David Peace - 1983

Lots of nods, smiles, grins and hear-hears .

I stare around the room at all the teeth. I ask Bill: ‘What about your son-in-law?’

Everyone stops smiling -

Rudkin shaking his head.

‘Never,’ says Bill. ‘I never want Robert near any of this.’

I stare around the room again: ‘Better all watch what we say then, hadn’t we?’

Some of them are looking at the carpet, the beautiful carpet -

All gold flowers on deep crimsons and red -

Like the whiskeys and their faces.

‘I do have some other new faces though,’ smiles Bill and turns back to Rudkin. ‘Invite our guests in and have them bring up some more drinks, will you, John?’

John Rudkin leaves the room.

‘We’ve got an opportunity here,’ Bill says. ‘An opportunity to invest the money from our little ventures and turn it into something even bigger -

‘Something great.’

There’s another knock. Rudkin holds open the door for John Dawson and Donald Foster.

Bill gets up. ‘Gentlemen. Please join us.’

Don and John take their seats in the circle. Bill makes the introductions -

Me thinking, too many cooks, too many chiefs .

The waitress brings in more drinks and leaves.

The introductions over and done, Bill gestures to John Dawson and Don Foster. ‘John and Don here have their own dreams, don’t you, gents?’

Foster nods. He clears his throat. ‘With your help, gentlemen, we’re going to build a shopping centre -’

‘The biggest of its kind in England or Europe,’ says Dawson.

‘One place where you can buy everything you need, where you can see a film or go bowling, where you can have breakfast, lunch or tea,’ says Foster.

‘Whatever the weather, all under one roof,’ adds Dawson. ‘Make the Merrion Centre look like the rabbit hutch it is.’

‘Where?’ I ask.

‘The Hunslet and Beeston exit of the motorway,’ says Foster. ‘Be ideal.’

‘The Swan Centre,’ beams Dawson -

Beams Foster -

Beams everyone:

Too many cooks, too many chiefs .

Bill stands back up, his left hand open in the direction of Dawson and Don Foster: ‘With John’s brains, Don’s bricks, and our brass, we’re going to make this happen -’

Everyone clapping -

‘And we’re going to make some bloody money too -’

Everyone joining him on their feet with their drinks -

‘Some fucking real bloody money!’

All the cooks and all the chiefs -

Me too:

For the body is not one member -

Bill raises his glass: ‘To us all and to the North – where we do what we want!’

But -

‘The North,’ we reply as one and drain our whiskeys again.

Many .

Bill looks over at me, smiling to himself: ‘There’s one last thing.’

We sip our whiskeys. We wait.

‘You’ve all heard the rumours,’ he says. ‘But I wanted to tell you all face to face, here and now, in front of the lot of you -

‘I’m retiring.’

‘What?’ we all say.

‘I’ve had my time,’ he grins. ‘And I’m going to have plenty to keep me occupied.’

‘But what -’ Jim Prentice says.

Craven: ‘Who will -’

Bill looks at me. He nods. He says: ‘Maurice is taking over.’

I say nothing.

‘Old Walter signed the papers yesterday,’ laughs Bill. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, Head of Leeds CID.’

Before I can say anything -

Before anyone can say anything -

Dick Alderman stands up, his glass raised one final time: ‘To Maurice.’

Bill and Rudkin on their feet first, Dawson and Foster next, Craven and Prentice following -

Murphy bemused, confused -

As confused as me as I stand and raise my own glass to myself thinking:

Make believers of us all .

Downstairs, drunk and ugly -

Everyone dancing -

Everyone except my wife and my children, sat to the side in the dark -

Everyone dancing or falling down:

‘State of her,’ whispers Dick with a nod to Anthea Rudkin -

Rudkin’s wife draped all over George Oldman -

Half in and half out of a long but low-cut pink dress -

Oldman’s wife and children getting their coats.

Bill is shaking his head, whispering to Rudkin -

Rudkin across the dancefloor, pulling his wife off George -

Her arms already bruised in his grip, she kicks her legs out and she screams: ‘Never marry a copper!’

In the family car on the drive home, Judith and Clare are asleep.

Paul puts his head between the seats. He says: ‘Why do they call you the Owl ?’

‘Because of my glasses.’

‘Think it’s stupid,’ he says and sits back.

I look in the rearview mirror. I can see him staring out of the window at the passing night, the lorries and the cars, the yellow lights and the red.

He is crying, wishing he were somewhere else -

Someone else -

Other people;

Or maybe just me -

Wishing I were someone else;

Crying and wishing we were all dead -

Or maybe just me -

Just me .

I lie in our double bed, listening to Simon and Garfunkel through the wall, doors slamming and the telephone ringing, no-one answering it -

The sound of things:

Terrifying, difficult and awesome -

The sound of things getting worse.

Lying in the double bed, thinking -

Please make me believe .

You can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep -

You shut your eyes, you see her face -

You open your eyes, you see her face:

‘If Mrs Thatcher wins, Britain’s young men and women will be a lost generation, without jobs, without education -’

You shut your eyes, you see her face -

You open your eyes, you see her face:

‘No hope to make the life they want for themselves.’

You can’t go to sleep -

Thursday 2 June 1983:

D-7 .

Down through the thunder and the rain and Wakefield, the car still retching and coughing, hacking its way over the Calder and out past the Redbeck, into Fitzwilliam -

Putting them together:

Jimmy Ashworth and Michael Myshkin -

Michael and Jimmy, Jimmy and Michael -

Putting them together and getting:

Hazel Atkins -

A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper.

Sweating and then freezing, your clothes still itching with hate, you’ve got the shadows all over your heart again, a belly brimming over with fear -

Putting it all together to get:

Fear and hate, hate and fear -

A pocket full of paper, a pocketful of -

Hazel .

It is getting late -

Everywhere.

The silent houses of Newstead View, Fitzwilliam:

Fitz-fucking-william-

69 Newstead View:

Knock, knock, knock, knock .

‘Took your time?’ spits Ma Ashworth, almost closing the door in your face.

‘I’ve been busy.’

She stares at the dinner medals on your shirt. She says: ‘So I see.’

You put down the two large brown paper bags at her feet: ‘I brought you these.’

She holds open the front door. ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting your cup of tea with three sugars?’

You shake your head: ‘I’m not stopping.’

She shrugs. She looks at the bags. She says: ‘What about the belt?’

You lean down. You open the bag nearest her, the black leather belt coiled on top.

She bends down. She picks it up.

‘Was that his?’ you ask.

Her shoulders are shaking, her rough hands holding the worn belt.

‘Mrs Ashworth?’

She stares down at the belt in her hands, the tears falling from her face.