David Peace - 1983

You nod. ‘When?’

‘Two nights ago, a mob of them just set the place ablaze.’

‘Terrible,’ says her sister.

‘Where are you going?’ you ask again.

Mrs Myshkin nods at her sister. ‘Leeds eventually.’

You step forward. You take their cases. You say: ‘Eventually?’

‘I need to be near Michael,’ she says. ‘I’m going over to Liverpool today.’

‘I saw him yesterday,’ you say.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’ve spoken to them today?’

‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘Every day at the moment.’

You carry the cases round to the boot of the taxi. You bang on the boot.

The driver releases it.

You put the cases inside.

‘Thank you,’ say Mrs Myshkin and her sister.

‘Just hang on a minute,’ you say.

They nod.

You go over to your car. You take out two of the envelopes. You walk back to the two little women. You hand the two envelopes to Mrs Myshkin.

‘What are these?’ she asks.

‘One’s for you and Michael,’ you say. ‘The other is for Mrs Ashworth.’

‘You want me to give it to her?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘But I don’t know when I’ll next -’

‘I’m sure you’ll see her before me.’

Mrs Myshkin looks at you -

There are tears in her eyes -

Tears in yours .

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For everything.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ you say.

Mrs Myshkin steps forward. She stands on her tiptoes. She kisses your cheek.

‘Yes, you did,’ she says. ‘Yes, you did.’

You shake your head.

She takes your hand. She squeezes it. She says: ‘I heard what they did to you.’

You shake your head again. ‘It wasn’t about Michael.’

She squeezes your hand once more. She lets go. She walks back over to her sister.

They get in the taxi. They close the doors. They wave at you.

You stand in Newstead View -

Among the plastic bags and the dogshit .

You wave back. You watch them go -

Your dried blood on the gatepost.

You park outside another boarded-up house on another street in another part of Fitzwilliam.

You get out. You walk up the path. You read the letters:

LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP .

You read the words:

LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS .

You stare at the swastika and noose painted above the door.

You turn away.

You look down the side of the house. You can see the edge of the back garden.

You walk slowly down the side of the house. You turn the corner. You stop -

You look down the back garden. You see the shed -

The shed with your trains and your tracks;

The shed -

Where you thought you could see your dad inside;

The shed -

You walked towards the door;

The shed -

You opened the door;

The shed -

You smelt the smoke;

The shed -

You saw the blood;

The shed -

You saw your dad;

The shed door banging in the wind, in the rain -

Your mother’s mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling;

You turn away -

‘Why?’

You close your eyes -

‘Why?’

You open your eyes -

You look over the broken fence. You stare up at another empty house next door -

You remember a family that lived there a long time ago -

The two little kids, the mother and father -

‘A very nice man’ .

The father -

‘So good with the kids.’

The father -

George Marsh .

Haunted, you drive -

She is dripping wet and as skinny as a rake;

Haunted -

Silently she points .

You park in front of a little white bungalow with a little green garden and nothing in it:

16 Maple Well Drive, Netherton .

You knock on the glass door. You have a mouthful of brackish water. You spit.

A chubby woman with grey permed hair opens the door.

You wipe your mouth. You ask: ‘Mrs Marsh?’

She shakes her head. She says: ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I thought -’

‘They used to live here, the Marshes,’ she nods. ‘Years ago.’

‘Don’t know where they went, do you?’

She shakes her head again. ‘They flit, didn’t they?’

‘Flit?’

‘Almost ten year ago,’ she says. ‘Bank repossessed place.’

‘They just vanished?’

‘Thin air,’ she nods.

‘I remember they had an allotment or something -’

She shakes her head. ‘Some up field behind here, but we don’t -’

‘Didn’t come with the house then?’

‘No,’ she laughs.

‘Who owns them then?’

‘Them allotments?’

You nod.

‘Don’t know,’ she says. ‘Coal Board, maybe?’

‘Thanks,’ you say.

She nods.

You turn. You walk back down the garden path.

‘Sorry,’ she calls after you. ‘Who are you anyway?’

‘Solicitor,’ you say. ‘John Piggott.’

‘No trouble is there, I hope?’ she asks. ‘About the house?’

‘No,’ you say. ‘Friends of my parents, that’s all.’

The gate to the field behind the bungalow won’t open.

You climb up over the stone wall. You lumber up the muddy tractor path towards the row of dark sheds at the top of the hill.

The sky is heavy and about to piss all over you again.

Halfway up the hill, you turn around. You look back down at the little white bungalow and the little green garden next to all the other little white bungalows and little green gardens.

You can see the chubby woman with the grey permed hair at her kitchen window.

You take out your handkerchief. You wipe your face.

Your breath smells of shit.

You spit again. You start walking again.

You reach the row of sheds -

You peer in through the gaps in the wood, the cracks between the bricks:

Seed trays and yellow newspapers, plant pots and old copies of the Radio Times -

All seed trays and plant pots until you come to the last one:

The one with the bricked-up window. The padlocked black door.

You knock on the door -

No answer .

You rattle the padlock -

Nothing .

You pick up half a house brick. You batter the padlock off the door.

You open the door -

You open the door and you see the pictures on the wall -

Pictures you’ve seen on a wall once before:

Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, Clare Kemplay and -

One new photograph, cut from paper, dirty paper -

Hazel .

You know where she is.

‘Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.’

– Voltaire

There is a light summer rain falling on empty flowerbeds below my window.

Doctor shines torch in my eyes again. He gives me three injections. Nurse cleans my wounds. She administers to my bandages. Doctor smiles. He shakes my hand. Nurse nods. She kisses my cheek. They leave me to dress.

Rain has stopped and there is sunshine somewhere behind clouds.

I get out of bed. I put on a heavy army greatcoat. I straighten my cap. I turn my collars up. I walk down corridor. I go into dayroom. I walk across carpet with a swastika held high in hand, rest of room prostrate at my feet in their dressing-gowns -

Fugitive sunshine caught in their tears -

I’ve been so far away;

I say my goodbyes -

So far from her arms;

Hospital clock strikes thirteen -

Hate Week .

This is North -

Where they do what they want -

Wellington Street, Leeds.