Roads now flooded with tears -
Mrs Ridyard pointing across the road -
She is pointing at the new and detached houses across the road -
The neighbours at their curtains, the rain hard against their windows -
Their lights already on.
In their bathroom, the cold tap is running and I am washing my hands -
‘I think about you all the time -
Judith, Paul and Clare, unknown to me as to where they’ve gone or how they are, if they’ll come back or if they’ll not; thinking of Mandy; thinking of Jeanette and now Susan -
‘Under the spreading chestnut tree -
The cold tap still running, still washing my hands -
‘In the tree, in her branches -
Washing and washing and washing my hands -
‘Where I sold you and you sold me -
Maurice Jobson; the new Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson -
Stood before the mirror in their bathroom, stood behind these thick lenses and black frames, stood staring back into my own eyes, into me -
The Owl -
‘I’ll see you in the tree -
Outside the bathroom I can hear the woman’s muffled and terrible sobs, here amongst the smell of the pines, piss and excrement -
‘In her branches.’
In the doorway, the uniform and I are looking at the detached houses across the road.
‘You checked them out, did you?’
He nods; cold, wet and insulted.
‘When were they built?’
He shrugs; cold, wet and unsure. ‘Couple of years ago.’
‘Who by?’
‘What?’
‘Who built them?’
He shakes his head; cold, wet and stupid.
‘You tell Mr Oldman and Mr Hill that Detective Chief Superintendent Jobson suggests they find out.’
He nods; cold, wet and humiliated.
Mr Ridyard steps into his doorway, red eyes up at the black clouds above.
‘Do wonders for the allotments, that,’ he says.
‘Imagine so,’ I nod -
His daughter’s little bones already cold and underground.
Beneath her shadows -
Dark hearts.
Kissing then fucking -
Cat piss and petunia, desperate on a sofa stripped of rugs and cushions.
Fucking then kissing -
She has her head upon my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.
Behind the curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass -
Wanting in.
‘I thought I’d lost you,’ I say -
‘Never want to lose you,’ I say.
The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass of her big window -
Wanting in.
Laughing, she says: ‘You couldn’t lose me -’
Laughing, she whispers: ‘Even if you wanted to.’
Sobbing, weeping -
Wanting in.
She kisses my fingertips and then stops, holding my fingers to the candlelight -
The ugly candlelight.
She lifts her face and says: ‘You can find them, you know you can.’
But her face in the candlelight, her face is white and still dead -
Lost -
Sobbing, weeping -
Hearts -
Asking to be let in.
The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -
Where one thousand voices cry.
Inside -
Inside your scorched heart.
A house -
A house with no doors.
I wake in the dark, beneath her shadows -
‘I’ll see you in the tree -’
Tapping against the pane.
She’s lying on her side in a white bra and underskirt, her back to me -
Branches tapping against the pane.
I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table -
The branches tapping against the pane.
Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, terrible tunes and words in my head -
Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.
I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, terrible tunes and words in my head, listening to the branches tapping against the pane.
I look at my watch -
‘In her branches.’
Past midnight.
I reach for my glasses and get out of the bed without waking her and I go through into the kitchen, a paper on the mat, and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find a teapot in the cupboard and two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and I pour it into the cups and put two teabags in the teapot and take the kettle off the ring and pour the water on to the teabags and let it stand, staring out of the small window, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a married man undressed but for a pair of white underpants and glasses, these thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a married man undressed in another woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning -
Monday 27 March 1972.
I put the teapot and cups and saucers on a tray and take it into the big room, stopping to pick up the paper, and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk and I open the paper:
POLICE CHIEF’S SON KILLED IN CRASH
George Greaves, Chief Reporter
The son of top local policeman George Oldman was killed when the car his father was driving was involved in a head-on collision with another vehicle on the A637 near Flockton, late Saturday night.
Detective Superintendent Oldman’s eldest daughter was also described as being in a serious condition in intensive care at Wakefield’s Pinderfields Hospital. Mr Oldman and his wife, Lillian, and their other daughter were being treated for minor injuries and shock and it was believed they would be discharged later today.
The driver of the other vehicle is described as being in a serious but stable condition, although police have yet to release the driver’s name.
It is believed that Mr Oldman and his family were returning from the wedding reception of another policeman when their car collided with a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction.
Mr Oldman’s son John was eighteen.
‘What is it?’ says Mandy behind me -
I hold up the paper.
She says nothing -
‘You knew?’ I ask.
Nothing -
Just the branches tapping against the pane, whispering over and over:
‘We’ll see you in the tree, in her branches.’
Part 4. There are no spectators
‘There are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times.’
– Voltaire
Chapter 38
You can’t sleep; you can’t sleep; you can’t sleep -
Your head hurts, your mouth hurts, your eyes hurt;
But you drive; drive all night; drive in circles -
Circles of hell; local, local hells:
‘The mother of the missing Morley child, Hazel Atkins, yesterday renewed her appeal for information about the disappearance of her ten-year-old daughter.
‘“I know in my heart that Hazel is alive and that someone somewhere is keeping her. I would like to ask that person to please bring Hazel home to her family and we will help you in any way we can. But we need you to bring her home today because we miss her very, very much.”
‘Hazel disappeared on her way home from school in Morley three weeks yesterday. Police have made a number of arrests since that day but have yet to charge anyone in connection with the case nor have they had any confirmed sightings of the missing girl since her disappearance on May 12.’