1983

Points and screams at me: ‘Now you tell me that fucking headcase has only gone and burned down half our fucking business!’

I say nothing -

‘Fuck only knows what he’s done with Jenkins.’

Nothing.

Bill is on his feet: ‘Believe me, John, we’re all as concerned as you are.’

We don’t nod.

Murphy stops. He stands in the centre of the circle. He is panting and staring -

‘John,’ Bill tells him. ‘What we’ve planned, what we’ve all worked so hard for; it’s not going to be thrown away.’

Murphy is shaking his head.

‘I won’t let that happen,’ Bill promises -

Just so we know -

Reminds us all: ‘Off the streets, out of the shop windows; under our wings and in our pockets.’

We all stare at Bill -

Bill smiles. Bill winks. Bill says: ‘Our very rich pockets.’

We don’t smile.

Bill puts an arm around Murphy. He sits him back down -

Tells him and the rest of us how it’s going to be: ‘We have got a bit to sort out, but then it’ll all be over and our investments secure.’

Jim Prentice shakes his head. He snorts: ‘A bit?’

‘Not talking about much,’ says Bill. ‘Two little problems, that’s all, Jim.’

We wait -

Wait for him to tell us what we know: ‘Derek fucking Box for bloody one.’

‘Two-faced fucking cunt,’ Dick spits -

‘Where is the twat?’ Jim asks.

‘Bastard’s meeting Bob Craven and Dougie at midnight,’ Bill says.

‘The heroes of the hour,’ smiles Rudkin.

‘More ways than one,’ nods Bill. ‘Upstairs in the Strafford.’

There’s a tap on the door. The waitress brings in another tray of whiskeys:

Doubles.

She picks up the empty glasses. She leaves.

Murphy asks Bill: ‘So what’s on the agenda for this meeting of the minds?’

‘You’ll find out,’ he winks -

‘What do you mean?’ says Murphy

Bill turns to Rudkin. ‘You got the guns?’

Rudkin nods.

‘Go get them then,’ he tells him.

Rudkin leaves the room.

Bill gets to his feet. He shouts: ‘Stand up!’

Everybody joins him on their feet, fresh drinks in their hands -

Me too:

For the body is not one member -

‘To us,’ Bill raises his glass. ‘The bloody lot of us.’

But -

‘The bloody lot of us,’ we mumble -

Many.

‘And the North,’ I shout. ‘Where we do what we want!’

‘The North,’ they reply and drain their whiskeys.

We sit back down.

‘And the second little problem,’ says John Murphy. ‘You said there were two?’

Bill turns. He looks over at me -

They all turn. They all look over at me.

‘Eddie Dunford,’ says Bill.

I close my eyes -

I see my star, my angel -

My silent bloody angel;

I open my eyes. I nod. I start to say: ‘I’ll take -’

But there are boots on the stairs -

Heavy boots.

Rudkin bursts through the door: ‘They got fucking shots fired at the Strafford!’

Bill and Dick on their feet first -

Jim and me right behind them -

Murphy fucked;

Everybody down the stairs fast, drunk and ugly -

Everybody shouting -

Everybody except Bill;

Down the stairs and into the cars -

100 miles an hour;

Bill, Dick, and John Rudkin in the one car -

110 miles an hour;

Jim driving ours, Murphy in the back seat -

120 miles an hour;

Police radio still reporting shots fired -

120 miles an hour;

Me screaming at Jim: ‘Can’t you go any fucking faster?’

120 miles an hour;

Hammering into the radio: ‘This is Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, repeat: Do not approach the scene -’

120 miles an hour;

I tell them: ‘Armed officers are being deployed -’

120 miles an hour;

I order them: ‘Establish roadblocks in a five-mile radius, extending radius five miles every ten minutes -’

120 miles an hour;

I warn them: ‘DO NOT APPROACH THE CRIME SCENE!’

120 miles an hour;

John Murphy, head between the front seats -

Drunk and laughing, fucked forever -

‘Fuck they all call you the Owl for?’ he shouts.

‘Because of my glasses,’ I reply.

‘I see,’ he grins -

‘Now fuck off and let me do my job.’

He sits back -

I look into the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the dark Yorkshire night, the Christmas lights already broken or off -

Murphy crying, wishing he were somewhere else -

Someone else -

Other people;

Crying and wishing we were all dead -