‘Jack?’
‘The description given by Mrs Clark seems to contradict previous descriptions that have been issued. For example, both Anita Bird and Ka Su Peng said that their attacker had dark curly hair and a beard or moustache…’
George, his knife out:
‘Yes but Jack, the lady in Bradford, Miss Peng, she claimed her attacker also had a Scouse accent which contradicted Anita Bird and the description Miss Bird herself gave was based on the assumption that the man who passed her in the street was the same man who later attacked her.’
‘An assumption you previously supported.’
‘That was then, Jack. That was then.’
I walked back through the deserted Kirkgate Market, through the quiet Sunday city streets, through the bunting, all red, white, and blue, under the three o’clock sun.
I turned into a cobbled alley out of the heat, searching for the wall and a word written in red.
But the word was gone or the alley wrong and the only words were Hate and Leeds.
So I walked up Briggate and on to the Headrow, up to the Cathedral and went inside.
I sat down at the back, in the cold quiet black, sweating from the stroll, panting like a dog.
There was an old woman with a walking stick trying to stand up in the front pew, a child reading a prayer book, dark low lights at the altar, the statues and the paintings, their eyes on me.
I looked up, my sweat dry, my breathing slow.
And there I was before Him, before the cross, thinking about fucking and murders with hammers, seeing the nails in his hands, thinking about fucking and murders with screwdrivers, seeing the nails in his feet, the tears in their eyes, the tears in His, the tears in mine.
And then the child led the old woman by the hand down the aisle and when they reached my pew they paused under the statues and the paintings, the shadows against the altar, and the child held out his open prayer book and I took it from him and watched them walk away.
And I looked down and I read aloud the words I found:
Psalm 88
For my soul is full of troubles,
and my life draws near to Sheol.
I am counted among those who go down to the Pit;
I am like those who have no help,
like those forsaken among the dead,
like the slain that lie in the grave,
like those whom you remember no more,
for they are cut off from your hand.
You have put me in the depths of the Pit,
in the regions dark and deep.
Your wrath lies heavy upon me,
and you overwhelm with all your waves.
You have caused my companions to shun me;
you have made me a thing of horror to them.
I am shut in so that I cannot escape;
my eyes grow dim through sorrow.
Every day I call on you, O Lord;
I spread out my hands to you.
Do you work wonders for the dead?
Do the shades rise up to praise you?
Is your steadfast love declared in the grave,
or your faithfulness in Abaddon?
Are your wonders known in the darkness,
Or your saving help in the land of forgetfulness?
But I, O Lord, cry out to you;
in the morning my prayer comes before you.
O Lord, why do you cast me off?
Why do you hide your face from me?
Wretched and close to death from my youth up,
I suffer your terrors; I am desperate.
Your wrath has swept over me;
your dread assaults destroy me.
They surround me like a flood all day long;
from all sides they close in on me.
You have caused friend and neighbour to shun me;
my companions are in darkness.
Fucking and murders with hammers, the nails in His hand, fucking and murders with screwdrivers, the nails in His feet, fucking and murders, the tears in their eyes, fucking, the tears in His, murders, tears in mine.
‘We can go upstairs right now and it’ll all be over.’
And I ran from the Cathedral, through the double wooden doors, running from the hammer, through the hot black streets, running from Him, through the red bunting, the white and blue all gone, running from them all, through 5 June 1977, running.
Oh Carol.
And then finally I stood before the Griffin, my clothes in flames, hands and eyes to the sky, shouting:
‘Carol, Carol there’s got to be another way.’
The office was dead.
I sat down at my desk and I typed:
RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN
Police yesterday stepped up the hunt for the so-called Yorkshire Kipper, the man police believe could be responsible for the murders of four prostitutes and assaults upon three other women, following a fourth attack on Saturday morning.
Mrs Linda Clark, aged thirty-six of Bierley, Bradford, was attacked on wasteland off Bowling Back Lane, Bradford, following a night out at the city’s Mecca Ballroom.
Mrs Clark suffered a fractured skull and stab wounds to her stomach and back, after accepting a lift from a driver on the Wakefield Road. Mrs Clark will undergo a second operation later this week.
The police issued the following description of the vehicle and the driver they would like to question in relation to the attack upon Mrs Clark:
The man is white, approximately thirty-five years old, about six feet tall and of a large build. He has light brown shoulder-length hair and thick eyebrows. He was driving a white or light-coloured Ford Cortina Mark II with a black roof. Police urged any member of the public with information to contact the Bradford Incident Room direct on 476532 or 476533 or their local police station as a matter of some urgency.
I stopped typing and opened my eyes.
I walked upstairs and placed the sheet of paper in Bill’s tray.
I started to walk away but then I turned back, took out my pen and in red ink I wrote across the top:
It’s not him.
I walked down the steps and out of the dark and into yet more. The Press Club, Sunday-night busy.
George Greaves, head down on the table, the laces of his boots tied together, Tom and Bernard struggling to light their own fags.
‘Busy day?’ said Bet.
‘Yep.’
‘He’s keeping you on your toes, this Ripper of yours.’
I nodded and tipped the Scotch down my throat.
Steph squeezed my elbow. ‘Another?’
‘Just to be sociable.’
‘Not like you, Jack,’ she laughed.
Bet filled the glass again. ‘Don’t know, he had a visitor earlier.’
‘Me?’
‘Young guy, skinhead.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen him before, but for life of me I can’t remember his name.’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘No. Another?’
‘Only sociable, I suppose.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
‘I’ll say,’ I said and downed the next one.
I paused upon the stair and then opened the door.
The room was empty, the windows open, my dirty curtains booming like grey sails on a big old Bride Ship bound for a New World, the warm night air fingering through me.
I sat down and poured myself another taste of Scotland, drank it, and picked up my book but began to drowse.
And that was when she came to me, there in the foothills I thought so fucking high, like I’d come so very, very far.
She put her hands over my eyes, cold as two dead stones:
‘Did you miss me?’
I tried to look round but I was so weak.
‘Did you miss me, Jackie boy?’
I nodded.
‘Good,’ and she put her mouth on mine.
I fled her tongue, her hard long tongue.
She stopped, her hand on my cock.
‘Fuck me, Jack. Fuck me like you fucked that whore before.’