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

Praise for David Peace and
The Red Riding Quartet

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

Ian Rankin

[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

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

Sleazenation

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

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

Time Out

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

Daily Mail

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

David Peace
NINETEEN EIGHTY

David Peace is the author of The Red Riding Quartet, GB84, The Damned Utd, and Tokyo Year Zero. 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

Tokyo Year Zero

The Damned Utd

GB84

Nineteen Eighty-Three

Nineteen Seventy-Seven

Nineteen Seventy-Four

For the dead, a compass
The living, salt.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

The Raven,
Edgar Allan Poe

Beg, Beg, Beg

The way I heard it, the nignogs just let themselves in.Eric was sat there watching Songs of fucking Praise, back to the door, and head nigger walks up behind him, pulls his hair back, and slits him ear to ear. Then they make themselves a sandwich, take a shit, and wait for his wife to come homeJust like that. Part 1
Saint Cunt echo test transmission one a citizens band broadcast of pictures at an atrocity exhibition from the shadows of the sun out of the arc of the searchlight joyce jobson in halifax on friday the twelfth of july nineteen seventy four more life in a graveyard the rain keeping them in time for a look in the royal oak one more lager and then a fish supper with donald the lift home the chat the banter the chip shop shut out of the shadows the darkness he steps five foot four inches and quite good looking slightly wavy hair dark long sideboards he would not frighten anybody and says in a yorkshire way he says the weather is letting us down again and e know e am going to be in trouble severe cuts above both eyes and lacerations on the head her skull had suffered double fractures from an iron bar or hammer and for a moment the living soul is here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die get away from here intensive care just in case she had two small slashes in the small of her back each about six to eight inches long caused by a sharp instrument the clothing had first been lifted up before the marks were made then the clothing was rearranged where is kojak now he asks himself donald is it possible that you went out of the front door of your house and ran along the gardens around the side of the row of houses and waited in the dark for your wife is it possible donald it is you who out of the shadows the darkness step and attack your wife and say in a yorkshire way you say the weather is letting us down again was that you donald you have had your differences you and joyce we know and then you ran back along the gardens and sat back down in front of kojak that was you was it not the chopper man in a yorkshire way he says the weather is letting us down again and she is going to be in trouble severe cuts above both eyes and lacerations on the head her skull had suffered double fractures from an iron bar or hammer and for a moment the living soul is here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die get away from the silences in the shops the graffiti on the walls and doors the wet beds the days off work the days off school the days in the hospital the long days in the house the weather letting us down again and again and again the newspapers and the telephone calls the headaches and the pills the doctors and the police this is what the ripper has done to my wife the invisible man who put the dog hairs on her clothes who did not ladder her tights who left her white heels unmarked but still she sits in the house and gets depressed life pointless and crying out in a yorkshire way she screams the weather is letting us down again and they will put me away they will our sex life destroyed my daughters persuaded me to go out and buy clothes but e only did it to please them and they would laugh because e would never go anywhere to wear them and e used to enjoy cooking and cleaning but now e do it just to avoid sitting and thinking of chopper man a living soul here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die get away they say e could not be near a man or even look at one without feeling funny in a yorkshire way they all say the weather is letting us down again and e know it sounds horrible but sometimes e would look at my own husband sitting there the weather letting him down again and again and again my living soul here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die and e must get away from here from what ripper has done to me weather letting us down again the telephone call the silence before in a yorkshire way he says e missed you once but e will get you next time weather is letting you down again missed you once but not the next test Chapter 1A shotIm awake, sweating and afraid.Downstairs the telephone is ringing, before the dawn, before the alarm.The LED display says 5:00, my head still full of murder and lies, nuclear war:The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.I get out of bed and go downstairs and take the call.I come back upstairs and sit in the cold on the edge of the bed, Joan still pretending to be asleep.On the radio Yoko Ono is saying:This is not the end of an era. The 80s are still going to be a beautiful time, and John believed in it.After a few minutes I say: Ive got to go to Whitby.It was him then? she asks, face still away.Yes, I say, thinkingEveryone gets everything they want.I drive alone from Alderley Edge across the Moors, alone between the articulated lorries crawling slowly along the M62, the weather stark and grey, the landscape empty but for telegraph poles.At 7:00 the radio breaks the news to the rest of the world:The Yorkshire Ripper has claimed his thirteenth victim, as police confirmed that Laureen Bell, aged twenty, was killed by the man responsibleI switch off the radio, thinkingMurder and lies, lies and murderWar:It is Thursday 11 December 1980.I arrive in Whitby at 11:00 and park in the drive of the large new bungalow, alongside three expensive cars.Theres sleet in the sea-spray, freezing gulls wheeling overhead, the wind screaming through a thousand empty shells.I ring the doorbell.A tall middle-aged woman opens the door.Peter Hunter, I say.Come in.I step into the bungalow.Can I take your coat?Thanks.This way, she says, leading me down the hall to the back of the house.She knocks on a door, opens it, and gestures for me to go inside.Three men are sat on the sofa and chairs, grey skin and red eyes, silent.Philip Evans stands up: Peter? How was the drive?Not so bad.What would you like to drink? asks his wife from the doorway.Coffee would be nice.Have to be instant, Im afraid.Prefer it, I say.Ever the diplomat, laughs Evans.Everyone else OK?The other two men nod and she closes the door behind her.Lets get the introductions out of the way and then we can get on, smiles Philip Evans, the Regional Inspector of Constabulary for Yorkshire and the North East.Gentlemen, he says, This is Peter Hunter, Assistant Chief Constable of the Greater Manchester force. Peter, this is Sir John Reed, the Chief Inspector of Constabulary.Weve met before, I say, shaking his hand.A long time ago, says Sir John, sitting back down on the sofa.Of course, nods Philip Evans. And this is Michael Warren, from the Home Office.Nice to meet you, I say, shaking the thin mans hand.Evans points to a big chair with wide arms: Sit down, Pete.There is a soft knock on the door and Mrs Evans brings in a tray, setting it down on the low table between us.Help yourself to milk and sugar, she says.Thank you.Theres a pause, just the wind and Mrs Evans talking to a dog as she retreats back into the kitchen.Philip Evans says: Weve got a small problem.I stop stirring my coffee and look up.As I mentioned on the phone, theres been another murder. A nurse, twenty years old, outside her halls of residence. Leeds again.I nod: It was on the radio.Couldnt even give us a day, sighs Evans. Well anyway, enough is enough.Michael Warren sits forward on the sofa and places a small portable cassette recorder beside the plastic tray on the coffee table.Enough is enough, he echoes and presses play:A long pause, tape hiss, and then:Next page