by David Peace
At the last set of double doors, he pauses. He says: ‘Know the drill?’
You nod.
‘Keep seated, no physical contact, and no passing of goods.’
You nod again.
‘I’ll tell you when your forty-five minutes are up.’
‘Thank you.’
He punches the code into the panel on the wall.
The alarm sounds. He pulls open the door: ‘After you.’
You step into the small room with the grey carpet and the grey walls, the two plastic tables each with their two plastic chairs.
‘Sit down,’ says the guard.
You sit down in the grey plastic chair. You lean forward, arms on the marked plastic surface of the grey plastic table, eyes on the door opposite.
The guard sits down behind you.
You are about to say something to the guard when there he is again:
As if by magick -
Coming through the door in his grey overalls and grey shirt, enormous with a head twice as large:
Michael John Myshkin -
Michael John Myshkin, with spittle on his chin.
‘Hello again,’ you say.
‘Hello again,’ he smiles, blinking.
His guard pushes him down into the grey chair opposite you. He closes the other door. He takes a seat behind Michael Myshkin.
You say: ‘How are you, Michael?’
‘Fine,’ he says, patting down his dirty yellow hair with his fat right hand.
‘I’ve been doing some background work on your case, preparing documents for your appeal, and I’d like to go over some of the details with you.’
Michael Myshkin wipes his right hand on his overalls and smiles at you, pale blue eyes blinking in the warm grey room.
‘Is that OK with you?’
Michael Myshkin nods once, still smiling, still blinking.
You take out your notebook and biro from your carrier bag. You open the pad. You ask: ‘Can you remember when you were arrested?’
Michael Myshkin glances round at the guard behind him, then turns back to you. He whispers: ‘Wednesday 18 December 1974. One o’clock in the morning.’
‘Really? One o’clock?’
He blinks. He smiles. He nods again.
‘Where were you arrested?’
Michael Myshkin is not smiling. He is not blinking. He says: ‘At work.’
You look down at your notes: ‘The Jenkins Photo Studio in Castleford?’
He nods his head. He looks down.
You sit back in your plastic chair, tapping your plastic pen on the plastic table. You look back across the table at him.
He is patting down his hair again.
‘Michael?’ you say.
He looks up at you.
‘The police said they arrested you on the Doncaster Road after a chase?’
‘That’s not true,’ he says. ‘Ask my mum.’
You make a note. You ask: ‘Where did they take you?’
‘Wakefield.’
‘Wood Street? Bishopgarth?’
He shakes his head.
‘OK, then tell me why?’ you ask him. ‘Why did they arrest you?’
‘Because of Clare,’ he says.
‘What about her?’
‘Because they said I killed her.’
‘And is that right?’ you say again. ‘Did you?’
Michael John Myshkin shakes his head again: ‘I told you, no.’
‘No what?’ you say, writing down his words verbatim again.
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘Good,’ you smile. ‘Just checking.’
Michael Myshkin is not smiling.
‘The actual policemen who arrested you?’ you ask him. ‘The ones that came to your work that night? Can you remember their names?’
He shakes his head.
‘Michael, please think. This is very, very important.’
He looks up at you. He says: ‘I know it is.’
‘OK then,’ you say. ‘The policemen who arrested you, who came to the studio, who took you to Wakefield, were these the same policemen who later told you to say you killed Clare?’
Michael Myshkin blinks. Michael Myshkin shakes his head.
You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -
You ask Michael Myshkin: ‘Policemen told you to say you killed Clare?’
He nods.
‘But you didn’t kill her?’
He nods again.
‘But you signed a piece of paper to say you did?’
‘They made me.’
‘Who?’
‘The police.’
‘How?’
‘They said if I signed the paper, I could see my mother.’
‘And if you didn’t?’
‘They said I’d never see her or my father again.’
You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -
‘The police said that?’
He nods.
‘Who was your first solicitor?’ you ask.
‘Mr McGuinness.’
‘Clive McGuinness?’
He nods.
‘How did you find him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you tell Mr McGuinness that you killed Clare?’
Michael Myshkin shakes his head.
‘You told Mr McGuinness that you didn’t kill Clare Kemplay?’
He nods.
‘And what did Mr McGuinness say?’
‘He said it was too late. He said I had signed the paper. He said no-one would believe me. He said everyone would believe the police. He said it would make things worse for me if now I said I didn’t do it. He said I’d never get out of prison. He said I’d never see my mother and father. He said he would only help me if I said I did it. He said I would be able to see my mother and father soon. He said I would only have to stay in prison a short time.’
You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -
‘How long have you been in here, Michael?’
Michael Myshkin looks at you: ‘Seven years, five months, and eleven days.’
You nod.
He starts to pat down his hair again.
You look at your notes. You say: ‘Two girls told the police that they saw you in Morley on a number of occasions, including the afternoon that Clare Kemplay disappeared.’
Michael Myshkin looks up again. Michael Myshkin shakes his head.
‘What?’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘You weren’t in Morley that Thursday?’
He shakes his head.
‘So where were you?’
‘At work.’
‘The Jenkins Photo Studio in Castleford?’
He nods.
‘But the police couldn’t trace Mr Jenkins and the only other member of staff, a Miss Douglas, she couldn’t be sure whether you were at work or not. Not very helpful, was it?’
‘They made her say that.’
‘Who did?’
‘The police.’
‘OK,’ you say. ‘These two girls, they also said that the reason they remembered you so clearly was because you had once exposed yourself to them.’
He shakes his head again.
‘They were lying, were they, Michael?’
He nods.
You sigh. You sit back in your plastic chair. You look across at him.
He is patting down his hair again.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Do you remember Jimmy Ashworth?’
He looks up at you. He nods.
‘What do you remember about him?’
‘He was my friend.’
‘Your friend?’
‘My best friend.’
‘Did he talk to you about Clare?’
He nods.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said she was beautiful.’
‘Beautiful?’ you say. ‘She was bloody dead when he found her?’
Michael Myshkin shakes his head.
‘What?’
‘He’d seen her before.’
‘What? Where?’
‘When they built the houses.’
‘Which houses?’
‘In Morley.’
‘So Jimmy knew her?’
Michael Myshkin nods.
‘Did you?’
He shakes his head.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Did Jimmy kill her?’
He looks at you. He shakes his head again.
‘So who did?’
He is patting down his hair. He is blinking. He is smiling.
‘Who?’
Smiling and blinking and patting down his hair -
You bang the table hard with your hand: ‘Who?’
Michael Myshkin stares up at you -
Michael Myshkin says: ‘The Wolf?’
‘This wolf have a name, does he?’
He says: ‘Ask Jimmy.’
You open your carrier bag. You take out a Yorkshire Post -
There are two photographs on the front page.
You throw the paper across the table -
You lean forward.
You point at one of the photographs -
The photograph of a young man with long, lank hair.
Michael Myshkin looks down at the paper -
You say: ‘He’s dead.’
You point at the other photograph -
The photograph of a little girl with medium-length dark brown hair.
You say: ‘She’s missing.’
Michael Myshkin is still looking down at the paper -
You say: ‘The police said Jimmy took her. They caught him in Morley. They arrested him. They say he confessed. Then he hung himself.’
Michael Myshkin looks up at you -
There are tears down his cheeks.
Michael Myshkin says: ‘He’s back.’
‘Who?’
Michael Myshkin shakes his head.
‘Who?’
Michael Myshkin turns to the guard sat behind him. Michael Myshkin whispers: ‘I’d like to go back to my room now please.’
You are on your feet: ‘Who?’
The guard behind you has a hand on your shoulder -
‘Sit down -’
You are shouting: ‘Michael, who? Tell me fucking who?’
‘Sit down -’
Michael Myshkin is on his feet, his guard opening the other door -
‘Who?’
‘Sit down!’
Michael John Myshkin turns back -
Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks -
Turns back and screams: ‘The Wolf!’
Doors locked, you switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette and then another and another:
‘Thatcher rejects TV battle with Frost; Foot finds Times headlines malicious; Hume concerned over Kent’s CND role; Hess holds key to Hitler’s Diary; eleven-year-old boy strangled by a swing-ball tennis game which wrapped around his neck…’
No Hazel -
Not here.
You switch off the radio and light another cigarette and listen to the rain fall on the roof of the car, eyes closed:
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
You open your eyes:
Fuck.
You feel sick again, your fingers burnt again.
You put out the cigarette and press the buttons in and out on the radio until you find some music:
Simple Minds.
‘Mrs Myshkin? It’s John Piggott.’
In a telephone box on Merseyside again, listening to Mrs Myshkin and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof -
‘Yes, he’s fine,’ you say.
The rain pouring down, the car lights on in the middle of a Sunday afternoon in May -
‘Where was Michael arrested?’
The kind of wet Sunday afternoon you used to spend in bus shelters, huddled around ten cigs and the readers’ wives, afraid -
‘You’re certain?’
Sitting in the bus shelter, listening to the rain fall on the corrugated roof, the world outside so sharp and full of pain, listening to the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof and not wanting to go back home, dreading it -
‘I should have asked you before, but how did Clive McGuinness come to represent Michael?’
That vague fear even then -
‘One last question,’ you ask her. ‘Who did Michael call the Wolf?’
That fear real and here -
‘You’re certain?’
That fear again now -
She hangs up and you stand there, listening to the dial tone -
The dial tone and the relentless sound of the rain on the roof of the telephone box, not wanting to go home, dreading it -
The fear now:
Sunday 29 May 1983 -
D-11:
That fear here -
Dogs barking -
Near.
Wolves.
You drive from Merseyside back to Wakefield -
‘An active IRA unit of four or six men is thought to be planning the assassination of a leading British politician or a bombing during the General Election campaign.’
The motorways quiet -
‘Mr John Gunnell, the leader of West Yorkshire County Council, has alleged that new photographs conclusively prove that British nurse Helen Smith was murdered in Saudi Arabia.’
Everywhere dead.
She is sat on the stair. She is waiting for you. She has brought cold Chinese food and warm alcohol. She hears you on the stairs. She looks up. She is wet. She smiles.
‘Thought you might be hungry,’ she says.
‘I am,’ you lie and open the door -
The telephone ringing, the branches tapping.
Chapter 24
Breathing hard and spitting blood, running blind -
But here it is again, his car:
Fuck.
Let it get within six foot and then BJ off again -
Wind, rain, his voice:
‘BJ!’
Over a fence and on to wasteland, tripping and falling on to ground on other side, bleeding and crying and praying, stumble across wasteland and into a playground, into playground and scrambling over another fence, over fence and into some allotments, drip blood through vegetable patches and over a wall and into a small street of terraces, down street and right into another street of terraces, turn left then right again -
Got to get off streets.
BJ turn off street and down side of a quiet little house -
Into their back garden:
Bingo.
A shed, black in rain at bottom of garden.
Door isn’t locked, just kept shut with a brick.
BJ go inside and sit down on a pile of old newspapers beside a spade and a lawnmower, a wheelbarrow and a trowel.
BJ wait -
Wait for it to get dark -
But it’s always dark.
BJ sit and BJ wait in dark, endless dark, and BJ cry -
Cry -
Cry for cuts on hands and cuts on legs, cuts on face and cuts in hair -
For mud on trousers and mud on shoes, on jacket and on shirt -
For mess -
For fucking mess BJ in -
Not only BJ:
BJ cry for mum -
Cry for mum and all other people BJ either loved or fucked or both -
Or ones BJ simply just fucked over:
For Barry Gannon and Bill Shaw -
Even Eddie Dunford and Paula Garland -
But most of all BJ cry for Grace and Clare:
Here in some nice little person’s shed in a nice little garden in Preston at half-past ten in morning on a wet Friday -
Friday 21 November 1975 -
BJ crying and crying, over and over, finally crying -
Knuckles red and fingers blue, biting hands
and cuffs of shirt, wishing BJ could stop -
Wishing it all would fucking stop -
Stop and rewind -
That dead be living, living never dead:
‘Clare!’
BJ take photograph out of pocket:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her cunt.
But it isn’t her, it really isn’t her, and BJ screw it up and hide it deep inside BJ’s jacket, and BJ close eyes to make it stop and go away -
But when BJ close eyes, BJ see her body again -
Her body on a stretcher, wind raising bloody sheet:
A light green three-quarter coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it, dark brown trousers, brown suede calf-length boots.
BJ open red eyes and BJ steal a glance through dirty wet window at nice little garden and nice little house with its nice little curtains and its nice little ornaments on nice little windowsill, even nice little flap for cat and nice little table for birds -
Birds with their wings, their little angel wings that raise them high -
BJ pull up BJ’s shirt and with dirty wet fingers, BJ search among shoulder blades and back bones, search for stumps -
Stumps of wings -
But BJ cannot find them.
BJ pull down dirty star shirt and BJ think about BJ’s mother and nice little house with nice little garden that never was; Clare and her kids and nice little house with nice little garden they never had and never will -
BJ wait in endless dark and BJ cry.
It is Friday 21 November 1975:
North of England -
Clare is dead.
It’s dark when BJ open shed door -
Always dark -
There are still no lights on in house so BJ walk down side and back out on to street.
BJ jog down to end of street and peer round corner:
All clear.
BJ weave through side streets and terraces, wishing it would stop raining for just one single fucking minute.
BJ come to playing fields where on far side behind houses there is a dual-carriageway.
BJ start to cross playing fields. BJ see them:
Fuck.
A line of coppers with sticks, searching playing fields for something -
A murder weapon.
Someone -
A missing child, me.
Torches and capes in rain, fanned out like a bloody army of night marching towards BJ -
But they can’t see BJ, not yet:
They are walking away from lights of road, into shadow -
BJ hit mud and ground, crouching and crawling across one pitch, rolling and tumbling on to another, slowly -