“He’s dead, love.”
“Fuck,” I said automatically. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not joking.”
“How? What happened?”
“Car crash.”
“Where?”
“Morley.”
“Morley?”
“Police just said Morley.”
“The police?”
“They rang a couple of hours ago.”
“Why’d they ring here?”
“They found your name and address in the car.”
“My name and address?”
She was shaking. “I’ve been worried sick, Eddie.” She pulled her dressing gown tight, rubbing her elbow over and over again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where’ve you been all this time?” She was shouting. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her raise her voice.
“I’m sorry.” I went to put my arms around her just as the kettle in the kitchen began to whistle.
I went out into the kitchen and switched off the electric ring. I came back with two mugs of tea. “This’ll make you feel better.”
“He’s the one who was here this morning isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“He seemed ever so nice.”
“Yeah.”
Part 2
Chapter 4
16 December 1974.
Brakes went. He goes straight into the back of the van. Bang!” Gilman smashed his fist into his open palm.
“Van was carrying windows wasn’t it?” whispered New Face, sitting down next to Tom.
“Aye. I heard one of the panes severed his fucking head,” said Another New Face behind us.
We all said, “Fuck.”
Wakefield Police Station, Wood Street, Wakefield.
Business as usual:
A dead mate and a dead little girl.
I looked at my father’s watch on the worst rainy day and Monday of them all.
It was almost ten.
We’d met up in the Parthenon at the top of Westgate, downed coffee and toast and watched the windows steam up and the rain come down.
Talking Barry.
At nine-thirty we’d run through the rain with rival papers on our heads, up to Wood Street Nick and Round 3.
Gilman, Tom, and me; two rows back and not giving a fuck. Nationals down the front. Familiar faces from before giving it to me cold. Me not giving a fuck. Or not much of one, any road.
“What the fuck was he doing in Morley?” said Gilman again, shaking his head from side to side.
“You know Barry, probably looking for Lucky,” smiled Tom from Bradford.
A big hand into my shoulder. “Drunk as a fucking skunk is what I heard.”
Everyone turning round.
Jack fucking Whitehead sitting directly behind me.
“Fuck off,” I said weakly, not turning round.
“And a good morning to you Scoop.” Whisky breath on the back of my neck.
“Morning Jack,” said Tom from Bradford.
“Missed quite a eulogy this morning. Not a dry pair in the office after Bill had finished. Quite moving it was.”
Tom said, “Really? That’s…”
Jack Whitehead leant forward into my ear, but didn’t lower his voice. “Could have saved yourself a journey too, Scoop.”
Me, eyes front. “What?”
“Mr Hadden wants you back at base, Scoop. Like pronto. Asap. Etc.”
I could feel Jack’s smile behind me, boring into the back of my head.
I stood up, not looking at Gilman or Tom. “I’ll go and phone him.”
“You do that. Oh, and Scoop?”
I turned round, looking down at Jack in his seat.
“The police are looking for you.”
“What?”
“You were drinking with Barry, I heard.”
“Piss off.”
“Star witness. How many did you have?”
“Fuck off.”
“Yep,” winked Jack, looking around the crowded room. “Looks like you’re in just the right place at the right time. For once.”
I pushed past Tom, moving as fast as I could to the end of the row.
“Oh, and Scoop?”
I didn’t want to turn round. I didn’t want to look at that fucking grin again. I didn’t want to say, “What?”
“Congratulations.”
“What?” I said again, trapped against the legs of hacks and chairs.
“What the Lord taketh with one hand, he giveth with the other.”
I was the only person in the room standing who wasn’t a technician or a copper, the only one saying, “What?”
“The pitter-patter of tiny feet and all that?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
The whole room was looking from me to Jack and back.
Jack put his hands behind his head and gave the floor his best stage laugh. “Don’t tell me I’ve scooped Scoop?”
The room was smiling with Jack.
“Your girlfriend, Dunston?”
“Dunford,” I said, involuntarily.
