David Peace - 1983

On my back -

Eyes wide open -

Under the ground:

Lying on a bed of dying red roses and long white feathers -

Looking up at a sky of bricks painted blue, white cotton wool clouds stuck here and there among bright swinging Davy lamps -

Lying here, I watch a dark figure rise out of the ground -

Rise out of the ground into the swinging lamplight -

Into the lamplight, a hammer in his hand:

George Marsh -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. I wait for George Marsh -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. George Marsh almost upon me -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. Then I raise my right leg. I kick out hard -

Hard into his leg.

George Marsh howls. He tries to bring down the hammer -

The hammer in his hand.

I kick out hard again. Then I roll over. I rise up -

George Marsh howling, trying to stand.

But I am behind him now and I have his hammer in my hand.

Blind and black with his blood, I stop.

Under this painted sky of bricks of blue, in this one long tunnel of hate, there are two walls made up of ten narrow mirrors, ten narrow mirrors in which I can see myself -

See myself among the Christmas tree angels, the fairies and their lights, among the stars that hang from the beams, that hang and dangle among the swinging Davy lamps but never ever twinkle -

See myself among the boxes and the bags -

The shoeboxes and the shopping bags -

The cameras and the lights -

The lenses and the bulbs -

The tape recorders and the tapes -

The microphones -

The feathers and the flowers -

The tools;

I see myself and him among the tools -

The tools black with his blood.

His mouth opens and closes again.

I put the hammer down.

I stagger and crawl back the way I came, past the child’s summer sandal, through the tunnel until I come at last to the shaft -

I can see the grey light above.

I haul myself up the metal rungs towards the light, weak and fit to drop into the endless dark below.

I reach the top. I scramble out of the hole. I pull myself on to the floor of the shed. I turn on to my back, panting -

Panting and wanting out.

I use the workbench to get to my feet, my glasses gone.

Blind, I move the manhole cover back into place. I camouflage it with the plastic sacks, kicking them over the cover and the rope.

Then I hear it -

Behind me .

I stop. I turn:

There is a figure, a shape here in the shed with me now -

Quiet and hooded .

Crouched down in the corner by the workbench and the tools, hidden here among the bags of fertiliser and cement, the pots and the trays -

Small hands .

A thin shape, with black hair and raggedy clothing -

Bleeding .

It steps forward -

Arms raised in the air with the appearance of menace and implacable famine .

I reach out towards it -

Blind and groping, covered in dried black blood, I whisper: ‘Who is it?’

The figure darts to the left. I follow -

Darts to the right. I have it -

Then it is away -

Out of my arms and out of the door.

I stumble after it -

Out into the field and the rain -

But it is gone -

Gone .

I fall to my knees in the mud.

I raise up my eyes and heart, blind and raw up towards the vast grey sky and I let the coarse black rain wash away the blood -

From my eyes and heart, his heart and mine -

I let the rain wash away the blood, wash it into the earth -

This scorched and heathen earth -

These scorched and heathen hearts.

Thursday 19 December 1974 -

Midnight -

I am late:

Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Hearts cut, lost -

I am late;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Heart cut -

I am late;

I park. I get out. I lock the car door. I walk up the drive. I go inside. Up the stairs to Flat 5 -

Heart -

Late;

I knock on the door -

The air stained -

Silent .

I try the door -

It opens.

I step inside -

Listening:

No low sobs, no muffled sobs -

No weeping here tonight;

Only silence.

Stood before the bedroom door, I whisper: ‘Mandy?’

I close my eyes. I open them. I see stars -

Stars and angels -

My angel -

I try the door: ‘Mandy?’

The door swings open.

There are loud animal sobs -

Contorted, screaming and howling -

The weeping is mine .

She is naked but for her blood -

Her hair all gone -

She is hanging from the light.

Beneath her shadows -

Dead hearts .

The cat piss and petunia, desperate on an old sofa -

Her head upon my chest, I am stroking her beautiful, bloody scalp.

Behind the heavy stained curtains, the branches of the tree tap upon the window -

Sobbing and weeping;

Soaked in blood and wanting in -

‘I love you.’

Sobbing -

‘We’ll go.’

Weeping -

‘Far away.’

Her face in the candlelight white and dead -

The branches of the tree tapping upon the glass;

Sobbing and weeping -

We are kissing -

Asking to be let in -

Kissing and then fucking .

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 and always winter .

The rooms murder -

Here is where we live .

I wake in the dark, beneath her shadows -

‘We have her in the tree -’

Tapping against the pane.

She’s lying on her side, naked -

Branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks -

The branches tapping against the pane.

Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, terrible laments and their dreadful elegies inside my head -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, terrible laments and their dreadful elegies inside my head, listening to the branches tapping along against the pane -

I look at my watch -

‘Have her in the branches.’

It’s stopped.

I reach for my glasses but they are gone and I get out of the bed without moving 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 two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and the bottle smells bad but I put two teabags in the teapot anyway 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, an undead man undressed but for his white underpants, an undead man undressed in a dead woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning -

Friday 20 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 and switch on the radio:

‘A Fitzwilliam man yesterday appeared before Wakefield Magistrates and was charged with the murder of Clare Kemplay, the Morley schoolgirl whose body was found on Saturday by the Calder in Wakefield. The man was also charged with a number of driving offences and was further remanded in custody for questioning in connection with offences of a nature similar to those with which he was charged. This is widely believed to refer to the disappearance of eight-year-old Jeanette Garland from her Castleford home in 1969, a case which became nationally known as the Little Girl Who Never Came Home and which remains unsolved to this day…’