Just before twelve, you lock the office and go downstairs. You wave to the pretty girl called Jenny who works downstairs in Prontoprint.
There is no rain and there is no sun.
You cross Wood Street and cut through Tammy Hall Street, past Cateralls and your old office. You walk on to King Street and into the Inns of Court.
You sit and drink three pints of snakebite and eat a plate of gammon and chips. Tomorrow you’ll go up the College instead, sick to death of legal folk and all their legal talk:
‘Charged him, I heard,’ Steve from Clays is saying.
‘Charged him with what?’ laughs Derek from Cateralls. ‘Can’t charge him without a bloody body.’
‘Who says she’s fucking dead,’ says Tony from Gumersalls.
‘Me,’ grins Derek.
‘Motoring offences and asked the magistrate for an extension,’ says Steve.
‘Who’s his solicitor?’ asks Tony.
‘McGuinness,’ says Steve. ‘Who do you bloody think?’
You put down your knife and fork: ‘Who you talking about?’
‘Aye-up,’ shouts Derek. ‘It speaks.’
‘Who?’
‘Bloke they’re holding over that missing Morley lass,’ says Steve.
‘Hazel Atkins?’
They nod, food in their mouths, drinks in their hands.
You say: ‘Well, guess who I went to see last week?’
They shrug.
‘Michael Myshkin.’
They open their mouths.
‘The fuck for?’ says Steve.
‘His mother wants him to appeal.’
‘His mother? What about him?’
‘He says he didn’t do it.’
‘So he came to you?’ laughs Derek. ‘Pervert must love it in there.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You’re never going to take it, are you?’ asks Tony.
You shake your head: ‘But I did recommend Derek.’
‘You better fucking not have done, you fat bastard.’
You wink as you stand up: ‘Told her, King of Hearts that Derek Smith.’
‘Fat cunt.’
‘King of Hearts.’
The telephone is ringing but by the time you’ve got the door open and had a piss and washed your face and hands and dried them, it’s stopped. You put the three office chairs together and lie down to sleep off the gammon and chips and three pints of snakebite.
Lord, I’ve pierced my skin again.
You are praying for a sleep without dreams when the phone starts up again.
Undone, you pick it up.
‘Have a seat,’ you say with a mouthful of Polo mints.
The grey-haired woman has bucked teeth. She sits down, clutching her best handbag. She is squinting into the rare sunlight she’s brought in with her.
‘It was nice of Mrs Myshkin to recommend me but, to be honest with you Mrs Ashworth, I…’
‘Least she could do,’ she says, the tears already coming.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
She shakes her head and opens her handbag. She takes out a handkerchief: ‘He didn’t do it, John. Not our Jimmy.’
You are suddenly struggling -
‘The man they give him,’ she says. ‘This man from Bradford, he’s telling Jimmy to confess. But he’s done nothing.’
Suddenly struggling with your own tears -
‘He’s a good boy, John.’
You put your hand up to stop her, to stop yourself, to ask: ‘McGuinness told him to confess?’
She nods.
‘Clive McGuinness?’
She nods again.
The desk is covered in letters and files:
Divorce, Child Custody, Maintenance -
The case-files and letters bathed in sunlight, the radio and the dogs silent, the constant rain and tepid wind gone -
For now.
The grey-haired woman with the bucked teeth and her best handbag is shaking her head and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. It is the same handbag and handkerchief she had at the funeral, the same grey-haired woman who had shaken her head and dabbed her eyes as they’d burned your mother -
Through the holes the light shines.
‘Where is he?’
She looks up: ‘Jimmy?’
You nod.
‘Millgarth.’
You turn your phone towards her: ‘Better call Mr McGuinness, hadn’t you?’
‘What shall I say?’
‘Tell him your Jimmy’s got a new solicitor.’
Down the motorway -
The scales falling, the Pig rising:
Lord, I’ve pierced my skin again.
But there will be no retreat, there will be no surrender -
There will be justice and there will be vengeance:
For through the holes the light shines.
Down the motorway, the up-rising Pig -
Hear them calling you, calling:
A holy light for a holy war.
You park between the market and the bus station, a dark and steady drizzle blanketing Leeds.
It is not night and it is not day.
You cut through the market traders packing all their gear away and go up the steps into Millgarth Police Station.
‘I’m here to see James Ashworth,’ you say to the policeman on the front desk.
‘And you are?’
‘John Piggott, Mr Ashworth’s solicitor.’
The policeman looks up from his paper: ‘Is that right?’
You nod.
The policeman opens a large leather-bound book on the desk. He takes out a pair of reading glasses. He puts them on. He licks a finger. He begins to slowly turn the pages of the book.
After a few minutes he stops. He closes the book. He takes off his glasses. He looks up.
You smile.
He smiles back: ‘It appears that Mr Ashworth already has a solicitor and it’s not you.’
‘That would be Mr McGuinness, who I believe was appointed as the duty solicitor. Mr Ashworth has since dispensed with his services and now has his own representation.’
‘And that would be you?’
You nod.
The policeman looks over your shoulder: ‘Have a seat, Mr Piggott.’
‘Is this going to take long?’
He nods at the plastic chairs behind you: ‘Who can tell.’
You walk over to the other side of the room and sit down on a tiny plastic chair under dull and yellow strip lights that blink on and off, on and off, a faded poster on the wall above you warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas -
It’s not Christmas.
The policeman on the front desk is speaking into a telephone in a low voice.
You look down at the linoleum floor, at the white squares and the grey squares, the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs. The whole place stinks of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables.
‘Mr Piggott?’
You stand up and go back over to the desk.
‘Just spoke with Mr McGuinness, the duty solicitor, and he says he did hear from Mr Ashworth’s mother this afternoon that she wished you to represent her son but, as yet, he’s not heard this from Mr Ashworth himself, nor has he received anything written or signed by Mr Ashworth to say he’s released from his role.’
You take a letter from your carrier bag: ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘That’s the letter?’
You hand it across the desk.
‘But it’s not signed, is it?’
‘Course it’s not bloody signed,’ you sigh. ‘That’s why I’m asking to see him. So he can sign it.’
‘I don’t think you’re bloody listening, Mr Piggott,’ the policeman says slowly. ‘You are not his solicitor, so you can’t see him. Only Mr McGuinness can.’
Fuck -
‘Can I use that phone?’
‘No,’ he smiles. ‘You can’t.’
Outside, the dark and steady drizzle has turned to black and heavy rain.
You walk through the market, looking for a phone that works.
It’s half-six.
You go through the double doors and into the Duck and Drake.
Order a pint and go to the phone.
You take out your little red book and dial.
The phone on the other end starts ringing.