They kick you in the back. They kick you in the front.
You put your hands and arms over your head. You curl up.
They smash the dustbin lid down into your head. Into your back.
You try to crawl down the path.
They grab your hair. They pull you down the path.
You reach up to your scalp.
They drop you by the gatepost. They jump on you.
You -
They close the gate in your face. Repeatedly.
‘Mr Piggott?’ Kathryn Williams is walking across the Yorkshire Post reception -
No outstretched hand today -
‘What on earth happened to you?’
You are swollen and wrapped in bandages. You pull yourself up out of your seat: ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’
Kathryn Williams stares at you. She says: ‘You should be in hospital.’
‘A mental hospital?’
She doesn’t smile. She asks: ‘What can I do for you, Mr Piggott?’
‘Miss Williams, I -’
‘Mrs Williams,’ she says.
‘OK, Mrs Williams,’ you say. ‘It’s about Jack Whitehead.’
‘Mr Piggott, I told you everything I know about Jack -’
‘You didn’t tell me about the flat.’
‘The flat?’
‘On Portland Square.’
‘I -’ she starts then stops.
You say: ‘I what?’
‘I thought he was still in Stanley Royd.’
‘Well, he ain’t.’
‘He’s at home?’
‘If he is,’ you say. ‘He’s not answering his door.’
‘You’re sure he’s not back in Stanley Royd.’
‘He was signed out into the care of his son on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’
‘His son?’
You nod. It hurts.
Mrs Williams asks: ‘You know where the son took him?’
‘The flat on Portland Square.’
‘But there’s no answer?’
You shake your head. It hurts.
She asks: ‘You went today?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Maybe they were just out?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You going round there again?’
You nod. It hurts. You stop.
She stares at you again. She says: ‘This isn’t just about Jack, is it?’
‘Not just Jack, no.’
She closes her eyes -
The two of you stood there in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area.
You say: ‘I read your piece on Hazel and Susan Ridyard. I went to Rochdale.’
She opens her eyes -
The two of you stood in the middle of the Yorkshire Post reception area, one of you swollen and wrapped in bandages -
Both of you in pain.
Off Calverley Street, tucked between Portland Way and Portland Crescent, up by the Poly and opposite the Civic Hall, it’s still raining:
Raining on the ruined grandeur, ill-gotten, squandered and damned -
Raining on Portland Square:
Mrs Williams and you tip-toe through the grass and weeds, the cracks and the stones; the pair of you picking your way along the terrace until you come to number 6, the front door still wide open and the tree still standing.
You walk up the three stone steps and through the front door -
You call out: ‘Hello? Hello?’
Still no answer.
You walk up the staircase on the left, over the leaves and the crisp packets, the unopened post and the papers, up the stairs to the first floor and Flats 3 and 4, cross the landing and up the second flight of stairs to Flats 5 and 6.
You stand before the door. You look at Mrs Williams. She shrugs.
You try the bell.
No answer.
You knock. You shout: ‘Hello? Hello?’
No answer.
You squat down. You lift the flap. ‘Mr Whitehead? Jack Whitehead? Anybody?’
No answer.
You let the flap go. You stand back up. You point down at the single word someone has scratched into the metal flap of the letterbox:
Ripper.
You show her the numbers on the door -
The number someone has scratched either side of the six:
6 6 6.
‘Be kids,’ says Kathryn Williams.
‘Or their dads.’
‘Is it locked?’ she whispers.
You press your fingertips into the wood and the door swings in and the smell runs to greet you; a tongue warm with saved spit and an unexpected bark that brings new tears to your black eyes.
She takes one step backwards. You take one step forwards -
This is the way.
You step inside. You can see the light at the end of the passage -
Through the old smells and the new, down the passage to his room -
Jack’s room:
Curtains billowing through the open and cracked windows, black sails -
The books and the papers scattered to the wind, their pages turning -
The spools and the tapes, streamers from an abandoned street party -
The suit and the shirts, the shoes and the socks, all spilling out from the chests of drawers, the stately wardrobes -
The sheets and the blankets, the pillow on the bed, stained and as cracked as the ceiling and the pelmets above -
Above the photographs and the words -
The photographs upon the floor, the words upon the wall.
You stand in Jack’s room and remember another room -
Room 27, the Redbeck Cafй and Moteclass="underline"
The first and last time you met Jack Whitehead.
You remember the photographs and words upon those walls:
Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland.
Through the old tears and the new, down all those passages to that room and this -
This the place.
A mirror in four pieces, a stool with three legs -
A telephone dead in two halves, a clock stopped at 7.07 -
The time.
You swallow. You wipe your eyes -
Kathryn Williams is staring at a photograph on the mantelpiece -
A photograph of a young, handsome man with a bright, wide smile.
‘You know him?’
Her bottom lip is trembling, fingers pinching the end of her nose.
‘Who is it?’
‘Eddie,’ she says -
New tears streaming down another old face. ‘Eddie Dunford.’
It is night now.
You drive alone from Leeds into Wakefield, through the dead centre and out along the Donny Road, heading towards the Redbeck -
This the place, the time -
Tuesday 14 June 1977:
‘Fuck is this place?’ you said stood in the doorway, two teas in your hands, a chip butty in your pocket.
‘Just somewhere,’ smiled Bob Fraser.
‘How long you had it?’
‘It’s not really mine.’
‘But you got the key?’
‘It’s for a friend.’
‘Who?’
‘That journalist, Eddie Dunford.’
Haunted:
1977 all over again -
This the time, the place -
The Redbeck:
There was a knock on the door, you jumped.
Bob went to the door: ‘Who is it?’
‘Jack Whitehead. Let me in, it’s pissing down out here.’
Bob opened the door and in Jack stepped.
‘Fuck,’ Jack said, looking at the walls, the words and the photographs.
‘I’m John Piggott,’ you said. ‘I’m Bob’s solicitor.’
But Jack was still looking at the walls, the photographs and the words -
Haunted:
The words -
Jack Whitehead, Bob Fraser and Eddie Dunford -
Haunted:
The photographs -
Clare Kemplay, Susan Ridyard, and Jeanette Garland -
Haunted:
The photograph in your pocket -