David Peace - 1983

‘I -’

‘You have to go and see her, you must.’

‘Who? See who?’

‘Mrs Ridyard.’

‘Why? I -’

‘She knows, Maurice. She knows.’

‘Knows what?’

‘Where her daughter is.’

‘How? How could she?’

‘She sees her.’

‘Then maybe she’s already told George Oldman, or -’

‘No, Maurice. She’s waiting for you.’

I pull her head on to my chest. I stroke her hair. I say: ‘I can’t do this.’

Mandy raises her head and her lips. Mandy kisses my cheek and my ear -

‘You must,’ she whispers. ‘You have to.’

The fat white candles lit and the heavy crimson curtains drawn, there are no windows in the big room -

Dark ways, hearts lost;

Beneath her shadows -

She is sobbing, weeping;

The smell of cat piss and petunia, of desperate fucking on an old sofa strewn with Persian rugs and cushions -

She has her head on my chest and I’m stroking her hair, her beautiful hair.

Behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the glass of her big window -

Wanting in;

Sobbing, weeping -

Wanting in.

She kisses my fingertips and then stops, holding my fingers to the candlelight -

She lifts her head and says: ‘You’ve got blood on your hands.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but her face in the candlelight is white and already dead -

The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass of her big window -

Dark -

Sobbing, weeping -

Hearts -

Asking to be let in.

Falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of a mother trapped and forced to imagine the repeated slaughter of her young, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the floor of their front room, on the yellow squares and the red, on the marks made by crayons and the marks made by paints, contorted and screaming and howling under the dull and yellow lights blinking on and off, on and off, the faded poster warning against the perils of losing and not finding your children, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of damp clothes and undercooked dinners, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their ages, telling them all the things you were going to do for them, all the good news you were going to bring, how happy they’d be, but they were just sat there, silently waiting for their kids to come home, to take them upstairs and put them to bed, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, rocking back and forth, her husband in his chair and on his feet, his hands outstretched in the shape of a cross, noisily grinding his teeth as you flew across the room, tried to reach across and grab him, hold him, but your brother was holding you back, telling you all the things that he’d done, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how much better off he was dead, your mother on her feet, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her own hands, and then the Brass came, came to take you all downstairs, down to the cells, and at the bottom of the stairs you turned the corner and they opened the door to Room 4 and there he was, his gun still smoking as they struggled to clean him all up, the stink of shit among the smoke, his brains attached to the windows of the shed, a finger holding down the trigger, lying there in a uniform that said West Yorkshire Constabulary between a pair of swan’s wings, his face all blown off and in bits, still struggling to mop up those bits and take him away, to put him in a hole in the ground and make him go away, but it wouldn’t and it never will, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up the walls and the stairs on her nails and her knees, pissing and barking and chasing her tail, the smell of overcooked cabbages and dirty old rags, the dull and yellow lights that blinked off and on, on and off, the faded poster asking the public to please help find their kids, the white squares and the grey, the marks made by bones and the marks made by skulls, the linoleum, and these men that walked these stairs, these linoleum floors, these policemen in their suits and big size ten boots, and then it was gone again; the walls, the stairs, the smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables, the dull and yellow lights, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, the white squares and the grey, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, the carpets and the policemen in suits and new boots, all gone as you fall backwards on a tiny plastic chair through the enormous depths of time, away from this place, this rotten un-fresh linoleum place, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories, and you are alone now, terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with their mothers, all of these mothers, their children not here -

Mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -

Contorted and screaming and howling from under the ground -

Screaming and howling from under the ground -

Howling from under the ground -

Under the ground -

Under the ground as they murder you -

Murdered you all over again:

The Last Man.

Wednesday 1 June 1983 -

You are listening to the branches tapping against the pane;

Lying on your back in your underpants and socks -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;

Lying on your back in your underpants and socks, amongst the ruins -

The branches tapping against the pane;

Lying on your back in your underpants and socks, amongst the ruins of your flat -

Tapping against the pane:

D-8 .

You drive into Leeds, the radio on:

Searching for Hazel -

You push the buttons. You change the stations -

Finding only:

‘I think her appeal has always been to baser emotions like fear and greed…’

Only Thatcher -

Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher -

No Hazel -

The radio off, you drive into Leeds.

‘My name is John Piggott. I have an appointment.’

The policeman on the desk nods at the plastic chairs: ‘Take a seat please.’

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

No Christmas for Jimmy A.

The policeman on the desk making his calls -

You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey, at the boot and the chair marks -

‘Mr Piggott?’

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

‘Someone will be down in a minute.’

‘Mr Piggott?’

You look up to see a man with heavy black frames staring down at you; grey skin and suit, red eyes under thick specs, balder and thinner than he was even a week ago -

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson:

The Owl .

You stand up. You take his hand. You say: ‘About the other day, I…’

He stares at you. He says: ‘Forget it. That’s funerals for you.’

You nod.

‘That’s why you’re here though?’ he says. ‘About James Ashworth?’

‘Yes,’ you say. ‘For his mother.’

‘How is she?’

‘How do you think she is?’ you say.

He stares at you. He says: ‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Piggott?’

‘She’s instructed me to ask you for Jimmy’s belongings; his clothes, personal effects, his motorbike.’