We’re all downstairs at the Griffin, bags packed -
John Murphy getting us all a round in -
A Christmas drink.
He brings over the beers and the shorts, Mac singing along to the piped electronic versions of Christmas carols, but I’ve had a belly full of Christmas music:
Ray Conniff and
And I’m already on my third drink, the room suddenly hot, Hillman asking me if I ever met Mr Ray and I’m saying I can’t say I ever did but Mac is saying I must have done – big bearded man who kept pigeons.
‘Pigeon fancier, was he?’ laughs Murphy. ‘Knew a bloke got five years for that.’
‘Another?’ shouts Mac, getting up.
‘A quick one for the road,’ I say, looking across the table at Helen Marshall and smiling -
She smiles back and raises her glass and says: ‘Make mine a double, Mac.’
There are blue lights in the rearview mirror, sirens -
And I’m thinking,
I pull over somewhere on the Moors and wait for them.
The tap comes on the glass -
I wind down the window.
‘Would you mind stepping out of the car please, sir?’ I nod and open the door -
Get out and stand there, against the car.
‘May I see your driver’s licence please, sir?’ asks the young policeman, about twenty-five -
About the same age I was when they brought me up here -
Up here to dig.
He’s looking at the licence with his torch, then he shines it up at me and glances back at the police car.
‘Mr Hunter?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Just a minute, sir,’ he says and goes back to the police car, its blue lights spinning silently in the night.
And I stand there, against the car, and I stare up at the sky – quiet for once with just the stars twinkling, and then I look back down at the ground, at the Moors all around me, stained with snow -
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbles, coming back. ‘We didn’t realise it was you.’
I nod.
‘Here you are, sir,’ he says and hands me my driver’s licence.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Sir?’ he says -
I try and focus.
‘Would you like us to call you a taxi or something?’
I shake my head.
‘You’re sure? It’s no trouble.’
I raise my hand, swallowing sick, and shake my head.
He looks back at the police car and says: ‘You don’t look very well, sir?’
I say: ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Williams,’ he says. ‘Mark Williams.’
‘How old are you Mark Wilhams?’
‘Twenty-four, sir.’
‘And do you like being a policeman, Mark Williams?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well Mark Williams,’ I say loudly, taking his hand and shaking it and shaking it. ‘You have a merry Christmas.’
‘Thank you. And you sir.’
‘I will,’ I say, getting back in the car. ‘I will.’
‘Drive carefully,’ he says, closing the door for me.
‘Merry Christmas Mark Williams,’ I say. ‘Merry bloody Christmas.’
There’s another police car outside the house when I get there.
I nod at the two officers as I pull in and park in the drive.
I wave at them as I get out and struggle to lock the car door.
I nod again as I walk round the house to the back door.
It’s locked and I fumble with my keys and then turn and walk down the path to the shed.
I unlock that door and open it, staring in at the maps and the photographs on the wall in the dark, the thirteen faces staring back at me, and I turn to the garden, to the washing hanging on the line in the dark in the snow, a bag of pornography in one hand, sick down my shirt, my fly undone, the carols deafening, thinking:
Part 3. We are all prostitutes
and pain and never happiness to go outside and find no one there but a man who would not frighten anybody sat in a white corsair with a five pound note in his hand and a ball pein hammer under the seat of his car asking are you doing business transmission eight found on Saturday the twenty seventh of may nineteen seventy eight sitting on wasteland in a slumped position against the fence of a car park at the rear of manchester royal infirmary identified as doreen pickles and when her reversible coat was removed it could be seen that her stomach had been so badly mutilated that her intestines had spilled out onto the ground where they wallowed like pigs in the mud below a sign around her neck that in cruel words read e am the way into the doleful city e am the way into eternal grief e am the way to a forsaken race before me nothing but eternal things were made and e shall last eternally abandon every hope all ye who enter and she opens her lids to show the white blank eyes of the dead and says who is this one approaching who without death dares walk into the kingdom of the dead by a chain link fence on a rubbish pile in the corner of the car park looking like a doll lying on her right side face down her arms folded beneath her legs straight and her shoes placed neatly on her body and rested against the fence after three operations and with just one lung death came with three hammer blows twelve feet away hit on the head three times help help help and dragged across the gravel to the fence where e raised her dress and underskirt and stabbed her in the stomach repeatedly through the same wound also in the back just below the lower left ribs her right eyelid was also punctured the eye bruised but after this there will be silence and people will think e have gone away that e have found a woman and settled down a woman who is the opposite of a tart who is religious or even the devout member of a religious sect someone e can pamper at whose feet e can worship someone who is in my eyes a paragon of virtue wearing a reversible coat blue and brown town chequered on one side and all blue on the other a short length floral dress blue canvas shoes a pink cardigan white knickers white underslip and a blue and white bra and e opened my lids to show the white blank eyes of the dead and said dear officer sorry e have not written about a year to be exact but e have not been up north for quite a while e was not kidding last time e wrote saying the whore would be older this time and maybe e would strike in manchester for a change and you should have took heed that bit about her being in hospital funny the lady mentioned something about being in hospital before e stopped her whoring ways the lady will not worry about hospitals now will she e bet you have been
