‘Blood on the floor.’
‘Pardon?’
‘There’s always blood on the floor over there.’
‘Pinderfields?’
And Jack sighs, eyes watering -
Tears slipping down his face -
Down his cheek -
His neck -
Onto his pillow -
The mattress -
Onto the floor in puddles -
Puddles of tears upon the stone floor -
The tips of my wings wet.
‘Carol?’ I say.
And he looks up at me, the tears streaming, and he nods: ‘Two pieces of a broken heart.’
‘But do they fit?’ I ask.
‘That’s the question,’ he weeps. ‘That’s the question.’
I look down at the tips of my wings -
The puddles of tears -
The blood on the floor and -
And I lean towards him and I ask him: ‘The things you’ve seen…’
He nods, the tears streaming -
‘All the things you’ve seen,’ I say. ‘Who did those things?’
The tears streaming -
I lean close, wings across us both -
‘Who?’
Tears streaming -
Closer, wings across us -
‘Who?’
His tongue against my face -
‘Who?’
His lips to my ears -
‘Who?’
His words in whispers -
‘Who?’
Whispers -
Whispers in the dark -
And I listen:
‘What looks like morning -’
Listen to the whispers in the dark:
‘It is the beginning of the endless night -’
To the whispers and the tears:
‘Hab rachmones.’
Foot down -
Empty streets, rain -
Straight onto Laburnum Road -
West Yorkshire Police Headquarters -
Voices singing -
Christmas songs and football songs -
Rugby songs and Ripper songs -
At the desk: ‘Angus? Chief Constable Angus?’
A uniform shaking his head, the smell of alcohol upon his breath: ‘He’s not here, sir.’
‘Pete Noble?’
‘Not here, sir.’
‘Bob Craven?’
‘No-one’s here.’
Me: ‘Where are they?’
‘Dewsbury.’
‘Dewsbury?’
‘They’ve got him, haven’t they’
Me: ‘Who?’
‘Ripper!’
‘What?’
‘The fucking Ripper!’
Me: ‘What about him?’
‘Caught the fucking Ripper, haven’t they,’ he laughs, bringing up a can of bitter from behind the desk and draining it -
‘The Yorkshire bloody Ripper!’
Dewsbury:
12:03:03 -
Tuesday 30 December 1980
In a car park up the road from the police station, puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot -
Birds overhead, screaming -
Rain pouring -
The hills black above us, the clouds darker still.
Locking the door, coat up over my head, running -
Running for Dewsbury Police Station -
Dewsbury Police Station -
Modern bricks amongst the black -
Crowds gathering, word spreading -
Off-duty coppers coming in, shifts not going home -
I push on through, card out amongst the many:
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter to see Chief Constable Angus.’
‘Downstairs,’ shouts one of the men behind the desk, struggling to keep the pack at bay.
And downstairs I go -
Through the double doors and down the stairs -
Downstairs -
Underground -
Until I come upon them -
A dark room full of dark men:
Ronald Angus, Maurice Jobson, Peter Noble, Alec McDonald, John Murphy -
Plus two faces -
Familiar faces -
Familiar faces, dark faces -
Dark faces in a dark room -
A dark room with one wall half glass -
