A Guide to the Canals of the North , won dering where the fuck it was.
Kathryn’s house.
“The Lair of the Ratcatcher,” whispered Kelly.
“Aye. Not much to it is there?”
“How many do you want?” Kelly was attaching a flash to one of his cameras.
“I reckon a couple of each room and a few more of the front room.”
“A couple of each room?”
“Well, between you and me, I’m thinking of doing a book on it, so I’m going to need a fair few photos. Cut you in if you’re interested?”
“Yeah? Cheers Eddie.”
I kept out of the light as Kelly moved from the kitchen into the hall and to the door of Mary Goldthorpe’s bedroom.
“This her room then?”
“Yeah,” I said, pushing past Kelly.
I went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top right hand one. I rooted down through the knickers until I found what I was looking for. I draped a single stocking over the edge of the drawer and hated my own fucking guts.
“Magic,” clicked Kelly as I moved out of the way.
I stared out on the back garden and the rain, thinking of my own sister.
“Do you reckon they were at it?”
“Probably.” I put the stocking back and closed the drawer on Mary Goldthorpe’s underwear.
“Dirty bastards.”
I led the way into Graham’s room. I took a book from the shelf and opened it up. “Try and get a good one of this,” I said, pointing at the sticker of the owl and the threat it carried.
“This book belongs to Graham and Mary Goldthorpe. Do not steal it or you will be hunted down and killed,” read Kelly. “Fucking hell.”
“Get one of the bookcase and all.”
“Some real page-turners,” laughed Kelly.
I walked across the small dark hall and opened the door to the front room.
The fireplace was the first thing I saw.
Kelly came up behind me, camera flashes exploding across the dim room. “This is where he did it then?”
“Yeah.”
Naked and strangled .
“In the fireplace, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Hung in the fireplace .
“You’ll want a few of that then?”
“Yeah.”
The shotgun in his mouth .
“Gives me the fucking creeps, it does.”
“Yeah,” I said into the space above the hearth.
The finger on the trigger .
“Why’d he do it?”
“Fuck knows.”
Kelly snorted, “You must have some bloody notion, you’ve been living the thing for God knows how long.”
“Police reckon he hated noise. Wanted silence.”
“Well he’s got that all right.”
“Yeah.”
I looked at Kelly clicking away, white stars shooting across the room.
Paula’s husband had shot himself too.
“You wonder why they bother with chimneys in this day and age,” said Kelly, still snapping away.
“They have their uses.”
“If you’re fucking Santa Claus, aye.”
“Style?” I suggested.
“Well these ones have got that. Remember all the fucking fuss about them?”
“About what?”
“These bungalows?”
“No.”
Kelly began changing films. “Oh aye, right to-do there was. I remember because we wanted to get my Nana and Daddy Kelly in one of these or one of them others in Castleford.”
“I’m not with you.”
“They were supposed to be old folks homes, that’s why they’re all bungalows. But fucking council sold them off. Tell you one thing, they must have had some brass must the Gold-thorpes.”
“How much were they?”
“I can’t remember. They weren’t bloody cheap, can tell you that. Designed by John fucking Dawson. Ask the old lass next door. Bet she can tell you exactly how much they cost.”
“John Dawson designed these bungalows?”
“Aye, Barry’s mate. My father reckons that was what gave council idea to flog them off, all the bloody fuss about his work.”
“Fuck.”
“It was one of the things Barry kept bringing up. It was out of order, everyone knew that at the time.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well it was old news here so I don’t suppose it was owt at all down South.”
“No, I don’t suppose it was. When were they
Kathryn’s house.
“The Lair of the Ratcatcher,” whispered Kelly.
“Aye. Not much to it is there?”
“How many do you want?” Kelly was attaching a flash to one of his cameras.
“I reckon a couple of each room and a few more of the front room.”
“A couple of each room?”
“Well, between you and me, I’m thinking of doing a book on it, so I’m going to need a fair few photos. Cut you in if you’re interested?”
“Yeah? Cheers Eddie.”
I kept out of the light as Kelly moved from the kitchen into the hall and to the door of Mary Goldthorpe’s bedroom.
“This her room then?”
“Yeah,” I said, pushing past Kelly.
I went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top right hand one. I rooted down through the knickers until I found what I was looking for. I draped a single stocking over the edge of the drawer and hated my own fucking guts.
“Magic,” clicked Kelly as I moved out of the way.
I stared out on the back garden and the rain, thinking of my own sister.
“Do you reckon they were at it?”
“Probably.” I put the stocking back and closed the drawer on Mary Goldthorpe’s underwear.
“Dirty bastards.”
I led the way into Graham’s room. I took a book from the shelf and opened it up. “Try and get a good one of this,” I said, pointing at the sticker of the owl and the threat it carried.
“This book belongs to Graham and Mary Goldthorpe. Do not steal it or you will be hunted down and killed,” read Kelly. “Fucking hell.”
“Get one of the bookcase and all.”
“Some real page-turners,” laughed Kelly.
I walked across the small dark hall and opened the door to the front room.
The fireplace was the first thing I saw.
Kelly came up behind me, camera flashes exploding across the dim room. “This is where he did it then?”
“Yeah.”
Naked and strangled .
“In the fireplace, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Hung in the fireplace .
“You’ll want a few of that then?”
“Yeah.”
The shotgun in his mouth .
“Gives me the fucking creeps, it does.”
“Yeah,” I said into the space above the hearth.
The finger on the trigger .
“Why’d he do it?”
“Fuck knows.”
Kelly snorted, “You must have some bloody notion, you’ve been living the thing for God knows how long.”
“Police reckon he hated noise. Wanted silence.”
“Well he’s got that all right.”
“Yeah.”
I looked at Kelly clicking away, white stars shooting across the room.
Paula’s husband had shot himself too.
“You wonder why they bother with chimneys in this day and age,” said Kelly, still snapping away.
“They have their uses.”
“If you’re fucking Santa Claus, aye.”
“Style?” I suggested.
“Well these ones have got that. Remember all the fucking fuss about them?”
“About what?”
“These bungalows?”
“No.”
Kelly began changing films. “Oh aye, right to-do there was. I remember because we wanted to get my Nana and Daddy Kelly in one of these or one of them others in Castleford.”
“I’m not with you.”
“They were supposed to be old folks homes, that’s why they’re all bungalows. But fucking council sold them off. Tell you one thing, they must have had some brass must the Gold-thorpes.”
“How much were they?”
“I can’t remember. They weren’t bloody cheap, can tell you that. Designed by John fucking Dawson. Ask the old lass next door. Bet she can tell you exactly how much they cost.”
“John Dawson designed these bungalows?”
“Aye, Barry’s mate. My father reckons that was what gave council idea to flog them off, all the bloody fuss about his work.”
“Fuck.”
“It was one of the things Barry kept bringing up. It was out of order, everyone knew that at the time.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well it was old news here so I don’t suppose it was owt at all down South.”
“No, I don’t suppose it was. When were they
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