David Peace - 1983

He nods his head. He looks down.

You sit back in your plastic chair, tapping your plastic pen on the plastic table. You look back across the table at him.

He is patting down his hair again.

‘Michael?’ you say.

He looks up at you.

‘The police said they arrested you on the Doncaster Road after a chase?’

‘That’s not true,’ he says. ‘Ask my mum.’

You make a note. You ask: ‘Where did they take you?’

‘Wakefield.’

‘Wood Street? Bishopgarth?’

He shakes his head.

‘OK, then tell me why?’ you ask him. ‘Why did they arrest you?’

‘Because of Clare,’ he says.

‘What about her?’

‘Because they said I killed her.’

‘And is that right?’ you say again. ‘Did you?’

Michael John Myshkin shakes his head again: ‘I told you, no.’

‘No what?’ you say, writing down his words verbatim again.

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘Good,’ you smile. ‘Just checking.’

Michael Myshkin is not smiling.

‘The actual policemen who arrested you?’ you ask him. ‘The ones that came to your work that night? Can you remember their names?’

He shakes his head.

‘Michael, please think. This is very, very important.’

He looks up at you. He says: ‘I know it is.’

‘OK then,’ you say. ‘The policemen who arrested you, who came to the studio, who took you to Wakefield, were these the same policemen who later told you to say you killed Clare?’

Michael Myshkin blinks. Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -

You ask Michael Myshkin: ‘Policemen told you to say you killed Clare?’

He nods.

‘But you didn’t kill her?’

He nods again.

‘But you signed a piece of paper to say you did?’

‘They made me.’

‘Who?’

‘The police.’

‘How?’

‘They said if I signed the paper, I could see my mother.’

‘And if you didn’t?’

‘They said I’d never see her or my father again.’

You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -

‘The police said that?’

He nods.

‘Who was your first solicitor?’ you ask.

‘Mr McGuinness.’

‘Clive McGuinness?’

He nods.

‘How did you find him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you tell Mr McGuinness that you killed Clare?’

Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘You told Mr McGuinness that you didn’t kill Clare Kemplay?’

He nods.

‘And what did Mr McGuinness say?’

‘He said it was too late. He said I had signed the paper. He said no-one would believe me. He said everyone would believe the police. He said it would make things worse for me if now I said I didn’t do it. He said I’d never get out of prison. He said I’d never see my mother and father. He said he would only help me if I said I did it. He said I would be able to see my mother and father soon. He said I would only have to stay in prison a short time.’

You look into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -

‘How long have you been in here, Michael?’

Michael Myshkin looks at you: ‘Seven years, five months, and eleven days.’

You nod.

He starts to pat down his hair again.

You look at your notes. You say: ‘Two girls told the police that they saw you in Morley on a number of occasions, including the afternoon that Clare Kemplay disappeared.’

Michael Myshkin looks up again. Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘What?’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘You weren’t in Morley that Thursday?’

He shakes his head.

‘So where were you?’

‘At work.’

‘The Jenkins Photo Studio in Castleford?’

He nods.

‘But the police couldn’t trace Mr Jenkins and the only other member of staff, a Miss Douglas, she couldn’t be sure whether you were at work or not. Not very helpful, was it?’

‘They made her say that.’

‘Who did?’

‘The police.’

‘OK,’ you say. ‘These two girls, they also said that the reason they remembered you so clearly was because you had once exposed yourself to them.’

He shakes his head again.

‘They were lying, were they, Michael?’

He nods.

You sigh. You sit back in your plastic chair. You look across at him.

He is patting down his hair again.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Do you remember Jimmy Ashworth?’

He looks up at you. He nods.

‘What do you remember about him?’

‘He was my friend.’

‘Your friend?’

‘My best friend.’

‘Did he talk to you about Clare?’

He nods.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said she was beautiful.’

‘Beautiful?’ you say. ‘She was bloody dead when he found her?’

Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘What?’

‘He’d seen her before.’

‘What? Where?’

‘When they built the houses.’

‘Which houses?’

‘In Morley.’

‘So Jimmy knew her?’

Michael Myshkin nods.

‘Did you?’

He shakes his head.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Did Jimmy kill her?’

He looks at you. He shakes his head again.

‘So who did?’

He is patting down his hair. He is blinking. He is smiling.

‘Who?’

Smiling and blinking and patting down his hair -

You bang the table hard with your hand: ‘Who?’

Michael Myshkin stares up at you -

Michael Myshkin says: ‘The Wolf?’

‘This wolf have a name, does he?’

He says: ‘Ask Jimmy.’

You open your carrier bag. You take out a Yorkshire Post -

There are two photographs on the front page.

You throw the paper across the table -

You lean forward.

You point at one of the photographs -

The photograph of a young man with long, lank hair.

Michael Myshkin looks down at the paper -

You say: ‘He’s dead.’

You point at the other photograph -

The photograph of a little girl with medium-length dark brown hair.

You say: ‘She’s missing.’

Michael Myshkin is still looking down at the paper -

You say: ‘The police said Jimmy took her. They caught him in Morley. They arrested him. They say he confessed. Then he hung himself.’

Michael Myshkin looks up at you -

There are tears down his cheeks.

Michael Myshkin says: ‘He’s back.’

‘Who?’

Michael Myshkin shakes his head.

‘Who?’

Michael Myshkin turns to the guard sat behind him. Michael Myshkin whispers: ‘I’d like to go back to my room now please.’

You are on your feet: ‘Who?’

The guard behind you has a hand on your shoulder -

‘Sit down -’

You are shouting: ‘Michael, who? Tell me fucking who?’

‘Sit down -’

Michael Myshkin is on his feet, his guard opening the other door -

‘Who?’

‘Sit down!’

Michael John Myshkin turns back -

Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks -

Turns back and screams: ‘The Wolf!’

Doors locked, you switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette and then another and another:

‘Thatcher rejects TV battle with Frost; Foot finds Times headlines malicious; Hume concerned over Kent’s CND role; Hess holds key to Hitler’s Diary; eleven-year-old boy strangled by a swing-ball tennis game which wrapped around his neck…’

No Hazel -

Not here .

You switch off the radio and light another cigarette and listen to the rain fall on the roof of the car, eyes closed: