‘Boss,’ says Dick -
Dick and Jim are standing in the doorway:
Jim is holding up a huge drawing of a rat -
A rat with a crown and wings -
Swan bloody wings.
Dick with a box full of photographs -
Photographs of ten or twelve young girls -
The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart;
School photographs -
Where one thousand voices cry;
Eyes and smiles shining up in my face -
Inside;
Ten pairs of blue eyes -
Inside your scorched heart;
Ten sets of smiles -
There is a house;
That same blue-sky background -
A house with no door;
One pair of mongol eyes -
The earth scorched;
One crooked smile -
Heathen and always winter.
100 miles an hour out of Fitzwilliam and down into Castleford, the undead but buried spinning and howling -
Spinning and howling all the way into Castleford -
Dick shouting: ‘You tell Oldman where we’re going?’
Shaking my head -
‘You called Bill, didn’t you?’
Shaking my head -
‘You think we should call him?’
Shaking my head -
‘I fucking hope you know what you’re doing?’
Foot down, shaking.
Heathen and always winter -
The car slows down. It bumps over the rough ground. It stops.
I chuck Dick and Jim their black balaclavas: ‘Put them on when you get inside.’
I stuff my balaclava in my coat pocket.
I hand them a hammer each.
I put on my gloves. I pick up another hammer. I put it in my other pocket.
We get out of the car -
We’re at the back of a row of shops in the centre of Castleford.
‘Jim, go round the front to keep an eye out,’ I tell him.
He nods.
I pull down my balaclava. I turn to Dick: ‘You set?’
Dick nods.
They follow me along the back of the shops. I stop by the metal gate in the high wall with the broken glass set in the top. I look at Dick.
Dick nods.
He gives me a leg up and over the wall and the broken glass.
I land on the other side in the backyard of Jenkins Photo Studio:
There’s a light on upstairs, a hammer in my pocket -
A photograph.
I open the gate for Dick.
I pick up one of the metal dustbin lids. I drop it on the floor with a crash -
We stand flat against the wall in the shadows by the back door -
In the shadows by the back door, waiting -
The door stays shut, the light on upstairs.
I nod.
Dick picks up the metal dustbin. He hoists it up. He hurls it through the back window -
Glass and wood everywhere.
He pulls himself up on to the ledge. He shoulders in through the broken glass and splintered frame. He jumps down on the other side to open the back door -
No turning back.
In and down the corridor to the front of the shop, Dick straight up the stairs -
Me past the window full of school portraits. I tap on the door. I open it for Jim.
He steps inside.
I point at the ceiling.
He puts on his balaclava. He follows me through to the back stairs -
Up the narrow steep stairs past a dark room on the right and into a living room-cum-bedroom on the left.
Dick is standing alone in the room on a carpet of photographs -
Photographs of young girls -
School photographs -
Thousands of eyes and hundreds of smiles shining up in our faces:
Pairs of eyes and sets of smiles all against that same blue-sky background -
That same sky-blue background favoured by Mr Edward Jenkins, photographer.
I take the photograph from my pocket -
The photograph of a young girl -
A school photograph -
Eyes and smile shining up in my face:
Mongol eyes and crooked smile against that same blue-sky background -
Jeanette Garland.
I take off my balaclava. I put my glasses back on -
Their thick lenses and black frames -
The Owclass="underline"
I am the Owl and I see everything from behind these lenses thick and frames black, everything in this upstairs room with its carpet of innocent eyes and trusting smiles, abused and exposed under a single dirty light -
Unblinking -
A single dirty light bulb still left on.
I put the photograph of Jeanette back in my pocket.
‘He’s gone then,’ says Jim.
I nod.
Dick hands me a large black Letts desk diary for 1974. ‘Forgot this in his haste.’
I turn to the back. I flick through the names and addresses -
Initials and phone numbers listed alphabetically.
I turn the pages. I read the names. I see the faces:
Looking for one name, one number, one face -
I see John Dawson. I see Don Foster -
I see me -
I see Michael Myshkin, John Murphy, the Badger and then -
That name, that number, that face:
GM: 3657 .
I close the book -
They’re all going to die in this hell;
Close my eyes -
We all are.
‘What now?’ Jim is asking.
I open my eyes.
They are both staring at me.
‘Torch the place,’ I tell them.
They nod.
I walk back down the stairs. I go out into the alley.
It is daylight now.
I take off my glasses. I wipe them. I put them back on. I look up at the sky -
The moon gone -
No sun -
Jeanette Garland missing five years and six months -
Susan Ridyard missing two years, ten months -
Clare Kemplay dead five days -
Dead:
The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -
Where one thousand voices cry;
Inside -
Inside your scorched heart;
There is a house -
A house with no doors;
The earth scorched -
Heathen and always winter;
The room murder -
This is where I live:
The grey sky turning black -
Fresh blood on my hands -
No turning back.
I drive out of Castleford -
Over to Netherton.
I park at the end of Maple Well Drive -
The morning sky black.
All the bungalows have their lights on -
Even number 16;
Fuck -
Never leave, never leave, never leave;
I get out -
I walk along the road.
The living room light is on -
Their white Ford Transit parked outside.
I go up the path -
I ring the doorbelclass="underline"
A grey-haired woman opens the door, pink washing-up gloves dripping wet: ‘Yes?’
She’s put on weight since last we met.
I say: ‘Mrs Marsh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Police, love. Is your George in?’
She looks at me. She tries to place me. She shakes her head. ‘No.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s at his sister’s, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘Well, he is.’
‘Where’s that then? His sister’s?’
‘Over Rochdale way.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When did you last see your husband?’
‘Day he left.’
‘Which was?’
‘Last Thursday.’
‘Heard he was sick?’
‘He is. He’s gone for a break.’
‘Is that right?’
‘That’s what I just said, isn’t it?’