1980

‘Peter? Where are you?’

‘Leeds.’

‘Is it true? They’ve caught him?’

‘Yes.’

‘You coming home?’

‘Home?’

‘Here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I had that nightmare again – the girl…’

‘I’m coming now, love.’

‘Oh be careful, Peter.’

‘Yes.’

‘Please -’

Phone down -

Sweeping the Exegesis, the loose notes, Spunk, the photographs -

Sweeping everything into the carrier bags -

The pages from the Holy Bible, the Exegesis, Spunk -

Everything in bags, everything ready -

One last look around -

Opening the door -

Opening the door and there she is:

‘Helen?’

Hair tied back, raincoat still dripping, she asks: ‘Can I come in?’

On the dark stair -

‘Yes,’ I say and hold open the door.

She steps inside and I close the door behind us.

She undoes her raincoat and takes out an envelope -

Flat and manila -

She holds it up -

In slanting black felt-tip pen:

Photos Do Not Bend.

I’m nodding, asking her: ‘When?’

‘Boxing Day.’

‘Boxing Day?’

‘By hand.’

‘Who?’

She looks up to the ceiling of the room, sucking in her lips, trying not to let the tears in her eyes -

Trying not to let the tears -

The tears in her eyes -

She says: ‘Bob Craven.’

‘What?’

She nods, the tears in her eyes.

Me: ‘How?’

She pulls open the envelope, taking out the photographs -

And she throws them down onto the bed:

Photographs, four of them -

Four photographs of two people in a park:

Platt Fields Park, in wintertime.

Photographs, black and white -

Black and white photographs of two people in a park by a pond:

A cold grey pond, a dog.

Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -

Two people in a park:

One of them her.

‘How?’ I ask.

But she looks up at the ceiling again, sucking her lips, the tears in her eyes -

The tears in her eyes -

The tears -

And she reaches into the envelope again, taking out a piece of paper -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

And she holds it up -

Holds it up in my face:

A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Skinny and ginger, legs and cunt -

Cunt shaved -

Her cunt shaved -

Her -

Helen Marshall.

Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:

Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.

Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:

Manchester Vice?

Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:

A line, a line across her eyes.

She throws the paper onto the bed -

Onto the bed, next to the photographs -

And I’m reeling -

Reeling:

‘Helen who?’

‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’

Reeling until -

Reeling until I say: ‘You should have said something.’

But she looks up at the ceiling again, sucking her lips, the tears in her eyes -

The tears in her eyes -

The tears -

Tears -

Tears, tears, tears, until -

Until she says: ‘Why?’

‘Because -’

‘Because what? Because you fucked me?’

‘Helen -’

‘Fat lot of good that did me.’

‘Helen, please -’

‘Fat lot of bloody good screwing the boss did me, eh? Pregnant and wide open to this shit.’

‘Pregnant?’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I got rid of it.’