David Peace - 1983

Dave Roberts is frowning: ‘What?’

‘Just been down his house, haven’t I?’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t find Clare, can I?’

‘So?’

‘I’m worried about her.’

‘What’s it got to do with Roger?’

‘You got eyes in your head.’

Dave is shaking and shaking and shaking his head: ‘BJ -’

‘Fuck you,’ BJ say before he even starts.

‘Listen -’

But BJ up stairs again, checking her room again, checking BJ’s again:

Nothing, no-one.

BJ walk down to end of corridor. BJ bang on Walter’s door:

Nothing, no-one, but door’s open.

BJ step inside. BJ look about room.

On table in window there’s his old red exercise book.

BJ walk over. BJ open it:

Cuttings about Michael Myshkin, cuttings about murdered prostitutes.

BJ close book. BJ turn to go -

But there he is, standing in doorway:

‘What you doing?’ he asks from out of shadow.

‘I’m looking for Clare,’ BJ stammer.

‘In an old school exercise book?’

BJ look down at brown carpet.

‘And did you find her?’

BJ look up: ‘No.’

‘Well, what you waiting for?’ he shouts. ‘There’s not much time.’

‘Fuck off,’ BJ shout back -

Pushing old twat out of way, going back to BJ’s room -

Stuffing clothes into a carrier bag -

Back into hers and doing same -

Down stairs and out hostel door.

Black night, black rain -

Back up hill -

Back up to St Mary’s:

Church in Hell, last -

Back into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.

Big woman in other room now murdering We’ve only just begun .

‘Clare back yet?’

‘Not yet, love.’

‘Will you tell her, BJ is looking for her?’ BJ pant. ‘Tell her I’ll be down bus station waiting.’

‘If you want.’

One last place -

Last place on earth:

Left on to Frenchwood Street, off Church Street -

Six narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti, doors showing remnants of green paint -

Of evil .

Last door banging in wind, rain -

Last door.

BJ hold open door and step inside:

It is small, about twelve feet square and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex -

Of evil, a Kingdom of Evil .

There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish:

Old newspapers, old clothing -

Old evil, Kingdom of Old Evil .

In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty -

Evil .

A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing -

Nothing but evil, Kingdom of Evil .

A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing.

On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in red paint.

BJ touch paint. It is wet -

Red and wet .

Door opens behind BJ. BJ turn around -

‘SALT!’ screams a man, a vile man in black rags -

‘To preserve the meat.’

BJ push him over and out way. BJ out door and into road. BJ dodging a car and its horns.

‘SALT!’

Blackest night, blackest rain -

Back down hill -

Back into St Mary’s -

Hell -

Back into Saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs.

Big woman silent, other room dead.

‘You just missed her again, love.’

‘Shit.’

‘You tell her BJ was looking for her?’

She nods.

‘About bus station?’

She nods again.

‘Fuck.’

‘If you want.’

Bus station -

Almost midnight:

No-one.

BJ sit down. BJ wait -

She is late:

It is midnight -

It is late:

Thursday 20 November 1975 -

Too late .

Old times -

Dark night past -

Day 5:

One in the morning -

Wednesday 16 July 1969:

Yorkshire -

Leeds -

Brotherton House Police Station:

The Basement -

Room 4, always Room 4:

George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.

George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.

George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford -

The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland -

Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.

I ask George Marsh: ‘For the thousandth fucking time, George, what were you doing on Saturday?’

And for the thousandth fucking time he tells me: ‘Nothing.’

Old times -

Long dark night past -

Day 5:

Three in the morning -

Wednesday 16 July 1969:

Yorkshire -

Leeds -

Brotherton House Police Station:

The Basement -

Room 4, always Room 4.

We open the door. We step inside:

Bill Molloy and me -

Him with a wide streak of grey in his thick black hair, me with my thick lenses and black frames -

The Badger and the Owl .

And him:

George Marsh, forty-three, in police issue grey shirt and trousers.

George Marsh, upright in his chair at our table.

George Marsh, builder’s foreman on the Foster’s site across the road from 13 Brunt Street, Castleford -

The 13 Brunt Street home of Jeanette Garland -

Jeanette Garland, eight, missing since Saturday 12 July 1969.

I say: ‘Put your palms flat upon the desk.’

George Marsh puts his palms flat upon the desk.

I sit down at an angle to George Marsh. I take a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of my sports jacket. I hand them to Bill.

Bill walks around the room. Bill plays with the handcuffs. Bill sits down opposite Marsh. Bill puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist.

Silence -

Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet -

The Station silent, the Headrow silent -

Leeds sleeping, Yorkshire sleeping.

Bill jumps up. Bill brings his handcuffed fist down on to the top of Marsh’s right hand -

Marsh screams -

Screams -

But not much, not much at all.

I say: ‘Put your hands back.’

Marsh puts them back on the table.

‘Flat.’

He lies them down flat.

‘Nasty,’ says Bill.

‘You should get that seen to,’ I say.

We are both smiling at him -

Him not smiling, just staring straight ahead.

I stand up. I walk over to the door. I open the door. I step out into the corridor.

I come back in with a blanket -

I place it on George Marsh’s shoulders: ‘There you go, mate.’

I sit back down. I take out a packet of Everest from the pocket of my sports jacket. I offer one to Bill.

Bill takes out a lighter. He lights both our cigarettes.

We blow smoke across Marsh.

His hands are flat upon the desk.

Bill leans forward. Bill dangles the cigarette over Marsh’s right hand. He rolls it between two fingers, back and forth, back and forth.

Marsh never flinches. Marsh silent -

Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet -

The Station silent, the Headrow silent.

Bill reaches forward. Bill grabs Marsh’s right wrist. Bill holds down Marsh’s right hand. Bill stubs his cigarette out into the back of Marsh’s hand.

Marsh screams -

Screams -

But not much, not much at all.

I say: ‘Put your hands flat.’

Marsh puts them flat on the table.

The room stinks of burnt skin -

His .

‘Another?’ I say.