Through the centre until I pulled up on the outskirts of Batley, just beyond the Chinese take-away on the Bradford Road.
Just beyond RD News.
Just beyond a bronze Datsun 260.
I dialled her flat.
No answer.
I hung up.
I stood in the red telephone box again, looking up at the window above the newsagent.
‘Is Eric there?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘A friend.’
John Rudkin was looking out of the window, one hand on the frame, the other square, palms open, not smiling.
‘This is Eric Hall.’
‘You got the money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Be in the George car park at noon.’
I hung up, staring at John Rudkin.
I went back to the car and waited.
Thirty minutes later, Rudkin came out of the shop carrying a child in his arms, followed by a woman in sunglasses.
The boy was wearing blue pyjamas, the woman black.
They got into the Datsun and drove off.
I sat there.
Five minutes later, I got out of the car and went round the back of the shops, down the alley, past the dustbins, the piled-up bin bags, the rotting cardboard boxes, counting the windows as I went.
I did my sums and looked up at two windows and two pairs of old curtains staring down from up above the back wall, the back wall with the broken bottles cemented in its lip.
I tried the red wooden door and opened it slowly.
All I needed now was the Paki from inside to pop his brown mug out.
I closed the door to the yard behind me and picked my way through the crates and the Calor gas canisters and got to the back door.
Wondering what the fuck I would say, I opened the door.
There was a passage out to the front of the shop, stacked high with boxes of Walkers crisps and old magazines. To my right were the stairs.
In for a penny, I took my chance and crept up them.
At the top was a white door with glass in it.
It was dark beyond the glass.
I stood there, listening.
Nothing.
In for a pound, I tried the door.
Locked.
I tried it again, knew it would give.
I took out my penknife and slid it in between the wall and the door.
Nothing ventured, I leant in.
Nothing.
Nothing gained, I tried it again.
The knife broke in the hinges, the frame of the door splintered, my hand cut and bleeding again, but I was in.
I stood there, listening.
Nothing.
Another dim passage.
I wrapped my handkerchief around my palm and walked softly down the passage to the front of the flat, three closed doors off to the sides.
The flat stank, the ceilings as low and oppressive as the smell.
In the front room there was a settee, a chair, a table, a television, and a telephone on a box. Empty pop bottles and crisp packets littered the floor.
There was no carpet.
Only a big dark fucking stain in the floorboards.
I went back down the passage and tried the first door on the right.
It was a small kitchen, bare.
I tried the door on the left.
It was a bedroom, one with a pair of old curtains, thick, black and drawn.
I switched on the light.
There was a huge double bed, stripped, with another big dark fucking stain on the orange flowered mattress.
There were fitted wardrobes down one wall.
I opened them.
Lights, photographer’s lights.
I closed the wardrobe doors and switched off the light.
Across the passage was the last door.
It was a bathroom and another pair of old curtains, drawn and black.
There were towels and there were mats, newspapers and paints, the bath spotless.
I ran cold water over my hand and wiped it dry.
I closed the door and went back down the passage.
I stood at the top of the stairs and pulled the splinters from the white door.
I tried to force the lock back in, but it wouldn’t go.
I left the door as it was and went back down the stairs.
I stood on the bottom step, listening.
Nothing.
I went out the back way, into the yard, through the red wooden door, and out.
I walked down the alley past the dustbins, the piled-up bin bags and the rotting cardboard boxes, a little yellow dog watching me go.
I went back round the front of the shops, past the Chinky, and got back into my car.
It was just gone eleven.
I dialled her flat.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up.
I drove past the George, Denholme, pulled up, reversed up a drive and turned back round.
I had a bad feeling, but I couldn’t let it go, couldn’t leave it like this.
I drove slowly back along the road and turned down the side of the pub, into the car park round the back.
It was almost noon.
