David Peace: 1983

Morley Police Station -

Four o’clock -

The Incident Room:

Maps and a blackboard, markers and chalk, grids and times -

One photograph.

Lists of officers and their territories, lists of houses and their occupants -

Gaskins out in the fields, Ellis on the knocker -

Evans in and out with the press -

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice sat waiting.

The chalk in my hand, the smudges on my suit -

The egg sandwiches covered in silver foil, uneaten.

I took off my glasses. I wiped them on my handkerchief.

There was nothing more to say:

Outside it was still snowing and Hazel Atkins was still missing -

Twenty-four hours .

Her parents back on a sofa in the cold front room of their dark home -

The curtains not drawn -

All of us lost.

There was a knock at the door -

I looked up.

Dick Alderman: ‘Nightcap, boss?’

I shook my head. I closed the file, glasses off and on the desk.

‘Clare Kemplay?’ Dick said, looking at her file.

‘Yep.’

‘ Evening Post mentioned it,’ he mumbled.

‘Kathryn Williams?’

He nodded.

‘What did she say?’

‘Nine years ago, same school,’ he shrugged. ‘Bit about Myshkin.’

‘What about him?’

‘The usual bollocks.’

I picked up my glasses. I put them back on, the thick lenses and the black frames. I sat and stared up into his eyes, thinking -

I am the Owl:

I am the Owl and I see from behind these lenses thick and frames black, see through everything -

Unblinking -

The usual bollocks -

Everything.

New Hope for Britain:

Saturday 14 May 1983 -

D-26 .

Fog and sleet from Wakefield to here:

Park Lane Special Hospital, Merseyside -

A rotten , un-fresh place.

You switch off the radio and the election debate and wind down your window.

‘I’m here to see Michael Myshkin,’ you say to the guard at the gate.

‘And you are?’

‘John Piggott.’

The guard looks down at the clipboard in his hands, tilting it towards him to keep the rain off: ‘John Winston Piggott?’

You nod.

‘His solicitor?’

You nod again, even less sure.

He hands you a plastic visitor’s tag: ‘Follow the road round to the main building and the car park. Report to reception inside. They’ll take you from there.’

‘Thank you.’

You drive up the black wet road to a low grey building, modern and barred. You park and get out into the dismal cold light, the sleet and the rain. You push a buzzer and wait outside the metal door to the main building. There is a loud click then the sound of an alarm. You pull open the door and step inside a steel cage. You show the plastic visitor’s tag to the guard on the other side of the bars and tell him your name. He bangs twice on one of the bars with a black and shining truncheon. Another set of locks moves back. Another alarm sounds and you are through to the reception area. Another guard gives you a slip of paper with a number. He nods at a bench. You walk over and sit down between a couple of old people and a woman with a crying child.

You sit and you wait in the grey and damp room, grey and damp with the smell of people who have travelled hundreds of miles along grey and damp motorways to be told by overweight men in grey and damp uniforms with black and shining truncheons to wait on grey and damp government seats for nothing but more bad news, grey and damp, as the bolts and the locks slide back and forth and the alarms sound and the numbers are called and the old people stand up and sit back down and the child cries and cries until a voice from a desk by the door shrieks: ‘Twenty-seven’.

The child has stopped crying and its mother is looking at you.

‘Twenty-seven!’

You stand up.

‘Number twenty-seven!’

At the desk you say: ‘John Piggott to see Michael Myshkin.’

A woman in a grey uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down a biro list, sniffs and says: ‘Purpose of visit?’

‘His mother asked me to come and see him.’

She sniffs again and looks up at you: ‘Family?’

‘No,’ you say. ‘I’m a solicitor.’

‘Legal then?’ she spits at you with sudden English hate, crisp and vicious.

You nod, vaguely afraid.

She hands you back your visitor’s pass: ‘First time?’

You nod again, her breath old and close.

‘The patient will be brought to the visitors’ room and a member of staff will be present throughout the visit. Visits are limited to forty-five minutes. You will both be seated at a table and are to remain seated throughout the course of the visit. You are to refrain from any physical contact and are not to pass anything directly to the patient. Anything you wish to give the patient must be done so through this office and can only be one of the items on this approved list,’ she says and hands you a photocopied piece of A4.

‘Thank you,’ you smile.

‘Return to your seat and wait for a member of staff to escort you to the visiting area.’

‘Thank you,’ you say again and do as you are told.

Thirty minutes and a paper swan later, a lanky guard with spots of blood upon his collar says: ‘John Winston Piggott?’

You stand up.

‘This way.’

You follow him to another door and another lock, another alarm and a ringing bell, through the door and up an overheated and overlit grey corridor.

At another set of double doors, he pauses and says: ‘Know the drill?’

You nod.

‘Keep seated, no physical contact, no passing of goods, ciggies, whatever,’ he says anyway.

You nod again.

‘I’ll tell you when your time’s up,’ he says. ‘If you’ve had enough, just say so.’

‘Thank you.’

The guard then punches a code into a panel on the wall.

An alarm sounds and he pulls open the door: ‘Ladies first.’

You step into a small room with a grey carpet and grey walls, two plastic tables each with two plastic chairs.

There are no windows, just one other door opposite -

No tea and biscuits here.

‘Sit down,’ says the guard.

You sit down in the grey plastic chair with your back to the grey door through which you’ve just come. You lean forward, arms on the marked plastic surface of the grey plastic table, eyes on the door opposite.

The guard takes a chair from the other table and sits down behind you.

You turn to ask him: ‘What’s he like then, Myshkin?’

The man looks over at the door then back at you and winks: ‘Pervert, same as rest of them.’

‘He violent, is he?’

‘Only with his right hand,’ he mimes.

You laugh and turn back round and there he is, right on cue -

As if by magick -

In a pair of grey overalls and grey shirt, enormous with a head twice as large:

Michael John Myshkin, murderer of children.

You’ve stopped laughing.

Michael Myshkin in the doorway, spittle on his chin.

‘Hello,’ you say.

‘Hello,’ Myshkin smiles, blinking.

His guard pushes him forwards into the grey plastic chair opposite you, then closes the door and takes the last chair to sit behind Myshkin.

Michael Myshkin looks up at you.

You stop staring.

Myshkin looks back down at the grey plastic table.

‘My name is John Piggott,’ you say. ‘I used to live in Fitzwilliam, near you. I’m a solicitor now and your mother asked me to come and talk to you about an appeal.’

You pause.

Michael Myshkin is patting down his dirty yellow hair with his fat right hand, the hair thin and black with oil.

‘An appeal is a very lengthy and costly procedure, involving a lot of time and different people,’ you continue. ‘So before any firm embarks upon such a course on behalf of a client, we have to be very sure that there are sufficient grounds for an appeal and that there is a great likelihood of success. And even this costs a lot of money.’