I nod and lead the way through the Kirkgate Market, grateful for the cold and the night.
Minutes later, we pull out of the Millgarth car park and are away.
‘Where are we going?’ she asks as I switch on Radio 2.
‘Batley,’ I say.
‘Batley?’
‘Yeah,’ I say and then I tell her about Janice Ryan and Eric Hall, about Eric Hall and Jack Whitehead, about Jack Whitehead and Bob Douglas, about Bob Douglas and Richard Dawson, about Richard Dawson and MJM Limited, about MJM Limited and Richard Dawson and Bob Douglas and Jack Whitehead and Eric Hall and Janice Ryan -
About murder and lies, lies and murder -
War.
And after all that she just sits and stares out of the window until she says again: ‘Horrible place.’
Parked on the Bradford Road, the light on in the car, I show her the magazine -
I say -
And she flicks through the pages until she comes to Janice Ryan.
Helen Marshall, ex-Vice Squad, glances at the photo and nods and hands it back.
‘You heard of it?’ I ask -
‘No,’ she says.
‘Wait here,’ I say and get out of the car, hard.
I’ve not put on the torch yet as I stumble around in the alley behind RD News -
There are cardboard boxes and piles of rubbish heaped up in front of the back-gate to the shop -
And it’s locked, the gate -
I jump up and hoist myself far enough over to slip the bolt at the top of the gate -
And I jump back down, but the gate still won’t open -
So I jump back up and hoist myself over and down the other side and into the tiny yard -
I go to the back door and knock -
There’s a dog barking somewhere down the alley, but no lights go on.
I’m frozen, but I’ve got my gloves on now -
I take out my key-kit and break the lock and more laws than I can think of, but fuck ‘em all – locks and laws.
I turn the handle and open the door -
The hallway is cluttered, full of boxes and gas canisters, stairs going up on the right -
And I’ve got the torch on now, heading up the stairs -
At the top, there’s a wooden door, solid -
I knock, wait, and then I take out the kit again -
And it’s a fucker this one, especially with the light on the floor and these gloves, but it gives in the end, – like they all do.
I turn the handle and open the door -
Another hall, the air stale, dead -
I walk down the hall to the front of the flat, the place deserted, no carpet -
In the front room, I pull back a curtain and can see the car and Helen Marshall parked down the road -
The light from the street, the torch, they show me what I already know:
No-one lives here -
Just scraps of furniture, – a sofa, two chairs, a table, a telephone -
I shine the torch on the dial, but there’s no number -
I pick up the phone and get a dialling tone that tells me what I already suspect:
Someone comes here.
I put the receiver down, but leave it off the hook -
I walk back down the hall, an empty kitchen to the right, a bathroom and toilet next to it, a bedroom to the left -
I step into the bedroom -
I take a chance and switch on the light:
A big bedroom, a big bed with a stained orange-patterned mattress, a pair of black curtains -
Fitted cupboards down the side of the bed -
I take out
I turn:
Under the spread legs, below her cunt, an orange-patterned mattress -
Back behind her open mouth and closed eyes, above that cock, black curtains -
I drop the magazine on the bed and open the cupboards -
Lights, cameras, the action:
In piles -
And I want photos, all the photos I can get -
I race through the piles, taking out all the different ones I can find -
They’re in order, the piles, and in the end I’ve ten copies; only issues 3, 9, and 13 missing -
But I’ve already got 13, the last one.
I close the cupboard door and gather the magazines -
I turn off the light with my elbow and walk back down the hall -
I kick open the door and close it with my back -
It won’t lock and they’ll know I’ve been -
But that’s OK:
I WANT THEM TO KNOW I’VE BEEN HERE.
I go back downstairs and leave the back door open and kick off the lock on the gate:
JUST SO THEY’LL KNOW ABOUT IT SOON.
I walk down the alley and back round to the car -
Helen Marshall sees me coming and gets out -
‘What’s all that?’
She opens the driver’s door and I get in -
She comes back round and sits down beside me in the passenger seat -
I’ve got the
She takes them from me, silently skimming the covers, the spreads -
‘What we going to do?’ she asks.
‘Go through these, keep an eye on that place, and see what happens.’
‘I see,’ she says.
‘You tired?’ I ask her.
‘No,’ she says, defensive.
‘Good,’ I smile. ‘Because we’re going to have to do this in shifts.’
‘What?’
‘We’re going to need to watch this place twenty-four hours.’
‘What about the others?’
I shake my head: ‘Maybe later, but for now I want it to be just you and me.’
‘Me, you mean.’
‘If you don’t want to do it, just say.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, like it’s not.
‘Thank you,’ I say -
‘Mention it,’ she says.
I’m drifting -
Pornographic dreams of empty rooms, black curtains and orange-patterned mattresses -
