David Peace: 1983

‘Smart man,’ I said.

Dick asked him: ‘Myshkin say anything else?’

The officer tapped his temple with two fingers. ‘He said a wolf did it.’

‘Did what?’ said Dick.

‘Killed the little girl.’

‘A wolf?’ snorted Dick.

‘Yeah,’ the officer nodded, still tapping his temple. ‘That’s what he said.’

‘He get many other visitors, does he?’ I asked.

‘Just his mad mam and the God Squad,’ laughed the officer. ‘Poor sod.’

‘The poor sod,’ I repeated.

In the visitors’ car park of the Park Lane Special Hospital, we sat in the dark in silence until I asked Dick: ‘What do you know about John Winston Piggott?’

‘Father was one of us.’

‘Jesus.’ I shook my head. ‘That was his father?’

Dick nodded.

‘What’s he look like, the son?’

‘Right fat bastard,’ he laughed. ‘Office on Wood Street.’

‘Like father, like son?’

‘Who knows?’ Dick shrugged. ‘But he was Bob Fraser’s solicitor, wasn’t he?’

‘Christ almighty,’ I said.

‘Dйjа bloody vu,’ said Dick.

‘What’s he know, Piggott?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘Well, you’d better fucking well find out,’ I said, the taste in my mouth again. ‘And fucking fast.’

You wake about eight and lie in bed eating cold Findus Crispy Pancakes -

Raw, uncooked in the middle, watching the TV-AM news on the portable:

‘ Police are to hold an inquiry into the death of a prisoner at Rotherhite Police Station. Mr Nicholas Ofuso, thirty-two, became unconscious and died of asphyxiation due to inhalation of vomit after nine policemen had gone to his flat in answer to a domestic dispute. Mr Ofuso struggled during the journey to Rotherhite Police Station and just before arrival he vomited. As his handcuffs were removed he went limp. He was given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation accompanied by a cardiac massage.’

It is Tuesday 17 May 1983 -

D-23 .

After half an hour you make a cup of tea, then you get washed and dressed. You fancy a curry for lunch, a hot one with big fat prawns, but it is pissing down as you open the door and remember you have to see Mrs Myshkin today -

The newspaper lying on the mat, face up; Hazel Atkins:

Missing .

You go back upstairs and puke up all the pancakes and the tea, a flabby man on his knees before his bog, a flabby man who does not love his country or his god, a flabby man who has no country, has no god -

You don’t want to go to work, you don’t want to stay in the flat:

A flabby man on your knees .

You drive over one bridge and under another, past the boarded-up pubs and closed-down shops, the burnt-out bus stops and the graffiti that hates everything, everywhere, and everyone but especially the IRA, Man United, and the Pakis -

This is Fitzwilliam:

Back for the second time in a week, in a year.

Least it has stopped raining -

Turning out rite nice for once .

The off-licence is the only thing open so you park the car and go inside and slide the money through a slot to an Asian man and his little lad standing in a cage in their best pyjamas among the bottles of unlabelled alcohol and the single cigarettes. The father slides your change back, the son your twenty Rothman.

Two girls are sat outside on the remains of a bench. They are drinking Gold Label Merrydown cider and Benilyn cough syrup. A dog is barking at a frightened child in a pushchair, an empty bottle of Thunderbird rolling around on the concrete. The girls have dyed short rats’ tails and fat mottled legs in turquoise clothes and suede pointed boots.

The dog turns from the screaming baby to growl at you.

One of the girls says: ‘You fancy a fuck, fatty? Tenner back at hers.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ you say at the front door. ‘I got lost.’

‘You’re here now,’ smiles Mrs Myshkin. ‘Come in.’

‘Car be all right there?’ you ask her, looking back at the only one in the street.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’ll be gone before the kids get out.’

You glance at your watch and step inside 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.

‘Go through,’ she gestures.

You go into the front room to the left of the staircase; patterned carpet well vacuumed, assorted furniture well polished, the taste of air-freshener and the fire on full.

You have a headache.

Mrs Myshkin waves you towards the settee and you sit on it.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘Thank you,’ you nod.

‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she says and goes back out.

The room is filled with photographs and paintings, photographs and paintings of men, photographs and paintings of men not here -

Her husband, her son, Jesus Christ.

The fire is warm against your legs.

She comes back in with a plastic tray and sets it down on the table in front of you: ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Please.’

‘How many?’

‘Three.’

‘Help yourself to biscuits,’ she says.

‘Thank you,’ you say and reach over for a chocolate digestive.

She hands you your tea and there’s a knock at the door.

‘My sister,’ she says. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘No,’ you say.

She goes out to the door and you wash down the biscuit and take another and think about turning down the bloody fire. You have chocolate on your fingers and your shirt again.

Mrs Myshkin comes back in with another little grey-haired woman with the same metal-framed glasses.

‘This is my sister,’ she says. ‘Mrs Novashelska, from Leeds.’

You stand up, wipe your fingers upon your trouser leg, then shake the woman’s tiny hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Mrs Myshkin pours a cup of tea for her sister and they both sit down in the chairs either side of you.

Mrs Myshkin says to her sister: ‘He saw Michael on Saturday.’

The other woman smiles: ‘You will help him then?’

You put down your cup and saucer and turn to Mrs Myshkin: ‘I’m not sure I can.’

Both the little women are staring at you.

‘As I told you last week,’ you begin. ‘I don’t have any experience with appeals.’

Both little women staring at you, the fat man sweating on the small settee.

‘Not this kind of appeal. You see, what should happen, should have happened in Michael’s case, is that his original solicitor and his counsel, they should have lodged an appeal after his trial. Within fourteen days.’

The little women staring, the fat man roasting.

‘But they didn’t, did they?’ you ask.

Mrs Myshkin and Mrs Novashelska put down their cups on the table.

You wipe your face with your handkerchief.

Mrs Novashelska says: ‘They couldn’t very well appeal, could they? Not when they’d all told him to plead guilty.’

You wipe your face with your handkerchief again and ask: ‘But he did confess, didn’t he?’

Two little women in a little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone missing -

Men not here -

Only you:

Fat, wet with sweat, and covered in chocolate and biscuit crumbs .

The two little women, their four eyes behind their metal frames, cold and accusing -

Silent.

‘It’s difficult to appeal against a confession and a guilty plea,’ you say, softly.

‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘He didn’t do it.’

‘Look,’ you say. ‘I’m very sorry and I would really like to help but I just don’t think I’m the man for the job and I would hate to waste your time or money. You need to find someone better qualified and a lot more experienced than I am in these matters.’

Their four eyes behind their metal frames, cold and accusing -