I look at him and I know he knows -
Knows she knows, knows I know.
‘Ted Jenkins,’ I say.
‘Who?’ asks Dawson.
‘Photographer and purveyor of pornography. Child pornography to be exact.’
Mrs Dawson looks at her husband.
I take out a large black
Marjorie Dawson leans forward. John Dawson doesn’t.
I smile. I say: ‘He’s got your number, has Mr Jenkins.’
Marjorie Dawson looks at her husband.
‘He’s got a lot of numbers,’ I say.
John Dawson is biting his lip.
‘Don Foster for one,’ I say. ‘Not that he’ll be answering his phone again.’
Marjorie Dawson looks at me.
‘He’s dead,’ I say.
She is opening and closing her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought you knew.’
Dawson tries to hold his wife’s hand -
She moves away from him.
He tells his wife. ‘I only just heard.’
‘That what Derek Box came to tell you, was it?’ I ask.
John Dawson puts his hands over his face.
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news,’ I say.
Dawson looks up from his hands.
‘George Marsh is dead too.’
‘What?’ says Dawson.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I killed him.’
‘What?’ he says again. ‘Why -’
I smile again. I put three photographs down on the table on top of his plans -
His wife looks down at them. His wife looks up at him -
‘I wish you were dead,’ she says. ‘I wish we all were.’
I pick up the photographs.
He has his head in his hands again.
She stands up. She slaps him. She claws at his hands. She screams.
I leave.
I drive from Shangrila back home -
I park outside the house, my home.
There are no lights on, the curtains are not drawn -
Everything gone -
Everybody -
Everybody gone.
I drive back into Wakefield and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
I park on the road beneath the big trees with the hearts cut into their bark;
I look down the street at 28 Blenheim Road -
I stare at the policemen sat in the dark in their cars;
I close my eyes. I open them. I see no stars -
No stars or angels;
I look up at Flat 5 -
No star, no angel;
Not tonight.
There’s a tap on the glass -
I jump:
He tries the passenger door.
It’s open. He gets in.
His hair grey. His skin yellow -
He stinks of death; We both do.
‘Don’s dead,’ he says. ‘So’s John Dawson.’
‘How?’
‘Derek fucking Box did Don. Looks like John and his wife topped themselves.’
I turn to look at him. ‘His wife too?’
Bill nods.
‘What we going to do?’
Bill looks at me. He smiles. He says: ‘We’re late.’
The Marmaville Club:
Favoured by Bill Molloy:
The upstairs room, next to the toilets -
The curtains drawn, the lamps on, no cigars -
Monday 23 December 1974 -
Christmas bloody carols up through the carpet -
The beautiful carpet, all gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -
Like the Chivas Regals and all our faces -
Stood and sat in a circle of big chairs, a couple of upturned and empty ones -
The gang half here:
Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin and Murphy -
John Murphy on his feet and off his rocker -
‘Sit down!’ Dick is shouting at the bastard -
The Manc bastard not listening:
‘No, I fucking won’t sit down,’ Murphy shrieks. ‘Not until someone fucking tells me what the hell is going on over here…’
Bill palms up, asking for calm: ‘John, John, John -’
‘No! No! No!’ Murphy shouts. ‘John Dawson and Don Foster are fucking dead. I want some fucking answers and I want them fucking now!’
We say nothing.
Murphy looks around the room. He points at me. ‘And that fucking cunt -’
