1977

clutching a photograph -

A woman and child.

The woman in sunglasses, the boy in blue pyjamas.

His eyes were open and looking up at me.

‘Sit up,’ I said.

He gripped my forearm.

‘Come on,’ I said.

‘I can’t find them,’ he whispered.

‘It’s OK,’ I nodded.

‘But I can’t find them anywhere.’

‘They’re OK.’

He tightened his grip, pulling himself up on my arm. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘They’re dead, I know they are,’

‘No, they’re not.’

‘Dead, like everyone else.’

‘No, they’re fine.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I’ve seen them,’

‘Where?’

‘With John Rudkin.’

‘Rudkin?’

‘Yeah, I think they’re with him.’

He stood up, looking down at me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘They’re dead,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘All dead,’ he said and picked up a table leg.

I tried to stand upright, but I wasn’t quick enough.

I was too slow.

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Friday 17th June 1977

Chapter 22

Kill them all.

Driving.

Radio on:

‘The charred remains of an unidentified black man were discovered yesterday on Hunslet Can.

‘A post-mortem revealed that the man had died from stab wounds, before being doused in petrol and set alight.

‘A police spokesman said that a definite attempt had been made to disguise the identity of the victim, leading police to believe the man may have had a police record.

‘The man is described as being in his late twenties, about six foot tall, with a big build.

‘Police appealed for members of the public with any information as to the identity of either the victim or his killers to contact their nearest police station as a matter of urgency. Police stressed that all information will be treated in the strictest confidence.’.

Radio off.

Driving, scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreaming:

Kill them all.

It’s dawn.

I stop at the bottom of Durkar Lane.

There’s a car in his drive, milk on his doorstep, my family inside.

And I sit there at the bottom of his drive, wishing I had a gun, crying.

I stop.

Dawn, 1977.

I press the doorbell and wait.

Nothing.

I press it again and don’t stop.

I see a pink shape behind the glass, hear voices inside, the door opens and there’s his wife, and she’s saying, ‘Bob? It’s Bob. Just a minute.’

But I can hear Bobby and I push past her, up the stairs, kicking open doors until I find them in the back bedroom, her sat up in bed holding my son, Rudkin pulling on his jacket, coming towards me.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’re going.’

‘No-one’s going anywhere, Bob,’ says Rudkin, putting a hand on me, starting the fight, me bringing the chair leg up into the side of his head, him holding his ear, swinging out, missing, me grabbing his hair and pulling his fucking face down into my knee, again and again, until I can hear shouting and screaming and crying, Rudkin’s wife pulling me off him, scratching my cheeks, Rudkin still swinging out until he finally connects and I fall back through the door, turning and slapping his wife away, Rudkin punching me hard in the side of my face, my teeth into my tongue, blood everywhere, though fuck knows whose, her shielding Bobby, almost standing on the far end of the double bed, arms tight about him.

And then there’s a pause, a lull, just the sobbing and the crying, the throbbing and the aching.

‘Stop it, Bob,’ she’s crying. ‘Stop it, will you!’

And all I can say is, ‘We’re going.’

Then Rudkin brings his fist down into my face and it all starts up again, me bringing my head straight into his, stars fucking everywhere, him reeling back, me following through, chasing exploding stars and meteorites across the room with my fists, across John bloody Rudkin’s face, kicking and punching him into a big black fucking hole, reaching the bed and grabbing Bobby and trying to pull him free until Rudkin takes me round the neck and starts choking the living fuck out of me.

‘Stop it,’ she’s crying. ‘Stop it, will you!’

But he doesn’t.

‘Stop it, John,’ she’s crying. ‘You’ll kill him.’

Rudkin drops me to my knees and I fall forward into the bed, my face in the mattress.

He steps back and there’s another pause, another lull, still the sobbing and the crying, the throbbing and the aching, and the longer it goes on, the pause, the lull, the longer I lie here, the sooner they’ll relax.

So I lie there, eating bed, waiting until Louise, Rudkin, his wife, until one of them lets me get a look in, lets me get what’s mine:

Bobby.

And I lie there, limp, still waiting until Rudkin says:

‘Come on, Bob. Let’s all go downstairs.’

And I can feel him weaken as he bends down to pull me back up, feel him weaken as I reach down for the chair