Ripple Effect

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“For each life stolen, more than a dozen people need immediate and ongoing support…Homicide’s tentacles stretch into every area of its victims’ lives and beyond into the wider community.”
News.com.au, accessed 2nd July, 2017

My father is a great believer in patronising local businesses.  This means that when you want a service it should still be there – at least that was his theory.  For many years, in fact through most of my childhood, my dad cycled to work – I once calculated the sum for how many times he cycled past (almost 50,000) Sculcoate’s Lane corner – the street the factory he worked in was situated.  There in the morning, and back home for dinner then a return trip, followed by the hard cycle back home again after the grind of the day.  He rode a yellow racing bike with a fixed wheel: once I tried to master this in the back alley of our house and still have the scars.  Another time, he cycled all the way to work with our cat in his saddle bag.  Now, at 81, he proves the medics right: exercise helps – he has smoked and drunk, but he is still as fit as a fiddle.

When I was 14, dad learned to drive.  His first car was a red Cortina Estate, the car of a family man.  It was a beast of a car and could accommodate all four of his children and enough luggage to take us on holiday to Scarborough.  (Facts: my brother T was sick and my mother – annoyingly – requisitioned my Hallmark paper bag with Snoopy on to catch it, and, after throwing it from the car window,  the bag split so T’s spew splattered across the whole of the back window the rest of the journey and – to add insult to injury – my sister KM (aged 15 and a half), desperate to go to the toilet, lost control of her bladder whilst dad was looking for somewhere straight-forward to park.  My mother bought her a pair of hideous trousers from Boyes’ in Scarborough to replace the wet ones that had a military style stripe down each leg which KM hated but had to wear regularly for the next two years as a badge of her disgrace.)

The red Cortina was already an old car so to counter this my dad found a good reasonable garage that would service and fix it without fleecing him.  He immediately liked Belcher’s – they were friendly, reliable and local.  Cliff Belcher was a good and decent man.  From that point on, my dad took all his cars there: his ex-salesman’s Talbot (“A bloody big mistake” was his verdict), his various Rovers, and his Astra (“Seats are thin!”) until such times as he no longer could.

A man cannot take responsibility for his son; not all apples fall close to the tree.  This was the case with Craig Belcher.  Something of a dreamer Craig took his time to settle down and Cliff Belcher and his wife sighed with relief when he finally got a job.  It wasn’t what they had hoped for him but at least he’d got off his backside and done something.  This represented progress. Cliff had hoped that Craig would take over the garage but the lad had no aptitude for it and no interest. But at least Craig was still involved in cars: he had become a petrol station attendant. Cliff would laugh with his customers about kids and how tricky it could be to understand them, “It’s a bloody bugger isn’t Trev?” he’d say, and my dad would nod because in spite of all of his efforts to raise his kids as hard working decent folk one of them, as the century was about to turn, was on the dole and then another had more children than he could count on the fingers of one hand.

On the 5th March 1998 a young woman, Kirsty Carver, who worked for the police, had been hanging out with a couple of her friends, filling time until her ex-boyfriend came off his police officer shift at 4am.  The night before he had told her that he did not think there was a future to their relationship.  Kirsty wanted to talk to him about this again.

Kirsty left one of her friend’s houses after 2am and drove to the outskirts of Hull where she filled up on petrol.  Craig Belcher was the attendant on duty.

No one knows exactly what happened after that, although during the trial an assumption was made that Craig accosted Kirsty after she rebuffed his advances.   He then attacked her, striking her at least 3 times with a hammer he found in the storeroom of the service station.

After her murder, the police assumed, Craig put Kirsty’s body into the boot of his car and, making up an elaborate and unlikely plot, he tried to involve a couple of his friends in the disposing of her body.  He told them that he’d been offered £200 to dispose of her after he’d witnessed her murder (along with the murder of a man) at the hands of a drugs’ courier who he was working for.  Both friends that Craig approached made up excuses pretty quickly to not get involved.

There was a great deal of concern for Kirsty when her car was found down a lane a few miles from the garage, and  later her parents made an emotional appeal for someone to tell them about her whereabouts.  But by then Kirsty was already dead.

The police were tireless in their search of Kirsty and they eventually found her body in a shallow grave at an isolated spot at Spurn Point where the River Humber meets the North sea.

The net began to tighten around Belcher, the evidence of his clumsy efforts to clean left in the storeroom where he had killed Kirsty and his DNA in her car.  But still he did not admit or explain her death.  At his trial the jury took five hours to find him guilty and he was sentenced to life imprisonment.  The judge said, “You are an intelligent and cunning man.  You are a convincing liar as well as a very dangerous one.” The gallery cheered when he was taken down though Kirsty’s family were left utterly devastated. They never fully recovered.

Not long after Craig Belcher was sent down, Cliff Belcher quietly closed his garage, and, along with his wife, they withdrew from life, taking themselves off to a place where no one knew who they were so that they could escape the scrutiny of – some well-meaning – people.  They had only raised their son in the way others had.  They could not explain how he had become this.  He had the advantage of being an only child, he’d never been denied anything.  They could not understand or excuse it.

The ripples of a murder extend further still.  Close family are left bereft and desolate knowing that all their hopes and dreams, their ambitions and plans were snuffed out in a single second.  And those that remain, the parents of the victim (and the murderer’s too) have to pick up the pieces when none of it makes sense, or fit together any more, where nothing can ever be the same again.

And the community: friends, lovers, extended family, neighbours, work colleagues, associates and customers are left wondering how the wound can heal, and yet, for them finally, it does, just about, they talk it over, shrug, somehow they carry on – accept that they can never change it, that they can’t go back and offer a bed, or not break-up or call a stop to strangeness.

But the families always have the shape of that person missing in their lives.  Always.

 

 

 

 

Orange mortar and Scapegoats, part 2

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I never saw Ernie Clarke (you can read the first part here) again, apart from on television and that was on the occasion of his trial where the TV camera followed him from a white van.  He had a blanket over his head.  The torso and the head were recovered in the dregs of the giant oil vat at Velva Liquids Ltd which had preserved both, more or less: not sufficiently to provide a picture of the young woman who had died, but enough to enable them to calculate her age, her height and the cause of death – a blunt instrument to the head.  There were two other facts to distinguish the girl (aged between 16 and 20, and in all probability nearer the lower end of that scale) – she had had her appendix out and had once fractured her collar bone.

All sorts of tidbits were given on the news and we all took a sudden interest – hanging around for the 9 o’clock rather than scurrying off to bed.  It seemed surreal that the man who had, up to a few months before, lived opposite us could have done such a thing when he seemed so ordinary and dull.

“I don’t think Ernie did it!” Mrs Petty said, leaning on her yard brush – something she often did though rarely did she bother to sweep in anger.  It was like a stage prop, something to give her purpose from A to B that explained her reason for being in the tableaux of three women outside our front.  She loved a gossip.

“Me either,” my mam said washing the sills down like a whirling dervish, “And his kids are gorgeous too.”

Val Petty lit a cigarette, sucked the nicotine into the very pits of her lungs.  “He once winked at me,” she said, a moment of genuine excitement in her perimenopausal life.

“He never winked at me,” Jacky Frame sounded a bit disappointed.  She was small but perfectly formed as though she’d gone in the quick wash the right size, and come out shrunken, “I thought he was a bit shifty,” she said.

“No you didn’t Jacky,” it was my mam who was now washing the step with an inappropriate ferociousness, “You said he had a look of Sidney Poitier…”

“He did,” Val drew in another lungful of smoke, a habit that would see her dead within 4 years, “He really did.  Gorgeous.”

There was more talk and then, the women turned to exclude me.  I knew their mouths would be shaping out the words – fierce ones like ‘rape’ and ‘sexual assault’ and ‘battery.’

Val drew away first,  “He didn’t seem the type to me – he’d only have to ask!” My mother looked a bit shocked and continued her frenzied cleaning of the front.

“Well,” she said, “We’ll see.”

A few nights later on the news we were given more info about the girl in the tank.  They’d found out who she was and when she went missing.  The biggest clue had been her teeth – the forensic dentist was able to identify she was from South Shields because of the level of fluoride and then, an unusual number of cusps on her teeth had led to an identification.  She was Eileen McDougall.

Eileen was a 17 year old girl who went missing in January 1970, nine years before, and as bad luck would have it, from Ernie’s point of view she had been found where he had worked.

To hear Peter Frame talk it was an open and shut case: because of course he, a young boy along with Dave Petty only marginally older, knew all along that there was something of the night about Ernie and they’d never trusted him.

“Don’t be so ridiculous, the pair of you,” I’d said but no one was listening.  Rumour abounded.  His three kids kept a low profile – going to school, coming home, not playing out on the street, not joining in with a knock-a-bout, not being one of us so that somehow this added to the possibility that all this was true about Ernie.  And we couldn’t rib them without breaking them in two, a tell-tale sign of guilt by association.

“He had an eye for the ladies,” Dave Petty said, “especially younger ones.”

“You’re making it up!”  I was outraged.

“My dad heard from someone in the pub, who heard it from a friend of his: there was a young lass on Bransholme, and one up in Hessle…”

“So that must be true! Honestly!”

“Are you calling me a liar?”  Dave seemed hurt.

“Yes,”  I said, “Yes, I suppose I am.” And walked off before they could call me anything…

But the truth was Ernie was in deep: not only had he worked at the place Eileen had been found but her sister had babysat his three children.  And because Ernie was a man of his time, and in the spirit of some kind of misguided camaraderie, he’d sought to impress the police with his sexual conquests suggesting he’d slept with Eileen’s sister and her friend too.

I could picture the scene: 1979 police station, a black guy trying to impress the while police officers, trying to sound like his misguided idea of what a real man would do. The big I am.  The man women couldn’t resist.  That was Ernie.  He had not a single problem with admitting sexual encounters (of which there were many, he said) or with making up a few because he thought it enhanced his reputation.  That was what male bravado looked like (that’s what it still looks like in some quarters!)  But he didn’t think it through. Ernie committed a suicidal error because he also admitted he knew Eileen and had had contact with her and that, wedded to the fact that he knew the Velva site like the back of his hand, meant his guilt was confirmed in the eyes of the police.

There was more to come – as we discovered on the news.  The reporter stood outside the courtroom telling us that a colleague also remembered Ernie digging a hole, and then filling it with a liquid that solidified as if he was hiding something. When the police excavated the site and found some items of what might have been clothes (although later proved to be cleaning rags) the situation got graver still.

All in all, it was a very bad situation for Ernie Clarke. Not only had he dug his own grave, he’d helped to fill it with handfuls of soil.  He was found guilty of murder in 1980 and sentenced to life in prison.

But the story didn’t end there. Ernie always maintained his innocence, even when an acceptance of his guilt would have been more likely to reduce his sentence.  He never deviated.  And the Clarke kids couldn’t stay off the street forever so they came out fighting, defending their father and saying it was none of it true.  Later, Liz would take every opportunity she could to say that her dad hadn’t done it…

In 1984 we were all very excited when the TV programme Rough Justice conducted a re-investigation of the evidence.  They believed that Ernie was innocent.  They wanted to know where Eileen was hanging out, who else might have known her, what other potential mistakes may have been made.  In the end, their evidence was compelling (see here for a discussion on it…)

And the programme believed Ernie innocent.  But he was never released from prison – not until the end of his sentence in 1994 by which time, we’d gone from the street and had lost track of all the people we’d lived with. By which time, Ernie had aged and was old for his 64 years. Innocent or not he’d paid a price…

Hard to say where the truth lay.  A girl of 17 could fall out of the world without much notice, be brutally murdered and lie in the vast bottom of a tank for 9 years – whether Ernie killed her or not – that’s the real tragedy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Orange mortar and Scapegoats

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When one of the Clarke girls started going out with Jonny Weetabix it caused a bit of a scandal.  This was a measure of how far we’d come – the chat was about Jonny’s suitability and not Liz Clarke’s heritage.  When pushed, I’d characterise Jonny as above Baby Harry (a terrifying 8 year old who threatened anyone he could with his Alsatian dog and ruled the whole of Coltman Street) on a par with Peter Frame (who got expelled from school at 8, 10, 12 and possibly other times) and a good bit below David Petty (who was largely harmless but did cause me actual bodily harm when the dart he was throwing into the air somehow landed in my forehead about an inch from my eye.  I pulled it out, ran in crying and then went swimming – worrying that the hole in my head would let the water in. It didn’t.)

The Weetabixes – not their real name, obviously – lived behind our house and my mother said we shouldn’t hang out with them because they didn’t get washed properly and they were people who lacked ambition.

“Ambition?” I’d asked but only because my mother’s reasoning often defied any logic and I was in the mood for entertainment.

“Yes,” she said, “They eat Weetabix for breakfast, dinner and sometimes tea.  They share 2 fish between 8 of them and they don’t believe in reading. And they go out in the rain without their anoraks.” My mother held great store about anoraks which is why she almost killed my sister when she accidentally (on purpose?) lost her brand spanking new anorak a few months before somewhere under the flyover.  My mother hit her with a milk bottle that time (she was washing them out before putting them on the step at the time) and rhythmically beat out the phrase, “How could you lose it?” over and over on her legs.  KM couldn’t say.  And, if my mother had bothered to ask me, I couldn’t either, even though I was probably walking behind my sister.  As penance, KM had to wear my mother’s anorak which buried her and made her look like something the cat dragged in.

“Perhaps they don’t own anoraks?” I said.

“That tells you everything you need to know,” my mother smirked.

That was conclusive then.

I’d been in Jonny Weetabix’s house – and I was amazed how little furniture they had and the fact they could draw on the walls.  I thought he was mostly a bit stupid, the kind of boy that got the blame for things even when he hadn’t done them and who didn’t care either way: it was attention, and attention, even as life’s perpetual scapegoat, was better than no attention at all.

“One final thing,” my mther began again, “they’re trash.  They threw a dozen old shoes into our yard, which their mother denied – where else could they have come from?  And they chucked over a rat.  A dead rat.  What kind of people do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and I didn’t.

“Trashy people,” she said, “The Frames might be stupid, but they’re not trashy.”

“Stupid?”

“Yes. I told her my maiden name was Davies-Smith, Jackie Frame said – “Oh, we might be related, I’m a Davies.”  I said, “It’s Davies hyphen Smith.” And she said, “What’s a fucking hyphen?”

“Right,” I said, not being overly certain about hyphens myself.

“What’s Jonny been up to? He putting his hand up for stuff he hasn’t done again?”

“He’s going out with one of the Clarke girls, Liz I think.”

“I’m surprised Ernie would let that happen.  He loves those kids and wants the best for them.”

“Maybe it’ll bring Jonny up?”

“Mary, you cannot polish rubbish, love. Not even with Mr Sheen. Not now, not ever.”

One of the things I loved about my mother was her use of the English language.   If you said, “This is hot,” in relation to food, she’d say, “You sit with your arse in the oven, and you’d be hot too.”  If you wished for something that your friends had, and you said, “I wish I had…” She’d say, “Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which gets fullest first.”

What I didn’t wish was to go out with Jonny Weetabix.  He smelled and the Clarke girls had style. The Clarke girls were beautiful, quiet, determined and self-contained.  Liz and Jonny seemed a very odd combination.

Ernie himself was a nice enough bloke as far as I knew.  He had a certain Caribbean swagger.  My dad was not massively impressed when he painted the bricks of his house a glossy white, with the mortar in citrus orange.  He thought it was bringing the street down.  Dad’s snobbery had a context: he worked at a paint factory where high quality paint was cheaply available and where he was on top of what was in vogue and what was not: orange mortar would never pass muster, except perhaps in St.  Kitts. But why should Ernie care about this?  At least it was clean.  At least Ernie looked after his house, even if it was not to the specifications of my father’s standards.

“He’s bringing the street down!” dad’d say, with a moribund despair.  By that stage, what with one thing and another, he would have preferred living almost anywhere.  Even the moon.

Ernie Clarke worked in the Hull Fish Meal factory down at the docks and this much at least impressed my dad.  Day after day, Ernie would walk to the top of the street, catch a bus and head off to work where all manner of fish bits that people couldn’t eat would be processed into fertiliser, or feed for cattle.  I don’t know what Ernie did there, but he was a hard worker.   In March 1979 he got made redundant.  It was the last months of the winter of discontent which saw multiple strikes and numbers of people became unemployed for the first time in generations. Mrs Thatcher was just about to come to power.

By July, Ernie Clarke had found himself another job. But he never took it up.

We’d got wind of something on the Tyne Tees news.  In June, a woman’s torso and her head had been found in a massive tank on the banks of the River Tyne.  The torso was in a plastic bag and the men who found her – who were cleaning the tank inside – didn’t hang around long enough to find her head which had been severed and wrapped like a parcel in canvas.

A few weeks later a police car arrived at the Clarke house, and Ernie looking lost, was bundled inside.  In the Hull Daily it said a Hull man was helping the police with their inquiries: a euphemism for arrest it turned out. Ernie was remanded in custody.

…To be continued…

Taken

FullSizeRenderMy most impressive achievement as a young person was the Queen’s Guide Award.  Not many girls managed this and fewer still from the neck of the woods that I was from: there was no precedent for it, and I gained it by sheer force of will and a ton of support from Guiders who came in all shapes and sizes, and who taught me a whole bundle of stuff about women and their power.  There were police officers, nurses, high-powered educators, administrators in the NHS, probation officers – determined women who did not take the world lying down. I can remember their names: Audrey Lord, Carol Selwyn Jones, Kay Button, Bev Smith, Pat Sugden, Mrs Tansey and the Scout leader, Celia Worley.  Those women, and others, taught me how to be myself. I would have been lost without them: working in a factory packing peas or making ends meet between low-paid and unskilled jobs.  This sounds like an exaggeration – it isn’t.

I sucked up the brilliance and madness of this world of women from 1975 to 1981 against the backdrop of a sinister force that gave an entirely different message – one that forced women off the streets, and that questioned our rights to take up space.  One that made us all just a little bit more frightened.

The sequence of attacks began in 1969, but the first murder came in October 1975.  I had just flown up to the Guides leaving the toadstool of the Brownies behind, and was battling my mother for a uniform (she was convinced I wouldn’t stick at it, and made me wear a blue shirt that was not the right colour and made me stand out like a sore thumb; not a position I enjoyed.)

Wilma McCann, a known prostitute, was stabbed in the neck, chest and abdomen multiple times and twice hit over the head with a hammer – her body was left in Chapletown, Leeds.  It barely created a ripple in the news, and I was more concerned with the Christmas Carole concert and singing the descant (badly).

I was bored initially by Guide activities so me and my mate Dawn took it upon ourselves to write Swallow on all of our patrol’s equipment.  Then, we’d try to.  We’d try to swallow the pencil.  We tried to swallow the notebook.  We even tried to swallow the kit box which was bigger than both of us and weighed as much as a grown man.  The Captain told us our antics were ridiculous. We protested: it clearly said swallow notebook, didn’t it?  It clearly said swallow rubber? The Captain was not impressed… we laughed like drains!

Meanwhile, murder number two took place: Emily Jackson, 42. Struggling to make ends meet, she was eking out her slim income by turning tricks. She was also killed in Leeds.

“Something’s not right here,” my dad said, “Don’t you go wandering around at night, you two.”

“Don’t be soft,” my mam threw out, “You’ll frighten them.”

I looked at my sister who looked at me, and then we went to Tuesday club.  We liked it at Coltman Street mission where the Tuesday Club took place because they had a better class of biscuit than the Church of our Guide Company.  It was January, perishing cold.  A woman would need to be desperate to go out on a night like this to be paid for sexual favours.  “Don’t go down the tenfoot*,” our mother yelled after us.  I didn’t like going through there in the daytime and never would at night. One of the Mainprizes once chased me with a Rubber Johnny** on a stick making me divert down the tenfoot, which practically scarred me for life.

In 1977, four more women were killed: Irene Richardson, Tina Atkinson, Jane McDonald (who was just 16 and not a prostitute) and Jean Jordan.  Each of the women were hideously mutilated, and getting careless, the killer had left a boot mark on one woman’s sheets and a crisp new fiver for her services on another, that could only have been in 8000 people’s wage packets: the police interviewed 5000 men in relation to this including the killer.  Still the police could not find The Yorkshire Ripper (as he was now dubbed in the press even though Jean Jordan was killed at Hough End, Manchester, where years later, I often walked my dog.)

1977 also happened to be the Queen’s Silver Jubilee.  There was much talk, as I recall, about the killing of Jane McDonald who was just a few years older than all of us, and like us: just walking home from a night out.  She could have been us.  We had to travel in twos: not wander off on our own. I raced my sister home after Guides to watch Cagney and Lacey, which by a country mile, was the best thing on TV. A street away, women were keeping the wolf from the door by prostituting themselves. I worried for them.

At Guide Camp, that year, the fancy dress theme was ‘I’m backing Briton’.  I can’t remember what my sister did, although it was something to do with arguing about ‘back in’ and ‘backing’ when she proposed to wear her clothes on the wrong way and that would definitely win a prize, but she made me cry.  Our Captain, who was the Quarter Master at the camp, noted this – I saw her watch the scene play out, and a steely determination took hold of her. Later, she said to me, “I was the younger sister, too.”

As 1977 folded into 1978 and bored out of our tiny brainboxes my sister, me and our friends Alison and Dawn wrote “This is crap” and “Wash me!” all over the Captain’s old estate  car.  For good measure, Dawn and I also shoved an old exhaust we’d found up the back of the vehicle to give the Captain a bit of a jolt when she saw it.  This was just high-spirits but a few days later when  Audrey, the Captain, was driving up to Scotland, her actual exhaust fell off.  Of course, this could have been a coincidence but she was a practical woman who would not believe it.

She rang up our mother who listened patiently to a list of complaints about us.  Hanging our heads in shame, that Friday we walked up to the Church Hall.  We began the evening in a circle, and the Captain called us to attention.  She spoke quietly saying that my sister and Alison would be banned for life for their antics, without any hope of return, and Dawn – who she’d never liked – would be suspended for three weeks.  “You,” she said, “Will have your stripes removed.”

I tried to open my mouth to explain that it was me that had actually put the old exhaust up the back of the car, along with Dawn, but she would not hear of it.  In a moment of great pomposity she said, “The older ones should take responsibility.  They should know better!”  I knew this wasn’t fair, but I just stood and looked on sadly as my three co-conspirators left the hall.  “I’m sweeping clean with a new broom,” Audrey said, “I’m making room.”

Meanwhile, two further killings had happened: Yvonne Pearson and Helen Rytka, both young girls, both street workers.  Helen was only 18 years old. As I read the circumstances around her death in the Daily Mail on my paper round, I wondered how a girl barely out of school had found this was the only thing she could do to survive.  I knew nothing of the world of drugs and although we were as poor as church mice (I knew this because of what we didn’t have compared to my peers, and compared to the girls from the better off Guide Companies who enjoyed activities I had never heard of: wind-surfing and rock-climbing and sailing), it was not the grinding poverty of those who have no options at all.

Within weeks, the Captain had restored my stripes and began subtly introducing me to the steps I’d need to take to reach greatness (in her eyes).  I should volunteer at a Garden Party she’d suggested.  So I did. I sold raffle tickets.  And I also bought some too.  And won the main prize, much to my acute embarrassment.

It was more than a year before the Ripper killed again. By this time, he was killing any woman who dared to venture into the night.  His 10th killing was a young woman called Joanne Whittaker who was only 19 and worked in a building society.  His 11th was a student – Barbara Leach.  She was just 20.

By now, everyone was talking about the Ripper – about how he didn’t care who or what you were, that he would kill you if you stayed out late: we were worried, but not in a coherent way.  We learned our lesson well – women needed to watch out. There was a pervasive message right there: girls should not be out at night.

There was extensive coverage of a tape allegedly made by the Ripper, sent by a bloke with a Wearside accent, that tormented the detective in charge of the case and his inability to catch him.  This man – who sent the investigation in the wrong direction – was never caught.

I was coming on in leaps and bounds – something about the responsibility I’d been given suited me.  One Sunday every month, I was responsible for church parade and often carried the colours or the union flag.  I enjoyed this.  And the badges kept on coming: I had an armful.  The Captain said, “We’ll get you that Queen’s Guide Award.” I undertook long-term volunteering.  I cleaned the church brasses.  I wrote, I swam, I cooked, I knitted, I collected, I looked after children, I orienteered, I saved lives, I prevented accidents, I was a backwoodsman, I knew all about the commonwealth. I ticked each badge off in turn.

Two days before my 15th birthday, Marguerite Walls, a 47 year old was killed and three months later the Ripper committed his final murder, that of Jacqueline Hill, 20: another student, this time of Leeds University, on 17th November, 1980.  I vividly remember her mother: the anguish, the anger, how articulate she was in her grief.  (Years later the poet Rosie Garland, who I was briefly in a theatre company with, read a poem about Jacqueline Hill, a girl she shared a regular tutorial with.  Rosie – who is now a novelist and long time member of the band The March Violets, could have been that 13th woman whose life was snuffed out but she hadn’t attended the tutorial that night. It could have been her.  Easily.  On such a small axis of chance do we survive, sometimes. All that potential and promise, all those lives gone and still others who he attacked but who did not die, whose lives where nonetheless destroyed. All those who lived a half life because of what he did: the victims’ mothers and fathers, their children.  Sisters.  Brothers.  Cousins. Friends: the pain rolling out in circles, crashing over whole neighbourhoods.)

By May 1981, I had completed the collection of all the badges I needed to be awarded the Queen’s Guide.  I received a certificate from the Queen.  I was chuffed as mint balls. This was a big enough deal to warrant my picture being taken by the local paper. It was very exciting for me and my family.  The photographer came to the church and he stood me underneath a tree.  I beamed. I would appear a week later. I looked forward to everyone seeing me.

Peter Sutcliffe’s trial began on the 5th May 1981 and lasted two weeks.  He was found guilty of 13 murders and 7 attempted murders and was sentenced to 20 concurrent life sentences.  This verdict set newspapers into a frenzy: he had tried to say he’d heard the voice of God and this had compelled him to act.  Page after page of coverage of this man and what he’d done, then, at the very right-hand edge on page 5 me, a sliver of space, smiling, with my certificate on show. And beside my beaming face, the headline in bold, filling the rest of the page from left to right but for my small triumph, ‘Ripper Victim talks…’  And that was when I really thought: it could have been me.

It could have been any of us.

*tenfoot = an alley, ten foot wide

**Rubber Johnny = a condom

I used facts about the Ripper’s Victims from the Wikipedia entry for Peter Sutcliffe.  You can read the whole thing here

I have written about Audrey before here