David Peace - 1983

‘What?’ I am screaming -

Summoning her back from the Underground, the court of the Dead:

This cold and dark December place -

‘Who?’

She is pushing me off -

Pushing me away, whispering: ‘You weren’t here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say -

Standing up in the light -

But in the light -

The dead moonlight -

There are bruises on the backs of my hands again -

Bruises that won’t heal -

Ever.

Beneath her shadows -

Lost hearts .

Fucking -

The cat piss and petunia, desperate.

Fucking then fucking -

Desperate.

Fucking then kissing -

Her head upon my damp chest, I stroke her hair, her beautiful wet hair.

The branches of the tree tap upon the glass -

Sobbing, weeping -

Soaked and wanting in.

‘I love you,’ I say.

The branches tapping -

Sobbing, she whispers: ‘I can’t live like this.’

Sobbing and weeping -

Wanting out.

‘We’ll go,’ I tell her -

Her face in the candlelight: ‘Where?’

‘Far away.’

Her face white: ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

Her face white and already -

Dead -

Sobbing, weeping -

Hearts -

Asking to be let out.

The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cry .

Inside -

Inside your scorched heart .

There is a house -

A house with no doors .

The earth scorched -

Heathen .

I wake suddenly in the dark again, beneath her shadows -

‘I’ll see you in the tree -’

Tapping against the pane.

She’s lying on her side in a black bra and underskirt, her back to me -

Branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table -

The branches tapping against the pane.

Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, that terrible tune and its words in my head -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, that terrible lonely tune and her words in my head, listening to the branches tapping along against the pane -

‘In her branches.’

I look at my watch -

It is one o’clock in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974.

I reach for my glasses and get out of the bed without waking her and I go through into the kitchen and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find the teapot in the cupboard and the two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and I pour it into the cups and put two teabags in the teapot and take the kettle off the ring and pour the water on to the teabags and let it stand, staring out of the small window, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a divorced man undressed but for a pair of white underpants and glasses, these thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a divorced man undressed in the other woman’s flat at two o’clock in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974:

‘Under the spreading chestnut tree -’

I put the teapot and cups and saucers on the tray and take it into the big room and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk when -

There are boots upon the stair, the doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -

She is standing in the hall.

I ask: ‘Tomorrow night?’

‘Tomorrow night,’ she nods.

The doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -

I open the door -

Dick’s stood there, panting. ‘They’ve got someone.’

‘What?’

‘For Clare.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone we fucking know -’

‘Who?’

‘Michael Myshkin.’

‘What?’

‘He’s coughing.’

‘What?’

‘Come on. Get dressed.’

I turn back round -

She’s not there;

Just the branches tapping against the pane, saying over and over:

‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’

Dark hours -

Dark, dark hours -

Before the cock crows:

Three in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974:

Yorkshire -

Wakefield:

Wood Street Police Station -

We walk down the long, long corridor -

Uniforms stood around, drinking and laughing, singing fucking carols -

Jingle Bells -

Jimmy Ashworth sat at the table in Room 1 -

Jingle Bells -

Two teenage girls sat at the table in Room 2 -

Jingle -

Room 3 empty -

Fucking -

In Room 4 -

Bells -

Three big kings in their shirtsleeves:

Ronald Angus, George Oldman and Pete Noble -

Three big men in their shirtsleeves stood over him :

Michael John Myshkin, twenty-two, in police issue grey shirt and trousers -

Michael John Myshkin of Jenkins Photo Studio, Castleford -

Michael John Myshkin the man who is saying he murdered Clare Kemplay:

‘… she wouldn’t let me kiss her, so I kissed her anyway and then she wouldn’t shut up. Said she was going to tell her mam and dad and police, so I strangled her. Then I cut her and put the rose up her and the wings in her back…’

He is grossly overweight, his enormous head bowed and shaking -

Handcuffed, spots of blood are dropping from his nose on to the table.

He is crying. He has pissed himself.

Dick and I step inside.

Angus, Oldman and Noble turn round -

‘Maurice,’ says George. ‘This is Michael John Myshkin.’

I look back at Myshkin -

Head bowed and shaking.

‘Michael’s just been telling us what a bad boy he’s been, haven’t you, Michael?’

Myshkin doesn’t answer.

Noble bangs both palms down loud on the table. ‘Answer the man!’

Myshkin nods -

A fat and stupid moon in a black and cruel night;

‘Tell these gentlemen what you just told us, Michael,’ says Ronald Angus.

Michael Myshkin looks up at me -

Trembling and blinking through his fears and tears.

I say: ‘We’re listening, Michael.’

Michael John Myshkin smoothes down his hair. He blinks. He nods. He whispers: ‘I was driving the van in Morley and I saw her and I fancied her and I stopped and got her into the van but she wouldn’t let me kiss her, so I kissed her anyway and then she wouldn’t shut up. Said she was going to tell her mam and dad and police, so I strangled her. Then I cut her and put the rose up her and the wings in her back. Just like the others.’

‘Which others?’ I say.

‘Them two others.’

‘You did them too, didn’t you, Michael?’ says Noble.

He nods.

Noble: ‘Susan Ridyard?’

He nods.

Noble: ‘Jeanette Garland?’

Michael Myshkin looks from Noble to me for a split second -

A split second in which you can see him -

See him see her -

See Jeanette -

A split second in which he loses his life -

A split second before he nods.

‘Did what?’ shouts Noble.

‘Killed them.’

I say: ‘Michael? Where did you kill them?’

‘Under the grass, between the cracks and the stones -’

‘Where?’

‘Those beautiful carpets.’

‘Where is this?’

‘My kingdom,’ he says. ‘My underground kingdom.’

Noble steps forward. He slaps him hard across the top of his head. He shouts: ‘You’re going to have to do fucking better than that, you dirty fat fucking bastard!’

‘Come on,’ says Oldman. ‘Leave him to think on. I need a drink.’

‘A bloody whiskey,’ laughs Angus. ‘A bloody big one.’