by David Peace
I take off my glasses. I take out the balaclava. I put my glasses in my pocket. I slip the balaclava on. I follow Alderman through into the back of the shop -
No turning back.
There’s a single light bulb and two men tied up and bleeding under it; five men in masks with hammers and wrenches stood over them.
One of the men is young and grossly overweight. He is gagged and bleeding from his nose. He is crying.
The other man is older; grey hair and a harsh face already swelling -
No gag.
Bill grabs the man’s face. He turns it to look up at me. He squeezes it. He says: ‘Just telling Mr Jenkins here how he’s got himself some new business partners.’
I hear Rudkin and Craven laugh beneath their masks.
I step closer to the man. I ask: ‘And what does Mr Jenkins think of that, I wonder?’
Bill dangles a bloody gag from the end of his glove. He chuckles: ‘Been a bit quiet about it actually.’
I say: ‘That’s not very polite, is it?’
‘Not very polite at all,’ says Bill.
‘Have to teach him some manners then, won’t we?’ I hiss.
Bill nods: ‘He’s going to need them if he wants to stay in fucking business.’
‘Roll up his trouser legs,’ I tell Craven.
Jenkins is squirming in the chair and his bindings: ‘Please…’
Craven bends down: ‘Both of them?’
I look at Bill.
Bill nods.
Jenkins is shaking his head: ‘Please…’
Craven rolls up Jenkins’ trouser legs.
Bill looks at me.
I take out the hammer.
Jenkins is squirming. Jenkins is shaking his head. Jenkins’ eyes are wide-open: ‘There’s no need…’
I lift the hammer above my head with both my hands. I say: ‘Oh, but you see there’s always a need…’
I bring the hammer down into the top of his right knee -
‘Always a need for manners, Mr Jenkins.’
Jenkins screams.
The young man howls.
Bill turns to Alderman: ‘Upstairs.’
Dick Alderman takes Craven. They head up the stairs to the right of us.
Bill turns to Rudkin. He nods at the fat lad: ‘Find out who this fucking lump of shite is.’
Rudkin goes into the man’s pockets -
Nowt but handkerchiefs and toffee papers.
‘Try them coats,’ I say.
Rudkin goes over to the back of the door. He fishes two wallets out of the coats hanging there.
He opens one. He nods at Jenkins: ‘His.’
Bill: ‘Other one?’
Rudkin takes out a driving licence: ‘Michael John Myshkin, 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.’
Bill asks Jenkins: ‘He work for you, this bastard, does he?’
Jenkins nods. He is white with the shock and the pain.
Craven comes back down the stairs. He tips out boxes of photographs and magazines across the floor. He says: ‘Look at all this.’
‘Well, well, well,’ chuckles Bill. ‘What kind of filth have we here?’
Skin and hair, all of them hardcore -
‘Quite the European businessman,’ says Alderman with another parcel.
Some of them young -
‘Been a bit modest about his talents and his contacts,’ laughs Craven.
Very young:
I stare down at the photograph between my feet, at the blonde hair and the blue eyes, the little white smile against the sky-blue backdrop -
I lift the hammer above my head and with both my hands I bring the hammer down into Jenkins’ left knee -
Jenkins shrieks, the young man howls -
Back up for a second time -
But Bill has me by my wrists. He shouts through the masks: ‘Fuck you think you’re doing?’
I look down from the single light bulb at the two men tied up and bleeding under it; the five men in masks with hammers and wrenches stood over them -
Bill shouting: ‘You’ll fucking kill him!’
One of the men is young and grossly overweight. He is gagged and bleeding from his nose. He is crying. He has pissed himself.
The other man is older; grey hair and a harsh swollen face. Both his knees are black and bloody. He is unconscious.
I drop the hammer.
‘Get him out of here,’ Bill is shouting at Dick Alderman -
Alderman leads me out the back way and into the alley. I take off my balaclava. I put my glasses back on. I look up at the moon -
War songs, bad news, and the moon:
Jeanette Garland missing two years and eight months -
Susan Ridyard one day eight hours:
There’s a house with no door and no windows and this where I live -
Blood on my hands -
No turning back.
Chapter 29
You drive; drive all night; drive in circles;
Disintegrating -
Disappearing -
Decreasing -
Declining -
Decaying -
Dying -
Dead -
Circles; circles of hell; local hells.
You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library in the grey dawn of the last day of May 1983 -
The car doors are locked and you are staring into the rearview mirror with the radio on:
‘Latest opinion polls suggest a Conservative landslide as the Tories open up an eighteen point gap on Labour; Healey accuses Mrs Thatcher of glorying in slaughter over the Falklands; a father is to sue Norman Tebbit over his son’s death on a youth opportunities scheme; a fourteen-year-old boy, charged with sending a letter bomb to Mrs Thatcher, was sent for trial to the Central Criminal Court…’
No Hazel.
You are sat in the car park of the Balne Lane Library at half-past eight on the last day of May 1983 -
The radio is off now but you are still staring into the rearview mirror -
The car doors still locked -
Still no Hazel -
Not today:
Tuesday 31 May 1983 -
D-9 .
Up the stairs to the first floor of the library, the microfilms and the old newspapers, pulling just the one box down from the shelves:
March 1972.
Threading through the film, winding the spools, searching -
STOP -
Tuesday 21 March 1972:
Rochdale Girl Missing – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
The parents of missing ten-year-old Susan Louise Ridyard made an emotional plea late last night for information that might lead police to their daughter’s whereabouts. Susan was last seen at four p.m. yesterday afternoon as she made her way home from school with friends.
STOP -
Wednesday 22 March 1972:
Oldman Joins Susan Search – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman of the West Yorkshire Constabulary crossed the Pennines today to help his Lancashire colleagues in their search for missing Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard.
STOP -
Friday 24 March 1972:
Medium Links Susan and Jeanette – by Jack Whitehead, Crime Reporter of the Year.
Police last night refused to comment or speculate on reports that local medium and TV personality Mandy Wymer had found a connection between the missing Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard and Jeanette Garland, known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home, who was eight years old when she disappeared -
STOP.
Jack, Jack, Jack -
Always back to Jack:
You turn off the main road and drive through the stone gates and up the long drive, the trees black with wet leaves and crows, the mental hospital nesting at the end of the road -
Waiting for you:
Stanley Royd Psychiatric Hospital, Wakefield.
You park in front of the old, main building and w
alk across the sharp, pointed gravel to the front door. The faces of mental people in their dressing gowns and cardigans are crowded at the windows. On the lawn a woman with bare feet and bloody knees is barking, her leg raised against a tree.
You open the door and go inside, thinking of your mother, thinking:
This is what she did not want.
You ring the bell on the desk, thinking of what she got:
Graffiti sprayed on her walls, a swastika and noose hung above her door, the shit through her letterbox and the brick through her window, anonymous calls and dirty calls, the heavy breathing and the dial tone, the taunts of children and the curses of their parents, all because -
‘Can I help you?’ the nurse in the white uniform says again.
‘I certainly hope so,’ you smile. ‘My name is John Piggott and I’m a solicitor. I was hoping to be able to see a patient of yours, a Jack Whitehead?’
The nurse shakes her head: ‘I’m afraid Mr Whitehead is no longer with us.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, I -’
‘Let me just double-check for you,’ she says and walks over to a large metal filing cabinet.
Fuck.
You turn away. You look down the corridor.
A man is stood at the end of the corridor in the shape of a cross, his pyjama-bottoms around his ankles.
You hate hospitals -
Hate the institutional smell of boiling cabbages and rags, the institutional walls of heavy green and magnolia cream, the institutional floors covered with stained carpet and linoleum -
Hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one alive.
The nurse comes back with a file. She is nodding to herself. She says: ‘Yes, Mr Whitehead left us on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’
‘Doesn’t say what he died of, does it?’
‘No, no, no,’ she smiles. ‘His son came and took him home.’
‘His son?’
She nods again. She taps the file: ‘What it says here.’
You strain to read the upside-down writing: ‘Is there an address?’
She pulls the file back: ‘I’m not sure I should -’
‘It’s good news,’ you smile. ‘Stands to inherit a small fortune.’
‘Well then,’ she laughs. ‘Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds.’
‘Thank you very much,’ you wink.
‘Be sure to tell him how you found him,’ she giggles.
You wink again. You open the doors. You walk back down the steps and across the sharp, pointed gravel.
The woman on the lawn is chasing her tail.
You hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one -
Nobody but Jack.
Tuesday 31 May 1983 -
The first spits of another rain.
Crawling along the M62 towards Rochdale, the fields black and brown, the sky black and grey:
‘She wraps herself in the Union Jack and exploits the sacrifices of our soldiers, sailors and airmen in the Falkland Islands for purely party advantage – and hopes to get away with it.’
You switch off the radio. You glance in the mirrors. You pull over on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a smashed-up phonebox -
You pray that it works.
D-9 .
Fifteen minutes later you are reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a silent part of Rochdale.
It is pissing down now, the houses across the road with their lights already on.
Mr Ridyard is standing in the doorway.
You get out of the car. You say: ‘Afternoon.’
‘Nice weather for ducks,’ he says.
You nod. You shake his hand. You follow him into a small hall and through into their front room.
‘The wife’s having her lie-down,’ he whispers. ‘Afraid you’ll have to make do with just me.’
‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘It’s very good of you to see me.’
‘Sit down,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘I’ll make us a quick brew.’
You stand back up when he leaves the room. You walk over to have a closer look at the two framed photographs on top of the television -
One is of three children dressed in their school uniforms; the other of just the youngest child sat on her own:
Susan Louise Ridyard.
Mr Ridyard comes back in with the tea: ‘Here we are.’
You put the photograph back down in its place. You go back over to the sofa.
Mr Ridyard sits down in the chair opposite you: ‘Sugar, Mr Piggott?’
‘Three please.’
He hands you your tea: ‘There you go.’
You take a sip. You watch him pick up his cup -
He looks at it. He doesn’t drink.
You watch him put it back down -
He looks up at you. He tries to smile. He says: ‘We drink too much.’
You say again: ‘I really do appreciate you seeing me. I realise it must be very upsetting for you.’
Mr Ridyard nods. He whispers: ‘What is it I can do for you, Mr Piggott?’
‘As I said on phone, I’m a solicitor and I have two clients who seem to have an interest or a link, should I say, with your daughter.’
‘With Susan?’
You nod.
‘Who are your clients?’
‘One is a lady called Mrs Ashworth. Her son, James, was arrested by the police in connection with this recent disappearance of a little girl in Morley. Hazel Atkins?’
Mr Ridyard nods.
‘Well, as you may already know from the news, James Ashworth hung himself while he was in police custody.’
‘Hung himself?’
‘Supposedly.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘Were you his solicitor as well?’
‘Supposedly,’ you say again. ‘But he died before I actually had a chance to speak with him.’
‘But what has he to do with Susan?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure he has anything at all to do with Susan,’ you stammer. ‘That’s half of why I’m here.’
‘And the other half?’
You glance back over at the photograph on top of the television. You say quietly: ‘Michael Myshkin.’
Mr Ridyard swallows. He scratches his neck. He says: ‘What about him?’
‘I’m representing Michael Myshkin in his appeal against his conviction,’ you say and then pause -
Waiting to see if Mr Ridyard is going to say anything -
‘I see,’ is all he says, with a slight glance at the ceiling.
‘Michael Myshkin was never actually formally charged in connection with your daughter’s disappearance, was he?’
Mr Ridyard shakes his head: ‘But he did confess to the police.’
‘And then retract it?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And then he retracted it.’
‘And the police never sought to press charges, did they?’
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head again. ‘But they did close the inquiry.’
‘So they obviously thought he did it?’
He nods.
‘They sat you down and told you that?’
He nods again.
‘When did they tell you?’
‘1975,’ he says. ‘When they closed the inquiry.’
‘And you?’ you ask him. ‘Do you think Michael Myshkin had something to do with the disappearance of your daughter?’
‘I did,’ he says.
‘You did?’ you say. ‘You don’t now?’
‘Tell him, Derek,’ says a voice from the door -
You turn in your seat:
Mrs Ridyard is stood in the doorway, drained in a scorched dressing-gown.
You stand up: ‘I’m John Piggott, I -’
‘I know who you are,’ she says.
‘We were just -’ her husband starts to say -
‘Tell him!’
Mr Ridyard looks up at you in his green cardigan and his brown trousers and for the briefest of moments,
the very briefest of moments, you think he is going to tell you he killed his own daughter -
But he stands up and he says: ‘Sit down, Mr Piggott.’
You sit back down, trying not to stare at the woman stood in the doorway in her scorched dressing-gown, her husband on his feet -
Mr Ridyard asking her: ‘Are you sure you want me to; the police said we -’
‘Fuck them,’ spits Mrs Ridyard, sliding down the doorframe, holding her scorched dressing-gown tight around her, the un-light catching in the scratches and sores on her neck and her legs, on the backs of her hands.
‘Three weeks ago,’ says Mr Ridyard, alone on his feet in the middle of the room. ‘Three weeks ago when I went to get the milk in, there was a box on the doorstep.’
‘A box?’
‘A shoebox.’
‘A shoebox?’
Mr Ridyard nods, the house silent -
The house silent but for the rain against the window and the ticking of a small clock on top of the TV, on top of the TV between the two photographs -
The one of the three children in their school uniforms; the other of only the youngest child -
Mr Ridyard crying as he sits back down then stands up again, Mrs Ridyard rocking back and forth on the floor in the doorway, you staring back across the room at that photograph -
The youngest child.
You close your eyes. You put your hands over your ears -
But the noise will not stop -
The sound of their weeping, the rain against the window, the ticking of the clock.
You open your eyes -
Mr Ridyard is alone on his feet in the middle of the room -
In the middle of the room in the shape of a cross.
You shout: ‘What was in the shoebox?’
‘Susan,’ he sobs.
Chapter 30
‘Please give a big Yorkshire Clubland welcome to the New Zombies!’
Saturday 11 June 1977 -
Batley Variety Club:
She’s not there -
But he is and he doesn’t remember BJ, but BJ remember him and he has aged; aged in terror, terror of witnessing execution of his ex-wife on lawn of her new house by hand of her new husband, naked under a new and bloody moon but for a hammer and a twelve-inch nail.
‘Spot of late-night reading,’ BJ say and pass Jack bag under table.
