Nineteen Seventy-Four Read Online Free PDF Page A

door. “You know, Bismarck said a journalist was a man who’d missed his calling. Maybe you should have been a copper, Dunston.”
    “Thank you,” I said with all the courage I could muster, thinking, at least then one of us would be.
    Oldman suddenly tightened his grip, reading my thoughts. “Have we met before son?”
    “A long time ago,” I said, loose with a struggle.
    The telephone on the desk buzzed and flashed again, long and hard.
    “Not a word,” said Oldman, ushering me through the door. “Not a bloody word.”
    “They’d hacked the wings off. Fucking swan was still alive an’ all,” smiled Gilman from the Manchester Evening News as I took my seat downstairs.
    “You’re fucking joking?” said Tom from Bradford, leaning over from the row behind.
    “No. Took the wings clean off and left the poor bastard just lying there.”
    “Fuck,” whistled Tom from Bradford.
    I glanced round the Conference Room, boxing thoughts hitting me all over again, but this time no TV, no radio. The hot lights were off, allcomers welcome.
    Only the Paper Lads here.
    I felt a nudge to the ribs. It was Gilman again.
    “How was yesterday?”
    “Oh, you know…”
    “Fuck, yeah.”
    I looked at my father’s watch/thinking about Henry Cooper and my Aunty Anne’s husband Dave, who looked like Henry, and how Uncle Dave hadn’t been there yesterday, thinking about the great smell of Brut.
    “You see that piece Barry did on that kid from Dewsbury?” It was Tom from Bradford, Scotch breath in my ear, hoping my own wasn’t as bad.
    Me, all ears, “What kid?”
    “Thalidomide Kid?” laughed Gilman.
    “The one that got into bloody Oxford. Eight years old or something.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” I laughed.
    “Sounded a right little cow.”
    “Barry said her father was worse.” Still laughing, everyone laughing with me.
    “Father’s going down with her an’ all, isn’t he?” said Gilman.
    A New Face behind us, next to Tom, laughing along, “Lucky bastard. All them student birds.”
    “Don’t reckon so,” I whispered. “Barry said father had only got eyes for one little lady. His Ruthie.”
    “If it’s young enough to bleed,” said two of us at once.
    Everybody laughed.
    “You’re bloody joking?” Tom from Bradford, not laughing very much. “He’s a dirty git, Barry.”
    “Dirty Barry,” I laughed.
    New Face said, “Barry who?”
    “Backdoor Barry. Fucking puff,” spat Gilman.
    “Barry Gannon. He’s at the Post with Eddie here,” said Tom from Bradford to New Face. “He’s the bloke I was telling you about.”
    “The John Dawson thing?” said New Face, looking at his watch.
    “Yep. Here, talking of dirty bastards, hear about Kelly?” It was Tom’s turn to whisper. “Saw Gaz last night and he was saying he didn’t turn up for training yesterday and he wouldn’t be laking tomorrow.”
    “Kelly?” New Face again. National, not local. Lucky bastard. My nerves kicking in, the story going national, my story.
    “Rugby,” said Tom from Bradford.
    “Union or League?” said New Face, fucking Fleet Street for sure.
    “Fuck off,” said Tom. “We’re talking about the Great White Hope of Wakefield Trinity.”
    I said, “Saw his Paul last night. Didn’t say owt.”
    “Cunt just ups and does a runner, what Gaz said.”
    “Be some bird again ,” said Gilman from the Manchester Evening News , not interested.
    “Here we go,” whispered New Face.
    Round Two:
    The side door opens, everything quiet and slow again.
    Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, some plain-clothes, and a uniform.
    No relatives.
    The Pack smelling Clare dead.
    The Pack thinking no body.
    The Pack thinking no news.
    The Pack smelling a story dead.
    Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman straight into my eyes with hate, daring me.
    Me smelling the great smell of Brut, thinking, SPLASH IT ALL OVER.
    The first spits of a hard rain.
    Crawling west out of Leeds, Rochdale way, my notes on my knees, my eyes on the walls of