David Peace - 1983

Bill takes off his jacket: ‘Should have brought a bloody picnic with us.’

I turn around and look back down the hill at the little white van next to the two parked cars in front of their little brown bungalow and their little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows and their little green gardens.

I take off my glasses. I wipe them on my handkerchief. I put them back on.

I can see Mrs Marsh at the kitchen window of their little bungalow. She is watching us -

A shadow behind her.

I turn back.

Bill is up by the sheds. He shouts: ‘Hurry up, Maurice.’

I start walking again.

A man comes out of the end shed in a cap and shirtsleeves, blue overalls and Wellington boots.

‘Mr Marsh?’ Bill is asking him as I get up to them.

‘That’d be me,’ nods George Marsh. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Bill Molloy and this is Maurice Jobson. We’re police officers.’

‘Thought you might be,’ nods Marsh.

‘Why’s that then?’ asks Bill.

‘Be about lass who’s gone missing in Castleford, won’t it?’

Bill nods. Bill waits.

Marsh says nothing.

Bill keeps waiting.

Marsh looks at him. Marsh still says nothing.

Bill says: ‘What about her?’

Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘You tell me.’

‘No,’ says Bill -

– the Badger : ‘You tell me about Jeanette Garland.’

‘What about her?’

‘Working across road from her house, aren’t you?’

‘Aye.’

‘Been working there a while?’

‘Aye.’

‘Must have seen a fair bit of her.’

‘Coming and going, aye.’

‘You remember her then?’

‘Aye.’

‘Notice owt peculiar, did you?’

‘About her?’

Bill nods.

‘She was slow, late in head,’ he smiles. ‘But I suppose you know that, being policemen.’

‘ Was ?’ I ask him. ‘Why did you say was ?’

‘What?’

‘You said she was slow ; you’re talking like she’s dead, Mr Marsh.’

‘Isn’t she?’

Bill looks up from the hard ground: ‘Not unless you know something we don’t.’

George Marsh shakes his head: ‘Slip of the tongue, that’s all.’

I want to push him. I want to keep on -

But Bill just says: ‘Remember anything else about her, do you, Mr Marsh?’

‘Not that springs to mind, no.’

‘What about Saturday?’

‘What about it?’

‘Notice owt peculiar on Saturday?’

Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead with his forearm again. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘Wasn’t there, was I?’

‘Where were you?’

‘Sick.’

‘Not what the wife says.’

‘What does she know,’ shrugs Marsh.

Bill smiles: ‘That you weren’t where you say you were.’

‘Look, lads,’ Marsh smiles back for the second time. ‘Set off for work and I felt bloody rotten, but I didn’t want her staying in and fussing. So I waited for her to take kids round to her mam’s, then I came home, got some decent kip, watched a bit of sport. Not a crime, is it, lying to your missus?’

‘So did you get to work?’ asks Bill, not smiling -

Neither is George Marsh now: ‘No.’

‘So where were you exactly when you decided to turn around and come home?’

George Marsh takes off his cap again. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He shrugs his shoulders. He says: ‘Maybe halfway.’

‘Halfway where?’

‘Work.’

‘Where?’

‘Castleford.’

‘Castleford,’ repeats Bill.

‘Aye,’ says Marsh. ‘Castleford.’

Bill turns to me: ‘I think that’s everything, don’t you?’

I nod.

Bill turns back to Mr Marsh: ‘Thank you, Mr Marsh.’

Marsh nods: ‘Need anything else, know where I am.’

‘Aye,’ smiles Bill. ‘At work?’

Marsh stares at Bill. Then Marsh nods: ‘That’d be right.’

Bill nods back. He turns and starts down the hill, me behind him.

Halfway down, Bill says: ‘Give Mrs Marsh a wave, Maurice.’

And we both wave at the woman in the kitchen window of her little brown bungalow with its little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows with their little green gardens, only our car parked next to their little white van, the priest and his car gone.

Still waving at Mrs Marsh, I say to Bill: ‘He’s lying.’

‘He is that.’

‘What now?’

‘Best call our Georgie, hadn’t we?’

She leaves. You puke. You dress. You puke again. You clean your teeth. You lock the door. You retch. You go downstairs. You heave. You run back up the stairs. You puke in your hands. You open the door. You puke on the floor. You spew. You start all over again.

It is Friday 27 May 1983 -

D-13 .

A change of clothes, a change of heart -

54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.

Having all the fun -

The patterned carpet and assorted furniture, the taste of air-freshener and the fire on full; the photographs and paintings, the photographs and the paintings of men not here.

Up the road in 69 another man gone, a young man:

Jimmy Ashworth -

Not here .

The clock is ticking, the kettle whistling.

Mrs Myshkin comes back in with the two cups of tea and sets down the tray.

She hands you yours: ‘Three sugars?’

‘Thank you.’

She says: ‘I’m sorry about that; once I start I just can’t seem to stop.’

You mumble something crap and meaningless.

‘But that poor boy,’ Mrs Myshkin says again. ‘His poor, poor mother.’

You mumble again. You take a sip of tea.

‘I’m so happy you’ve changed your mind though,’ she says. ‘My sister, she said you would.’

Upon her settee again, you are sweating, burning, and melting again -

‘I -’

‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘You do what you can for him, that’s enough. You’ll do your best, I know you will.’

You are about to say something else crap and meaningless, when -

Out of the corner of your eye you see something, see something coming -

Incoming -

Hard against the window:

CRACK!

Mrs Myshkin on her feet -

Hands to her mouth, shaking her head.

You hear it then, over and over -

Contorted and screaming and howling -

Hear it outside, again and again:

‘It’s all your fault, you fucking bitch!’

You are on your feet, over to the window.

‘You fucking bitch! You Polish fucking bitch with your fucking pervert son!’

Look it straight in the eye, see it coming again -

Incoming -

You duck -

SMASH!

Broken glass everywhere, a brick at your feet.

Out into the hall, you open the door -

Open the door and there she is:

Mrs Ashworth standing on Mrs Myshkin’s path, a plastic Hillards carrier bag of rocks in one hand, a half-Charlie in the other -

You walk towards her. You say: ‘Put it down, love.’

‘Never a moment’s trouble until he met your bloody spastic son. The dirty little pervert, him they should’ve hung. Had bloody done.’

‘Please,’ you say again. ‘Put it down.’

Half a house brick in one hand, her mouth white with spit and fleck, Mrs Ashworth screams again: ‘Fucking bitch! You killed him. You fucking killed my Jimmy!’

You are close to her now and now she sees you -

‘You!’ she shrieks. ‘Fat fucking lot of good you did him!’

You reach out to try and stop her arm, but it’s already up in the air -

The brick away -

‘You don’t know how it feels, do you? I wish to God they’d show you.’