by David Peace
Bill is saying: ‘I think you need a friend, Maurice.’
I nod.
The branches tapping against the pane, screaming:
‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’
Chapter 47
Falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her memories open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of an unfaithful wife trapped and forced to watch the slaughter of her husband upon their own neat lawn, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the carpet in the hall, on the golden flowers and the crimson leaves, on the marks made by piss and the marks made by shit, contorted and screaming and howling under dull Christmas tree lights that blink on and then off, on and then off, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and dying at Christmas, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of dirty clothes and unshaven faces, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their memories, telling them of all the hells they were in and all the fresh hells you’d bring, how damned they truly were, but they just sat there silently waiting for new hells to come to their houses and flats, to take them upstairs and fuck them on their bed with their eyes open wide and their mouths shaped like fish, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, her husband rotten in his box, already on his way back down underground, a tie around his neck and truncheon by his side, stitched up stones for his teeth, as you flew across the church, tried to reach across the pews and grab Badger Bill, to kill him here and kill him now, but your brother Pete was holding you back, telling you all the things that your dad had done and had not, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how he was better off dead and now she could get back on her feet and on with her life, better off without him, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her fingers, and then came the Brass, came to tell you how sorry they were, he was one of their own he was, one of the best that there was, how they were all going to miss Big John the Pig, his gun still smoking as they struggled to clean this all up, the stink of bullshit among the smoke, their lies smeared all over the windows of your shed, their fingers holding down the trigger, lying in their uniforms that said Leeds City Police, your father dead between a pair of swan’s wings, his story blown to bits, still struggling to tidy up those little loose ends and file them away, to put him in the ground and make him go away, but it didn’t and it never would, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up her walls and her stairs on her hands and her knees, the bricks through her windows and LUFC on her walls, the swastikas and noose they hung above her door, the kids and their dogs chanting and barking, chasing her home from the shops in packs, home to the shit through her letterbox and the dirty phone calls, the dull thuds in the night and the torchlight that blinks off and on, on and off through her windows all night, the feeble voice asking her sons to please, please come help stop these kids and their dads, the white swastikas and the black, the marks made by kids and the marks by their dads, burning paper through her letterbox and a dead cat on her step, these policemen in suits and big size ten boots who check all her locks and drink all her tea and remember her John and then are all gone; the walls covered in wet painted words, the stink of shit up the stairs, the smell of dirty dog muck and rotten old eggs, the fruit and the veg and the endless days and nights of hate, these long days and long, long nights spent alone in her bedroom afraid to go downstairs, afraid to go out, for the kids and their dads, their mams and their nans, their chants and their taunts, their sticks and their stones, the words and the bricks that always hurt always, her husband dead and her sons that never call, alone on her bed in her own shit and piss with no food in the house, the doors and windows all locked and the dog fucking starved, she falls backwards alone on her bed through the enormous depths away from this place, this terrible rotten un-fresh place, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories and history; this place where you are now, alone; terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with your mother on her bed in the piss and the shit with no food in the house and the wolf fucking starved at the door, alone with your mother in her bed, your mother and –
Mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling from under the sheets –
Contorted and screaming and howling from under the sheets –
Screaming and howling from under the sheets –
Howling from under the sheets –
Under the sheets –
Under the sheets as he first buggers and murders thee all over again –
Buggers and murders thee:
The Last Yorkshire Son –
Thee and then her –
Hazel.
Monday 6 June 1983 –
You are on your back, back in the flat, listening to the branches;
Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows –
Listening to the branches tap;
Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows –
Listening to the branches tap against;
Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows –
Listening to the branches tap against the pain:
D-3.
The old woman with the walking stick and the small boy are staring at you.
‘Number forty-five!’
You look down at the piece of paper in your hand.
‘Number forty-five!’
You stand up.
At the desk, you say: ‘John Piggott to see Michael Myshkin.’
The woman in the grey, damp uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down the biro list. She sniffs and says: ‘You’re not on the list.’
You say: ‘I’m his solicitor.’
‘Neither of you are,’ she spits.
‘There must be some mistake …’
She hands you back your visitor’s pass: ‘Return to your seat and a member of staff will be down to explain the situation to you.’
Fifty minutes and two paper swans later, a plump man in a doctor’s coat says: ‘John Winston Piggott?’
You stand up.
‘This way.’
You follow him to a different door and a different lock, a different alarm and a different bell, through another door up another overheated and overlit grey corridor.
At a set of double doors, he pauses. He says: ‘I’m afraid Mr Myshkin is in the hospital wing of our facility.’
‘Oh,’ you say. ‘I had no –’
‘His family didn’t contact you then?’
You shake your head. ‘I’ve been away.’
‘Mr Myshkin has been refusing food for just over a week now. He had also taken to smearing his excrement on the walls of his room. He refused to wear the regulation clothing provided to him. Both the staff and his family felt that he might possibly attempt to take his own life. As a result, Mr Myshkin was hospitalised late Saturday night.’
You shake your head again. ‘I had no idea.’
‘It is possible for you to still see Mr Myshkin,’ he says. ‘However, I’m afraid that it can be only for a very, very short period.’
‘I understand,’ you say. ‘Thank you.’
‘Certainly no longer than ten minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ you say again.
The doctor punches a code into a panel on the wall.
An alarm sounds. He pulls open the door: ‘After you.’
You go through into another corridor of grey floors and grey walls.
There are no windows, just doors off to your left.
‘Follow me,’ says the doctor.
You walk down the corridor. You stop before the third door on the left.
The doctor punches another code into another panel on the wall.
Another alarm sounds. He pulls open another door: ‘After you.’
You step inside a large grey room with no windows and four beds.
The beds are all empty but one.
You follow the doctor across the room to the bed in the far-left corner.
‘Michael,’ says the doctor. ‘You have a visitor.’
You step forward. You say: ‘Hello, Michael.’
Michael Myshkin is lying strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas, staring at the ceiling –
His hair shaved. His mouth covered with sores. His eyes inflamed –
Michael John Myshkin, the convicted murderer of a child.
He turns from the ceiling to you –
There is spittle on his chin.
He looks at you. He doesn’t speak.
You stop staring at him. You look at your feet.
The doctor pulls a set of screens around you both. He says: ‘I’ll be outside.’
‘Thank you,’ you say.
He nods. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ you say again.
The doctor leaves you stood beside the bed –
Michael Myshkin looking up at you from beneath the straps.
‘I didn’t know,’ you say. ‘Nobody told me.’
He looks away, his face to the wall.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say.
He doesn’t turn his head back.
It is hot in here. It is bright. It smells of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I want you to tell me about Jeanette Garland.’
He doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t speak.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Please …’
He is lying on his back with his face to the wall.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I’ve tried to help you. I still want to help you, but –’
He turns his face from the wall to the ceiling. He whispers: ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
He looks at you. ‘Why do you want to help me?’
You swallow. You say: ‘Because I don’t think you should be here. Because I don’t think you killed Clare Kemplay. Because I don’t think you’re guilty.’
He shakes his head.
‘What?’ you say. ‘What?’
He stares at you. He smiles. ‘So why do you want to know about Jeanette?’
‘Because you knew her, didn’t you?’
He is still staring at you –
‘I went to see Tessa. You remember Tessa?’
He sighs. He blinks.
‘She said you had Jeanette’s photo. That you carried it everywhere. That you talked to it.’
He is crying now.
‘She said you got it from work. Is that right?’
He nods.
‘How? Why?’
‘We went to her school,’ he says. ‘Jeanette’s school.’
‘Who?’
‘Me and Mr Jenkins. It was my first week.’
‘To take school photos?’
‘I didn’t know what to do. Mr Jenkins was shouting at me. The children were all laughing at me. But not Jeanette.’
‘So you kept her photo?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘That was later.’
‘So you never saw her again?’
He looks away.
‘What?’ you say. ‘Tell me –’
‘I used to see her on the High Street sometimes with her dad or her uncle.’
‘Johnny Kelly? In Castleford?’
He turns back. He nods. ‘She always smiled and waved but …’
Strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas –
Hair shaved. His mouth sores. Eyes inflamed –
He is sobbing.
‘You saw her one last time, didn’t you?’
He closes his eyes. He nods.
‘When, Michael?’
He opens his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling.
‘When?’
‘That day,’ he whispers.
‘Which day?’
‘The day she disappeared.’
‘Where?’
‘In Castleford.’
‘Where in Castleford?’
‘In a van.’
Shaved. Sore. Inflamed –
He is weeping –
‘She wasn’t smiling,’ he cries. ‘She wasn’t waving.’
‘Who –’
He sighs. He blinks. He says: ‘I loved her.’
You nod. You say: ‘Who was she with, Michael?’
He looks at you.
‘In the van?’
He smiles.
‘Who was it, Michael?’
He says: ‘You know.’
Hot. Bright. The smell of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies –
‘I want you to tell me.’
‘But you know.’
‘Michael, please –’
‘Everybody knows,’ he shouts.
You look at the floor.
‘Everybody knows!’
You stare at your shoes.
‘Everybody!’
You look back up at him. You say: ‘The Wolf?’
He nods.
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I did,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t know.’
Michael Myshkin stares at you –
You turn away again.
‘Yes, you did,’ he whispers. ‘Everybody did.’
‘About the Wolf?’
‘Everything.’
This heat. The brightness. This shit. The disinfectant. These lies –
‘I didn’t know,’ you say again. ‘I didn’t.’
Michael John Myshkin laughs. ‘Your father did.’
Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks –
Tears on yours.
*
Doors locked, you check the rearview mirror then the wing. You switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette:
‘The stars came out last night for Mrs Thatcher at a packed Wembley Conference Centre: Bob Monkhouse and Jimmy Tarbuck, Steve Davis and Sharon Davies, Brian Jacks and Neil Adams, Terry Neill and Fred Trueman; Kenny Everett shouted Let’s Bomb Russia and called on the crowd to Kick Michael Foot’s Stick Away; Lynsey de Paul composed and sang a song entitled Tory, Tory, Tory …’
You are crying again:
No Hazel.
You switch the radio off. You light another cigarette. You listen to the rain fall on the roof of the car, eyes closed:
Fourteen years ago, you waited in the same piss outside Wakefield Station for your dad to pick you up. Just graduated. A lawyer at last. The Prodigal Son. Your dad never came. You got the bus out to Fitzwilliam. There was no-one home. You had no key. You went round the back of the house to wait in the shed, the shed with your old trains and tracks. You thought you could see your dad inside. You opened the door –
You open your eyes.
You feel sick. Your fingers burning.
You put out the cigarette. You press the buttons in and out on the radio. You find some music:
Iron Maiden.
There’s no answer –
You are listening to Mrs Myshkin’s telephone ring and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof –
Nobody home –
The rain pouring down, car lights on a wet Monday afternoon in June –
The kind of wet Monday afternoon you used to spend in your office answering and asking questions about marriage and divorce, children and custody, maintenance and money, eating Bourbon or digestive biscuits, sitting behind your desk, listening to the rain fall on the windows, the raindrops on the wall outside so sharp and full of pain, listening to the relentless sound of the hard rain on the windows and the walls, not wanting to visit your mother, dreading it –
This fear even then –
You hang up:
This fear real –
This fear real and here again:
In a telephone box on Merseyside, listening to the dial tone –
The dial tone and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof, not wanting to leave the telephone box, dreading it –
This fear now:
Monday 6 J
une 1983 –
D-3:
This fear here –
The Wolf.
You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You get out of the car. You go to the door of the shop. It is locked but there is a light on behind the handwritten postcards and the stickers for ice-cream and beer. You knock on the door. The old Pakistani with the white beard appears at the glass. He looks at you. He shakes his head. You rap on the door again –
‘I just want a paper,’ you shout.
The old Pakistani appears at the glass again. He shakes his head again.
‘Mr Khan,’ you say. ‘Please –’
He is crying.
You turn round. You walk back to the car. You get in. You lock the doors. You start the car. You go up Northgate and turn on to Blenheim. You park in the drive. You get out. You lock the doors. You go inside your building. You go up the stairs. You take your key out –
The door is not open. There is no-one on the stair.
You open the door. You go inside. You lock the door. You walk down the hall. You do not go into the bathroom. You do not look in the mirror. You go into the ruined front room. You take some paper from a drawer on the floor. You take out your pen. You sit down on a pile of broken records –
The telephone ringing. The branches tapping –
Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows –
You start writing.
Chapter 48
Big car turns off main road and passes through stone gateposts and up long drive, trees bare and black, up to main building of hospital –
Stanley Royd Mental Hospital, Wakefield.
He parks in front of old house and BJ and him crunch across gravel to front door.
BJ hold open door then follow him into reception area.
A nurse with a nametag that says M. White is sat behind desk; she is listening to a local radio news report about arrest of Yorkshire Ripper.
‘Good afternoon,’ he says.
‘Good afternoon,’ smiles woman. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I do hope so,’ he smiles. ‘We’ve come for Mr Whitehead.’
‘Pardon?’ she says, turning down radio.
‘We’ve come to take him home.’
‘Jack Whitehead?’
‘Yes,’ he nods.
‘And you are?’
‘The Reverend Laws.’
Confused, she says: ‘I’ll have to get Dr Papps.’
Reverend takes off his black hat and smiles at her, his nose broken and bandaged: ‘We can wait.’