Nineteen Eighty-three

by David Peace

  She tries to smile. She’s already bored. She says: ‘How can I help?’

  ‘To be honest,’ you mumble, ‘I don’t know if you can. I know that Jack Whitehead had some sort of accident in 1977 and that he no longer –’

  ‘Terrible,’ she says. She looks at her watch.

  ‘But I was hoping somebody might have an address, so I could maybe contact –’

  She shakes her head: ‘Last I heard, he was still in hospital.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know which one by any chance?’

  ‘Stanley Royd.’

  You can see red brake-lights through the glass walls of the building, headlights and rain against the revolving doors.

  ‘I suppose he could be dead,’ you say.

  ‘Doubt it,’ she says. ‘We’d have heard.’

  You nod again. And again.

  ‘Well,’ she smiles. ‘If there was nothing else …’

  ‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘Thank you very much.’

  She walks you to the doors. She says: ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Parrot.’

  ‘Piggott,’ you smile.

  She laughs and squeezes your arm: ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ you say. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  She has her hand out again: ‘Which case was it?’

  ‘Clare Kemplay.’

  She starts to let go of your hand: ‘Whose appeal? Not –’

  ‘Michael Myshkin,’ you nod.

  She drops it.

  Chapter 21

  She’s slipped on to her knees and he’s come out of her. Now he’s angry. She tries to turn but he’s got her by her hair, punching her casually once, twice, and she’s telling him there’s no need for that, scrambling to give him his money back, and then he’s got it up her arse, but she’s thinking at least it’ll be over then, and he’s back kissing her shoulders, pulling her black bra off, smiling at this fat cow’s flabby arms, and taking a big, big bite out of underside of her left tit, and she can’t not scream and she knows she shouldn’t because now he’s going to have to shut her up and she’s crying because she knows it’s over, that they’ve found her, that this is how it ends, that she’ll never see her daughters again, not now, not ever –

  BJ awake:

  It is morning and there are sirens –

  Police sirens.

  Fuck.

  BJ get up off bench, eyes blinking in grey light –

  Heavy smell of diesel –

  BJ go into bogs and puke in sink.

  Fuck, fuck.

  Preston Bus Station –

  Friday 21 November 1975:

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  BJ run up hill from centre, back to hostel.

  There is no-one in office –

  Just fluorescent light flickering on and off.

  BJ go upstairs and bang on her door: ‘Clare!’

  But there’s no-one, nothing.

  BJ try door and it opens. BJ step inside.

  Room is trashed and smashed, more than usual –

  More than what BJ did last night –

  Someone else was here:

  Walter.

  BJ turn to leave her room and there he is, standing in doorway.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s me,’ BJ say. ‘Who fuck you think it is?’

  He steps out of shadow, arms out: ‘Look!’

  ‘Fuck,’ BJ say –

  ‘Look at me!’

  His eyes white, his eyes blind.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They were here,’ he says.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘You and Clare,’ he says. ‘They turned both your rooms upside down.’

  BJ look down at carrier bag in BJ’s hand. BJ tip it out on to her bed –

  Clothes, make-up, a photograph:

  Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.

  ‘What is it?’ gropes Walter.

  BJ pick photograph up –

  ‘It’s not her,’ BJ say.

  ‘Where is she?’ asks Walter.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ he whispers, tears on his cheeks.

  ‘We all are,’ BJ say.

  BJ run up hill, past other St Mary’s, up Church Street and on to French –

  Fuck, fuck, fuck:

  Police cars and an ambulance parked in front of garages –

  Last door –

  Last door banging in wind, in rain –

  Two policemen in black cloaks holding it open as they carry out a body on a stretcher, wind raising a bloody sheet:

  A light green three-quarter-length 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:

  A complete wreck of a human being.

  A woman is weeping at side of road, her dog barking at first train out of here –

  Just like Clare used to.

  Then BJ see him, standing at top of street by open door of his car –

  Looking at BJ.

  He smiles.

  BJ run.

  Chapter 22

  Thursday 17 July 1969:

  Apollo 11 starts with a beautiful ride on the way to the moon –

  I’m on an ugly ride out to Castleford:

  The overture to a new era of civilisation –

  The radio full of war songs and bad news:

  London Wharf explosion kills five firemen, local girl still missing –

  War songs, bad news, and the moon.

  The site is visible for two or three miles before we reach it, the skeleton of an enormous bungalow on the top of a hill, its stark white bones rising out of the ground.

  ‘Must have some bloody brass,’ I say –

  Bill smiles. Bill nods. Bill says nothing.

  I turn off the main road.

  It is raining as we park at the bottom of the hill.

  ‘He expecting us?’ I ask.

  ‘Looks that way,’ says Bill –

  Two men are coming down the tracks from the top of the hill. They are walking under two large red golfing umbrellas. They are wearing Wellington boots.

  Bill and I get out into the drizzle and the mud.

  ‘Long time no see, Don,’ says Bill to the big man with the Spanish tan –

  Donald Foster, Yorkshire’s Construction King.

  Donald Foster shakes Bill’s hand: ‘Too long, Bill.’

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you here today,’ says Bill. ‘Pleasant surprise.’

  ‘The bad penny,’ winks Foster. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Fair few of them too, I hear,’ smiles Bill.

  Donald Foster slaps Bill on the back. He laughs and gestures at the other man: ‘Bill, this is John Dawson; a good man and a very good friend of mine.’

  Bill sticks out his hand: ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Dawson.’

  Dawson takes it.

  Foster says to Dawson: ‘John, this is Detective Superintendent Bill Molloy; also a good man and also a very good friend of mine.’

  ‘Nice to meet you too, Superintendent,’ replies the gaunt and paler man –

  John Dawson, the Prince of Architecture himself.

  Bill says: ‘Mr Dawson, Don; this is my colleague and friend, Maurice Jobson.’

  Don Foster shakes my hand: ‘Bill’s told me a lot about you, Inspector.’

  I say: ‘Only the good things, I hope.’

  Foster still has my hand in his. He grins: ‘Now where would fun be in that.’

  John Dawson has his hand out, waiting. He says: ‘John Dawson.’

  Foster lets my hand go. I take Dawson’s. I nod. I say nothing.

  Bill is looking up at the top of the rise, at the bones of the bungalow. He says: ‘Mind if we have a look?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ says Dawson.

  ‘We’ve buried bodies deep mind,’ laughs Foster.


  ‘I should bloody well hope so,’ says Bill.

  John Dawson hands us his large umbrella.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Bill.

  I say nothing.

  We start up the track towards the site. Dawson and Foster are under one umbrella, Bill and I under the other, the umbrellas failing to keep us dry –

  Our shoes and our socks sinking into the sod.

  Foster strides ahead back up the hill, Dawson beside him. Foster stops. He turns round: ‘Keep you busy behind that desk, do they, Bill?’

  ‘Not busy enough,’ Bill shouts back.

  They are waiting for us when we reach the top, waiting under their red umbrella among the stark white bones.

  John Dawson asks: ‘Have either of you seen the film Lost Horizon?’

  ‘No,’ says Bill.

  Dawson shrugs. He surveys the site. He says: ‘It’s my wife Marjorie’s favourite. In the film there’s a mythical city called Shangrila; that’s what I’m going to call this place – Shangrila. It’s going to be her present for our Silver Wedding next year.’

  ‘Does she know?’ Bill asks.

  ‘If she does, she’s not saying,’ he smiles.

  The rain is falling fast on our red umbrellas, the four of us stood in the foundations, among the white scaffolding, looking out across Castleford and the Aire –

  The silence and the grey sky.

  ‘I’ve designed it to reflect a swan,’ says Dawson.

  ‘John loves swans,’ nods Don Foster.

  ‘Beautiful creatures,’ Dawson continues. ‘I suppose you both know that once swans mate, they mate for life?’

  ‘If one of them dies,’ I nod. ‘The other one pines to death.’

  ‘Very romantic,’ says Bill –

  There’s something in his voice, something he doesn’t like, something I don’t –

  From under our umbrella, Bill points: ‘What’s that going to be down there?’

  Halfway back down the slope, there is a large and freshly dug hole in the ground.

  ‘Fish pond,’ says Don Foster. ‘For his goldfish.’

  ‘Not Swan Lake then?’ laughs Bill.

  ‘Not quite,’ says Dawson.

  Bill tilts the umbrella back so he can look at both of them; his old mate Don and his new mate John. Bill says: ‘Is there somewhere we can have a word?’

  ‘A word?’ repeats Don Foster, his tan fading with the light and the rain.

  ‘Aye,’ nods Bill. ‘A word.’

  Foster looks at Dawson. Dawson looks over at a small cabin on the edge of the site. Foster looks back at Bill. He says: ‘The hut?’

  Bill and I follow them over there.

  John Dawson unlocks the door. We go inside. Don Foster lights a paraffin heater. Dawson pours out the tea from two large flasks. Bill flashes the ash. We sit there, like four blokes about to play a hand of cards.

  It is raining hard now against the hut, against the window.

  I look at Bill. I look at my watch. I look at Bill again.

  Bill stamps his cigarette out on the floor. He takes a swig of his tea. He asks them: ‘I take it you both know we’ve got George Marsh at Brotherton?’

  John Dawson and Don Foster glance at each other for a split second –

  A split second in which you can see them thinking –

  Thinking of denying that they actually know George Marsh –

  A split second in which they change my life –

  All our fucking lives –

  A split second before Don Foster shakes his head. A split second before he says: ‘I wish you’d have come to us before, Bill.’

  ‘Why’s that then, Don?’

  ‘Could have saved us all a lot of bother.’

  ‘How’s that then, Don?’

  Don Foster looks at John Dawson.

  John Dawson looks at Bill.

  Bill waits.

  John Dawson says: ‘He was with me.’

  Bill waits.

  John Dawson says: ‘On Saturday.’

  Bill waits.

  John Dawson says: ‘Bit of cash in hand.’

  Bill waits.

  John Dawson stands up. He goes over to the window and the rain. He looks out at the skeleton of the enormous bungalow, its stark white bones rising out of the ground. John Dawson says: ‘He was here with me.’

  I look at Bill.

  Bill smiles. Bill turns to Don Foster. Bill says: ‘Wish you’d have come to us before, Don.’

  Don Foster doesn’t smile. He just blinks.

  ‘Could have saved us all a lot of bother,’ says Bill. ‘A lot of bother.’

  On the road home we stop by a telephone box.

  Bill makes the call.

  I sit and feel hollow and sick inside.

  Bill opens the passenger door. It’s written all over his bloody face. All over the bloody Action form in his hand.

  ‘It’s bollocks,’ I say. ‘Fucking bollocks.’

  ‘Got no reason to hold him now.’

  ‘Fucking bollocks.’

  ‘Maurice –’

  ‘Load of fucking bollocks.’

  ‘What? They’re all fucking lying?’

  ‘It’s a load of fucking bollocks and you fucking well know it!’

  ‘Finished?’ Bill asks.

  I clutch the wheel, my knuckles white when they should be bloody and scabbed.

  ‘Have you fucking finished?’ he asks again.

  I nod.

  ‘Then I hope you’ll remember that we fucking owe John and Don.’

  I nod again, my tongue bleeding.

  ‘Now let’s get bloody home,’ says Bill Molloy, the Badger, scrawling across the form:

  N.F.A.

  Home –

  Home with its children’s feet upon the stairs, laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, the sounds of meals being cooked, served and eaten –

  Home, sod that –

  I drive through the fading summer evening, the fields of green and trees of brown, birds going home and the cattle to sleep, clouds in retreat and night upon the march with its promise of another summer’s day tomorrow, of cricket and croquet and the Great Yorkshire Show, and –

  Fuck it. I see under the ground –

  An underground kingdom, an animal kingdom of badgers and angels, worms and insect cities; white swans upon black lakes while dragons soar overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swoop down through lamp-lit caverns wherein an owl searches for a sleeping little princess in her tiny feathered wings –

  My underground –

  My underground kingdom, this animal kingdom of corpses and rats and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the dirty water of old tears, dragons tearing up burning skies, empty churches and barren wombs, the fleas, rats and dogs picking through the ruin of her bones and wings, her starved white skeleton left here to weep by –

  I park at the bottom of the hill, the stark white bones rising out of the ground and into the moonlight.

  I get out into the moonlight, the ugly moonlight.

  I walk up the hill.

  My shoes and my socks sink into the sod.

  In the ugly moonlight, I start to dig.

  I drive home, the radio on:

  Suspicious Minds –

  War songs and bad news:

  ‘David Smith, one of the chief witnesses in the Moors Murder trial, was sentenced at Chester Assizes to three years’ imprisonment. Mr Smith, aged twenty-one, a labourer, pleaded guilty to wounding William Lees with intent to do grievous bodily harm. In mitigation his counsel claimed that had he not been involved in the murder trial Smith might not have been in trouble.’

  War songs, bad news, and the moon:

  ‘“Spirit of mankind is with you,” says President Nixon.’

  The radio off.

  I park outside our house, our home –

  The lights are off, the curtains drawn –

  Ever
ybody sleeping.

  I get out of the car.

  I stand and look up at our house, our home –

  In the ugly moonlight with dirty hands:

  Jeanette Garland, eight, still missing –

  The little girl who never came home.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday 29 May 1983 –

  D-11:

  You push the buzzer and wait outside the door to the main building. There is the loud click. The sound of the alarm. You pull open the door. You step into the steel cage. You show the plastic visitor’s tag to the guard on the other side of the bars. You tell him your name. He bangs twice on one of the bars with his black and shining truncheon. The other set of locks moves back. The other alarm sounds. You go through into the reception area. Another guard gives you the slip of paper with your number. He points at the bench. You walk over. You sit down next to a woman in grey and burgundy clothes. There is a pale and silent child upon her knee. They smell of chip shops and the rain, the grey and the damp –

  The whole room still grey and damp, grey and damp with the same smell of people who’ve travelled hundreds of miles along motorways still grey and damp, the same overweight men in uniforms still grey and damp, the same government seats still grey and damp, the same bad news still grey and damp, as the bolts and the locks slide back and forth and the alarms sound and the numbers are called and the people cough and cough and the children stare and stare until the voice from the desk by the door cries out: ‘Thirty-six’.

  The pale and silent child is staring at you.

  ‘Thirty-six!’

  You look down at the piece of paper in your hand.

  ‘Number thirty-six!’

  You stand up.

  At the desk, you say: ‘John Piggott to see Michael Myshkin.’

  The woman in the grey uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down her biro list. She sniffs and says: ‘Purpose of visit?’

  ‘Legal.’

  She hands you back your pass: ‘First time?’

  ‘Second.’

  She shrugs: ‘The patient will be brought to the visitors’ room and a member of staff will be present throughout the visit. Visits are limited to forty-five minutes. You will both be seated at a table and are to remain seated throughout the course of the visit. You are to refrain from any physical contact and are not to pass anything to the patient. Anything you wish to give the patient must be done so through this office and can only be one of the items on this approved list.’

  She hands you the photocopied piece of A4.