1977

‘No,’ she was twisting in her seat.

‘You’ll feel better after, much better.’

‘The fuck you know.’

‘It’ll be over, finished.’

She was taking the money out of her bag, saying, ‘Let me out, let me out right now’

I pulled up on the grass before a line of trees and turned off the engine.

She darted for the door.

I held on to her arm.

‘Ka Su Peng, please. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Then let me go. You’re scaring me.’

‘Please, I can help.’

She had the door open, one foot on the grass.

‘Please.’

She turned and stared at me, black eyes in a ghost’s face, a death mask made flesh, and said: ‘What then?’

‘Get in the back.’

We got out and stood in the night, looking across the roof of the car at each other, two white ghosts, death-made, black eyes on pale faces, masks flesh, and she went to open the back door but it was locked.

‘Here,’ I said, and I walked round the back of the car, a hand in my pocket, her face on mine, mine on hers, the moon in the trees, the trees in the sky, the sky in that black hell up, up above, looking down, down on the playing field, the field where the children played their games and their fathers murdered their mothers.

And I came up behind her and I unlocked the back door.

‘Get in.’

She sat down on the edge of the back seat.

‘Lie down.’

And she lay back on the black leather.

I stood by the door and undid my belt and buckle.

She watched me and raised up her arse to take down her black tights and white knickers.

I put one knee on the edge of the seat, the door still open.

She pulled up the black dress and reached up for me.

And then I fucked her on the back seat and came on her belly and wiped the come off the inside of her dress with my sleeve and held her there, held her in my arms while she cried, there on the back seat of my car with her tights and her pants hanging off one foot, there in the field, there in the night, under the Jubilee moon, watching the fireworks and the beacons light up the maroon sky, and as another silent firework span towards the earth, she asked:

‘What does Jubilee mean?’

‘It’s Jewish. Every fifty years there was a year of emancipation, a time of remission and forgiveness from sin, an end to penance, so it was a time of celebration.’

‘Jubilation?’

‘Yeah.’

I drove her back to the flat where she lived and we parked outside in the dark, and I asked:

‘Am I forgiven?’

‘Yes,’ she said and got out.

She had left the ten quid on the dashboard.

I drove back to Leeds with a warm stomach, a stomach like that time I’d dropped my fiancйe back home and driven away with her waving, her parents too, that time twenty-five years ago, with a warm stomach.

A glow.

I took my time on the stairs, dreading them.

I turned the key in the lock and listened, knowing I could never bring her here.

The telephone was ringing on the other side.

I opened the door and answered it.

‘Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Martin.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I was worried about you.’

‘Well, don’t be.’

From sleep I awoke into the darkest half of a silent night, the fireworks spent, drowning in sweat.

Kiss you then you wake.

Awoke to feel the softness of her kiss upon my brow, to see her sat upon the edge of my bed, legs apart, to hear her lullaby.

Fuck you then you sleep.

Awoke to fall back into sleep.

Dark panting streets, the leering terrace backs, surrounded by the silent stones, buried by the black briete, through courtyards and alleyways where no trees grow, or grass too, foot upon brick, brick upon head, these are the houses that Jack built.

An adventure playground.

Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.

Mary-Ann, Annie, Liz, Catherine and Mary, hands together round the mulberry bush, singing:

‘Where you seek one there’s two, two three, three four.’

A shocking place, an evil plexus of slums that hide the human creeping things, where men and women live on penn’orths of gin, where collars and clean shirts are decencies unknown, where every citizen wears a black eye, and none ever combs his hair.

An adventure playground.

Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.

Theresa, Joan, and Marie, hands together round the mulberry bush, singing:

‘Where you seek four there’s three, three two, two one and so on.’

Within a short distance of the heart, a narrow court, a quiet thoroughfare, with two large gates, in one of which is a small wicket for use when the gates are closed, though at every hour these gates are open, indeed, according to the testimony of those living near, the entrance to the court is seldom closed.

An adventure playground.

Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.

Joyce, Anita, and Ka Su Peng, hands together under the mulberry bush, whispering in my ear:

‘But you know this anyway.’

For a distance of 18ft or 20ft from the street there is a deadwall on each side of the place, the effect of which is to enshroud the intervening space in absolute darkness after sunset. Further back some light is thrown into the court from the window of a Working Men’s club, which occupies the whole length of the court on the right, and from a number of terraces, all of which have been extinguished by this time.

An adventure playground.

Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.

I have my hand on the cold metal of the gate, staring dead ahead into the gloom, Carol beckoning me in.

An adventure playground.

Dead ahead.