1983

daughter?’

‘I did,’ he says.

‘You did?’ you say. ‘You don’t now?’

‘Tell him, Derek,’ says a voice from the door -

You turn in your seat:

Mrs Ridyard is stood in the doorway, drained in a scorched dressing-gown.

You stand up: ‘I’m John Piggott, I -’

‘I know who you are,’ she says.

‘We were just -’ her husband starts to say -

‘Tell him!’

Mr Ridyard looks up at you in his green cardigan and his brown trousers and for the briefest of moments, the very briefest of moments, you think he is going to tell you he killed his own daughter -

But he stands up and he says: ‘Sit down, Mr Piggott.’

You sit back down, trying not to stare at the woman stood in the doorway in her scorched dressing-gown, her husband on his feet -

Mr Ridyard asking her: ‘Are you sure you want me to; the police said we -’

‘Fuck them,’ spits Mrs Ridyard, sliding down the doorframe, holding her scorched dressing-gown tight around her, the un-light catching in the scratches and sores on her neck and her legs, on the backs of her hands.

‘Three weeks ago,’ says Mr Ridyard, alone on his feet in the middle of the room. ‘Three weeks ago when I went to get the milk in, there was a box on the doorstep.’

‘A box?’

‘A shoebox.’

‘A shoebox?’

Mr Ridyard nods, the house silent -

The house silent but for the rain against the window and the ticking of a small clock on top of the TV, on top of the TV between the two photographs -

The one of the three children in their school uniforms; the other of only the youngest child -

Mr Ridyard crying as he sits back down then stands up again, Mrs Ridyard rocking back and forth on the floor in the doorway, you staring back across the room at that photograph -

The youngest child.

You close your eyes. You put your hands over your ears -

But the noise will not stop -

The sound of their weeping, the rain against the window, the ticking of the clock.

You open your eyes -

Mr Ridyard is alone on his feet in the middle of the room -

In the middle of the room in the shape of a cross.

You shout: ‘What was in the shoebox?’

‘Susan,’ he sobs.

Chapter 30

‘Please give a big Yorkshire Clubland welcome to the New Zombies!’

Saturday 11 June 1977 -

Batley Variety Club:

She’s not there -

But he is and he doesn’t remember BJ, but BJ remember him and he has aged; aged in terror, terror of witnessing execution of his ex-wife on lawn of her new house by hand of her new husband, naked under a new and bloody moon but for a hammer and a twelve-inch nail.

‘Spot of late-night reading,’ BJ say and pass Jack bag under table.

Whitehead takes it and daft cunt starts to open it -

‘Not here,’ BJ say. ‘Bogs.’

Jack gets up and walks through empty tables at back towards gents, looking over his shoulder to check BJ still here -

‘Give you hand if you want,’ BJ shout but Jack scuttles off into toilets.

BJ finish drink as band give up on song. BJ take off every ring and put them all back on again. BJ light another cig and wonder what fuck’s taking old cunt so long. Maybe he has whipped it out for a quick one. BJ smiling until BJ see them:

Fuck, fuck, fuck -

Pigs -

Fucking pigs.

BJ slide out of seat and crawl off towards stage down front. BJ keep low against lights and only in shadows. BJ get to edge of stage. BJ duck under a curtain at side. BJ start running through cables and wires. BJ following red light that shines:

Exit -

BJ push down bar and through door, letting it slam shut. BJ outside in car park at back, rain still falling -

Rain a fall -

But Allegro’s round front and BJ be so fucking stupid BJ deserve all shit that’s coming down -

Fuck, fuck -

Can’t go back/can’t go forward; can’t go left/can’t go right; can’t go up/only down -

Fuck -

Crouched against fire door, heavy rain coming down/heavy shit with it, when out of shadows/darkness he steps -

A Black Angel -

And he says: ‘You’re all wet.’

My Black Angel -

BJ look up. BJ say: ‘Fuck do you want?’

The Father of Fear -

He raises brow of his black hat and stares up into black night and black rain. He watch black things fall from out of black skies. He smiles his black smile and says: ‘You’re going to catch your death, Barry.’

‘You got your car?’

‘Best hurry though,’ he nods. ‘Police will soon tire of Our Jack.’

BJ follow him over to his old dark car parked nearby, a Morris something -

BJ looking left and right, left and then right.

He unlocks doors and in BJ get, BJ sliding over and on to backseat -

Car damp and cold, a black briefcase beside BJ.

‘Keep your head down,’ he says, starting car.

BJ do as he says and off he sets but then car slows at front of club -

Fuck -

Man in hat leans across passenger seat. He winds down window: ‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’

‘Stolen car,’ says policeman. ‘You haven’t seen a youngish skinhead type, have you, sir?’

‘Fortunately, no.’