Nineteen Eighty-three

by David Peace

  Clare Kemplay smiling up at me, out of my hands –

  In my heart.

  I took the motorway back into Leeds, odd and sudden patches of sunlight falling from the dirty grey sea up above, childhood memories of sunshine and cut grass drowned by voices; terrifying, hysterical, and screeching voices of approaching doom, disaster and death –

  ‘A young girl doesn’t simply vanish into thin air.’

  The odd and sudden patches of sunlight gone, I came off the motorway at the Hunslet and Beeston exit, past the terrifying lorries, the hysterical diggers and the screeching cranes. I took the Hunslet Road then Black Bull Street into the centre and Millgarth, my hands shaking, knees weak and stomach hollow with approaching doom, disaster and death –

  ‘Someone somewhere must have seen something.’

  It was Day 5 –

  1983.

  ‘Now?’ said Dick. ‘This very minute?’

  ‘And not a word, not even to Jim.’

  ‘Can I get my coat?’ he asked, standing.

  ‘Meet you downstairs in five minutes.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, opening the door.

  ‘And Dick,’ I said.

  He stopped.

  ‘Not a word, yeah?’

  He nodded like, this is me Maurice, this is me.

  ‘I mean it,’ I said.

  ‘I know you do,’ he said and I hoped he did –

  Hoped he fucking did.

  He drove.

  I drifted, dreaming –

  Underground kingdoms, forgotten kingdoms of badgers and angels, worms and insect cities; mute swans upon black lakes while dragons soared overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swept down through lamp-lit caverns wherein an owl guarded three sleeping little princesses in tiny feathered wings, guarded them from –

  Waking afraid of the news:

  ‘Police today continued their search for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins, as Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, the detective leading the search, admitted that so far the response from the public had been disappointing …’

  Afraid of the news:

  ‘A young girl doesn’t simply vanish into thin air. Someone somewhere must have seen something.’

  I took off my glasses. I rubbed my eyes, that taste in my mouth –

  Meat –

  Afraid.

  *

  We waited on plastic chairs, listening to the doors and the locks, the shuffling footsteps and the occasional scream from another wing. We waited on plastic chairs, staring at the different shades of grey paint, the grey fittings and the grey furniture.

  We waited on plastic chairs for Michael Myshkin.

  Five minutes later the door opened and there he was –

  In a pair of grey overalls, fat from institutional living and sweaty from institutional heating –

  Michael John Myshkin.

  He sat down across from us, eyes down in front of a full house.

  ‘Michael,’ I said. ‘Do you remember us?’

  Nothing.

  ‘My name is Mr Jobson and this is Mr Alderman. We’re policemen from West Yorkshire,’ I continued. ‘Near where your mum lives.’

  He looked up now, a quick eyeball at Dick then back down at the chubby hands in his tubby lap.

  ‘How are you, Michael?’ asked Alderman and I wished he hadn’t because now Myshkin was fair wringing those chubby hands of his.

  ‘Michael,’ I said. ‘We’re here to ask you some questions that’s all. Be gone before you know it, you tell us what we want.’

  He looked up again, my way this time –

  I smiled. He didn’t smile back.

  ‘Been a while,’ I said. ‘In here a while now, yeah?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Must miss home?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Know I would; my family, my mates?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Fitzwilliam, yeah?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Just you, your mam and dad, wasn’t it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Dad was a miner?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Passed away, yeah?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Been sick a while, had he?’

  Two quick nods.

  ‘Where’s your mam now?’

  ‘Fitzwilliam,’ he whispered.

  ‘Same house?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Bet she’s keeping your old room for you,’ I smiled. ‘Keeping it just the way it was.’

  He nodded again, twice.

  ‘Comes here often, does she, your mum?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a whisper again.

  ‘How about mates, they come and all, do they?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Hear from them much, do you?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘What about Johnny thingy,’ I said. ‘Never hear from him?’

  He looked up: ‘Johnny?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, tapping the table. ‘Johnny, hell-was-his-last-name?’

  ‘Jimmy?’ he said. ‘Jimmy Ashworth?’

  ‘That’s it,’ I nodded. ‘Jimmy Ashworth. How’s he doing?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Never comes? Never writes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Christmas card?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you two were best mates, I heard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thick as thieves, weren’t you?’ smiled Dick.

  He nodded.

  ‘Not very nice that,’ I said. ‘Some bloody friend he turned out to be, eh?’

  Nothing.

  I asked him: ‘What about the others?’

  He looked up.

  ‘Your other mates?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Who was there, remind me?’

  He shook his head. He said: ‘Just Jimmy in end.’

  ‘No girlfriends? Penpals?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘What about work?’

  Nothing.

  ‘You had mates at work, yeah?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Castleford, wasn’t it? Photo studio?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Who was your mate there then?’

  ‘Mary.’

  ‘Mary who?’

  ‘Mary Goldthorpe,’ he said. ‘But she’s dead.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  He shook his head. Then he said: ‘Sharon, the new girl.’

  ‘What was her last name?’

  ‘Douglas,’ he said.

  ‘Sharon Douglas?’ I said.

  He nodded.

  I turned to Dick Alderman.

  Dick Alderman nodded.

  I took off my glasses. I rubbed my eyes. I put them back on: ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Just Mr Jenkins,’ he said and this time I nodded –

  ‘Ted Jenkins,’ I said. ‘That’d be right.’

  The cage door open to the wet Scouse night, a voice shouted after us: ‘Mr Jobson?’

  We both turned round, a tall prison officer coming after us.

  ‘Just thought you ought to know,’ he panted. ‘Myshkin had a meeting with his solicitor on Saturday.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dick. ‘We saw his name on the visitors’ list.’

  ‘But I was there, yeah?’ the prison officer said. ‘In the room with them when Myshkin told this solicitor feller he didn’t do it.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Dick said. ‘Going to appeal, is he?’

  ‘Myshkin said a policeman told him to say he did it,’ the prison officer nodded. ‘Made him confess.’

  ‘Say which policeman, did he?’ asked Dick.

  ‘He couldn’t remember the name,’ said the prison officer. ‘But solicitor cut him off before he could say much else.’

  ‘Smart man,’ I said.

  Dick asked him: ‘Myshkin say anything else?’

  The officer tapped his temple with two fingers. ‘He said a wolf d
id it.’

  ‘Did what?’ said Dick.

  ‘Killed the little girl.’

  ‘A wolf?’ snorted Dick.

  ‘Yeah,’ the officer nodded, still tapping his temple. ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘He get many other visitors, does he?’ I asked.

  ‘Just his mad mam and the God Squad,’ laughed the officer. ‘Poor sod.’

  ‘The poor sod,’ I repeated.

  In the visitors’ car park of the Park Lane Special Hospital, we sat in the dark in silence until I asked Dick: ‘What do you know about John Winston Piggott?’

  ‘Father was one of us.’

  ‘Jesus.’ I shook my head. ‘That was his father?’

  Dick nodded.

  ‘What’s he look like, the son?’

  ‘Right fat bastard,’ he laughed. ‘Office on Wood Street.’

  ‘Like father, like son?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Dick shrugged. ‘But he was Bob Fraser’s solicitor, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Christ almighty,’ I said.

  ‘Déjà bloody vu,’ said Dick.

  ‘What’s he know, Piggott?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘Well, you’d better fucking well find out,’ I said, the taste in my mouth again. ‘And fucking fast.’

  Chapter 5

  You wake about eight and lie in bed eating cold Findus Crispy Pancakes –

  Raw, uncooked in the middle, watching the TV-AM news on the portable:

  ‘Police are to hold an inquiry into the death of a prisoner at Rotherhite Police Station. Mr Nicholas Ofuso, thirty-two, became unconscious and died of asphyxiation due to inhalation of vomit after nine policemen had gone to his flat in answer to a domestic dispute. Mr Ofuso struggled during the journey to Rotherhite Police Station and just before arrival he vomited. As his handcuffs were removed he went limp. He was given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation accompanied by a cardiac massage.’

  It is Tuesday 17 May 1983 –

  D-23.

  After half an hour you make a cup of tea, then you get washed and dressed. You fancy a curry for lunch, a hot one with big fat prawns, but it is pissing down as you open the door and remember you have to see Mrs Myshkin today –

  The newspaper lying on the mat, face up; Hazel Atkins:

  Missing.

  You go back upstairs and puke up all the pancakes and the tea, a flabby man on his knees before his bog, a flabby man who does not love his country or his god, a flabby man who has no country, has no god –

  You don’t want to go to work, you don’t want to stay in the flat:

  A flabby man on your knees.

  You drive over one bridge and under another, past the boarded-up pubs and closed-down shops, the burnt-out bus stops and the graffiti that hates everything, everywhere, and everyone but especially the IRA, Man United, and the Pakis –

  This is Fitzwilliam:

  Back for the second time in a week, in a year.

  Least it has stopped raining –

  Turning out rite nice for once.

  The off-licence is the only thing open so you park the car and go inside and slide the money through a slot to an Asian man and his little lad standing in a cage in their best pyjamas among the bottles of unlabelled alcohol and the single cigarettes. The father slides your change back, the son your twenty Rothman.

  Two girls are sat outside on the remains of a bench. They are drinking Gold Label Merrydown cider and Benilyn cough syrup. A dog is barking at a frightened child in a pushchair, an empty bottle of Thunderbird rolling around on the concrete. The girls have dyed short rats’ tails and fat mottled legs in turquoise clothes and suede pointed boots.

  The dog turns from the screaming baby to growl at you.

  One of the girls says: ‘You fancy a fuck, fatty? Tenner back at hers.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ you say at the front door. ‘I got lost.’

  ‘You’re here now,’ smiles Mrs Myshkin. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Car be all right there?’ you ask her, looking back at the only one in the street.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’ll be gone before the kids get out.’

  You glance at your watch and step inside 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.

  ‘Go through,’ she gestures.

  You go into the front room to the left of the staircase; patterned carpet well vacuumed, assorted furniture well polished, the taste of air-freshener and the fire on full.

  You have a headache.

  Mrs Myshkin waves you towards the settee and you sit on it.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you,’ you nod.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she says and goes back out.

  The room is filled with photographs and paintings, photographs and paintings of men, photographs and paintings of men not here –

  Her husband, her son, Jesus Christ.

  The fire is warm against your legs.

  She comes back in with a plastic tray and sets it down on the table in front of you: ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Help yourself to biscuits,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you,’ you say and reach over for a chocolate digestive.

  She hands you your tea and there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘My sister,’ she says. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘No,’ you say.

  She goes out to the door and you wash down the biscuit and take another and think about turning down the bloody fire. You have chocolate on your fingers and your shirt again.

  Mrs Myshkin comes back in with another little grey-haired woman with the same metal-framed glasses.

  ‘This is my sister,’ she says. ‘Mrs Novashelska, from Leeds.’

  You stand up, wipe your fingers upon your trouser leg, then shake the woman’s tiny hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Mrs Myshkin pours a cup of tea for her sister and they both sit down in the chairs either side of you.

  Mrs Myshkin says to her sister: ‘He saw Michael on Saturday.’

  The other woman smiles: ‘You will help him then?’

  You put down your cup and saucer and turn to Mrs Myshkin: ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  Both the little women are staring at you.

  ‘As I told you last week,’ you begin. ‘I don’t have any experience with appeals.’

  Both little women staring at you, the fat man sweating on the small settee.

  ‘Not this kind of appeal. You see, what should happen, should have happened in Michael’s case, is that his original solicitor and his counsel, they should have lodged an appeal after his trial. Within fourteen days.’

  The little women staring, the fat man roasting.

  ‘But they didn’t, did they?’ you ask.

  Mrs Myshkin and Mrs Novashelska put down their cups on the table.

  You wipe your face with your handkerchief.

  Mrs Novashelska says: ‘They couldn’t very well appeal, could they? Not when they’d all told him to plead guilty.’

  You wipe your face with your handkerchief again and ask: ‘But he did confess, didn’t he?’

  Two little women in a little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone missing –

  Men not here –

  Only you:

  Fat, wet with sweat, and covered in chocolate and biscuit crumbs.

  The two little women, their four eyes behind their metal frames, cold and accusing –

  Silent.

  ‘It’s difficult to appeal against a confession and a guilty plea,’ you say, softly.

  ‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘He didn’t do it.’

  ‘Look,’ you say. ‘I’m very sorry and I would really like to help but I just don’t think I’m the man for the job and I would hate to waste your time or money. You need to find someone better qualified and a lot more experienced than I am in these matters.’

  Their four eyes behind their metal frames
, cold and accusing –

  Silent, betrayed.

  ‘Look,’ you say again. ‘Can I just outline what it would involve, why you really need to get someone else?’

  Silent.

  ‘Firstly you need to apply for leave to appeal. This is usually before what we call the single judge who has to be persuaded by the material prepared that we can demonstrate that there are grounds to appeal against conviction or sentence. That involves the presentation, even in very skeletal form, of legal reasons or new evidence that clearly demonstrate a reasonable degree of uncertainty as to the safety of the conviction. This is unlikely in the case of a confession, a deal with the prosecution, and the consent of the trial judge, plus the Crown and the judge and the jury’s then acceptance of a guilty plea to lesser charges. But for the sake of argument, let’s say such grounds for appeal against conviction can be found, if then these grounds are accepted by the single judge, and that is a very big if, leave to appeal would be granted and then the real business begins. You would need to be represented by counsel and also need to apply for legal aid for the solicitor and counsel to prepare for a full appeal. Should that aid be granted then a date would be set and eventually the case would come before the Court of Appeal. This consists of three judges who would go through the material; the evidence, arguments, what-have-you, and decide whether or not the conviction was safe, after which a ruling would be handed down detailing their decision and the reasoning behind it. In other words, it takes forever and one mistake and you’re back to square bloody one. So you really need to find someone who knows what they’re doing, what they’re talking about.’

  Four eyes, warm and welcoming –

  Hands clapping.

  ‘Mr Piggott,’ beams Mrs Novashelska. ‘You seem to know exactly what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘It really isn’t as simple as it sounds, plus I’ve never actually drawn up an application for leave to appeal and, to be frank, I don’t see what grounds there would be anyway, other than Michael’s changed his mind.’

  Mrs Myshkin says again: ‘He didn’t do it.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ you sigh. ‘But that doesn’t alter the fact that he did confess and he did plead guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, as opposed to murder, and this was accepted by the prosecution and by the judge who did instruct the jury to do likewise which all in all, appeal-wise, is something of an own goal because you’re basically appealing against yourself.’

  ‘He had bad advice,’ says Mrs Novashelska.