1980

DEATH -

All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund -

I park between the vans and the cars, in a crater filled with dead water and a bird, a sparrow.

I turn up the collar of my coat against the rain and stumble -

The young policeman at the gate lifts his hood to check my card and point me towards an open mouth:

DEATH -

A figure walks behind me, dreadful -

In the doorway stand Clement Smith and Roger Hook, white faces staring at the floor, silent eyes raised my way, stung red with the cold and the rain, the tears -

Tongues moving but without words, a cigarette, hands shaking but not shaken -

I walk through them, into:

DEATH -

This is the place, the swans loose -

Heavy workbenches, oil and chains, tools; the stink of machines, oil and chains, tools; the sound of dirty water, oil and chains, tools; dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, tools.

High skylights, rain against the pane -

Strapped down upon a workbench, trapped in chains, wrapped in:

DEATH -

Wings nailed to the ash, pornography -

I step towards the bench, closer -

Skinned naked and blistered, closer -

Blooded blackened and beaten, closer -

Skinned and naked, blistered and blooded, blackened and beaten, closer -

Face and hair burnt, twisted towards his left -

In his mouth, a cassette -

Bob Douglas: DEAD -

All this and heathen too -

To his left, a door ajar, its upper half glazed.

I walk across the wet and bloody concrete floor, walk to the door and with my boot I push it open -

Push and see a muddy bath affixed to the wall, its head towards the light from a skylight, push and see:

DEATH -

On the dark stair, we miss our step -

I step towards the bath, closer -

Into the light from the pane, closer -

Towards her laying there in the bath, closer -

Into the pain from the dark, closer -

A thin and pathetic smile on her face, a black hole in a still heart -

In her hand, a teddy bear -

Karen Douglas:

DEAD -

Never let her slip -

I step backwards, back towards the child’s father -

Back towards Smith and Hook in the doorway, towards the hands and the tongues, the cigarettes, the cold and the rain, the tears -

Stepping back from, turning back from, running from:

DEATH -

Always the way.

Two hours later, damp skin and bones sat around the eleventh floor of Manchester Police Headquarters, phones ringing and boots running, this way and that -

Always this way and that.

I count twelve men -

Waiting:

Wednesday 17 December 1980 -

Nine o’clock.

Ten minutes later, another knock at the door -

The cassette in a plastic bag, the science done.

Roger Hook plugs in a tape recorder and Clement Smith takes the cassette from the bag:

‘Prints?’

A scientist nods.

‘Who?’

The scientist shakes his head: ‘They’re checking.’

Smith holds it up, turning it in his fingers, the black felt-tip pen scrawled across the clear plastic:

‘All this and Heathen too,’ he reads, looking at me -

‘Ripper Tape,’ I say. ‘That was done over a copy of a cassette called All this and Heaven too by a singer called Andrew Gold.’

Twelve open mouths and twelve curses: ‘Fucking hell fire.’

‘This him?’ says someone -

‘Doesn’t make any sense, why…’

‘A bloke and his kid…’

‘An ex-copper…’

‘Poor bastard…’

‘Unless Douglas fucking knew…’

Clement Smith stands up, signalling to Roger Hook: ‘Gentlemen, shall we listen to the tape first?’

Twelve men nodding, silent.

Hook presses play:

HISS -

Piano -

Drums -

Bass -

‘How can this he love, if it makes us cry?’

STOP .