I sit there staring into my half-drunk Guinness, the sound of lorries and buses outside in the rain.
Jack stands up. He says: ‘I’ll get these.’
‘Miracles’ll never cease,’ I say. I take out my own cigs and light one, the sound of the slot machine and the jukebox in rhythm.
Jack comes back with two pints and two shorts: ‘Put a whiskey in your Guinness, that’ll put a smile on your face.’
I say: ‘Wasn’t owt serious or anything.’
‘Don’t fucking worry about it,’ grins Jack. ‘Nice looking bloody woman.’
‘She called you?’
‘This morning.’
‘Me too,’ I say. ‘What she say to you?’
‘Same as she told you probably.’
‘She didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Well, told me she was sensing some connection between Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland,’ laughs Jack. ‘You know how she talks?’
I nod, tipping the whiskey into the top of the Guinness.
‘I asked her what kind of connection,’ he says. ‘Then she tells me that she’s been having all these dreams but by this point, to be honest with you, I’d switched off.’
‘You tell her you were going to write anything?’
Jack shakes his head: ‘Said I might pop over this afternoon, if I had time.’
‘And have you?’
‘What?’
‘The time?’
‘No,’ says Jack.
I pick up my pint. I drink it down in one.
‘And you?’ winks Jack.
From Millgarth and Leeds into Wakefield and St John’s -
Big trees with hearts cut;
On to Blenheim Road -
Big houses with their hearts cut;
28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big tree with hearts cut into her bark, big house with her heart cut into flats;
I park in the drive, a bad taste in my mouth.
I put a finger to my lips. It comes away all bloody, smeared. I touch my handkerchief to my lips. There are brown stains when I look, smudged.
I get out. I walk up the drive full of shallow holes and stagnant water.
It’s still raining, the branches scratching the grey sky.
I open the downstairs door. I walk up the stairs. I knock on the door of Flat 5.
‘Who is it?’
‘Police, love,’ I say -
The door flies open, no chain, and there she is, stood in the doorway -
That pale face between the wood, that beautiful face -
Truly beautiful.
‘Hello Mandy,’ I say.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she smiles.
‘I thought you weren’t a fortune teller?’
‘I’m not,’ she laughs.
She takes my hand. She leads me down the dim hall hung with dark oils into the big room -
The smell of cat piss and petunia.
We sit side by side on her sofa, on Persian rugs and cushions -
The low ornately carved table at our shins.
She is still holding my hand, our bodies touching at our elbows and our knees.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I say.
She tightens her hand round mine. ‘No, I shouldn’t call you there.’
‘No-one else was home, it doesn’t -’
‘But you’ve felt it too, haven’t you?’
‘I -’
‘You have to go and see her, you must.’
‘Who? See who?’
‘Mrs Ridyard.’
‘Why? I -’
‘She knows, Maurice. She knows.’
‘Knows what?’
‘Where her daughter is.’
‘How? How could she?’
‘She sees her.’
‘Then maybe she’s already told George Oldman, or -’
‘No, Maurice. She’s waiting for you.’
I pull her head on to my chest. I stroke her hair. I say: ‘I can’t do this.’
Mandy raises her head and her lips. Mandy kisses my cheek and my ear -
‘You must,’ she whispers. ‘You have to.’
The fat white candles lit and the heavy crimson curtains drawn, there are no windows in the big room -
Dark ways, hearts lost;
Beneath her shadows -
She is sobbing, weeping;
The smell of cat piss and petunia, of desperate fucking on an old sofa strewn with Persian rugs and cushions -
She has her head on my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.
Behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass of her big window -
Wanting in;
Sobbing, weeping -
Wanting in.
She kisses my fingertips and then stops, holding my fingers to the candlelight -
She lifts her head and says: ‘You’ve got blood on your hands.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but her face in the candlelight is white and already dead -
The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass of her big window -
Dark -
Sobbing, weeping -
Hearts -
Asking to be let in.
Chapter 32
Falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of a mother trapped and forced to imagine the repeated slaughter of her young, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the floor of their front room, on the yellow squares and the red, on the marks made by crayons and the marks made by paints, contorted and screaming and howling under the dull and yellow lights blinking on and off, on and off, the faded poster warning against the perils of losing and not finding your children, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of damp clothes and undercooked dinners, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their ages, telling them all the things you were going to do for them, all the good news you were going to bring, how happy they’d be, but they were just sat there, silently waiting for their kids to come home, to take them upstairs and put them to bed, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, rocking back and forth, her husband in his chair and on his feet, his hands outstretched in the shape of a cross, noisily grinding his teeth as you flew across the room, tried to reach across and grab him, hold him, but your brother was holding you back, telling you all the things that he’d done, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how much better off he was dead, your mother on her feet, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her own hands, and then the Brass came, came to take you all downstairs, down to the cells, and at the bottom of the stairs you turned the corner and they opened the door to Room 4 and there he was, his gun still smoking as they struggled to clean him all up, the stink of shit among the smoke, his brains attached to the windows of the shed, a finger holding down the trigger, lying there in a uniform that said West Yorkshire Constabulary between a pair of swan’s wings, his face all blown off and in bits, still struggling to mop up those bits and take him away, to put him in a hole in the ground and make him go away, but it wouldn’t and it never will, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up the walls and the stairs on her nails and her knees, pissing and barking and chasing her tail, the smell of overcooked cabbages and dirty old rags, the dull and yellow lights that blinked off and on, on and off, the faded poster asking the public to please help find their kids, the white squares and the grey, the marks made by bones and the marks made by skulls, the linoleum, and these men that walked these stairs, these linoleum floors, these policemen in their suits and big size ten boots, and then it was gone again; the walls, the stairs, the smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables, the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, the white squares and the grey, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the carpets and the policemen in suits and new boots, all gone as you fall backwards on a tiny plastic chair through the enormous depths of time, away from this place, this rotten un-fresh linoleum place, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories, and you are alone now, terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with their mothers, all of these mothers, their children not here -