1980

be about.’

‘Just this,’ I say, holding up the Xerox. ‘That was all?’

He nods.

‘Why?’

‘I just want it to stop. Want them to stop.’

‘Who?’

‘No fucking names! How many more times?’

In the dark, dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look at him -

Look at him and then Clare, and I say: ‘So why here? Is this where it all started? With her?’

‘Started?’ he laughs. ‘Fuck no.’

‘Where it ended?’

‘The beginning of the end, shall we say’

‘For who?’

‘You name them?’ he whispers. ‘Me, you, her – half the fucking coppers you’ve ever met.’

I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

‘Why Strachan?’ I ask. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’

‘Why they murdered Clare?’ he’s saying, shaking his head. ‘No.’

‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

‘No.’

‘I want names -’

‘I’ll give you one name,’ he whispers. ‘And one name only’

‘Go on?’

‘Her name was Morrison.’

‘Who?’

‘Clare – her maiden name was Morrison.’

‘Morrison?’

He’s nodding: ‘Know any other Morrisons, do you Mr Hunter?’

In the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I say -

‘Grace Morrison.’

Nodding: ‘And?’

The dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I say -

‘The Strafford. She was the barmaid at the Strafford.’

Nodding, smiling: ‘And?’

Dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, in this dark room I whisper -

‘They were sisters.’

Nodding, smiling, laughing: ‘And?’

In the dark, dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look down -

I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

In the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look up and say again -

‘The Strafford.’

He smiles: ‘Bullseye.’

In this dark room, I ask: ‘How do you know this?’

Not nodding, not smiling, not laughing, he says: ‘I was there.’

‘Where? You were where?’

‘The Strafford,’ he says and opens the door -

I lunge over, slamming the door shut: ‘You’re not going anywhere, pal. Not yet.’

We’re chest to chest again, eye to eye in the dark room, here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers -

He sniffs up: ‘That’s your lot, Mr Hunter.’

‘Fuck off,’ I yell. ‘You tell me what happened that night?’

He pulls away: ‘Ask someone else.’

‘You mean Bob Craven? There isn’t anybody else, they’re all dead.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Fuck off,’ I say, reaching over and grabbing at his jacket, but -

He pushes me back and leaves me reaching out again in the dark room, there across the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, me reaching out, grabbing him, dancing in the dark room, here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, dancing in the dark room, dancing until -

I’m down, his fist in my face, fingers at my throat -

And I reach up from the floor, from the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, but -

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he’s shouting, trying to get away.

‘Time to stop running,’ I’m shouting, but -

He’s kicking me, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, kicking -

‘Get fucking off me.’

‘What happened?’

Kicking me, the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers -

‘I’m saying no more.’

‘Tell me!’

But he’s free and at the door -

Telling me: ‘They haven’t finished with you.’

Here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, inside my coat I can feel the photographs -

Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -

Two people in a park:

One of them me.

And from among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, I hiss: ‘You’re dead.’

‘Not me,’ he laughs. ‘I got my insurance. How about you?’

‘They’ll find you and they’ll kill you if you don’t come with me.’

‘Not me,’ he says.