by David Peace
Moustache takes out a lighter. He lights both their cigarettes.
They sit back. They blow smoke at you.
Your hands are shaking.
Moustache leans forward. Moustache dangles the cigarette over your right hand. Moustache rolls it back and forth between two fingers.
Your hand is twitching –
You pull your hand back a bit.
Moustache reaches forward. Moustache grabs your right wrist. Moustache holds down your right hand. Moustache stubs his cigarette out in the bruises on the back of your hand.
You scream.
Moustache lets go of your wrist. Moustache sits back.
‘Put your hands flat,’ says Sandy.
You put them flat on the table.
The room stinks of burnt skin –
Yours.
Moustache sweeps the ash and tobacco off the table.
‘Another?’ says Sandy.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says Moustache. He takes a second JPS from the packet. He lights the cigarette. He stares at you. He leans forward. He begins again to dangle the cigarette over your hand.
You stand up: ‘What do you want?’
‘Sit down,’ says Sandy.
‘Tell me what you want!’
‘Sit down.’
You sit down.
Moustache and Sandy stand up.
‘Stand up,’ says Sandy.
You stand up.
‘Eyes front.’
You stare straight ahead.
‘Don’t move.’
You don’t move.
Moustache and Sandy put the three chairs and the table to the side. Maurice opens the door. They step outside into the corridor.
You can hear screaming –
Laughter –
Dogs barking.
They close the door.
You stand in the centre of the room. You stare at the white wall. You are naked. You want a piss. You listen to the screaming. You listen to the laughter. You listen to the barking. You do not move. You close your eyes.
You have dreams –
And in your dreams –
In your dreams, you have fears –
But all your fears in all your dreams –
Are islands lost in tears –
The room white.
The door opens again. Moustache and Sandy come back in.
Maurice does not.
Moustache and Sandy walk around you in silence.
They smell of drink and curry. They smell of sweat.
They bring the chairs and the table back to the centre of the room.
Moustache puts a chair behind you. He says: ‘Sit down.’
You sit down opposite Sandy.
Moustache picks up the blanket from the floor. He puts it over your shoulders.
Sandy lights a cigarette. He says: ‘Put your palms flat on the desk.’
‘Please tell me what you want.’
‘Just put your palms flat.’
You put your palms flat on the desk.
Moustache walks about behind you.
Sandy puts a brown paper package on the table. He opens it. He takes out a pistol. He lays it down on the table. He smiles at you.
Moustache stops walking about. He stands behind you.
‘Eyes front,’ says Sandy.
You stare straight ahead.
Sandy jumps up. Sandy pins your wrists down.
Moustache grabs the blanket. Moustache twists it around your face.
You fall forward off the chair. You cough. You choke. You are unable to breathe. You hit the edge of the table –
Crack.
Sandy holds down your wrists.
Moustache twists the blanket around your face.
You kneel on the floor. You cough. You choke. You are unable to breathe.
Sandy lets go of your wrists.
You spin round in the blanket into the wall –
Crack.
Moustache throws off the blanket. He picks you up by your hair. He stands you against the wall.
‘Turn around, eyes front.’
You turn around.
Sandy has the pistol in his right hand.
Moustache has some bullets. He is throwing them up. He is catching them.
‘Maurice says the cunt wants to die,’ whispers Moustache. ‘So just make it look like he topped himself.’
Sandy holds the pistol with both hands at arm’s length. He points the gun at the side of your head.
You close your eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks.
Sandy pulls the trigger –
Click.
Nothing happens.
‘Fuck,’ says Sandy.
He turns away. He fiddles with the pistol.
You have pissed yourself.
‘I’ve fixed it,’ says Sandy. ‘It’ll be all right this time.’
He points the pistol again.
You close your eyes.
Sandy pulls the trigger –
Bang.
You think you are dead.
You open your eyes. You see the pistol. You see shreds of black material coming out of the barrel. You watch them float down to the floor.
Moustache and Sandy are staring at you.
You shout: ‘What do you want?’
Moustache steps forward. Moustache kicks you in the balls.
You fall to the floor.
‘What do you want?’
‘Stand up.’
You stand up.
‘On your toes,’ says Moustache.
‘Please tell me?’
Moustache steps forward again. Moustache kicks you in the balls again.
You fall to the floor.
He whispers: ‘Man had his balls removed after being kicked by the Leeds SPG.’
Sandy walks over. Sandy kicks you in the chest. Sandy kicks you in the stomach. Sandy handcuffs your hands behind your back. Sandy pushes your face into the floor –
Into your own piss.
‘Do you like dogs, Johnny?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Do you like dogs?’
‘What do you fucking want?’
‘I don’t think you do, do you?’
The door opens.
A uniformed policeman comes in with an Alsatian on a lead.
Moustache sits astride your back. Moustache pulls your face up by your hair.
The dog is staring at you, panting –
Tongue out.
Moustache shouts: ‘Get him! Get him!’
The dog is growling. The dog is barking. The dog is straining on its leash.
‘Careful,’ says Sandy to the uniform.
Moustache pushes your head forward –
‘He’s starving,’ he says. ‘Just like little Hazel was.’
You struggle.
The dog is getting nearer –
‘Just like little Hazel.’
You try to get loose.
Moustache pushes your face in closer –
‘Starving.’
You cry.
The dog is a foot away.
‘Alone in that room.’
You see its gums. You see its teeth. You smell its breath. You feel its breath.
‘Starving.’
The dog growling. The dog barking. The dog straining on its leash.
‘Starving to death alone in that room.’
You shit yourself.
‘Fucking knew, didn’t you?’
The dog is inches from your face.
‘Did nothing.’
Everything going black –
‘Nothing!’
Going black –
‘Tell me what I’ve done.’
‘Again!’
‘Please –’
‘Please what?’
Black –
‘Please tell me what I’ve done.’
‘Again!’
‘Please tell me what I’ve done!’
‘Clever boy,’ he says –
Everything black no
w.
You fall backwards, handcuffed upon a tiny plastic chair –
Through the floor of the cell, through the walls of the Station –
Through the earth and through the oceans –
Through the atmosphere into outer space –
To the gulfs between the stars –
Always away from the dog –
Away from this place –
This rotten, un-fresh linoleum place;
Light years distant, Jobson still standing at your side –
The dog gone.
You have dreams –
And in your dreams –
In your dreams, you see things –
But all these things in all your dreams –
Are big black raven things –
The room blue.
You open your eyes.
Maurice Jobson is staring back at you.
You are still in the room with white lights and no windows.
But you are dressed in your own clothes again.
Maurice Jobson takes off his glasses. He rubs his eyes.
‘I didn’t do it,’ you say.
‘Not guilty?’ he smiles.
‘Not guilty.’
He puts his thick lenses and black frames back on. ‘We’re all guilty, John.’
You shake your head. ‘Not me.’
He nods. ‘We all are.’
You close your eyes.
When you open them again, he is still staring at you –
Still waiting.
‘Will you make it right?’ he asks.
You nod –
‘Yes, sir,’ you say. ‘I will.’
You have dreams –
And in your dreams –
In your dreams, you cry tears –
But all your tears in all your dreams –
Are islands lost in fears –
The room red, white, and blue (like you).
He leads you down the corridor to the double doors and the courtyard.
A black van is waiting, its back doors open.
Moustache and Sandy are sitting inside.
‘You’re not coming?’ you ask.
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been there before.’
There are tears in your eyes again. ‘We’ll meet again?’
‘Don’t know where, don’t know when,’ he says without a smile.
‘Some sunny place?’ you ask.
‘Where there is no darkness.
Chapter 57
Here come sirens, here come blue lights –
I turn back from window. I say: ‘They’re here.’
She is kneeling before settee. She is sobbing. She is clutching her rosary.
I drag her to her feet, left arm round her neck, right arm on shotgun.
I manoeuvre us over to door.
I yank it open just as two uniforms come through garden gate up path.
‘Get back!’ I shout. ‘Get back or I’ll blow her fucking head off.’
She is screaming, legs half off ground.
Uniforms scramble off back down garden path and out gate, back behind their car.
I lower shotgun. I pull trigger –
BANG!
Through hedge into side of their car –
Lights out.
I drag her back up path into house. I slam front door shut.
I push her back into living room. I tie her hands and feet together.
I pull back curtain. I break glass. I let off another shot into night –
BANG!
I reload:
We’ve only just begun.
I head straight into kitchen. I tip dresser and fridge in front of back door.
I break milk bottles. I break all her best china. I scatter it across barricade.
I tear back through into front room. I start shifting stuff in front of window.
She is just lying in middle of it all, teeth chattering.
I put my boot through TV. I take petrol. I splash it all over –
All over kitchen, all over front room.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Time for bed.’
I drag her out front room upstairs into back bedroom.
I toss her on spare bed. I rush into front bedroom.
I tip bed and mattress on their ends. I put them over window, wardrobe behind them.
Downstairs I can hear phone ringing.
I take doors off bathroom and front bedroom. I put one over bathroom window and other across top of stairs.
I return to back bedroom. I move her off bed on to floor. I make sure she is secure. I upend bed. I put it low along bottom of window.
Downstairs telephone is still ringing.
I go back down stairs into hall, low as I go, no lights on:
Keep pain on inside.
I pick phone up. I say nothing –
Listen –
I say: ‘I want to talk to Maurice Jobson. Tell him I need a friend.’
I hang up.
I go halfway up stairs to wait.
It starts ringing again, phone.
I can see them moving about in garden.
I take off my shoe. I lob shoe at phone. I knock receiver off hook.
I hear them shout: ‘Go.’
I point shotgun at door. Just before it opens, I do –
BANG!
‘FUCK! FUCK! –’
Both barrels:
BANG!
‘FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!’
I go back upstairs. I put door across top again. I go into back bedroom.
She is lying on floor, skirt up around her ears as bloody usual –
Bawling, waterworks.
I can hear more sirens.
I look up –
There are posters on bedroom walls, Karen and Richard –
Yesterday Once More.
‘Where’s Barry?’ I yell at her. ‘What fuck you done with him?’
Chapter 58
Darkness –
Pitch black fucking darkness:
Wednesday 8 June 1983.
Thunder, no lightning –
Never-fucking ending:
Cars across the night, the sirens and the blue lights.
Heart of a darkness, belly of a nightmare –
Fitz-fucking-william:
My darkness, my nightmare.
Two radios on –
Police and fucking local –
Stereo hell:
‘A man is believed to be holding a woman hostage in Fitzwilliam following an incident in which shots were fired at police officers responding to reports of a break-in at an address in Newstead View.
‘Armed officers have been deployed but Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable, issued a statement insisting that the police were anxious to end this incident without injury to anyone. This comes after mounting criticism in recent weeks over revelations that armed police are now deployed on routine patrols in Greater Manchester and West Yorkshire.’
I cut that crap off with the heel of my fucking boot –
One, two, three –
Crack!
Ellis driving, eyes and foot down on wet streets: ‘Sir?’
Fourth, final kick –
Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!
Plastic flying, radio dead.
Into the handheld, shouting: ‘Alderman? Prentice?’
Static: ‘No, sir.’
‘Where the fuck are they?’
‘Netherton.’
‘That was fucking hours ago.’
‘Sir –’
‘Fuck it,’ I screamed.
‘We have got a description –’
‘Give it!’
‘White male, mid to late twenties; shaved head with a deep indentation –’
‘Indentation?’
‘A hole, sir.’
‘Name?’
‘We’re working on it –’
‘Work fucking harder,’ I yelled, tearing the flex out –
The radio dead in my hand –
The rain and the night all over the windscreen –
Tears and blood all over my cheeks.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ whispered Ellis –
I raised my right leg. I put my boot through that fucking windscreen –
Smaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaash!
The rain and the night all over us now –
The tears and the blood, the tears and the blood –
Everywhere.
Parked at the end of the road among the other blue lights –
We waited. We watched.
A sergeant came crouching up the street. He leant in the window. ‘Sir?’
‘What is it, Sergeant?’
‘He’s asking for you, sir,’ he panted. ‘The man inside the house.’
‘By name?’ asked Ellis.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he say?’
‘Says he needs a friend, sir.’
I opened the door. I got out of the car, my wrists and ankles all bloody.
‘He’ll kill you,’ said Ellis –
I nodded. I walked up the road through the blue lights –
The white floodlights –
The red rain.
I came to the house –
Ellis running up the street. Ellis shouting: ‘Kill you –’
I nodded again. I opened the gate, thinking –
Murder me.
Chapter 59
They take off the handcuffs. They take off the blindfold. They open the back doors.
The van slows.
They throw you out on to the road. They drive away.
You lie in the road. You don’t know if it is dawn or dusk.
It is raining.
You get up off the ground. You stand up.
There is a green Viva parked outside the little white bungalow.
There are no lights on. The curtains aren’t drawn.
You go round the back. You climb over the stone wall into the field. You walk up the tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill.
It is pissing down now.
You are ankle deep in mud and animal shit.
You slip.
You fall.
You get up.
You look back down the hill at all the little bungalows tucked up together, sleeping soundly –
Day in, day out.
You wipe the mud off your hands. You start walking again.
You slip again.
You fall again.
You get up again.
You reach the row of sheds. You walk along. You come to the last one:
The one with no windows and the black door –
The black door banging in the wind and the rain:
The door to hell.
You step inside –
The pictures on the wall have gone.
