1974

Dry sore skin on dry sore skin.

“Why?”

I was thinking of Mary Goldthorpe, of her silk knickers and her stockings.

“She knocks on this door and she wants to know why?”

Faster.

“She wants to know why?”

My dry edges against her dry edges.

“I can hear her saying, why Mummy?”

I was thinking of Mandy Wymer, her country skirt riding up.

“Why?”

Fast.

Dry-Thinking of the wrong Garland.

Spent.

“I can’t be alone again.”

My cock dry and sore, I was listening to her talking through the dark.

“They took her from me. Then Geoff, he…”

My eyes open, thinking of double-barrelled shotguns, of Geoff Garland and Graham Goldthorpe, of bloody patterns.

“He was a coward.”

Passing headlights drew shadows across the ceiling and I wondered if Geoff had blown his brains out in this house, in this room, or someplace else.

She was saying, “The ring always felt loose anyway.”

I was lying in a widow and a mother’s bed, thinking of Kathryn Taylor and screwing up my eyes so it was like I wasn’t really here.

“And now Johnny.”

I’d counted only two bedrooms and a bathroom. I wondered where Paula Garland’s brother slept, if Johnny slept in Jeanette’s room.

“I can’t live like this any more.”

I was gently stroking my own right arm, her pillow whispers lapping me up, on the verges of sleep.

It was the night before Christmas. There was a new cabin made of logs in the middle of a dark wood, candles burning yellow in the windows. I was walking through the wood, light snow underfoot, heading home. On the cabin porch I stamped my boots loose of snow and opened the heavy wooden door. A fire was burning in the hearth and the room was filled with the smell of good cooking. Under a perfect Christmas tree, there were boxes of beautifully wrapped presents. I went into the bedroom and saw her. She was lying under a home made quilt, her golden hair splayed across the gingham pillows, her eyes closed. I sat down on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning my clothes. I slid quietly under the quilt, nuzzling up to her. She was cold and she was wet. I felt for her arms and legs. I sat up, ripping back the quilt and blankets, everything red. Only her head and her chest, open at the seams, her arms and legs lost. I fell through the blankets, her heart dropping to the floor with a dull thud. I picked it up with a bandaged hand, dust and feathers stuck in the blood. I pressed the dirty heart against her breast, stroking her golden locks. The hair came loose in my hand, sliding from her scalp, leaving me lying on a bed all covered in feathers and blood, the night before Christmas, someone knocking at the door.

“What was that?” I was wide awake.

Paula Garland was getting out of bed. “It’s the phone.”

She picked up her yellow and green and brown cardigan, putting it on as she went downstairs with her arse showing, the colours doing nothing for her.

I lay on the bed, listening to the scratchings of mice or birds in the roof.

After two or three minutes I sat up in the bed, got up and dressed, and went downstairs.

Mrs Paula Garland was rocking back and forth in the off-white leather armchair, clutching Jeanette’s school photograph.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“It was our Paul.,.”

“What? What’s wrong?” I was thinking shit, shit, shit; visions of cars crashed and windscreens bloodied.

“The police…”

I was on my knees, shaking her. “What?”

“They’ve got him.”

“Who? Paul?”

“Some kid from Fitzwilliam.”

“What?”

“They’re saying he did it.”

“Did what?”

“They’re saying he killed Clare Kemplay and…”

“What?”

“He says he’s done others.”

Everything seemed suddenly red, blood-blind.

She was saying, “He says he killed Jeanette.”

“Jeanette?”

Her mouth and eyes were open, no sound, no tears.

I ran up the stairs, my hand on fire.

Back down the stairs, my shoes in one hand.

“Where are you going?”

“The office.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I must.”

“I can’t be alone.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Come back.”

“Of course.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

10 PM Wednesday 18 December 1974.

The motorway, slick, black, and wet.

One arm on the wheel, heavy on the pedal, ice-wind screaming through the Viva, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“They thought he’d done it, you know.”

I checked my rearview mirror, the motorway empty but for lorries and lovers and Jimmy James Ashworth.

“Mum shut up!”

Exiting at the gypsy camp, black on black hiding the damage, shaking the blood warm in my right hand, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“Why did they think you did it, Jimmy?”

Through the Christmas lights of Leeds City Centre, writing copy in my head, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“Ask them.”

The Yorkshire Post building, yellow lights on ten floors. I parked underneath, grinning and thinking, Jimmy James Ashworth.

“You’re a smart lad, Jimmy.”

A large Christmas tree in the foyer, double glass doors sprayed white with Season’s Greetings. I pressed the lift