1974

I awoke and went back to sleep, thinking I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.

Dead dogs and monsters and rats with little wings.

There was someone walking around in my head, shining a torch and wearing big boots.

I was sitting in a wooden cabin gazing at a Christmas tree, the smell of good cooking filling the house.

I took a big box, gift-wrapped in newspaper, from under the tree and pulled the red ribbon loose.

Carefully I opened the paper so I might read it later.

I stared at the small wooden box on my knee, resting on the newspaper and the red length of ribbon.

I closed my eyes and opened the box, the dull thud of my heart filling the house.

“What is it?” she said, coming up behind me and touching my shoulder.

I covered the box with my bandaged hand, burying my head in her red gingham folds.

She took the box from my hands and looked inside.

The box fell to the floor, the house full of good cooking, the thud of my heart, and her bloody screams.

I watched as it slid out of the box and across the floor, writing spidery messages with its bloody cord as it went.

“Get rid of it,” she screamed. “Get rid of it now!”

It flipped on to its back and smiled at me.

I awoke and went back to sleep, thinking I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.

Dead dogs and monsters and rats with little wings.

There was someone walking around in my head, shining a torch and wearing big boots.

I was awake, lying underground on a door, freezing.

Above me, I could hear the muffled sounds of a television, Opportunity Knocks.

I stared up into the dark, tiny specks of light coming closer.

Above me, I could hear the muffled sounds of a telephone ringing and wings beating.

I saw through the dark, rats with little wings that looked more like squirrels with their furry faces and kind words.

Above me, I could hear the muffled sounds of a record playing, The Little Drummer Boy.

The rats were at my ear, whispering harsh words, calling me names, breaking my bones worse than any sticks or stones.

Beside me, the muffled sounds of children crying.

I jumped up to put on the light but it was already on.

I was awake, lying on the carpet, freezing.

Chapter 9

Saturday 21 December 1974.

What the fuck is this?” A newspaper full across the face woke me.

“You tell me you love me, tell me you care, and then you fuck me up the arse and write this shit.”

I sat up in the bed, rubbing the side of my face with a bandaged hand.

Yeah, Saturday 21 December 1974.

Mrs Paula Garland, in blue flared jeans and a red wool sweater, stood over the bed.

The Yorkshire Post headline stared up from the eiderdown:

11 DAY IRA XMAS TRUCE.

“What?”

“Don’t give me that, you lying piece of shit.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She picked up the paper, opened it, and started to read:

A Mother’s Plea by Edward Dunford.

Mrs Paula Garland, sister of the Rugby League star Johnny Kelly, wept as she told of her life since the disappearance of her daughter, Jeanette, just over five years ago.

“I’ve lost everything since that day,” said Mrs Garland, referring to her husband Geoff’s suicide in 1971, following the fruitless police investigation into the whereabouts of their missing daughter.

“I just want it all to end,” wept Mrs Garland. “And maybe now it can.”

Paula stopped reading. “Do you want me to go on?”

I sat on the edge of the bed, a sheet around my balls, staring at a patch of bright white sunlight on the thin flowered carpet.

“I didn’t write that.”

“By Edward Dunford.”

“I didn’t write it.”

The arrest of a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the disappear ance and murder of Clare Kemplay has brought a tragic hope of sorts to Mrs Garland.

“I never thought I’d say it but, after all this time, I just want to know what happened,” cried Mrs Garland. “And if that means knowing the worst, I’ll just have to try and live with it.”

“I didn’t write it.”

“By Edward Dunford,” she repeated.

“I didn’t write it.”

“You liar!” screamed Paula Garland, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me off the bed.

I fell naked on to the thin flowered carpet, repeating, “I didn’t write it.”

“Get out!”

“Please, Paula,” I said, reaching for my trousers.

She pushed me over as I tried to stand, screaming and screaming, “Get out! Get out!”

“Fuck off, Paula, and listen to me.”

“No!” she screamed again, taking a piece out of my ear with her nails.

“Fuck off,” I shouted and pushed her away, gathering up my clothes.

She collapsed into a corner by the wardrobe, curling into a ball and sobbing, “I fucking hate you.”

I put on my trousers and shirt, blood dripping from my ear, and picked up my jacket.

“I never want to see you again,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” I spat back, down the stairs and out the door.

Bitch.

The clock in the car coming up to nine, bright white winter light half blinding me as I drove.

Fucking bitch.

The A655 morning clear, flat brown fields as far as the eye could see.

Bloody fucking bitch.

The radio on, Lulu’s Little Drummer Boy, the back seat full of carrier bags.

Stupid bloody fucking bitch.

Pips on the hour, my ear still smarting, here comes the news:

“West Yorkshire Police have launched a murder investigation following the discovery of a woman’s body in aflat in the St John’s part of the city, yesterday.”

The blood dead in my arms, cold.

“The woman has been named as 36-year-old Mandy Denizili.”

Flesh strangling bone, off the road and on to the verge.

“Mrs Denizili worked as a medium under her maiden name of Wymer and became nationally known after helping the police with a number of investigations. Most recently, Mrs Denizili claimed to have led police to the body of murdered schoolgirl Clare Kemplay. This was a claim strongly denied by Detective Superintendent Peter