1983

and eaten, of drinks poured, glasses raised and toasts drunk by men with cigars in black velvet jackets, their women with their sherries in their long evening dresses, the spare room for the light summer nights when no-one could drive, when no-one could leave, no-one wanted to leave, before that last time; that last time when the telephone rang and brought the silence that never left, that was here with me now, lying here with me now in the shadows and dead of a house, quiet and dark, empty -

Thursday morning.

I reached for my glasses and got out of bed and went down the stairs to the kitchen and put on the light and filled the kettle and lit the gas and took a teapot from the cupboard and a cup and saucer and unlocked the back door to see if the milk had been delivered yet but it hadn’t though there was still enough milk in the fridge (there was always enough milk) and I poured it into the cup and put two teabags in the teapot and took the kettle off the ring and poured the water on to the teabags and let it stand while I washed the milk pan from last night and the Ovaltine mug and then dried them both up, staring out into the garden and the field behind, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a man fully dressed in dark brown trousers, a light blue shirt and a green V-necked pullover, wearing his thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a man old and fully dressed at four o’clock in the morning -

Thursday 19 May 1983.

I put the teapot and cup and saucer on a plastic blue tray and took it into the dining room and set it down on the table and poured the tea on to the milk and took a plain digestive from the biscuit barrel and then put on the gas fire and switched on the radio and sat in the chair opposite the fire to wait for the news on Radio 2:

‘Peter Williams, the Yorkshire Ripper, will again appear at Newport Magistrates’ Court on the Isle of Wight to give evidence against James Abbott, a fellow prisoner who is accused of wounding Williams with a piece of glass at Parkhurst Prison on January 10 this year; an attack that left Williams badly scarred and requiring surgery.

‘Williams, dressed in a grey suit, open-necked shirt with gold cross and chain, was booed upon his appearance in court. The defence first asked him if he was not a rather unpopular person, to which Williams replied that this was an opinion based upon ignorance. Williams was also asked whether he realised that his story was worth a lot of money to the press. Williams said that this was the trouble with society today, that people were motivated by greed and that there were no moral values at all.

‘Earlier Williams admitted that he continues to receive advice from the voices in his head. The trial of Mr Abbott continues.’

I switched off the radio. I took off my glasses.

I was sat in the chair in tears again;

In tears -

Knowing there was salvation in no-one else -

No other name here under heaven.

In tears -

Thursday 19 May 1983:

Day 8.

I drove out of Wakefield and into Castleford, black light becoming grey mist over Heath Common, the ponies standing chained and still, the roads empty but for lorries and their lights.

I parked behind a pub called the Swan. I walked into the centre of Castleford.

On the high street a bald newsagent was fetching in two bundles of papers from the pavement.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘Morning,’ he said, his face red.

‘You know where Ted Jenkins had his studio?’ I asked. ‘Photographers?’

He stood upright: ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’

I showed him my warrant card.

He shrugged: ‘Was up road on right, not there now though.’

‘Since when was that then?’

Another shrug: ‘Since it burned down – seven, maybe even ten years ago now.’

‘So I’m actually a bit late then, aren’t I?’

He smiled.

‘Can I have one of them?’ I said, pointing down at a Yorkshire Post and Hazel.

He nodded and took out a small pocket-knife. He cut the string that bound the papers together.

I handed him the money but he refused it: ‘Go on, you’re all right.’

‘Which one was it then?’ I asked him. ‘His studio?’

He peered up the road: ‘Where that Chinkie is.’

‘Knew Ted well, did you?’

He shook his head: ‘Just to say how do, like.’

‘Never turned up, did he?’ I said, looking up the road.

He sighed: ‘Long time ago now.’

‘After fire?’ I said. ‘No-one ever heard of him after that?’

Another shake of the head: ‘Thought your mob reckoned he did a bloody Lord Lucan on us?’

I nodded: ‘Long time ago.’

‘Here,’ he winked. ‘I’ll tell you who else worked there -’

‘Thanks for the paper,’ I nodded again and started walking away -

‘Michael bloody Myshkin,’ he shouted after me. ‘Pervert who did all them little lasses.’

I kept walking, walking away, crossing by a shoe shop -

‘Should have hung him, evil little bastard…’

Long time ago.

I came to the Lotus Chinese Restaurant & Take Away. I peered in over the menu in the window, white tablecloths and red napkins, the chairs and the tables, all stood there in silence and shadow -

A long time ago.

Across the road was another empty shop, just a name and a big weatherbeaten sign declaring that the property was to be redeveloped by Foster’s Construction, builders of the new Ridings Shopping Centre, Wakefield:

Shopping centres -

Such a long time ago -

Fucking shopping centres -

Such a long, long time ago -

But the lies survived, those accepted little fictions we called history -

History and lies -

They survived us all.

Morley Police Station -

The Incident Room:

Alderman, Prentice, Gaskins, and Evans.

We were looking at a photograph and a poster -

One big word in red:

MISSING -

Above a picture of a ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket, carrying a black drawstring gym bag.

I said: ‘What happened to the H embroidered on the bag?’

‘It was difficult -’ began Evans with the excuses.

I put up my hand to stop him. I held up the poster. ‘Just tell me these’ll be back from the printers by this