David Peace - 1974

Again, the room was ablaze with names, dates, and questions.

Jeanette ‘69 and Susan ‘72, unanswered.

The three men and their grins stood up.

“Thank you, gents,” shouted Noble, holding the side door open for his superiors.

“Fuck off!” I shouted in my black suit, clean shirt, and grey bandages.

HANG THE BASTARD,

HANG THE BASTARD,

HANG THE BASTARD NOW.

Wood Street, Wakefield’s Trinity of Government: The Nick, the Court, and the Town Hall. Just gone nine and mob deep.

COWARD, COWARD, MYSHKIN IS A COWARD!

Two thousand housewives and their unemployed sons. Gilman, Tom, and me, in the thick of the thick. Two thousand hoarse raw throats and their sons. A suedehead with his Mam, a Daily Mirror , and a home made noose. Proof enough.

COWARD, COWARD, MYSHKIN IS A COWARD.

Ugly hands pulling, grabbing, and pushing us; This way and that way and that way and this. Suddenly pinched, getting my collar felt by the long arm of the law.

Sergeant Fraser to the rescue.

STRING HIM UP! STRING HIM UP! STRING THE BLOODY BASTARD UP.

Behind the marble walls and the thick oak doors of Wakefield Magistrates Court there lay a brief kind of calm, but not for me.

“I need to talk to you,” I whispered, spinning round and straightening my tie.

“Too fucking right,” hissed Eraser. “But not here and not now.”

The size tens tapped off down the corridor.

I pushed through the door into Court Number Two, packed tight and quiet.

Every seat taken, standing room only.

No families, only the gentlemen of the press.

Jack Whitehead down the front, leaning over the wooden railing, laughing with an usher.

I stared up at the stained-glass windows with their scenes of hills and sheep, mills and Jesus, the light outside so dull that the glass just reflected back the strips of electric lights that buzzed so loudly overhead.

Jack Whitehead turned round, narrowed his eyes, and saluted me.

Low beneath the marble and the oak, the muffled chants of the crowd outside seemed to bleed in under all our whispers, their screams marking out time on some ancient galley.

“It’s fucking mental out there,” panted Gilman.

“At least we got in,” I said, leaning against the back wall.

“Aye. Fuck knows what happened to Tom and Jack.”

I pointed to the front of the public gallery. “Jack’s down there.”

“How the fuck he get there so fast?”

“There must be some underground tunnel or something linking here and the Nick.”

“Aye. And Jack’11 have a bloody key,” snorted Gilman.

“That’s our Jack.”

I turned suddenly towards the stained-glass windows as a black shape rose on the outside and then fell away like some giant bird.

“What the fuck was that?”

“A placard or something. Natives are getting restless.”

“Not the only ones.”

And then there he was, right on cue.

A dock full of plainclothes staring out at the court, one of them handcuffed to him.

Michael John Myshkin stood at the front of the dock in a dirty pair of blue overalls and a black donkey jacket, fat as fuck with a head too big.

I swallowed hard, my stomach churning with rising bile.

Michael John Myshkin blinked and blew a bubble of spit with his lips.

I reached for my pen, pain shooting from my nail to my shoulder, and had to lean back against the wall.

Michael John Myshkin, looking older than twenty-two, grinned at us with the smile of a boy half his age.

The Court Clerk stood up in the pit below, coughed once and said, “Are you Michael John Myshkin of 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes,” said Michael John Myshkin, looking round at one of the detectives in the dock.

“You are accused that on or between the twelfth and four teenth of December you did murder Clare Kemplay against the peace of Our Sovereign Lady the Queen. Further, you are charged that at Wakefield on the eighteenth of December you did drive without due care and attention.”

Michael John Myshkin, Frankenstein’s Monster in manacles, rested his one free hand on the front of the dock and sighed.

The Clerk of the Court nodded at another man sat opposite.

The man stood up and announced, “William Bamforth, County prosecuting solicitor. For the record, Mr Myshkin has no legal representation at present. On behalf of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police, I am asking that Mr Myshkin be remanded in custody for a further eight days so that he might continue to be questioned about offences of a similar nature to that with which he has already been charged. I would also like to’remind the people in court and particularly the members of the press that this case remains sub-judice. Thank you.”

The Clerk stood up again. “Mr Myshkin, do you have any objection to the prosecuting solicitor’s request that you be held in custody for a further eight days?”

Michael John Myshkin looked up and shook his head. “No.”

“Do you wish reporting restrictions be lifted?”

Michael John Myshkin looked at one of the detectives.

The detective shook his head ever so slightly and Michael John Myshkin whispered, “No.”

“Michael John Myshkin, you will be remanded in custody for eight days. Reporting restrictions remain.”

The detective turned, pulling Myshkin behind him.

The whole of the public gallery craned forward.

Michael John Myshkin stopped at the top of the stairs, turned to look back at the court, then almost slipped and had to be steadied by one of the officers.

The last we saw of him was a big hand disappearing down the steps into the belly of the court, waving bye-bye.

That was the hand that took life, I thought.

And then the murdering bastard was gone.

“What do you think?”

I said, “He looks the part.”

“Aye. He’ll do,” winked Gilman.

It was going up to eleven when the Viva, followed by Oilman’s car, turned into Dewsbury Crematorium.

The sleeting rain had eased to a cold drizzle but the wind was as raw as it had been last week, and there was no fucking way I could light a cigarette with one hand in bandages.

“Later,” muttered Sergeant Fraser at the door.

Gilman looked at me but said nowt.

Inside, the crematorium was packed silent.

One family, plus press.

We took a pew at the back of the chapel, straightening ties and wetting down hair, nodding at half the newspaper offices of the North of England.

Jack fucking Whitehead down the front, leaning over his pew, chatting with Hadden, his wife, and the Cannons.

I stared up at another stained-glass wall of hills and sheep, mills and Jesus, praying that Barry got a better one than my father had.

Jack Whitehead turned, narrowed his eyes, and waved my way.

The wind whistled round the building outside, like the cries of the sea and her gulls, and I sat and wondered whether birds could talk or not.

“Wish they’d bloody get on with it,” whispered Gilman.

“Where’s Jack?” asked Tom from Bradford.

“Down there,” I smiled.

“Fuck me. Not another bloody tunnel?” laughed Gilman.

“Mind your language,” whispered Tom.

Gilman studied his prayer book. “Shit, sorry.”

I turned suddenly towards the stained-glass window as Kathryn Taylor, all in black, walked down the aisle past the glass, arm in arm with Fat Steph and Gaz from Sport.

Gilman gave me a hard nudge and a wink. “You lucky barstool.”

“Fuck off,” I hissed, red-faced, watching the knuckles on my one good hand turn from red to white as they gripped the wooden pew.

Suddenly the organist hit all the bloody keys at once.

Everybody stood up.

And there he was.

I stared at the coffin at the front of the room, unable to remember if my father’s had been a paler or darker wood than Barry’s.