1980

‘Again, the Chief Constable has already answered that question.’

‘Have you got any feelings about the proposed film?’

‘Again, I have nothing to say except to add that I personally share the distaste voiced by some members of the community and press about such an idea.’

Share the distaste -

And then they turn to me:

‘Would Mr Hunter care to comment on the progress of the so-called brains trust review?’

‘It’s early days yet and, as you know, we are looking at the whole inquiry and when the entire review is complete I will be more than happy to answer any questions you might have.’

Mark Gilman from the Manchester Evening News: ‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable care to comment on the arrest this morning of the Manchester businessman Richard Dawson?’

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

No beer and sandwiches today -

Me at a payphone in the corner: ‘Joan? It’s me. I’ve just heard they’ve arrested Richard. You heard anything, heard from Linda or anyone?’

‘No, nothing. When did they arrest him?’

‘This morning.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Mark Gilman from the Evening News?’

‘No, there’s been nothing here, nothing on the radio.’

‘There will be. I’ll call again later.’

‘Bye-bye.’

‘Bye.’

*

The Stanley Royd Mental Hospital is up behind the Training College, five minutes down the road from Pinderfields Hospital -

Just off Memory bloody Lane:

Pinderfields Hospital, January 1975 -

The only time I’d ever met Jack Whitehead:

I was sitting in the waiting room outside intensive care, Clarkie out getting fish and chips, still waiting to speak to Craven and Douglas, staring at a Yorkshire Post, thinking about Joan, when there was a hand on my shoulder.

‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Yep?’ I said, looking up from the paper.

‘Whitehead, Jack Whitehead from the Evening Post. Have a word?’

‘What about?’

‘Well,’ said the thin-faced man in the Macintosh, sitting down beside me, ‘just have a chat about the shooting, the lads.’

‘The lads?’

‘Bob and Dougie.’

‘You know them, Mr Whitehead?’

‘Know them? Course I bloody do. Local heroes they are. They’re the lads that nicked Michael Myshkin. You heard of him, I take it?’

I nodded.

‘George told me you’re over here helping out.’

‘That’s one way of putting it I suppose.’

Jack Whitehead touched my arm and said: ‘And what would be another?’

And then I could hear my name over the tannoy: ‘Mr Peter Hunter. Telephone for a Mr Peter Hunter.’

And Jack Whitehead, he let go of my arm and winked: ‘Let’s hope it’s good news.’

But it wasn’t:

It was Joan and another dead baby -

Another dead dream.

Five years on, five minutes down the road; no respite: Stanley Royd, a huge old house squatting back from the road amongst the bare trees and empty nests, its modern wings extending out into the shadows.

Burned-black stone and the picked-grey bone of an Auschwitz, a Belsen -

I drive through the gateway and up the long, tree-lined drive.

Were they ash or were they oak?

I park on the gravel and walk through the drizzle up a couple of steps and open the front door.

A wave of warmth and the smell of sickness hits me, the smell of faeces.

I show my warrant card at reception and ask to see Jack Whitehead.

The woman in white behind the desk picks up the black telephone.

I turn around to wait, watching a television hidden in the corner amongst the second-hand furniture, the large wardrobes, the dressers and the chairs, the heavy carpets and the curtains.

I glance at my watch:

Three.

Thin skin and bones shuffle past in their striped pyjamas and their spotted nightgowns, the whisper of their slippers and their vespers, the scratchings and the mumblings of the day room.

‘Mr Hunter? Leonard will take you up,’ says the woman in white.

A big skinhead in blue denim overalls leads me up the stairs and down corridor walls painted half green and half cream, across the landing and out of the main building, over a cold walkway and into one of the more recent extensions, locking and unlocking doors as we go.

I say: ‘How long has he been here?’

‘Jack? Best part of three years.’

‘And yourself?’

‘Worst part of five,’ smiles Leonard, proud of his progress.

‘You’ve known him a while then?’

The orderly nods.

‘True they found him with a nail in his head?’

‘That’s what they say’

‘You didn’t see it though?’

‘He was next door for months.’

‘Pinderfields?’

The orderly nods again.

‘Get many visitors does he?’

‘A vicar and some of your lot. Not that there’s much point.’

‘Doesn’t say much I heard.’

Oh no, he talks all right. Not that he makes any sense.’

‘He’s drugged up, I take it?’

The orderly nods one last time and turns another key, opening the door onto a long corridor of locked cells -

‘This the secure wing, is it?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’