Nineteen Seventy-Four Read Free

picturing my father sat in this empty chair by the cupboard reading the back page first.
    There were pats on the back and then, for one brief moment, the paper was there in my hands and I looked down:
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.
    I didn’t read another line.
    Off the paper went again round the room, I saw my sister across the room sat on the windowsill, her eyes dosed, her hands to her mouth.
    She opened her eyes and stared back at me. I tried to stand, to go over to her, but she stood up and left the room.
    I wanted to follow her, to say:
    I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I’m sorry that it had to happen today of all days.
    “We’ll be asking him for his autograph soon, won’t we,” laughed Aunty Madge, passing me a fresh cup.
    “He’ll always be Little Eddie to me,” said Aunt Edie from Altrincham.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “Doesn’t look so good though does it?” said Aunty Madge.
    “No,” I lied.
    “There’s been a couple now, haven’t there?” said Aunt Edie, a cup of tea in one hand, my hand in the other.
    “Aye, going back a few years now. That little lass over in Castleford,” said my Aunty Madge.
    “That is going back a bit, aye. There was that one not so long ago mind, over our way,” said Aunt Edie, taking a mouthful of tea.
    “Aye, in Rochdale. I remember that one,” said Aunty Madge, lightening her grip on her saucer.
    “Never found her,” sighed Aunt Edie.
    “Really?” I said.
    “Never caught no-one either.”
    “Never do though, do they,” said Aunty Madge to the whole room.
    “I can remember a time when these sorts of things never happened.”
    “Thems in Manchester were the first.”
    “Aye,” muttered Aunt Edie, letting go of my hand.
    “Evil they were, just plain bloody evil,” whispered Aunty Madge.
    “And to think there’s them that’d have her walking about like nowt was wrong.”
    “Some folk are just plain daft.”
    “Short memories an’ all,” said Aunt Edie, looking out at the garden and the rain.
    Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, out the door.
    Cats and bloody dogs.
    Motorway One back to Leeds, lorry-thick and the going slow. Pushing the Viva a hard sixty-five in the rain, as good as it got.
    Local radio:
“The search continues for missing Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay, as fears grow…”
    A glance at the clock told me what I already knew: 4 PM meant time was against me, meant time was against her, meant no time to do background checks on missing kids, meant no questions at the five o’clock press conference.
    Shit, shit, shit.
    Coming off the motorway fast, I weighed up the pros and cons of asking my questions blind, right there and then at the five o’clock, with nothing but two old ladies behind me.
    Two kids missing, Castleford and Rochdale, no dates, only maybes.
    Long shots in the dark.
    Punch a button, national radio; sixty-seven dismissed from the Kentish Times and the Slough Evening Mail , NUJ Provincial Journalists set to strike from 1 January.
    Edward Dunford, Provincial Journalist.
    Long shots kick de bucket.
    I saw Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman’s face, I saw my editor’s face, and I saw a Chelsea flat with a beautiful Southern girl called Sophie or Anna closing the door.
    You might be balding but it’s not fucking Kojak .
    I parked behind Millgarth Police Station as they were packing up the market, gutters full of cabbage leaves and rotten fruit, thinking play it safe or play it scoop?
    I squeezed the steering wheel, offering up a prayer:
    LET NO OTHER FUCKER ASK THE QUESTION.
    I knew it for what it was, a prayer.
    The engine dead, another prayer from the steering wheel:
    DON’T FUCK UP.
    Up the steps and through the double doors, back into Millgarth Police Station.
    Muddy floors and yellow lights, drunken songs and short fuses.
    I flashed my Press Card at the desk, the Sergeant flashed back a mustard smile:
    “Cancelled. Press Office rang round.”
    “You’re joking? Why?”
    “No