There are no cars in the drive. There are no lights on inside -
Only the hateful gloom of bad history -
The hateful, hateful gloom of bad, bad history, hanging in the trees, the branches -
Their shadows long.
You ring the doorbell. You listen to the dreadful, lonely chimes echo through the inside of the house.
‘Yes? Who is it?’ calls out a woman from behind the door.
‘My name is John Piggott.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘About Johnny Kelly.’
‘Go away.’
‘About your late husband.’
‘Go away.’
You have your face and lips to the door: ‘About Jeanette.’
Silence -
Hanging in the trees -
‘About Clare.’
Silence -
In the branches.
‘Mrs Foster,’ you say. ‘I’m not going to go away until you open that door and I see your face.’
There is hesitation. Then a lock turns. The door opens.
Mrs Patricia Foster is in her early fifties with grey hair in need of a perm. She is dressed all in black and holding a lighter and an unlit cigarette in her hands.
There’s already lipstick on the filter and her hands are shaking.
She turns back inside. She sits down on the steps of her grand, carpeted stairs. She shakes her head. She says: ‘The things we do.’
‘Pardon?’
She looks up at you. She lights her cigarette. She says: ‘I knew you’d come.’
‘Me?’
‘Someone.’
You tell her: ‘I went to see Johnny Kelly.’
She smiles at the carpet. ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, eh?’
You hold up a newspaper photograph of Hazel Atkins.
She looks up, dark eyes and tall nose, the face of an eagle -
An iniquitous, flesh-eating bird of prey.
She looks away. She says: ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Nothing,’ you say.
She stares at you. She says: ‘Nothing?’
You nod. You turn -
‘Wait!’ she screams -
You walk -
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
You keep on walking -
‘You can’t leave!’
Walking away through the hateful gloom, the stained class that she is -
On her doorstep, screaming: ‘No!’
Past the neat lawn with its tainted, plastic ornaments and stagnant, plagued pond -
The neat lawn on which her husband was murdered on December 23, 1974 -
Under these very trees;
You walk down the long drive away from Trinity View -
Mrs Patricia Foster screaming and screaming and screaming;
Her screams and her memories -
Hanging in the trees, in the branches -
Your memories;
You are walking in another man’s shoes -
A dead man’s.
Chapter 45
Breathing blood and spitting blind, running hard -
Here it is again, his car -
Fuck.
Gets within six foot and BJ off again -
Door, wind and rain -
His voice: ‘BJ!’
Over fence and on to wasteland, tripping and falling on to ground on other side, bleeding and crying and praying as BJ stumble over land and into playground, into playground and scrambling across fence, across fence and into allotments, dripping blood through vegetable patches and over wall and into small street of terraces, down street and right into next street of terraces, BJ turn left and then right again and into privets -
The shrubbery.
After a minute BJ step out into street and walk along pavement next to big and busy road, walk towards roundabout where BJ will hitch out of here -
Out of Nazi Germany.
BJ walking along, yellow lights coming towards BJ like stars, red lights leaving BJ like sores, practising German and thinking about trying to cross to other side where it’s just factories; fires burning and smoke rising, crows picking at white bones of babies and their mothers, screaming:
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex -
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex.’
Thinking at least there’d be somewhere to hide -
Somewhere to hide.
Then car stops -
His car -
His car stops. He winds down window -
He says: ‘You’re going to catch your death, Barry.’
‘Please,’ BJ say. ‘Help me.’
He raises brow of his black hat. He looks up at black afternoon sky and black rain. He says: ‘Are you sorry?’
BJ nod.
‘Sorry for all the things that you’ve done?’
BJ looking left and right, left and then right. BJ say: ‘I am sorry.’
He unlocks door. BJ get in, sliding over into back -
Car damp and cold, black briefcase beside BJ.
He starts car. He says: ‘Keep your head down.’
BJ do as he says.
On motorway, BJ look up from leather seat: ‘Where we going?’
‘Church,’ he says.
It is 1980.
He found me hiding -
In Church of Abandoned Christ in sixth flat on second floor of sixth house in Portland Square in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost again; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, lost in another room; hair shaved again and eight eyes shined, BJ be once more Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes shabby and wings burnt; he is Hierophant, Father of Fear, and he is weeping, whispering old death songs:
Knew I was not happy -
‘Through thee Church, E met Michael and Carol Williams at their house in Ossett in December 1974 where E had been invited to lecture on thee Irvingites. We took communion of ready-sliced bread and undiluted Ribena. During prayers thee next day Michael spoke in glossolalia for thee first time. Thee three of us wept for it is thee gift of thee Holy Spirit. It is beautiful and it is frightening.
Scratching my head -
‘And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind. It filled all their house on Towngate where we were sitting. And there appeared unto us cloven tongues as of fire and they sat upon Michael. And he was filled with thee Holy Ghost and began to speak with other tongues as thee Spirit gave him utterance.
Confused beyond existence -
‘In January 1975 Michael suddenly visited me. He said he had seen thee Devil who had told him to go and kill himself in his car. He then kissed me upon thee lips. It was not a Christian kiss and we bounced off each other, repelled.
Sat in the corner, shivering from fright -
‘Thee following day Michael approached neighbours in thee street. He told them thee world was coming to an end. He came to thee Church and told me he had been seduced by thee Devil. E recited a prayer of absolution, thee Infilling of thee Holy Spirit. He was strained and tired and went home before night fell. He was afraid of thee dark.
Feeling strung up -
‘On Friday 24 January Michael told Carol to get rid of all thee crosses and religious books in thee house and she did so. When it was time to go to bed he left thee radio on. He was frightened of thee silence of thee night.
Out of my clothes and into the bed -
‘On thee Saturday E decided to give Michael and Carol a rest from their troubles. They would, E believed, benefit from a car ride in thee fresh air of thee Yorkshire Dales. As E drove out Wharfedale way, Carol seemed relieved until Michael suddenly uttered a piercing scream. It was as if all his prayers vociferated in one high-pitched cry full of pent-up blasphemies and curses. “He desperately needs help,” said Carol.