David Peace - 1983

Mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -

Contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -

Screaming and howling from under the ground -

Howling from under the ground -

Under the ground -

Under the ground as they murder you -

Murdered you:

The Last Man in Yorkshire.

Your eyes are open and you are staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, listening to the footsteps above, a kettle boiling and a cup breaking, raised voices in an argument about where all the money had gone, the rain falling hard behind the words -

You lying there -

Hating this country and all the people that live here -

Lying there -

Fat, bald and full of holes -

The branches tapping against the window pane.

You get out of bed and walk into the kitchen.

It is eight o’clock -

Thursday 26 May 1983:

You put the kettle and the radio on:

‘Healey accuses Thatcher of lying over the jobless; Jenkins brands Thatcher an extremist and the cause of division within the nation; reports on allegations of police corruption linked to the Ј 3.4 million silver bullion robbery in 1980 are to be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions; damage to Albany jail is put at Ј 1 million; bookmakers will pay out to punters who correctly select two consecutive dry days…’

You open the fridge and there’s nothing -

No milk, no bread -

The cupboard and there’s nothing -

You turn the kettle and the radio off.

D-14 .

The Parthenon, Wood Street, Wakefield -

Milky coffee with a skin and a toasted teacake inside -

Rain and umbrellas out.

The papers, your paper, everybody’s paper -

Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher -

Fuck ’em all and watch their Rome burn.

Not one single fucking word about Jimmy Ashworth -

Not one single word about Hazel Atkins -

Not one.

You look at your watch:

Almost ten, almost time.

The drive out in the rain -

The deserted spaces as depressing as the houses and buildings between them -

Jimmy Young kissing Thatcher’s arse on the radio, the cum drying in his y-fronts as members of the Great British Public call in -

‘Wurzel Gummidge?’ repeats Jimmy with a snigger. ‘That’s not very nice, is it?’

‘No Jimmy, it’s not,’ you shout alone in your car. ‘And neither are you, you thick and greedy old cunt. But we’ll not forget you and your cruel ways, not when we’re round your house to do the Mussolini.’

Alone in your car on the way to see another Jimmy -

A very different Jimmy -

Jimmy Ashworth -

Alone in your car on the way to his funeral.

The funeral of a suicide -

Your third.

Second funeral in a fortnight -

The same smell:

The flowers that stink of piss, that stink of sweat.

Wakefield crematorium, Kettlethorpe.

Sheets of rain battering the crocuses back underground, beheading the daffodils, the petals stuck to the soles of your shoes, with the cigarette ends and the crisp packets.

You sit near the back, seven other people down the front:

Mrs Ashworth, her husband, and her other son -

Two boys in denim jackets, two girls with back-combed hair -

The vicar says the words and they shed their tears. They set fire to him and shed some more. Then everyone walks away for a cigarette and a piss, a sandwich and a pint.

There are three coppers at the back by the door, Maurice Jobson one of them.

There’s a new Rover parked outside -

The window’s down, the driver looking at himself in the wing mirror -

A smug cunt looking back at him.

‘Give you a lift, can I, John?’ says Clive McGuinness.

‘No,’ you say and light a cig.

‘Five minutes, John?’ he says. ‘That’s all I ask.’

‘Didn’t have five bloody minutes on Monday night, did you?’

‘John,’ he sighs. ‘Look, I’m sorry about that.’

You drop your cigarette into the gutter with the yellow petals and the crisp packets. You walk around the back of the Rover. He has opened the passenger door for you. You get in. He leans across you to close the door -

‘Thank you, John,’ says McGuinness.

You turn to face him -

The smug cunt as immaculately turned out as ever:

Head to toe in Austin Reed and Jaeger, he stinks of aftershave.

The fat man from C &A says: ‘I’m all ears, Clive.’

‘There’ll be an inquiry, John.’

‘An internal police inquiry.’

‘He confessed, John.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘It was too much for him, John.’

‘What was? The torture? The beatings? His own fucking solicitor?’

‘The guilt, John. The guilt.’

‘About what?’

‘John, John -’

The back door opens -

You glance in the rearview mirror:

Maurice Jobson gets in -

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson:

The Owl .

‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ he says.

You don’t turn around.

‘Do you know the Chief Superintendent, John?’

You nod.

‘Course he bloody does,’ says Jobson. ‘I worked with his father.’

‘Your old man was a copper, was he?’ says McGuinness. ‘I didn’t know that, John.’

‘Was,’ you say as you open the door. ‘Until he topped himself.’

You don’t fancy the Inns but you do fancy a drink, so you cut through the back of the Wood Street Nick and into the Jockey.

It’s two o’clock so you only have an hour -

It won’t be enough but it’ll be a start, get some take-outs for the rest of the afternoon, find a happy hour later and be unconscious by eight.

You take the pint, the short, and the bottle of Barley Wine through into the pool room at the back -

Students and bikers, Vardis on the jukebox:

Let’s Go -

You drink the whiskey and then the Barley Wine.

There are four people on the other side of the pool table. They are staring at you. One of the girls gets up and walks over towards you. She is wearing a huge gold Star of David on her chest, her hair black and back-combed, her heavy make-up smudged.

She says: ‘I was Jimmy’s girlfriend.’

You say: ‘I was almost his solicitor.’

‘He didn’t kill himself; he wouldn’t.’

You nod.

‘He didn’t kill any little girl either; he couldn’t.’

You nod again: ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tessa,’ she says.

You hold out your hand: ‘John Piggott.’

‘I know,’ she smiles as she takes it.

‘You want a drink?’

‘I got one, ta.’

‘You want another?’

‘Twist my arm.’

‘Cider and black?’

She nods.

‘Sit down,’ you say and stand up.

You go into the other room, order the drinks, and come back with two pints.

Tessa’s not sat at the table and she’s not back on the other side of the room.

The two lads and the other girl are still staring at you. They are grinning now.

You look over at the toilet door and then back at the two lads and the girl. They shake their heads. They are laughing.

You walk over to them, still carrying the two pints.

They stop laughing.

‘Where’s Tessa gone?’

They shrug their shoulders and play with their beer mats.

You hold out the cider and black to the girl: ‘You want this?’

She looks up: ‘Ta very much.’

You set it down on the table.

‘You were Jimmy’s mates, yeah?’

They all nod. They are not grinning now, not laughing.

You take out a biro and piece of paper. You write down your name and phone number. You put it down on the table: ‘Will you give this to Tessa?’