1983

by David Peace

  The older man looks at the younger one and shakes his head. They shrug and stand up.

  I say: ‘This is Detective Superintendent Molloy and I’m Detective Inspector Jobson.’

  The men nod.

  I ask: ‘Anywhere we can sit down?’

  ‘Next door,’ replies the younger one.

  We follow the two men into the next house, into the half-finished kitchen at the back. We sit down on wooden boxes and packing cases, among their sandwich papers and their tartan flasks, their newspapers and their cigarettes.

  I take out my notebook and my pen: ‘You the only two working today?’

  They nod.

  ‘That usual, is it?’

  The younger of the two, he says: ‘Depends, but gaffer’s sick, isn’t he?’

  I say: ‘Sorry, can I have your names?’

  The younger man says: ‘Terry Jones.’

  ‘Michael Williams,’ says the older man.

  Bill lights up another cigarette. He walks over to where a window will be.

  I say: ‘You were both working Saturday, were you?’

  They nod again.

  I look through at the front of the house: ‘Pretty good view of the other side of street, haven’t you?’

  Michael Williams says: ‘We weren’t here Saturday.’

  ‘Thought you just said you were working?’

  Williams nods: ‘But like we told your mates yesterday, we were in Ponty on Saturday.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Gaffer wanted us to do some repairs on one of houses.’

  ‘In Pontefract?’

  They both nod.

  I say again: ‘That usual, is it?’

  Jones looks at Williams. Williams shrugs: ‘Depends how busy we are.’

  ‘So who was working here?’

  ‘No-one,’ says Jones.

  ‘What about your gaffer?’ asks Bill from the window.

  ‘He was sick, wasn’t he,’ says Jones.

  Bill comes back over. He smiles: ‘Not a well man your gaffer, is he?’

  ‘Never missed a day ’fore Saturday,’ says Michael Williams.

  Bill is stood in front of Williams: ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yep,’ says Williams, looking at Jones -

  Jones nodding along -

  Both of them starting to wonder.

  ‘I hope he’s all right,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe we should go check on him,’ winks Bill. ‘Just to make sure it’s nowt serious like.’

  I ask Jones: ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gaffer,’ whispers Williams to Jones.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at Jones -

  Jones saying: ‘George Marsh.’

  ‘And where does George Marsh hang his hat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where does he live, Terry?’

  ‘Mr Marsh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Netherton,’ says Terry Jones, looking at Williams -

  Williams repeating: ‘Netherton.’

  I stand up: ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  Two telephone calls later and we’re driving through Normanton, bypassing Wakefield, heading to 16 Maple Well Drive, Netherton -

  Bill pissed off no-one’s been out to see this Marsh bloke, cursing them anew: ‘Slack fucking County cunts the lot of them.’

  Me, four eyes on the road: ‘Still want to see Don Foster after?’

  Bill shrugs: ‘See what we get from this one first.’

  I keep it shut and reach over for an Action form, one hand on the wheel.

  We park in front of a little white van outside a little brown bungalow with a little green garden and a little blue bicycle lying on its side:

  Number 16, Maple Well Drive, Netherton.

  I ring the doorbell.

  Bill looks at the bicycle: ‘Be a waste of time this.’

  A brown-haired woman opens the door, her pink washing-up gloves dripping wet: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Marsh?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Police, love. Your George in, is he?’

  Mrs Marsh looks from me to Bill then back to me. She shakes her head: ‘He’s up the allotment.’

  ‘Feeling better, is he?’ says Bill, like I knew he would.

  Lips pursed, she says: ‘Taking some air.’

  ‘Wise man,’ smiles Bill, ear to bloody ear.

  Me with a kinder smile: ‘Where are the allotments, love?’

  ‘Top of field, behind here,’ she gestures. ‘End shed.’

  ‘Ta, love,’ I say, about to move off -

  But Bill stays stood there: ‘Mind if we have a quick word with you first?’

  Mrs Marsh holds open the door: ‘Best come in then, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Ta very much,’ winks Bill.

  We follow Mrs Marsh into their front room. We sit down on their pristine sofa. We are facing their brand-new TV.

  I nod at the set: ‘Colour?’

  ‘Fat chance,’ says Mrs Marsh and takes off her pink washing-up gloves. She wipes them on her apron. ‘Not on his wage.’

  ‘Got ours on never-never,’ I say.

  Mrs Marsh shakes her head: ‘George doesn’t believe in HP or any of that kind of business.’

  ‘Wise man,’ says Bill again and opens his notebook.

  Mrs Marsh stands up: ‘Sorry, can I offer you a cup of tea?’

  Bill gestures for her to sit back down. ‘Thank you, but we best get a move on.’

  Mrs Marsh sits down again. The pink washing-up gloves are on her knees between her folded hands.

  Bill looks up from his notebook: ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you?’

  ‘About the missing lassie? The one in Castleford?’

  Bill nods. Bill waits.

  Mrs Marsh says: ‘George was wondering if he should call you.’

  Bill: ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Thought you’d be wanting to speak to anyone who might have seen anything.’

  ‘He saw something then, did he, your George?’

  Mrs Marsh shakes her head: ‘No, but he knew lass it was.’

  ‘How’s that then?’

  ‘He’d seen her, hadn’t he, working across road.’

  ‘Must have seen a lot of kids.’

  ‘Aye,’ she nods. ‘But he remembered her because she was, you know…’

  I nod.

  Bill asks her: ‘So what’s been up with him?’

  ‘George? Flu.’

  ‘Lads at work say it’s first time he’s missed a day.’

  Mrs Marsh thinks. Mrs Marsh frowns. Then Mrs Marsh nods, just once.

  ‘When did it start?’

  Mrs Marsh thinks again. Then Mrs Marsh says: ‘Sunday.’

  ‘Right, right,’ nods Bill. ‘What the lads at his work thought.’

  ‘Sunday,’ she says again, says to herself.

  ‘Remember what time he came home from work on Saturday, can you?’

  Mrs Marsh says: ‘I can’t be right sure about that.’

  ‘Why -’

  ‘Took kids over to my mother’s Saturday lunchtime,’ she says. ‘But George was here when we got back tea-time, I know that.’

  ‘And what time’s tea-time?’

  ‘Half-six.’

  Bill closes his notebook. He stands up.

  ‘You finished?’ asks Mrs Marsh.

  ‘Yep,’ nods Bill.

  Mrs Marsh stands up. She leads us back out to the front door.

  ‘End shed?’ I ask her.

  She nods, her eyes and brow full of worry -

  Sorrow.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Marsh,’ says Bill.

  Mrs Marsh nods again.

  We walk back down the little path, past the little bicycle, out of the little garden.

  Mrs Marsh watches us go.

  Bill stands by the car. He takes out a packet of cigarettes. He offers me one. He takes one himself. He lights us both up.

  Mrs Marsh closes her front door. Minute later ther
e’s a shadow behind the nets in the front room.

  I say: ‘What you reckon?’

  Bill shrugs. He looks at the end of his cigarette.

  I say: ‘Not adding up, is it?’

  ‘Could be owt; another woman, horses, owt,’ he says.

  I nod.

  Another car pulls up. It is a big black Morris Oxford. A man gets out. He puts on his hat. He’s in black too -

  A priest.

  He looks at us. He touches the brim of his hat. He heads up the garden path to number 16. He rings the doorbell.

  Bill raises his eyes: ‘But we best make sure.’

  We open the gate to the field behind the bungalows and walk up the dry tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill. The sky is blue and cloudless above us, the field full of insects and butterflies.

  Bill takes off his jacket: ‘Should have brought a bloody picnic with us.’

  I turn around and look back down the hill at the little white van next to the two parked cars in front of their little brown bungalow and their little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows and their little green gardens.

  I take off my glasses. I wipe them on my handkerchief. I put them back on.

  I can see Mrs Marsh at the kitchen window of their little bungalow. She is watching us -

  A shadow behind her.

  I turn back.

  Bill is up by the sheds. He shouts: ‘Hurry up, Maurice.’

  I start walking again.

  A man comes out of the end shed in a cap and shirtsleeves, blue overalls and Wellington boots.

  ‘Mr Marsh?’ Bill is asking him as I get up to them.

  ‘That’d be me,’ nods George Marsh. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘My name is Bill Molloy and this is Maurice Jobson. We’re police officers.’

  ‘Thought you might be,’ nods Marsh.

  ‘Why’s that then?’ asks Bill.

  ‘Be about lass who’s gone missing in Castleford, won’t it?’

  Bill nods. Bill waits.

  Marsh says nothing.

  Bill keeps waiting.

  Marsh looks at him. Marsh still says nothing.

  Bill says: ‘What about her?’

  Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘You tell me.’

  ‘No,’ says Bill -

  – the Badger: ‘You tell me about Jeanette Garland.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Working across road from her house, aren’t you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Been working there a while?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Must have seen a fair bit of her.’

  ‘Coming and going, aye.’

  ‘You remember her then?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Notice owt peculiar, did you?’

  ‘About her?’

  Bill nods.

  ‘She was slow, late in head,’ he smiles. ‘But I suppose you know that, being policemen.’

  ‘Was?’ I ask him. ‘Why did you say was?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said she was slow; you’re talking like she’s dead, Mr Marsh.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’

  Bill looks up from the hard ground: ‘Not unless you know something we don’t.’

  George Marsh shakes his head: ‘Slip of the tongue, that’s all.’

  I want to push him. I want to keep on -

  But Bill just says: ‘Remember anything else about her, do you, Mr Marsh?’

  ‘Not that springs to mind, no.’

  ‘What about Saturday?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Notice owt peculiar on Saturday?’

  Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead with his forearm again. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘Wasn’t there, was I?’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Sick.’

  ‘Not what the wife says.’

  ‘What does she know,’ shrugs Marsh.

  Bill smiles: ‘That you weren’t where you say you were.’

  ‘Look, lads,’ Marsh smiles back for the second time. ‘Set off for work and I felt bloody rotten, but I didn’t want her staying in and fussing. So I waited for her to take kids round to her mam’s, then I came home, got some decent kip, watched a bit of sport. Not a crime, is it, lying to your missus?’

  ‘So did you get to work?’ asks Bill, not smiling -

  Neither is George Marsh now: ‘No.’

  ‘So where were you exactly when you decided to turn around and come home?’

  George Marsh takes off his cap again. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He shrugs his shoulders. He says: ‘Maybe halfway.’

  ‘Halfway where?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Castleford.’

  ‘Castleford,’ repeats Bill.

  ‘Aye,’ says Marsh. ‘Castleford.’

  Bill turns to me: ‘I think that’s everything, don’t you?’

  I nod.

  Bill turns back to Mr Marsh: ‘Thank you, Mr Marsh.’

  Marsh nods: ‘Need anything else, know where I am.’

  ‘Aye,’ smiles Bill. ‘At work?’

  Marsh stares at Bill. Then Marsh nods: ‘That’d be right.’

  Bill nods back. He turns and starts down the hill, me behind him.

  Halfway down, Bill says: ‘Give Mrs Marsh a wave, Maurice.’

  And we both wave at the woman in the kitchen window of her little brown bungalow with its little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows with their little green gardens, only our car parked next to their little white van, the priest and his car gone.

  Still waving at Mrs Marsh, I say to Bill: ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘He is that.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Best call our Georgie, hadn’t we?’

  Chapter 17

  She leaves. You puke. You dress. You puke again. You clean your teeth. You lock the door. You retch. You go downstairs. You heave. You run back up the stairs. You puke in your hands. You open the door. You puke on the floor. You spew. You start all over again.

  It is Friday 27 May 1983 -

  D-13 .

  A change of clothes, a change of heart -

  54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.

  Having all the fun -

  The patterned carpet and assorted furniture, the taste of air-freshener and the fire on full; the photographs and paintings, the photographs and the paintings of men not here.

  Up the road in 69 another man gone, a young man:

  Jimmy Ashworth -

  Not here.

  The clock is ticking, the kettle whistling.

  Mrs Myshkin comes back in with the two cups of tea and sets down the tray.

  She hands you yours: ‘Three sugars?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She says: ‘I’m sorry about that; once I start I just can’t seem to stop.’

  You mumble something crap and meaningless.

  ‘But that poor boy,’ Mrs Myshkin says again. ‘His poor, poor mother.’

  You mumble again. You take a sip of tea.

  ‘I’m so happy you’ve changed your mind though,’ she says. ‘My sister, she said you would.’

  Upon her settee again, you are sweating, burning, and melting again -

  ‘I -’

  ‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘You do what you can for him, that’s enough. You’ll do your best, I know you will.’

  You are about to say something else crap and meaningless, when -

  Out of the corner of your eye you see something, see something coming -

  Incoming -

  Hard against the window:

  CRACK!

  Mrs Myshkin on her feet -

  Hands to her mouth, shaking her head.

  You hear it then, over and over -

  Contorted and screaming and howling -

  Hear it outside, again and a
gain:

  ‘It’s all your fault, you fucking bitch!’

  You are on your feet, over to the window.

  ‘You fucking bitch! You Polish fucking bitch with your fucking pervert son!’

  Look it straight in the eye, see it coming again -

  Incoming -

  You duck -

  SMASH!

  Broken glass everywhere, a brick at your feet.

  Out into the hall, you open the door -

  Open the door and there she is:

  Mrs Ashworth standing on Mrs Myshkin’s path, a plastic Hillards carrier bag of rocks in one hand, a half-Charlie in the other -

  You walk towards her. You say: ‘Put it down, love.’

  ‘Never a moment’s trouble until he met your bloody spastic son. The dirty little pervert, him they should’ve hung. Had bloody done.’

  ‘Please,’ you say again. ‘Put it down.’

  Half a house brick in one hand, her mouth white with spit and fleck, Mrs Ashworth screams again: ‘Fucking bitch! You killed him. You fucking killed my Jimmy!’

  You are close to her now and now she sees you -

  ‘You!’ she shrieks. ‘Fat fucking lot of good you did him!’

  You reach out to try and stop her arm, but it’s already up in the air -

  The brick away -

  ‘You don’t know how it feels, do you? I wish to God they’d show you.’

  There is the sound of breaking glass again, the sound of sobs from the door -

  ‘Please, Mary, no -’

  ‘Don’t you Mary me, you Polish fucking bitch,’ cries Mrs Ashworth, trying to get her hand back into her shopping bag, trying to get her hand on a brick or a stone -

  But you’ve got her by the tops of her arms now, trying to talk to her, talk some sense into her: ‘Mrs Ashworth, let’s go and sit -’

  ‘You useless fat bastard, where were you when he needed you? I saw you sat in that posh car with bloody McGuinness. I saw you, don’t think I didn’t. Least McGuinness had manners not to show his fucking face inside. Not like you, you fat -’

  ‘Mary!’

  She stops -

  ‘Mary!’

  Stops at the sound of the voice behind her; stops and drops her bag of bricks.

  Mr Ashworth is coming up the path: ‘I’m sorry. Didn’t realise she’d got out. Doctor says she’s to take it easy for a bit. Shock of it all.’

  You are nodding, catching Mr Ashworth’s glance at Mrs Myshkin in her doorway, his glance at the broken window to her right, at the neighbours pairing up for a chat about the bother, their arms and brows folded.