world had been switched off.
“She said I should ‘tell them about the others’ and then she just rambled on about bloody carpets and the grass between the stones.”
Paula Garland had turned her back to me, her shoulders trembling.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry Mr Dunford,” she said to the red velvet wall paper. “You’ve been very kind to come here, but I need to be alone now.”
Paula Garland picked up her bag and her cigarettes. When she turned around her face was streaked with faint black lines from her eyes to her lips.
I held up my palms, blocking her path. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Please,” she insisted.
“At least let me give you a lift home.”
“No thank you.”
She pushed past me, out through the crowd and the door.
I drained my pint and picked up my cigs.
Brunt Street, the dark line of terraces facing the white-fronted semis, few lights on either side.
I parked on the semi side, at the opposite end to Number 11, and counted Christmas trees as I waited.
There was a tree but no lights in Number 11.
Nine trees and five minutes later, I heard her tall brown boots. I watched from low down in my seat as Paula Garland unlocked the red door and went inside.
No lights went on in Number 11.
I sat in the Viva just watching, wondering what I’d say if I dared to knock upon that red door.
Ten minutes later, a man in a cap with a dog came out of one of the semis and crossed the road. He turned and stared at my car as his dog took a shit on the terrace side of the street.
The lights in Number 11 had still not gone on.
I started the Viva.
My mouth greasy from a bad plate of Redbeck chips, I arranged a small stack of coins on top of the payphone and dialled.
“Yeah?”
“Did you tell BJ Eddie called?”
I could see the same kids playing pool through the double glass doors.
“He left a message. He’ll call you back at twelve.”
I hung up.
I checked my father’s watch, 11.35 PM
I picked up the receiver and dialled again.
On the third ring, I hung up.
Fuck her.
I sat down to wait in the brown lobby chair where the woman had farted this morning, the click of the pool balls and the curses of the kids keeping me awake.
Twelve on the dot I was out of my chair and on top of the phone before any of the kids had a chance.
“Yeah?”
BJ said, “Ronald Cannon?”
“It’s me, Eddie. You got my message?”
“Yeah.”
“I need your help and I want to help you.”
“You didn’t seem so sure last night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So you should be. Have you got a pen?”
“Yeah,” I said, scrambling through my pockets.
“You might want to speak to Marjorie Dawson. She’s in the Hartley Nursing Home in Hemsworth and she’s been there since Sunday, since she saw Barry.”
“How the fuck did you find that out?”
“I know people.”
“I want to know who told you.”
“I want never gets.”
“Fuck off, BJ. I have to know.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Fuck.”
“I can tell you this though: I saw Jack Whitehead coming out of the Gaiety and he looked smashed and mad. You should be careful my dear.”
“You know Jack?”
“We go way, way back.”
“Thank you.”
“Mention it,” he laughed and hung up.
I awoke three times from the same dream on the floor of Room 27.
Each time thinking, I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.
Each time the same dream: Paula Garland on Brunt Street, clutching a red cardigan tight around her, screaming ten years of noise into my face.
Each time a big black crow came out of a sky a thousand shades of grey and clawed through her dirty blonde hair.
Each time chasing her down the street, after her eyes.
Each time frozen, waking cold on the floor.
Each time the moonlight seeping into the room, shadows making the photos on the wall come to life.
The last time, the windows all running with blood.
Chapter 6
Wednesday 18 December 1974.
7 AM and out the room, thank fuck.
A cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast in the Redbeck Cafe. Truck drivers held up front pages:
Wilson Denies Stonehouse Spying, Man Killed as Three Bombs Explode, Petrol Up to 74p
Johnny Kelly on the back pages, going National:
League’s Lord Lucan? Where’s Our Likely Lad?
Two policemen came in, hats off, sitting down at a window table.
My heart stopped, flopping across the scratches in my notebook:
Three dates.
Back in the Redbeck lobby, a fresh stack of change.
“Arnold Fowler speaking.”
“This is Edward Dunford from the
