by David Peace
Not yet:
It isn’t working yet -
Hunter’s pissed off.
‘Stop wasting my time,’ he shouts and opens door -
The door out of hell.
But BJ there first, at door -
The door to hell.
BJ slam it shut.
‘Here,’ BJ tell him. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
He holds piece of paper up to BJ’s face. He says: ‘Start fucking talking then.’
BJ push him and paper away: ‘Fuck off.’
‘You called me,’ he shouts. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t bloody want to, believe me,’ BJ say, moving away from him. ‘I had some serious doubts.’
‘So why?’
‘I was going to just post picture,’ BJ mutter. ‘Then I heard about your suspension and I didn’t know how long you’d be about.’
‘Just this,’ he says, holding up piece of paper. ‘That was all?’
BJ nod.
‘Why?’
‘I just want it to stop,’ BJ say. ‘Want them to stop.’
‘Who?’
‘No fucking names!’ BJ scream. ‘How many more times?’
He looks at BJ then back down at Clare: ‘So why here? Is this where it all started? With her?’
‘Started?’ BJ laugh. ‘Fuck no.’
‘Where it ended?’
‘Beginning of end, shall we say.’
‘For who?’
‘You name them?’ BJ whisper. ‘Me, you, her, – half fucking coppers you’ve ever met.’
He looks back down at piece of paper in his hands:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.
‘Why Strachan?’ he asks. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’
‘Why they murdered Clare?’ BJ shake BJ’s head. ‘No.’
‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’
‘No.’
‘I want names -’
‘I’ll give you one name,’ repeating today’s instructions for today’s mission, BJ whisper. ‘And one name only.’
‘Go on?’
‘Her name was Morrison.’
‘Who?’
‘Clare – her maiden name was Morrison.’
‘Morrison?’
‘Know any other Morrisons, do you, Mr Hunter?’
‘Grace Morrison.’
‘And?’
‘The Strafford,’ he says. ‘She was the barmaid at the Strafford.’
‘And?’
‘They were sisters,’ he whispers.
‘And?’
He looks down at piece of paper in his hand:
Clare with her eyes and legs open, her fingers touching her own cunt.
He looks up again, his eyes open: ‘The Strafford.’
‘Bullseye.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I was there.’
‘Where? You were where?’
‘Strafford,’ BJ say and BJ open door -
The door out of hell.
But he is there first, at door -
The door to hell.
He slams it shut.
‘You’re not going anywhere, pal,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’
‘But that’s your lot, Mr Hunter.’
‘Fuck off,’ he screams. ‘You tell me what happened that night?’
‘Ask someone else.’
‘You mean Bob Craven? There isn’t anybody else, they’re all dead.’
Mission for Dead accomplished, BJ smile: ‘Exactly.’
‘Fuck off,’ he says, grabbing BJ’s jacket.
BJ push him away.
He grabs BJ again.
BJ punch him.
He goes down.
BJ have fingers round his throat but he still has hold of BJ. BJ shout: ‘What fuck are you doing?’
‘Time to stop running,’ he hisses.
BJ kick him but he still has hold of BJ. BJ say: ‘Get fucking off me.’
‘What happened?’
BJ kick him again: ‘I’m saying no more.’
‘Tell me!’
BJ break free and at door -
The door out of hell.
BJ tell him: ‘They haven’t finished with you.’
‘You’re dead,’ he shouts from floor of hell. ‘You’re dead.’
‘Not me,’ BJ laugh. ‘I got my insurance. How about you?’
‘They’ll find you and they’ll kill you if you don’t come with me.’
‘Not me.’
‘Go on, run.’
‘Fuck off,’ BJ say, opening door -
Door banging in wind, in rain -
The door out of hell.
‘It’s you who should be running,’ BJ tell him. ‘You, they haven’t finished with you.’
BJ stand at door -
The door into hell -
Stand at door and BJ see him now:
On his knees on his lawn in rain, his finger on trigger of shotgun in his mouth.
‘You’re dead,’ he shouts -
BJ step outside -
‘Dead.’
BJ start walking, walking up to top of street, when BJ see him -
See him standing at top of street by open door of his car -
Looking at BJ -
Unblinking -
He smiles.
BJ run -
Run like hell.
Chapter 43
No sleep, no food, no cigarettes -
Just this:
Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/WoodStreet/Netherton/Wood Street -
Back to Netherton:
Sunday/Monday/Tuesday -
The evening of Tuesday 17 December 1974:
Nothing -
No sleep, no food, no cigarettes:
No George fucking Marsh.
There’s a tap on the glass -
I jump:
Badger fucking Bill -
He tries the passenger door.
I lean across. I open it.
He gets in. ‘Christ, it fucking stinks in here.’
‘How’d you know I was here?’
‘Fucking hell, Maurice,’ he snorts. ‘You’re an open fucking book, mate.’
‘Not a crime, is it?’ I smile.
‘A broken fucking record.’
‘Is that what you came to tell me?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not.’
‘What then?’
He pauses -
I turn to look at him:
He’s staring up the road at Maple Well Drive; the black bungalow on the right.
‘What is it?’ I ask again.
‘Eddie Dunford,’ he says.
‘Who?’
Bill turns to look at me. He smiles. He says: ‘Fuck off, Maurice.’
‘What?’
‘He’s a bloody nuisance and he doesn’t need any fucking encouragement.’
I’ve got my hands on the steering wheel, holding it tight.
Bill says: ‘He’s already been up Shangrila.’
‘So?’
‘So we’ve got enough bloody problems with Derek fucking Box. I don’t need any fucking more. Thank you.’
‘Dunford’s not a problem,’ I say.
Bill doesn’t reply -
I turn back to look at him:
He’s looking at me.
‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say.
‘He knows enough to have been round your bird’s house this afternoon.’
‘What?’
He winks. He opens the passenger door. He gets out. He turns back. He says: ‘You and your ladyfriend best remember, reckless talk costs lives.’
I drive back through the dark and on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big hearts cut, lost;
28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Heart cut, lost;
I park. I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -
Stars and angels -
Silent little angels:
Jeanette, Susan, and Clare.
I get out. I lock the car door. I spit -
The taste of flesh;
I walk up the drive -
Shallow ugly moonlight, black stagnant rainwater;
The bottoms of my trousers, my shoes and socks, muddy -
Everything mud;
I go inside out of the rain. I go up the stairs to Flat 5 -
The air damp, stained -
Hearts lost;
The door is open -
Wide open, the metal chain loose -
In the Season of the Plague, the meat;
My heart thrashing -
The air suddenly thick with murder -
Two black crows eating from black bin-bags;
I step inside, listening:
Low sobs, muffled sobs -
Ripping through her sweet meat;
Stood before the bedroom door, whispering: ‘Mandy?’
Low sobs, muffled sobs, weeping -
Screams echoing into the dark;
I try the door: ‘Mandy?’
I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -
Sliding back on her arse up the hall -
Stars and angels -
My angel: ‘Mandy?’
Arms and legs splayed, her skirt riding up;
Close my eyes. Open them -
Stood before the bedroom door, whispering: ‘Mandy?’
Scared sobs from behind a door;
Listening to the low sobs -
The muffled sobs, the weeping -
The sound of furniture being moved;
I lean into the wood of the door. I push -
The door opens a fraction then stops -
Chests of drawers and wardrobes being placed in front of the door;
The sobs louder, the weeping more -
I push again: ‘Mandy?’
A faint voice through the layers and layers of wood;
The sobbing, the weeping -
Another fraction, another inch: ‘Mandy?’
A child whispering to a friend beneath the covers;
Sobbing, weeping -
My arm inside then a leg, pushing the fractions and the inches -
‘Tell them about the others -’
It is Tuesday 17 December 1974 -
A cold and dark December place when I open up the bedroom door;
Behind the chests of drawers and the wardrobes -
To find her lying cold and still upon the floor;
Beneath the shadows.
I take her into my arms -
I look into her eyes;
Beneath her shadows -
She is snarling, carnivore teeth:
‘This place is worst of all, underground;
The corpses and the rats -
The dragon and the owl -
Wolves be there too, a swan -
The swan dead.
Unending, this place unending;
Under the grass that grows -
Between the cracks and the stones -
The beautiful carpets -
Waiting for the others, underground.’
Silence -
Holding her;
Low sobs, muffled sobs, she is weeping -
Beneath her shadows:
‘It has happened four times before -’
Tears -
‘Four times-’
Cavernous tears:
‘- and it will happen again.’
Tears, then -
Silence -
The silence, but outside -
Behind the chests of drawers and the wardrobes, the broken doors and the heavy curtains, outside the branches of the big tree are tapping upon the glass of the big windows, their leaves lost in December -
For only moon has shone upon them;
Cold and wanting in -
Wanting her -
Where the wind cannot rest;
My eyes open -
Looking into hers -
Winter lights for the dead;
I want to free her from the chests of drawers and the wardrobes, the broken doors and the heavy curtains -
Free her from the chains -
The prisons:
The certain death that echoes here -
The terrible, horrible voice that gloats, that boasts:
‘I AM NO ANGEL -
‘I AM NO FUCKING ANGEL!’
Looking into my eyes -
Weeping;
Rising and falling -
Beneath her shadows;
‘I’m sorry,’ I say -
‘Where were you?’ she whispers.
‘Who was it?’ I sob -
Her eyes open and looking into mine: ‘Please tell them where I am.’
‘What?’ I am screaming -
Summoning her back from the Underground, the court of the Dead:
This cold and dark December place -
‘Who?’
She is pushing me off -
Pushing me away, whispering: ‘You weren’t here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say -
Standing up in the light -
But in the light -
The dead moonlight -
There are bruises on the backs of my hands again -
Bruises that won’t heal -
Ever.
Beneath her shadows -
Lost hearts.
Fucking -
The cat piss and petunia, desperate.
Fucking then fucking -
Desperate.
Fucking then kissing -
Her head upon my damp chest, I stroke her hair, her beautiful wet hair.
The branches of the tree tap upon the glass -
Sobbing, weeping -
Soaked and wanting in.
‘I love you,’ I say.
The branches tapping -
Sobbing, she whispers: ‘I can’t live like this.’
Sobbing and weeping -
Wanting out.
‘We’ll go,’ I tell her -
Her face in the candlelight: ‘Where?’
‘Far away.’
Her face white: ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
Her face white and already -
Dead -
Sobbing, weeping -
Hearts -
Asking to be let out.
*
The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -
Where one thousand voices cry.
Inside -
Inside your scorched heart.
There is a house -
A house with no doors.
The earth scorched -
Heathen.
I wake suddenly in the dark again, beneath her shadows -
‘I’ll see you in the tree -’
Tapping against the pane.
She’s lying on her side in a black bra and underskirt, her back to me -
Branches tapping against the pane.
I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table -
The branches tapping against the pane.
Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, that terrible tune and its words in my head -
Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.
I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, that terrible lonely tune and her words in my head, listening to the branches tapping along against the pane -
‘In her branches.’
I look at my watch -
It is one o’clock in the morning -
Wednesday 18 December 1974.
I reach for my glasses and get out of the bed without waking her and I go through into the kitchen and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find the teapot in the cupboard and the two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and I pour it into the cups and put two teabags in the teapot and take the kettle off the ring and pour the water o
n to the teabags and let it stand, staring out of the small window, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a divorced man undressed but for a pair of white underpants and glasses, these thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a divorced man undressed in the other woman’s flat at two o’clock in the morning -
Wednesday 18 December 1974:
‘Under the spreading chestnut tree -’
I put the teapot and cups and saucers on the tray and take it into the big room and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk when -
There are boots upon the stair, the doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -
She is standing in the hall.
I ask: ‘Tomorrow night?’
‘Tomorrow night,’ she nods.
The doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -
I open the door -
Dick’s stood there, panting. ‘They’ve got someone.’
‘What?’
‘For Clare.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone we fucking know -’
‘Who?’
‘Michael Myshkin.’
‘What?’
‘He’s coughing.’
‘What?’
‘Come on. Get dressed.’
I turn back round -
She’s not there;
Just the branches tapping against the pane, saying over and over:
‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’
Dark hours -
Dark, dark hours -
Before the cock crows:
Three in the morning -
Wednesday 18 December 1974:
Yorkshire -
Wakefield:
Wood Street Police Station -
We walk down the long, long corridor -
Uniforms stood around, drinking and laughing, singing fucking carols -
Jingle Bells -
Jimmy Ashworth sat at the table in Room 1 -
Jingle Bells -
Two teenage girls sat at the table in Room 2 -
Jingle -
Room 3 empty -
Fucking -
In Room 4 -
Bells -
Three big kings in their shirtsleeves:
Ronald Angus, George Oldman and Pete Noble -
Three big men in their shirtsleeves stood over him:
Michael John Myshkin, twenty-two, in police issue grey shirt and trousers -
Michael John Myshkin of Jenkins Photo Studio, Castleford -
Michael John Myshkin the man who is saying he murdered Clare Kemplay:
‘… she wouldn’t let me kiss her, so I kissed her anyway and then she wouldn’t shut up. Said she was going to tell her mam and dad and police, so I strangled her. Then I cut her and put the rose up her and the wings in her back…’
He is grossly overweight, his enormous head bowed and shaking -
Handcuffed, spots of blood are dropping from his nose on to the table.
He is crying. He has pissed himself.
