1977

I started the engine, turned the radio off, and pulled away.

I drove into Wakefield, past the ponies and the horses on Heath Common, black stacks where the beacons had been, and up through Ossett and down through Dewsbury, black slags where the fields had been, past RD News and out of Batley, into Bradford.

I pulled up on her street, parking next to a tall oak decked out in her best summer leaves.

Green.

I knocked again.

It was cold on the stairs, out of the sun, the leaves tapping on the windows.

I put my fingers on the handle and turned.

I went inside.

The flat was quiet and dark, nobody home.

I stood in her hallway, listening, thinking of the place above RD News, these places where we hid.

I went into the living room, the room where we’d met, the orange curtains drawn, and I sat down in the chair in which I always sat and I decided to wait for her.

The cream blouse and matching trousers, that first time. The bare bruised and dirty knees, the last time.

Ten minutes later I got up and went into the kitchen and stuck the kettle on.

I waited for the water to boil, poured it into a cup and went back into the living room.

And then I sat there in the dark, waiting for Ka Su Peng, wondering how I got here, listing them all:

Mary Ann Nichols, murdered Buck’s Row, August 1888.

Annie Chapman, murdered Hanbury Street, September 1888.

Elizabeth Stride, murdered Berner’s Street, September 1888.

Catherine Eddowes, murdered Mitre Square, September 1888.

Mary Jane Kelly, murdered Miller’s Court, November 1888.

Five women.

Five murders.

I felt the tide coming in, the Bloody Tide, lapping at my shoes and socks, crawling up my legs:

‘What happened to our Jubilee?’

The tide coming in, the Bloody Tide, lapping at my shoes and socks, crawling up my legs:

Carol Williams, murdered Ossett, January 1975.

One woman.

One murder.

Felt the waters rising, the Bloody Waters of Babylon, those rivers of blood in a woman’s time, umbrellas up, bloody showers, puddles all blood, raining red, white, and bloody blue:

Joyce Jobson, assaulted Halifax, July 1974.

Anita Bird, assaulted Cleckheaton, August 1974.

Theresa Campbell, murdered Leeds, June 1975.

Clare Strachan, murdered Preston, November 1975.

Joan Richards, murdered Leeds, February 1976.

Ka Su Peng, assaulted Bradford, October 1976.

Marie Watts, murdered Leeds, May 1977.

Linda Clark, assaulted Bradford, June 1977.

Rachel Johnson, murdered Leeds, June 1977.

Janice Ryan, murdered Bradford, June 1977.

Ten women.

Six murders.

Four assaults.

Halifax, Cleckheaton, Leeds, Preston, Bradford.

The Bloody Tide, a Bloody Flood.

I closed my eyes, the tea cold in my hands, the room more so. She leant forward, parting her hair, and I listened again to her song, our song:

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

I needed a piss.

Oh Carol.

I opened the door and switched on the light and there she was:

Lying in the bath, water red, flesh white, hair blue; her right arm dangling down the side, blood across the floor, deep snakes bitten into her wrists.

On my knees:

I pulled her from the bath, I pulled her from the waters, wrapped her body in a towel and tried to squeeze her into life.

On my knees:

I rocked her back and forth, her body cold, her lips both blue, the black holes in her hands, the black holes in her feet, the black holes in her head.

On my knees:

I called her name, I begged her please, I told her the truth, no more lies, just to open her eyes, to hear her name, to hear the truth:

I love you, love you, love you…

And she said:

‘I do, Jack. I have to.’

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Friday 17th June 1977

Chapter 24

I park up on the Moors, in the place they call the Grave, the pain fading, the day too:

Friday 17 June 1977.

I take out my pen and go through the glove compartment.

I find a map book with some blank back pages and I rip them out.

I write page after page, before I stop and screw them up.

I get out and go to the boot, take out the tape and the hose and do what I have to do.

And then I just sit there until finally, finally I pick up the pen and start again:

Dear Bobby,

I don’t want a life without you.

They’ll tell you lies about me,

like the lies they told me.

But I love you and I’ll be there,

watching over you, always.

Love Daddy.

I switch on the engine and put the note on the dashboard and stare out across the Moors where all I can see out there, beyond the windscreen, all I can see is his face, his hair, his smile, his little tummy sticking out of those