‘What about her?’ shrugs Jack.
‘Been reading your pieces.’
‘Rehashes from the
‘You not been over there?’
‘Rochdale? Nah, why?’
‘George Oldman has.’
‘And your boss,’ nods Jack.
‘You don’t think this has all got a bit of a familiar ring to it then?’
Jack sits back in his chair. He shakes his head. He takes out another cigarette. He says: ‘Not you and all?’
‘What? Someone else talked to you about this?’
‘Yeah,’ he nods.
‘Who?’
‘Your girlfriend.’
‘What you mean,
‘
‘Fuck off.’
‘Come on, Maurice,’ he winks again. ‘Everyone fucking knows.’
‘Fucking knows what?’
‘That you’ve been having your fucking cards read a fair bit, what you think people fucking know?’
I sit there staring into my half-drunk Guinness, the sound of lorries and buses outside in the rain.
Jack stands up. He says: ‘I’ll get these.’
‘Miracles’ll never cease,’ I say. I take out my own cigs and light one, the sound of the slot machine and the jukebox in rhythm.
Jack comes back with two pints and two shorts: ‘Put a whiskey in your Guinness, that’ll put a smile on your face.’
I say: ‘Wasn’t owt serious or anything.’
‘Don’t fucking worry about it,’ grins Jack. ‘Nice looking bloody woman.’
‘She called you?’
‘This morning.’
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘What she say to you?’
‘Same as she told you probably.’
‘She didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Well, told me she was sensing some
I nod, tipping the whiskey into the top of the Guinness.
‘I asked her what kind of
‘You tell her you were going to write anything?’
Jack shakes his head: ‘Said I might pop over this afternoon, if I had time.’
‘And have you?’
‘What?’
‘The time?’
‘No,’ says Jack.
I pick up my pint. I drink it down in one.
‘And you?’ winks Jack.
From Millgarth and Leeds into Wakefield and St John’s -
On to Blenheim Road -
28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
I park in the drive, a bad taste in my mouth.
I put a finger to my lips. It comes away all bloody, smeared. I touch my handkerchief to my lips. There are brown stains when I look, smudged.
I get out. I walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water.
It’s still raining, the branches scratching the grey sky.
I open the downstairs door. I walk up the stairs. I knock on the door of Flat 5.
‘Who is it?’
‘Police, love,’ I say -
The door flies open, no chain, and there she is, stood in the doorway -
That pale face between the wood, that beautiful face -
Truly beautiful.
‘Hello Mandy,’ I say.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she smiles.
‘I thought you weren’t a fortune teller?’
‘I’m not,’ she laughs.
She takes my hand. She leads me down the dim hall hung with dark oils into the big room -
The smell of cat piss and petunia.
We sit side by side on her sofa, on Persian rugs and cushions -
The low ornately carved table at our shins.
She is still holding my hand, our bodies touching at our elbows and our knees.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I say.
She tightens her hand round mine. ‘No, I shouldn’t call you there.’
‘No-one else was home, it doesn’t -’
‘But you’ve felt it too, haven’t you?’
‘I -’
‘You have to go and see her, you must.’
‘Who? See who?’
‘Mrs Ridyard.’
‘Why? I -’
‘She knows, Maurice. She knows.’
‘Knows what?’
‘Where her daughter is.’
‘How? How could she?’
‘She sees her.’
‘Then maybe she’s already told George Oldman, or -’
‘No, Maurice. She’s waiting for you.’
I pull her head on to my chest. I stroke her hair. I say: ‘I can’t do this.’
Mandy raises her head and her lips. Mandy kisses my cheek and my ear -
‘You must,’ she whispers. ‘You have to.’
The fat white candles lit and the heavy crimson curtains drawn, there are no windows in the big room -
Beneath her shadows -
She is sobbing, weeping;
The smell of cat piss and petunia, of desperate fucking on an old sofa strewn with Persian rugs and cushions -
She has her head on my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.
Behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass of her big window -
