1977

On my knees, through the pile, stacking doubles to one side and holding on to every different issue I came to, clutching their plastic wrappings.

‘This it?’

‘Maybe some in the back.’

‘I want them.’

‘All right, all right.’

‘All of them.’

I stood there while Joe went into the back, stood there in the bright pink light, the cars outside in the rain, the blokes browsing, giving it to me sideways.

Joe came back, six or seven in his hands.

‘That it?’

‘You must have them all.’

I looked down and saw I’d got a good thirteen or fourteen.

‘It still going?’

‘No.’

‘How much?’

He tried to take them from me but then said, ‘How many you got there?’

I counted, dropping them and then picking them up, until I said, ‘Thirteen.’

‘Eight forty-five.’

I handed him a tenner.

‘You want a bag?’

But I was gone.

In the Market toilets, the cubicle door locked, on the floor, ripping open plastic bags, tearing through the pages, through the pictures and the photographs, the photographs of bums and tits, cunts and cuts, the hairy bits, the dirty bits, the bloody, bloody red bits, until I came – came to the yellow bits.

This is why people die.

This is why people.

This is why.

I stood upright in another box and dialled.

‘George Oldman, please.’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Jack Whitehead.’

‘Just a moment.’

I stood and waited inside the box.

‘Mr Whitehead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Oldman’s office is not accepting any more calls from the press. Could you please call Detective Inspector Evans on – ’

I hung up and puked down the inside of the red telephone box.

On my bed, a bed of paper and pornography, in prayer, the telephone ringing and ringing and ringing, the rain against the windows falling and falling and falling, the wind through the frames blowing and blowing and blowing, the knocks on the door knocking and knocking and knocking.

‘What happened to our Jubilee?’

‘It’s over.’

‘To remission and forgiveness, an end to penance?’

‘I can’t forgive the things I don’t even know’

‘I do, Jack. I have to.’

The telephone was ringing and ringing and ringing and she was still beside me on the bed.

I lifted up her head to free my arm, to stand.

Barefoot, I went to the telephone.

‘Martin?’

‘Jack? It’s Bill.’

‘Bill?’

‘Christ, Jack. Where you been? All bloody hell’s broken loose.’

I stood there in the dark, nodding.

‘Turns out the dead prostitute in Bradford, it’s only Fraser’s bloody girlfriend and that it’s him they’re holding.’

I looked back over at the bed, at her still on the bed.

Jane Ryan, read Janice.

Bill was saying, ‘Then Bradford got a letter from Ripper and they didn’t say anything to Oldman or anyone and they’ve only gone and fucking printed it in the morning edition, and sold it on to The Sun.’

I stood there, in the dark.

‘Jack?’

‘Fuck,’ I said.

‘Shit creek, mate. You better come in.’

I dressed in the dawn light, the dim light, and left her still on the bed.

On the stairs, I looked at my watch.

It had stopped.

Outside, I walked down the road to the Paki shop on the corner and bought a Telegraph & Argus.

I sat on a low wall, my back in a hedge, and read:

RIPPER LETTER TO OLDMAN?

Yesterday morning the Telegraph & Argus received the following letter from a man claiming to be Yorkshire’s Jack the Ripper killer.

Tests carried out by independent experts and information from reliable police sources lead us here at the Telegraph & Argus to believe that this letter is genuine, and not the first such letter this man has sent.

We here at the Telegraph & Argus, however, believe the British Public should have the right to judge for yourselves.

From Hell.

Dear George

I am sorry I cannot give my name for obvious reasons. I am the Ripper. I’ve been dubbed a maniac by the Press but not by you, you call me clever cause you know I am. You and your boys haven’t a clue that photo in the paper gave me fits and that bit about killing myself, no chance. I’ve got things to do. My purpose is to rid streets of them sluts. My one regret is that young lassie Johnson, did not know cause changed routine that nite but warned you and XXXX XXXXXXXXX at Post.

Up to number five now you say, but there’s a surprise in Bradford, get about you know.

Warn whores to keep off streets cause I feel it coming on again.

Sorry about young lassie.

Yours respectfully

Jack the Ripper.

Might write again later I not sure last one really deserved it. Whores getting younger each time. Old slut next time hope.

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