‘Some fucking real bloody money!’
All the cooks and all the chiefs -
Me too:
For the body is not one member -
Bill raises his glass: ‘To us all and to the North – where we do what we want!’
But -
‘The North,’ we reply as one and drain our whiskeys again.
Many.
Bill looks over at me, smiling to himself: ‘There’s one last thing.’
We sip our whiskeys. We wait.
‘You’ve all heard the rumours,’ he says. ‘But I wanted to tell you all face to face, here and now, in front of the lot of you -
‘I’m retiring.’
‘What?’ we all say.
‘I’ve had my time,’ he grins. ‘And I’m going to have plenty to keep me occupied.’
‘But what -’ Jim Prentice says.
Craven: ‘Who will -’
Bill looks at me. He nods. He says: ‘Maurice is taking over.’
I say nothing.
‘Old Walter signed the papers yesterday,’ laughs Bill. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, Head of Leeds CID.’
Before I can say anything -
Before anyone can say anything -
Dick Alderman stands up, his glass raised one final time: ‘To Maurice.’
Bill and Rudkin on their feet first, Dawson and Foster next, Craven and Prentice following -
Murphy bemused, confused -
As confused as me as I stand and raise my own glass to myself thinking:
Make believers of us all.
Downstairs, drunk and ugly -
Everyone dancing -
Everyone except my wife and my children, sat to the side in the dark -
Everyone dancing or falling down:
‘State of her,’ whispers Dick with a nod to Anthea Rudkin -
Rudkin’s wife draped all over George Oldman -
Half in and half out of a long but low-cut pink dress -
Oldman’s wife and children getting their coats.
Bill is shaking his head, whispering to Rudkin -
Rudkin across the dancefloor, pulling his wife off George -
Her arms already bruised in his grip, she kicks her legs out and she screams: ‘Never marry a copper!’
In the family car on the drive home, Judith and Clare are asleep.
Paul puts his head between the seats. He says: ‘Why do they call you the Owl?’
‘Because of my glasses.’
‘Think it’s stupid,’ he says and sits back.
I look in the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the passing night, the lorries and the cars, the yellow lights and the red.
He is crying, wishing he were somewhere else -
Someone else -
Other people;
Or maybe just me -
Wishing I were someone else;
Crying and wishing we were all dead -
Or maybe just me -
Just me.
I lie in our double bed, listening to Simon and Garfunkel through the wall, doors slamming and the telephone ringing, no-one answering it -
The sound of things:
Terrifying, difficult and awesome -
The sound of things getting worse.
Lying in the double bed, thinking -
Please make me believe.
Chapter 35
You can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep -
You shut your eyes, you see her face -
You open your eyes, you see her face:
‘If Mrs Thatcher wins, Britain’s young men and women will be a lost generation, without jobs, without education -’
You shut your eyes, you see her face -
You open your eyes, you see her face:
‘No hope to make the life they want for themselves.’
You can’t go to sleep -
Thursday 2 June 1983:
D-7 .
Down through the thunder and the rain and Wakefield, the car still retching and coughing, hacking its way over the Calder and out past the Redbeck, into Fitzwilliam -
Putting them together:
Jimmy Ashworth and Michael Myshkin -
Michael and Jimmy, Jimmy and Michael -
Putting them together and getting:
Hazel Atkins -
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper.
Sweating and then freezing, your clothes still itching with hate, you’ve got the shadows all over your heart again, a belly brimming over with fear -
Putting it all together to get:
Fear and hate, hate and fear -
A pocket full of paper, a pocketful of -
Hazel.
It is getting late -
Everywhere.
The silent houses of Newstead View, Fitzwilliam:
Fitz-fucking-william-
69 Newstead View:
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
‘Took your time?’ spits Ma Ashworth, almost closing the door in your face.
‘I’ve been busy.’
She stares at the dinner medals on your shirt. She says: ‘So I see.’
You put down the two large brown paper bags at her feet: ‘I brought you these.’
She holds open the front door. ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting your cup of tea with three sugars?’
You shake your head: ‘I’m not stopping.’
She shrugs. She looks at the bags. She says: ‘What about the belt?’
You lean down. You open the bag nearest her, the black leather belt coiled on top.
She bends down. She picks it up.
‘Was that his?’ you ask.
Her shoulders are shaking, her rough hands holding the worn belt.
‘Mrs Ashworth?’
She stares down at the belt in her hands, the tears falling from her face.
‘What about this?’ you ask. ‘Was this his?’
Mrs Ashworth looks up at the tiny newspaper photograph in her face -
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper -
‘You know who this is, don’t you?’
The tears streaming down her face -
‘It was in his wallet, in the lining.’
The tears down her face -
‘He’d cut it out.’
The tears -
‘No,’ she cries.
You hold it closer to her face, to the tears and the lies -
‘Why would he do a thing like that?’
But she’s turned her face to the dark grey sky, mumbling hymns and whispering prayers, saying over and over: ‘I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans. I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was…’
‘I’ll see you,’ you say -
In hell, another hell.
You walk down Newstead View -
The plastic bags and the dog shit.
You go up the path. You knock on 54 -
No answer.
You knock again.
‘Not your lucky day, is it?’
You turn round -
There are three men at the gate. They have pointed faces and pale moustaches. They are dressed in denim and grey. They are wearing trainers.
‘I’m a solicitor,’ you say.
They rock back and forwards on their heels. They spit.
‘You look like a fat cunt to me.’
‘A fat cunt who can’t keep his hands to himself.’
‘Fat cunt who’s going to get his head kicked in.’
They walk up the path towards you.
You swallow. You say: ‘I know who you are.’
‘And we know who you are,’ they laugh.
You look across the road -
The neighbours paired up, arms and brows folded -
You shout: ‘Will someone please call -’
The nearest man punches you hard in the face.
You put your hands up to your nose.
They grab your hair. They pull you off the step. They punch you in the stomach.
You fall forwards.
They knee you in the stomach. They hit you with a dustbin lid.
You fall on to the garden path.