David Peace - Nineteen Eighty-Three: The Red Riding Quartet, Book Four (Vintage Crime Black Lizard)

Praise forDavid Peace
and theRed Riding Quartet

Peace is a manic James Joyce of the crime novel invoking the horror of grim lives, grim crimes, and grim times.

Sleazenation

[Peace] exposes a side of life which most of us would prefer to ignore.

Daily Mail

David Peace is the future of crime fiction. A fantastic talent.

Ian Rankin

British crime fictions most exciting new voice in decades.

GQ

[David Peace is] transforming the genre with passion and style.

George Pelecanos

Peace has single-handedly established the genre of Yorkshire Noir, and mightily satisfying it is.

Yorkshire Post

A compelling and devastating body of work that pushes Peace to the forefront of British writing.

Time Out London

A writer of immense talent and power. If northern noir is the crime fashion of the moment, Peace is its most brilliant designer.

The Times (London)

Peace has found his own voicefull of dazzling, intense poetry and visceral violence.

Uncut

A tour de force of crime fiction which confirms David Peaces reputation as one of the most important names in contemporary crime literature.

Crime Time

David Peace
Nineteen Eighty Three

David Peace is the author of The Red Riding Quartet, GB84, The Damned Utd, Tokyo Year Zero, and Occupied City. He was chosen as one of Grantas Best Young British Novelists, and has received the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, the German Crime Fiction Award, and the French Grand Prix de Roman Noir for Best Foreign Novel. He lives in Yorkshire.

Also by David Peace

Occupied City

Tokyo Year Zero

The Damned Utd

GB84

Nineteen Eighty

Nineteen Seventy-Seven

Nineteen Seventy-Four

For William Miller, John Williams, and Pete Ayrton
thank you.

Oh, this is the way to the fairy wood,
Where the wolf ate Little Red Riding Hood;
But this is the riddle that you must tell
How is it, if it so befell,
That he ate her up in that horrid way,
In these pretty pages she lives today?

Traditional

The last beg

YorkshireThe Summer of Love:Jimmys dog is barking and the boys are crying, Michael screaming; Martin slaps him across his face and says:Do you want to be next?The boys close their eyes.He is going to teach me a lesson.They tie my hands behind my back and kick me to my knees, forcing my face into the sod; Leonards dad pulls down my pants and asks:Do you love me Barry?I close my eyes.He is going to make me learn. Part 1
Miss the girlHistory does not repeat itself, only man.

Voltaire

Chapter 1 No more dead dogs and slashed swans for us, whispered Dick Alderman, like this was good newsIt wasnt. It was Day 2:9.30 a.m.Friday 13 May 1983:Millgarth Police Station, LeedsYorkshire:Waiting in the wingsI pushed open the side door, the Conference Room silent as I led this damned parade out:Detective Superintendent Alderman and the father, a policewoman and the mother, Evans from Community Affairs and meThe Owl:Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson.We sat down behind the Formica tables, behind the microphones and the cups of water.I took off my glasses. I rubbed my eyesNo bed, no sleep, only this:The Press ConferenceThis same, familiar place again:Hell.I put my glasses back on, thick lenses and black frames. I sat and stared out at my audienceThis same, familiar audience:These hundred hungry hounds, sweating under their TV lights and deadlines, under the cigarette smoke and last nights ale, their muscles taut and arses clean, tongues out and mouths watering, wanting bonesFresh bones.I switched on the microphone. I reeled back from the inevitable wail.I coughed once to clear my throat then said: Ladies and gentlemen, at approximately 4 p.m. yesterday evening, Hazel Atkins disappeared on her way home from Morley Grange Junior and Infants. Hazel was last seen walking up Rooms Lane towards her home in Bradstock Gardens.I took a sip from the warm, still water.When Hazel did not return from school, Mr and Mrs Atkins contacted Morley Police and a search was launched early yesterday evening. As some of you are aware, the police were joined in this search by more than one hundred local people. Unfortunately last nights freak weather hampered the search, although it did resume at six oclock this morning. Given the inclement and unseasonable weather and the fact that Hazel has never gone missing before, we are obviously concerned for her safety and whereabouts.Another sip from the warm, still water.Hazel is ten years old. She has medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes. Last night she was wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket. She was carrying a black drawstring gym bag, also embroidered with the letter H.I held up an enlarged colour print of a smiling brown-haired girl. I said: Copies of this recent school photograph are being distributed as I speak.Again a sip from the warm, still water.I glanced down the table at Dick Alderman. He touched the fathers arm. The father looked up then turned to me.I nodded.The father blinked.I said: Mr Atkins would now like to read a short statement in the hope that any member of the public who may have seen Hazel after four oclock yesterday evening, or who may have any information whatsoever regarding Hazels whereabouts or her disappearance, will come forward and share this information with Mr and Mrs Atkins and ourselves.I slid the microphone down the table to Mr Atkins as the hounds edged in closer, panting and slavering, smelling bonesHis daughters bonesThe scent strong here, near.Mr Atkins looked at his wife, his four eyes red from tears and lack of sleep, a nights guilty stubble in clothes damp and crushed, and from out of this mess he stared at the hounds that waited and watched, waited and watchedHis bones.Mr Atkins said, said with strength: I would like to appeal to anybody who knows where our Hazel is or who saw her after four oclock yesterday to please telephone the police. Please, if you know anything, anything at all, please telephone the police. PleaseStopLet her come home.Stop.Silence.Mrs Atkins in tears, shoulders shaking, WPC Martin holding herHer husband, Hazels father, his fingers in his mouthHe said: We miss her. IStop.SilenceLong, long silence.I nodded at Dick. He passed the microphone back along the table.I said: That is all the information we have at the moment but, if you would excuse Mr and Mrs Atkins, I will then try and answer any questions you might have.I stood up as WPC Martin and Dick took the mother and the father out through the side door, the dogs watching them go, still hungryHungry for bonesMine.Alone with Evans at the front, I said: Gentlemen?The stark forest of hands, from their whispers a two-word scream:Clare KemplayMore bonesCoincidence, I was saying, seeingOld bones.Coincidence, I said again, knowingThere is salvation in no-one else.Upstairs, a cup of cold tea in one hand: Where are the parents?Dick Alderman: Jims taken them back to Morley.We should get back over there.Dick: Take my car?I nodded.Dick put out his cigarette. He reached for his coat.Dick?He turned back round: Yeah?Where is all the Kemplay stuff?What?The Clare Kemplay files.Its a coincidence, he sighed. You said it yourself. What else could it be?Wheres the fucking stuff, Dick?He shrugged: Wood Street, probably.Thank you.The Dewsbury Road through Beeston and along the Elland Road until it became Victoria Road and MorleyDick driving, me with my eyes closedJust the sleet, the windscreen wipers, and the radio:Next page