by David Peace
Fitzwilliam.
Another silent house on Newstead View, Fitzwilliam -
The fire and TV off -
Just the clock ticking and the whistle of another boiling kettle.
Mrs Ashworth comes back in with two mugs of tea.
She hands you yours: ‘Sugar?’
You nod.
‘How many?’
‘Three please.’
She passes you the bag: ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
She sits down. She says: ‘I’m sorry about other day. I’m feeling more myself now, I suppose.’
‘That’s good,’ you say. ‘But it’s going to take a bit of time.’
She nods: ‘That’s what the doctor says. But everyone’s been very helpful, very kind.’
Just the clock ticking -
You say: ‘I saw Tessa.’
Mary Ashworth rolls her tired eyes. Mary Ashworth sighs.
You wait. You wait for her to say what she wants to say -
Wait for her to say: ‘She’s another one, you know?’
You shake your head.
She squeezes her hands together. She leans towards you. She whispers: ‘Another bloody lost cause; I tell you, if there was ever a saint for lame ducks, it was my Jimmy.’
‘That how he fell in with Michael Myshkin?’
She shakes her head: ‘She’s been through a lot, his mother, I know. But, and may God forgive me, I wish with all my heart they’d never moved here and then Jimmy would have never met him and Jimmy…’
‘When was that?’
‘That they moved here?’
You nod.
‘Must have been when Jimmy was about three or four and him, he’d have been ten or so. Not that you’d have known.’
‘They knew each other a while then?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t till Jimmy was ten or eleven himself that they started palling around.’
‘So Michael would have been a teenager? Sixteen or seventeen?’
‘Physically.’
‘Didn’t worry you then, them two being friendly?’
‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘He was harmless, leastways that’s what folk thought.’
You nod.
‘And,’ she continues. ‘Wasn’t like it was just them two. There were others.’
‘Others?’
‘Four or five of them.’
‘They still about?’
She sits back. She scratches her nose.
You push: ‘Remember who?’
‘Kevin Madeley, he would have been one of them. Little Leonard, but he was a bit younger and maybe they’d moved by then. It’s such a long time ago. The Hinchcliffes’ lad, Stuart maybe. There were others and all, you know how kids are?’
The clock ticking -
The bells ringing: ‘They still about?’
‘Kevin Madeley, he moved over Stanley way. I think the Hinchcliffe lad went down South. Birmingham somewhere.’
Distant bells: ‘Their parents? They still live local?’
‘The Madeleys do,’ she says. ‘Mrs Madeley, she worked with his mother.’
‘Mrs Myshkin?’
‘Aye,’ she nods.
‘Dinner lady?’
She nods. She finishes her tea. She keeps hold of her mug on her lap.
You pull your notebook from your pocket. You find your pen. You start to write down some of the names and dates.
She says: ‘What about your brother?’
You stop writing. You look up. You say: ‘What about him?’
‘Always lived round here, hasn’t he?’
You shrug.
‘Not close these days?’ she smiles. ‘You and your Pete?’
You shake your head: ‘Not really, no.’
‘He blame you, does he?’ she asks. ‘Business with your father, then your mother?’
‘Mrs Ashworth, I -’
‘Mr Ashworth does,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes with the ends of her apron. ‘Blames me, I know he does. See it written all over his face every time he looks at me.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ you lie again.
She sniffs. She tries to smile. She says: ‘He might know something, mightn’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Your Pete.’
You shake your head. You think about your brother -
Men not here -
Your father -
Not here.
You say: ‘I want to talk to you about Clare Kemplay.’
She stares at you. She says: ‘Is this for my Jimmy or her down road?’
‘I need to ask you -’
‘Not again,’ she sighs.
‘It’s important -’
‘It’s so bloody long ago -’
‘But -’
‘What’s the point in -’
‘Please -’
‘Raking over -’
‘Mrs Ashworth, please I -’
‘Not going to bring him back -’
‘Look,’ you shout. ‘Clare Kemplay is the bloody reason they picked Jimmy up.’
She stops speaking. She closes her eyes. She clutches the mug tight in her hands. She opens her eyes. She looks at you. She says: ‘He had nothing to do with that and he had nothing to do with this.’
‘He knew Clare Kemplay.’
‘He didn’t know her. He’d seen her. That’s all.’
‘He said she was beautiful.’
‘Who did?’
‘Your Jimmy.’
‘No.’
‘To Michael.’
She shakes her head.
‘He knew her. He found her.’
‘The wrong place -’
‘What about Hazel Atkins?’
She shakes her head again.
‘He was in Morley one week later, the exact time she’d gone missing.’
‘The wrong time -’
‘But why?’
She closes her eyes again.
You tell her: ‘Tessa says he was there to meet her.’
She shakes her head. She opens her eyes. She says: ‘He didn’t…’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t do it,’ she says.
‘Didn’t do what?’
‘He didn’t kill Clare Kemplay. He didn’t take this Hazel Atkins. And he didn’t bloody kill himself.’
‘But -’ you stop.
She looks at you now. She says: ‘Go on, say it.’
‘Say what?’
‘What you want to say. What you really think.’
You shake your head.
‘I’ll say it for you then,’ she snorts. ‘You think he killed Clare Kemplay and he took this other girl and then he hung himself with guilt of it all. That’s what you think, isn’t it?’
‘I -’
‘No, I’ll tell you. They can have all the bloody inquests and all the internal police inquiries they like, but that boy never hung himself. Never. He had no reason. He’d done nothing.’
‘Mrs Ashworth -’
‘Not in a month of bloody Sundays would he do that to me. Never.’
Now you close your eyes. You wait. You open them. You say: ‘I’m sorry.’
She takes a deep breath. She nods.
You shake your head. You think of your father -
Men not here -
Your brother -
Not here.
She dries her eyes. She sits up. She says: ‘Not going to bring him back, is it? Carrying on like this. But what can you do?’
‘Depends what you want?’
She looks at you. She says: ‘The truth, John. That’s all.’
You look down at your notes. You close your eyes -
Not here.
You open your eyes. You look back up. You nod -
The clock ticking.
She puts her mug down on the chipped fireplace in front of her. She reaches into the front pocket of her apron. She takes out a piece of paper. She looks at it. She whispers: ‘It says he hung himself by his belt until he w
as dead. Suicide.’
You nod.
‘You’ve seen it then?’
You nod again.
Mrs Ashworth gets up. She walks over to the table. She picks up a single studded black leather belt. She turns to you. She holds out the belt. She says: ‘You’ve seen this, have you?’
You look away. You shake your head. You swallow. You ask: ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s Jimmy’s belt,’ she nods.
‘They let you have his stuff back then?’
She shakes her head -
The clock has stopped.
You look at the belt again. You look at her. You ask: ‘So how did you get it?’
She looks up at the ceiling. She says: ‘I went upstairs. I opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans.’
You look at her.
She is crying.
You swallow. You say: ‘But -’
She shakes her head.
You look at the belt. You say again: ‘But -’
She shakes her head again. She says: ‘He only had the one belt.’
You look at her. You say: ‘You’re certain?’
She nods, the tears everywhere.
At the door, Mary Ashworth takes your hand in hers.
You look down at the doorstep.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
You shake your head.
She squeezes your hand in hers: ‘Thank you.’
You nod.
She pats your hand twice. She squeezes it one last time. She lets it go.
You turn. You look down the street. You turn back to Mrs Ashworth -
She is looking at you. She is watching you.
You say: ‘Do you think Michael Myshkin killed Clare Kemplay?’
She stares at you. She swallows. She looks away.
You ask again: ‘Do you?’
She looks at you. She shakes her head. She shuts the door.
You walk down Newstead View -
Through the plastic bags and the dog shit.
You go up the path. You knock on number 54 -
There’s no answer.
You knock again.
‘She’s out.’
‘On her broomstick.’
You turn around -
There are a group of four young boys on enormous bicycles at the gate. They have small pointed faces and cold blue eyes. They are dressed in grey and burgundy. They are wearing boxing boots.
‘She’s gone to prison.’
‘Gone to see her son.’
‘He’s in loony bin.’
‘Michael Myshkin, that’s her son.’
You nod. You walk back down the path towards the boys.
They rock backwards and forwards on their bicycles. They lean over their handlebars. They spit.
‘He’s one that killed them little girls.’
‘Had it off with them.’
‘Stuck birds’ wings on them.’
‘Cut their hearts out and ate them.’
You push through the boys and their bicycles.
They don’t move.
‘My dad says they should have hung him.’
‘My mum says they will do, minute he gets out.’
‘My dad says they’ll kill her and all then.’
‘My mum says she’s an evil fucking witch, his mum.’
You spin round. You slap the nearest boy hard across his face.
He falls off his bicycle into a fence and a thin hedge.
He is cut. His small pointed face is bleeding. His cold blue eyes smarting.
The other three boys start to turn the bicycles around.
‘Fuck you do that for fatty?’
‘You fat bastard.’
‘I’m fucking getting my dad on you.’
‘My dad’s going to fucking kill you.’
You walk to the car. You unlock the door.
‘He’ll fucking murder you!’
You get in. You lock the doors.
They are banging on the car:
‘You’re fucking dead, you are, you fat fucking bastard.’
On the radio on the way into Leeds they are playing that record about ghosts again. You pull over just past the Redbeck. You switch off the radio. You take deep breaths. You dry your eyes.
‘I’d like to see the Duty Sergeant who was on the night James Ashworth killed himself.’
‘And you are?’
‘John Piggott, the solicitor.’
The policeman on the desk nods at the plastic chairs behind you. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’
You walk over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights that still blink on and off, on and off, the faded poster still warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -
Still not Christmas.
The policeman on the front desk is making his calls.
You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables is gone, pine disinfectant in its place -
They have been cleaning.
‘Mr Piggott?’
You stand back up and go over to the front desk.
The policeman on the desk says: ‘I’m afraid the officer in question is on holiday at present.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘Could you give me his name then?’
The policeman shakes his head: ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Regulations?’
He nods.
‘Then maybe you can help me?’
The policeman stops nodding.
‘You see, I represent Mrs Mary Ashworth, whom I’m sure you know is the mother of the unfortunate James Ashworth who hung himself in one of your cells. At seven fifty-five on the evening of the twenty-fourth of May to be exact. You did hear about this, I take it?’
The policeman says: ‘How might I be able to help you, sir?’
‘Mrs Ashworth would very much like to have her Jimmy’s clothes back and any other stuff that he might have had on him when he was arrested. Not to mention his rather expensive motorbike. You know how sentimental some folks get.’
The policeman looks you up and down. He takes the end of his pen from out of his mouth. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’
You turn and walk back over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights again, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -
Not Christmas.
The policeman on the desk making more calls.
You look down again at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of pine disinfectant strong.
‘Mr Piggott?’
You stand up and go back over.
‘I’m afraid everyone’s over in Rochdale today, so you’ll have to make an appointment for another day.’
‘When?’
He looks down at the big book on the desk in front of him. He starts to turn the pages. He stops. He looks up. He says: ‘Wednesday?’
You shrug your shoulders.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘What time?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
‘Thank you,’ you say.
You walk through the empty market to the Duck and Drake. You go inside. You order a pint. You go to the phone. You take out your little red book. You dial.
The phone on the other end starts ringing -
Ringing and ringing and ringing.
You look at your watch -
Six.
You hang up. You leave your pint on top of the phone. You walk back out into the empty market and the rain.
It’s a Bank Holiday -
Bank Holiday Monday -
Everywhere dead.
On the drive back to Wakefield you stay in the slow lane and keep the radio off.
You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You go inside. The old Pakistani wi
th the white beard has a black eye and a bandage over his left ear. His young daughter is not here. He does not speak. You look at the bottles. You look at the cans. You look at the papers. You buy a Yorkshire Evening Post. You go back outside. You get in the car. You lock the doors. You open the paper. You read:
HAZEL POLICE CROSS PENNINES
Kathryn Williams, Chief Reporter
The detective leading the hunt for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins today denied reports that police were investigating links between the disappearance of Hazel and that of the Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard in 1972.
Susan Ridyard was ten years old when she went missing in March 1972. Her disappearance was at one time linked to the 1974 abduction and murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay for which Michael Myshkin was later convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment in 1975.
Although Myshkin initially confessed to taking Susan and also Jeanette Garland from Castleford in 1969, Myshkin subsequently denied any involvement and was never formally charged in connection with either disappearance. Michael Myshkin has recently begun an appeal against his conviction and life sentence for the Kemplay murder.
However, this lunchtime, Mr Maurice Jobson, the man leading the search for Hazel, described the continued presence of West Yorkshire detectives in Rochdale as ‘merely routine’ and denied any connection between the two disappearances, branding recent press reports as ‘ultimately harmful to police inquiries’.
James Ashworth, a Fitzwilliam man who had been helping police with their inquiries, was found hanged in his cell at Millgarth police station last week.
You put the paper on the passenger seat. You start the car. You head up the road and on to Blenheim. You park in the drive. You get out. You lock the doors. You go into the building. You go up the stairs. You take your key out. You stop -
The door ajar.
You look at it. You have your key in your hand. You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You push the door -
It swings open.
You stand there. You shit yourself. You say: ‘Hello?’
There’s no answer.
You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You say: ‘Hello?’
No answer.
You step forward. You go inside. You walk slowly down the hall. You say: ‘Hello?’
No-one.
You look in the bedroom. The bathroom. The living room. The kitchen -
You shit, shit, shit, shit, shit yourself:
The whole place has been ransacked -
Everything smashed. Everything broken -
Every single thing -
Every single thing except the bathroom mirror:
You put your fingers to the glass -