Nineteen Seventy-Four (15 page)

“No.”

She was playing with her empty glass, spinning it on top of the cigarette machine. “Did she mention Jeanette?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” There were tears in her eyes.

“She said something about ‘the others’, that’s all.”

“What? What did she say?”

I stared around the pub. We were almost whispering but it was the only sound I could hear, like the rest of the world had been switched off.

“She said I should ‘tell them about the others’ and then she just rambled on about bloody carpets and the grass between the stones.”

Paula Garland had turned her back to me, her shoulders trembling.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry Mr Dunford,” she said to the red velvet wall paper. “You’ve been very kind to come here, but I need to be alone now.”

Paula Garland picked up her bag and her cigarettes. When she turned around her face was streaked with faint black lines from her eyes to her lips.

I held up my palms, blocking her path. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Please,” she insisted.

“At least let me give you a lift home.”

“No thank you.”

She pushed past me, out through the crowd and the door.

I drained my pint and picked up my cigs.

Brunt Street, the dark line of terraces facing the white-fronted semis, few lights on either side.

I parked on the semi side, at the opposite end to Number 11, and counted Christmas trees as I waited.

There was a tree but no lights in Number 11.

Nine trees and five minutes later, I heard her tall brown boots. I watched from low down in my seat as Paula Garland unlocked the red door and went inside.

No lights went on in Number 11.

I sat in the Viva just watching, wondering what I’d say if I dared to knock upon that red door.

Ten minutes later, a man in a cap with a dog came out of one of the semis and crossed the road. He turned and stared at my car as his dog took a shit on the terrace side of the street.

The lights in Number 11 had still not gone on.

I started the Viva.

My mouth greasy from a bad plate of Redbeck chips, I arranged a small stack of coins on top of the payphone and dialled.

“Yeah?”

“Did you tell BJ Eddie called?”

I could see the same kids playing pool through the double glass doors.

“He left a message. He’ll call you back at twelve.”

I hung up.

I checked my father’s watch, 11.35
PM

I picked up the receiver and dialled again.

On the third ring, I hung up.

Fuck her.

I sat down to wait in the brown lobby chair where the woman had farted this morning, the click of the pool balls and the curses of the kids keeping me awake.

Twelve on the dot I was out of my chair and on top of the phone before any of the kids had a chance.

“Yeah?”

BJ said, “Ronald Cannon?”

“It’s me, Eddie. You got my message?”

“Yeah.”

“I need your help and I want to help you.”

“You didn’t seem so sure last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So you should be. Have you got a pen?”

“Yeah,” I said, scrambling through my pockets.

“You might want to speak to Marjorie Dawson. She’s in the Hartley Nursing Home in Hemsworth and she’s been there since Sunday, since she saw Barry.”

“How the fuck did you find that out?”

“I know people.”

“I want to know who told you.”

“I want never gets.”

“Fuck off, BJ. I have to know.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Fuck.”

“I can tell you this though: I saw Jack Whitehead coming out of the Gaiety and he looked smashed and mad. You should be careful my dear.”

“You know Jack?”

“We go way, way back.”

“Thank you.”

“Mention it,” he laughed and hung up.

I awoke three times from the same dream on the floor of Room 27.

Each time thinking, I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.

Each time the same dream: Paula Garland on Brunt Street, clutching a red cardigan tight around her, screaming ten years of noise into my face.

Each time a big black crow came out of a sky a thousand shades of grey and clawed through her dirty blonde hair.

Each time chasing her down the street, after her eyes.

Each time frozen, waking cold on the floor.

Each time the moonlight seeping into the room, shadows making the photos on the wall come to life.

The last time, the windows all running with blood.

Chapter 6

Wednesday 18 December 1974.

7
AM
and out the room, thank fuck.

A cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast in the Redbeck Cafe. Truck drivers held up front pages:

Wilson Denies Stonehouse Spying, Man Killed as Three Bombs Explode, Petrol Up to 74p

Johnny Kelly on the back pages, going National:

League’s Lord Lucan? Where’s Our Likely Lad?

Two policemen came in, hats off, sitting down at a window table.

My heart stopped, flopping across the scratches in my notebook:

Arnold Fowler, Marforie Dawson
, and
James Ashworth
.

Three dates.

Back in the Redbeck lobby, a fresh stack of change.

“Arnold Fowler speaking.”

“This is Edward Dunford from the
Post
. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m doing a piece on the attacks on the swans up in Bretton Park.”

“I see.”

“I was hoping we’d
be
able to get together.”

“When?”

“Sometime this morning? I know it’s a bit short notice.”

“I’m actually up at Bretton this morning. I’m doing a Nature Walk with Horbury Juniors, but it doesn’t start till half-ten.”

“I can be up there for half-past nine.”

“I’ll meet you in the Main Hall.”

“Thank you.”

“Bye.”

Bright brittle winter sunshine pierced the windscreen on the drive over to Bretton, the heater turning as loud as the radio: The IRA and Stonehouse, the race to be the Christmas Number One, Clare Kemplay dying all over again on the National Stage.

I checked the rearview mirror.

One hand on the tuner, I went local:

Clare still breathing on Radio Leeds, phone-ins demanding that something be done about this kind of thing and what kind of animal would do such a thing and, anyroad, hanging’s too good for the likes of thems that do this kind of thing.

The police suddenly quiet, no leads, no press conference.

Me thinking, the calm before the fucking shit-storm.

“Nice day for it,” I said, all smiles.

“For a change,” said Arnold Fowler, sixty-five and clothes to match.

The Main Hall was large and cold, the walls plastered with children’s drawings and paintings of birds and trees.

High above, a huge papier-mache swan hung from the roof beams.

The hall stank like another church in winter and I was thinking of Mandy Wymer.

“I knew your father,” said Arnold Fowler, leading me into a small kitchen with two chairs and a pale blue Formica-topped table.

“Really?”

“Oh aye. Fine tailor.” He unbuttoned his tweed jacket to show me a label I’d seen every day of my life:
Ronald Dunford, Tailor
.

“Small world,” I said.

“Aye. Though not like it used to be.”

“He’d be very flattered.”

“I don’t reckon so. Not if I remember Ronald Dunford.”

“You’re right there,” I smiled, thinking it had only been a week.

Arnold Fowler said, “I was very sorry to hear of his passing.”

“Thank you.”

“How’s your mother?”

“You know, bearing up. She’s very strong.”

“Aye. Yorkshire lass through and through.”

I said, “You know, you came to Holy Trinity when I was there.”

“I’m not surprised. I reckon I’ve been to every school in the West Riding at some time or other. Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah. I can remember it well, but I couldn’t draw to save me life.”

Arnold Fowler smiled. “You never joined my Nature Club then?”

“No, sorry. I was Boy’s Brigade.”

“For the football?”

“Yeah.” I laughed for the first time in a long time.

“We still lose out to this day.” He handed me a mug of tea. “Help yourself to sugar.”

I heaped in two big spoonfuls and stirred them for a long time.

When I looked up, Arnold Fowler was staring at me.

“What’s with Bill Hadden’s sudden interest in the swans then?”

“It’s not Mr Hadden. I did a piece on the injuries to those ponies over Netherton way and then I heard about the swans.”

“How did you hear about them?”

“Just talk at the
Post
. Barry Cannon, he…”

Arnold Fowler was shaking his head. “Terrible, terrible business. I know his father too. Know him very well.”

“Really?” I asked, playing it typecast, playing it dumb.

“Aye. Such a shame. Very talented young man, Barry.”

I took a scalding mouthful of sweet tea and then said, “I don’t know any of the details.”

“I’m sorry?”

“About the swans.”

“I see.”

I took out my notebook. “How many of these attacks have there been?”

“Two this year.”

“When were they?”

“One was in August sometime. Other was just over a week ago.”

“You said this year?”

“Aye. There are always attacks.”

“Really?”

“Aye. Sickening it is.”

“The same kind?”

“No, no. These ones this year, they were just plain barbaric.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tortured, they were.”

“Tortured?”

“They hacked the bloody wings off. Swans were alive and all.”

My mouth was bone-dry as I spoke. “And usually?”

“Crossbows, air rifles, pub darts.”

“What about the police? You always report them?”

“Aye. Of course.”

“And what did they say?”

“Last week?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Nothing. I mean, what can they say?” Arnold Fowler was suddenly fidgeting, playing with the sugar spoon.

“The police haven’t been back to see you at all since last week then?”

Arnold Fowler looked out of the kitchen window, across the lake.

“Mr Fowler?”

“What kind of story are you writing Mr Dunford?”

“A true one.”

“Well, I’ve been asked to keep my true stories to myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are things I’ve been asked to keep to myself.” He looked at me as though I was dumb.

I picked up my mug and drained the tea.

“Have you got time to show me where you found them?” I asked.

“Aye.”

We stood up and walked out through the Main Hall, under the swan.

At the big door, I asked him, “Did Clare Kemplay ever come here?”

Arnold Fowler walked over to a pencil drawing curling on the wall above a heavy painted radiator. It was a picture of two swans kissing on the lake.

He smoothed down one of the corners. “What a bloody world we live in.”

I opened the door to the hollow sunshine and went outside.

We walked down the hill from the Main Hall towards the bridge that crossed Swan Lake.

On the other side of the lake the clouds were moving quickly across the sun, making shadows along the foot of the Moors, the purples and browns like some bruised face.

I was thinking of Paula Garland.

On the bridge, Arnold Fowler stopped.

“The last one looked like it had just been tossed over the side here, back into the lake.”

“Where did they cut the wings off?”

“I don’t know. To tell the truth, no-one’s really looked either.”

“And the other one, the one in August?”

“Hanging by her neck from that tree.” He pointed to a large oak on the other side of the lake. “They’d crucified her first, then cut off the wings.”

“You’re joking?”

“No, I’m not joking at all.”

“And no-one saw anything?”

“No.”

“Who found them?”

“The one on the oak was some kids, the last one was one of the park-keepers.”

“And the police haven’t done anything?”

“Mr Dunford, we’ve made a world where crucifying a swan is seen as a prank, not a crime.”

We walked back up the hill in silence.

In the car park a coach was unloading a class of children, pushing and pulling at each other’s coats as they got off.

I unlocked the car door.

Arnold Fowler held out his hand. “Take care, Mr Dunford.”

“And you,” I said, shaking his hand. “It was nice to see you again.”

“Aye. I’m sorry it was under such circumstances.”

“I know.”

“And good luck,” said Arnold Fowler, walking away towards the children.

“Thank you.”

I parked in an empty pub car park, somewhere between Bretton and Netherton.

The public phonebox had all its glass and most of its red paint missing, and the wind blew through me as I dialled.

“Morley Police Station.”

“Sergeant Fraser, please.”

“May I have your name please, sir?”

“Edward Dunford.”

I waited, counting the cars going past, picturing fat fingers over the mouthpiece, shouts across Morley Police Station.

“Sergeant Fraser speaking.”

“Hello. This is Edward Dunford.”

“I thought you were down South?”

“Why’d you think that?”

“Your mother.”

“Shit.” Counting cars, counting lies. “You’ve been trying to contact me then?”

“Well, there was the small matter of our conversation yes terday. My superiors are quite keen that I should get a formal statement from you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So what did you want?”

“Another favour?”

“You’re bloody joking aren’t you?”

“I’ll trade.”

“What? You been listening to the jungle drums again?”

“Did you question Marjorie Dawson about last Sunday?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s down South somewhere, visiting her dying mother.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where is she then, Sherlock?”

“Near.”

“Don’t be a twat, Dunford.”

“I said, I’ll trade.”

“Like fuck you will.” He was whispering down the line, hissing. “You’ll tell me where she is or I’ll have you for obstruction.”

“Come on. I only want to know what they have on some dead swans up at Bretton Park.”

“You on bloody drugs? What dead swans?”

“Last week some swans had their wings cut off up at Bretton. I just want to know what the police think, that’s all.”

Eraser was breathing heavily. “Cut off?”

“Yeah, cut off,” He’s heard the rumours, I thought.

Fraser said, “They find them?”

“What?”

“The wings.”

“You know they fucking did.”

Silence, then, “All right.”

“All right what?”

“All right, I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thanks.”

“Now where the fuck is Marjorie Dawson?”

“The Hartley Nursing Home, Hemsworth.”

“And how the bloody hell did you find that out?”

“Jungle drums.”

I left the phone dangling.

Me, foot down.

Sergeant Fraser, size tens running through the station.

Me, ten minutes from the Hartley Nursing Home.

Sergeant Fraser, buttoning his jacket, grabbing his hat.

Me, the window open a crack, a cigarette lit, Radio 3 and Vivaldi on loud.

Sergeant Fraser sat outside the Chief’s office, looking at the cheap watch his wife bought him last Christmas.

Me, smiling, at least one whole hour ahead.

Fresh flowers in my hand, I rang the doorbell of the Hartley Nursing Home.

I had never taken flowers to St James.

Never taken my father a single stem.

The building, looking like an old stately home or a hotel,
casi
a cold dark shadow over its untended grounds. Two old women stared at me through the bay window of a conservatory. One of the women was massaging her left tit, squeezing the nipple between her fingers.

I wondered when my mother had stopped taking flowers for my father.

A red-faced middle-aged woman in a white coat opened the door.

“Can I help you?”

“I do hope so. I’m here to see my Aunty Marjorie. Mrs Mar-jorie Dawson?”

“Really? I see. Please come this way,” said the lady, holding the door open for me.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had visited my father, whether it had been the Monday or the Tuesday.

“How is she?”

“Well, we’ve had to give her something for her nerves. Just to quieten her down.” She led me into a large hall dominated by a larger staircase.

I said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, I heard she was in a bit of a state when they brought her back.”

Back, I
thought, biting my tongue.

“When did you last see your Aunt, Mr…?”

“Dunston. Eric Dunston,” I said, extending my hand with a smile.

“Mrs White,” said Mrs White, taking my hand. “The Hartleys are away this week.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, genuinely thankful not to be meeting the Hartleys.

“She’s upstairs. Room 102. Private room of course.”

My father had ended up in a private room, the flowers all gone, a pile of bones inside a brown hide bag.

Mrs White, in her tight white coat, led the way up the stairs.

The heating was on full and there was the low hum of a television or radio. The smell of institution cooking followed us up the stairs, like it had tailed me all the way from the St James Hospital, Leeds.

At the top of the stairs we walked down a sweating corridor filled with big iron radiators and came to room 102.

My heart beating loud and fast, I said, “It’s OK. I’ve kept you long enough, Mrs White.”

“Oh, don’t be daft,” smiled Mrs White, knocking on the door and opening it. “It’s no trouble.”

It was a beautiful room, drenched in winter sunlight and filled with flowers, Radio 2 quietly playing something light.

Mrs Marjorie Dawson was lying with her eyes closed atop two full pillows, the collar of her dressing gown poking out from under all the bedding. A faint film of sweat covered her face and flattened her perm, actually making her appear younger than she probably was.

She looked like my mother.

I stared at the bottles of Lucozade and Robinson’s Barley Water, glimpsing my father’s gaunt face in the glass.

Mrs White went to the pillows, gently touching Mrs Dawson on the arm.

“Marjorie, dear. You have a visitor.”

Mrs Dawson slowly opened her eyes and looked about the room.