by David Peace
You turn the dial until you find a song:
The Best Years of Our Lives.
Just before twelve, you lock the office and go downstairs. You wave to the pretty girl called Jenny who works downstairs in Prontoprint.
There is no rain and there is no sun.
You cross Wood Street and cut through Tammy Hall Street, past Cateralls and your old office. You walk on to King Street and into the Inns of Court.
You sit and drink three pints of snakebite and eat a plate of gammon and chips. Tomorrow you’ll go up the College instead, sick to death of legal folk and all their legal talk:
‘Charged him, I heard,’ Steve from Clays is saying.
‘Charged him with what?’ laughs Derek from Cateralls. ‘Can’t charge him without a bloody body.’
‘Who says she’s fucking dead,’ says Tony from Gumersalls.
‘Me,’ grins Derek.
‘Motoring offences and asked the magistrate for an extension,’ says Steve.
‘Who’s his solicitor?’ asks Tony.
‘McGuinness,’ says Steve. ‘Who do you bloody think?’
You put down your knife and fork: ‘Who you talking about?’
‘Aye-up,’ shouts Derek. ‘It speaks.’
‘Who?’
‘Bloke they’re holding over that missing Morley lass,’ says Steve.
‘Hazel Atkins?’
They nod, food in their mouths, drinks in their hands.
You say: ‘Well, guess who I went to see last week?’
They shrug.
‘Michael Myshkin.’
They open their mouths.
‘The fuck for?’ says Steve.
‘His mother wants him to appeal.’
‘His mother? What about him?’
‘He says he didn’t do it.’
‘So he came to you?’ laughs Derek. ‘Pervert must love it in there.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You’re never going to take it, are you?’ asks Tony.
You shake your head: ‘But I did recommend Derek.’
‘You better fucking not have done, you fat bastard.’
You wink as you stand up: ‘Told her, King of Hearts that Derek Smith.’
‘Fat cunt.’
‘King of Hearts.’
The telephone is ringing but by the time you’ve got the door open and had a piss and washed your face and hands and dried them, it’s stopped. You put the three office chairs together and lie down to sleep off the gammon and chips and three pints of snakebite.
Lord, I’ve pierced my skin again.
You are praying for a sleep without dreams when the phone starts up again.
Undone, you pick it up.
‘Have a seat,’ you say with a mouthful of Polo mints.
The grey-haired woman has bucked teeth. She sits down, clutching her best handbag. She is squinting into the rare sunlight she’s brought in with her.
‘It was nice of Mrs Myshkin to recommend me but, to be honest with you Mrs Ashworth, I…’
‘Least she could do,’ she says, the tears already coming.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
She shakes her head and opens her handbag. She takes out a handkerchief: ‘He didn’t do it, John. Not our Jimmy.’
You are suddenly struggling -
‘The man they give him,’ she says. ‘This man from Bradford, he’s telling Jimmy to confess. But he’s done nothing.’
Suddenly struggling with your own tears -
‘He’s a good boy, John.’
You put your hand up to stop her, to stop yourself, to ask: ‘McGuinness told him to confess?’
She nods.
‘Clive McGuinness?’
She nods again.
The desk is covered in letters and files:
Divorce, Child Custody, Maintenance -
The case-files and letters bathed in sunlight, the radio and the dogs silent, the constant rain and tepid wind gone -
For now.
The grey-haired woman with the bucked teeth and her best handbag is shaking her head and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. It is the same handbag and handkerchief she had at the funeral, the same grey-haired woman who had shaken her head and dabbed her eyes as they’d burned your mother -
Through the holes the light shines.
‘Where is he?’
She looks up: ‘Jimmy?’
You nod.
‘Millgarth.’
You turn your phone towards her: ‘Better call Mr McGuinness, hadn’t you?’
‘What shall I say?’
‘Tell him your Jimmy’s got a new solicitor.’
Down the motorway -
The scales falling, the Pig rising:
Lord, I’ve pierced my skin again.
But there will be no retreat, there will be no surrender -
There will be justice and there will be vengeance:
For through the holes the light shines.
Down the motorway, the up-rising Pig -
Hear them calling you, calling:
A holy light for a holy war.
You park between the market and the bus station, a dark and steady drizzle blanketing Leeds.
It is not night and it is not day.
You cut through the market traders packing all their gear away and go up the steps into Millgarth Police Station.
‘I’m here to see James Ashworth,’ you say to the policeman on the front desk.
‘And you are?’
‘John Piggott, Mr Ashworth’s solicitor.’
The policeman looks up from his paper: ‘Is that right?’
You nod.
The policeman opens a large leather-bound book on the desk. He takes out a pair of reading glasses. He puts them on. He licks a finger. He begins to slowly turn the pages of the book.
After a few minutes he stops. He closes the book. He takes off his glasses. He looks up.
You smile.
He smiles back: ‘It appears that Mr Ashworth already has a solicitor and it’s not you.’
‘That would be Mr McGuinness, who I believe was appointed as the duty solicitor. Mr Ashworth has since dispensed with his services and now has his own representation.’
‘And that would be you?’
You nod.
The policeman looks over your shoulder: ‘Have a seat, Mr Piggott.’
‘Is this going to take long?’
He nods at the plastic chairs behind you: ‘Who can tell.’
You walk over to the other side of the room and sit down on a tiny plastic chair under dull and yellow strip lights that blink on and off, on and off, a faded poster on the wall above you warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -
It’s not Christmas.
The policeman on the front desk is speaking into a telephone in a low voice.
You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs. The whole place stinks of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables.
‘Mr Piggott?’
You stand up and go back over to the desk.
‘Just spoke with Mr McGuinness, the duty solicitor, and he says he did hear from Mr Ashworth’s mother this afternoon that she wished you to represent her son but, as yet, he’s not heard this from Mr Ashworth himself, nor has he received anything written or signed by Mr Ashworth to say he’s released from his role.’
You take a letter from your carrier bag: ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘That’s the letter?’
You hand it across the desk.
‘But it’s not signed, is it?’
‘Course it’s not bloody signed,’ you sigh. ‘That’s why I’m asking to see him. So he can sign it.’
‘I don’t think you’re bloody listening, Mr Piggott,’ the policeman says slowly. ‘You are not his solicitor, so you can’t see him. Only Mr McGuinness can.’
Fuck -
‘Can I use that phone?’
> ‘No,’ he smiles. ‘You can’t.’
Outside, the dark and steady drizzle has turned to black and heavy rain.
You walk through the market, looking for a phone that works.
It’s half-six.
You go through the double doors and into the Duck and Drake.
Order a pint and go to the phone.
You take out your little red book and dial.
The phone on the other end starts ringing.
‘McGuinness and Craig,’ says a woman’s voice.
One finger in your ear you say: ‘Could I speak to Mr McGuinness please?’
‘Whom shall I say is calling?’
‘John Piggott.’
‘Just one moment, Mr Piggott.’
There is a pause before she’s back: ‘I’m sorry, Mr Piggott, I’m afraid Mr McGuinness has left for the day.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Really.’
‘What’s your name, love?’
‘Karen Barstow.’
‘Karen, it’s very, very important that I speak with Mr McGuinness as soon as possible. So could you please tell me where I can reach him?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where Mr McGuinness is.’
‘Do you have his home phone number?’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t possibly give that number out -’
‘What about if I came round and fucking beat it out of you, you stupid fucking bitch. Would that possibly help?’
‘Mr Piggott -’
But you’ve hung up.
‘That’s unfortunate, that is,’ smiles the policeman on the desk.
You smile back: ‘Would you let his mother see him?’
‘Long as she was here before eight.’
You look at your watch:
Just gone seven -
Fuck.
‘Before eight?’
‘Best get your skates on,’ he nods.
*
M1 out of Leeds, windscreen wipers and the radio on:
‘Ken, Deirdre and Mike named Personalities of the Year.’
Off the motorway, through Wakefield -
‘Bonn says Hitler diaries are forged.’
Out and on the road to Fitzwilliam -
‘Foot launches bitter attack on Thatcher-Tebbit Toryism as a philosophy from which all compassion and generosity of spirit has been squeezed.’
On to Newstead View, past 54, braking hard outside 69 -
‘A local man arrested in Morley last week is to appear before Leeds Magistrates tomorrow morning in connection with the disappearance of Morley schoolgirl, Hazel…’
Up the path and banging on the door -
Mrs Ashworth, a tea-towel in her hand, the telly on -
Crossroads.
‘Get your coat,’ you say. ‘You’re coming to see Jimmy.’
‘What?’
‘Come on, there isn’t much time.’
She shouts something into the room, grabs her coat from the hook and runs down the path behind you -
You lean across her and slam the passenger door shut -
‘Clunk-click,’ she says, putting on the seat belt.
You start the car, looking at the clock:
Half-seven.
Out of Fitzwilliam and into Wakefield -
Through Wakey and on to the motorway -
Down the M1 and into Leeds -
Park bang outside Millgarth and up the steps -
Through the double doors -
The stink of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables -
The policeman on the desk on the telephone, his face white -
‘She’s here to see her son, James Ashworth,’ you say, looking up at the clock on the wall:
Almost eight.
He’s putting down the telephone, the policeman on the desk, shaking his head: ‘I’m sorry, but -’
‘No buts,’ you’re shouting. ‘She’s entitled to -’
But the room is suddenly full of policemen, policemen in uniform and policemen in suits, two of the policemen in suits leading Mrs Ashworth over to the tiny plastic chairs under the dull yellow strip lights that blink on and off, on and off, sitting her down beneath the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, you turning back to see how really bloody white the policeman on the desk has gone, his head and hands shaking, looking back round at Mrs Ashworth, her mouth open as she slips off the tiny plastic chair to lie prostrate upon the linoleum floor, upon the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the policeman on the desk, his mouth dry and voice cracking as he says:
‘He’s dead.’
Chapter 12
Preston:
Lunchtime -
Tuesday 24 December 1974 -
Never-ending.
Sitting in corner of a pub in centre of concrete city, office workers in their party hats already drunk and puking in bogs -
Never-ending.
Shouting along to Slade and Sweet, people snogging and glasses smashing and punches flying and coppers wading in -
Never-ending.
Walking up hill away from station, streets empty and buildings black, trains lit and cars dark -
Never-ending.
Weaving arm-in-arm through cold and dirty rain that falls from cold and dirty sky -
Never-ending.
Stepping out of one shadow and into another -
Another kind of pub, BJ and Clare’s kind of pub, St Mary’s -
Never-ending.
Roger Kennedy drops bloody key three or four fucking times before he finally opens door, not that Clare notices.
‘Here we are,’ he says, his fat face as red as stupid Santa hat he’s wearing.
BJ and Clare follow him inside:
St Mary’s Hostel -
Fifty yards back down road from pub of same name -
Blood and Fire etched in stone above door.
Roger Kennedy finds light switch and ducks into a small office.
BJ and Clare stand in corridor, Clare leaning against green and cream wall with her small suitcase in her hand.
Kennedy comes back out with two keys and smiles: ‘Take care of the paperwork later.’
BJ and Clare follow him up steep stairs to a narrow corridor of bedrooms.
‘There’s only Old Walter in the end one at the moment,’ says Kennedy. ‘But no doubt some of the other bad pennies will turn up again after New Year.’
He opens one door at top of stairs and winks at Clare: ‘You take this one, love.’
‘Ta very much,’ she smiles.
He hands BJ a key: ‘You take the second one on the right.’
BJ walk down corridor until BJ come to second one down on right. BJ unlock door and BJ step inside:
A bed and a wardrobe that doesn’t close, a chair and a window that doesn’t open, stink of damp that will never leave -
Home sweet bloody home.
BJ sit down on edge of bed and BJ think about little room over in Leeds with Ziggy and Karen, records and posters, clothes and memorabilia.
BJ get up off bed and walk down corridor about to go into Clare’s room when BJ hear Roger Kennedy fucking her inside. BJ go back to room and BJ sit on edge of bed and BJ count stars on BJ’s shirt.
It’s cold and dark and BJ lie in bed watching rain and lights on cracks in ceiling when she knocks on door and comes in with two plastic bags -
‘Room for a wee one?’ she asks.
‘Be my guest.’
‘Got some wine and some cider and some Twiglets,’ she smiles. ‘Thought we’d have our own Christmas party.’
‘What about lover?’
‘Passed out.’
‘He pay?’
‘No rent he said.’
‘No rent?’
‘Aye,’ she laughs and lies down on bed next to BJ. ‘No rent.’
‘Maybe our luck’s beginning to change?’
‘Be about fucking time,’ she says and pu
lls thin eiderdown over BJ and Clare.
‘Said they were going to make me famous,’ she laughs suddenly, leaning across BJ for last of wine.
‘How?’ BJ say, room hot and spinning.
‘Here,’ she says, jumping out of bed. ‘I’ll show you if you promise not to laugh.’
She squats down beside bed, searching through her plastic bags until she finds what she’s looking for: ‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart.’
She hands BJ a photograph.
BJ take it from her and sit up in bed:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.
‘What do you think?’
‘Doesn’t look like you,’ BJ say, thinking about photos they took of BJ -
Photos they took of BJ and Bill.
‘Don’t say that,’ she’s saying. ‘Don’t say that.’
It’s night before Christmas and I’m coming up hill, swaying, bags in my hand. Plastic bags, carrier bags, Tesco bags. A train passes and I bark, stand in middle of road and bark at train. I am a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three-quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it and dark brown trousers and brown suede calf-length boots. I turn left and see a row of six deserted narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti and their doors showing remnants of green paint, last door banging in wind, in rain. I hold open door and I step inside. It is small, about twelve feet square, and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex. There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish. In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty. A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing. A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing. On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint. I hear door open behind me and I turn around and I’m -
Screaming, Clare is screaming and screaming -
Horrible, terrible, miserable screams.
‘Wake up! Wake up!’ BJ shouting, shouting and shouting -
Horrible, terrible, miserable shouts.
Her eyes white and wide in dark, she tears open her blouse and pulls up her bra, three words there written in blood on her chest:
