I pause outside the house and look around. It's two o'clock in the afternoon, grey and raining. Not a soul. I walk up the path and ring the bell; wait. The smell of smoke from the factories; dual carriageway whooshing at the end of the cul-de-sac. No answer. I thump on the door. Open up, Mr Crupp - It's the council - Important news. Figure slowly approaching through the mottled glass. Door opens. Eyes squinting like I've woken him from an afternoon nap, a quiet dream... What do you want? Who are you? Go away... trying to close the door in my face. Door flying backwards, hand grabbing him by the throat, pushing him inside. Door kicked shut.
Front room. The smell of dust, rot, age. The smell of the past. He's on the floor, hands and feet bound, staring up at me. Please. Don't do this. Please. I take a last gulp of whisky, pour the remains over his face. Smash the bottle against the wall; the jagged neck in my hand. I get down on my knees. Listening to the begging. Listening to the screams as I gouge the glass into his face - howls, hisses, screams. Leave him shaking on the floor as I tear through the house. Ripping open cupboards, pulling out drawers. Sounds popping off in my head. The rush and flow of blood. Planets bursting, forming. Alive atlast. Wired up to the mains. Wired up to fucking orbit. Felt like I was doing acid again. Speed, alcohol, valium. The crazy Eighties. Tripping down memory lane. Bus into the centre of town. Under the Dilly lights. The rack outside Boots. Colours blazing. Heaven and hell. Life and fucking death. Rooting beneath the stairs and pulling out a toolbox.
"...a murder hunt is underway after a 71-year-old man was found dead at his home. Harold Crupp was discovered by police after a neighbour reported no sightings of him. He is thought to have suffered multiple stab wounds in what may have been an aggravated burglary. Police are conducting house-to-house inquiries..."
I'd take the train out there. Twenty miles east outside London. Green/grey landscapes. A power plant towering into the sky. I'd watch him leave the house. Get to know his routine. Morning paper. Breakfast in the cafe. Slow walks in the park. Watched him once with the drizzle falling as he stared out at the lake. A moment of contemplation; too dignified a scene. Felt like offing him right there. Twisting his neck in my hands. Execution among the ducks and geese, mums wheeling prams. But instead I watched him turn as I passed. Lifting the roll-up to his lips, eyes looking right through me. No recognition. Just a ghost floating by. A figment of the past. Blink and it disappears.
Back, back, back through the years... under the Eastway... Hackney Wick... litter blowing in the breeze... out from the wastes... the empty spaces... up against hard concrete... the towerblocks of Trowbridge... washing fluttering in the breeze... the sound of children... barking dogs... and along the streets... along the corrugated iron fences... WORKING CLASS RISE UP AND REVOLT... VOTE NF... and across the wastegrounds... empty factories, warehouses... kids with stones... and out by the Rec... the public toilets... the smell of bleach... SUCK MY MEAT FOR CASH... men lined up by the urinal... not pissing, not doing anything but holding onto their pricks... and little Tom was down there once and got chased... chased by a man... and he caught him out by the canal... dragged him into the bushes... no-one quite sure what happened... but the police were around and his mum wouldn't let him out after that... and we hardly ever seen him... and he soon moved away... and we'd be playing-out around the marshes... the wastelands... the pylons and waterways and gas-works... hide and seek among the ruins... and once with two older kids we heard a noise through the bushes... saw this couple fucking by the old leather factory... man thumping in and out... woman bent forward like a dog... watching in fascination... fear almost... Gary whispering the man must be giving it to her up the arse... Mark saying nah, they're just doing it back to front, you spaz... no way, what do you know... the two of them bickering away, and sure enough the bloke turns round - shit! - and we run for it... out across the waste... he's coming!... no he's not... he fucking is!... tearing on through the rubble and weeds... on through a gap in a fence but I've lost them now and I'm on my own... out by the canal... hiding in a recess under the bridge... in the shadows... heart thumping... terrified of what would happen if I was caught... come here you cunt, I'll teach you... thinking of Tom kicking and screaming... or maybe saying nothing... too petrified... wondering if what happened to him was what used to happen to me... mum and all the men she'd bring home... mum drunk, out for the count... and the bedroom door slowly opening in the dead of night... a spirit... a stranger... coming in and sitting at the side of your bed... don't be scared son... I'm a friend of your mum's... hand reaching under the sheets... you don't want to upset your mother now do you... and afterwards, lying there frozen... waiting for the morning... the light of day when it could all be swept back into the black night... a bad dream... a nightmare... and sometimes mum would be smiling and happy and she'd hug you... come here... tell you things would be better from now on... maybe a trip to Southend, Margate... other times you'd come home and she'd be slumped on the chair, a bottle in front of her, eyes red from crying, red from drink... telling you she wished you were never born... should have had you aborted you little cunt... ripped you out like I ripped out all the others... all the other little bastards... staggering towards you with a knife... eyes flashing with demons... demented... pure hate... and you'd run... run, run, run... out past the canal, the factories... out to where it was wide and lonely... a wilderness... lying in the long grass and blinking at the sky... watching the rainclouds come... and running to a shack to hide... a ruin... the rain belting down with force... thunder breaking... fork-lightning battering against the pylons... loud and terrifying... a million miles from home... million miles from anywhere...and in the night you'd be shivering... screaming through a tunnel... a black hole leading deeper and deeper into the earth... deeper into hell... and you'd curl tight into a ball... wish you were fucking dead.
"...the community is this week in shock after reports that the local OAP murdered in his home was a convicted paedophile with offences dating back to the 1970s. Harold Crupp, 71, who moved to the area three years ago, is believed to have been tortured before his death. Police have refused to confirm if the killing was a vigilante attack and insist they are keeping an open mind..."
The day of the kill. Sitting in the playing field opposite. Hood up in the drizzle. Power station draped in mist, grey smoke drifting into the sky. Houses still. Only the sound of the gulls swooping over the wet grass; the whoosh of the dual carriageway. Not a human soul. Just the voice in my head saying: now, now, now...
The past... fourteen years of age... into the centre of town... the lights... the life... money... freedom for the first time in your fucking life... and friends... people like you... running away... full of dreams, hopes... the arcades, cafes, burger bars... and at night the pubs... Wardour, Rupert, Old Compton... the Golden Lion on Dean Street... always getting thrown out for being too young... a compliment really... younger the better... more cash... better punters... rich punters... and you're staying away for days at a time, then you're not coming home atall... and who knows, maybe you'll be taken on, whisked around the whole world... knock a couple years off and you're laughing... invincible... in control... laughing in a haze of acid, alcohol, speed...
But happiness is only a dream... only lasts so long... and suddenly there's a knife at your neck and you're being driven out to the docks... three men pulling you out of the car... you dirty little bastard... raped repeatedly up against a wall... head smashed against hard concrete... smack-back to reality amid the dereliction and waste... used and tossed onto the rubbish... the kicks raining down... you dirty fucking cunt... stamping you into the shit... pissing over your curled-up body... laughing... car driving away.... gone... the sound in your head rising... deafening... wheels screaming through a tunnel... the sound of hell... waiting for it to go away... minutes, hours... slowly fade... until the only sound is the lapping of the waves... and you're picking yourself up... staggering upriver to Waterloo... staring over the bridge... down at the river... the black dirty waves... and down at the marks on your arms where you've been cutting yourself for years... ripping out the pain... the darkness... always there... deep inside... should have had you aborted you cunt... drowned in the fucking river... and somebody calling your name... another illusion, another lie... the world riddled with them... and down you go... over the edge... slipping through the sky... and bursting into the dark... ice-cold death... ice-cold hell... crashing back to the open air... gasping for breath, struggling with the waves... and you can't swim... this is it... but suddenly there are arms around you... carrying you through the cold hard sea... your best friend pulling you to shore... and you're coughing out the water... the slime, the shit... slowly getting your breath back... the two of you sitting shivering on the bank... listening to the trains rattling by on Hungerford Bridge... buildings lit up across on the Embankment... a boat going by full of music, voices, laughter... the water near-still now... glimmering in the lights of night...
But things were turning dark... desperate... and weeks later your mate got pulled in by the police who worked him over so bad he was never the same again... and he got into smack... and I saw less of him... he'd got in with a different crowd... was sleeping in the Bullring... once cheeky, brash, loud... a boy into sports, swimming who'd run away from a broken home in Aberdeen, down to the city and on the game... now haunted... fucked... down there with the cardboard, the fights, the stench of piss... and one night he was surrounded... kicked to death... head stamped into the concrete... and I wasn't there to help... wasn't there to even try...
And I was sinking... drowning alive... needed more money, more drugs... somebody to whisk me away, show me life, culture, the world... old dreams now... dying fast... slipping into the gutter with the rain, the filth, the used rubbers, used betting slips... nothing free... a price on everything... ended up with an old cunt from Hackney... a regular face... I'd see him around, Soho, the Dilly, Victoria... taking you back to Kingsmead... ten minutes walk from home... renting you out... feeding you promises... better things... and he knew so many people... contacts everywhere... in London, along the coast... a whole circle... but no-one of any worth... just cunts that ran small shops, worked in fairgrounds... cunts living in filth... but sometimes he'd be kind to you... hug you... be like the father you never had... and for those few weeks you listened to him... believed him... even loved him... somewhere... somewhere deep inside... and on the Mead there were several flats on the go... other kids in and out... some young... some too fucking young... and sometimes you'd look across the green towards the blocks of Trowbridge... wonder how your mum was getting on... if she was worrying about you... wondering where you were... if she really cared... if she really gave a shit... of course not... fuck her... fuck everyone... another party... ten, twelve, fifteen men... holding you down... face buried in the sofa... drugged, limbs weak... and Harry... Harry not so kind now... Harry with his hands around your neck... tighter... tighter... Harry almost strangling the fucking life out of you... that's right, throttle the life out of the little cunt... too heavy... too fucking much... and it was back on the bus... back to the West End... but things different now... the colours not so vivid, not so alive... and you'd lost your swagger... your smile... a washed-up fucking drug-addict in and out of hostels... in doorways under blankets... what happened to the dreams... the dreams... where were they now...
And that Summer it all came out... the Hackney crowd... missing kids... the parties... boys drugged... strangled... dumped in the ground... but perhaps all along I'd known... of course I did... somewhere... somewhere deep inside... did nothing, said nothing... voiceless... but knew... knew...
And he's down on the floor and I'm tearing a broken bottle across his face. The room awash in gasps and hisses and screams. The mad orchestra in my head blasting a discordant wail. Bursts of hell. Light flaring from the wounds. Demons. Devils. The past. Into the centre of town. Down into the gutters and drains and sewers. Out to the wilderness. The desert. Wandering the earth alone. Quietly suffering. In and out of prison. Years of drifting. Years of hate. Cutting open my arms, my chest. Cutting open his fucking face. Ripping him to shreds. Purging the past and making him pay. Pay for everything. The days, the months, the years. Every wrong. Hands nailed to the floor. Stabbing his chest with a screwdriver. Hammering his skull into the carpet. On and on and on. Body reduced to meat, blood, bone. Finally exhausted. Cacophony fading to a one-note hum; poison drained. Sitting back and letting the dusk come. Amber streetlight across the wall. Rain shimmering in the glow. Sitting in the silence. Staring at the body for hours.
"...Harold Crupp, 71, murdered last week in a suspected vigilante attack, had links to the notorious 1980s paedophile ring led by sex-killer Sidney Cooke, it has been revealed Twenty years ago, four key members of the gang were jailed after the deaths of three children, but many more of those involved were believed to have slipped through the net to continue offending. Operating from the run-down Kingsmead Estate, Hackney, East London, the gang would befriend rent boys or simply snatch children off the streets and subject them to horrific sexual torture. They were suspected of being responsible for the killing of up to nine boys during sadistic sex orgies where they would routinely charge £5 on the door. Police at the time said "The children abused by Cooke and his cohorts suffered some of the vilest and cruellest sexual offences imaginable." Harold Crupp, who lived on the Kingsmead Estate at the height of the gang's reign in 1985, was questioned as a suspect but never charged. He soon moved off the estate and later served eight years in prison for separate sexual offences against boys and was released three years ago. He was then relocated to a council house in Essex where locals were not aware of his past. And last week after answering his door he was dragged inside and brutally murdered. Police have now confirmed that vigilantism is their sole line of inquiry. Residents are furious that a convicted paedophile was placed in their area and have accused the police of witholding information in order to gain their help. "But at the end of the day we're just glad he's dead," said one neighbour. Since details of Crupp's past were revealed in a national newspaper, police say witnesses have taken a U-turn and admit their investigation has been met with a wall of silence..."
IAIN SINCLAIR
MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ
J.G. BALLARD
JAMES KELMAN
JOHN FANTE
DAN FANTE
ALAN SILLITOE
