1983

by David Peace

  I wait.

  Thirty minutes later, I watch Mrs Marsh come out of the end shed. I watch her walk back down the tractor path. I watch her slip. I watch her get back up. I watch her open the gate behind the bungalows. I watch her come back round on to Maple Well Drive. I watch her open her garden gate. I watch her go back up her garden path. I watch her open her front door. I watch her go back inside, empty-handed.

  I wait.

  Twenty minutes later, I watch a car pull up.

  It is a big black Morris Oxford. The driver is all in black. He is wearing a hat. He doesn’t get out. He sounds his horn twice.

  I watch Mrs Marsh open her front door. I watch her lock it. I watch her come back down the garden path. I watch her get inside the car. I watch them talk for a minute. I watch them set off.

  I toss a coin -

  I look at the top of my hand:

  Tails -

  I wait.

  Ten minutes later, I open the gate to the field behind the bungalows. I walk up the tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill. The track is muddy and the sky grey above me, the field full of dark water and the smell of dead animals.

  Halfway up the hill, I turn around. I look back down at the little white van outside their little brown bungalow and their little brown garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows and their little brown gardens.

  I take off my glasses. I wipe them on my handkerchief. I put them back on.

  I start walking again -

  I come to the top of the hill. I come to the sheds:

  An evil sleeping village of weatherbeaten tarpaulin and plastic fertiliser bags, damp stolen house bricks with rusting corrugated iron roofs.

  I walk through this Village of the Damned. I come to the end of the row -

  To the one with the blackest door and the rotten sacks nailed over its windows.

  I knock on the door -

  Nothing.

  I open the black door -

  I step inside:

  There is a workbench and tools, bags of fertiliser and cement, pots and trays, the floor covered with empty plastic bags.

  I step towards the bench. I step on something -

  Something under the sacks and bags.

  I kick away the sacks and bags. I see a piece of rope, thick and muddy and hooked through a manhole cover -

  I wrap the rope around my hands. I hoist the cover up. I swing it off to one side -

  There is a hole.

  I look into the hole -

  It is a ventilation shaft to a mine. It is dark and narrow. The sides of the shaft are made of stone, metal rungs hammered into them.

  I can hear the sound of dripping water down below. I look closer -

  There is a light, faint but there -

  Fifty feet down there.

  I take off my coat. I take off my jacket. I lower myself down into the shaft, hands and boots upon the metal ladder -

  Everything dark. Everything wet -

  Everything cold, down I go.

  Ten feet. Twenty feet -

  Thirty feet, down I go.

  Forty feet. Fifty feet -

  Towards the light, I go.

  Then the wall at my back ends. I turn around -

  There is a passageway. There is a light.

  I heave myself out of the vertical shaft into the horizontal tunnel -

  It is narrow. It is made of bricks. It stretches off into the light.

  I can hear strange music playing far away:

  The only thing you ever learn in school is ABC -

  I crawl upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

  But all I want to know about is you and me -

  Crawl upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

  I went and told the teacher about the thing we found -

  Upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

  But all she said to me is that you’re out of bounds -

  My belly across the bricks towards the light -

  Even though we broke the rule I only want to be with you -

  Belly across the bricks towards the light -

  School love -

  Across the bricks towards the light -

  School love -

  The bricks towards the light -

  You and I will be together -

  Bricks towards the light -

  End of term until forever -

  Towards the light -

  School love -

  The light -

  School love -

  Light -

  The music stops. The ceiling rises. There are beams of wood among the bricks.

  I stagger on, arms and legs bleeding -

  Stagger on through the shingle and the shale. The sound of rats here with me -

  Near.

  I put out my hand. I touch a shoe -

  A child’s shoe, a sandal -

  A child’s summer sandal. It is covered in dust -

  I wipe away the dust -

  Scuffed.

  I put it down. I move on -

  My back ripped raw from the beams, the burden.

  Then the ceiling rises again. I stand upright in the shadow of a pile of rock -

  I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

  I turn the corner past the pile of fallen rock and -

  THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

  I am falling -

  Falling -

  Falling -

  Falling:

  Backward from this place -

  This rotten un-fresh place -

  Her voice, Mandy’s voice -

  She is calling -

  Calling -

  Calling -

  Calling:

  ‘This place is worst of all, underground;

  The corpses and the rats -

  The dragon and the owl -

  Wolves be there too, the swans -

  The swans all starved and dead.

  Unending, this place unending;

  Under the grass that grows -

  Between the cracks and the stones -

  The beautiful carpets -

  Waiting for the others, underground.’

  I am on my back -

  Eyes closed -

  I am dreaming -

  Dreaming -

  Dreaming -

  Dreaming:

  Underground kingdoms, animal kingdoms of pigs and badgers, worms and insect cities; white swans upon black lakes while dragons soar overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swoop down through moonlit caverns wherein an owl guards three silent little princesses in their tiny feathered wings from the wolf that waits for them to wake -

  On my back -

  Eyes half open -

  I am not dreaming -

  I am underground:

  In the underground kingdom, this animal kingdom of corpses and rats and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the dirty water of old tears, dragons tearing up burning skies, empty churches and barren wombs, the fleas, rats and dogs picking through the ruin of their bones and wings, their starved white skeletons left here to weep by the wolf -

  On my back -

  Eyes wide open -

  Under the ground:

  Lying on a bed of dying red roses and long white feathers -

  Looking up at a sky of bricks painted blue, white cotton wool clouds stuck here and there among bright swinging Davy lamps -

  Lying here, I watch a dark figure rise out of the ground -

  Rise out of the ground into the swinging lamplight -

  Into the lamplight, a hammer in his hand:

  George Marsh -

  A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

  I do not move. I wait for George Marsh -

  A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

  I do not move. George Marsh almost upon me -

  A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

  I do not move. Then I raise my right leg. I kick out hard -

  Hard into his leg.


  George Marsh howls. He tries to bring down the hammer -

  The hammer in his hand.

  I kick out hard again. Then I roll over. I rise up -

  George Marsh howling, trying to stand.

  But I am behind him now and I have his hammer in my hand.

  Blind and black with his blood, I stop.

  Under this painted sky of bricks of blue, in this one long tunnel of hate, there are two walls made up of ten narrow mirrors, ten narrow mirrors in which I can see myself -

  See myself among the Christmas tree angels, the fairies and their lights, among the stars that hang from the beams, that hang and dangle among the swinging Davy lamps but never ever twinkle -

  See myself among the boxes and the bags -

  The shoeboxes and the shopping bags -

  The cameras and the lights -

  The lenses and the bulbs -

  The tape recorders and the tapes -

  The microphones -

  The feathers and the flowers -

  The tools;

  I see myself and him among the tools -

  The tools black with his blood.

  His mouth opens and closes again.

  I put the hammer down.

  I stagger and crawl back the way I came, past the child’s summer sandal, through the tunnel until I come at last to the shaft -

  I can see the grey light above.

  I haul myself up the metal rungs towards the light, weak and fit to drop into the endless dark below.

  I reach the top. I scramble out of the hole. I pull myself on to the floor of the shed. I turn on to my back, panting -

  Panting and wanting out.

  I use the workbench to get to my feet, my glasses gone.

  Blind, I move the manhole cover back into place. I camouflage it with the plastic sacks, kicking them over the cover and the rope.

  Then I hear it -

  Behind me.

  I stop. I turn:

  There is a figure, a shape here in the shed with me now -

  Quiet and hooded.

  Crouched down in the corner by the workbench and the tools, hidden here among the bags of fertiliser and cement, the pots and the trays -

  Small hands.

  A thin shape, with black hair and raggedy clothing -

  Bleeding.

  It steps forward -

  Arms raised in the air with the appearance of menace and implacable famine.

  I reach out towards it -

  Blind and groping, covered in dried black blood, I whisper: ‘Who is it?’

  The figure darts to the left. I follow -

  Darts to the right. I have it -

  Then it is away -

  Out of my arms and out of the door.

  I stumble after it -

  Out into the field and the rain -

  But it is gone -

  Gone.

  I fall to my knees in the mud.

  I raise up my eyes and heart, blind and raw up towards the vast grey sky and I let the coarse black rain wash away the blood -

  From my eyes and heart, his heart and mine -

  I let the rain wash away the blood, wash it into the earth -

  This scorched and heathen earth -

  These scorched and heathen hearts.

  Thursday 19 December 1974 -

  Midnight -

  I am late:

  Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

  Hearts cut, lost -

  I am late;

  28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

  Heart cut -

  I am late;

  I park. I get out. I lock the car door. I walk up the drive. I go inside. Up the stairs to Flat 5 -

  Heart -

  Late;

  I knock on the door -

  The air stained -

  Silent.

  I try the door -

  It opens.

  I step inside -

  Listening:

  No low sobs, no muffled sobs -

  No weeping here tonight;

  Only silence.

  Stood before the bedroom door, I whisper: ‘Mandy?’

  I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -

  Stars and angels -

  My angel -

  I try the door: ‘Mandy?’

  The door swings open.

  There are loud animal sobs -

  Contorted, screaming and howling -

  The weeping is mine.

  She is naked but for her blood -

  Her hair all gone -

  She is hanging from the light.

  Beneath her shadows -

  Dead hearts.

  The cat piss and petunia, desperate on an old sofa -

  Her head upon my chest, I am stroking her beautiful, bloody scalp.

  Behind the heavy stained curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the window -

  Sobbing and weeping;

  Soaked in blood and wanting in -

  ‘I love you.’

  Sobbing -

  ‘We’ll go.’

  Weeping -

  ‘Far away.’

  Her face in the candlelight white and dead -

  The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass;

  Sobbing and weeping -

  We are kissing -

  Asking to be let in -

  Kissing and then fucking.

  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 and always winter.

  The rooms murder -

  Here is where we live.

  I wake in the dark, beneath her shadows -

  ‘We have her in the tree -’

  Tapping against the pane.

  She’s lying on her side, naked -

  Branches tapping against the pane.

  I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks -

  The branches tapping against the pane.

  Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, terrible laments and their dreadful elegies inside my head -

  Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

  I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, terrible laments and their dreadful elegies inside my head, listening to the branches tapping along against the pane -

  I look at my watch -

  ‘Have her in the branches.’

  It’s stopped.

  I reach for my glasses but they are gone and I get out of the bed without moving 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 two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and the bottle smells bad but I put two teabags in the teapot anyway and take the kettle off the ring and pour the water on to the teabags and let it stand, staring out of the small window, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, an undead man undressed but for his white underpants, an undead man undressed in a dead woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning -

  Friday 20 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 and switch on the radio:

  ‘A Fitzwilliam man yesterday appeared before Wakefield Magistrates and was charged with the murder of Clare Kemplay, the Morley schoolgirl whose body was found on Saturday by the Calder in Wakefield. The man was also charged with a number of driving offences and was further remanded in custody for questioning in connection with offences of a nature similar to those with which he was charged. This is widely believed to refer to the disappearance of eight-year-old Jeanette Garland from her Castleford home in 1969, a case which became nationally known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home and wh
ich remains unsolved to this day…’

  I switch off the radio and take the tray back into the kitchen, one cup untouched.

  I rinse out the cups and then dry them and put them away.

  I go back into the bedroom -

  I lie down beside her.

  There are sirens and there are brakes -

  I close her eyes.

  Boots upon the stairs, fists knocking on the door -

  I kiss her.

  Boots down the hall -

  I close my eyes.

  Fists pounding on the bedroom door -

  I kiss her for the last time.

  Bill is shaking me -

  I open my eyes.

  I hold up her hand in mine -

  There are bruises on the backs of both our hands;

  Bruises that will never heal -

  Never.

  Bill is saying: ‘I think you need a friend, Maurice.’

  I nod.

  The branches tapping against the pane, screaming:

  ‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’

  Chapter 47

  Falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her memories open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of an unfaithful wife trapped and forced to watch the slaughter of her husband upon their own neat lawn, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the carpet in the hall, on the golden flowers and the crimson leaves, on the marks made by piss and the marks made by shit, contorted and screaming and howling under dull Christmas tree lights that blink on and then off, on and then off, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and dying at Christmas, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of dirty clothes and unshaven faces, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their memories, telling them of all the hells they were in and all the fresh hells you’d bring, how damned they truly were, but they just sat there silently waiting for new hells to come to their houses and flats, to take them upstairs and fuck them on their bed with their eyes open wide and their mouths shaped like fish, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, her husband rotten in his box, already on his way back down underground, a tie around his neck and truncheon by his side, stitched up stones for his teeth, as you flew across the church, tried to reach across the pews and grab Badger Bill, to kill him here and kill him now, but your brother Pete was holding you back, telling you all the things that your dad had done and had not, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how he was better off dead and now she could get back on her feet and on with her life, better off without him, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her fingers, and then came the Brass, came to tell you how sorry they were, he was one of their own he was, one of the best that there was, how they were all going to miss Big John the Pig, his gun still smoking as they struggled to clean this all up, the stink of bullshit among the smoke, their lies smeared all over the windows of your shed, their fingers holding down the trigger, lying in their uniforms that said Leeds City Police, your father dead between a pair of swan’s wings, his story blown to bits, still struggling to tidy up those little loose ends and file them away, to put him in the ground and make him go away, but it didn’t and it never would, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up her walls and her stairs on her hands and her knees, the bricks through her windows and LUFC on her walls, the swastikas and noose they hung above her door, the kids and their dogs chanting and barking, chasing her home from the shops in packs, home to the shit through her letterbox and the dirty phone calls, the dull thuds in the night and the torchlight that blinks off and on, on and off through her windows all night, the feeble voice asking her sons to please, please come help stop these kids and their dads, the white swastikas and the black, the marks made by kids and the marks by their dads, burning paper through her letterbox and a dead cat on her step, these policemen in suits and big size ten boots who check all her locks and drink all her tea and remember her John and then are all gone; the walls covered in wet painted words, the stink of shit up the stairs, the smell of dirty dog muck and rotten old eggs, the fruit and the veg and the endless days and nights of hate, these long days and long, long nights spent alone in her bedroom afraid to go downstairs, afraid to go out, for the kids and their dads, their mams and their nans, their chants and their taunts, their sticks and their stones, the words and the bricks that always hurt always, her husband dead and her sons that never call, alone on her bed in her own shit and piss with no food in the house, the doors and windows all locked and the dog fucking starved, she falls backwards alone on her bed through the enormous depths away from this place, this terrible rotten un-fresh place, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories and history; this place where you are now, alone; terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with your mother on her bed in the piss and the shit with no food in the house and the wolf fucking starved at the door, alone with your mother in her bed, your mother and -