David Peace
1980
The third book in the Red Riding Quartet series, 2001
For the dead, a compass -
The living, salt.
‘Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.’
– The Raven,
Edgar Allan Poe
Beg, Beg, Beg
The way I heard it, the nignogs just let themselves in.
Eric was sat there watching Songs of fucking Praise, back to the door, and head nigger walks up behind him, pulls his hair back, and slits him ear to ear. Then they make themselves a sandwich, take a shit, and wait for his wife to come home -
Just like that.
Part 1. Saint Cunt
echo test transmission one a citizens band broadcast of pictures at an atrocity exhibition from the shadows of the sun out of the arc of the searchlight joyce jobson in halifax on friday the twelfth of july nineteen seventy four more life in a graveyard the rain keeping them in time for a look in the royal oak one more lager and then a fish supper with donald the lift home the chat the banter the chip shop shut out of the shadows the darkness he steps five foot four inches and quite good looking slightly wavy hair dark long sideboards he would not frighten anybody and says in a yorkshire way he says the weather is letting us down again and e know e am going to be in trouble severe cuts above both eyes and lacerations on the head her skull had suffered