by David Peace
‘I’m not,’ she laughs.
She takes my hand. She leads me down the dim hall hung with dark oils into the big room -
The smell of cat piss and petunia.
We sit side by side on her sofa, on Persian rugs and cushions -
The low ornately carved table at our shins.
She is still holding my hand, our bodies touching at our elbows and our knees.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I say.
She tightens her hand round mine. ‘No, I shouldn’t call you there.’
‘No-one else was home, it doesn’t -’
‘But you’ve felt it too, haven’t you?’
‘I -’
‘You have to go and see her, you must.’
‘Who? See who?’
‘Mrs Ridyard.’
‘Why? I -’
‘She knows, Maurice. She knows.’
‘Knows what?’
‘Where her daughter is.’
‘How? How could she?’
‘She sees her.’
‘Then maybe she’s already told George Oldman, or -’
‘No, Maurice. She’s waiting for you.’
I pull her head on to my chest. I stroke her hair. I say: ‘I can’t do this.’
Mandy raises her head and her lips. Mandy kisses my cheek and my ear -
‘You must,’ she whispers. ‘You have to.’
The fat white candles lit and the heavy crimson curtains drawn, there are no windows in the big room -
Dark ways, hearts lost;
Beneath her shadows -
She is sobbing, weeping;
The smell of cat piss and petunia, of desperate fucking on an old sofa strewn with Persian rugs and cushions -
She has her head on my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.
Behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass of her big window -
Wanting in;
Sobbing, weeping -
Wanting in.
She kisses my fingertips and then stops, holding my fingers to the candlelight -
She lifts her head and says: ‘You’ve got blood on your hands.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but her face in the candlelight is white and already dead -
The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass of her big window -
Dark -
Sobbing, weeping -
Hearts -
Asking to be let in.
Chapter 32
Falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of a mother trapped and forced to imagine the repeated slaughter of her young, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the floor of their front room, on the yellow squares and the red, on the marks made by crayons and the marks made by paints, contorted and screaming and howling under the dull and yellow lights blinking on and off, on and off, the faded poster warning against the perils of losing and not finding your children, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of damp clothes and undercooked dinners, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their ages, telling them all the things you were going to do for them, all the good news you were going to bring, how happy they’d be, but they were just sat there, silently waiting for their kids to come home, to take them upstairs and put them to bed, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, rocking back and forth, her husband in his chair and on his feet, his hands outstretched in the shape of a cross, noisily grinding his teeth as you flew across the room, tried to reach across and grab him, hold him, but your brother was holding you back, telling you all the things that he’d done, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how much better off he was dead, your mother on her feet, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her own hands, and then the Brass came, came to take you all downstairs, down to the cells, and at the bottom of the stairs you turned the corner and they opened the door to Room 4 and there he was, his gun still smoking as they struggled to clean him all up, the stink of shit among the smoke, his brains attached to the windows of the shed, a finger holding down the trigger, lying there in a uniform that said West Yorkshire Constabulary between a pair of swan’s wings, his face all blown off and in bits, still struggling to mop up those bits and take him away, to put him in a hole in the ground and make him go away, but it wouldn’t and it never will, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up the walls and the stairs on her nails and her knees, pissing and barking and chasing her tail, the smell of overcooked cabbages and dirty old rags, the dull and yellow lights that blinked off and on, on and off, the faded poster asking the public to please help find their kids, the white squares and the grey, the marks made by bones and the marks made by skulls, the linoleum, and these men that walked these stairs, these linoleum floors, these policemen in their suits and big size ten boots, and then it was gone again; the walls, the stairs, the smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables, the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, the white squares and the grey, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the carpets and the policemen in suits and new boots, all gone as you fall backwards on a tiny plastic chair through the enormous depths of time, away from this place, this rotten un-fresh linoleum place, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories, and you are alone now, terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with their mothers, all of these mothers, their children not here -
Mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -
Contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -
Screaming and howling from under the ground -
Howling from under the ground -
Under the ground -
Under the ground as they murder you -
Murdered you all over again:
The Last Man.
Wednesday 1 June 1983 -
You are listening to the branches tapping against the pane;
Lying on your back in your underpants and socks -
Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;
Lying on your back in your underpants and socks, amongst the ruins -
The branches tapping against the pane;
Lying on your back in your underpants and socks, amongst the ruins of your flat -
Tapping against the pane:
D-8 .
You drive into Leeds, the radio on:
Searching for Hazel -
You push the buttons. You change the stations -
Finding only:
‘I think her appeal has always been to baser emotions like fear and greed…’
Only Thatcher -
Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher -
No Hazel -
The radio off, you drive into Leeds.
*
‘My name is John Piggott. I have an appointment.’
The policeman on the desk nods at the plastic chairs: ‘Take a seat please.’
You walk over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas above you -
No Christmas for Jimmy A.
The policeman on the desk making his calls -
You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and the chair marks -
‘Mr Piggott?’
You stand up and go back over to the front desk.
‘Someone will be down in a minute.’
‘Mr Piggott?’
You look up to see a man with heavy black frames staring down at you; grey skin and suit, red eyes under thick specs, balder and thinner than he was even a week ago -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson:
The
Owl.
You stand up. You take his hand. You say: ‘About the other day, I…’
He stares at you. He says: ‘Forget it. That’s funerals for you.’
You nod.
‘That’s why you’re here though?’ he says. ‘About James Ashworth?’
‘Yes,’ you say. ‘For his mother.’
‘How is she?’
‘How do you think she is?’ you say.
He stares at you. He says: ‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Piggott?’
‘She’s instructed me to ask you for Jimmy’s belongings; his clothes, personal effects, his motorbike.’
‘They’ve not been returned?’
You shake your head: ‘That’s why I’m asking for them.’
He stares. He says: ‘If you come up to my office, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
He doesn’t move. He just stares. He doesn’t blink. Just stares.
‘Thank you,’ you say again.
The Chief Superintendent turns and leads the way up the stairs and along the corridors, the typewriters clattering away and the telephones ringing, past the incident rooms and the murder rooms, the walls and walls of maps and photographs, past one open door -
One open door and one wall, one map and one photograph:
Hazel Atkins.
In chalk beside the map, beside the photograph:
Day 20.
You pause before the door, before the map, before the photograph.
Jobson stops. He turns round. He comes back down the corridor. He looks in the door. He walks across the room. He picks up a piece of chalk. He changes the day:
Day 21.
He drops the chalk. He walks back across the room. He passes you in the doorway. He sets off back down the corridor.
You follow him. You say: ‘I thought you were over in Wakefield these days?’
‘I was,’ he says. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been back and forth between there and here.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
He opens the door to his office. ‘Leeds City born and bred I am.’
You step inside -
It’s a bare office:
No photographs, no certificates, no trophies.
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson gestures at a seat.
You sit down on the opposite side of his desk, Jobson with his back to the window.
He says: ‘I can’t promise you the motorcycle today. It’ll still be with forensics up at Wetherby but -’
‘Forensics?’
He nods. ‘I’m afraid that the late Mr Ashworth is still very much a part of our investigation into the whereabouts of Hazel Atkins.’
‘I see,’ you sigh. ‘Actually, I did want to -’
Jobson has his palm raised. ‘But I’m sure we can give you some of his clothes.’
‘That would be very much appreciated.’
He passes three sheets of paper across the desk. ‘Just sign these and I’ll see what I can do.’
You take them. You ask: ‘I was wondering if it would be possible to have a copy of the inventory, just to make sure everything is accounted for?’
‘Inventory?’
‘Just what he had with him when he was originally detained.’
‘You want a copy?’
‘For his mother.’
He stares at you. He says: ‘There’s going to be an inquiry, you do know that?’
‘An internal police inquiry,’ you nod.
Jobson stares at you. He says again: ‘Sign the papers and I’ll see what I can do.’
You reach inside your jacket for your pen -
It isn’t there.
You look up at Jobson. He’s holding one out across his desk.
‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘I must have -’
‘Forget it,’ he smiles.
You sign the papers. You hand them back across the desk with his pen.
Jobson takes them. He separates them. He gives you back a copy as one of the three telephones on his desk buzzes and a light flashes -
Jobson glances at the flashing light then back at you: ‘Well, Mr Piggott, if there was nothing else I -’
‘To be honest with you, I do seem to have got myself up to my neck in -’
The Detective Chief Superintendent is nodding: ‘Out of your depth, are you?’
‘Bitten off more than I can chew,’ you smile. ‘Which, as you can see, is a lot.’
‘Go on,’ says Jobson.
‘To be straight with you,’ you say. ‘I’m also representing Michael Myshkin.’
Jobson stares at you. Jobson doesn’t blink.
You say: ‘You know who I mean?’
‘Yes, Mr Piggott. I know who you mean.’
‘Well, I’m in the process of preparing a preliminary appeal on his behalf and I -’
Jobson has his hand raised: ‘Didn’t Michael Myshkin confess and plead guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘So on what possible grounds is he thinking of appealing?’
‘Early days yet but, in cases such as these, where a conviction is based upon a confession, it is possible for the appellant to argue that his pleas were ill-considered and out of accord with the evidence; that in the absence of the alleged confession, there was a lack of evidence to convict; that the appellant’s state of mind at the time of the confession calls into question the validity of the confession; that the Trial Judge erred in accepting guilty pleas based solely upon confessions; that the very confession itself might have been gained by unlawful means -’
‘Mr Piggott,’ interrupts Jobson. ‘That is a very serious allegation to make.’
‘Examples,’ you say. ‘Just examples of avenues open to exploration.’
Jobson stares at you. He says: ‘There were witnesses -’
You nod.
‘Forensic evidence.’
You nod again. ‘As I say, I am feeling somewhat overfaced.’
‘That surprises me,’ smiles Jobson.
‘Eyes bigger than my belly, would you believe?’
Jobson shakes his head: ‘I’d say you seem to have the measure of things.’
‘No, no, no,’ you say. ‘Not at all. You see, I keep running into the same names, the same faces, again and again.’
Jobson stares at you.
‘Both with Michael Myshkin and now with Jimmy Ashworth -’
‘They did live on the same street,’ says Jobson.
‘I know, I know, I know,’ you reply. ‘But what with you pulling Jimmy Ashworth in over this Hazel Atkins business and her having gone missing from the same school as Clare Kemplay did nigh on ten years ago, the murder of whom Michael Myshkin is now serving life imprisonment for -’
‘And to which he confessed.’
‘And to which he allegedly confessed,’ you add. ‘Well -’
‘Well what?’
‘Well,’ you say. ‘Is this all just one big bloody coincidence or is there something I should know before I waste any more of Mrs Ashworth and Mrs Myshkin’s money and my time?’
‘Mr Piggott,’ he smiles. ‘You want me to tell you how to spend your time and other people’s money?’
You shake your head. ‘No, but I would like you to tell me if Michael Myshkin murdered Clare Kemplay?’
Jobson stares at you.
You stare at him.
He says: ‘Yes he did.’
‘Alone?’
Then, right on fucking cue, there’s the knock at the door.
Jobson looks up and away from your face.
You turn around in your chair -
‘Boss,’ says a man with a moustache -
A man you recognise from the night Jimmy Ashworth hung himself downstairs, a man you recognise from the funeral -
All three of them.
‘Give me two minutes, will you, Dick?’ says Jobson.
But the man shakes his head: ‘It’s urgent.’
Jobson nods.
The door closes.
Jobson stands up, his hand out. ‘If you wait downstairs, I’ll make sure you get her son’s belongings.’
You stand up. You reach over the desk. You take his hand. You hold it. You say: ‘I went to Rochdale, Mr Jobson.’
Jobson drops your hand. ‘So?’
‘I know about the shoebox.’
Jobson stares at you. ‘So?’
‘So I know Michael Myshkin didn’t kill Clare Kemplay.’
Jobson blinks.
‘And I know Jimmy Ashworth didn’t take Hazel Atkins and I know he didn’t kill himself.’
Jobson stares at you -
You stare at him -
He says: ‘You know a lot, Mr Piggott.’
You nod.
‘Maybe too much,’ he smiles.
You shake your head. You stare at him -
The Owl.
He says: ‘Goodbye, Mr Piggott.’
You turn. You walk over to the door. You stop. You turn back round. You say: ‘You won’t forget about the motorbike, will you?’
‘I won’t forget, Mr Piggott,’ says Chief Superintendent Jobson. ‘I never forget.’
‘See you then,’ you say.
‘No doubt,’ he replies.
You close the door. You hear -
You swear you hear -
Hear him say:
‘In the place where there is no darkness.’
You walk down the corridor and back down the stairs and over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -
No more Christmases.
The policeman on the desk is picking the scabs off his boils.
You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and the chair marks -
‘Mr Piggott?’
You look up.
‘Sign here please, sir,’ says a young, blond policeman -
A young Bob Fraser -
Smiling and holding out a clipboard, two large brown paper bags on the desk.
You take the clipboard and the pen from him. You sign the papers.
He hands you the large brown paper bags. ‘Here you go, sir.’
You stand up. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
You walk across the linoleum floor, the white squares and the grey, the boot marks and the chair marks, walk towards the double doors and out -
