Whirling, Carol flew across the room, teeth bared and nails out; out for my eyes, out for my ears, out for my tongue, wrenching me out from my chair to the floor.
Screaming: ‘You think it’s amusing? These things are amusing to you?’
‘No, no, no.’
Laughing: ‘Amusing?’
‘Rest, I just want to rest.’
Hissing: ‘Hell breaks loose and you want to rest. We should put you up against the wall.’
The others chanting: ‘Up against the wall. Up against the wall with him.’
‘Please, please. Let me be.’
Mocking: ‘Let me be, let me be? And who will let us be, Jack?’
‘I’m sorry, please…’
Taunting: ‘Well sorry’s just not good enough, is it?’
They’d opened the windows, the rain coming in, the curtains billowing.
Howling:
She took my hair and dragged my face out on to the ledge: ‘He’ll kill again and soon. See that moon?’
The rain in my face, a stomach full of night, the black moon in my eye: ‘I know, I know.’
‘You know but you won’t stop him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
They had my tapes out of the drawers, spinning the reels, streamers in the wind, my books, my childhood crimes, tearing them to shreds -
Wailing:
‘You know who he is.’
‘I don’t. He could be anyone.’
‘No he couldn’t. You know he couldn’t.’
And then she put her mouth over mine, sucking out my breath, her tongue choking me.
‘Fuck me, Jack. Fuck me like you used to.’
I broke away, screaming over and over: ‘You’re dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.’
Whispering: ‘No, Jack. You are.’
They picked me up off the floor and carried me to my bed and laid me down, Carol stroking my face, Eddie gone and my Bible open, reading:
‘We love you, Jack. We love you,’ they sang.
In the last days.
Radio Leeds
Saturday 4th June 1977
Chapter 7
I wake alone from an empty sleep, alone in Janice’s empty sheets, alone in her empty bed, in her empty room.
It’s Saturday morning, 4 June, and I’ve had two hours fitful kip, hot sun coming up.
I lean over and switch on the radio:
Or more.
I sit on the edge of the bed, head waking:
I put on my boots and walk across the hall and bang on Karen Burns’ door.
Keith Lee, another Spencer Boy, bare-chested in jeans: ‘What the fuck you want?’
‘Seen Janice?’
Karen lying on her stomach on the bed, Keith glances round: ‘This business or personal?’
I push him back into the room, ‘That’s not an answer Keith. That’s a question.’
Karen raises her head, ‘Fuck.’
‘I know what you did to Kenny, man. Used up a lot of goodwill.’
I slap him and tell him: ‘Kenny was sticking it into Marie Watts behind Barton’s back. Fuck another man’s woman you get everything that’s coming to you.’
Karen pulls a dirty grey sheet over her head, white arse my way.
Keith rubs his face and points a finger: ‘Yeah well, I’ll remember that next time Eric Hall or Craven come knocking.’
I stare him down.
He looks round the room, nodding to himself.
Something’s up with our Keith, something more than Kenny getting a slapping.
But
I pull the sheet off Karen Burns, white, twenty-three, convicted prostitute, drug addict, mother of two, and slap her across the arse:
‘Janice? Where the fuck is she?’
She rolls over, tits flat, one hand over her cunt, the other chasing the sheet: ‘Fuck off, Fraser. I haven’t seen her since Thursday night.’
‘She wasn’t working last night?’
‘Fuck knows. All I’m saying is I didn’t see her.’
I let the sheet drop over her and turn back to Keith: ‘What about Joe?’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s keeping a low profile.’
‘Man hasn’t left his room in a week.’
‘Cos of that shit with Kenny?’
‘Fuck that. Two sevens, man.’
‘You believe that bollocks?’
‘I believe what I see.’
‘And what do you see, Keith?’
‘A million little apocalypses and a lot of bloody reckonings.’
I laugh: ‘Get a flag, Keith. It’s the Jubilee.’
‘Fuck off.’
I say, ‘Very patriotic,’ and shut the door on the pieces of shit and their shitty little world.
A key turns in the lock, the handle next.
