1977

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’ he said, hopefully.

I got up from my chair, giving him a tired wink and grin. ‘Undoubtedly.’

‘OK.’

‘George,’ I shouted.

George Greaves looked up from his desk. ‘Jack?’ he said, pinching himself.

‘Coming down the Press Club?’

‘Go on then, just a quick one,’ he replied, smiling sheepishly at Bill.

At the lift George gave the office a wave and I bowed, thinking, there are many ways a man can serve his time.

The Press Club, as dark as home.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in, but George was helping me.

‘Fuck, that was funny that was.’

I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

Behind the bar, Bet gave me a look that was too, too knowing. ‘Been a while, Jack?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How are you, love?’

‘OK. Yourself?’

‘My legs aren’t getting any younger.’

‘You don’t need them,’ laughed George. ‘Just get legless with us, eh Jack?’

And we all laughed and I remembered Bet and her legs and a couple of times back when I thought I could live forever, back when I wanted to, back before I knew what a curse it really was.

Bet said, ‘Scotch?’

‘And keep them coming,’ I smiled.

‘I always try.’

And we all laughed again, me with an erection and a Scotch.

Outside, I was pissed outside, leaning against a wall which said HATE in running white paint. No subject, no object, just HATE.

And it blurred and whirled and I was lost between the lines, between the things I should’ve written and the things I had.

Stories, I’d been telling stories in the bar again:

Yorkshire Gangsters and Yorkshire Coppers and, later, Cannock Chase and the Black Panther.

Stories, just stories. Stopping short of the real stories, of the true stories, the ones that put me here, up against this wall that said HATE.

Clare Kemplay and Michael Myshkin, the Strafford Shootings and The Exorcist killing.

Every dog had his day, every cat her cream, but every camel had his straw, every Napoleon his Waterloo.

True stories.

Black and white against a wall that spelt HATE.

I ran my fingers over the raised paint.

And there I was, wondering just where have all the Bootboys gone?

And then there they were, all around me:

Shaved heads and beer breath.

‘Aye-up Grandad,’ said one.

‘Piss off, puff,’ I said.

He stepped back among his mates. ‘What you fucking have to say that for, you silly old git?’ he said. ‘Cos you know I’m going have to fucking have you now, don’t you?’

‘You can try,’ I said, just before he hit me and stopped me remembering, stopped the memories for a bit.

Just for a bit.

I’m holding her there in the street in my arms, blood on my hands, blood on her face, blood on my lips, blood in her mouth, blood in my eyes, blood in her hair, blood in my tears, blood in hers.

But even the old magic can’t save us now, and I turn away and try and stand and Carol says, ‘Stay!’ But it’s been twenty-five years or more, and I have to get away, have to leave her here alone in this street, in this river of blood.

And I look up and there’s just Laws, just the Reverend Laws, the moon, and him.

Carol gone.

I was standing in my room, the windows open, black and blue as the night.

I’d got a glass of Scotland in my hand, to rinse the blood from my teeth, a Philips Pocket Memo to my lips:

‘It’s 30th May 1977, Year Zero, Leeds, and I’m back at work…’

And I wanted to say more, not much more, but the words wouldn’t obey me so I pressed stop and went over to the chest of drawers, opened my bottom drawer and stared at all the little tapes in all their little cases with all their neat little dates and places, like all those books of my youth, all my Jack the Rippers and Dr Crippens, the Seddons and Buck Ruxton, and I took one out at random (or so I told myself), and I lay back, feet up on the dirty sheets, staring at the old, old ceiling as her screams filled the room.

I woke up once, dark heart of the night, thinking, what if he’s not dead?

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Tuesday 31st May 1977

Chapter 3

The Murder Room, Millgarth.

Rudkin, Ellis, and me.

Just gone six, the morning of Tuesday 31 May 1977.

Sat around the big table, the phones dead, tapping the top.

In through the double doors, Assistant Chief Constable Oldman and Detective Chief Superintendent Noble, dumping two big manila folders on the table.

Detective Inspector Rudkin squints at the cover of the top one and gives it a, ‘Ah for fuck’s sake, not again.’

I read Preston, November 1975.

Fuck.

I know what this means:

Two steps forward, six steps back-

November 1975: The Strafford Shootings still in everyone’s face, internal inquiries coming out our ears, Peter Hunter and his dogs still sniffing round our arses. The West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police with our backs to the wall and our mouths shut, if you knew what was good for you, which side your bread was buttered on etc, Michael Myshkin going down, the judge throwing away the key.

‘Clare Strachan,’ I murmur.

November 1975: COMING DOWN AGAIN.

Ellis puzzled.

Rudkin about to fill him in, but George shuts him up: ‘As you know, Clare Strachan, a convicted prostitute, was found raped and battered to death in Preston almost two years ago now, in November 1975. The Lancashire lads