David Peace - 1983

I switch off the radio and take the tray back into the kitchen, one cup untouched.

I rinse out the cups and then dry them and put them away.

I go back into the bedroom -

I lie down beside her.

There are sirens and there are brakes -

I close her eyes.

Boots upon the stairs, fists knocking on the door -

I kiss her.

Boots down the hall -

I close my eyes.

Fists pounding on the bedroom door -

I kiss her for the last time.

Bill is shaking me -

I open my eyes.

I hold up her hand in mine -

There are bruises on the backs of both our hands;

Bruises that will never heal -

Never.

Bill is saying: ‘I think you need a friend, Maurice.’

I nod.

The branches tapping against the pane, screaming:

‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’

Falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her memories open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of an unfaithful wife trapped and forced to watch the slaughter of her husband upon their own neat lawn, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the carpet in the hall, on the golden flowers and the crimson leaves, on the marks made by piss and the marks made by shit, contorted and screaming and howling under dull Christmas tree lights that blink on and then off, on and then off, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and dying at Christmas, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of dirty clothes and unshaven faces, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their memories, telling them of all the hells they were in and all the fresh hells you’d bring, how damned they truly were, but they just sat there silently waiting for new hells to come to their houses and flats, to take them upstairs and fuck them on their bed with their eyes open wide and their mouths shaped like fish, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, her husband rotten in his box, already on his way back down underground, a tie around his neck and truncheon by his side, stitched up stones for his teeth, as you flew across the church, tried to reach across the pews and grab Badger Bill , to kill him here and kill him now, but your brother Pete was holding you back, telling you all the things that your dad had done and had not, all the shit he was in, how fucked he truly was, how he was better off dead and now she could get back on her feet and on with her life, better off without him, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking in her fingers, and then came the Brass, came to tell you how sorry they were, he was one of their own he was, one of the best that there was, how they were all going to miss Big John the Pig , his gun still smoking as they struggled to clean this all up, the stink of bullshit among the smoke, their lies smeared all over the windows of your shed, their fingers holding down the trigger, lying in their uniforms that said Leeds City Police, your father dead between a pair of swan’s wings, his story blown to bits, still struggling to tidy up those little loose ends and file them away, to put him in the ground and make him go away, but it didn’t and it never would, not for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, crawling up her walls and her stairs on her hands and her knees, the bricks through her windows and LUFC on her walls, the swastikas and noose they hung above her door, the kids and their dogs chanting and barking, chasing her home from the shops in packs, home to the shit through her letterbox and the dirty phone calls, the dull thuds in the night and the torchlight that blinks off and on, on and off through her windows all night, the feeble voice asking her sons to please, please come help stop these kids and their dads, the white swastikas and the black, the marks made by kids and the marks by their dads, burning paper through her letterbox and a dead cat on her step, these policemen in suits and big size ten boots who check all her locks and drink all her tea and remember her John and then are all gone; the walls covered in wet painted words, the stink of shit up the stairs, the smell of dirty dog muck and rotten old eggs, the fruit and the veg and the endless days and nights of hate, these long days and long, long nights spent alone in her bedroom afraid to go downstairs, afraid to go out, for the kids and their dads, their mams and their nans, their chants and their taunts, their sticks and their stones, the words and the bricks that always hurt always, her husband dead and her sons that never call, alone on her bed in her own shit and piss with no food in the house, the doors and windows all locked and the dog fucking starved, she falls backwards alone on her bed through the enormous depths away from this place, this terrible rotten un-fresh place, this place that smells so strongly of memories, bad memories and history; this place where you are now, alone; terrified and hysterical and screeching, your mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, alone with your mother on her bed in the piss and the shit with no food in the house and the wolf fucking starved at the door, alone with your mother in her bed, your mother and -

Mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling from under the sheets -

Contorted and screaming and howling from under the sheets -

Screaming and howling from under the sheets -

Howling from under the sheets -

Under the sheets -

Under the sheets as he first buggers and murders thee all over again -

Buggers and murders thee:

The Last Yorkshire Son -

Thee and then her -

Hazel.

Monday 6 June 1983 -

You are on your back, back in the flat, listening to the branches;

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

Listening to the branches tap;

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

Listening to the branches tap against;

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody knows -

Listening to the branches tap against the pain:

D-3 .

The old woman with the walking stick and the small boy are staring at you.

‘Number forty-five!’

You look down at the piece of paper in your hand.

‘Number forty-five!’

You stand up.

At the desk, you say: ‘John Piggott to see Michael Myshkin.’

The woman in the grey, damp uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down the biro list. She sniffs and says: ‘You’re not on the list.’

You say: ‘I’m his solicitor.’

‘Neither of you are,’ she spits.

‘There must be some mistake…’

She hands you back your visitor’s pass: ‘Return to your seat and a member of staff will be down to explain the situation to you.’

Fifty minutes and two paper swans later, a plump man in a doctor’s coat says: ‘John Winston Piggott?’

You stand up.

‘This way.’

You follow him to a different door and a different lock, a different alarm and a different bell, through another door up another overheated and overlit grey corridor.

At a set of double doors, he pauses. He says: ‘I’m afraid Mr Myshkin is in the hospital wing of our facility.’

‘Oh,’ you say. ‘I had no -’

‘His family didn’t contact you then?’

You shake your head. ‘I’ve been away.’

‘Mr Myshkin has been refusing food for just over a week now. He had also taken to smearing his excrement on the walls of his room. He refused to wear the regulation clothing provided to him. Both the staff and his family felt that he might possibly attempt to take his own life. As a result, Mr Myshkin was hospitalised late Saturday night.’