David Peace - 1983

You shake your head again. ‘I had no idea.’

‘It is possible for you to still see Mr Myshkin,’ he says. ‘However, I’m afraid that it can be only for a very, very short period.’

‘I understand,’ you say. ‘Thank you.’

‘Certainly no longer than ten minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ you say again.

The doctor punches a code into a panel on the wall.

An alarm sounds. He pulls open the door: ‘After you.’

You go through into another corridor of grey floors and grey walls.

There are no windows, just doors off to your left.

‘Follow me,’ says the doctor.

You walk down the corridor. You stop before the third door on the left.

The doctor punches another code into another panel on the wall.

Another alarm sounds. He pulls open another door: ‘After you.’

You step inside a large grey room with no windows and four beds.

The beds are all empty but one.

You follow the doctor across the room to the bed in the far-left corner.

‘Michael,’ says the doctor. ‘You have a visitor.’

You step forward. You say: ‘Hello, Michael.’

Michael Myshkin is lying strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas, staring at the ceiling -

His hair shaved. His mouth covered with sores. His eyes inflamed -

Michael John Myshkin, the convicted murderer of a child.

He turns from the ceiling to you -

There is spittle on his chin.

He looks at you. He doesn’t speak.

You stop staring at him. You look at your feet.

The doctor pulls a set of screens around you both. He says: ‘I’ll be outside.’

‘Thank you,’ you say.

He nods. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ you say again.

The doctor leaves you stood beside the bed -

Michael Myshkin looking up at you from beneath the straps.

‘I didn’t know,’ you say. ‘Nobody told me.’

He looks away, his face to the wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say.

He doesn’t turn his head back.

It is hot in here. It is bright. It smells of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I want you to tell me about Jeanette Garland.’

He doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t speak.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Please…’

He is lying on his back with his face to the wall.

‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I’ve tried to help you. I still want to help you, but -’

He turns his face from the wall to the ceiling. He whispers: ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

He looks at you. ‘Why do you want to help me?’

You swallow. You say: ‘Because I don’t think you should be here. Because I don’t think you killed Clare Kemplay. Because I don’t think you’re guilty.’

He shakes his head.

‘What?’ you say. ‘What?’

He stares at you. He smiles. ‘So why do you want to know about Jeanette?’

‘Because you knew her, didn’t you?’

He is still staring at you -

‘I went to see Tessa. You remember Tessa?’

He sighs. He blinks.

‘She said you had Jeanette’s photo. That you carried it everywhere. That you talked to it.’

He is crying now.

‘She said you got it from work. Is that right?’

He nods.

‘How? Why?’

‘We went to her school,’ he says. ‘Jeanette’s school.’

‘Who?’

‘Me and Mr Jenkins. It was my first week.’

‘To take school photos?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. Mr Jenkins was shouting at me. The children were all laughing at me. But not Jeanette.’

‘So you kept her photo?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘That was later.’

‘So you never saw her again?’

He looks away.

‘What?’ you say. ‘Tell me -’

‘I used to see her on the High Street sometimes with her dad or her uncle.’

‘Johnny Kelly? In Castleford?’

He turns back. He nods. ‘She always smiled and waved but…’

Strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas -

Hair shaved. His mouth sores. Eyes inflamed -

He is sobbing.

‘You saw her one last time, didn’t you?’

He closes his eyes. He nods.

‘When, Michael?’

He opens his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling.

‘When?’

‘That day,’ he whispers.

‘Which day?’

‘The day she disappeared.’

‘Where?’

‘In Castleford.’

‘Where in Castleford?’

‘In a van.’

Shaved. Sore. Inflamed -

He is weeping -

‘She wasn’t smiling,’ he cries. ‘She wasn’t waving.’

‘Who -’

He sighs. He blinks. He says: ‘I loved her.’

You nod. You say: ‘Who was she with, Michael?’

He looks at you.

‘In the van?’

He smiles.

‘Who was it, Michael?’

He says: ‘You know.’

Hot. Bright. The smell of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies -

‘I want you to tell me.’

‘But you know.’

‘Michael, please -’

‘Everybody knows,’ he shouts.

You look at the floor.

‘Everybody knows!’

You stare at your shoes.

‘Everybody!’

You look back up at him. You say: ‘The Wolf?’

He nods.

‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I did,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t know.’

Michael Myshkin stares at you -

You turn away again.

‘Yes, you did,’ he whispers. ‘Everybody did.’

‘About the Wolf?’

‘Everything.’

This heat. The brightness. This shit. The disinfectant. These lies -

‘I didn’t know,’ you say again. ‘I didn’t.’

Michael John Myshkin laughs. ‘Your father did.’

Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks -

Tears on yours.

Doors locked, you check the rearview mirror then the wing. You switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette:

‘The stars came out last night for Mrs Thatcher at a packed Wembley Conference Centre: Bob Monkhouse and Jimmy Tarbuck, Steve Davis and Sharon Davies, Brian Jacks and Neil Adams, Terry Neill and Fred Trueman; Kenny Everett shouted Let’s Bomb Russia and called on the crowd to Kick Michael Foot’s Stick Away; Lynsey de Paul composed and sang a song entitled Tory, Tory, Tory…’

You are crying again:

No Hazel .

You switch the radio off. You light another cigarette. You listen to the rain fall on the roof of the car, eyes closed:

Fourteen years ago, you waited in the same piss outside Wakefield Station for your dad to pick you up. Just graduated. A lawyer at last. The Prodigal Son. Your dad never came. You got the bus out to Fitzwilliam. There was no-one home. You had no key. You went round the back of the house to wait in the shed, the shed with your old trains and tracks. You thought you could see your dad inside. You opened the door -

You open your eyes.

You feel sick. Your fingers burning.

You put out the cigarette. You press the buttons in and out on the radio. You find some music:

Iron Maiden .

There’s no answer -

You are listening to Mrs Myshkin’s telephone ring and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof -

Nobody home -

The rain pouring down, car lights on a wet Monday afternoon in June -

The kind of wet Monday afternoon you used to spend in your office answering and asking questions about marriage and divorce, children and custody, maintenance and money, eating Bourbon or digestive biscuits, sitting behind your desk, listening to the rain fall on the windows, the raindrops on the wall outside so sharp and full of pain, listening to the relentless sound of the hard rain on the windows and the walls, not wanting to visit your mother, dreading it -