David Peace - 1983

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.

I opened the door. I stepped out into the corridor.

I came back in. I gave Jim a blanket.

Jim placed the blanket over Ashworth’s shoulders: ‘There you go, lad.’

Jim sat back down. He took out a packet of JPS from the pocket of his sports jacket. He offered one to Dick.

Dick took out a lighter. He lit both their cigarettes.

They blew smoke across Ashworth.

Ashworth’s hands were flat upon the desk, shaking.

Dick leant forward. Dick dangled the cigarette over Ashworth’s right hand. Dick rolled it between two fingers, back and forth, back and forth.

Ashworth’s right hand was twitching -

Twitching in the silence:

Room 4 quiet, the Belly quiet -

The Station silent, the Market silent.

Dick reached forward. Dick grabbed Ashworth’s right wrist. Dick held down Ashworth’s right hand. Dick stubbed his cigarette out into the bruise on the back of Ashworth’s hand.

Ashworth screamed -

Screamed -

Through the room, through the Belly -

Up through the Station, up through the Market -

He screamed.

Dick let go of his wrist. Dick sat back.

‘Put your hands flat,’ said Jim Prentice.

Ashworth put them flat on the table.

The room stank of burnt skin:

His burnt skin .

‘Another?’ said Jim.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Dick. He took a JPS from the packet. He lit the cigarette. He stared at Ashworth. He leant forward. He began to dangle the cigarette over Ashworth’s hand.

Ashworth stood up, clutching his right hand in his left: ‘What do you want?’

‘Sit down,’ said Jim.

‘Tell me what you want!’

‘Sit down.’

Ashworth sat back down.

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice stood up.

‘Stand up,’ said Jim.

Ashworth stood up.

‘Eyes front.’

Ashworth stared straight ahead.

‘Don’t move.’

Dick and Jim lifted the three chairs and the table to one side. I opened the door. We stepped out into the corridor. I closed the door. I looked through the spy-hole at Ashworth. He was stood in the centre of the room, eyes front and not moving.

‘Pity the Badger and Rudkin can’t be with us,’ said Jim. ‘Be like old times.’

Old times .

I ignored him. I asked Dick: ‘Where’s Ellis?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘He got it?’

Dick nodded.

‘Best get him then, hadn’t you?’

Dick walked off down the corridor.

‘Shame they can’t be here,’ said Jim again.

‘Shame a lot of people can’t be,’ I said.

Jim shut up.

Dick came back down the corridor with Mike Ellis. Ellis was carrying a box under a blanket.

‘Morning,’ he slurred. His breath reeked of whiskey.

I said: ‘You up for this Michael, are you?’

He nodded.

I leant in closer to his mouth: ‘Bit of Dutch courage for breakfast, eh?’

He tried to pull his head back.

I had him by the scruff: ‘Don’t fuck it up, Michael.’

He nodded. I patted him on his face. He smiled. I smiled back.

‘Ready?’ said Jim.

Everyone nodded. Ellis put down the box. He left it in the corridor for now. I handed him a package wrapped in brown paper. I opened the door.

We stepped inside -

Room 4:

James Ashworth, twenty-two, police issue shirt and trousers, lank hair everywhere, a cigarette burn and a bloody bruise to match 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.

Jim Prentice and I stood by the door. Dick and Ellis brought the chairs and the table back into the centre of the room.

Dick put a chair behind Ashworth. He said: ‘Sit down.’

Ashworth sat down opposite Ellis.

Dick picked up the blanket from the floor. He put it over Ashworth’s shoulders.

Ellis lit a cigarette. He said: ‘Put your palms flat on the desk.’

‘Will you just tell me what you want?’ said Ashworth.

‘Just put your palms flat, Jimmy.’

Ashworth put his palms flat on the desk.

Dick paced about the room behind him.

Ellis put the brown paper package on the table. He opened it. He took out a pistol. He placed it on the table between him and Ashworth.

Ellis smiled at Ashworth.

Dick stopped pacing about the room. He stood behind Ashworth.

‘Eyes front,’ said Ellis.

Ashworth stared straight ahead in silence:

Room 4 quiet, the Belly quiet.

Ellis jumped up. Ellis pinned down Ashworth’s wrists.

Dick grabbed the blanket. Dick twisted it around Ashworth’s face.

Ashworth fell forward off his chair -

Coughing and choking, unable to breathe.

Ellis held down his wrists.

Dick twisted the blanket around his face.

Ashworth was on his knees on the floor -

Coughing and choking, unable to breathe.

Ellis let go of Ashworth’s wrists.

Ashworth span round in the blanket and into the wall:

CRACK -

Through the room, through the Belly.

Dick pulled off the blanket. He picked Ashworth up by his hair. He stood him up against the wall.

‘Turn around, eyes front.’

Ashworth turned around.

Ellis had the pistol in his right hand.

Dick had some bullets. He was throwing them up into the air. He was catching them.

Ellis asked me: ‘It’s all right to shoot him then, Boss?’

I nodded: ‘Shoot him.’

Ellis held the pistol at arm’s length in both hands. Ellis pointed the barrel at Ashworth’s head.

Ashworth closed his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Ellis pulled the trigger -

CLICK -

Nothing happened.

‘Fuck,’ said Ellis.

He turned away. He fiddled with the pistol.

Ashworth had pissed himself.

‘I’ve fixed it,’ said Ellis. ‘It’ll be all right this time.’

He pointed the pistol again.

Ashworth still had his eyes closed.

Ellis pulled the trigger -

BANG!

James Ashworth, twenty-two, thought he was dead:

He opened his eyes. He saw the pistol. He saw the shreds of black material coming out of the barrel. He saw them floating down to the floor -