1980

wondering how come e have not been to work for ages well e would have been if it had not been for your cursed coppers e had the lady just where e wanted her and was about to strike when one of your cursing police cars stopped right outside the lane he must have been a dumb copper cause he did not say anything he did not know how close he was to catching me tell you the truth e thought e was collared the lady said do not worry about the coppers little did she know that bloody copper saved her neck that was last month so e do not know when e will get back on the job but e know it will not be bloody chapeltown too bloody hot there maybe bradford manningham might write again if up north jack the ripper he who thought to walk so boldly through this realm let him retrace his foolish way alone and you who led him here through this dark land you will stay and they slam the heavy gates in

Chapter 15

It was the night before Christmas. There was a house in the middle of the Moor, lights shining in the windows. I was walking across the Moor, light snow underfoot, heading home. On the front doorstep I stamped my boots loose of snow and opened the door. A fire was glowing with artificial coals and the house was filled with the smell of good cooking. Under a lit Christmas tree, there were boxes of beautifully wrapped presents. I took a big box, gift-wrapped in newspaper from under the tree and pulled the red ribbon loose. Carefully I opened the newspaper so I might read it later. I stared at the wooden box on my knee. I closed my eyes and opened the box, the dull thud of my heart filling the house.

‘What is it?’ said Joan, coming into the room and switching on the TV.

I tried to cover the box with my hands but she took the box from me and looked inside.

The box fell to the floor, the house full of good cooking, the thud of my heart, and her bloody screams.

I watched as the fetus slid out of the box and across the floor, writing spidery messages and swastikas with its bloody cord as it went.

‘Get rid of it,’ she screamed. ‘Get rid of it now!’

But I was staring at the TV, the people on the TV singing hymns, the people on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -machines, the gulls circling overhead screaming, the wings in my own back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, and I stared down at the baby on the floor and it sat up, hands across its heart, and smiled a faint and dreadful smile and I looked at the tag on the box, the tag on the box that said:

Love Helen – the night before Christmas.

I open my eyes -

The radio’s on:

Christmas messages: Carter telling the world that all fifty-two hostages are alive and well; the Pope’s message for Poland; Thatcher’s for Northern Ireland; nominations for people of the year: Ayatollah Khomeini; the eight US soldiers who died trying to rescue the hostages; the boat people; JR Ewing; Voyager 1; or John Lennon?

The Yorkshire Ripper?

Radio off -

I close my eyes.

‘Merry Christmas,’ says Joan -

I open my eyes.

‘Merry Christmas,’ I say.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Not so good.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘A few too many Christmas drinks.’

‘Where?’

‘Leeds.’

‘How did you get back?’

‘I drove.’

She sits up in bed: ‘Peter!’

‘Sorry.’

She gets out of bed and puts on her dressing gown.

‘Sorry,’ I say again.

She goes downstairs.

My head is killing me, my stomach churning, on the verge of throwing up -

I close my eyes.

Downstairs, she’s put on the Christmas tree lights and started making breakfast.

I go into the kitchen.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Please,’ I say.

I go back into the lounge and look out of the window at a wet and grey Christmas Day.

‘Here you go,’ she says and hands me a cup of tea -

‘Thanks.’

‘You think I should take them something?’ she asks, looking at the police car parked at the bottom of the drive.

‘They might as well get off,’ I say. ‘Now I’m here.’

‘Doesn’t it make you feel secure?’ laughs Joan.

‘Watched more like.’

I walk down the drive in the drizzle and my dressing gown -

‘Merry Christmas,’ says Sergeant Corrigan, winding down the car window.

‘And to you Bill,’ I say, bending down and nodding at another man I don’t recognise.

‘Thought you were bringing us a bit of turkey, sir?’

‘Bit early for that,’ I say.

‘Aye, hear you had a late one,’ he laughs -

‘Don’t,’ I say.

‘Not feeling too good, are you?’

I shake my head: ‘Listen, you can get off if you want.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘We’ll be doing the rounds of the relatives most of the day anyway’

‘You sure?’

I nod: ‘Go on.’

‘Right then,’ says Corrigan, starting the car. ‘You know where we are if you need us.’

‘Thanks, Bill.’

‘Have a Merry Christmas, sir.’

‘Same to you.’

We eat bacon and scrambled eggs on toast at the kitchen table, the TV on in the other room – a church service.

I ask: ‘What time they expecting us?’

‘Twelve, mum said. Same as always.’