David Peace - 1983

Through the holes the light shines .

‘Where is he?’

She looks up: ‘Jimmy?’

You nod.

‘Millgarth.’

You turn your phone towards her: ‘Better call Mr McGuinness, hadn’t you?’

‘What shall I say?’

‘Tell him your Jimmy’s got a new solicitor.’

Down the motorway -

The scales falling, the Pig rising:

Lord, I’ve pierced my skin again .

But there will be no retreat, there will be no surrender -

There will be justice and there will be vengeance:

For through the holes the light shines .

Down the motorway, the up-rising Pig -

Hear them calling you, calling:

A holy light for a holy war .

You park between the market and the bus station, a dark and steady drizzle blanketing Leeds.

It is not night and it is not day.

You cut through the market traders packing all their gear away and go up the steps into Millgarth Police Station.

‘I’m here to see James Ashworth,’ you say to the policeman on the front desk.

‘And you are?’

‘John Piggott, Mr Ashworth’s solicitor.’

The policeman looks up from his paper: ‘Is that right?’

You nod.

The policeman opens a large leather-bound book on the desk. He takes out a pair of reading glasses. He puts them on. He licks a finger. He begins to slowly turn the pages of the book.

After a few minutes he stops. He closes the book. He takes off his glasses. He looks up.

You smile.

He smiles back: ‘It appears that Mr Ashworth already has a solicitor and it’s not you.’

‘That would be Mr McGuinness, who I believe was appointed as the duty solicitor. Mr Ashworth has since dispensed with his services and now has his own representation.’

‘And that would be you?’

You nod.

The policeman looks over your shoulder: ‘Have a seat, Mr Piggott.’

‘Is this going to take long?’

He nods at the plastic chairs behind you: ‘Who can tell.’

You walk over to the other side of the room and sit down on a tiny plastic chair under dull and yellow strip lights that blink on and off, on and off, a faded poster on the wall above you warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

It’s not Christmas.

The policeman on the front desk is speaking into a telephone in a low voice.

You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs. The whole place stinks of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables.

‘Mr Piggott?’

You stand up and go back over to the desk.

‘Just spoke with Mr McGuinness, the duty solicitor, and he says he did hear from Mr Ashworth’s mother this afternoon that she wished you to represent her son but, as yet, he’s not heard this from Mr Ashworth himself, nor has he received anything written or signed by Mr Ashworth to say he’s released from his role.’

You take a letter from your carrier bag: ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘That’s the letter?’

You hand it across the desk.

‘But it’s not signed, is it?’

‘Course it’s not bloody signed,’ you sigh. ‘That’s why I’m asking to see him. So he can sign it.’

‘I don’t think you’re bloody listening, Mr Piggott,’ the policeman says slowly. ‘You are not his solicitor, so you can’t see him. Only Mr McGuinness can.’

Fuck -

‘Can I use that phone?’

‘No,’ he smiles. ‘You can’t.’

Outside, the dark and steady drizzle has turned to black and heavy rain.

You walk through the market, looking for a phone that works.

It’s half-six .

You go through the double doors and into the Duck and Drake.

Order a pint and go to the phone.

You take out your little red book and dial.

The phone on the other end starts ringing.

‘McGuinness and Craig,’ says a woman’s voice.

One finger in your ear you say: ‘Could I speak to Mr McGuinness please?’

‘Whom shall I say is calling?’

‘John Piggott.’

‘Just one moment, Mr Piggott.’

There is a pause before she’s back: ‘I’m sorry, Mr Piggott, I’m afraid Mr McGuinness has left for the day.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Really.’

‘What’s your name, love?’

‘Karen Barstow.’

‘Karen, it’s very, very important that I speak with Mr McGuinness as soon as possible. So could you please tell me where I can reach him?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where Mr McGuinness is.’

‘Do you have his home phone number?’

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t possibly give that number out -’

‘What about if I came round and fucking beat it out of you, you stupid fucking bitch. Would that possibly help?’

‘Mr Piggott -’

But you’ve hung up.

‘That’s unfortunate, that is,’ smiles the policeman on the desk.

You smile back: ‘Would you let his mother see him?’

‘Long as she was here before eight.’

You look at your watch:

Just gone seven -

Fuck.

‘Before eight?’

‘Best get your skates on,’ he nods.

M1 out of Leeds, windscreen wipers and the radio on:

‘Ken, Deirdre and Mike named Personalities of the Year.’

Off the motorway, through Wakefield -

‘Bonn says Hitler diaries are forged.’

Out and on the road to Fitzwilliam -

‘Foot launches bitter attack on Thatcher-Tebbit Toryism as a philosophy from which all compassion and generosity of spirit has been squeezed.’

On to Newstead View, past 54, braking hard outside 69 -

‘A local man arrested in Morley last week is to appear before Leeds Magistrates tomorrow morning in connection with the disappearance of Morley schoolgirl, Hazel…’

Up the path and banging on the door -

Mrs Ashworth, a tea-towel in her hand, the telly on -

Crossroads .

‘Get your coat,’ you say. ‘You’re coming to see Jimmy.’

‘What?’

‘Come on, there isn’t much time.’

She shouts something into the room, grabs her coat from the hook and runs down the path behind you -

You lean across her and slam the passenger door shut -

‘Clunk-click,’ she says, putting on the seat belt.

You start the car, looking at the clock:

Half-seven .

Out of Fitzwilliam and into Wakefield -

Through Wakey and on to the motorway -

Down the M1 and into Leeds -

Park bang outside Millgarth and up the steps -

Through the double doors -

The stink of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables -

The policeman on the desk on the telephone, his face white -

‘She’s here to see her son, James Ashworth,’ you say, looking up at the clock on the wall:

Almost eight .

He’s putting down the telephone, the policeman on the desk, shaking his head: ‘I’m sorry, but -’

‘No buts,’ you’re shouting. ‘She’s entitled to -’

But the room is suddenly full of policemen, policemen in uniform and policemen in suits, two of the policemen in suits leading Mrs Ashworth over to the tiny plastic chairs under the dull yellow strip lights that blink on and off, on and off, sitting her down beneath the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, you turning back to see how really bloody white the policeman on the desk has gone, his head and hands shaking, looking back round at Mrs Ashworth, her mouth open as she slips off the tiny plastic chair to lie prostrate upon the linoleum floor, upon the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the policeman on the desk, his mouth dry and voice cracking as he says: