She began to move up and down, her tits just nipples, up and down, her sallow body bones, up and down, eyes closed, up and down, mouth open, up and down, up and down, up, down, up, down, up.
I closed my eyes.
Down.
We dressed in silence.
At the door I said, ‘Can I come again?’
‘Now?’ she asked, and we both laughed, surprised.
Assistant Chief Superintendent George Oldman with a grave smile:
‘Gentlemen, as you are aware, at approximately three a.m. on Saturday morning, the 4th, Mrs Linda Clark, aged thirty-six, of Bierley, was subjected to a violent assault on wasteland behind the Sikh temple on Bowling Back Lane, Bradford. In the course of the attack, Mrs Clark sustained a fractured skull and stab wounds to her back and abdomen. On Saturday morning Mrs Clark underwent surgery and will have to undergo another operation later this week. However, despite the seriousness of her injuries, Mrs Clark has been able to provide us with a detailed account of the time leading up to her attack.’
He paused, sipped a glass of water and continued:
‘Mrs Clark spent Friday night at the Mecca ballroom in the centre of Bradford. She was wearing a long black velvet dress and a green cotton jacket. At approximately two o’clock Mrs Clark left the Mecca and made her way to Cheapside where she began to queue for a taxi. About fifteen minutes later she decided to start walking back towards Bierley. About thirty minutes later Mrs Clark accepted a lift from the driver of a white or yellow Ford Cortina Mark II with a black satin-look roof which pulled up on the Wakefield Road. Mrs Clark was then driven on to Bowling Back Lane where the assault took place. Mrs Clark has been able to provide a detailed description of the driver.’
He paused again.
‘The man we would like to speak to is white, approximately thirty-five years of age, about six feet and of a large build. He is described as having light brown shoulder-length hair with thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks. We would appeal for any member of the public who knows a man fitting this description and who drives a white or yellow Ford Cortina Mark II with a black roof, or who has access to such a vehicle, to please contact the Bradford Incident Room or their local police station as a matter of some urgency.’
Another sip of water, another pause.
‘I would like to add that forensic evidence gathered at the scene of the attack leads me to believe that the man responsible for the assault upon Mrs Clark is the same man who murdered Theresa Campbell, Clare Strachan, Joan Richards, and Marie Watts, the same man who we believe assaulted Joyce Jobson in Halifax in 1974, Anita Bird in Cleckheaton also in 1974, and Miss Ka Su Peng in Bradford last October.’
Pause.
The whole room:
I wrote:
I circled her name.
Oldman was asking for questions:
‘Roger?’
‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable care to elaborate on the forensic evidence that points to this latest attack being the work of the, the work of the Yorkshire Ripper?’
‘At this point, no.’
‘Jack?’
‘The description given by Mrs Clark seems to contradict previous descriptions that have been issued. For example, both Anita Bird and Ka Su Peng said that their attacker had dark curly hair and a beard or moustache…’
George, his knife out:
‘Yes but Jack, the lady in Bradford, Miss Peng, she claimed her attacker also had a Scouse accent which contradicted Anita Bird and the description Miss Bird herself gave was based on the assumption that the man who passed her in the street was the same man who later attacked her.’
‘An assumption you previously supported.’
‘That was then, Jack. That was then.’
I walked back through the deserted Kirkgate Market, through the quiet Sunday city streets, through the bunting, all red, white, and blue, under the three o’clock sun.
I turned into a cobbled alley out of the heat, searching for the wall and a word written in red.
But the word was gone or the alley wrong and the only words were
So I walked up Briggate and on to the Headrow, up to the Cathedral and went inside.
I sat down at the back, in the cold quiet black, sweating from the stroll, panting like a dog.
There was an old woman with a walking stick trying to stand up in the front pew, a child reading a prayer book, dark low lights at the altar, the statues and the paintings, their eyes on me.
I looked up, my sweat dry, my breathing slow.
And there I was before Him, before the cross, thinking about fucking and murders with hammers, seeing the nails in his hands, thinking about fucking and murders with screwdrivers, seeing the nails in his feet, the tears in their eyes, the tears in His, the tears in mine.
And then the child led the old woman by the hand down the aisle and when they reached my pew they paused under the statues and the paintings, the shadows against the altar, and the child held out his open prayer book and I took it from him and watched them walk away.
And I looked down and I read aloud the words I found:
For my soul is full of troubles,
and my life draws near to Sheol.
I am counted among those who go down to the Pit;
I am like those who have no help,
like those forsaken among the dead,
like the slain that lie in the grave,
like those whom you remember no more,
for they are cut off from your hand.
You have put me in the depths of the Pit,
in the regions dark and deep.
Your wrath lies heavy upon me,
and you overwhelm with all your waves.
You have caused my companions to shun me;
you have made me a thing of horror to them.
I am shut in so that I cannot escape;
my eyes grow dim through sorrow.
Every day I call on you, O Lord;
I spread out my hands to you.
Do you work wonders for the dead?
Do the shades rise up to praise you?
Is your steadfast love declared in the grave,
or your faithfulness in Abaddon?
Are your wonders known in the darkness,
Or your saving help in the land of forgetfulness?
But I, O Lord, cry out to you;
in the morning my prayer comes before you.
