You take a cigarette from the pack she’s left on the table. You light it.
‘I suppose you know about Eddie? Jack Whitehead?’
‘Yes,’ you nod.
Kathryn brings the next round over on a tray. She sets them down.
‘Still having a nice time?’ she laughs, handing you another water.
You hold up the cigarette: ‘I took one of yours, sorry.’
‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Everyone else does.’
Kelly takes a big sip from his bitter. He says: ‘This is fun.’
Let’s Dance has finished.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say again.
‘Look, Mr Piggott,’ he says. ‘Ask your questions. But I think you’ll find you’re talking to the wrong Kelly.’
Down by the dark arches under the railway -
She pulls you up, bringing your mouth to hers as you topple on to the back seat -
A pretty young damsel chanced my way -
Her tongue pushes down harder on yours -
Down by the dark arches under the railway -
The taste of her own cunt in her mouth pushing her harder -
Singing Vilikens and Dinah, so blithe and so gay -
You take off her knickers -
Then I stepped up to her so gay and so free -
And she takes your cock in her right hand and guides it in -
To her did I say will you my sweetheart be?
Using your right hand to move your cock clockwise around the lips of her cunt -
Oh no, my gay young man that cannot be -
She digs her nails into your arse, wanting you in deeper -
There is a chap here in blue and he is a-watching me -
You go in hard, your stomach fat and sick -
And if he should see me, what would he say -
Kiss her hard, moving from her mouth to her chin and on to her neck -
Down by the dark arches under the railway -
‘Eddie,’ she whispers -
Pop goes the weasel -
You slip out of her cunt and off her -
Down by the dark arches -
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
You want to go home and drink sweet white wine and smoke some fine Red Leb watch TV with Pete and Norm and fall asleep on their sofa and wake up about five go downstairs and wank yourself back to sleep and get up late eat crispy pancakes and listen to records and do the crossword on the bog meet Gareth for Yorkshire Pudding and onion gravy on the Springs then sit in half-empty pubs playing the jukebox and pool end up in a disco dancing to Culture Club with ugly girls in Boots No. 7 buying them an Indian or a Chinky and tapping off having a shag planning an away day a cheap holiday, wishing you were far away -
But you’re not:
You’re here -
Where everybody knows.
Break my heart in two -
In the black, broken heart of the black, broken night, you pull into the Redbeck -
The Viva back.
A man sat alone in the car -
Headlights on.
They are shining on a door -
The door banging in the wind, in the rain:
Room 27 -
A light on inside;
A photograph stuck on a wall -
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper;
A light on inside -
You don’t stop, you don’t stop, you don’t fucking stop -
For fear tonight is all.
Chapter 42
This man is at door to hell -
Preston, Sunday 28 December 1980.
Door is banging in wind and rain -
From station to station, this his destination:
The door to hell.
He pulls it back and he sees BJ.
‘Afternoon,’ BJ say.
‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘You got a name?’
I am not who I want to be -
‘No names.’
He points to his own wounds: ‘What happened to you?’
‘Occupational hazard,’ BJ say. ‘Goes with places I go.’
He looks around hell and he says: ‘Is this what you wanted to talk about? The places you go? This place?’
‘You been here before, have you, Mr Hunter?’
He nods: ‘Have you?’
I don’t know how to leave -
‘Oh yes,’ BJ say. ‘Many times.’
‘Were you here on the night of Thursday 20 November 1975?’
BJ brush hair out of two black eyes. BJ try to smile: ‘You should see your fucking face?’
‘Yours isn’t that good.’
‘How’s that song go: if looks could kill they probably will?’
‘I don’t know.’
BJ take piece of paper out of jacket. BJ hand it to him. BJ say: ‘Well, I do.’
He opens it. He looks at it:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.
He looks up at BJ then back at piece of paper:
Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975.
He looks up at BJ again.
BJ say: ‘Here comes a copper to chop off your head?’
‘You do this?’
‘What?’
‘Any of it?’
‘No, Mr Hunter.’ BJ say. ‘I did not.’
‘But you know who did?’
BJ shrug. BJ wait.
‘Tell me.’
BJ shake BJ’s head.
‘I’ll fucking arrest you.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘For what?’
‘Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Obstruction. Murder?’
‘That’s what they want.’
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Well then, you’ve obviously been overestimated.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning a lot of people seem to have gone to a lot of bother to make sure you’re not in Yorkshire and not involved with Ripper.’
‘So why do they want you arrested?’
‘Mr Hunter, they want me dead,’ BJ say, spinning truths from lies and lies from truths. ‘Arresting me’s just a way to get their hands on me.’
‘Who?’
BJ shake BJ’s head again. BJ try not to laugh: ‘No names.’
Not yet:
It isn’t working yet -
Hunter’s pissed off.
‘Stop wasting my time,’ he shouts and opens door -
The door out of hell.
But BJ there first, at door -
The door to hell.
BJ slam it shut.
‘Here,’ BJ tell him. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
He holds piece of paper up to BJ’s face. He says: ‘Start fucking talking then.’
BJ push him and paper away: ‘Fuck off.’
‘You called me,’ he shouts. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t bloody want to, believe me,’ BJ say, moving away from him. ‘I had some serious doubts.’
‘So why?’
‘I was going to just post picture,’ BJ mutter. ‘Then I heard about your suspension and I didn’t know how long you’d be about.’
‘Just this,’ he says, holding up piece of paper. ‘That was all?’
BJ nod.
‘Why?’
‘I just want it to stop,’ BJ say. ‘Want them to stop.’
‘Who?’
‘No fucking names!’ BJ scream. ‘How many more times?’
He looks at BJ then back down at Clare: ‘So why here? Is this where it all started? With her?’
‘Started?’ BJ laugh. ‘Fuck no.’
‘Where it ended?’
‘Beginning of end, shall we say.’
‘For who?’
‘You name them?’ BJ whisper. ‘Me, you, her, – half fucking coppers you’ve ever met.’
He looks back down at piece of paper in his hands:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.
‘Why Strachan?’ he asks. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’