David Peace - 1983

‘Have you fucking finished?’ he asks again.

I nod.

‘Then I hope you’ll remember that we fucking owe John and Don.’

I nod again, my tongue bleeding.

‘Now let’s get bloody home,’ says Bill Molloy, the Badger , scrawling across the form:

N.F.A .

Home -

Home with its children’s feet upon the stairs, laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, the sounds of meals being cooked, served and eaten -

Home, sod that -

I drive through the fading summer evening, the fields of green and trees of brown, birds going home and the cattle to sleep, clouds in retreat and night upon the march with its promise of another summer’s day tomorrow, of cricket and croquet and the Great Yorkshire Show, and -

Fuck it. I see under the ground -

An underground kingdom, an animal kingdom of badgers and angels, worms and insect cities; white swans upon black lakes while dragons soar overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swoop down through lamp-lit caverns wherein an owl searches for a sleeping little princess in her tiny feathered wings -

My underground -

My underground kingdom, this animal kingdom of corpses and rats and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the dirty water of old tears, dragons tearing up burning skies, empty churches and barren wombs, the fleas, rats and dogs picking through the ruin of her bones and wings, her starved white skeleton left here to weep by -

I park at the bottom of the hill, the stark white bones rising out of the ground and into the moonlight.

I get out into the moonlight, the ugly moonlight.

I walk up the hill.

My shoes and my socks sink into the sod.

In the ugly moonlight, I start to dig.

I drive home, the radio on:

Suspicious Minds -

War songs and bad news:

‘David Smith, one of the chief witnesses in the Moors Murder trial, was sentenced at Chester Assizes to three years’ imprisonment. Mr Smith, aged twenty-one, a labourer, pleaded guilty to wounding William Lees with intent to do grievous bodily harm. In mitigation his counsel claimed that had he not been involved in the murder trial Smith might not have been in trouble.’

War songs, bad news, and the moon:

‘“Spirit of mankind is with you,” says President Nixon .’

The radio off.

I park outside our house, our home -

The lights are off, the curtains drawn -

Everybody sleeping.

I get out of the car.

I stand and look up at our house, our home -

In the ugly moonlight with dirty hands:

Jeanette Garland, eight, still missing -

The little girl who never came home .

Sunday 29 May 1983 -

D-11 :

You push the buzzer and wait outside the door to the main building. There is the loud click. The sound of the alarm. You pull open the door. You step into the steel cage. You show the plastic visitor’s tag to the guard on the other side of the bars. You tell him your name. He bangs twice on one of the bars with his black and shining truncheon. The other set of locks moves back. The other alarm sounds. You go through into the reception area. Another guard gives you the slip of paper with your number. He points at the bench. You walk over. You sit down next to a woman in grey and burgundy clothes. There is a pale and silent child upon her knee. They smell of chip shops and the rain, the grey and the damp -

The whole room still grey and damp, grey and damp with the same smell of people who’ve travelled hundreds of miles along motorways still grey and damp, the same overweight men in uniforms still grey and damp, the same government seats still grey and damp, the same bad news still grey and damp, as the bolts and the locks slide back and forth and the alarms sound and the numbers are called and the people cough and cough and the children stare and stare until the voice from the desk by the door cries out: ‘Thirty-six’.

The pale and silent child is staring at you.

‘Thirty-six!’

You look down at the piece of paper in your hand.

‘Number thirty-six!’

You stand up.

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

The woman in the grey uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down her biro list. She sniffs and says: ‘Purpose of visit?’

‘Legal.’

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

‘Second.’

She shrugs: ‘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 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 hands you the photocopied piece of A4.

‘Thank you.’

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

Forty minutes and another paper swan later, a stocky guard with a button missing from his uniform says: ‘John Winston Piggott?’

You stand up.

‘This way.’

You follow him through the other door and the other lock, the other alarm and the ringing bell, through the door and up the overheated and overlit grey corridor.

At the last set of double doors, he pauses. He says: ‘Know the drill?’

You nod.

‘Keep seated, no physical contact, and no passing of goods.’

You nod again.

‘I’ll tell you when your forty-five minutes are up.’

‘Thank you.’

He punches the code into the panel on the wall.

The alarm sounds. He pulls open the door: ‘After you.’

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

‘Sit down,’ says the guard.

You sit down in the grey plastic chair. You lean forward, arms on the marked plastic surface of the grey plastic table, eyes on the door opposite.

The guard sits down behind you.

You are about to say something to the guard when there he is again:

As if by magick -

Coming through the door in his grey overalls and grey shirt, enormous with a head twice as large:

Michael John Myshkin -

Michael John Myshkin, with spittle on his chin.

‘Hello again,’ you say.

‘Hello again,’ he smiles, blinking.

His guard pushes him down into the grey chair opposite you. He closes the other door. He takes a seat behind Michael Myshkin.

You say: ‘How are you, Michael?’

‘Fine,’ he says, patting down his dirty yellow hair with his fat right hand.

‘I’ve been doing some background work on your case, preparing documents for your appeal, and I’d like to go over some of the details with you.’

Michael Myshkin wipes his right hand on his overalls and smiles at you, pale blue eyes blinking in the warm grey room.

‘Is that OK with you?’

Michael Myshkin nods once, still smiling, still blinking.

You take out your notebook and biro from your carrier bag. You open the pad. You ask: ‘Can you remember when you were arrested?’

Michael Myshkin glances round at the guard behind him, then turns back to you. He whispers: ‘Wednesday 18 December 1974. One o’clock in the morning.’

‘Really? One o’clock?’

He blinks. He smiles. He nods again.

‘Where were you arrested?’

Michael Myshkin is not smiling. He is not blinking. He says: ‘At work.’

You look down at your notes: ‘The Jenkins Photo Studio in Castleford?’