Chapter 21
New Year’s Eve, 1980:
Dawn or dusk, it’s all fucked up -
The End of the World -
Fucked up and running -
Running from Dewsbury Police Station -
Dewsbury Police Station -
Modern lies amongst the black -
Crowds gathering -
Posters out:
The Ripper is a Coward -
Defaced:
Hang him!
The homemade nooses, the studded wristbands -
The skinheads and their mums, the mohicans and their nans.
Running to the car park up the road from the police station, puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot -
The car park already full -
Journalists, TV crews, the word spread -
Birds overhead, screaming -
Rain pouring -
The clouds black above us, the hills darker still -
Hills of hard houses, bleak times -
Warehouse eyes, mill stares -
Unlocking the door, running -
Engine running, running scared -
The North after the bomb -
Murder and lies, lies and murder -
War.
Ml into Leeds -
Radio on:
‘A Bradford man will appear before Dewsbury magistrates later this afternoon in connection with the murder of Laureen Bell in Leeds on December 10. The man was arrested by officers in Sheffield on Sunday night in connection with the theft of some car number plates. A jubilant Chief Constable Ronald Angus told reporters:
‘“This man is now being detained in West Yorkshire, and he is being questioned in relation to the Yorkshire Ripper murders. He will appear before Dewsbury magistrates later today. We are all absolutely delighted, totally delighted with the developments at this stage. The officers who detained the man in Sheffield were outstanding police officers; these lads are real heroes, who have my heartfelt thanks. They did a wonderful job. We know the girl the man was with when he was arrested and she’s very lucky indeed. She could easily have been his next victim.”
‘When asked if the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper was now over, Chief Constable Angus said:
‘“You are right. The hunt for the Ripper is being scaled down.”
‘Meanwhile a crowd of almost 4000 people has already gathered outside Dewsbury Town Hall in the hope of catching a glimpse of the man whose five-year reign has brought terror to the streets of every Northern city. A reign that would now appear to be at an end.’
Radio off, thinking -
What looks like morning, it is the beginning of the endless night.
Leeds, fucking Leeds:
Medieval, Victorian, Concrete fucking Leeds -
Decay, murder, hell -
Dead city:
Just the crows and the rain -
The Ripper gone -
The crows and the rain, his meat-picked bones -
Leeds, fucking Leeds -
The King is dead, long live the King.
I park under the dark arches with the water and the rats -
Out of the car, coat up -
Running up through the arches, past the Scarborough -
Into the Griffin -
Ringing the bell, waiting -
Fuck it -
Snatching the key from behind the desk -
Into the lift -
Pressing 7 -
1,2,3,4,5,6 -
Out of the lift -
Down the corridor -
Tripping -
On the dark stair, we miss our step:
Room 77 -
Key in the door -
Into the room -
Checking my watch, radio on, picking up the phone, getting a dialling tone, pulling the numbers round -
Ringing, ringing -
‘Joan?’
‘Peter? Where are you?’
‘Leeds.’
‘Is it true? They’ve caught him?’
‘Yes.’
‘You coming home?’
‘Home?’
‘Here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I had that nightmare again – the girl…’
‘I’m coming now, love.’
‘Oh be careful, Peter.’
‘Yes.’
‘Please -’
Phone down -
Sweeping the Exegesis, the loose notes, Spunk, the photographs -
Sweeping everything into the carrier bags -
The pages from the Holy Bible, the Exegesis, Spunk -
Everything in bags, everything ready -
One last look around -
Opening the door -
Opening the door and there she is:
‘Helen?’
Hair tied back, raincoat still dripping, she asks: ‘Can I come in?’
On the dark stair -
‘Yes,’ I say and hold open the door.
She steps inside and I close the door behind us.
She undoes her raincoat and takes out an envelope -
Flat and manila -
She holds it up -
In slanting black felt-tip pen:
Photos Do Not Bend.
I’m nodding, asking her: ‘When?’
‘Boxing Day.’
‘Boxing Day?’
‘By hand.’
‘Who?’
She looks up to the ceiling of the room, sucking in her lips, trying not to let the tears in her eyes -
Trying not to let the tears -
The tears in her eyes -
She says: ‘Bob Craven.’
‘What?’
She nods, the tears in her eyes.
Me: ‘How?’
She pulls open the envelope, taking out the photographs -
And she throws them down onto the bed:
Photographs, four of them -
Four photographs of two people in a park:
Platt Fields Park, in wintertime.
Photographs, black and white -
Black and white photographs of two people in a park by a pond:
A cold grey pond, a dog.
Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -
Two people in a park:
One of them her.
‘How?’ I ask.
But she looks up at the ceiling again, sucking her lips, the tears in her eyes -
The tears in her eyes -
The tears -
And she reaches into the envelope again, taking out a piece of paper -
A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -
And she holds it up -
Holds it up in my face:
A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -
Skinny and ginger, legs and cunt -
Cunt shaved -
Her cunt shaved -
Her -
Helen Marshall.
Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:
Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.
Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:
Manchester Vice?
Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:
A line, a line across her eyes.
She throws the paper onto the bed -
Onto the bed, next to the photographs -
And I’m reeling -
Reeling:
‘Helen who?’
‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’
Reeling until -
Reeling until I say: ‘You should have said something.’