To think of the Yorkshire Ripper as a type of terrorist makes sense, given that the fear he engendered during his crimewave was far in excess of his actual reach. Here was a faceless phantom of almost supernatural power, striking at will and at random. In a time before the endless serving up of serial killers as nightly entertainment, women and girls across the north walked in groups after dark or stayed indoors; developed a horror of ginnels, alleys and snickets; looked at the men around them, wondering, could it be him, or him?
When he turned to younger and more “respectable” prey than his earlier victims, who either were, or were characterised as, sex workers, the panic became widespread. Miv, the central character and chief point of view in Jennie Godfrey’s debut novel, is only 12, and while the adults around her are keen to spare her the gruesome details and to assure her that she is not a target, she still feels steeped in the malignity. With the police and media insisting that the Ripper hides in plain sight as “somebody’s husband, somebody’s son”, Miv decides to conduct her own inquiries with her best friend Sharon.
The pair’s investigations commence with a sweet naivety as Miv solemnly writes in her notebook her suspicions of a disliked teacher: “He has a moustache – He has dark hair – He’s always angry – He’s not from round our way”. Being an outsider also counts against Mr Bashir, the local shopkeeper, although with his cheerfulness and love of Elton John, not to mention his long working hours, it’s hard to see him as the elusive killer. Godfrey tenderly portrays that short, significant period in female friendship where one girl, in this case Sharon, is further along in puberty. Miv is “flat as a board” and still childlike, clinging to the best friend who we can see is humouring her out of kindness.
Wombles, swirly carpets, Holly Hobbie dolls, Spirographs and games of Ker-Plunk evoke the era, and in a novel necessarily concerned with facial hair it’s amusing to read of a character with a “Jason King moustache”. Miv’s breathless account takes up much of the narrative, with occasional, slightly jolting forays into the points of view of surrounding adults: her father, Austin; troubled Helen, the mother of a boy she is beginning to fancy; Mr Bashir. These reveal some of the hidden webs of the grown-up world, whose secrets Miv is also starting to divine. They will not uncover the identity of the Ripper – history tells that story – but will contribute to Miv’s accelerating maturity, as well as providing a complex moral education.
For all the grim seriousness of the underlying subject matter, Godfrey mostly tells the tale in a style that wouldn’t be out of place in a Young Adult novel. Some seeming flaws could be interpreted merely as Miv’s limited perspective. The girls, through their bumbling as much as their shrewdness, uncover some genuine villains in their midst, though the local racist bully, a boy at their school, could have done with a little more background to explain his plot-advancing malevolence.
Overall, Godfrey succeeds brilliantly in fitting a gripping and moving story in the interstices of a horrific episode in recent history, without ever trivialising, taking focus from, or minimising the lasting impact of the original crimes.
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