1983

Someone knocking on door: ‘Phone.’

‘Ta,’ BJ say. ‘Ta very much.’

It is Saturday 27 December 1980 -

BJ back in Preston -

St Mary’s Hostel:

Blood and Fire etched in stone above door.

‘What?’

‘Did you call him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘You know where.’

‘You’ve got the picture?’

‘I’ve got picture.’

BJ hang up and stand in institutional corridor. BJ’s eyes black and lips raw, nose broken and hand bandaged. These green and cream walls defaced with insults and with numbers.

BJ staring at sevens, but they mean nothing now -

Not now in 1980 -

Now is time of sixes:

Six six sixes -

Illuminated.

BJ go back up steep stairs and walk down narrow corridor to room at end.

Door is open.

BJ go inside.

It is cold in here.

Light doesn’t work.

BJ sit at table by window.

It is raining outside.

There are pools of water forming on windowsill.

A train goes past.

A dog barks.

The window shakes -

Rattles.

BJ wish BJ were dead.

Chapter 40

Saturday 14 December 1974:

100 miles an hour -

North up the motorway:

Never leave home, never leave home, never fucking leave home ever -

Through the night, screaming:

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

8.15 a.m.

Millgarth, Leeds:

Up the stairs to my old office -

‘He in?’ I say to Julie, my old secretary -

Julie on her feet: ‘He’s in a meeting.’

‘Who with?’ I say, not waiting -

‘Journalist from the Post.’

Fingers on the handle: ‘Jack?’

‘No.’

I let go of the handle.

‘You’ll have to wait,’ she says.

‘I can’t.’

She nods. She picks up the phone on her desk. She presses a button.

I hear his phone buzz on the other side of the door.

‘Thanks, love,’ I say.

She smiles. She says: ‘How’s Bishopgarth?’

‘Don’t ask me. I was in London until three o’clock this morning.’

‘Mr Oldman knows you’re back?’

‘If he’s any bloody brains, he does.’

She shakes her head. She says: ‘Won’t you sit down.’

I look at my watch. ‘I can’t.’

She picks up the phone again. She presses the button. The phone buzzes on the other side of the door.

‘Thank you,’ I say again.

The door opens a fraction. George is talking to someone inside. I hear him say: ‘You do your digging and I’ll do mine.’

I look at my watch.

I hear George laugh, hear him say: ‘Bismarck said a journalist was a man who’d missed his calling. Maybe you should have been a copper, Dunstan?’

I look at my watch again.

Julie presses the button. She keeps her finger on it.

George Oldman opens the door wide. He leads out a young man -

A young man I’ve never seen before.

‘Not a word,’ George is telling him. ‘Not a bloody word.’

George lets go of the young man’s hand.

The man walks off.

George Oldman turns to me. He’s pissed off.

‘Maurice,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Thought we’d have seen you sooner.’

‘I was in London at the conference,’ I say. ‘Nobody told me. Nobody called.’

‘Somebody must have -’

‘I sleep with the fucking radio on, George.’

He smiles. ‘What about them psychic contacts of yours?’

I ignore him. I walk past him into my old office.

He follows me inside.

I shut the door. I want to take my seat behind my desk. I don’t -

He does. He says: ‘It’s Leeds, Maurice.’

‘Jeanette Garland wasn’t. Susan Ridyard wasn’t.’

‘You’re as bad as that bloody journalist,’ he spits -

‘I’m not alone for once then?’

‘Early days, Maurice, you know that,’ he says. ‘Early days.’

I shake my head. I say: ‘It’s been over five years, George.’