‘It’s like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle,’ Christopher said later, once Sutcliffe had confessed in full – once we knew there’d be no going back. ‘I feel free. I don’t know how to explain it, except for that. I feel free.’
He told me then there had been times when he thought that he might be the Yorkshire Ripper. He said he’d looked in the mirror and seen the image released by the police. I couldn’t believe he could think such a thing, although I could see the physical similarity, especially when he had the beard – I could see how he could have compared his face to the sketches released by the police. Being such a sensitive boy, I could see how such gruesome events might get under his skin and I thought that was all it was. Now, of course, I know it was more than that.
* * *
And this is where I have to get to, what I have been aiming towards and yet avoiding all this time: April 1981. Even now I don’t know if I can get there, but I will try.
It was the Easter holidays. Christopher had turned twenty-two in the March. Working backwards, it must have been the Wednesday, and I know that on that day Phyllis had gone into Liverpool with her sister to buy clothes; that David had taken the twins youth-hostelling for a few days in the Lake District. I know that the plan was for David and the twins, who by then must have been twelve years old, to return on the Saturday in time for Easter Mass on the Sunday. And I know that it was Christopher who answered the door.
I sit here now and I wonder what would have unfolded had Phyllis not gone to Liverpool but had instead stayed at home and opened the door herself. Life is series of moments, of choices, isn’t it? Every moment, every choice could have gone differently, and sometimes that doesn’t bear thinking about. Sometimes thinking about that one thing can drive a person mad – or even to suicide. No one knows that better than me. Regret, if that’s a strong enough word, is a potent force. But listen to me, sitting here pontificating. Not like I’m any great philosopher. I’m only a person – a normal person with nothing special or interesting to say. What happened that day broke Christopher’s world, broke all of our worlds, into pieces.
What else is there to say? What, really?
Perhaps I could add that it was a shame, such a shame, because by this time Christopher really had settled. Phyllis saw it: in the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, the way his eyes opened that little bit wider these days, seemed to have lost the anticipation of hurt she had always read there, the expression that had broken her heart a thousand times over when she had first met him and made her want to say, Hey, it’s OK, nothing bad can happen now. You are safe, my love.
Christopher was saving for a flat. He had met a nice girl, a Spanish teacher called Amanda. They’d been out a few times. Phyllis suspected they’d slept together, since Amanda stayed in digs near the college, and besides, Christopher had taken to wearing a wide smile on his face, to whistling around the house. But he hadn’t told Phyllis anything yet and hadn’t asked if Amanda could stay at the house.
‘No reason why she can’t,’ David had said when she spoke to him about it. ‘They’re hardly kids any more.’
‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ Phyllis had replied, with no idea how she would justify this statement. ‘What about the twins?’ was what came to her. ‘And he’s only got a single bed.’
As it turned out, Amanda staying was not something they would ever have to worry about.
It was only later that Phyllis put two and two together and came to the conclusion that somehow, in some strange way, Christopher’s entry into romantic life had some connection with the arrest of the Yorkshire Ripper. The last piece of the jigsaw in place, as he put it, it was as if he could get up from the puzzle and start living in a more complete way than before. Sometimes when we think something, we have no idea how true it is, nor indeed do we realise the implication of that truth until later.
As for Christopher, the knot in his chest had vanished. He was loved. He belonged. And he felt peace.
And writing this now, no matter what happened after, I suppose I have to be grateful for that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wednesday, 15 April 1981
Ben wakes a little after midnight. Finding he can’t get back to sleep, he writes a letter to his mother. He doesn’t want to sound pushy, but he doesn’t have much time. He appeals, he hopes, to her maternal instincts. He has no intention of posting the letter; it is just a back-up. If she’s not in, he will post it and hope she comes to find him at the hotel.
But he’s getting ahead of himself. He needs to find her first.
He turns off his light and tries to get some more sleep. When he wakes up, it is late morning. English time. He takes a shower, gets dressed and breakfasts in the hotel. Continental – fake orange juice that tastes like it’s made from a powder, croissants that bend but don’t flake. Yuck. He takes his time over his coffee, gets a refill. Halfway down the second cup, it occurs to him he is nervous. He is stalling.
Back in his hotel room, he brushes his teeth and checks his appearance. Wonders if when she looks at him, she will like what she sees; whether when he looks at her he will see something of himself. Slow down, Ben. You haven’t found her yet.
The guy at reception gives him detailed directions, draws a map on a piece of hotel stationery. Not too far, he says. About a five-, ten-minute drive.
Ben drives back the way he came, the long, winding artery that runs through Beechwood Estate, cul-de-sacs coming off it like lungs. Keep going, keep going, the guy said. At a certain point you’ll see a golf club and then there’ll be a wide common-type thing on the left and then a crossroads up ahead.
Ben’s beginning to think he’s gone wrong when he sees the grassy area to his left. Up ahead, traffic lights, and beyond, what looks like a park. Keep going. He goes straight on at the crossroads, down Moughland Lane. Yes, that checks out, he has that written down. When you get to the next junction, turn right and you’re there.
He drives on. It is all so small, so British. Cute, Martha would say – she would love these red bricks, these white-framed curtained windows, these neat gardens running up to the sidewalk, ending with waist-high brick walls, hedges grown for privacy. Another field opens up to his right, what looks like a sports club or something at the far end. The junction comes up faster than he was expecting. There is a memorial of some kind on the left, and as he turns right, his chest swells in anticipation. Greenway Road. He is here.
The road heads down the hill. He drives past the house but there is nowhere to park out front. He takes a left down a street called Balfour Road and finally finds somewhere to leave the car. By the time he has walked back to the house, his heart is beating faster. But it’s OK. He has rehearsed.