Hard towns for hard men.
Me, soft; too pussy to drive through Clare’s Morley or sneak a peak at Devil’s Ditch, too chicken to go back to the gypsy camp or even home to Ossett.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, sleep nailing shut my eyes, I’d drifted into some Cleckheaton lay-by and dreamt of Southern girls called Anna or Sophie and a life before, waking with a hard-on and my father’s final rattle:
“
Awake to the face of a brown-haired girl ringed in a wheel of fire and school photographs of little girls no longer here.
Fear turned the key as I rubbed my eyes free and drove off through the grey light, everywhere the browns and the greens waking up all damp and dirty, everywhere the hills and the fields, the houses and the factories, everywhere filling me with fear, covering me in clay.
Fear’s abroad, home and away.
Dawn on the Doncaster Road.
I pulled the Viva into the car park behind the Redbeck Cafe and Motel. I parked between two lorries and sat listening to Tom Jones sing
The toilets reeked, the tiled floor covered in black piss. The mud and clay had dried hard on my skin, turning it a pale red beneath the dirt. I ran the hot tap and plunged my hands into the ice-cold water. I brought the water to my face, closing my eyes and running my wet hands through my hair. The brown water trickled down my face and on to my jacket and shirt. Again I brought the water up to my face and closed my eyes.
I heard the door open and felt a blast of colder air.
I started to open my eyes.
My legs went from beneath me, kicked out.
My head hit the edge of the sink, bile filled my mouth.
My knees found the floor, my chin the sink.
Someone grabbed my hair, forcing my face straight back into the sink’s dirty water.
“Don’t you fucking try to look at me.” That vicious whisper again, bringing me an inch out of the water and holding me there.
Thinking, Fuck You, Fuck You, Fuck You. Saying, “What do you want?”
“Don’t fucking speak.”
I waited, my windpipe crushed against the edge of the sink.
There was a splash and I squinted, making out what looked to be a thin manila envelope lying next to the sink.
The hand on my hair relaxed, then suddenly pulled back my head and casually banged it once into the front of the sink.
I reeled, thrashing out with my arms, and fell back on to my arse. Pain pounded through my forehead, water seeped through the seat of my pants.
I pulled myself up by the sink, stood and turned and fell through the door out into the car park.
Nothing.
Two lorry drivers leaving the cafe pointed at me and shouted, laughing.
I leant against the door to the toilets and fell back through, the two lorry drivers doubling up with laughter.
The A4 manila envelope lay in a pool of water by the sink. I picked it up and shook off brown drops of water, opening and closing my eyes to ease the pain in my head.
I opened the door to the cubicle and grabbed the metal chain, flushing away the long pale yellow shit in the bowl. I closed the cracked plastic lid on the roaring water and sat down and opened the envelope.
Fresh hell.
I pulled out two thin sheets of typed A4 paper and three enlarged photographs.
It was a copy of the post-mortem on Clare Kemplay.
Another horror show.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t look at the photographs, I just read as the dread rose.
The post-mortem was conducted at 7.00 PM on 14 December 1974 at Pinderfields Hospital, Wakefield by Dr Alan Courts, with Chief Superintendent Oldman and Superintendent Noble in attendance.
The body measured four feet three inches and weighed seventy-two pounds.
Facial abrasions, possibly bites, were noted on the right upper cheek, as well as on the chin and on the front and back of the neck. Ligature marks and burns upon the neck indicated strangulation as the cause of death.
The tongue had been gouged by her own teeth as she died strangling. It was suggested that she was probably not uncon scious when the final force was applied.
The markings 4 LUV had been cut into the victim’s chest with a razor blade. Again, it was suggested this wound was not post-mortem.
4 LUV .
Ligature marks were also found on both the ankles and the wrists. Both sets of marks had drawn blood from deep cuts, suggesting that the victim had fought her attacker for a length of time. The palm of each hand had also been pierced through, possibly by a large nail or a similar metal instrument. A similar wound was found on the left foot and it appeared that an unsuccessful attempt had been made to inflict the same injury to the right foot, resulting in only a partial piercing.
Further tests would be needed, however an initial examin ation of particles taken from the victim’s skin and nails revealed a strong presence of coal dust.
I swallowed.
The vagina and anus showed tears and bruising, both internal and external. The internal tears to the vagina had been caused by the stem and thorns of a rose inserted into the vagina and left there. Again, the substantial majority of these wounds were not post-mortem.
Horror on horror.
I fought hard for my breath.
They must have turned her over then, on to her chest.
Clare Kemplay’s back was a different world.
A different hell:
Two swan’s wings had been stitched into her back.
“
The stitching was irregular and used a thin waxed rope. In places the skin and the muscle had been reduced to pulp and the stitching had broken free. The right wing had become com pletely detached, the skin and the muscle unable to support the weight of either the wing or the stitching, causing a large tear along the victim’s right shoulder blade.
“
At the conclusion of the report, the pathologist had typed:
Through the thin white paper I could see the outlines and shadows of a black and white hell.
I thrust it all back into the envelope, photographs unseen, dry heaving as I struggled with the toilet lock.
I wrenched open the cubicle door, slipping and falling into another fucking lorry driver, his hot piss hitting my
