by David Peace
‘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.
But Mr Ashworth says nothing to Mrs Myshkin, just leads his wife by the shoulders back up the road to number 69, says nothing to Mrs Myshkin in her doorway with her broken window to her right, nothing to the neighbours paired up and chatting about the bother, their arms and brows crossed –
Just five more last little words from his wife –
Spinning round for one last little attack. Before the pills. Before her bed: ‘Bitch! Bloody fucking Polish bitch!’
You walk back up the path. You put an arm around Mrs Myshkin. You take her back inside –
The neighbours paired up and shaking their heads.
You close the door behind you. You get a brush and shovel from under the stairs. You sweep up the broken glass as Mrs Myshkin dusts the little pieces from in between 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.
‘Used to happen all the time, this kind of thing,’ says Mrs Myshkin. She has a splinter of glass in her palm, blood running down her wrist. ‘Should have seen the place after they first arrested him.’
You nod: ‘My mum said.’
You drive around looking for a DIY shop or something and eventually find one in Featherstone and you buy some chipboard, because that’s all they have, chipboard like you and Pete had your trains on, then you go back to Fitzwilliam and tack the chipboard over the broken glass, Mrs Myshkin saying they’ll be out the next morning to put in a new pane of glass.
You decline her offer of beans on toast, telling her you’ll be in touch as soon as you have any news, and you leave her, leave her in her dark front room with the chipboard over the windows, alone with her photographs and paintings, her photographs and her paintings of men not here.
You leave her like you left your mother, alone in a dark front room with chipboard over the windows and a swastika on the door, alone with her photographs of your father, her photographs of her sons, of men not here.
You stand at the gate and look back up Newstead View, back up the road to 69 and another man gone, a young man:
Jimmy Ashworth –
Yet another young man –
Not here.
You stand at the gate and close your eyes and think of all the other young men –
Not here:
Friday 27 May 1983 –
Fitzwilliam –
Yorkshire.
On the radio on the drive back into Wakefield they are playing a record about ghosts and you wish they weren’t because as you pass your old house and then the Redbeck Café and Motel, both still boarded up, you feel afraid again –
Like you’ve suddenly got something to lose –
For them to repossess.
You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You switch off the radio. You go inside. The old Pakistani with the white beard is stood behind the counter with his young daughter. He is wearing white robes and she is wearing green. They do not speak. You buy vodka and fresh orange, beer and cigarettes, writing paper and envelopes, notebooks and pens –
These are your provisions –
For their coming siege.
You put the carrier bags on the passenger seat. You lock the doors. 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 let yourself in. You double-lock the doors. You close all the windows. You check all the rooms. You switch on the lights. You are afraid –
Something to lose –
Something they want.
You turn out the lights.
You can’t sleep so you drink again. Drink and drink and drink again. Drink until you puke again. Puke again and lose consciousness. Lose consciousness and then wake on the living room floor.
It is still night. The TV still on –
The front page of an old Yorkshire Post is stuck over the screen:
Missing –
The colours and light from the screen illuminate the photograph of her face. The holes in her eyes. The hole in her mouth. The colours and light from the screen make her move. Make her live:
Hazel.
You retch. You run into the hall. You puke in your hands. You open the bathroom door. You puke on the floor. You spew. You turn on the taps. You wash your hands. You clean your teeth. You look up into the mirror.
In lipstick, it says:
D-13.
The branches are tapping against the pane.
Chapter 18
Thursday 20 November 1975:
Lost and now found –
Preston, Lancashire:
They mean murder.
There’s banging and banging and banging on door –
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Walter.’
‘Not now.’
‘Let me in.’
BJ get up, head pounding and pounding and pounding –
BJ open door: ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Clare,’ says Walter.
‘What?’
‘I think she’s gone to meet him.’
‘What?’
‘She’s not in her room.’
‘So?’
‘Way she was talking last night …’
‘What?’
‘“They’re going to meet me and kill me today,” she said.’
Trousers and jumper on, shouting: ‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘You weren’t here, were you.’
‘Shit.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Fuck off,’ BJ spit at him, pushing past him –
Out door.
St Mary’s, Preston:
A church in Hell –
Into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs –
A big woman in other room murdering Superstar.
‘Where’s Clare?’
‘Just missed her, haven’t you, love?’
‘Where she go?’
‘Business.’
‘Fuck.’
‘If you want.’
Back outside in black night, black rain –
Down hill –
Down through town –
Down to Roger Kennedy’s house –
Banging and banging and banging on his door –
His wife answering door, a kid in her arms: ‘Yes?’
‘Roger in?’
‘No, he’s –’
‘Where?’
‘He’s still at work.’
‘Hostel?’
She nods, confused.
Black night, black rain –
Up through town –
Up hill –
Into St Mary’s, into hostel:
Banging and banging and banging on door to office, fluorescent light flickering on and off –
But it’s not Roger, it’s Dave Roberts: ‘What is it?’
‘Seen Roger?’
‘He’s gone home.’
‘Not what his wife says.’
Dave Roberts is frowning: ‘What?’
‘Just been down his house, haven’t I?’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t find Clare, can I?’
‘So?’
‘I’m worried about her.’
‘What’s it got to do with Roger?�
�
‘You got eyes in your head.’
Dave is shaking and shaking and shaking his head: ‘BJ –’
‘Fuck you,’ BJ say before he even starts.
‘Listen –’
But BJ up stairs again, checking her room again, checking BJ’s again:
Nothing, no-one.
BJ walk down to end of corridor. BJ bang on Walter’s door:
Nothing, no-one, but door’s open.
BJ step inside. BJ look about room.
On table in window there’s his old red exercise book.
BJ walk over. BJ open it:
Cuttings about Michael Myshkin, cuttings about murdered prostitutes.
BJ close book. BJ turn to go –
But there he is, standing in doorway:
‘What you doing?’ he asks from out of shadow.
‘I’m looking for Clare,’ BJ stammer.
‘In an old school exercise book?’
BJ look down at brown carpet.
‘And did you find her?’
BJ look up: ‘No.’
‘Well, what you waiting for?’ he shouts. ‘There’s not much time.’
‘Fuck off,’ BJ shout back –
Pushing old twat out of way, going back to BJ’s room –
Stuffing clothes into a carrier bag –
Back into hers and doing same –
Down stairs and out hostel door.
Black night, black rain –
Back up hill –
Back up to St Mary’s:
Church in Hell, last –
Back into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.
Big woman in other room now murdering We’ve only just begun.
‘Clare back yet?’
‘Not yet, love.’
‘Will you tell her, BJ is looking for her?’ BJ pant. ‘Tell her I’ll be down bus station waiting.’
‘If you want.’
One last place –
Last place on earth:
Left on to Frenchwood Street, off Church Street –
Six narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti, doors showing remnants of green paint –
Of evil.
Last door banging in wind, rain –
Last door.
BJ hold open door and step inside:
It is small, about twelve feet square and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex –
Of evil, a Kingdom of Evil.
There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish:
Old newspapers, old clothing –
Old evil, Kingdom of Old Evil.
In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty –
Evil.
A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing –
Nothing but evil, Kingdom of Evil.
A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing.
On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in red paint.
BJ touch paint. It is wet –
Red and wet.
Door opens behind BJ. BJ turn around –
‘SALT!’ screams a man, a vile man in black rags –
‘To preserve the meat.’
BJ push him over and out way. BJ out door and into road. BJ dodging a car and its horns.
‘SALT!’
Blackest night, blackest rain –
Back down hill –
Back into St Mary’s –
Hell –
Back into Saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.
Big woman silent, other room dead.
‘You just missed her again, love.’
‘Shit.’
‘You tell her BJ was looking for her?’
She nods.
‘About bus station?’
She nods again.
‘Fuck.’
‘If you want.’
*
Bus station –
Almost midnight:
No-one.
BJ sit down. BJ wait –
She is late:
It is midnight –
It is late:
Thursday 20 November 1975 –
Too late.
Chapter 19
Old times –
Dark night past –
Day 5:
One in the morning –
Wednesday 16 July 1969:
Yorkshire –
Leeds –
Brotherton House Police Station:
The Basement –
Room 4, always Room 4:
George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.
George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.
George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford –
The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland –
Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.
I ask George Marsh: ‘For the thousandth fucking time, George, what were you doing on Saturday?’
And for the thousandth fucking time he tells me: ‘Nothing.’
Old times –
Long dark night past –
Day 5:
Three in the morning –
Wednesday 16 July 1969:
Yorkshire –
Leeds –
Brotherton House Police Station:
The Basement –
Room 4, always Room 4.
We open the door. We step inside:
Bill Molloy and me –
Him with a wide streak of grey in his thick black hair, me with my thick lenses and black frames –
The Badger and the Owl.
And him:
George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.
George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.
George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford –
The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland –
Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.
I say: ‘Put your palms flat upon the desk.’
George Marsh puts his palms flat upon the desk.
I sit down at an angle to George Marsh. I take a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of my sports jacket. I hand them to Bill.
Bill walks around the room. Bill plays with the handcuffs. Bill sits down opposite Marsh. Bill puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist.
Silence –
Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet –
The Station silent, the Headrow silent –
Leeds sleeping, Yorkshire sleeping.
Bill jumps up. Bill brings his handcuffed fist down on to the top of Marsh’s right hand –
Marsh screams –
Screams –
But not much, not much at all.
I say: ‘Put your hands back.’
Marsh puts them back on the table.
‘Flat.’
He lies them down flat.
‘Nasty,’ says Bill.
‘You should get that seen to,’ I say.
We are both smiling at him –
Him not smiling, just staring straight ahead.
I stand up. I walk over to the door. I open the door. I step out into the corridor.
I come back in with a blanket –
I place it on George Marsh’s shoulders: ‘There you go, mate.’
I sit back down. I take out a packet of Everest from the pocket of my sports jacket. I offer one to Bill.
Bill takes out a lighter. He lights both our cigarettes.
We blow smoke across Marsh.
His hands are flat upon the desk.
Bill l
eans forward. Bill dangles the cigarette over Marsh’s right hand. He rolls it between two fingers, back and forth, back and forth.
Marsh never flinches. Marsh silent –
Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet –
The Station silent, the Headrow silent.
Bill reaches forward. Bill grabs Marsh’s right wrist. Bill holds down Marsh’s right hand. Bill stubs his cigarette out into the back of Marsh’s hand.
Marsh screams –
Screams –
But not much, not much at all.
I say: ‘Put your hands flat.’
Marsh puts them flat on the table.
The room stinks of burnt skin –
His.
‘Another?’ I say.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says Bill. He takes another Everest from the pack. He lights the cigarette. He stares at Marsh. He leans forward. He begins to dangle the cigarette over Marsh’s hand.
Marsh stares dead ahead –
Silent:
Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet –
The Station silent, the Headrow silent.
Bill and I stand up –
I say: ‘Stand up.’
Marsh stands up.
‘Eyes front.’
Marsh stares straight ahead, eyes dead.
‘Don’t move.’
Bill and I lift the three chairs and the table to the side. I open the door. We step out into the corridor. I close the door. I look through the spy-hole at Marsh. He is stood in the centre of the room. He is staring straight ahead, not moving, eyes dead.
‘He’s a hard one,’ I say.
‘Where’s Dickie?’ Bill asks.
‘He’s here.’
‘He got it?’
I nod.
‘Best get him then, hadn’t you?’
I walk off down the corridor.
Dick Alderman is already waiting in one of the cells at the end.
‘We’re ready,’ I say.
He nods.
We walk back down the corridor, Alderman carrying it under a blanket.
Bill nods at Alderman: ‘Morning.’
‘Morning,’ he slurs back. His breath reeks of alcohol.
Bill says: ‘You up for this, Richard, are you?’
He nods.
Bill leans in closer to his mouth: ‘Bit of Dutch courage for breakfast, eh?’
Alderman tries to pull his head back.
Bill’s got him by the scruff: ‘Don’t fuck it up, Richard.’
Alderman nods. Bill pats him on his face. Alderman smiles. Bill smiles back.
I ask: ‘Everybody ready?’
They both nod. Alderman puts down the box. He leaves it in the corridor for now. Bill hands him another package wrapped in a brown towel.