Nineteen Eighty-three

by David Peace

  I open the door. We step inside –

  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 stand by the door. Bill and Alderman bring the chairs and the table back into the centre of the room.

  Bill puts a chair behind Marsh. He says: ‘Sit down.’

  Marsh sits down opposite Dick Alderman.

  Bill picks up the blanket from the floor. He puts it over Marsh’s shoulders.

  Alderman lights a cigarette. He says: ‘Put your palms flat on the desk.’

  Marsh puts his hands flat on the desk.

  Bill is pacing the room behind Marsh.

  Alderman puts the brown package on the table. He unwraps it. He takes out a pistol. He lays it down on the table between himself and George Marsh.

  Alderman smiles at Marsh –

  Marsh just stares dead ahead.

  Bill stops walking about the room. He stands behind Marsh.

  ‘Eyes front,’ says Alderman.

  Marsh keeps staring straight ahead into the silence –

  The dead silence:

  Room 4 dead, the Basement dead.

  Alderman jumps up. Alderman pins Marsh’s wrists down.

  Bill grabs the blanket. Bill twists it around Marsh’s face.

  Marsh falls forward off the chair.

  Alderman holds down his wrists.

  Bill twists the blanket around his face.

  Marsh kneels on the floor.

  Alderman lets go of Marsh’s wrists.

  Marsh spins round in the blanket and into the wall:

  CRACK –

  Through the room, through the Basement.

  Bill pulls off the blanket. He picks Marsh up by his hair. He stands him up against the wall.

  ‘Turn around, eyes front.’

  Marsh turns around.

  Alderman has the pistol in his right hand.

  Bill has some bullets. He is throwing them up into the air. He is catching them.

  Alderman turns to the door. He asks me: ‘It’s all right to shoot him then?’

  I nod: ‘Shoot him!’

  Alderman holds the pistol at arm’s length in both hands. He points the pistol at Marsh’s head.

  Marsh is staring straight back into Alderman’s eyes.

  Alderman steps forward. The barrel touches Marsh’s forehead. Alderman pulls the trigger –

  CLICK –

  Nothing happens.

  ‘Fuck,’ says Alderman.

  He turns away. He fiddles with the pistol.

  Marsh is staring straight ahead.

  ‘I’ve fixed it,’ says Alderman. ‘It’ll be all right this time.’

  He points the pistol again –

  Marsh staring straight back into him.

  Alderman pulls the trigger –

  BANG –

  Marsh falls to the floor.

  I think he’s dead.

  Marsh opens his eyes. He looks up from the floor. He sees the smoking gun in Alderman’s hand. He sees the shreds of black material coming out of the barrel. He sees them floating down to the floor, over him –

  He sees us all laughing.

  George Marsh smiles.

  Bill picks him up off the floor. Bill stands him against the wall. Bill takes two steps back. Bill takes one step forward. Bill kicks him in the balls.

  George Marsh falls to the floor again.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Marsh stands up.

  ‘On your toes,’ says Bill.

  Bill steps forward. Bill kicks him in the balls again.

  He falls to the floor again.

  Alderman walks over to him. Alderman kicks him in the chest. Alderman kicks him in the stomach. Alderman handcuffs his hands behind his back. Alderman pushes his face down into the floor.

  ‘Do you like rats, George?’

  Marsh looks up at him.

  ‘Do you like rats?’

  Marsh says nothing.

  I open the door.

  Bill steps out into the corridor. He comes back into the room. He has the box under the blanket. He walks over to where Marsh is lying on the floor. He puts the box down on the ground next to Marsh’s face.

  Alderman pulls Marsh’s head up by his hair.

  Bill rips off the blanket: ‘Three, two, one –’

  The rat is fat. The rat is wet. The rat is staring through the wire of its cage at Marsh.

  Bill tips up the cage. The rat slides closer to the wire and Marsh. Bill shouts: ‘Get him! Get him!’

  The rat is frightened. The rat is hissing. The rat is clawing at the wire. The rat is clawing at Marsh’s face.

  ‘He’s starving,’ says Bill.

  Alderman pushes Marsh’s face into the wire.

  Bill kicks the cage. Bill tips the rat up into the wire –

  It’s tail and fur against Marsh’s face.

  ‘Turn it round, turn it round,’ Alderman is saying.

  ‘Open it,’ I say.

  Bill tips the cage up on its backside. The wire door is facing up. Bill opens the door.

  The rat is at the bottom of the cage. The rat is looking up at the open door. Alderman brings Marsh’s face down to the open door –

  Marsh, eyes wide, struggles to get loose.

  The rat is growling. The rat is shitting everywhere. The rat is looking up at Marsh.

  Alderman squeezes Marsh’s face down further into the open cage.

  Marsh struggles. Marsh says something.

  I nod.

  Alderman pulls him back up by his hair: ‘What? What did you say?’

  Marsh looks at him. Marsh smiles.

  Alderman pushes his face back down into the cage. Alderman screams: ‘What have you done with her? What have you fucking done with her?’

  Marsh says something.

  I nod again.

  Alderman pulls him back up: ‘What did you say?’

  Marsh looks at him. Marsh says: ‘I did nothing. I know nothing. So I’ve got nothing to say.’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Bill and Bill reaches down into the cage. Bill picks out the rat by its tail. Bill swings it around into the wall –

  SMASH!

  Blood splatters across Marsh and Alderman –

  ‘Fucking hell,’ shouts Alderman.

  Bill drops the dead rat back into the wire cage. Bill squats down level with Marsh. Bill wipes his hands on Marsh’s face, on his police issue grey shirt, and Bill says again: ‘Is that right?’

  George Marsh puts his hand to his face. George Marsh smears the rat’s blood across his cheeks, across his tongue and lips, and George Marsh says: ‘John Dawson.’

  ‘What about him?’ asks Bill.

  Marsh licks his lips: ‘He knows what I did. He knows what I know. He’ll tell you all about it.’

  Bill looks at Marsh.

  Marsh winks.

  Bill stands up. Bill kicks Marsh hard in the ribs.

  George Marsh slumps to the floor, clutching his side, coughing –

  Laughing.

  I turn to Alderman: ‘Clean him and room up.’

  Bill and I step out into the corridor.

  ‘He did it,’ I say. ‘He fucking did it.’

  Bill shakes his head. Bill looks at his watch.

  I look at mine:

  It’s almost dawn –

  Day 6.

  But there’s no light –

  Not down here.

  Here just night:

  Endless dark night –

  Endless dark nights, past –

  Past and future –

  Futures and pasts:

  Times old and yet to come.

  Chapter 20

  You ar
e sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library at eight o’clock on a wet Saturday morning in May –

  The car doors are locked and you are shaking, unable to switch off the radio:

  ‘Healey wins Polaris battle with Foot; Tebbit pledges to curb unions and abolish GLC and metropolitan district councils; Thatcher seeks bumper victory to thwart Labour extremists; boy aged sixteen found hanging from window bars of a cell in the borstal allocation unit of Strangeways prison; Dennis Nilsen is committed for trial …’

  No Hazel.

  You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library at half-eight on a wet Saturday morning in May –

  The radio is off but you are still shaking –

  The car doors still locked.

  It is Saturday 28 May 1983 –

  D-12:

  Does anybody know any jokes?

  Up the stairs to the first floor of the library, the microfilms and old newspapers, pulling two boxes of Yorkshire Posts from the shelves:

  December 1974 and November 1975.

  Threading the film, winding the spools, flogging dead horses:

  STOP –

  Friday 13 December 1974:

  Morley Girl Missing – by Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.

  Mrs Sandra Kemplay made an emotional appeal this morning for the safe return of her daughter, Clare.

  STOP –

  Sunday 15 December 1974:

  Murdered – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

  The naked body of nine-year-old Clare Kemplay was found early yesterday morning by workmen in Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield.

  STOP –

  Monday 16 December 1974:

  Catch this Fiend – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year, 1968 & 1971.

  A post-mortem into the death of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay revealed that she had been tortured, raped, and then strangled.

  STOP –

  Thursday 19 December 1974:

  Caught – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

  Early yesterday morning police arrested a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay.

  According to a police source, exclusive to this newspaper, the man has confessed to the murder and has been formally charged. He will be remanded in custody at Wakefield Magistrates’ Court later this morning.

  The police source further revealed that the man has also confessed to a number of other murders and formal charges are expected shortly.

  STOP –

  Saturday 21 December 1974:

  A Mother’s Plea – by Edward Dunford.

  Mrs Paula Garland, sister of the Rugby League star Johnny Kelly, wept as she told of her life since the disappearance of her daughter, Jeanette, just over five years ago.

  ‘I’ve lost everything since that day,’ said Mrs Garland, referring to her husband Geoff’s suicide in 1971, following the fruitless police investigation into the whereabouts of their missing daughter.

  ‘I just want it all to end,’ wept Mrs Garland. ‘And maybe now it can.’

  The arrest of a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the disappearance and murder of Clare Kemplay has brought a tragic hope of sorts to Mrs Garland.

  STOP –

  Saturday 21 December 1974:

  Murder Hunt – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

  A fresh murder hunt was launched in Wakefield today following the discovery of the body of 36-year-old –

  STOP –

  STOP –

  Into the library toilets, dry-heaving –

  Your stomach burning, your stomach bleeding –

  You retch again. You puke. You spew –

  Knowing it’s not over, that it’ll never be over –

  That you have to go back there –

  Threading films, winding spools, flogging dead horses:

  STOP –

  Monday 23 December 1974:

  RL Star’s Sister Murdered – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

  Police found the body of Mrs Paula Garland at her Castleford home early Sunday morning, after neighbours heard screams.

  STOP –

  Tuesday 24 December 1974:

  3 Dead in Wakefield Xmas Shoot-out – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.

  STOP –

  STOP –

  STOP –

  Back in their bogs, burning and bleeding –

  Retching.

  Puking.

  Spewing –

  Knowing what you know, damned to go back one last fucking time –

  You thread the last film. You wind the last spool. You flog the dead:

  STOP –

  Friday 21 November 1975:

  Myshkin gets life.

  In a telephone box on Balne Lane, the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof, you make two calls and one appointment, thinking –

  Jack, Jack, Jack –

  The relentless sound of the rain on the roof, thinking –

  Not here.

  There is a Leeds & Bradford A–Z open on your lap. Your notes and photocopies are on the passenger seat beside you. You are driving through the back and side streets of Morley –

  It is Saturday but there are no children.

  You come down Church Street to the junction with Victoria Road and Rooms Lane. You turn right on to Victoria Road. You park outside Morley Grange Junior and Infants School, under the steeple of a black church –

  The rain falling through the dark, quiet trees.

  You look at your notes. You start the car.

  ‘Clare Kemplay was last seen on Thursday 12 December 1974, walking down Victoria Road towards her home –’

  You follow Victoria Road along –

  Past the Sports Ground, past Sandmead Close.

  ‘Clare was ten years old with long straight fair hair and blue eyes, wearing an orange waterproof kagool, a dark blue turtleneck sweater –’

  You glance at your notes again –

  You indicate left.

  ‘Pale blue denim trousers with a distinctive eagle motif on the back left pocket and red Wellington boots –’

  You turn into Winterbourne Avenue –

  It is a cul-de-sac of nine or ten houses; some detached, some not.

  ‘She was carrying a plastic Co-op carrier bag containing a pair of black gym shoes.’

  A cul-de-sac.

  You park outside number 3, Winterbourne Avenue.

  There is a For Sale sign stuck in the tiny front lawn.

  You get out. You walk up the drive. You ring the doorbell.

  There is no answer.

  A woman in the next house opens her front door: ‘You interested in the house?’

  ‘No,’ you shout back over the low hedge and drives. ‘I’m looking for the Kemplays?’

  ‘The Kemplays?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘They moved years ago.’

  ‘You don’t know where, do you?’

  ‘Down South.’

  ‘You remember when?’

  ‘When do you bloody think?’ she says and slams her front door.

  You stand in the drive of a house that nobody wants to buy and you wonder what the Atkins will do, if they’ll go down South or if they’ll stay around here, stay around here and watch their neighbours’ children grow, watch their neighbours’ children grow while their own daughter rots in the ground, rots in the ground of the very place that took her away.

  You stand in the rain in the cul-de-sac and you wonder.

  You go back to the car. You get in. You lock the doors. You open the A–Z again.

  You start the car. You turn right out of Winterbourne Avenue. You go back down Victoria Road –

  Back past the Sports Ground, back past the school.

  You turn right on to Rooms Lane. You go up Rooms Lane –

  Past the church –

  The rain falling through the dark, quiet trees.

  You come to Bradstock Garde
ns. You turn right again.

  Bradstock Gardens is a cul-de-sac, just like Winterbourne Avenue.

  A cul-de-sac.

  There are two policemen sat in a police car outside number 4.

  The curtains are drawn, the milk on the step.

  You turn to look at your notes:

  ‘A ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light brown corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket, carrying a black drawstring gym bag –’

  Sat beside you on the passenger seat –

  Hazel looks at you –

  Looks at you and says –

  ‘Help me –’

  The rain falling through the dark, quiet trees –

  ‘We’re in hell.’

  You reverse out of the cul-de-sac –

  The Leeds & Bradford A–Z open on your lap, your notes and photocopies on the passenger seat beside you, out of Morley –

  It is Saturday but there are no children –

  All the children missing.

  You drive out of Morley –

  Down Elland Road and into Leeds –

  They are playing that record about ghosts again.

  You change stations but all you get is –

  Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher.

  No Hazel –

  Not here.

  At the Yorkshire Post reception, you ask the pretty girl with the nice smile and bleached hair if she has an address for one of their former employees.

  ‘Jack Whitehead?’ she repeats. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A journalist,’ you say. ‘Crime.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him,’ she frowns. ‘Do you know when he last worked for us?’

  ‘Saturday 18 July 1977.’

  She shakes her head again. She picks up the phone: ‘Hi, it’s Lisa at reception. I’ve got a gentleman here asking about a Jack Whitehead who he says was a journalist here up until July 1977.’

  She listens. She waits. She says: ‘Thank you.’

  You watch her hang up. Her roots need doing.

  She looks up. She smiles: ‘Someone will be down in a minute.’

  The woman is in her mid-thirties and good-looking. She has a confident walk and a look of Marilyn Webb.

  You stand up.

  ‘Kathryn Williams,’ she says, hand out.

  ‘John Piggott,’ you reply, holding her hand for as long as you dare.

  ‘You’re here about Jack Whitehead, I believe?’

  You nod: ‘I’m a solicitor and I’ve become involved in an appeal and I know from memory and the microfilms that Jack Whitehead covered the original case.’