1977

And there she is, tired and full; tired from fucking, full from fucking.

‘What you doing here?’

‘I told you, I’m leaving her.’

‘Not now, Bob. Not now,’ and she goes into the bathroom, slamming the door.

I follow her.

She’s sat on the toilet, lid down, crying.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Leave it, Bob.’

‘Tell me.’

She’s swallowing, trying to stop the sobs.

I’m on the toilet floor, holding up her chin, asking, ‘What happened?’

In the backs of expensive motors, leather gloves gripping the back of her neck, cocks up her arse, bottles up her cunt…

‘Tell me!’

She’s shaking.

I hold her, kissing her tears.

‘Please…’

She stands up, pushing me off, over to the mirror, wiping her face, ‘Fuck it.’

‘Janice, I need to know…’

She turns square, hands on her hips: ‘All right. They picked me up…’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you fucking think?’

‘Vice?’

‘Yeah, Vice.’

‘Who?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘You saw their warrant cards?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake Bob.’

‘You told them to call Eric?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘And Eric told them to call you.’

There are ropes around my chest, thick heavy ropes, getting tighter with every second, every sentence.

‘What did they say?’

‘They laughed and called the station. Called your house.’

‘My house?’

‘Yes, your house.’

‘And then what?’

‘They couldn’t find you, Bob. You weren’t there.’

‘So what…’

‘You weren’t there, Bob?’

The ropes burning my chest, breaking my ribs.

‘Janice…’

‘You want to know what happened then? You want to know what they did next?’

‘Janice…’

‘They fucked me.’

Bile in my mouth, my eyes closed.

She’s screaming: ‘Look at me!’

I lift the lid and cough, her behind me.

‘Look at me!’

I turn around and there she is:

Naked and bitten, red streaks across her breasts, across her arse.

‘Who?’

‘Who what?’

‘Who was it?’

She slips down the wall and on to the bathroom floor, sobbing.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. Four of them.’

‘Uniforms?’

‘No.’

‘Where?’

‘A van.’

‘Where?’

‘Manningham.’

‘Fuck you doing in Bradford?’

‘You said it wasn’t safe round here.’

I’ve got her in my arms, cradling her, rocking her, kissing her.

‘You want a doctor?’

She shakes her head and then looks up. ‘They took photos.’

Fuck, Craven.

‘One of them have a beard, a limp?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

She looks away and swallows.

There’s bright sunlight on the window, creeping across the toilet mat, getting nearer.

‘They’re dead,’ I hiss. ‘All of them.’

And then suddenly there are car doors slamming outside, boots on the stairs, banging on the doors, banging on our door.

I’m out in the room, ‘Who is it?’

‘Fraser?’

I open the door and there’s Rudkin, Ellis behind him.

Rudkin: ‘Fuck you doing here? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

Visions of Bobby, broken eggs and red blood on white baby cheeks, cars braking too late.

Too late.

‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

But Rudkin’s staring past me into the bathroom, at Janice on the floor:

Naked and bitten, red streaks across her breasts, across her arse.

Ellis has his mouth open, tongue out.

‘What is it?’

‘There’s been another.’

I turn and close the door in their faces.

In the bathroom I say, ‘I’ve got to go.’

She says nothing.

‘Janice?’

Nothing.

‘Love, I’ve got to go.’

Nothing.

I take a blanket off the bed and bring it into the bathroom and put it over her.