One Night In Manchester
A Louise Miller Short Story
September, 1986
Loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature's delight.
: --Marcus Aurelius
11:25pm
WPC Louise Miller stifled a yawn as she waited for her colleague, WPC Jilly Hansen to finish talking to the homeless man. They had come across him slumped against the wall as they turned onto Oxford Street. Five months on from the blast that had shaken Manchester and the rest of the United Kingdom with its brazen ferocity, a sense of normalcy was coming back. Saturday night and the people were out, on the hunt for cheap booze and cheaper pleasure. For the homeless, some were looking for a quick fix; some were looking simply for somewhere to sleep. Just like the man Jilly was talking to.
Her radio gave a crinkle of static and she turned the dial, turned the noise down. This was the third weekend they’d been tasked to patrol Oxford Street, walking up and down its bustling length as party goers stumbled and staggered their way from bar to bar, club to club, chasing the dawn down. Was it fair? No it wasn’t, but what could she do?
Louise was just a few weeks away from the CID training course she’d requested and the last thing she needed was to start rocking the boat any further. They’d already made it clear she had taken on water and was in fear of capsizing her career. ‘What makes you think you’ve got what it takes to be a detective?’ they’d said, calling her out in front of them all. She’d heard the sniggers, seen the looks. She’d suffered the taunts and the jeers, the cat-calls and the whistles.
They’d done it all to try and break her but she’d weathered it, pushed through and here she was. Six weeks out from the training with a possible secondment in Ossett. Back home.
Home.
She smiled at the thought. Ossett, West Yorkshire. A small town with a big heart. Aunt Fiona had nearly cried when Louise had phoned to say she would be coming home in a few months, she just had a training course to pass. Immediately Fiona started planning. A flat for Louise, new furniture. Perhaps a car of her own so she could go where she wanted when she wanted without having to rely on the buses. To Aunt Fiona public transport was supposed to be a last resort not a life choice.
‘Isn’t there anywhere else you can go, George?’
Louise looked over to where Jilly knelt beside the man. He was wrapped in a ragged blanket that was covered in stains Louise didn’t want to know the source of. Holes were ripped throughout, and she wondered how on earth it kept him warm, especially on nights like tonight. A cold wind was blowing down the street, pushing discarded fish and chip wrappers in front of it. Somewhere a can clattered down the road. A drizzle permeated the coat she was wearing sending ripples of chilled touch along her skin.
The first thing she was going to do when she finished her shift was have a long, hot bath. Something homeless George obviously hadn’t had in a very long time.
‘I sleeps where I finds,’ he said, ‘and I finds here is good. Here is very good indeed.’ He finished this with a flourish of his hand and some random clicks of his tongue, a sure sign of his mental degradation. Homeless George was known throughout the city police, known and tolerated a lot more than the usual transient. Jovial and polite he wandered the streets making people smile, hoping people would open their wallets as much as their hearts. He managed to get by, but the rules were the rules and they had to keep them. At least partially, in spirit if not exactly by the letter.
‘You can’t stay here,’ Louise said, wanting to get this hurried along so they could continue walking their beat. Her feet were already complaining about the delay, her toes crushed together with that hot pain that quickly became numbed acceptance. She needed to be moving, getting the blood flowing again to push aside the cold of the wind and the rain that was sure to be coming.
It was just her luck. Working the weekend was bad enough; working the weekend in a rainstorm was worse. Working the weekend in a rainstorm on her birthday… well, that just sucked. Luckily no one in the station had cottoned on. Or remembered, was the more likely reason her locker hadn’t been decked out with jonnies, pictures of male strippers and phallic shaped cakes.
Fiona had sent her a card and her uncle Bernard had dropped in a couple of twenties. That had arrived Monday and although her birthday wasn’t until today, she had opened the card and spent the money. Most of it went towards her moving costs but she had saved some for a few drinks in the pub with Ruth tomorrow.
Ruth.
Another complication. Another reason the move back home was for the best. They’d been careful, made sure they weren’t seen together on one of their rare date nights, made sure they didn’t give their fellow officers any cause to question their relationship when they were on duty. Professional. That was how they kept it. Professional. And that’s how it felt even when they were alone. Professional.
Where was the passion? Where was the heat?
Where was the love?
Homeless George gave a groan as he was helped to his feet. ‘I was comfy and now I’ve to walk on again. This is not good. Not good at all.’ A wave of sickly scent rolled from him as he spoke, as did several empty bottles of vodka. They rattled across the pavement and onto the road.
‘Really, George?’ Jilly asked, stooping as she did so to gather the bottles. ‘Something hot and substantial would be better on a night like this, don’t you think?’
George shrugged. ‘It’s substantial enough for me. Plenty warm inside,’ he said with a smile and a pat of his belly. He reached down for his solitary bag. The red strip along its front bulged with old clothes. Something rattled inside. George looked up, grinning. ‘And I’ve more than enough warmth to see me through till tomorrow, don’t you think?’
They didn’t ask.
Without another word he began walking off, sauntering down Oxford Street towards Whitworth Park with that swagger-skip of his. He’d find a way in and kip inside. They knew it but while it wasn’t legal for him to do so, it was better than him being on the streets where people could see him. Where they had to acknowledge his existence.
It would be safer for him as well.
There was a killer on the streets of Manchester, a sick bastard who liked to take souvenirs from his victims. Homeless George had nothing to his name save for a dirty plastic bag with the bright red stripe and a rotting blanket, but the killer didn’t take property or possessions from his victims. He took something worse.
Much worse.
‘He’s a mess,’ Jilly said as they watched him stop a young couple and beg for a few quid. ‘George!’ she shouted.
‘I might not be able to sleep where I wants, but I can still talk to who I like. And I likes you very, very much.’ He patted the girl on her arm. Her laugh brought such an honest smile to George’s face, it caught Louise’s breath. For an instant, gone was the man in the tattered smelling clothes and blanket. In his place was just another human being gaining comfort from another.
‘Yes, yes. Very much. I likes you very much.’
‘George!’
He threw them a wave and carried on down the street, swinging his bag and whistling.
11:54pm
‘Why do you think he does it?’
They’d been walking in silence for ten minutes, ambling along the street, giving nods to those who caught their eye as they passed, their police gaze taking in clothes, attitude, level of sobriety in a moment, checking, analysing, storing the details away just in case. It was a unique skill honed over hours of training and thousands more in practice. Some were better at it than others, while some preferred to use their notebooks at every opportunity, noting it down for reference later.
Louise took a moment to reply. She knew what Jilly was talking about. It was the reason they were here instead of on weekend leave. It was the reason her birthday plans with Ruth were as washed out as the hard concrete pavement on which she walked. The drizzle had become a rain, turning everything it touched into glistening mirrored surfaces.
The homeless killer. Not a title given by the papers, at least not yet. And not a nickname shunted around the station. They didn’t do that. The homeless killer; a statement of fact. The man who had so far stabbed to death six people sleeping rough. People like homeless George. Four men, two women. Stabbed in the back, in the chest. In the neck. Five died, one still in intensive care in Manchester Royal Infirmary. She had been the first. It might have been better if she’d died; her foot and two fingers had been hacked away. From the other bodies another foot, an arm, and a hand had all been collected. Taken as souvenirs.
How do you get past having body parts ripped from you? Could you?
Louise doubted she would have the strength to do that.
And Jilly had asked the question that would lead to finding and stopping this man. Why? Why did he do it? If they knew that they could better guess where he might strike next. So far it was all around the City Centre. Was it a response to the bombing? A trigger pulled. A quest begun.
But how would it finish?
Louise knew the answer to that. It would finish with the killer in prison.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Louise said. What else could she say?
‘The stabbing I can get… as a means of killing, I mean,’ Jilly added seeing Louise’s stunned expression. ‘I don’t mean I understand him killing homeless people, but the knife is quick. To the point.’
She grinned. Louise sighed. The dark jokes they said to offset the dark deeds they saw. She bunched her shoulders as a trickle of rain somehow sneaked under her coat and began its journey down her back. They’d neared the end of the street and stopped so they could cross over the road before making their way back down on the other side. She checked her watch; just nudging midnight. Saturday was about to die, Sunday born into a dreary wet world. Goodbye birthday, hello every other day. The pavement suddenly felt harder beneath the soles of her shoes, the rain wetter, the wind colder. And still four more hours to go before they’d head back to the station and prep for shift change.
God, she needed a triple-B when she got home.
Jilly continued. ‘Stab, stab, stab; job done. Person dead as a dodo. Move on. But no, they then take the time to hack off a body part. Question is… why?’
Louise took a deep breath before answering. This was something that had clawed at her every night since the first victim had been found.
‘I think the more important question is, what are they doing with the body parts?’
12:40am
Both Jilly and Louise heard it at the same time.
The sound of a scuffle. Feet pushing and scraping back across concrete. The solid thud of punches landing. Startled groans and expelled air. A fight breaking out. All of it filled Louise’s head as they ran down the street towards the noise. They could see shadows dancing back and forth on the inside wall of an alley between a bookies and an all-night café. The faint smells of frying onions and hot fat made Louise’s stomach roll. Another scent lingered in the air, stale alcohol. Lots of it.
‘You fucking idiot. Watch where you’re going!’
They turned into the alley and saw two men squaring off. One was rubbing at the back of his head with one hand. In the other a plastic tray held the twisted remains of a kebab. The rest was on the floor beside him, the scattered meat, chopped vegetables and chilli sauce looking like a brutal crime scene. He wore a tight t-shirt and an angry expression.
He saw the two police officers enter the alley and immediately started towards them.
‘I’m fucking glad you’re here. This nonce barged right into me then hit me with his bag.’
He pointed back towards the other man. He’d stepped back into the dim pool of light of a streetlamp about to die. Its glow was weak, flickering shadows that stained the man in shades of white-orange. He was tall, thin. His jacket and jeans dark, perhaps blue. On his head a wool cap that made him look like an offshore worker.
‘Stay there, sir,’ Jilly said moving towards him. Louise steadied the first man who was swaying slightly.
‘Are you alright sir?’ she asked. The smell of alcohol rolled over her. ‘Ah. Had a few too many?’
‘Had a night, yes,’ he replied. The beer burp that followed turned Louise’s stomach. The joys of beat policing a Saturday night, she thought. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Charlie,’ the man replied. ‘Oh shit… look at it.’ He gestured to the splattered remains of his takeaway on the ground. ‘Fucking ruined.’ He threw the rest of the tray and meal onto the ground.
‘Pick that up,’ Louise said. ‘That’s littering.’
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ Charlie said, then seeing the look on Louise’s face he mumbled something incoherent and bent to retrieve the kebab. Scooping the meat and vegetables with the lid of the plastic tray he looked up at Louise.
‘Shouldn’t you be arresting that jerk. I’m pretty sure that’s assault what he did.’
Louise looked over to where Jilly stood talking to the other man. She could hear Jilly asking for the man’s name but he kept silent, his eyes downturned, his arms at his sides.
‘Came out of nowhere he did,’ Charlies continued. The scrape of plastic on concrete was loud and dragged along Louise’s last nerve. ‘Ran right into me and then he hit me with his bag.’
‘And what had you done to make him do that?’ Louise snapped, turning her attention back to Charlie. He had stood and was depositing the ruined kebab into a nearby bin.
‘I didn’t do nuthin’,’ Charlie muttered. Louise didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Alright, I might have lashed out with me foot. Gave him a kick to his ankle, but that was it. I was startled; this nutter comes flying out of the dark. I just wanted to have my kebab and grab a taxi.’
‘And he hit you?’
‘Yes.’ Charlie was wiping his hands on his trousers, removing the muck from his hands as best he could.
‘With his bag?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Right here.’ He turned round and rubbed at the back of his head. ‘Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.’ Louise moved closer and craned to take a look.
‘Looks like you got a cut. There’s a little blood.’
‘Just what I fucking need, a trip to the bleeding hospital.’ He grinned when he realised what he’d said. Drunk jokes, almost as bad as police ones.
Charlie’s fingers were parting his hair, probing for the cut. Louise couldn’t see one.
‘I don’t think it’s your blood.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s the bag?’
He looked around the alley and then pointed. A little further in, just behind the lamp post was a dirty white plastic bag.
With a red stripe.
Louise walked up to it, her eyes moving from the bag to where Jilly was standing with the other man. ‘Everything okay there?’ she asked.
Jilly turned to her. ‘Mr Silence here seems to have forgotten how to talk, but we’re going to continue until he does or else we’re going to be taking a trip back to the station.’ She got her radio out. ‘Or we can just get this sorted out right now.’
Louise looked for the carrier. There. Just in the shadow of the bin.
Jilly off to the side: ‘Look, just tell me your name, alright? Let’s get that much at least and then we can start with what went on here.’
Louise reached for the bag. It was heavy; no wonder Charlie was complaining. She turned the bag in her hands. It looked familiar. She’d seen it before. Earlier tonight.
‘This is George’s bag,’ she called over. Jilly had had enough.
‘Alright. Turn round. Hands against the wall.’
The man didn’t move.
Louise opened the bag.
Inside, Homeless George’s head sat atop a pool of blood. He stared up at her with wide, unseeing eyes, his mouth open in an eternal silent scream.
‘JILLY!’
Before WPC Jilly Hansen could react, the man brought his arm up in a sudden rush. Something glinted in the half-light and the air exploded from the police officer. He pushed at her and she fell back, collapsing to the floor.
From where she was knelt Louise could see the blood on her friend’s stomach.
The man started to run down the alley but Louise launched herself to the side, one arm stretched out to grab his leg. Rather than grabbing hold, she slammed into the crook of his knee and he went down onto the alley floor.
Louise scrambled forward, pulling herself across his body. One arm pressed down on the top of his back, the other reaching for his right arm.
‘Hold still!’ she shouted. ‘Hold fucking still!’
He writhed beneath her and she could feel him trying to get his knees beneath him. Louise pushed down harder on his back, pressing down with her elbow into the nerve cluster at his shoulder. A scream of pain finally broke from his lips, the first sound he’d made. It was followed by a roar of anger as he realised Louise had the upper hand.
He started thrashing side to side, doing his best to throw Louise off his back but she clung on, twisting his arm up.
‘Stop resisting!’ she shouted into the back of his head. The cap had come off in their struggle. His hair was almost white and as dirty as the bag. She could smell it and him, a mixed mess of Old Spice and dirt.
The man gave another struggle, nearly throwing Louise over him. She shifted position but in doing so allowed him to twist his body so that he was now facing her. She still held on to his arm, but his other was free, no longer pinned beneath him.
He reached forward, grabbed her shoulder and head butted her.
For a second everything went black. All sounds disappeared and she felt nothing. And then the pain came, white hot and instant it flooded through her body, rushing from her head, down her neck and into her chest.
The roaring slowly filled her ears, coming as though from underneath a deep lake pushing up from the dark depths to fill her mind with its intense cry.
Her head cleared, her vision coming back in an instant. The man’s face was pressed close to hers, his mouth wide in a leering grin that dripped foul saliva onto her face. His teeth were jagged shards, nothing but brown-black husks. His pupils were large black saucers.
She could feel hot blood on her face and the sharp shock of surprise flipped into white, raging anger.
Louise brought her knee up. Hard. It caught the man between the legs and the rush of air that cascaded over her as he collapsed forward, stank. Siezing the momentum, she returned his head butt with one of her own, knocking him back and flooding his body with another rush of pain.
She pushed him off her, rolled him over and had his hands in cuffs in seconds. She saw the knife lying nearby and dragged the man to his feet. He was barely conscious, eyes half closed and a low moan coming from his mouth. Blood ran from his nose. Her hand automatically found her radio and as she staggered back across the alley to Jilly she radioed instructions back into the station.
Charlie was knelt beside Jilly, his hands on her stomach.
‘He stabbed her.’
Louise dumped the man to the ground, unlocked one cuff and slipped it around the lamp post. Grabbing it, she slipped it back around the man’s wrist and satisfied he wasn’t able to get away, she went over to her friend and colleague.
‘Help’s coming,’ Louise said. Jilly smiled. Her face had gone white, her lips a thin line.
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ Jilly said.
‘That’s the shock,’ Louise replied. She remembered how it had felt, the blade parting her flesh, sliding inside all cold and hot at the same time. She remembered the way he had laughed as he did it again, pressing the tip against her thigh at the same time as he pressed his lips to hers. His tongue had probed her mouth as the blade had explored her thigh.
There were some things she wasn’t going to miss.
Hulme was one of them.
She moved Charlie’s hand out of the way. Blood soaked the shirt. Louise pressed down tight. ‘They’re on the way. You’re going to be okay.’
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Jilly asked between clenched teeth.
‘I think so.’ Others would make that determination but the evidence… ‘Try not to talk,’ Louise said. Jilly nodded. She sucked in a breath as the cold sheet of agony settled over her.
As WPC Louise Miller waited for the ambulance and police to get to their position, she pressed down on the wound and turned her thoughts to home.
To Ossett.
Moving back home couldn’t get here fast enough. Ossett, the small Yorkshire town full of flower shows, Maypole parades and Sunday football games. Ossett.
As the sirens began to approach, Louise smiled.
She deserved a little peace and quiet.
