1983

Out door.

St Mary’s, Preston:

A church in Hell -

Into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs -

A big woman in other room murdering Superstar.

‘Where’s Clare?’

‘Just missed her, haven’t you, love?’

‘Where she go?’

‘Business.’

‘Fuck.’

‘If you want.’

Back outside in black night, black rain -

Down hill -

Down through town -

Down to Roger Kennedy’s house -

Banging and banging and banging on his door -

His wife answering door, a kid in her arms: ‘Yes?’

‘Roger in?’

‘No, he’s -’

‘Where?’

‘He’s still at work.’

‘Hostel?’

She nods, confused.

Black night, black rain -

Up through town -

Up hill -

Into St Mary’s, into hostel:

Banging and banging and banging on door to office, fluorescent light flickering on and off -

But it’s not Roger, it’s Dave Roberts: ‘What is it?’

‘Seen Roger?’

‘He’s gone home.’

‘Not what his wife says.’

Dave Roberts is frowning: ‘What?’

‘Just been down his house, haven’t I?’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t find Clare, can I?’

‘So?’

‘I’m worried about her.’

‘What’s it got to do with Roger?’

‘You got eyes in your head.’

Dave is shaking and shaking and shaking his head: ‘BJ -’

‘Fuck you,’ BJ say before he even starts.

‘Listen -’

But BJ up stairs again, checking her room again, checking BJ’s again:

Nothing, no-one.

BJ walk down to end of corridor. BJ bang on Walter’s door:

Nothing, no-one, but door’s open.

BJ step inside. BJ look about room.

On table in window there’s his old red exercise book.

BJ walk over. BJ open it:

Cuttings about Michael Myshkin, cuttings about murdered prostitutes.

BJ close book. BJ turn to go -

But there he is, standing in doorway:

‘What you doing?’ he asks from out of shadow.

‘I’m looking for Clare,’ BJ stammer.

‘In an old school exercise book?’

BJ look down at brown carpet.

‘And did you find her?’

BJ look up: ‘No.’

‘Well, what you waiting for?’ he shouts. ‘There’s not much time.’

‘Fuck off,’ BJ shout back -

Pushing old twat out of way, going back to BJ’s room -

Stuffing clothes into a carrier bag -

Back into hers and doing same -

Down stairs and out hostel door.

Black night, black rain -

Back up hill -

Back up to St Mary’s:

Church in Hell, last -

Back into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.

Big woman in other room now murdering We’ve only just begun.

‘Clare back yet?’

‘Not yet, love.’

‘Will you tell her, BJ is looking for her?’ BJ pant. ‘Tell her I’ll be down bus station waiting.’

‘If you want.’

One last place -

Last place on earth:

Left on to Frenchwood Street, off Church Street -

Six narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti, doors showing remnants of green paint -

Of evil.

Last door banging in wind, rain -

Last door.

BJ hold open door and step inside:

It is small, about twelve feet square and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex -

Of evil, a Kingdom of Evil.

There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish:

Old newspapers, old clothing -

Old evil, Kingdom of Old Evil.

In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty -

Evil.

A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing -

Nothing but evil, Kingdom of Evil.

A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing.

On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in red paint.

BJ touch paint. It is wet -

Red and wet.