Nineteen Eighty-three
Page 32
You check the rearview mirror. Then the wing –
The passenger seat is empty.
The doors are locked. The windows closed. The car smells. You switch on the engine. You switch on the windscreen wipers. You switch on the radio:
‘Latest opinion polls have the Conservatives still 15% ahead of Labour; Mrs Thatcher accuses SDP leaders of lacking guts; Britain faces a 1929-style economic crash within two years whatever party wins, according to Ken Livingstone; Michael Foot speaks at a Hyde Park rally attended by 15,000 people at the end of the People’s March for Jobs …’
You switch everything off.
You can hear church bells, the traffic and the rain:
It is Sunday 5 June 1983 –
D-4.
You are parked below the City Heights flats, Leeds.
Halfway to the tower block, you turn back to check the car is locked. Then you walk across the car park. You climb the stairs to the fourth floor. You read the walls as you go:
Wogs Out, Leeds, NF, Leeds, Kill a Paki, Leeds.
You think of your mother. You don’t stop. You turn one corner and there’s something dead in a plastic bag. Your father. You don’t stop. You turn the next and there’s a pile of human shit. Fitzwilliam. You don’t stop. You are walking in another man’s shoes, thinking of lost children –
Hazel.
On the fourth floor you go along the open passageway, the bitter wind ripping your face raw until there are tears in your eyes. You quicken past broken windows and paint-splattered doors –
Doors banging in the wind, in the rain;
New tears in your old eyes, the lights are already going on across Leeds –
But not here –
Not here before a door marked Pervert.
You knock on the door of Flat 405, City Heights, Leeds.
You wait.
You listen to the smash of glass and the scream of a child down below, the brakes of an empty bus and an hysterical voice on a radio in another flat –
The church bells gone.
You press the doorbell –
It’s broken.
You bend down. You lift up the metal flap of another letterbox. You smell staleness. You hear the sounds of a TV.
‘Excuse me!’ you yell into the hole.
The TV dies.
‘Excuse me!’
Through the letterbox, you can see a pair of dirty white socks pacing about inside.
You knock on the door again. You shout: ‘I know you’re in there.’
‘What do you want?’
You stand up. You say to the door: ‘I just want a word.’
‘What about?’
‘Your sister and her daughter.’
The latch turns. The door branded Pervert opens.
‘What about them?’ says Johnny Kelly –
The Man who had Everything;
‘What about them?’ he says again –
The Man who had Everything –
In a tight pair of jeans and a sweater with no shirt, his hair long and unwashed, his face fat and unshaven;
‘They’re dead,’ he says.
‘I know,’ you say. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Fuck off,’ he hisses.
‘No.’
Johnny Kelly steps forward. He pokes you in the chest. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
‘My name is John Piggott,’ you reply. ‘I’m a solicitor.’
‘I’ve got no fucking money,’ he says. ‘If that’s what you’re after.’
‘No,’ you say. ‘That’s not what I’m after.’
‘So what are you after?’
‘The truth.’
He swallows. He closes his eyes. He opens them. He looks past you at the grey and black sky. He hears the glass smash and the child’s screams, the brakes and the voices. He sees the dead and the shit –
‘About what?’ he says.
‘The truth about your Paula and her Jeanette. About Susan Ridyard and Clare Kemplay. About Michael Myshkin and Jimmy Ashworth. About –’
The dead and the shit –
The tears old and new –
The windows and the doors branded Pervert –
‘About Hazel Atkins,’ you say.
‘What makes you think I know anything?’
‘It was just a hunch,’ you shrug.
‘You fucking psychic, are you?’ he says, closing the door.
You put your right foot forward between the door and the frame. You stop him.
‘Fuck off!’ he shouts. ‘I don’t know anything.’
You push the door back in his face. You say: ‘Is that right? Well, you know all those names, don’t you?’
And Johnny Kelly –
The Man who had Everything –
Johnny Kelly looks down at his dirty white socks. He nods. He whispers words you cannot hear –
‘You what?’ you say.
‘They’re dead,’ he says again, looking up –
The tears old and new –
The tears in both your eyes –
‘All of them,’ he says. ‘Dead.’
‘Not quite,’ you say.
He looks down again at his dirty white socks.
‘You going to let me in?’ you say.
Johnny Kelly turns. He walks back into his flat, the door open.
You follow him down a narrow hall into the living room.
Kelly sits down in an old and scarred vinyl armchair, racing papers and a plate of uneaten and dried-up baked beans at his feet –
An empty bottle of HP stood on its head –
He has his face in his hands.
You sit on the matching settee, a colour TV showing The World at War.
Above the unlit gas-fire and its plastic-surround, a Polynesian girl is smiling in various shades of orange and brown, a tear in her hair and one corner missing, the walls running with damp.
You sit and you think of faces running with tears –
Think of the missing –
Of Hazel.
Next door a dog is barking and barking and barking.
Johnny Kelly looks up. He says: ‘It never goes away.’
You nod.
‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Everything,’ you whisper.
You drive from Leeds back into Wakefield. You do not put the radio on. You repeat as you drive:
Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows –
Everybody knows and –
It is about four o’clock in the afternoon with the sun never shining and the hard, relentless, endless fucking drizzle of a dull, dark, soundless fucking Sunday running down the windscreen of the car.
You check the rearview mirror. Then the wing.
You park up on the pavement of a quiet dim lane in front of tall wet walls:
Trinity View, Wood Lane, Sandal –
The posh part of Wakefield; the garage owners and the builders, the self-made men with their self-made piles, their double drives and deductible lives, the ones who never pay their bills and always dodge their taxes –
Self-satisfied and shielded, gilded against the coming war –
Against John Piggott.
You walk up the long drive towards Trinity View, past the neat lawn with its tainted, plastic ornaments and stagnant, plagued pond.
There are no cars in the drive. There are no lights on inside –
Only the hateful gloom of bad history –
The hateful, hateful gloom of bad, bad history, hanging in the trees, the branches –
Their shadows long.
You ring the doorbell. You listen to the dreadful, lonely chimes echo through the inside of the house.
‘Yes? Who is it?’ calls out a woman from behind the door.
‘My name is John Piggott.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘About Johnny Kelly.’
‘Go away.’
<
br /> ‘About your late husband.’
‘Go away.’
You have your face and lips to the door: ‘About Jeanette.’
Silence –
Hanging in the trees –
‘About Clare.’
Silence –
In the branches.
‘Mrs Foster,’ you say. ‘I’m not going to go away until you open that door and I see your face.’
There is hesitation. Then a lock turns. The door opens.
Mrs Patricia Foster is in her early fifties with grey hair in need of a perm. She is dressed all in black and holding a lighter and an unlit cigarette in her hands.
There’s already lipstick on the filter and her hands are shaking.
She turns back inside. She sits down on the steps of her grand, carpeted stairs. She shakes her head. She says: ‘The things we do.’
‘Pardon?’
She looks up at you. She lights her cigarette. She says: ‘I knew you’d come.’
‘Me?’
‘Someone.’
You tell her: ‘I went to see Johnny Kelly.’
She smiles at the carpet. ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, eh?’
You hold up a newspaper photograph of Hazel Atkins.
She looks up, dark eyes and tall nose, the face of an eagle –
An iniquitous, flesh-eating bird of prey.
She looks away. She says: ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Nothing,’ you say.
She stares at you. She says: ‘Nothing?’
You nod. You turn –
‘Wait!’ she screams –
You walk –
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
You keep on walking –
‘You can’t leave!’
Walking away through the hateful gloom, the stained class that she is –
On her doorstep, screaming: ‘No!’
Past the neat lawn with its tainted, plastic ornaments and stagnant, plagued pond –
The neat lawn on which her husband was murdered on December 23, 1974 –
Under these very trees;
You walk down the long drive away from Trinity View –
Mrs Patricia Foster screaming and screaming and screaming;
Her screams and her memories –
Hanging in the trees, in the branches –
Your memories;
You are walking in another man’s shoes –
A dead man’s.
Chapter 45
Breathing blood and spitting blind, running hard –
Here it is again, his car –
Fuck.
Gets within six foot and BJ off again –
Door, wind and rain –
His voice: ‘BJ!’
Over fence and on to wasteland, tripping and falling on to ground on other side, bleeding and crying and praying as BJ stumble over land and into playground, into playground and scrambling across fence, across fence and into allotments, dripping blood through vegetable patches and over wall and into small street of terraces, down street and right into next street of terraces, BJ turn left and then right again and into privets –
The shrubbery.
After a minute BJ step out into street and walk along pavement next to big and busy road, walk towards roundabout where BJ will hitch out of here –
Out of Nazi Germany.
BJ walking along, yellow lights coming towards BJ like stars, red lights leaving BJ like sores, practising German and thinking about trying to cross to other side where it’s just factories; fires burning and smoke rising, crows picking at white bones of babies and their mothers, screaming:
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex –
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex –
‘Hex, hex, hex, hex, hex, hex.’
Thinking at least there’d be somewhere to hide –
Somewhere to hide.
Then car stops –
His car –
His car stops. He winds down window –
He says: ‘You’re going to catch your death, Barry.’
‘Please,’ BJ say. ‘Help me.’
He raises brow of his black hat. He looks up at black afternoon sky and black rain. He says: ‘Are you sorry?’
BJ nod.
‘Sorry for all the things that you’ve done?’
BJ looking left and right, left and then right. BJ say: ‘I am sorry.’
He unlocks door. BJ get in, sliding over into back –
Car damp and cold, black briefcase beside BJ.
He starts car. He says: ‘Keep your head down.’
BJ do as he says.
On motorway, BJ look up from leather seat: ‘Where we going?’
‘Church,’ he says.
It is 1980.
He found me hiding –
In Church of Abandoned Christ in sixth flat on second floor of sixth house in Portland Square in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost again; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, lost in another room; hair shaved again and eight eyes shined, BJ be once more Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes shabby and wings burnt; he is Hierophant, Father of Fear, and he is weeping, whispering old death songs:
Knew I was not happy –
‘Through thee Church, E met Michael and Carol Williams at their house in Ossett in December 1974 where E had been invited to lecture on thee Irvingites. We took communion of ready-sliced bread and undiluted Ribena. During prayers thee next day Michael spoke in glossolalia for thee first time. Thee three of us wept for it is thee gift of thee Holy Spirit. It is beautiful and it is frightening.
Scratching my head –
‘And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind. It filled all their house on Towngate where we were sitting. And there appeared unto us cloven tongues as of fire and they sat upon Michael. And he was filled with thee Holy Ghost and began to speak with other tongues as thee Spirit gave him utterance.
Confused beyond existence –
‘In January 1975 Michael suddenly visited me. He said he had seen thee Devil who had told him to go and kill himself in his car. He then kissed me upon thee lips. It was not a Christian kiss and we bounced off each other, repelled.
Sat in the corner, shivering from fright –
‘Thee following day Michael approached neighbours in thee street. He told them thee world was coming to an end. He came to thee Church and told me he had been seduced by thee Devil. E recited a prayer of absolution, thee Infilling of thee Holy Spirit. He was strained and tired and went home before night fell. He was afraid of thee dark.
Feeling strung up –
‘On Friday 24 January Michael told Carol to get rid of all thee crosses and religious books in thee house and she did so. When it was time to go to bed he left thee radio on. He was frightened of thee silence of thee night.
Out of my clothes and into the bed –
‘On thee Saturday E decided to give Michael and Carol a rest from their troubles. They would, E believed, benefit from a car ride in thee fresh air of thee Yorkshire Dales. As E drove out Wharfedale way, Carol seemed relieved until Michael suddenly uttered a piercing scream. It was as if all his prayers vociferated in one high-pitched cry full of pent-up blasphemies and curses. “He desperately needs help,” said Carol.
The movements in his bed –
‘E turned thee car around and headed back to thee Church. By 7.30 p.m., Michael was behaving irrationally, violently and noisily. He picked up my cat and flung it through thee window. Food was placed before him to placate and occupy his mind, but he threw it on thee floor. It was my view that an enormous force of evil was emanating from Michael and that this was undoubtedly a case of demonic possession. It was clear from Carol’s words that she was convinced that her ex-husband Jack was connected with some Satanic group and that he had pledged Michael to thee Devil. Michael’s violence of speech and action, his threat to murder someone and thee fact that he invoked thee po
wer of thee moon persuaded me that thee exorcism should begin immediately without further delay.
So sorry, sad and so, so confused –
‘E took him to thee vestry at thee side of thee Church and there E laid him on his back on a pile of red, gold and green cassocks. E stood over him asking him questions, finding answers, putting suggestions, saying prayers, and casting out thee devils one by one. E named each devil by its own evil: bestiality, lewdness, blasphemy, heresy, masochism and so forth. A wooden crucifix given to him by his wife was repeatedly put in his mouth as E prayed for him. He writhed and thrashed on thee floor. Carol and E had to hold him down forcibly. Every time he puffed out his cheeks and gasped and panted for breath, another demon had been expelled. However, by noon on thee Sunday we were all exhausted. He was rid of forty demons but alas there were two still inside of him: violence and murder.
Between life and death –
‘E felt that there was a doll somewhere for Michael like thee witchcraft dolls into which people stick pins; unless it was found and burned E would never be able to cast out thee spirit of murder for E had had thee word from God that if Michael went home that afternoon he would kill his wife. E tried to contact a medical officer of some sort but, as it was a Sunday, E could find none. E called thee police but Carol said Michael would be cross if thee police were called into this matter. So at 8.30 p.m., E drove Michael and Carol home. E left at 9 p.m. in search of thee doll and Carol’s ex-husband. Thee last thing Carol said was, “My husband is going to have a good rest.”
Lost in room –
‘E finally returned with her ex-husband, Jack. Michael Williams was on his hands and knees with his forehead touching thee lawn. He was naked except for his socks and his wife’s rings on his fingers. It was with these very fingers he had torn out her eyes and her tongue and, as she lay choking on her own blood on thee grass, he had hammered a twelve-inch nail into thee top of her skull. His hands, arms and body were bloody and beside him was thee hammer. Thee first policeman asked him, “Where did all that blood come from?”
‘“It is thee blood of Satan.”
‘“Did you kill your wife?”
‘“No, not her,” he said. “E loved her.”’
They found me hiding –
In Church of Abandoned Christ in sixth flat on second floor of sixth house in Portland Square in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ still lost; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, lost in so, so many rooms; hair shaved again and eight eyes shined, BJ be this Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes shabby and his wings burnt, he has dolls in his pocket; he is Hierophant, Father of Fear, and he whispers: