1983

Fuck.

A line of coppers with sticks, searching playing fields for something -

A murder weapon.

Someone -

A missing child, me.

Torches and capes in rain, fanned out like a bloody army of night marching towards BJ -

But they can’t see BJ, not yet:

They are walking away from lights of road, into shadow -

BJ hit mud and ground, crouching and crawling across one pitch, rolling and tumbling on to another, slowly -

Slowly until they pass and they’re gone, behind, and BJ start to crawl again -

Crawl and crouch off towards dual-carriageway and road to fuck knows where -

Anywhere but here -

Glancing back at coppers with their sticks, their torches and their capes, thanking fucking Christ they hadn’t dogs out tonight -

BJ get to gardens, gardens of houses that stand between BJ and road.

BJ slink along looking for another one without its lights on, at least its curtains drawn.

BJ come to one, dark.

BJ scale wooden fence and drop down into their shrubbery and cross their neatly trimmed lawn and go along side of their house and into their front garden where BJ hide in their privets while BJ check coast is clear -

Like in a war film.

After a minute or so BJ step out into street and walk along pavement next to big and busy road, walk towards roundabout where BJ will hitch a way out of here -

Out of Nazi Germany.

And BJ is walking along, yellow lights coming, red lights leaving, practising German and thinking about trying to cross to other side where it’s just more playing fields and some woods, thinking at least there’d be somewhere to run if Krauts showed their sour Nazi faces -

Thinking of somewhere to run when a car stops -

A car stops and driver winds down his window -

Winds down his window and says -

He says: ‘Hello Barry, you’re all wet.’

Chapter 25

We turn into Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July -

Big houses with their hearts cut into flats, losing their paintwork and their lead;

We turn into Blenheim Road and I am filled again with hate -

Filled with hate at Mystic Mandy, the medium and the fraud -

Hate at wasted time with sideshow freaks from the Feasts and the Fairs;

Hate at Wally Heywood, Georgie Oldman, and Badger Billy -

Hate at who and what they are -

What they know and will not do;

But most of all this day -

Saturday 19 July 1969 -

I am filled with hate at me;

Hate at me for who and what I am -

What I know and will not do:

(Just a lullaby in the local tongue) -

Hate.

We park on Blenheim Road -

The big trees with hearts cut into bark, the big houses with hearts cut into flats;

We park and finally I say: ‘What the fucking hell is this, Bill?’

He stinks of his lunch and guilt. He slurs: ‘George reckons -’

‘Since when did you give two shits what George fucking Oldman reckoned -’

‘Maurice -’

‘We know who fucking did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘Took her.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘Yes, we fucking do.’

‘Maurice, it isn’t pantomime season yet.’

‘Oh yes it fucking is.’

‘Fuck off, Maurice,’ he says and opens the car door -

(Local, local hates) -

I get out. I slam my door.

We walk up the drive of 28 Blenheim Road -

One big tree with hearts cut into bark, one big house with her heart cut into flats;

We walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water -

The bottoms of our trousers, our socks and our shoes, muddy in July.

George Oldman is already here, waiting under the porch with a black umbrella. He puts out his cigarette. He nods: ‘Gentlemen.’

‘George,’ says Bill.

I’ve got nothing to say.

‘Going up?’ asks Bill.

‘Best wait for Jack,’ says George.

I say: ‘Jack?’

‘Jack Whitehead,’ says George.

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Thought he was your mate,’ says Bill.

‘He is, but -’

‘Him that set this up,’ says George. He hands me today’s Post -

I read aloud: ‘Medium Contacts Police.’

I shake my head. I hand the paper back to George. I look at my watch:

It’s gone one -

Wasted, wasted time.

‘Talk of the Devil,’ says Bill -

Jack’s Jensen pulls into the drive. He parks at an angle and gets out. His face is grey and his eyes are red, another one pissed up. He sparks up. He waves his cigarette: ‘Hello, hello, hello. If it ain’t the boys in blue.’

‘Number 5, is it, Jack?’ asks George.