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This book is written in a very brief way, which I enjoyed. Here's an example of Mo Lea's style:
No one in my circle of friends spoke about the murders – perhaps we didn’t want it to spoil our fun. At first I avoided reading the sordid stories but it soon became impossible. The newspapers referred to these women in a derogatory way, as simply ‘prostitutes’. The reports were more interested in the perpetrator and his media-friendly moniker that helped sell papers. I wondered what this madman must have felt when he saw the headlines? How he must have gloated at his new-found fame.
Simple: enough said.
I can't say how much I enjoy books where the author has made their voice available by being succinct.
That September, the Ripper murdered Barbara Leach. She wasn’t a prostitute but a ‘respectable’ student, in the third and final year of her degree at Bradford University. I was shocked to read that she was killed by a hammer blow to her head. The Ripper had followed her home after she left the pub alone, after spending the evening with her friends. I wasn’t the only one to be taken aback by the news – the atmosphere in the student-populated areas of Leeds changed overnight in those darkening months of 1979. There was palpable tension in the poorly lit streets. Now it made more sense to have friends come round and stay in rather than go out. No one stayed late in the art school studios. People studied at home and visited each other in town centre cafes during daylight. We would have frothy coffees and flapjacks in the day rather than bus it out to the town centre pubs in the evenings.
Lea's brief stories, paved with short sentences, are sign of a story waiting to be told.
Her story of surviving an attack by Peter Sutcliffe, also known as The Yorkshire Ripper, is a tragic tale of how police utterly mismanaged a case where the culprit should and could have been apprehended early on. The English BBC have done a massive job in airing the TV series The Yorkshire Ripper Files: A Very British Crime Story, which speaks truth of how the investigation was mishandled.
On the other hand: Lea's story of her life.
The police played down the attack. They took me to a side room and took a statement from me. I told them I could draw the face of the attacker but they didn’t think that was required. There was certainly no mention of the Yorkshire Ripper and they had discouraged the matron and the nursing staff from talking to the press, who were sniffing around the hospital.
At the same time as we were enjoying the fireworks in Birkenhead, far away in Huddersfield another young woman was being attacked. A 16-year-old girl called Theresa Sykes was followed as she walked back home from a grocery shop after buying cigarettes. A man emerged from the shadows wielding a hammer and struck her on the head from behind. She was hit twice and the second blow left a half-moon shaped scar. Thankfully, she survived. The news shook everyone and chilled me to the bone. Now the streets of Yorkshire had become completely deserted.
Lea also tells a horrifying story of not being a cis-gendered woman in the twentieth century:
One night I booked a table at a local Italian restaurant. For most of the time we were unaware of other customers and on occasion would gently touch each other’s hands across the table. As we chatted away I became aware of the table next to us getting louder. Some women in a hen party had spotted that we were more than just good friends. They began by giving us dirty looks and making sly comments. I folded my arms tightly feeling awkward and embarrassed, but to my surprise Sophy pulled her chair up to their table and asked if they had a problem and if so, could she help. She returned to our table telling me that it was always a good strategy to meet this kind of aggravation calmly and head on. However, as she was talking one of the women threw a cup at us. I ducked and it smashed inches above my head and hot coffee splattered across my chest, burning through my white sweater.
I was close to a furious outburst, but Sophy pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the drips with a comedic flourish. This made me crack up with laughter. One of the women stood up and screeched: ‘Your type makes me wanna puke. You’re sick in the head the pair of you!’ This made us laugh even more. Sophy asked if I would be alright on my own. I reassured her I was OK. I felt I had to learn how to cope if this was what I was due to expect. She went to the front desk to ask if the manager would kindly ask the noisy guests to calm down and she came to the table waving her arms apologising profusely. The waiters fussed around us, bringing us complimentary large brandies and coffee.
I learned from Sophy never be bullied into leaving a situation. In her company, I felt strong. We sipped our drinks and let the hostile atmosphere settle, but my anger surfaced and I wanted an apology as my brand-new angora sweater was now ruined, as was our romantic dinner. When we decided to leave, I asked Sophy to collect our coats. I wanted to put into practice what she had shown me. I stood up, leant over their table and boomed loudly: ‘You are all an embarrassment to the human race let alone the women’s movement!’
As we left the restaurant, we strolled off arm in arm laughing at the bizarre pantomime. It dawned on me what we were up against. I was surprised that our love for each other posed such a threat, but Sophy made me feel truly empowered.
Lea paints a picture of her life: she travels to the USA where she advances as an artist. She continues life, and is reminded of what has once happened since her traumatic ordeal, especially considering how English tabloids work (and don't work).
Sadly, what makes this book work is also its downfall: Lea's stories of different aspects of her life lack the rhythm of what made the beginning of this book feel exciting. While I appreciate how this book works, there's not enough passion in the pages for me to keep it going.
Here is a documentary that Lea was involved with, where she speaks of her art as it relates to her ordeal with Sutcliffe.
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : https://niklasblog.com/?p=25620