Silence, the room getting smaller, darker -
The cabinets taller.
A knock on the door -
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Yes?’
‘Telephone. Emergency.’
I stand up.
Craven says: ‘Take it next door. It’s dead.’
I nod and push past them and out -
The Ripper Room, dead -
Just their photos staring down from their walls, dead.
‘Peter Hunter speaking?’
‘It’s Richard.’
‘What is it?’
‘Joan told me.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And fucking what? They…’
‘Richard, I can’t do anything. My hands are tied.’
‘Your hands are tied? Fucking hell, Peter. Talk about…’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say and hang up.
I go back to the small room next door, heart pounding, angry -
No one speaking -
Going up to seven -
‘Sod it. Let’s call it a night,’ I say, the ghosts scattering, scuttling back -
They all stand up at once.
‘John,’ I say to Murphy. ‘Have a word?’
He nods and follows me back next door.
We sit down at a desk in the Ripper Room -
Their Ripper Room.
‘Something’s going down back home. Pick your brains?’
‘Course. Fire away’
‘Bob Douglas? Remember him?’
‘Craven’s mate from the Strafford, oh aye,’ laughs Murphy. ‘Moved over our way, didn’t he?’
‘Yep, Levenshulme. Heard anything of him recently?’
‘Into some kind of security work, I think.’
‘Well, you know Richard Dawson? He’s been using Douglas for this and that and now Dawson’s being investigated for some kind of financial irregularities or something. Anyway, Douglas told him that this investigation, it’s down to his friendship with me. That’s why he’s being investigated; to put me in my place.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘What I thought. But this morning I went to see Douglas.’
‘Yeah?’ says Murphy, quietly. ‘Was that wise?’
‘I just wanted to get it straightened out. Joan’s good friends with Linda Dawson, you know. And I need to be thinking about this here, not Bob bloody Douglas.’
‘And?’
‘Douglas said he’d got it from Ronnie Allen.’
‘Verbals himself.’
‘Yep.’
‘He’s a bloody knob, isn’t he? Ronnie?’
‘Gets worse. Hooky’s in charge.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah. And they raided Dawson’s house first thing this morning.’
‘Fuck, fuck.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You want me to put the feelers out?’
‘Well I spoke to both Hooky and Clement Smith and they reckon it’s nothing sinister. Finances. Said I’m paranoid.’
‘Peter Hunter paranoid?’ laughs Murphy, but his eyes are dead.
‘Reckon I am.’
‘But him knowing you? That’s not paranoia.’
‘But it’s not only me. Smith’s mates as well.’
‘I know him too. Might be next?’
I smile: ‘Lot of folk.’
‘See, don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘That what the Chief said?’
‘You know Smith; he just said to keep my distance for now. But…’
‘But if I do happen to hear anything, or ask someone, then…’
I smile again: ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ he nods.
‘About what?’ says Craven suddenly, there in the Ripper Room -
His room -
His Ripper.
‘Nothing to worry you about, Bob.’
‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then?’ smiles Murphy.
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘And I’ll bid you two gents a goodnight.’
‘Not having a swift one?’ says Craven. ‘Not tonight, Bob,’ I say, patting him on the shoulder as I go out.
He winks: ‘Got a date, have you?’
Headingley -
It’s been four nights now, everything still dead -
Forever dead.
I pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken car park, once again positioning the car so I face the main road, and then I go inside.
Again, I’m the only customer.
I order the same chicken and chips, the cup of coffee, and wait under the same white lights for another ten minutes while the same Asian staff prepare the order, staring at the light reflected in the coffee.
I take the food back out to the car and sit in another night, the window down, picking at the pale stringy meat again, watching the street -
No-one.
I drink down the cold coffee.
I get out of the car and walk across the road to the bus stop.
It’s 9:53, the Number 13 coming up Headingley Lane -
Like clockwork.
And again, it doesn’t stop.
I cross back and turn right onto Alma Road -
Alma Road, with its police tape and one dark car waiting.
Again I walk down the dim tree-lined street, crossing to avoid the cordon, past the officers in the police car.
