by David Peace
You pause again.
Myshkin looks up at you.
You ask him: ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
He wipes his right hand on his overalls and smiles at you, his pale blue eyes blinking in the warm grey room.
‘You do understand what I’m saying?’
Michael Myshkin nods once, still smiling, still blinking.
You turn to the guard sat behind you: ‘Is it OK if I take some notes?’
He shrugs and you take a spiral notebook and biro from out of your carrier bag.
You flick open the pad and ask Myshkin: ‘How old are you, Michael?’
He glances round at the guard sat behind him then back at you and whispers: ‘Twenty-two.’
‘Really?’
He blinks, smiles, and nods again.
‘Your mother told me you were thirty.’
‘Outside,’ he whispers, the index finger of his left hand to his wet lips.
‘How about inside?’ you ask him. ‘How long have you been in here?’
Michael Myshkin looks at you, not smiling, not blinking, and very slowly says: ‘Seven years, four months, and twenty-six days.’
You sit back in your plastic chair, tapping your plastic pen on the plastic table.
You look across at him.
Myshkin is patting down his hair again.
‘Michael,’ you say.
He looks up at you.
‘You know why you’re in here?’ you ask. ‘In this place?’
He nods.
‘Tell me,’ you say. ‘Tell me why you’re in here?’
‘Because of Clare,’ he says.
‘Clare who?’
‘Clare Kemplay.’
‘What about her?’
‘They say I killed her.’
‘And is that right?’ you say, quietly. ‘Did you kill her?’
Michael John Myshkin shakes his head: ‘No.’
‘No what?’ you say, writing down his words verbatim.
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘But you said you did.’
‘They said I did.’
‘Who did?’
‘The police, the papers, the judge, the jury,’ he says. ‘Everyone.’
‘And you,’ you tell him. ‘You said so too.’
‘But I didn’t,’ says Michael Myshkin.
‘You didn’t say it or you didn’t do it?’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘So why did you say you did if you didn’t?’
Myshkin is patting down his hair again.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘This is very, very important.’
He looks up.
You say again: ‘Why did you say you killed her?’
‘They said I had to.’
‘Who?’
‘Everyone.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
‘My father, my mother, the neighbours, work, the lawyers, the police,’ he says. ‘Everyone.’
‘Which police?’ you say. ‘Can you remember their names?’
Michael Myshkin stops patting down his hair and shakes his head.
‘Can you remember what they looked like?’
Head still down, he nods once -
But you stop writing, looking into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -
You say: ‘Why did they tell you to do that? To say you killed her?’
Michael John Myshkin looks up at you. He is not smiling. He is not blinking. He is not patting down his hair -
He says: ‘Because I know who did.’
‘You know who killed her?’
He looks at the table, patting down his hair again.
You start writing: ‘Who?’
He is patting down his hair, blinking at the plastic table.
‘Michael, if it wasn’t you, who was it?’
He is patting down his hair. He is blinking. Smiling.
‘Who?’
Smiling and blinking and patting down his hair and -
‘Who?’
Michael Myshkin looks up at you.
He says: ‘The Wolf.’
You put down your pen: ‘The Wolf?’
Myshkin, in his grey overalls and his grey shirt with his enormous body and oversized head, is nodding -
Nodding and laughing -
Really, really laughing -
The guards too.
Laughing and nodding and blinking and patting down his hair, the spittle on his chin -
Michael John Myshkin, murderer of children, is laughing -
Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks.
Outside in your car, you switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette:
‘Thatcher names defence as nation’s priority; ten Greenham women arrested as council bailiffs move in; boy aged fifteen to appear before Northampton magistrates charged with murdering three-year-old boy; Hazel day three, the search continues; Nilsen charged with four more murders: Kenneth Ockendon in December 1979, Martyn Duffey in May 1980, William Sutherland in September 1980, Malcolm Barlow in…’
You switch the radio off and light another cigarette and listen to the rain fall on the roof of the car, eyes closed:
Fitzwilliam, three days ago. You waited in the same piss for your Pete to show. He didn’t so you went inside and cremated your mother. Stood alone at the front and bit the inside of your cheek until the blood wouldn’t stop and the tears finally came.
Mrs Myshkin was there, Mrs Ashworth and a couple of the others -
But not your Pete.
Ma Myshkin had caught you back at the house, cheap yellow margarine from a stale ham sandwich on your cheap black suit. She sponged it off with a thin flowered handkerchief and said: ‘You’ll see him then?’
You open your eyes.
You feel sick and your fingers are burning.
You put out the cigarette and press the buttons in and out on the radio until you find some music:
The Police.
‘Mrs Myshkin?’
You are in a working telephone box on Merseyside, listening to Mrs Myshkin and the relentless sound of a hard rain on the roof -
‘Yes, he’s fine,’ you say.
The rain pouring down, car lights in the middle of a wet Saturday afternoon in May -
‘I will need to see you again.’
The kind of wet Saturday afternoon you used to spend round your Uncle Ronnie and Aunty Winnie’s over Thornhill way, eating lemon curd tarts and custard pies in their kitchen with his old British motorcycle in pieces on the cracked linoleum, afraid -
‘Can I pop round sometime early in the week?’
Sitting in the sidecar in the garage with Pete, listening to the rain fall on the corrugated roof, the shells in the wall outside so sharp and full of pain, listening to the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof and not wanting to go home, not wanting to go to school on Monday, dreading it -
‘Tuesday, if that’s OK with you?’
That vague fear even then -
‘Goodbye, Mrs Myshkin.’
That fear again now, less and less vague -
She hangs up and you stand there, in a working 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 go home, not wanting to go to work, dreading it -
That fear now:
Saturday 14 May 1983 -
D-26 .
That fear here -
Dogs barking -
Getting near.
Wolves.
Chapter 3
Rock ’n’ Roll -
Record on jukebox is stuck. BJ not dancing.
Eddie Dunford is pointing shotgun at BJ’s chest.
Eddie asks: ‘Why me?’
BJ say: ‘You came so highly recommended.’
He drops shotgun and turns and walks down Strafford stairs and Eddie’s gone -
Eddie’s gone but BJ still her
e -
Here:
Strafford, Wakefield -
Now:
Tuesday 24 December 1974.
Think, think, think -
Heart racing and gasping for breath, eyes wide and looking about:
Grace behind bar screaming and shaking, Old Cunt over by window in fucking shock not moving or anything, hands still up in air -
Craven stood there in centre of room, shit running out of his ear, his mate Dougie crawling towards bog in his own blood -
Paul on his back, eyes opening and closing, dying -
Boss man Derek Box already there -
Dead.
‘Fuck,’ BJ say, thinking -
Think, think fucking fast:
Over to Derek and open his jacket and take out his wallet, have his watch and rings for good measure -
Paul still whistling air, BJ take his money and his watch -
‘Cunt,’ he hisses.
‘Shoosh,’ BJ spit back -
Then sirens, BJ can hear sirens -
Fuck -
BJ leave him pennies and BJ say to Grace: ‘We got to get out of here, love.’
But she’s still all shock and screams, blood on her blouse and blood in hair -
‘Come on!’ BJ yell. ‘They’re going to be here any fucking second.’
She doesn’t move.
‘You don’t want to be here.’
Behind bar to give her a shake but it’s no fucking use so BJ grab night’s takings from till, shouting in her face: ‘They’ll kill us all!’
Nothing -
BJ slap her -
Tyres and brakes and car doors outside -
Fuck, fuck -
BJ jump bar -
Fuck, fuck, fuck -
BJ can’t go out front, BJ have to take back -
‘Grace!’ BJ shout for last fucking time. ‘Come on!’
But she doesn’t fucking move -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Fuck her.
BJ head down passage and push open back door, hit night and stone steps running when BJ hear:
BANG!
Sound of another shotgun -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Down stone steps, bottom of stone steps when BJ hear another:
BANG!
Another gun -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Across empty car park, crouching and running through puddles of rain water and oil, out back way then flat in a doorway as police car circles past, ducking over road and down side of bus station, thinking what the -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Fuck BJ going to do now?
Through shadows of deserted bus station, into coach station when thank -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
BJ see it -
See it standing there, all lit up in silver and lit up in gold:
A coach.
Panting, BJ ask driver: ‘You running?’
‘About six bloody hours behind.’
‘Where you going?’
‘Preston via Bradford and Manchester.’
‘When you leaving?’
‘Now.’
‘How much?’
‘Ticket office is closed,’ he winks.
BJ smile: ‘So how much you want?’
‘Tenner?’
‘Done,’ BJ say and hand him a stolen bloody note.
‘A Merry Christmas to you too,’ he says.
BJ get on and head for back seat.
Two other folk; one sleeping and other pissed off.
BJ take back seat and get BJ’s head down.
Coach pulls out of station but heads back into Bullring -
Towards Strafford.
BJ want to look but BJ dare not.
Coach slows -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Driver opens door -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
‘What’s going on?’
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
‘Been a shooting,’ comes copper’s voice.
‘Shooting?’
‘Strafford Arms.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Looks like a robbery.’
‘Robbery?’ repeats driver with his stolen tenner burning a hole in his unwashed pocket and his jelly heart -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
‘You’ll have to go down Springs,’ says copper.
‘Will do,’ says driver.
‘Some bloody Christmas,’ says copper.
‘Aye,’ says driver. ‘Hope you catch the bastard.’
‘We will,’ says copper. ‘We always do.’
Driver closes door and coach turns left and heads down Springs and out of Wakefield, snaking its way through Dewsbury and Batley into Bradford -
Sat on back seat, BJ suddenly shaking and crying and BJ can’t stop shaking and crying because of all things BJ seen and all things BJ done, things they’ve made BJ see and things they’ve made BJ do, all those fucking things they’ve made BJ do and BJ thinking of Grace and BJ shaking and crying because BJ know what they’ll have done to her and what they’re going to do to BJ, all people they’ve killed and all people they’re going to have to fucking kill, and BJ know BJ should have done it right, should have done bloody lot of them because now BJ be truly -
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Fucked forever.
When he pulls into Bradford Bus Station, driver comes up to back.
BJ close BJ’s eyes -
‘Get off,’ he whispers.
BJ open BJ’s eyes: ‘I want to go to Manchester.’
‘Don’t give a fuck where you want to go,’ he spits. ‘It’s all over bloody radio and all over your fucking face.’
‘I…’
‘I don’t want to know,’ he says and chucks Derek Box’s tenner at BJ.
BJ pick it up. BJ walk past him down aisle.
BJ get off. BJ stand on freezing platform.
BJ watch coach pull out and away.
It’s three in morning:
Christmas Eve, 1974 -
Three in morning, Christmas Eve 1974 when BJ remember Clare -
Scotch Clare.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Holy fuck, no.
Chapter 4
Wakefield Metropolitan Police Headquarters -
Day 5:
Monday 16 May 1983 -
Five thousand buildings searched, thirty thousand folk interviewed -
Widening search radius to twenty-five square miles, frogmen dragging rivers, sewers;
Family flattened, relatives leant on -
Dawn raids on the perverted and recently paroled.
‘Go straight in,’ said the Chief Constable’s secretary. ‘He’s expecting you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, adjusting my glasses.
I knocked once. I opened the door.
Chief Constable Angus was sat behind a big desk with his back to the window and another grey sky. He was writing. He glanced up. He nodded at the seat across from him.
I sat down.
‘Any news?’ he asked, knowing the answer.
I shook my head.
He stopped writing. He put down his pen. ‘What about the Press?’
‘Reconstruction would keep them quiet.’
‘Bit premature that, don’t you think?’
‘Anniversary Check.’
‘You want to do it Thursday?’
‘Long as we can let them know today or tomorrow.’
‘The Press?’
‘And the family.’
He nodded: ‘Fine.’
‘Could go National?’
‘Thought you reckoned it was local?’
‘Still do.’
He shrugged.
I opened the file on my knee. I handed him a black and white photograph: ‘Remember her?’
‘Very funny, Maurice,’ he said, not laughing.
‘Seems like a lot of folk do.’
‘What?’
‘Remember her.’
‘Heard you were sniffing around.’
‘You blame me?’
‘It’s a coincidence.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘He’s behind lock and key,’ said Angus. ‘Where he belongs and where you helped put him.’
‘What if he had help?’
‘He’d have said.’
‘He says he didn’t do it.’
‘He never did before.’
‘We never let him.’
‘Maurice, listen to me,’ he pleaded. ‘Michael Myshkin might have been soft in the head, but his heart was hard, rock hard. He did those things, killed them girls. Sure as I’m sitting here and you’re sitting there.’
I said nothing.
‘You know it in your heart,’ he said. ‘You know it in your heart.’
In my heart -
I shook my head: ‘So it’s just a bleeding coincidence then?’
‘Like I say.’
‘Well, like I say, there’s no such fucking thing.’
Ronald Angus sighed. He slapped his hands down hard on the top of his big desk. He stood up. He walked over to the window. He looked up at another grey sky over Wakefield.
It was starting to rain again.
His back to me, he said: ‘That’s not to say he might not have a fan or someone, way these animals are.’
‘I want to go and see him,’ I said.
He was nodding at the grey sky.
I asked: ‘That a yes, is it?’
He turned back from the grey sky. ‘Just keep it out of the bloody papers, that’s all.’
I stood up, adjusting my glasses.
It was raining heavily against the window.
I picked up the black and white photograph from his desk -
Clare Kemplay smiling up at me, out of my hands -
In my heart.
I took the motorway back into Leeds, odd and sudden patches of sunlight falling from the dirty grey sea up above, childhood memories of sunshine and cut grass drowned by voices; terrifying, hysterical, and screeching voices of approaching doom, disaster and death -
‘A young girl doesn’t simply vanish into thin air.’
The odd and sudden patches of sunlight gone, I came off the motorway at the Hunslet and Beeston exit, past the terrifying lorries, the hysterical diggers and the screeching cranes. I took the Hunslet Road then Black Bull Street into the centre and Millgarth, my hands shaking, knees weak and stomach hollow with approaching doom, disaster and death -
