1983

He’s putting down the telephone, the policeman on the desk, shaking his head: ‘I’m sorry, but -’

‘No buts,’ you’re shouting. ‘She’s entitled to -’

But the room is suddenly full of policemen, policemen in uniform and policemen in suits, two of the policemen in suits leading Mrs Ashworth over to the tiny plastic chairs under the dull yellow strip lights that blink on and off, on and off, sitting her down beneath the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, you turning back to see how really bloody white the policeman on the desk has gone, his head and hands shaking, looking back round at Mrs Ashworth, her mouth open as she slips off the tiny plastic chair to lie prostrate upon the linoleum floor, upon the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the policeman on the desk, his mouth dry and voice cracking as he says:

‘He’s dead.’

Chapter 12

Preston:

Lunchtime -

Tuesday 24 December 1974 -

Never-ending.

Sitting in corner of a pub in centre of concrete city, office workers in their party hats already drunk and puking in bogs -

Never-ending.

Shouting along to Slade and Sweet, people snogging and glasses smashing and punches flying and coppers wading in -

Never-ending.

Walking up hill away from station, streets empty and buildings black, trains lit and cars dark -

Never-ending.

Weaving arm-in-arm through cold and dirty rain that falls from cold and dirty sky -

Never-ending.

Stepping out of one shadow and into another -

Another kind of pub, BJ and Clare’s kind of pub, St Mary’s -

Never-ending.

Roger Kennedy drops bloody key three or four fucking times before he finally opens door, not that Clare notices.

‘Here we are,’ he says, his fat face as red as stupid Santa hat he’s wearing.

BJ and Clare follow him inside:

St Mary’s Hostel -

Fifty yards back down road from pub of same name -

Blood and Fire etched in stone above door.

Roger Kennedy finds light switch and ducks into a small office.

BJ and Clare stand in corridor, Clare leaning against green and cream wall with her small suitcase in her hand.

Kennedy comes back out with two keys and smiles: ‘Take care of the paperwork later.’

BJ and Clare follow him up steep stairs to a narrow corridor of bedrooms.

‘There’s only Old Walter in the end one at the moment,’ says Kennedy. ‘But no doubt some of the other bad pennies will turn up again after New Year.’

He opens one door at top of stairs and winks at Clare: ‘You take this one, love.’

‘Ta very much,’ she smiles.

He hands BJ a key: ‘You take the second one on the right.’

BJ walk down corridor until BJ come to second one down on right. BJ unlock door and BJ step inside:

A bed and a wardrobe that doesn’t close, a chair and a window that doesn’t open, stink of damp that will never leave -

Home sweet bloody home.

BJ sit down on edge of bed and BJ think about little room over in Leeds with Ziggy and Karen, records and posters, clothes and memorabilia.

BJ get up off bed and walk down corridor about to go into Clare’s room when BJ hear Roger Kennedy fucking her inside. BJ go back to room and BJ sit on edge of bed and BJ count stars on BJ’s shirt.

It’s cold and dark and BJ lie in bed watching rain and lights on cracks in ceiling when she knocks on door and comes in with two plastic bags -

‘Room for a wee one?’ she asks.

‘Be my guest.’

‘Got some wine and some cider and some Twiglets,’ she smiles. ‘Thought we’d have our own Christmas party.’

‘What about lover?’

‘Passed out.’

‘He pay?’

‘No rent he said.’

‘No rent?’

‘Aye,’ she laughs and lies down on bed next to BJ. ‘No rent.’

‘Maybe our luck’s beginning to change?’

‘Be about fucking time,’ she says and pulls thin eiderdown over BJ and Clare.

‘Said they were going to make me famous,’ she laughs suddenly, leaning across BJ for last of wine.

‘How?’ BJ say, room hot and spinning.

‘Here,’ she says, jumping out of bed. ‘I’ll show you if you promise not to laugh.’

She squats down beside bed, searching through her plastic bags until she finds what she’s looking for: ‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart.’

She hands BJ a photograph.

BJ take it from her and sit up in bed:

Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.

‘What do you think?’

‘Doesn’t look like you,’ BJ say, thinking about photos they took of BJ -

Photos they took of BJ and Bill.

‘Don’t say that,’ she’s saying. ‘Don’t say that.’

It’s night before Christmas and I’m coming up hill, swaying, bags in my hand. Plastic bags, carrier bags, Tesco bags. A train passes and I bark, stand in middle of road and bark at train. I am a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three-quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it and dark brown trousers and brown suede calf-length boots. I turn left and see a row of six deserted narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti and their doors showing remnants of green paint, last door banging in wind, in rain. I hold open door and I step inside. It is small, about twelve feet square, and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex. There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish. In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty. A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing. A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing. On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint. I hear door open behind me and I turn around and I’m -