolts the bolts. He chains the door behind you.
You follow the sounds of Tomita down the hall into the front room.
Stopper’s on the sofa watching the snooker.
‘Aye-up, Peter,’ you say.
He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and winks.
‘How much you want?’ asks Norm.
You put a tenner and the cans on the table: ‘Just an eighth and a couple of wraps.’
Norm picks up one of the cans and leaves the room.
You crack the other two cans. You hand one to Stopper.
‘Ta,’ he says. ‘You out tonight?’
You look at your watch: ‘Maybe. And you?’
He shakes his head: ‘Tomorrow.’
Norm comes back in. He gives you an envelope.
‘Thanks,’ you say.
‘You stopping?’ he asks.
‘Can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow though, yeah?’
‘Nice one,’ nods Norm.
‘See you, Peter,’ you say to Stopper.
‘See you, John.’
You walk down the hall to the front door.
Norm unbolts the bolts. He unlocks the locks. He unchains the chain. He says: ‘You haven’t got a fucking lass downstairs, have you?’
‘Why?’
He puts his finger to his ear: ‘That’s fucking Ziggy, isn’t it?’
You smile.
‘You dirty bastard,’ he winks.
‘Just a friend.’
Pissed and stoned, you sleep fully clothed in the same bed, dreaming of King Herod and dead kids, the Baptist and Salome -
John and Salome, the wounds of Christ and the Spear of Destiny -
Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini, Jimmy Young and Jimmy Ashworth -
Mouths open, contorted and screaming and howling:
‘Hazel!’
You wake and hold her and touch her -
Hold her and touch her and fuck her -
You fuck her, hungover and hard -
Hard as her nails in your back:
‘Murder me!’
Blood on the sheets, blood on the walls -
She opens her eyes, she looks into yours: ‘This place stinks.’
‘I’m sorry -’
‘Of memories,’ she whispers. ‘Bad memories.’
Chapter 15
Clare is screaming: ‘Just fucking walked up to me, bold as fucking brass, and gives it a fucking Long time no see Clare.’
BJ speechless.
‘The cunt! Fucking cunt!’
BJ finding words: ‘Where?’
‘St Mary’s.’
‘Shit.’
‘Bold as fucking brass, he was.’
‘Fuck.’
Her room is trashed and smashed, her clothes and make-up lost among bottles and cans, papers and bags; wind howling around hostel, up stairs and down corridors, under doors and into room, rain hard against window -
This is Preston, Lancashire.
‘How did they find us, BJ?’ she cries. ‘How the fucking hell did they find us?’
BJ look up from floor: ‘Be kids.’
Clare is screaming.
BJ been up and down for days, Clare drunk for same -
Drunk and down since day BJ and Clare got here -
Almost one year now.
But never this down, never this drunk -
BJ a mess and Clare a mess -
Fucked.
BJ fucked, Clare fucked -
Fucked and now found.
‘What we going to do?’
‘Run,’ BJ say.
‘No fucking point,’ she sighs. ‘They’ll find us.’
‘Not if -’
‘If what? They’re fucking watching us!’
‘So what else we going to do?’ BJ cry. ‘Meet him?’
‘What he wants.’
‘Fuck off,’ BJ sob. ‘It’s a fucking trap.’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ she shouts. ‘I’ll not keep running all my fucking life.’
‘They’ll kill us.’
‘Good,’ she mutters.
BJ under covers. BJ hiding. BJ weeping.
There’s a knock on door -
BJ out from covers. Clare staring at door.
‘Clare?’ comes a man’s voice. ‘It’s me.’
‘Fuck, it’s only Roger,’ whispers Clare. ‘Let him in.’
BJ get out of her bed. BJ open her door. BJ let Roger Kennedy in. BJ go down corridor. BJ get in a cold bed. BJ lie under covers. BJ peep up at cracks in ceiling.
BJ wonder what mum is doing today -
Today is BJ’s seventeenth birthday.
BJ start to cry again.
BJ walk to other end of corridor. BJ knock on door.
‘Come in.’
BJ step into Old Walter’s room.
It’s still raining outside. It’s still cold inside.
Walter Kendall is sat at a table by only window. He is cutting something out of a newspaper. He sticks it into an old red exercise book.
‘You’re late,’ he smiles.
‘I’m sorry.’
He closes book: ‘How’s my Clare today?’
‘Busy.’
He laughs. He comes across his tiny room to sit beside BJ on bed.
Outside a train goes past. Window shakes.
‘Your eyes are red,’ he says and takes BJ’s hand. ‘What is it?’
‘They’ve found us.’
He lets go of BJ’s hand. He turns BJ’s face into his: ‘How could they have?’
‘Be her kids,’ BJ say.
‘How?’