Nineteen Eighty-three
Page 36
The Marmaville Club:
Posh mill brass house turned Country Club-cum-pub, favoured by the Masons –
Favoured by Bill Molloy:
The Badger.
The upstairs room, next to the toilets –
The curtains drawn, the lamps on, no cigars –
No cigars tonight:
Monday 23 December 1974 –
Christmas bloody carols up through the carpet –
The beautiful carpet, all gold flowers on deep crimsons and red –
Like the Chivas Regals and all our faces –
Stood and sat in a circle of big chairs, a couple of upturned and empty ones –
The gang half here:
Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, John Rudkin and Murphy –
John Murphy on his feet and off his rocker –
‘Sit down!’ Dick is shouting at the bastard –
The Manc bastard not listening:
‘No, I fucking won’t sit down,’ Murphy shrieks. ‘Not until someone fucking tells me what the hell is going on over here …’
Bill palms up, asking for calm: ‘John, John, John –’
‘No! No! No!’ Murphy shouts. ‘John Dawson and Don Foster are fucking dead. I want some fucking answers and I want them fucking now!’
We say nothing.
Murphy looks around the room. He points at me. ‘And that fucking cunt –’
Points and screams at me: ‘Now you tell me that fucking headcase has only gone and burned down half our fucking business!’
I say nothing –
‘Fuck only knows what he’s done with Jenkins.’
Nothing.
Bill is on his feet: ‘Believe me, John, we’re all as concerned as you are.’
We don’t nod.
Murphy stops. He stands in the centre of the circle. He is panting and staring –
‘John,’ Bill tells him. ‘What we’ve planned, what we’ve all worked so hard for; it’s not going to be thrown away.’
Murphy is shaking his head.
‘I won’t let that happen,’ Bill promises –
Just so we know –
Reminds us all: ‘Off the streets, out of the shop windows; under our wings and in our pockets.’
We all stare at Bill –
Bill smiles. Bill winks. Bill says: ‘Our very rich pockets.’
We don’t smile.
Bill puts an arm around Murphy. He sits him back down –
Tells him and the rest of us how it’s going to be: ‘We have got a bit to sort out, but then it’ll all be over and our investments secure.’
Jim Prentice shakes his head. He snorts: ‘A bit?’
‘Not talking about much,’ says Bill. ‘Two little problems, that’s all, Jim.’
We wait –
Wait for him to tell us what we know: ‘Derek fucking Box for bloody one.’
‘Two-faced fucking cunt,’ Dick spits –
‘Where is the twat?’ Jim asks.
‘Bastard’s meeting Bob Craven and Dougie at midnight,’ Bill says.
‘The heroes of the hour,’ smiles Rudkin.
‘More ways than one,’ nods Bill. ‘Upstairs in the Strafford.’
There’s a tap on the door. The waitress brings in another tray of whiskeys:
Doubles.
She picks up the empty glasses. She leaves.
Murphy asks Bill: ‘So what’s on the agenda for this meeting of the minds?’
‘You’ll find out,’ he winks –
‘What do you mean?’ says Murphy
Bill turns to Rudkin. ‘You got the guns?’
Rudkin nods.
‘Go get them then,’ he tells him.
Rudkin leaves the room.
Bill gets to his feet. He shouts: ‘Stand up!’
Everybody joins him on their feet, fresh drinks in their hands –
Me too:
For the body is not one member –
‘To us,’ Bill raises his glass. ‘The bloody lot of us.’
But –
‘The bloody lot of us,’ we mumble –
Many.
‘And the North,’ I shout. ‘Where we do what we want!’
‘The North,’ they reply and drain their whiskeys.
We sit back down.
‘And the second little problem,’ says John Murphy. ‘You said there were two?’
Bill turns. He looks over at me –
They all turn. They all look over at me.
‘Eddie Dunford,’ says Bill.
I close my eyes –
I see my star, my angel –
My silent bloody angel;
I open my eyes. I nod. I start to say: ‘I’ll take –’
But there are boots on the stairs –
Heavy boots.
Rudkin bursts through the door: ‘They got fucking shots fired at the Strafford!’
Bill and Dick on their feet first –
Jim and me right behind them –
Murphy fucked;
Everybody down the stairs fast, drunk and ugly –
Everybody shouting –
Everybody except Bill;
Down the stairs and into the cars –
100 miles an hour;
Bill, Dick, and John Rudkin in the one car –
110 miles an hour;
Jim driving ours, Murphy in the back seat –
120 miles an hour;
Police radio still reporting shots fired –
120 miles an hour;
Me screaming at Jim: ‘Can’t you go any fucking faster?’
120 miles an hour;
Hammering into the radio: ‘This is Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, repeat: Do not approach the scene –’
120 miles an hour;
I tell them: ‘Armed officers are being deployed –’
120 miles an hour;
I order them: ‘Establish roadblocks in a five-mile radius, extending radius five miles every ten minutes –’
120 miles an hour;
I warn them: ‘DO NOT APPROACH THE CRIME SCENE!’
120 miles an hour;
John Murphy, head between the front seats –
Drunk and laughing, fucked forever –
‘Fuck they all call you the Owl for?’ he shouts.
‘Because of my glasses,’ I reply.
‘I see,’ he grins –
‘Now fuck off and let me do my job.’
He sits back –
I look into the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the dark Yorkshire night, the Christmas lights already broken or off –
Murphy crying, wishing he were somewhere else –
Someone else –
Other people;
Crying and wishing we were all dead –
Or maybe just me –
Just me.
Fuck him –
Fuck them all –
The bloody lot of them:
I am the Owl.
Prentice slams on the brakes:
It is 1.30 a.m. –
Tuesday 24 December 1974:
The Bullring –
Wakefield.
There is an ambulance and a couple of Pandas at the bottom of Wood Street –
Our two cars with all doors open;
Bill sat in the passenger seat of one car telling us how it’s going to be:
‘Dick and Jim, get up Wood Street and wait for the call. Start rewriting this; times, calls, the whole fucking thing.’
They nod. They go.
‘You hold the line here,’ he tells Rudkin. ‘Everyone out of sight, especially Brass.’
Rudkin nods.
Bill looks at his watch: ‘Put the call in for the SPG in three minutes.’
Rudkin nods again.
‘Me?’ asks Murphy.
‘You get fucking lost and fucking lost fast,’ hisses Bill. ‘Not your patch.’
He nods. He goes.
Bill looks at me –
I nod.
He stands up. He walks over to the back of the car –
I follow.
He hands me the Webley. He takes the L39 for himself.
He closes the boot of the car.
There are faint, distant screams on the wind.
Bill Molloy looks at me. He stares at me –
I stare back at him:
There is cancer in his eyes and he knows it; no-one at his bedside when he dies.
‘Know what we’re going to have to do, don’t you?’ he asks –
I nod.
‘Let’s get going then.’
I follow him across the Bullring –
Towards the screams.
I look up at the first floor of the Strafford –
The lights are on.
Bill looks at his watch. He opens the door –
The screams loud.
We go up the stairs. We go into the bar –
Into the screams. Into the smoke. Into the music:
Rock ’n’ Roll.
The record on the jukebox stuck –
In hell:
A woman is standing behind the bar with blood on her. She is screaming.
An old man is sat at a table by the window. He has one hand raised.
Bob Craven is standing in the centre of the room. He is not moving.
Bob Douglas is lying on his stomach by the toilets. He is crawling.
A big man is on his back on the floor. He is opening and closing his eyes –
Derek Box next to him, dead.
Bill walks up to Craven. He asks him: ‘What happened here, Bob?’
There is blood running from Craven’s ear –
He can’t hear.
Bill hits him across the face –
Craven blinks. He doesn’t speak.
I go over to Bob Douglas. I turn him over on to his back –
He stares up at me.
I ask him: ‘Who did this?’
He speaks but I cannot hear him.
I lean closer to his mouth: ‘Who?’
I listen –
I look up –
Bill Molloy standing over us –
I repeat: ‘Dunford.’
‘Kill the cunt,’ he says. ‘Kill them all.’
I nod.
Bill turns. He shoots the old man sat at the table by the window.
He shoots him dead.
Bill looks at his watch. He looks back down at me –
I stand up.
I walk over to the woman behind the bar.
She has stopped screaming.
She is curling herself into a ball on the floor between the open till and the bar.
She stares up at me –
I know her:
Her name is Grace Morrison.
I know her sister too –
Her name is Clare Morrison.
I have my finger on the trigger of the gun in my hand. I close my eyes –
I see my star, my angel –
My silent bloody angel –
In hell.
I open my eyes –
We all are –
The record on the jukebox stuck –
In hell –
‘Kill them,’ Bill is shouting. ‘Kill them all!’
Chapter 50
You stop writing.
There is light outside among the rain –
The branches still tapping against the pane;
You put down your pen.
There are seven thick envelopes before you –
The branches tapping against the pain;
You seal the envelopes.
It is Tuesday 7 June 1983 –
The branches tapping against the pain;
D-2.
You open the bathroom door. You step inside. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You turn on the taps. You take off your bandages. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You wash your wounds. You dry them. You stand before the sink. You open your eyes. You look up into the mirror.
In lipstick, it says:
Everybody knows.
You drive out of Wakefield for the last time, the radio on:
‘The pathologist who examined Mr Roach told the inquiry yesterday that he believed the injury was self-inflicted and that Mr Roach had put the gun in his own mouth. He admitted, however, that he could not be 100% certain. The inquiry was also told that Mr Roach was hearing voices before his death. Colin Roach, aged twenty-one, died of shotgun wounds in the entrance of Stoke Newington police station in January …’
You drive over the Calder for the last time, the radio on:
‘Mr Neil Kinnock said yesterday that it was a pity that people had had to leave their guts on Goose Green to prove Mrs Thatcher’s strength. Meanwhile, polls continue to predict a Tory landslide with the Alliance and Labour battling for a poor second …’
You drive into Fitzwilliam –
For the last time.
Fitz-fucking-william –
Newstead View –
The street quiet:
No fathers, no sons –
The men not here.
You pull up outside 69 –
What’s left of 69:
There are boards across the windows and the door.
There are black scorch marks stretching up the walls.
There are piles of burnt furniture and clothes in the garden.
There are letters sprayed upon the boards:
LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP.
There are words:
Pervert, Pervert, Pervert, Pervert.
You start the car. You drive slowly down the road to 54:
There is an Azad taxi parked outside, waiting.
Mrs Myshkin and her sister are coming down her garden path. They are wearing headscarves and raincoats. They are each carrying two suitcases.
You get out of the car.
Mrs Myshkin stops at her gate.
‘Where are you going?’ you ask her.
She looks back up the road at 69. She says: ‘You seen what they did?’
You nod. ‘When?’
‘Two nights ago, a mob of them just set the place ablaze.’
‘Terrible,’ says her sister.
‘Where are you going?’ you ask again.
Mrs Myshkin nods at her sister. ‘Leeds eventually.’
You step forward. You take their cases. You say: ‘Eventually?’
‘I need to be near Michael,’ she says. ‘I’m going over to Liverpool today.’
‘I saw him yesterday,’ you say.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve spoken to them today?’
‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘Every day at the moment.’
You carry the cases round to the boot of the taxi. You bang on the boot.
The driver releases it.
You put the cases inside.
‘Thank you,’ say Mrs Myshkin and her sister.
‘Just hang on a minute,’ you say.
They nod.
You go over to your car. You take out two of the envelopes. You walk back to the two little women. You hand the two envelopes to Mrs Myshkin.
‘What are these?’ she asks.
‘One’s for you and Michael,’ you say. ‘The other is for Mrs Ashworth.’
‘You want me to give it to her?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘But I don’t know when I’ll next –’
‘I’m sure you’ll see her before me.’
Mrs Myshkin looks at you –
There are tears in her eyes –
Tears in yours.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For everything.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ you say.
Mrs Myshkin steps forward. She stands on her tiptoes. She kisses your cheek.
‘Yes, you did,’ she says. ‘Yes, you did.’
You shake your head.
She takes your hand. She squeezes it. She says: ‘I heard what they did to you.’
You
shake your head again. ‘It wasn’t about Michael.’
She squeezes your hand once more. She lets go. She walks back over to her sister.
They get in the taxi. They close the doors. They wave at you.
You stand in Newstead View –
Among the plastic bags and the dogshit.
You wave back. You watch them go –
Your dried blood on the gatepost.
You park outside another boarded-up house on another street in another part of Fitzwilliam.
You get out. You walk up the path. You read the letters:
LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP.
You read the words:
LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS.
You stare at the swastika and noose painted above the door.
You turn away.
You look down the side of the house. You can see the edge of the back garden.
You walk slowly down the side of the house. You turn the corner. You stop –
You look down the back garden. You see the shed –
The shed with your trains and your tracks;
The shed –
Where you thought you could see your dad inside;
The shed –
You walked towards the door;
The shed –
You opened the door;
The shed –
You smelt the smoke;
The shed –
You saw the blood;
The shed –
You saw your dad;
The shed door banging in the wind, in the rain –
Your mother’s mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling;
You turn away –
‘Why?’
You close your eyes –
‘Why?’
You open your eyes –
You look over the broken fence. You stare up at another empty house next door –
You remember a family that lived there a long time ago –
The two little kids, the mother and father –
‘A very nice man’.
The father –
‘So good with the kids.’
The father –
George Marsh.
Haunted, you drive –
She is dripping wet and as skinny as a rake;
Haunted –
Silently she points.
You park in front of a little white bungalow with a little green garden and nothing in it:
16 Maple Well Drive, Netherton.
You knock on the glass door. You have a mouthful of brackish water. You spit.
A chubby woman with grey permed hair opens the door.
You wipe your mouth. You ask: ‘Mrs Marsh?’
She shakes her head. She says: ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I thought –’
‘They used to live here, the Marshes,’ she nods. ‘Years ago.’
‘Don’t know where they went, do you?’