David Peace - 1983

The photograph of Hazel Atkins in my other hand.

‘This hell,’ Mrs Ashworth shouted again.

Mrs Myshkin whispering: ‘Why didn’t you say, Michael?’

Michael looking up at me from his mother’s arms -

Trembling and blinking through his sores and his tears;

He looked up -

Blood on his face. Tears on his cheeks -

His face as beautiful as the moon, as terrible as the night;

He looked up. He blinked. He screamed: ‘He told me not to!’

I turned away. I turned back to the doorway -

‘This hell!’

Dick was standing there, panting. ‘Boss -’

Michael Myshkin screaming over and over: ‘He told me not to!’

Tuesday 7 June 1983 -

‘ Do not let us fall into the trap - ’

60 miles an hour -

‘ Of voting for a schoolyard bully - ’

70 miles an hour -

‘ Or we will deserve to live on our knees .’

80 miles an hour -

‘ Mr Scargill warned yesterday - ’

90 miles an hour -

‘ People will have to stand and fight - ’

100 miles an hour -

‘ Sooner or later .’

Foot down -

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody fucking knows .

The hate nailed to the shadows of your heart -

The fear stitched into the fat of your belly -

Hate and fear, fear and hate -

Putting hate and fear and fear and hate -

Putting them together and getting -

The Kingdom of Evil .

The key in your pocket -

The key to the Kingdom -

D-2 .

You pull in behind the Redbeck Cafй and Motel. You park in the empty car park -

The Fear here -

The dogs barking, the waiting over -

The Wolf near.

You get out. You lock the car door. You run across the car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot;

You run across the rough ground to the row of disused motel rooms -

The broken windows and the graffiti, the rubbish and the rats;

You run along the row towards the door -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain.

You stop before the door:

Room 27.

You pull open the door -

The room is dark and cold.

No light here:

Only pain -

Someone has been decorating:

The walls inscribed with pain -

Maps, charts, photographs of pain:

Photographs of little girls -

Pale skin, fair hair, white wings .

Across the maps, the charts, and the photographs -

Swastikas and sixes;

Across every surface -

Six six sixes .

You step inside – You try the light switch again -

No light here:

Only pain and darkness .

You step further inside:

Shattered furniture, splintered wood -

The base of the double bed pulled out into the centre of the room -

On the base of the bed, a portable tape recorder -

A cassette case marked:

On care to be had for the Dead .

You walk towards the bed -

You walk towards the bed and then you see her -

See her -

See her feet first -

Her tiny, tiny feet -

Her -

On the floor, between the bed and the wall -

Between the bed and the wall, on her face -

Her -

Hazel Atkins .

You look -

You look away.

You look -

You look down.

You kneel upon the base of the double bed. You lean against the wall.

You reach down. You turn her over -

In pen upon her chest:

6 LUV .

You collapse on the base of the bed and the portable tape recorder -

‘ The only thing you learn in school is ABC -

But all I want to know about is you and me - ’

You switch it off.

Silence -

The weeping the only sound;

Sat among the silent sixes, weeping on the base of the double bed -

Staring up through your tears at the photographs and the sixes -

The silent sixes, waiting -

Six six sixes .

The silence -

The long silence until you hear car tyres on the car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil under their wheels.

Doors banging, slamming -

Car doors slamming.

Boots across the car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot.

You look down at the baby on the floor -

You look away;

Sat among the silent sixes, on the base of the bed -

Your wings, huge and rotting things -

Big black raven things that weigh you down, heavy -

That stop you standing -

Leave you sitting on the base of the double bed -

Staring through your tears at the photographs and the sixes -

The silent sixes, waiting -

Six six sixes .

They come to the door -

This door banging in the wind, in the rain.

They stop before the door:

Room 27.

They open the door -

Two figures in the doorway.

They step inside:

Maurice Jobson and another man.

They look at the walls -

The photographs and the sixes.

They look at the floor -

The girl on the floor.

They look at you -

The fat man on the double bed -

His wings, huge and rotting things -

Big black raven things that -

That weigh him down, heavy and burnt -

That stop him standing.

Maurice Jobson walks across the room -

He stands before you.

He reaches out to your face -

His cold fingers touch your damp cheek.

You bob your head forward -

You lean into him.

He holds you -

Holds you and strokes your hair.

You raise your hands -

You clasp your hands around his.

You squeeze his hand with yours -

His bruised hand in your bruised hand.

Hate week:

I press doorbell again -

Again clock strikes thirteen .

I knock upon door. I bang upon door -

Never answers her phone, never answers her door; that is her way .

I sit down on doorstep with my back to door. I reach inside my army greatcoat. I take out an orange. I start to peel it.

Door opens a crack.

I turn round. I hold out a piece of orange.

Little lad, he tiptoes out into gloom. He reaches for outstretched orange -

Tips of our fingers touch.

I take his hand. I hold him by his wrist. I place a piece of orange in his mouth. It breaks skin of his little lips. He can taste old orange and his own blood. He is unable to speak. He is unable to tell me his mum’s not here, that she is at shop -

But she’ll soon be back, I nod.

I swing him through door and back inside his house, which is our house now -

Our house in middle of our street .

I close door. I wait.

Television is on: Play your cards right; Give us a clue; Only when I laugh -

I have no idea, I am a shadow.

I turn out lights -

Only television lights now: Dynasty, Fall Guy, Kids from Fame -

I have no fucking idea.

I take other orange from inside my army greatcoat. I offer it to little lad.

He shakes his head.

I say: ‘Your name is Barry, is it not?’

Little boy, he nods.

‘My name was Barry too,’ I tell him.

Little boy looks at his feet.

‘Here,’ I say. ‘Would you like this badge?’

Little boy looks up at badge in my hand:

UK Decay .

He shakes his head.

I hear key turn in door once -

(We think of key, each in his prison) -

and turn once only.

She opens door and her mouth. She turns to go, but I am on my feet across room.

I pull her back inside our house -

This was where we used to sleep (to dream, to scream) -

I spin her across room on to settee. I slam door -