1980

‘Rubbish. Utter rubbish.’

He has hold of my arm: ‘Peter -’

‘Douglas is wrong. You’re wrong.’

‘To put you in your place, that’s what they told him.’

I turn away, freeing myself from his grip.

Him: ‘What are you going to do?’

I turn back: ‘Nothing.’

‘You’re just going to leave me up to my neck in all this?’

‘There’s nothing I can do, Richard. You’re under investigation.’

‘Because of you, I am.’

I’m walking away again, deaf to him -

But he has the last word, across the lobby and through the Dining Room doors, spinning me round, hissing into my face: ‘What are friends for, eh Pete?’

Walking away, walking away through the velvet sea, Joan talking to Linda Dawson, his wife -

The pair of them turning, smiling.

Him: ‘What are friends for, eh?’

Me taking her by the arm, through the darkness and the decay, pulling her away, away from the music and the blood -

‘What are friends for?’

Within nightmares.

The house is black.

I put the car in the garage and go inside.

Joan’s sitting on the settee in the dark, her coat still on.

I switch on the Christmas tree lights and sit down beside her.

‘What is it? What happened with Richard?’ she says. ‘He’s under investigation. To do with his business.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘No. But he thinks it’s something to do with his friendship with me, with us.’

‘What?’

‘Someone told him that’s why he’s under investigation.’

‘Who told him that?’

‘An ex-copper. You don’t know him.’

‘And is it right? Is that why he’s under investigation?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘What am I going to say to Linda?’

‘I don’t know but, until all this is cleared up, we’re going to have to be careful.’

She is nodding.

‘I’m sorry, love.’

She keeps nodding.

I can’t think of anything else to say, anything to make any of it any better.

I lean forward and pick the Evening News off the coffee table.

It doesn’t help:

Laureen’s Mum in Ripper Plea.

Dirty Protests.

Under the newspaper are some forms and a pamphlet -

Application forms to adopt.

‘What are these?’ I ask, picking them up.

Joan tries to take them from me: ‘Not now, love,’ she says. ‘Talk about it another time.’

‘A Vietnamese baby?’ I say, looking down at the cover of the pamphlet.

‘Not now, Peter,’ she says again, taking the papers from me as she goes upstairs.

Later in bed, I hug her and we try to have sex but I can’t -

And after, I say: ‘I think it’s a good idea.’

She doesn’t say anything -

And after that we lie in the double bed, staring up at the ceiling, apart -

On the dark stair -

She turns away on her side and I get up and put the radio on.

I get back into bed and lie there -

Awake, sweating and afraid -

Eyes wide -

On the dark stair -

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors -

There were people on the TV singing hymns -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -

And at my feet, they had her down on the floor at my feet, her hands behind her back, stripped and beaten, three of them raping her, sodomising her, taking their turns with a bottle and a chair, cutting her hair, pissing and shitting on her, making her suck them, making her suck me, ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming -

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Joan’s holding me, my heart beating, breaking.

‘What on earth were you dreaming about?’

I can feel come in my pyjamas.

‘Nothing,’ I say, thinking -

No more sleep, no more sleep, no more sleep.

cash all this and heaven too missing the news from nowhere what e was once alive e still am dead a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it dark brown trousers and brown suede calf length boots found friday the twenty first of november nineteen seventy five one laceration to the back of her head caused by a hammer and extensive injuries to her head face body and legs caused by violent kicking and stamping on her left breast were bite marks which indicated a gap in the upper front teeth of the attacker there were no stab wounds in a deserted garage in preston in a row of six narrow garages each splattered with white graffiti the doors showing remnants of green paint they lie off church street the garages forming a passage to the multi storey car park at the other end number six has become a home of sorts for the homeless destitute alcoholics drug addicted prostitutes of the area small about twelve feet square and entered through either of the double doors at the front there are packing cases for tables piles of wood and other rubbish a fierce fire has been burning in a makeshift grate and the ashes disclose the remains of clothing on the wall opposite the door is written the fishermans widow in wet red paint in every other space are bottles sherry bottles bottles of spirits beer bottles bottles of chemicals all empty a mans pilot coat doubles as a curtain over the window the only one looking out on nothing and e saw the floor was wet with anguished tears the damned silent and weeping and walking at a litany pace the way processions push along in our world and without a word he handed her a five pound note and she unclipped her shiny black plastic handbag placed it on the floor of the garage and bending down she removed one of her boots lowered her trousers and stepped out of the legs and repeated the process with her panties she braced her back against the garage wall and she was ready a moment later he had entered her lifting her brassiere to play with her breasts he discovered a second brassiere he lifted it up and began to kiss and suck the left breast moving his mouth a few inches above the breast he bit deeply and climaxed turning her around he attempted to bugger her and again