by David Peace
Trails of tears that leave red scars upon her cold, white skin.
Mrs Ridyard looks up through her tears and their trails –
Looks up through her tears and their trails with hate –
Hate and blame –
With hate and blame she looks into my face;
A face where she can see no trails of tears, no red scars upon my cold, white skin.
I say: ‘Mrs Ridyard, I think you know where your daughter is.’
Silence –
The rain hard against her leaking, rotting frames, the only sound –
The only sound before she howls –
Her mouth open, contorted and screaming –
She howls –
Her bone-white fingers digging into the faces of her older son and daughter –
Her husband on his feet: ‘What? What are you saying?’
I say: ‘You see her, don’t you?’
Howling –
Contorted and screaming, her mouth open –
Her face to the ceiling, her eyes wide with the pain –
The pain in the belly where she grew her –
Digging –
Digging bone-white fingers into the faces of her older son and daughter –
Shaking –
Shaking with tears, tears of sadness and tears of rage, tears of pain and tears of –
Horror –
Horror and pain, rage and sadness, raining down between her bone-white fingers, raining down between her bone-white fingers on to her children, the children she clutches between her bone-white fingers and broken arms, arms shaking with the tears, the tears of pain and the tears of horror, the tears of sadness and the tears of rage, the tears for –
Susan –
All big white teeth and a long fringe, smiling.
I ask: ‘Where is she?’
Her mouth open, contorted: ‘Those beautiful new carpets –’
Screaming: ‘Under those beautiful new carpets –’
And howling: ‘I see her –’
Bone-white fingers pointing through the trails of tears –
Pointing through her leaking, rotting frames –
The rain hard against their windows, all our windows –
Her husband on his feet, on his knees –
The children looking at the hands in their laps –
The patterns in the carpet –
The patterns that once were roads for their toys –
Roads now flooded with tears –
Mrs Ridyard pointing across the road –
She is pointing at the new and detached houses across the road –
The neighbours at their curtains, the rain hard against their windows –
Their lights already on.
In their bathroom, the cold tap is running and I am washing my hands –
‘I think about you all the time –
Judith, Paul and Clare, unknown to me as to where they’ve gone or how they are, if they’ll come back or if they’ll not; thinking of Mandy; thinking of Jeanette and now Susan –
‘Under the spreading chestnut tree –
The cold tap still running, still washing my hands –
‘In the tree, in her branches –
Washing and washing and washing my hands –
‘Where I sold you and you sold me –
Maurice Jobson; the new Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson –
Stood before the mirror in their bathroom, stood behind these thick lenses and black frames, stood staring back into my own eyes, into me –
The Owl –
‘I’ll see you in the tree –
Outside the bathroom I can hear the woman’s muffled and terrible sobs, here amongst the smell of the pines, piss and excrement –
‘In her branches.’
In the doorway, the uniform and I are looking at the detached houses across the road.
‘You checked them out, did you?’
He nods; cold, wet and insulted.
‘When were they built?’
He shrugs; cold, wet and unsure. ‘Couple of years ago.’
‘Who by?’
‘What?’
‘Who built them?’
He shakes his head; cold, wet and stupid.
‘You tell Mr Oldman and Mr Hill that Detective Chief Superintendent Jobson suggests they find out.’
He nods; cold, wet and humiliated.
Mr Ridyard steps into his doorway, red eyes up at the black clouds above.
‘Do wonders for the allotments, that,’ he says.
‘Imagine so,’ I nod –
His daughter’s little bones already cold and underground.
Beneath her shadows –
Dark hearts.
Kissing then fucking –
Cat piss and petunia, desperate on a sofa stripped of rugs and cushions.
Fucking then kissing –
She has her head upon my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.
Behind the curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass –
Wanting in.
‘I thought I’d lost you,’ I say –
‘Never want to lose you,’ I say.
The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass of her big window –
Wanting in.
Laughing, she says: ‘You couldn’t lose me –’
Laughing, she whispers: ‘Even if you wanted to.’
Sobbing, weeping –
Wanting in.
She kisses my fingertips and then stops, holding my fingers to the candlelight –
The ugly candlelight.
She lifts her face and says: ‘You can find them, you know you can.’
But her face in the candlelight, her face is white and still dead –
Lost –
Sobbing, weeping –
Hearts –
Asking to be let in.
The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart –
Where one thousand voices cry.
Inside –
Inside your scorched heart.
A house –
A house with no doors.
I wake in the dark, beneath her shadows –
‘I’ll see you in the tree –’
Tapping against the pane.
She’s lying on her side in a white bra and underskirt, her back to me –
Branches tapping against the pane.
I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table –
The branches tapping against the pane.
Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, terrible tunes and words in my head –
Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.
I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, terrible tunes and words in my head, listening to the branches tapping against the pane.
I look at my watch –
‘In her branches.’
Past midnight.
I reach for my glasses and get out of the bed without waking her and I go through into the kitchen, a paper on the mat, and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find a teapot in the cupboard and two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and I pour it into the cups and put two teabags in the teapot and take the kettle off the ring and pour the water on to the teabags and let it stand, staring out of the small window, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a married man undressed but for a pair of white underpants and glasses, these thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a married man undressed in another woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning –
Monday 27 March 1972.
I put the teapot and cups and saucers on a tray and take it into the big room, stopping to pick up the paper, and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk and I open the paper:
POLICE CHIEF’S SON KILLED IN CRASH
George Greaves, Chief Reporter
The son of top local policeman George Oldman was killed when the car his father was driving was involved in a head-on collision with another vehicle on the A637 near Flockton, late Saturday night.
Detective Superintendent Oldman’s eldest daughter was also described as being in a serious condition in intensive care at Wakefield’s Pinderfields Hospital. Mr Oldman and his wife, Lillian, and their other daughter were being treated for minor injuries and shock and it was believed they would be discharged later today.
The driver of the other vehicle is described as being in a serious but stable condition, although police have yet to release the driver’s name.
It is believed that Mr Oldman and his family were returning from the wedding reception of another policeman when their car collided with a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction.
Mr Oldman’s son John was eighteen.
‘What is it?’ says Mandy behind me –
I hold up the paper.
She says nothing –
‘You knew?’ I ask.
Nothing –
Just the branches tapping against the pane, whispering over and over:
‘We’ll see you in the tree, in her branches.’
Part 4
There are no spectators
‘There are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times.’
– Voltaire
Chapter 38
You can’t sleep; you can’t sleep; you can’t sleep –
Your head hurts, your mouth hurts, your eyes hurt;
But you drive; drive all night; drive in circles –
Circles of hell; local, local hells:
‘The mother of the missing Morley child, Hazel Atkins, yesterday renewed her appeal for information about the disappearance of her ten-year-old daughter.
‘“I know in my heart that Hazel is alive and that someone somewhere is keeping her. I would like to ask that person to please bring Hazel home to her family and we will help you in any way we can. But we need you to bring her home today because we miss her very, very much.”
‘Hazel disappeared on her way home from school in Morley three weeks yesterday. Police have made a number of arrests since that day but have yet to charge anyone in connection with the case nor have they had any confirmed sightings of the missing girl since her disappearance on May 12.’
It is Friday 3 June 1983 –
You can’t sleep because you hurt; you hurt so you drive; you drive in circles;
Circles of tears; local, local tears:
D-6.
Shangrila –
An enormous white bungalow lain bare on a wet black hill.
You walk up the drive, past the goldfish and the new Rover, the rain on your bandages and your bruises.
You press the doorbell. You listen to the chimes.
It is six-thirty and the milk is on the doorstep.
The door opens –
He is in his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas. He blinks. He says: ‘John?’
‘Clive.’
‘Look like you’ve been in the wars, John?’
‘I have,’ you tell him. ‘A fucking long one and it isn’t over.’
‘That which doesn’t kill us –’
‘Fuck off, Clive.’
McGuinness looks at you. He says: ‘So what brings you out to my house at six-thirty on a Friday morning, John?’
‘Answers, Clive. I want some fucking answers.’
‘And you can’t just pick up a bloody phone and set up a meeting like anyone else, can you?’
‘No.’
‘John, John,’ he sighs. ‘He was guilty. He hung himself. End of fucking story.’
You don’t say anything.
‘Give it up as a bad job, mate.’
You wait.
‘OK?’ he says.
You cough. You turn. You spit once on his drive.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’ he says. ‘Now if you don’t bloody mind, John, I want to get dressed and have my breakfast. Some of us have still got an office to go to.’
You have your foot in his door. You say: ‘Michael Myshkin.’
‘What?’
‘I’m here about Michael Myshkin, Clive.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s appealing. I’m representing him.’
He looks at you.
‘What?’ you say. ‘Didn’t Maurice Jobson tell you?’
He blinks.
‘Not had a falling out, have you? You and the Chief?’
‘What do you want, John?’
‘I told you; answers.’
He swallows. He says: ‘I haven’t heard any questions yet, John.’
You smile. You say: ‘Well, I’ve heard quite a few about you, Clive.’
‘From Michael Myshkin?’
You nod.
‘So fucking what?’ he says. ‘He did it. He confessed.’
‘Just like Jimmy.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Just like Jimmy.’
‘Except Michael tells me that he didn’t do it. That his confession was gained under duress. That he told you this. But Michael says you advised him to stick to the confession. That you would help him. That he would only stay in prison for a short time.’
‘He did it, John.’
‘You were his solicitor, Clive. You were supposed to advise him of his legal rights. You were supposed to defend him.’
‘He –’
‘Protect him.’
‘Look,’ he shouts. ‘He fucking did it.’
You shake your head.
‘There was forensic evidence, John. Witnesses.’
You shake your head.
‘You know what hypogonadism is, do you, John? It means your balls don’t grow. That’s what Myshkin had. Doctors shot him full of fucking hormones. Cranked him up to ten. Poor bastard couldn’t control himself. Week before he did what he did to that poor little lass, he was wanking himself off in front of two teenage girls in the fucking graveyard next to Morley Grange Infants. He did it. He might not have been able to help himself, John, but he did it. He fucking well did it.’
You stand on his doorstep, the rain in your bandages and your bruises. You say: ‘What were their names, Clive?’
‘Who?’
‘The girls in the graveyard.’
‘I can’t remember, John,’ he sighs. ‘Be in the court records.’
‘He pleaded guilty, Clive. They were never called. Remember?’
‘For the life of me, after all these years, John, I couldn’t tell you.’
You look into his eyes, look into the lies –
The lies and the greed –
The stains from the hours before the mirror:
The lies, the greed and the guilt.
‘John, John,’ he says. ‘There’s no need for it to be like this.’
‘Be like what?’
‘Just look at the state of you, man.’
You stare at him.
‘Walk away, John,’ he tells you. ‘Walk away.’
You stare at him in his silk dressing-gown and his best pyjamas.
‘There’s nothing but pain here,’ he says. ‘Nothing but pain, John.’
‘You’re going to be the one in fucking pain, Clive.’
‘I hope that’s not a threat, John?’
‘Call it a prediction.’
‘In the fortune-telling business are you now, John?’
‘And what business are you in, Clive?’
He starts to speak –
You say: ‘How about the intention to pervert the course of justice business?’
He shrugs. He says: ‘You do like your lost causes, don’t you, John?’
You turn. You say: ‘See you in court, Clive.’
‘Don’t doubt it, John,’ he says. ‘Don’t doubt it.’
You walk down the drive, past the new Rover and the goldfish, the rain in your bandages and your bruises.
‘Ma
urice told me about your father, John,’ McGuinness shouts down the drive. ‘Sounds like brave men run in your family.’
You stop. You turn round. You walk back up the drive.
He starts to close the door –
You start to run.
‘Fuck off, John!’
You crash into the door. Into him –
‘Fuck off –’
You have him by his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas –
‘Fuck –’
You clench your fists. You raise them. You look down at him –
He is struggling on the floor, wriggling –
Struggling and wriggling in his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas –
Pleading with you:
‘John, John –’
You pull him up towards you. You look at him –
‘John –’
You spit in his face. You let him go.
He falls to the floor.
You walk away.
You park in the lay-by. You turn off the engine. You wait. You watch.
Twenty minutes later, the Rover pulls out of the end of the road.
You wait for a moment. You watch it go round the bend.
You turn on the engine. You follow the Rover:
Methley –
East Ardsley –
Tingley –
Bruntcliffe Road on to Victoria Road, left up Springfield Avenue –
Morley.
You pull up on Victoria Road. You turn the car around. You park opposite Morley Grange Junior and Infants School, in the shadow of the black steeple –
The graveyard.
You are facing Springfield Avenue. You get out. You lock the doors. You cross the road. You run back along Victoria Road. You turn up Springfield Avenue. You can see his new Rover parked outside a semidetached house on the right. You walk back to your car. You get in. You wait. You watch.
Forty minutes later, the Rover comes out of Springfield Avenue. It turns left. It comes towards you.
You duck down in your seat –
McGuinness alone. McGuinness gone.
You get out. You lock the doors. You cross the road. You run back along Victoria Road. You turn up Springfield Avenue. You walk up the drive of the semi-detached house on the right. You knock on the door.
‘Spot of afters,’ she says as she opens the door. She is wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt and a pair of yellow knickers. Her mouth is open –
‘Hello, Tessa,’ you say.
She tries to shut the door in your face.
You put your foot in the way. You lean on the door. You force your way in. You slam the door shut.