Read Nineteen Seventy-Four Online
Authors: David Peace
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Police Procedurals
“He went back to Istanbul.”
I couldn’t resist. “You didn’t see it coming?”
“I’m a medium, Mr Dunford, not a fortune teller.”
I sat on the far end of the sofa, feeling like a twat, unable to think of anything to say.
Eventually I said, “I’m not making a very good impression, ami?”
Miss Wymer rose quickly from her chair. “Would you care for some tea?”
“That’d be nice, if it’s no trouble?”
The woman almost ran from the room, stopping suddenly in the doorway as though she had walked into a plate of glass.
“You smell so strongly of bad memories,” she said quietly, her back to me.
“Pardon?”
“Of death.” She stood in the doorway, shaking and pale, her hand gripping the frame of the door.
I got up. “Are you OK?”
“I think you’d better leave,” she whispered, slipping down the frame of the door and on to the floor.
“Miss Wymer…” I went across the room towards her.
“Please! No!”
I reached out, wanting to pick her up. “Miss Wymer…”
“Don’t touch me!”
I backed off, the woman curling into a tight ball.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s so strong.” She was moaning, not speaking.
“What is?”
“It’s all over you.”
“What is?” I shouted, angry, thinking of BJ and these days and nights spent in rented rooms with the mentally ill. “What is, tell me?”
“Her death.”
The air was suddenly thick and murderous.
“What are you fucking talking about?” I was going towards her, the blood drumming in my ears.
“No!” She was screaming, sliding back on her arse up the hall, her arms and legs splayed, her country skirt riding up. “God no!”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I was screaming now, flying up the hall after her.
She scrambled to her feet, begging, “Please, please, please, leave me alone.”
“Wait!”
She turned into a room and slammed the door on me, trap ping one of the fingers of my left hand in the hinges for a second.
“You fucking bitch!” I shouted, kicking and punching the locked door. “You crazy fucking bitch!”
I stopped, put my throbbing left fingers in my mouth and sucked.
The flat was silent.
I leant my head against the door and quietly said, “Please, Miss Wymer…”
I could hear scared sobs from behind the door.
“Please, Miss Wymer. I need to talk to you.”
I heard the sound of furniture being moved, of chests of drawers and wardrobes being placed in front of the door.
“Miss Wymer?”
A faint voice came through the layers and layers of wood and doors, a child whispering to a friend beneath the covers.
“Tell them about the others…”
“Pardon?”
“Please tell them about the others.”
I was leaning against the door, my lips tasting the varnish. “What others?”
“The others.”
“What fucking others?” I shouted, pulling and twisting at the handle.
“All the others under those beautiful new carpets.”
“Shut up!”
“Under the grass that grows between the cracks and the stones.”
“Shut up!” My fists into wood, my knuckles into blood.
“Tell them. Please tell them where they are.”
“Shut up! Fucking shut up!”
My head against the door, the tide of noise retreating, the flat silent and dim.
“Miss Wymer?” I whispered.
Silence, dim silence.
As I left the flat, licking and sucking my knuckles and fingers, I saw the door across the landing open slightly.
“Keep your fucking nose out!” I shouted, running down the stairs.
“Less you want it bloody cutting off!”
Ninety miles an hour, spooked.
Foot down on Motorway One, exorcising the Ghosts of Wake-field Past and Present.
Into the rearview mirror, a green Rover hugging my tail. Me paranoid, making it for an unmarked police car.
Eyes high into the sky, driving inside the fat belly of a whale, the sky the colour of its grey flesh, stark black trees its mighty bones, a damp prison.
Into the mirror, the Rover gaining.
Taking the Leeds exit at the charred remains of the gypsy camp, the black frames of the burnt-out caravans more bones, standing in some pagan circle to their dead.
Into the mirror, the green Rover heading North.
Underneath the station arches, parking the Viva, two black crows eating from black bin-bags, ripping through the wasted meat, their screams echoing into the dark in this, the Season of the Plague.
Ten minutes later I was at my desk.
I dialled Directory Enquiries, then James Ashworth, then BJ.
No answers, everybody Christmas shopping.
“You look terrible.” Stephanie, files in her arms, fat as fuck.
“I’m fine.”
Stephanie stood there, in front of my desk, waiting.
I stared at the only Christmas card on my desk, trying to switch off the visions of Jack Whitehead fucking her up trap two, getting a little hard myself.
“I spoke to Kathryn last night.”
“So?”
“Don’t you bloody care?” She was already angry.
So was I. “It’s none of your business how I fucking feel.”
She didn’t move, just kept standing there, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her eyes filling up.
I felt bad and so I said, “I’m sorry Steph.”
“You’re a pig. A fucking pig.”
“I’m sorry. How is she?”
She was nodding her fat face, agreeing with her own fat thoughts. “It’s not the first time is it?”
“What did Kathryn say?”
“There have been others haven’t there?”
Others, always the bloody others.
“I know you, Eddie Dunford,” she went on, leaning forward across the desk, her arms like thighs. “I know you.”
“Shut up,” I said quietly.
“How many others have there been, eh?”
“Keep your bloody nose out, you fat bitch.”
Applause and cheers rang out across the office, fists banging on desks, feet stamping.
I stared at Kathryn’s Christmas card.
“You pig,” she spat.
I looked up from the card but she was gone, sobbing out the door.
Across the office George Greaves and Gaz raised their ciga rettes in salute, giving me the thumbs up.
I held up my thumb, fresh blood on my knuckle.
It was five o’clock.
“I still need to talk to the other one, James Ashworth. He was the one who actually found the body.”
Hadden looked up from his pile of Christmas cards. He put one of the larger cards to the bottom of the pile and said, “It’s all a bit thin.”
“She was round the bloody twist.”
“Did you try and get a quote from the police.”
“No.”
“Maybe just as well,” he sighed, continuing to look through his cards.
I was tired beyond sleep, hungry beyond food, the room beyond hot and all too real.
Hadden was looking up from his cards at me.
“Anything new today?” I asked, my mouth suddenly full of bilious water.
“Nothing that’s fit to print. Jack’s off on one of his…”
I swallowed. “One of his?”
“He’s playing his cards close to his chest, shall we say.”
“I’m sure he’s doing what’s best.”
Hadden handed back the draft of my piece.
I opened the folder on my knee, putting away the one piece and taking out another. “And then there’s this?”
Hadden took the sheet from me and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
I stared out of the window behind him, the reflection of the yellow office lights on top of a dark wet Leeds.
“Mutilated swans, eh?”
“As I’m sure you know, there’s been a spate of animal muti lations.”
Hadden sighed, his cheeks turning red. “I’m not stupid. Jack showed me the post-mortem.”
I could hear people laughing in another part of the building.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Hadden took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “You’re trying too bloody hard.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“You’re like Barry. He was the same, always…”
“I wasn’t going to mention the post-mortem or Clare.”
Hadden was on his feet, pacing. “You can’t just write things and then assume it’s the bloody truth because you think it is.”
“I never do that.”
“I don’t know,” he was talking to the night. “It’s like you’re shooting at the whole bloody bush just on the off-chance there might be something in there worth killing.”
I said, “I’m sorry you think that.”
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you know.”
“I know.”
Hadden turned round. “Arnold Fowler’s worked for us for years.”
“
I
know.”
“You don’t want to be going out there and frightening the poor bloke with your horror stories.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
Hadden sat back down and sighed loudly. “Get some quotes. Give it a paternal tone and don’t mention the bloody Clare Kemplay case.”
I stood up, the room suddenly going dark and then light again. “Thank you.”
“We’ll run it on Thursday. Straightforward abuse of animals.”
“Of course.” I opened the door for air, support, and an exit.
“Like the pit ponies.”
I ran for the bogs, my guts in my gob.
“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”
“No.”
The office was quiet and I had almost finished what I had to do.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No.”
I was drawing wings and roses upon my blotter. I put down my pen.
“Can you tell her Edward called?”
They hung up.
I scrawled
The Medium & The Message
across the top of the article in biro, then added a question mark and lit a cigarette.
After a few drags, I tore a sheet of paper from my notebook, stubbed out my cig, and wrote two lists. At the bottom of the page I wrote Dawson and underlined it.
I felt tired, hungry, and utterly lost.
I closed my eyes against the harsh bright office light and the white noise that filled my thoughts.
It took me a moment to pick out the sound of the phone.
“Edward Dunford speaking?”
“This is Paula Garland.”
I leant forward in my chair, my elbows on the desk sup porting the weight of the phone and my head. “Yes?”
“I heard you saw Mandy Wymer today.”
“Yeah, sort of. How did you know?”
“Our Paul said.”
“Right.” I’d no idea what to say next.
There was a long pause, then she said, “I need to know what she said.”
I was upright in my chair, changing hands and wiping the sweat on my trouser leg.
“Mr Dunford?”
“Well, she didn’t say very much.”
“Please, Mr Dunford. Anything at all?”
I had the phone cradled between my ear and my chin, looking at my father’s watch and stuffing
The Medium & The Message
into an envelope.
I said, “I can meet you in the Swan. About an hour?”
“Thank you.”
Down the corridor, into records.
Through the files, cross index, tear it down.
Looking at my father’s watch, 8.05
PM
Back in time:
Small Steps and Giant Leaps.
17 December 1974, a notebook full of scrawled quotes.
Looking at my father’s watch, 8.30
PM
Out of time.
The Swan, Castleford.
I was at the bar, ordering a pint and a Scotch.
The place was Christmas busy with a works do, everybody chanting along to the jukebox.
A hand at my elbow.
“
Is
one of them for me?”
“Which one do you want?”
Mrs Paula Garland picked up the whisky and made her way through the crowd to the cigarette machine. She put her handbag and glass on top of the machine.
“Do you come here often, Mr Dunford?” she smiled.
“Edward, please.” I put my pint down on top of the machine. “No, not often enough.”
She laughed and offered me a cigarette. “First time?”
“Second,” I said, thinking of the last time.
She took a light from me. “It’s not usually this busy.”
“You come here often then?”
“Are you trying to pick me up, Mr Dunford?” She was laughing.
I blew smoke above her head and smiled.
“I used to come here a lot,” she said, the laughter suddenly gone.
I was unsure what to say and said, “Seems like a nice local.”
“It was.” She picked up her drink.
I tried very hard not to stare but she was so pale against the red of her sweater, the rolls and folds of its neck making her whole head seem so very small and fragile.
And, as she drank the whisky, little spots of red appeared on her cheeks, making her look as though she’d been punched or beaten.
Paula Garland took another mouthful and drained her glass. “About Sunday. I…”
“Forget it. I was right out of order. Another one?” I said, all a bit too quickly.
“I’m all right for now, ta.”
“Well, just say.”
Elton John took over from Gilbert O’Sullivan.
We both looked awkwardly around the pub, smiling at the party hats and the mistletoe.
Paula said, “You saw Mandy Wymer then?”
I lit another cigarette, my stomach flipping. “Yeah.”
“Why did you go?”
“She claimed she told the police where to find Clare Kem-play’s body.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Two builders found the body.”
“What did she say?”
“I didn’t really get a chance to ask her,” I said.
Paula Garland pulled hard on her cigarette and then said, “Does she know who did it?”
“She claims to.”
“She didn’t say?”