Nineteen Eighty-three

by David Peace

  And in your dreams –

  Daz catches up with you in Henry Boons and he’s up to Hird now, the various crimes he should be shot or hung for, way he’s played this season, all Eddie Gray’s fault anyway, he picks the fucking team doesn’t he, fat bastard, no offence John, but everyone sups up quick, except Kel because Ange and her mates will be in Elephant which you think is good news because she’s got some nice mates has Ange, but you do have time for a swift one in Mid before Elephant, so you head up the back way past the Prison, everyone breaking into a chorus of Born Free as you go, everyone except you.

  In your dreams, you see things –

  The Mid stinks of damp, full of punks and students from the Tech, a couple of blokes from Labour Club who want to talk politics until it’s obvious state you’re in you can’t, not that it stops you taking piss out of Thatcher in this morning’s Post with her vision of a return to the eternal values of the Victorian era, ruling Britain into the 1990s, until she gets another bomb from the Yorkshire Republican Army that is, and that’s you that is, the YRA, but then you think you’re going to puke and you run for the bogs, the Barley Wine coming back up then straight back down your bloody nose.

  But all these things in all your dreams –

  Ange isn’t even in Elephant and now Kel’s pissed off and the pool room is packed and someone reckons Streethouse are on their way and with Stanley about it seems a bit of a bad night and then a glass smashes and everyone jumps and Sarn says it’s just the speed, just the speed, but in the bogs you wonder what you ought to do and Hally says he’s up for a club but none of you have ties and most of you are in jeans and none of you can be arsed to go home and change, so it’ll have to be Raffles or somewhere shit like that because you’ll not get in Casanovas, not dressed like this, not now.

  Are big black raven things –

  Fuck knows who said there are always a load of good-looking lasses in Evergreens, all you can see are a gang of Siouxsie fucking Siouxs giving you daggers until Wilf the punk dwarf who you represented when he was done for pissing against Balne Lane library after he lost one of his brothel creepers and he couldn’t hop and hold it all the way home to Flanshaw, until Wilf the punk dwarf says Streethouse have been nicked at top of Westgate after a fight with some lads from Stanley, and he used to call you Petrocelli and ended up with a fifty quid fine while you and his old man got done for contempt.

  The room blue.

  Kelly was in Friars and says same about Streethouse when you meet him and Dickie and Ange with one of her mates back in Graziers for last, Daz and Foz still in Elephant talking to two lasses from the hen party, which is bloody fucking typical, but now it’s you and Sarn talking ten to dozen, feeling top of the world, and Mark says Gareth’s puking in bogs but that’s only because that wasn’t really a Glenfiddich in Evergreens, thinks he’ll be all right for Raffles or Dolly Grays or wherever you’re off but he wishes you’d make up your fucking minds, Hally suddenly silent, his eyes red.

  You have dreams –

  Outside Kel and them are going back to theirs or Norm’s and you ought to do too he says because Raffles is going to be shit and full of fucking freaks and he’s a ton of fucking draw back at his, but you always go back to his or Norm’s every Friday and Saturday and it’s Gareth’s fucking birthday so why don’t they all come up to Raffles too, but Ange is working tomorrow on an early shift so that isn’t going to happen, so you tell Kel you’ll see him in Billy Walton’s tomorrow about two and you walk up the hill to Westgate, pissing behind back of somewhere, a light going on and then off again.

  And in your dreams –

  Top of Westgate’s heaving, everyone stumbling around trying to get out of the pubs and into the clubs, taxis and last buses swerving and braking to miss people fighting and falling in the road with their kebabs and swamp burgers, pizzas and Indians, dropping them or puking them up, the police just sitting about in their vans with their dogs on their leads until some bloke in a crash helmet sticks his head through a window and some silly slag pushes a shopping trolley out into the road, the 127 braking and did-you-see-that, what-did-you-say, yeah-fucking-hell-you-fucking-bet-you-fucking-saw-that.

  In your dreams, you cry tears –

  Two quid and up the stairs into Raffles, bouncer a bloke you know giving you a slap on the back but no fucking discount because the cow on the door’s screwing the boss, but it’s nice to know Graham still works here because you never know what’s going to happen, which is exactly what you’re saying to this lass at the bar and she’s all right she is and you have a bit of a dance to David Bowie and a smooch to Bonnie Tyler and you remember Gareth passing out and Sarn calling you Doctor Love and you thinking thank-fucking-Christ you didn’t have any more speed.

  But all your tears in all your dreams –

  Her parents and brother are at the caravan for the weekend so you are queuing among the chicken bones for a taxi on Cheapside, having a bit of a snog every now and again, her legs nice and brown, fine fair hairs a little bit sweaty, and you touch her cunt in the back of the taxi, the smell of pine, puke and perspiration, and you get out in the centre of Ossett and buy a curry to take back to hers, though she’ll have to open all the fucking windows because they’ll be back Sunday lunchtime and he hates that bloody Paki smell in the house does her dad.

  Are islands lost in fears –

  But after the curry she’s sober and off the idea of a shag and you knew you should have done it before you had the curry or even back behind Raffles, but she’s getting a bit funny and telling you to get off her, it’s her time of the month, and you’re thinking there’s always trap two, but that’s not going to happen, not now, and the curtains are beginning to spin, the patterns in the carpet, the gold in the rug, but you can have her brother’s room if you promise not to puke or shit in his sheets, that’s if you’re not going to go home which you’re not, not now.

  The room red, white and blue (just like you).

  You wake afraid about five under a poster of Kenny Dalglish and you go into her room and into her bed and take off her knickers and have a good squeeze of her tits while she pretends to still be asleep as you lick her out and shag her, she never opens her eyes so you put a finger up her arse and have a last shag, meat and bone, fat and muscle, blood and come, then you go downstairs and steal their paper and an umbrella and let yourself out, standing in their drive under their umbrella, staring at that photo on the front of their paper when you realise this is Towngate –

  Towngate, Ossett, where Michael Williams murdered his wife with a hammer and a twelve-inch nail back in 1974 or 75, the Exorcist killing –

  About the same time they must have nicked Michael Myshkin –

  About the same time Hazel Atkins was having her first birthday –

  And you stand in their drive under their umbrella and you stare at her photo on the front of their paper and wish you were not you –

  For there is no retreat, no escape –

  Not now.

  Chapter 9

  On back seat again –

  Another empty coach:

  Tuesday 24 December 1974 –

  Longest Christmas Eve.

  Clare slumped against window, dirty blonde hair against dirty grey glass, her best friend and her sister dead, a small suitcase in rack above her head.

  BJ look across aisle and out other window at rain and moors, bleak weather and land it makes, no suitcase above BJ’s head –

  Just a pocket full of blood ‘n’ cum money, two stolen watches and some rings.

  BJ look at rings on BJ’s fingers –

  BJ look at ring Bill put on BJ’s finger –

  Bill:

  William Shaw.

  BJ pull yesterday’s newspaper out of Clare’s carrier bag and look at photo –

  Look at photo of his face and read that front page again:

  COUNCILLOR RESIGNS

  William Shaw, the Labour leader and Chairman of the new Wakefield Metropolitan District Council, resign
ed on Sunday in a move that shocked the city.

  In a brief statement, Shaw, 58, cited increasing ill-health as the reason behind his decision.

  Shaw, the older brother of the Home Office Minister of State Robert Shaw, entered Labour politics through the Transport and General Workers’ Union. He rose to be a regional organiser and represented the T.G.W.U. on the National Executive Committee of the Labour Party.

  A former Alderman and active for many years in West Riding politics, Shaw was, however, a leading advocate of Local Government reform and had been a member of the Redcliffe-Maud Committee.

  Shaw’s election as Chairman of the first Wakefield Metropolitan District Council had been widely welcomed as ensuring a smooth transition during the changeover from the old West Riding.

  Local government sources last night expressed consternation and dismay at the timing of Mr Shaw’s resignation.

  Mr Shaw is also Acting Chairman of the West Yorkshire Police Authority and it is unclear as to whether he will continue.

  Home Office Minister of State Robert Shaw was unavailable for comment on his brother’s resignation. Mr Shaw himself is believed to be staying with friends in France.

  Read that front page, stare at photo of his face:

  Face not smiling –

  Remembering when it was always smiling, smiling and laughing, laughing and joking –

  That trip to Spain, mornings on beach and siestas in his arms, evenings full of fine wines and dodgy bellies, nights of –

  Nights of love:

  His grey hair and gentle words, his firm kisses and soft caresses before –

  Before BJ fucked it all, fucked it all:

  All because of what and who BJ be.

  Coach slows –

  BJ lean into aisle –

  Blue lights up ahead in grey:

  Fuck.

  Single-lane traffic, red sticks waving in dawn:

  Fuck.

  Driver has his window down, shouting: ‘What is it?’

  ‘IRA,’ comes a copper’s voice.

  ‘Not again?’

  ‘Irish bastards,’ says copper, but he waves coach through and coach picks up speed again.

  Clare is staring at BJ, heavy rain against windows of coach.

  ‘We there?’ she asks, rubbing her black eyes.

  ‘Roadblock,’ BJ say.

  ‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Heading down into Manchester.’

  She wipes window, but it doesn’t help.

  BJ say: ‘Not very Christmassy, is it?’

  ‘Used to have good ones, did you?’

  BJ sigh: ‘Not really. And you?’

  She shakes her head: ‘I’d love to see the girls though.’

  ‘I bet,’ BJ say, thinking –

  Poor, poor fucking cow.

  ‘Said I’d be back by Christmas, you know.’

  ‘Give them a ring,’ BJ say.

  She sucks in her lower lip and nods.

  BJ put newspaper back in bag as coach pulls into Chorlton Street Bus Station.

  ‘Be half an hour,’ shouts driver. ‘You getting off?’

  ‘Aye,’ shouts Clare and walks down aisle with BJ and jumps off.

  It’s going up to eight and fucking freezing is Manchester.

  BJ and Clare cross Portland Street into Piccadilly Gardens and go into first café BJ and Clare find:

  Piccadilly Grill.

  Clare has a breakfast and BJ have her toast, stomachs full of hot sweet tea.

  At eight o’clock radio turns them stomachs, turns them inside out:

  ‘West Yorkshire Police today launched a massive manhunt following an armed robbery on a Wakefield pub last night which left four people dead and two policemen seriously injured.

  ‘The incident took place at approximately one a.m. last night at the Strafford Arms public house in the centre of Wakefield when a masked gang of armed men broke into a first-floor private party. Officers responding to initial reports of shots fired interrupted the robbery and were themselves attacked.

  ‘The gang are believed to have escaped with the contents of the till and some cash and jewellery stolen from customers.

  ‘Roadblocks were immediately set up across the county and on the M62 and M1 and initial reports that the attack might be linked to armed Irish Republican terrorists have yet to be discounted.

  ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, the man leading the hunt for the gang, asked members of the public with any information whatsoever to contact the police as a matter of some urgency, but he also cautioned the public not to approach these men as they are armed and extremely dangerous.

  ‘Mr Jobson admitted that the police were also taking very seriously suggestions that the attack upon the Strafford may be linked to a recent escalation in Yorkshire gangland violence which may also be behind the death early yesterday morning of local Wakefield businessman Donald Foster at his Sandal home.

  ‘Mr Jobson further confirmed that the two policemen injured in the attack were Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Robert Douglas, the two policemen who recently made headlines following their arrest of Michael Myshkin, the Fitzwilliam man charged with the murder of Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay. Mr Jobson described the condition of the officers as “serious but stable,” but he refused to release the names of the dead as police were still trying to contact a number of relatives.

  ‘Mr Jobson also added that he believed that some relatives may even have gone into hiding for fear of reprisals and he appealed for them to …’

  Two steaming teas, two empty seats.

  Chapter 10

  Gotcha –

  Dark night –

  Day 11:

  One in the morning –

  Sunday 22 May 1983:

  Yorkshire –

  Leeds –

  Millgarth Police Station:

  The Belly –

  Room 4:

  James Ashworth, twenty-two, in police issue grey shirt and trousers, long, lank hair everywhere, slouched akimbo in his chair at our table, a cigarette burning down to a stub between the dirty black nails of his dirty yellow fingers –

  Jimmy James Ashworth, former friend and neighbour of Michael Myshkin, child killer –

  Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.

  I asked him: ‘For the thousandth fucking time Jimmy, what were you doing in Morley on Thursday?’

  And for the thousandth fucking time he told me: ‘Nothing.’

  We’d had him here since five on Thursday night, got him riding his motorbike into Morley, head to toe in denim and leather, the words Saxon and Angelwitch stitched into his back between a pair of swan’s wings, had him here since Thursday night but hadn’t technically started the questioning until Friday morning at seven which gave us another six hours with the little twat, but he’d given us nothing, nothing except the clothes off his back, his boots and his motorbike, the dirt from under his nails, the blood from his arms and the come from his cock, so we’d been over to Fitzwilliam and we’d ripped up their house, their garage and their garden, had the washing from their basket and from in off their line, the dust and hairs from their floors, the sheets and stains off their beds, the rubbish out their bins, sent it all up to forensics, then taken his mam and his dad, his whole gyppo family in, the garage where he worked and the blokes he called mates, the lass he was shagging, had them all in but had got fuck all out of them, nothing – Yet.

  *

  Gotcha –

  Long dark night –

  Day 11:

  Three in the morning –

  Sunday 22 May 1983:

  Yorkshire –

  Leeds –

  Millgarth Police Station:

  The Belly –

  Room 4:

  We opened the door. We stepped inside:

  Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice –

  One with a greying moustache, the other one bald but for tufts of fine sandy hair:

  Moustache and Sandy.
>
  And me:

  Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson –

  Thick lenses and black frames –

  The Owl.

  And him:

  James Ashworth, twenty-two, police issue grey shirt and trousers, long, lank hair everywhere, slouched in his chair at our table, dirty black nails, dirty yellow fingers –

  Jimmy James Ashworth, former friend and neighbour of Michael Myshkin, child killer –

  Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.

  ‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ said Jim Prentice.

  Ashworth sat up straight and put his palms flat upon the desk.

  Jim Prentice sat down at an angle to Ashworth. He took a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his sports jacket. He passed them to Dick Alderman.

  Dick walked around the room. Dick played with the handcuffs. Dick sat down opposite Ashworth.

  I closed the door to Room 4.

  Dick put the handcuffs over the knuckles of his right fist.

  I leant against the door arms folded, watching Ashworth’s face –

  In the silence:

  Room 4 quiet, the Belly quiet –

  The Station silent, the Market silent –

  Leeds sleeping, Yorkshire sleeping.

  Dick jumped up. Dick brought his handcuffed fist down on to the top of Ashworth’s right hand –

  Ashworth screamed –

  Screamed –

  Through the room, through the Belly –

  Up through the Station, up through the Market –

  Across Leeds, across Yorkshire –

  He screamed.

  ‘Put your hands back,’ said Jim.

  Ashworth put them back on the table.

  ‘Flat,’ said Jim.

  He tried to lie them down flat.

  ‘Nasty,’ said Dick.

  ‘You should get that seen to,’ said Jim.

  They were both smiling at him.

  Jim stood up. He walked over to me.