1983

BJ tell him: ‘They haven’t finished with you.’

‘You’re dead,’ he shouts from floor of hell. ‘You’re dead.’

‘Not me,’ BJ laugh. ‘I got my insurance. How about you?’

‘They’ll find you and they’ll kill you if you don’t come with me.’

‘Not me.’

‘Go on, run.’

‘Fuck off,’ BJ say, opening door -

Door banging in wind, in rain -

The door out of hell.

‘It’s you who should be running,’ BJ tell him. ‘You, they haven’t finished with you.’

BJ stand at door -

The door into hell -

Stand at door and BJ see him now:

On his knees on his lawn in rain, his finger on trigger of shotgun in his mouth.

‘You’re dead,’ he shouts -

BJ step outside -

‘Dead.’

BJ start walking, walking up to top of street, when BJ see him -

See him standing at top of street by open door of his car -

Looking at BJ -

Unblinking -

He smiles.

BJ run -

Run like hell.

Chapter 43

No sleep, no food, no cigarettes -

Just this:

Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/Wood Street -

Back to Netherton:

Sunday/Monday/Tuesday -

The evening of Tuesday 17 December 1974:

Nothing -

No sleep, no food, no cigarettes:

No George fucking Marsh.

There’s a tap on the glass -

I jump:

Badger fucking Bill -

He tries the passenger door.

I lean across. I open it.

He gets in. ‘Christ, it fucking stinks in here.’

‘How’d you know I was here?’

‘Fucking hell, Maurice,’ he snorts. ‘You’re an open fucking book, mate.’

‘Not a crime, is it?’ I smile.

‘A broken fucking record.’

‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not.’

‘What then?’

He pauses -

I turn to look at him:

He’s staring up the road at Maple Well Drive; the black bungalow on the right.

‘What is it?’ I ask again.

‘Eddie Dunford,’ he says.

‘Who?’

Bill turns to look at me. He smiles. He says: ‘Fuck off, Maurice.’

‘What?’

‘He’s a bloody nuisance and he doesn’t need any fucking encouragement.’

I’ve got my hands on the steering wheel, holding it tight.

Bill says: ‘He’s already been up Shangrila.’

‘So?’

‘So we’ve got enough bloody problems with Derek fucking Box. I don’t need any fucking more. Thank you.’

‘Dunford’s not a problem,’ I say.

Bill doesn’t reply -

I turn back to look at him:

He’s looking at me.

‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say.

‘He knows enough to have been round your bird’s house this afternoon.’

‘What?’

He winks. He opens the passenger door. He gets out. He turns back. He says: ‘You and your ladyfriend best remember, reckless talk costs lives.’

I drive back through the dark and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big hearts cut, lost;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Heart cut, lost;

I park. I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -

Stars and angels -

Silent little angels:

Jeanette, Susan, and Clare.

I get out. I lock the car door. I spit -

The taste of flesh;

I walk up the drive -

Shallow ugly moonlight, black stagnant rainwater;

The bottoms of my trousers, my shoes and socks, muddy -

Everything mud;

I go inside out of the rain. I go up the stairs to Flat 5 -

The air damp, stained -

Hearts lost;

The door is open -

Wide open, the metal chain loose -

In the Season of the Plague, the meat;

My heart thrashing -

The air suddenly thick with murder -