David Peace - 1983

You nod.

‘You’ve seen it then?’

You nod again.

Mrs Ashworth gets up. She walks over to the table. She picks up a single studded black leather belt. She turns to you. She holds out the belt. She says: ‘You’ve seen this, have you?’

You look away. You shake your head. You swallow. You ask: ‘Is that it?’

‘That’s Jimmy’s belt,’ she nods.

‘They let you have his stuff back then?’

She shakes her head -

The clock has stopped .

You look at the belt again. You look at her. You ask: ‘So how did you get it?’

She looks up at the ceiling. She says: ‘I went upstairs. I opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans.’

You look at her.

She is crying.

You swallow. You say: ‘But -’

She shakes her head.

You look at the belt. You say again: ‘But -’

She shakes her head again. She says: ‘He only had the one belt.’

You look at her. You say: ‘You’re certain?’

She nods, the tears everywhere.

At the door, Mary Ashworth takes your hand in hers.

You look down at the doorstep.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

You shake your head.

She squeezes your hand in hers: ‘Thank you.’

You nod.

She pats your hand twice. She squeezes it one last time. She lets it go.

You turn. You look down the street. You turn back to Mrs Ashworth -

She is looking at you. She is watching you.

You say: ‘Do you think Michael Myshkin killed Clare Kemplay?’

She stares at you. She swallows. She looks away.

You ask again: ‘Do you?’

She looks at you. She shakes her head. She shuts the door.

You walk down Newstead View -

Through the plastic bags and the dog shit.

You go up the path. You knock on number 54 -

There’s no answer.

You knock again.

‘She’s out.’

‘On her broomstick.’

You turn around -

There are a group of four young boys on enormous bicycles at the gate. They have small pointed faces and cold blue eyes. They are dressed in grey and burgundy. They are wearing boxing boots.

‘She’s gone to prison.’

‘Gone to see her son.’

‘He’s in loony bin.’

‘Michael Myshkin, that’s her son.’

You nod. You walk back down the path towards the boys.

They rock backwards and forwards on their bicycles. They lean over their handlebars. They spit.

‘He’s one that killed them little girls.’

‘Had it off with them.’

‘Stuck birds’ wings on them.’

‘Cut their hearts out and ate them.’

You push through the boys and their bicycles.

They don’t move.

‘My dad says they should have hung him.’

‘My mum says they will do, minute he gets out.’

‘My dad says they’ll kill her and all then.’

‘My mum says she’s an evil fucking witch, his mum.’

You spin round. You slap the nearest boy hard across his face.

He falls off his bicycle into a fence and a thin hedge.

He is cut. His small pointed face is bleeding. His cold blue eyes smarting.

The other three boys start to turn the bicycles around.

‘Fuck you do that for fatty?’

‘You fat bastard.’

‘I’m fucking getting my dad on you.’

‘My dad’s going to fucking kill you.’

You walk to the car. You unlock the door.

‘He’ll fucking murder you!’

You get in. You lock the doors.

They are banging on the car:

‘You’re fucking dead, you are, you fat fucking bastard.’

On the radio on the way into Leeds they are playing that record about ghosts again. You pull over just past the Redbeck. You switch off the radio. You take deep breaths. You dry your eyes.

‘I’d like to see the Duty Sergeant who was on the night James Ashworth killed himself.’

‘And you are?’

‘John Piggott, the solicitor.’

The policeman on the desk nods at the plastic chairs behind you. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’

You walk over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights that still blink on and off, on and off, the faded poster still warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

Still not Christmas.

The policeman on the front desk is making his calls.

You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables is gone, pine disinfectant in its place -

They have been cleaning.

‘Mr Piggott?’

You stand back up and go over to the front desk.

The policeman on the desk says: ‘I’m afraid the officer in question is on holiday at present.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘Could you give me his name then?’

The policeman shakes his head: ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Regulations?’

He nods.

‘Then maybe you can help me?’

The policeman stops nodding.

‘You see, I represent Mrs Mary Ashworth, whom I’m sure you know is the mother of the unfortunate James Ashworth who hung himself in one of your cells. At seven fifty-five on the evening of the twenty-fourth of May to be exact. You did hear about this, I take it?’

The policeman says: ‘How might I be able to help you, sir?’

‘Mrs Ashworth would very much like to have her Jimmy’s clothes back and any other stuff that he might have had on him when he was arrested. Not to mention his rather expensive motorbike. You know how sentimental some folks get.’

The policeman looks you up and down. He takes the end of his pen from out of his mouth. He says: ‘Have a seat please, sir.’

You turn and walk back over to the tiny plastic chairs and sit down under the dull and yellow lights again, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -

Not Christmas.

The policeman on the desk making more calls.

You look down again at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and chair marks. The smell of pine disinfectant strong.

‘Mr Piggott?’

You stand up and go back over.

‘I’m afraid everyone’s over in Rochdale today, so you’ll have to make an appointment for another day.’

‘When?’

He looks down at the big book on the desk in front of him. He starts to turn the pages. He stops. He looks up. He says: ‘Wednesday?’

You shrug your shoulders.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘What time?’

‘Ten o’clock.’

‘Thank you,’ you say.

You walk through the empty market to the Duck and Drake. You go inside. You order a pint. You go to the phone. You take out your little red book. You dial.

The phone on the other end starts ringing -

Ringing and ringing and ringing.

You look at your watch -

Six .

You hang up. You leave your pint on top of the phone. You walk back out into the empty market and the rain.

It’s a Bank Holiday -

Bank Holiday Monday -

Everywhere dead.

On the drive back to Wakefield you stay in the slow lane and keep the radio off.

You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You go inside. The old Pakistani with the white beard has a black eye and a bandage over his left ear. His young daughter is not here. He does not speak. You look at the bottles. You look at the cans. You look at the papers. You buy a Yorkshire Evening Post . You go back outside. You get in the car. You lock the doors. You open the paper. You read:

HAZEL POLICE CROSS PENNINES

Kathryn Williams, Chief Reporter

The detective leading the hunt for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins today denied reports that police were investigating links between the disappearance of Hazel and that of the Rochdale schoolgirl Susan Ridyard in 1972 .