‘And this is where you keep Jack?’
‘He’s got his own room,’ says the orderly, pointing at the last door.
He unlocks the door and opens it.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ he volunteers.
‘You sure that’s all right?’
‘He’s wearing restraints, but they’re to protect him not you.’
‘Protect him?’
‘From himself.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and step inside, closing the door behind me -
The room is darker and warmer than the corridor, bare but for a bog and his bed, a single chair and a patch of light from a high window.
I sit down next to the metal bed with the high barred sides.
Jack Whitehead is lying on his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, his hands chained to the sides of the cot, his eyes open and fixed on the light above, his face bleak and unshaven except for his scalp back in the shadows.
‘Mr Whitehead,’ I begin. ‘My name is Peter Hunter. I’m a policeman from Manchester. You probably won’t remember, but we met a long time ago.’
‘I remember,’ he says, his voice dry and cracked. ‘Hexed, I remember everything.’
The toilet is dripping -
‘I’d like to ask you some questions if I might; questions about some things that happened in 1977. About a policeman called Eric Hall?’
Dripping, dripping -
Jack Whitehead sighs, his eyes watering, a tear slipping down towards his ear.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, softly.
‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘You haven’t done anything.’
‘Is…’
Dripping, dripping, dripping -
‘Go on. Don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid, Mr Whitehead.’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
With a deep breath, I ask: ‘Is it true that you met Eric Hall? True that you knew him?’
‘I know Eric, yes.’
‘You know he’s dead?’
Jack Whitehead blinks, his damp eyes still fixed upon the ceiling -
Dripping -
‘Why did you meet him?’
‘Information,’ says Jack Whitehead, slowly.
‘About what?’
‘About the dead.’
‘The dead?’
Dripping, dripping -
‘You’re surprised?’ he smiles. ‘What did you think it’d be about? The living?’
‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, gripping the sides of my chair. ‘Did you try and blackmail Eric Hall?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping -
‘Yes, I did.’
‘How?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
‘Information.’
‘You had information on him or you wanted information from him? Which was it?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
‘Two pieces of a broken heart; but do they fit? That’s the question, isn’t it?’
‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, leaning forward. ‘Was this about Janice Ryan?’
Suddenly, a blink and he’s changed:
In gargoyle pose he’s crouched upright on his feet, hands still chained and clipped to the sides of the bed, his face turned up to where the sky would be -
I stand, knocking over the chair -
Two doors, always open. Who makes the witches? Who casts the spells? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the doors. Futures and pasts, futures past, rats teeth into my belly both. The dead not dead, lorry loads of meat rotting in containers, the salt lost. Big black dogs, choking at said containers, the salt gone. The dead not dead, voices prophesizing war, endless war. Why won’t you let them sleep? Why won’t you let them be? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the door. Never tonnes undone, loose again, loose again, the dead not dead.’
Silent, his head back, eyes white -
I step towards him and then straight back as he spits and foams through teeth gritted and bleeding:
‘Hunter! Hunter! Jbd ias hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’
‘What?’
‘Hunter! Hunter! Hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’
‘What?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
‘Hunter! Hunter! Sti rip sll iwl lik!’
‘What?’
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
‘What are you fucking saying? Tell me!’
Silence, his body empty, his face on his chest -
Dripping -
I step forward from the door and right the chair.
Dripping -
Drawn to his skull, I cannot look away.
Dripping -
Out of the shadows, in the patch from the window, I look down on the top of his scalp and the hole he’d made.
Dripping -
I want to touch, to put a finger in that hole, but I dare not.
Dripping -
Instead, I walk backwards to the door and open it.
I step out into the corridor, looking for Leonard -
I see him coming down the corridor towards me.
I glance back into the room -
Jack Whitehead unbound and upon his knees, gazing to the ceiling in suppliant pose, hands clasped in prayer.
He turns, a torrent of tears upon his cheeks -
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -
‘Close the door,’ he says. ‘Please close the door.’
‘He’s loose,’ I shout at the approaching orderly -
