‘Why they murdered Clare?’ BJ shake BJ’s head. ‘No.’
‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’
‘No.’
‘I want names -’
‘I’ll give you one name,’ repeating today’s instructions for today’s mission, BJ whisper. ‘And one name only.’
‘Go on?’
‘Her name was Morrison.’
‘Who?’
‘Clare – her maiden name was Morrison.’
‘Morrison?’
‘Know any other Morrisons, do you, Mr Hunter?’
‘Grace Morrison.’
‘And?’
‘The Strafford,’ he says. ‘She was the barmaid at the Strafford.’
‘And?’
‘They were sisters,’ he whispers.
‘And?’
He looks down at piece of paper in his hand:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.
He looks up again, his eyes open: ‘The Strafford.’
‘Bullseye.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I was there.’
‘Where? You were where?’
‘Strafford,’ BJ say and BJ open door -
The door out of hell.
But he is there first, at door -
The door to hell.
He slams it shut.
‘You’re not going anywhere, pal,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’
‘But that’s your lot, Mr Hunter.’
‘Fuck off,’ he screams. ‘You tell me what happened that night?’
‘Ask someone else.’
‘You mean Bob Craven? There isn’t anybody else, they’re all dead.’
Mission for Dead accomplished, BJ smile: ‘Exactly.’
‘Fuck off,’ he says, grabbing BJ’s jacket.
BJ push him away.
He grabs BJ again.
BJ punch him.
He goes down.
BJ have fingers round his throat but he still has hold of BJ. BJ shout: ‘What fuck are you doing?’
‘Time to stop running,’ he hisses.
BJ kick him but he still has hold of BJ. BJ say: ‘Get fucking off me.’
‘What happened?’
BJ kick him again: ‘I’m saying no more.’
‘Tell me!’
BJ break free and at door -
The door out of hell.
BJ tell him: ‘They haven’t finished with you.’
‘You’re dead,’ he shouts from floor of hell. ‘You’re dead.’
‘Not me,’ BJ laugh. ‘I got my insurance. How about you?’
‘They’ll find you and they’ll kill you if you don’t come with me.’
‘Not me.’
‘Go on, run.’
‘Fuck off,’ BJ say, opening door -
Door banging in wind, in rain -
The door out of hell.
‘It’s you who should be running,’ BJ tell him. ‘You, they haven’t finished with you.’
BJ stand at door -
The door into hell -
Stand at door and BJ see him now:
On his knees on his lawn in rain, his finger on trigger of shotgun in his mouth.
‘You’re dead,’ he shouts -
BJ step outside -
‘Dead.’
BJ start walking, walking up to top of street, when BJ see him -
See him standing at top of street by open door of his car -
Looking at BJ -
Unblinking -
He smiles.
BJ run -
Run like hell.
Chapter 43
No sleep, no food, no cigarettes -
Just this:
Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/Wood Street -
Back to Netherton:
Sunday/Monday/Tuesday -
The evening of Tuesday 17 December 1974:
Nothing -
No sleep, no food, no cigarettes:
No George fucking Marsh.
There’s a tap on the glass -
I jump:
Badger fucking Bill -
He tries the passenger door.
I lean across. I open it.
He gets in. ‘Christ, it fucking stinks in here.’
‘How’d you know I was here?’
‘Fucking hell, Maurice,’ he snorts. ‘You’re an open fucking book, mate.’
‘Not a crime, is it?’ I smile.
‘A broken fucking record.’
‘Is that what you came to tell me?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not.’
‘What then?’
He pauses -
I turn to look at him:
He’s staring up the road at Maple Well Drive; the black bungalow on the right.
‘What is it?’ I ask again.
‘Eddie Dunford,’ he says.
‘Who?’
Bill turns to look at me. He smiles. He says: ‘Fuck off, Maurice.’
‘What?’
‘He’s a bloody nuisance and he doesn’t need any fucking encouragement.’
I’ve got my hands on the steering wheel, holding it tight.
Bill says: ‘He’s already been up Shangrila.’
‘So?’
‘So we’ve got enough bloody problems with Derek fucking Box. I don’t need any fucking more. Thank you.’
‘Dunford’s not a problem,’ I say.
Bill doesn’t reply -
I turn back to look at him:
He’s looking at me.
‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say.
‘He knows enough to have been round your bird’s house this afternoon.’
‘What?’
He winks. He opens the passenger door. He gets out. He turns back. He says: ‘You and your ladyfriend best remember, reckless talk costs lives.’
I drive back through the dark and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big hearts cut, lost;
28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Heart cut, lost;
I park. I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -
Stars and angels -
Silent little angels:
Jeanette, Susan, and Clare.
I get out. I lock the car door. I spit -
The taste of flesh;
I walk up the drive -
Shallow ugly moonlight, black stagnant rainwater;
The bottoms of my trousers, my shoes and socks, muddy -
Everything mud;
I go inside out of the rain. I go up the stairs to Flat 5 -
The air damp, stained -
Hearts lost;
The door is open -
Wide open, the metal chain loose -
In the Season of the Plague, the meat;
My heart thrashing -
The air suddenly thick with murder -
Two black crows eating from black bin-bags;
I step inside, listening:
Low sobs, muffled sobs -
Ripping through her sweet meat;
Stood before the bedroom door, whispering: ‘Mandy?’
Low sobs, muffled sobs, weeping -
Screams echoing into the dark;
I try the door: ‘Mandy?’
I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -
Sliding back on her arse up the hall -
Stars and angels -
My angeclass="underline" ‘Mandy?’
Arms and legs splayed, her skirt riding up;
Close my eyes. Open them -
Stood before the bedroom door, whispering: ‘Mandy?’
Scared sobs from behind a door;
Listening to the low sobs -
The muffled sobs, the weeping -
The sound of furniture being moved;
I lean into the wood of the door. I push -
The door opens a fraction then stops -
Chests of drawers and wardrobes being placed in front of the door;
The sobs louder, the weeping more -
I push again: ‘Mandy?’
A faint voice through the layers and layers of wood;
The sobbing, the weeping -
Another fraction, another inch: ‘Mandy?’
A child whispering to a friend beneath the covers;
Sobbing, weeping -
My arm inside then a leg, pushing the fractions and the inches -