1983

I take out my scissors. I cut my hair. I shake my head. Loose hairs fall into sink. I run taps. I take out my razor. I mix soap and water in my hand. I rub it over my scalp. I pick up razor. I shave my neck. I shave my face. I shave my head. I look at my face in mirror. I tilt my head down. I stare up into glass -

It gets dark and -

There are visions of sixes and sevens, swastikas and crucifixes inside my head, big black and white ones all splattered with blood in an underground bunker, in an upstairs bar, on a motel wall, in a hotel room on seventh floor -

A toilet wall.

It gets dark and I get confused.

I put my cap and army coat back on. I shine my best badge:

UK Decay.

I walk over to a phonebox. I step inside. I close door. I pick up phone. I dial her number. She does not answer phone:

Never answers her phone, she never answers her phone; that is her way -

It is a war of nerves.

I am hungry now. I go into cafй. A lovely girl asks me what I want. I take a cup of tea from her and a hot toasted teacake. I give her money. She smiles at me. I take my tea and toast over to a table. I sit down. I watch her work. I enjoy my tea and toast. I thank her. I pick up my bag and leave.

I walk down Wellington Street into City Square -

There are voices from vans;

Past two stone lions and Leeds City Station -

There are posters on walls;

Along Boar Lane, past Griffin Hotel -

There are ghosts on every corner;

Across Vicar Lane and along Call Lane -

In windows and doorways;

Through Market into Bus Station and Millgarth -

A black winged gargoyle looming;

It watches me with talons pointed as memories are dull -

It is dark now. I am confused;

I wait for bus to Fitzwilliam -

A shadow on wall.

Bus comes. I get on. I sit upstairs -

Backseat hard.

I light matches. I smoke cigarettes. I read seats -

Thornhill Whites; Jeff is gay; LUFC; Barry 4 Clare.

I light matches. I remember faces. I remember hers -

I think about her all time.

I light matches -

Will she like me? Love me? Let me in? Let me stay, way people say -

Or will she remember me? Hate me? Wish me dead, way people do.

I let them fall to floor -

Fucking cunts treat us like pricks.

I light another match -

Why this person is liked and that one is not -

Why this one is loved and that one is not.

It burns my fingers. I let it fall -

A lie to him but not to her -

A kiss for him and a slap for me.

I close my eyes -

It gets dark.

I want to open them again. I cannot -

My trousers are round my ankles. Your hands are on my cock. Your own is in my mouth. You come in my face. You beat me. You rape me all over again. You give me money. You tell me to shut my mouth. Shut my mouth or you’ll kill my mum -

My stop is next -

I am nine years old.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 -

All good children go to heaven.

I cross road. I cut through Corporation Cemetery. I come out on to street -

My street, our street:

Newstead View.

This is where it started:

Fitzwilliam, 1967 -

Not heaven.

I look at watch again. It says thirteen o’clock -

Hate Week.

I walk down street -

Our street;

I come to house -

Our house;

I open gate. I walk up path -

It is dark now. I am confused;

I press doorbell. I wait -

A shadow on her wall in silence of her night;

I hear footsteps. I see a small body through glass -

I think about her all time;

Wait almost over -

I’ve been so far away, so far from her arms;

Now I’m home -

Back from underground.

Chapter 52

I have found her. She is safe and well. I hold her hand. We get into my car. Her family will be overjoyed. I start the car. We drive. She needs the toilet. We pull into a motorway service station. I park among the lorries and the coaches. We get out of the car. I lock the doors. We walk across the tarmac. I hold her hand. She goes into the ladies. I stand outside. I wait. Her family will be overjoyed. I wait. It starts to spit. I wait. Lorries come and lorries go. I wait. She does not come out. I go inside to look for her. There is blood on the floor. Blood up the walls. I push open the cubicle doors. I come to the last one. It is locked. It will not open. I knock. I knock and knock and knock. Blood on the floor. Up the walls. I step back. I kick in the door. She’s not there. I run outside. She’s not there. The lorries and the coaches gone. Not there. The car park empty. Blood on my shoes. On my socks. A Bloody Tide, lapping at my ankles. Up my legs. I start to run. The waters rising. The Bloody Waters. The rain coming down. The Bloody Rain. I slip. I fall to the ground. I cannot stand. I am drowning here. The Bloody Tide, a Bloody Flood.

I woke on my knees, my hands in prayer, in the shadows and dead of the night, the house quiet and dark, listening for something, anything: animal or bird’s feet from below or above, a car in the street, a milk bottle on the step, the thud of the paper on the mat, but there was nothing; only the silence, the shadows and the dead, remembering when it wasn’t always so, wasn’t always this way, when there were human feet upon the stairs, children’s feet, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, bicycle bells and front doorbells, laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, the smells, sounds and tastes of meals cooked, served and eaten, of drinks poured, glasses raised and toasts drunk by men with cigars in black velvet jackets, their women with their sherries in their long evening dresses, the spare room for the long summer nights when no-one could drive, when no-one could leave, no-one wanted to leave, before that last time; that last time the telephone rang and brought the silence that never left, that was here with me now, lying in the shadows and dead of a house, quiet and dark, empty -

Tuesday morning.

I reached for my glasses and went down the stairs to the kitchen and put on the light and filled the kettle and lit the gas and took a teapot from the cupboard and a cup and saucer and unlocked the back door to see if the milk had been delivered yet but it hadn’t and there wasn’t any milk in the fridge but I still put two teabags in the teapot and took the kettle off the ring and poured the water on to the teabags and let it stand while I washed the soup pan from last night and the bowl and then dried them both up, staring out into the garden and the field behind, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a man fully dressed in dark brown trousers, a light blue shirt and a green v-necked pullover, wearing his thick lenses with their heavy black frames, an old man fully dressed at four o’clock in the morning -

Tuesday 7 June 1983.

I put the teapot and cup and saucer on the plastic blue tray and took it into the dining room and set it down on the table and poured the tea and lit a cigarette and then switched on the radio and sat in the chair and waited for the news on Radio Leeds: