“That’s not right,” said the new one.
I stood there, thinking fuck, fuck, fuck.
There were shouts from the playground and a charge of monkey boots.
“They’re going to put that bloody window through,” sighed the largest woman.
I said, “You two worked with Mrs Myshkin, yeah?”
“For more than five years, aye,” said the oldest.
“What’s she like then?”
“Had a hard life, she has.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well he’s on Sick because of dust…”
“The husband was a miner?”
“Aye. Worked with our Pat,” said the largest.
“What about Michael?”
The women looked at each other, grimacing.
“He’s not all there,” whispered the new woman.
“How do you mean?”
“Bit slow, I heard.”
“Does he have any mates?”
“Mates?” said two of the women together.
“He plays with some of the young ones on his street, like,” said the oldest woman, shuddering. “But they’re not mates.”
“Ugh, makes you feel sick, doesn’t it?” said the new woman.
“There must be someone?”
“Don’t pall around with anyone much, not that I know.”
The other two women both nodded their heads.
“What about people from work?”
The fattest woman shook her head, saying, “Doesn’t work round here, does he? Castleford way?”
“Aye. Our Kevin said he’s at some photographer’s.”
“Mucky books, I heard,” said the new one.
“You’re having me on?” said the oldest woman.
“What I heard.”
The man in the blue overalls was stood back at the school gates, a padlock and a chain in his hands, shouting at the children.
“Bloody kids these days,” said the largest woman.
“Bloody nuisance they are.”
I said, “Thanks for your time, ladies.”
“You’re welcome, love,” smiled the older one.
“Anytime,” said the largest lady.
The women giggled as they walked away, the new one turning round to wave at me.
“Merry Christmas,” she called.
“Merry Christmas.”
I took out a cigarette and fumbled in my pockets for some matches, finding Paul’s heavy Ronson lighter.
I weighed the lighter in my left hand and then lit the ciga rette, trying to remember when I’d picked it up.
The pack of children ran past me on the pavement, kicking their cheap orange football and swearing at the caretaker.
I walked back to the padlocked school gates.
The caretaker in the blue overalls was walking across the playground, back to the main building.
“Excuse me,” I shouted over the top of the red painted gates.
The man kept walking.
“Excuse me!”
At the door to the school the man turned round and looked straight at me.
I cupped my hands. “Excuse me. Can I have a word?”
The man turned away, unlocked the door, and went inside the black building.
I leant my forehead against the gate.
Someone had tattooed Fuck out of the red paint.
Into the night, wheels spinning.
Farewell Fitzwilliam, where the night comes early and nowt feels right, where the kids kill cats and the men kill kids.
I was heading back to the Redbeck, turning left on to the A655, when the lorry came screaming out of the night, slamming its brakes on hard.
I braked, horns blaring, skidding to a stop, the lorry inches from my door.
I stared into the rearview mirror, heart pounding, headlights dancing.
A big bearded man in big black boots jumped down from his cab and walked towards the car. He was carrying a big black fucking bat.
I turned the ignition, slamming my foot down on to the accelerator, thinking Barry, Barry, Barry.
The Golden Fleece, Sandal, just gone six on Thursday 19 December 1974, the longest day in a week of long days.
A pint on the bar, a whisky in my belly, a coin in the box.
“Gaz? It’s Eddie.”
“Where the fuck you sneak off to?”
“Didn’t fancy Press Club, you know.”
“You missed a right bloody show.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Jack totally fucking lost it, crying…”
“Listen, do you know Donald Foster’s address?”
“What the fuck do you want that for?”
“It’s important, Gaz.”
“This to do with Paul Kelly and their Paula?”
“No. Look, I know it’s Sandal…”
“Yeah, Wood Lane.”
“What number?”
“They don’t have fucking numbers on Wood Lane. It’s called Trinity Towers or something.”
“Cheers, Gaz.”
“Yeah? Just don’t fucking mention my name.”
“I won’t.” I said, hanging up and wondering if he was fucking Kathryn.
Another coin, another call.
“I need to speak to BJ.”
A voice on the other end, mumbling from the other end of the world.
“When will you see him? It’s important.”
A sigh from the ends of the earth.
“Tell him, Eddie called and it’s urgent.”
I went back to the bar and picked up my pint.
“That your bag over there?” said the landlord, nodding at a Hillards plastic bag under the phone.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said and drained my pint.
“Don’t be leaving bloody plastic bags lying around, not in pubs.”
“Sorry,” I said, walking back over to the phone, thinking fuck off.
“There’s me thinking it could be a bomb or anything.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I muttered as I picked up Michael John Mysh-kin’s sketch book and the photos of Councillor William Shaw and Barry James Anderson, thinking it is a bomb you stupid fucking cunt.
I parked up on the pavement outside Trinity View, Wood Lane, Sandal.
I stuffed the plastic bag back under the driver’s seat with A Guide to the Canals of the North, stubbed out my cigarette, took two painkillers, and got out.
The lane was quiet and dark.
I walked up the long drive towards Trinity View, triggering floodlights as I went. There was a Rover in the drive and lights on upstairs in the house. I wondered if it had been designed by John Dawson.
I pressed the doorbell and listened to the chimes cascade through the house.
“Yes? Who is it?” said a woman from behind the artificially aged door.
“The Yorkshire Post.”
There was a pause and then a lock turned and the door opened.
“What do you want?”
The woman was in her early forties with dark expensively permed hair, wearing black trousers, a matching silk blouse, and a surgical collar.
I held up my bandaged right hand and said, “Looks like we’ve both been in the wars.”
“I asked you what you wanted.”
Mr Long Shot Kick de Bucket said, “It’s about Johnny Kelly.”
“What about him?” said Mrs Patricia Foster, much too quickly.
“I was hoping either you or your husband might have some information about him.”
“Why would we know anything about him?” said Mrs Foster, one hand on the door, one hand on her collar.
“Well, he does play for your husband’s club and…”
“It’s not my husband’s club. He’s only the Chairman.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve not heard from him then?”
“No.”
“And you’ve no idea where he might be?”
“No. Look, Mr…?”
“Cannon.”
“Cannon?” said Mrs Patricia Foster slowly, her dark eyes and tall nose like an eagle’s looking down on me.
I swallowed and said, “Would it be possible to come inside and have a word with your husband?”
“No. He’s not home and I have nothing else to say to you,” Mrs Foster said, closing the door.
I tried to stop the door shutting in my face. “What do you flunk’s happened to him, Mrs Foster?”
“I’m going to call the police, Mr Cannon, and then I’m going to call my very good friend Bill Hadden, your boss,” she said from behind the door as the lock turned.