David Peace: 1983

I shook my head: ‘So it’s just a bleeding coincidence then?’

‘Like I say.’

‘Well, like I say, there’s no such fucking thing.’

Ronald Angus sighed. He slapped his hands down hard on the top of his big desk. He stood up. He walked over to the window. He looked up at another grey sky over Wakefield.

It was starting to rain again.

His back to me, he said: ‘That’s not to say he might not have a fan or someone, way these animals are.’

‘I want to go and see him,’ I said.

He was nodding at the grey sky.

I asked: ‘That a yes , is it?’

He turned back from the grey sky. ‘Just keep it out of the bloody papers, that’s all.’

I stood up, adjusting my glasses.

It was raining heavily against the window.

I picked up the black and white photograph from his desk -

Clare Kemplay smiling up at me, out of my hands -

In my heart .

I took the motorway back into Leeds, odd and sudden patches of sunlight falling from the dirty grey sea up above, childhood memories of sunshine and cut grass drowned by voices; terrifying, hysterical, and screeching voices of approaching doom, disaster and death -

‘A young girl doesn’t simply vanish into thin air.’

The odd and sudden patches of sunlight gone, I came off the motorway at the Hunslet and Beeston exit, past the terrifying lorries, the hysterical diggers and the screeching cranes. I took the Hunslet Road then Black Bull Street into the centre and Millgarth, my hands shaking, knees weak and stomach hollow with approaching doom, disaster and death -

‘Someone somewhere must have seen something.’

It was Day 5 -

1983.

‘Now?’ said Dick. ‘This very minute?’

‘And not a word, not even to Jim.’

‘Can I get my coat?’ he asked, standing.

‘Meet you downstairs in five minutes.’

‘Right,’ he said, opening the door.

‘And Dick,’ I said.

He stopped.

‘Not a word, yeah?’

He nodded like, this is me Maurice, this is me .

‘I mean it,’ I said.

‘I know you do,’ he said and I hoped he did -

Hoped he fucking did .

He drove.

I drifted, dreaming -

Underground kingdoms, forgotten kingdoms of badgers and angels, worms and insect cities; mute swans upon black lakes while dragons soared overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swept down through lamp-lit caverns wherein an owl guarded three sleeping little princesses in tiny feathered wings, guarded them from -

Waking afraid of the news:

‘Police today continued their search for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins, as Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, the detective leading the search, admitted that so far the response from the public had been disappointing… ’

Afraid of the news:

‘A young girl doesn’t simply vanish into thin air. Someone somewhere must have seen something.’

I took off my glasses. I rubbed my eyes, that taste in my mouth -

Meat -

Afraid.

We waited on plastic chairs, listening to the doors and the locks, the shuffling footsteps and the occasional scream from another wing. We waited on plastic chairs, staring at the different shades of grey paint, the grey fittings and the grey furniture.

We waited on plastic chairs for Michael Myshkin.

Five minutes later the door opened and there he was -

In a pair of grey overalls, fat from institutional living and sweaty from institutional heating -

Michael John Myshkin.

He sat down across from us, eyes down in front of a full house.

‘Michael,’ I said. ‘Do you remember us?’

Nothing .

‘My name is Mr Jobson and this is Mr Alderman. We’re policemen from West Yorkshire,’ I continued. ‘Near where your mum lives.’

He looked up now, a quick eyeball at Dick then back down at the chubby hands in his tubby lap.

‘How are you, Michael?’ asked Alderman and I wished he hadn’t because now Myshkin was fair wringing those chubby hands of his.

‘Michael,’ I said. ‘We’re here to ask you some questions that’s all. Be gone before you know it, you tell us what we want.’

He looked up again, my way this time -

I smiled. He didn’t smile back.

‘Been a while,’ I said. ‘In here a while now, yeah?’

He nodded.

‘Must miss home?’

He nodded.

‘Know I would; my family, my mates?’

He nodded.

‘Fitzwilliam, yeah?’

He nodded.

‘Just you, your mam and dad, wasn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Dad was a miner?’

He nodded.

‘Passed away, yeah?’

Another nod.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Been sick a while, had he?’

Two quick nods.

‘Where’s your mam now?’

‘Fitzwilliam,’ he whispered.

‘Same house?’

He nodded.

‘Bet she’s keeping your old room for you,’ I smiled. ‘Keeping it just the way it was.’

He nodded again, twice.

‘Comes here often, does she, your mum?’

‘Yes,’ he said, a whisper again.

‘How about mates, they come and all, do they?’

He shook his head.

‘Hear from them much, do you?’

He shook his head again.

‘What about Johnny thingy,’ I said. ‘Never hear from him?’

He looked up: ‘Johnny?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, tapping the table. ‘Johnny, hell-was-his-last-name?’

‘Jimmy?’ he said. ‘Jimmy Ashworth?’

‘That’s it,’ I nodded. ‘Jimmy Ashworth. How’s he doing?’

He shrugged.

‘Never comes? Never writes?’

‘No.’

‘Christmas card?’

‘No.’

‘But you two were best mates, I heard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thick as thieves, weren’t you?’ smiled Dick.

He nodded.

‘Not very nice that,’ I said. ‘Some bloody friend he turned out to be, eh?’

Nothing .

I asked him: ‘What about the others?’

He looked up.

‘Your other mates?’

He shook his head.

‘Who was there, remind me?’

He shook his head. He said: ‘Just Jimmy in end.’

‘No girlfriends? Penpals?’

He shook his head.

‘What about work?’

Nothing .

‘You had mates at work, yeah?’

He nodded.

‘Castleford, wasn’t it? Photo studio?’

He nodded again.

‘Who was your mate there then?’

‘Mary.’

‘Mary who?’

‘Mary Goldthorpe,’ he said. ‘But she’s dead.’

‘Anyone else?’

He shook his head. Then he said: ‘Sharon, the new girl.’

‘What was her last name?’

‘Douglas,’ he said.

‘Sharon Douglas?’ I said.

He nodded.

I turned to Dick Alderman.

Dick Alderman nodded.

I took off my glasses. I rubbed my eyes. I put them back on: ‘Anyone else?’

‘Just Mr Jenkins,’ he said and this time I nodded -

‘Ted Jenkins,’ I said. ‘That’d be right.’

The cage door open to the wet Scouse night, a voice shouted after us: ‘Mr Jobson?’

We both turned round, a tall prison officer coming after us.

‘Just thought you ought to know,’ he panted. ‘Myshkin had a meeting with his solicitor on Saturday.’

‘Thanks,’ said Dick. ‘We saw his name on the visitors’ list.’

‘But I was there, yeah?’ the prison officer said. ‘In the room with them when Myshkin told this solicitor feller he didn’t do it.’

‘Is that right?’ Dick said. ‘Going to appeal, is he?’

‘Myshkin said a policeman told him to say he did it,’ the prison officer nodded. ‘Made him confess.’

‘Say which policeman, did he?’ asked Dick.

‘He couldn’t remember the name,’ said the prison officer. ‘But solicitor cut him off before he could say much else.’