Fuck ’em all and watch their Rome burn.
Not one single fucking word about Jimmy Ashworth -
Not one single word about Hazel Atkins -
Not one.
You look at your watch:
Almost ten, almost time.
The drive out in the rain -
The deserted spaces as depressing as the houses and buildings between them -
Jimmy Young kissing Thatcher’s arse on the radio, the cum drying in his y-fronts as members of the Great British Public call in -
‘Wurzel Gummidge?’ repeats Jimmy with a snigger. ‘That’s not very nice, is it?’
‘No Jimmy, it’s not,’ you shout alone in your car. ‘And neither are you, you thick and greedy old cunt. But we’ll not forget you and your cruel ways, not when we’re round your house to do the Mussolini.’
Alone in your car on the way to see another Jimmy -
A very different Jimmy -
Jimmy Ashworth -
Alone in your car on the way to his funeral.
The funeral of a suicide -
Your third.
Second funeral in a fortnight -
The same smelclass="underline"
The flowers that stink of piss, that stink of sweat.
Wakefield crematorium, Kettlethorpe.
Sheets of rain battering the crocuses back underground, beheading the daffodils, the petals stuck to the soles of your shoes, with the cigarette ends and the crisp packets.
You sit near the back, seven other people down the front:
Mrs Ashworth, her husband, and her other son -
Two boys in denim jackets, two girls with back-combed hair -
The vicar says the words and they shed their tears. They set fire to him and shed some more. Then everyone walks away for a cigarette and a piss, a sandwich and a pint.
There are three coppers at the back by the door, Maurice Jobson one of them.
There’s a new Rover parked outside -
The window’s down, the driver looking at himself in the wing mirror -
A smug cunt looking back at him.
‘Give you a lift, can I, John?’ says Clive McGuinness.
‘No,’ you say and light a cig.
‘Five minutes, John?’ he says. ‘That’s all I ask.’
‘Didn’t have five bloody minutes on Monday night, did you?’
‘John,’ he sighs. ‘Look, I’m sorry about that.’
You drop your cigarette into the gutter with the yellow petals and the crisp packets. You walk around the back of the Rover. He has opened the passenger door for you. You get in. He leans across you to close the door -
‘Thank you, John,’ says McGuinness.
You turn to face him -
The smug cunt as immaculately turned out as ever:
Head to toe in Austin Reed and Jaeger, he stinks of aftershave.
The fat man from C &A says: ‘I’m all ears, Clive.’
‘There’ll be an inquiry, John.’
‘An internal police inquiry.’
‘He confessed, John.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘It was too much for him, John.’
‘What was? The torture? The beatings? His own fucking solicitor?’
‘The guilt, John. The guilt.’
‘About what?’
‘John, John -’
The back door opens -
You glance in the rearview mirror:
Maurice Jobson gets in -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson:
The Owl.
‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ he says.
You don’t turn around.
‘Do you know the Chief Superintendent, John?’
You nod.
‘Course he bloody does,’ says Jobson. ‘I worked with his father.’
‘Your old man was a copper, was he?’ says McGuinness. ‘I didn’t know that, John.’
‘Was,’ you say as you open the door. ‘Until he topped himself.’
You don’t fancy the Inns but you do fancy a drink, so you cut through the back of the Wood Street Nick and into the Jockey.
It’s two o’clock so you only have an hour -
It won’t be enough but it’ll be a start, get some take-outs for the rest of the afternoon, find a happy hour later and be unconscious by eight.
You take the pint, the short, and the bottle of Barley Wine through into the pool room at the back -
Students and bikers, Vardis on the jukebox:
Let’s Go -
You drink the whiskey and then the Barley Wine.
There are four people on the other side of the pool table. They are staring at you. One of the girls gets up and walks over towards you. She is wearing a huge gold Star of David on her chest, her hair black and back-combed, her heavy make-up smudged.
She says: ‘I was Jimmy’s girlfriend.’
You say: ‘I was almost his solicitor.’
‘He didn’t kill himself; he wouldn’t.’
You nod.
‘He didn’t kill any little girl either; he couldn’t.’
You nod again: ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tessa,’ she says.
You hold out your hand: ‘John Piggott.’
‘I know,’ she smiles as she takes it.
‘You want a drink?’
‘I got one, ta.’
‘You want another?’
‘Twist my arm.’
‘Cider and black?’
She nods.
‘Sit down,’ you say and stand up.
You go into the other room, order the drinks, and come back with two pints.
Tessa’s not sat at the table and she’s not back on the other side of the room.
The two lads and the other girl are still staring at you. They are grinning now.
You look over at the toilet door and then back at the two lads and the girl. They shake their heads. They are laughing.
You walk over to them, still carrying the two pints.
They stop laughing.
‘Where’s Tessa gone?’
They shrug their shoulders and play with their beer mats.
You hold out the cider and black to the girclass="underline" ‘You want this?’
She looks up: ‘Ta very much.’
You set it down on the table.
‘You were Jimmy’s mates, yeah?’
They all nod. They are not grinning now, not laughing.
You take out a biro and piece of paper. You write down your name and phone number. You put it down on the table: ‘Will you give this to Tessa?’
‘Why?’ says one of the lads.
‘Never know when you might need a solicitor, do you?’
The girl looks at the two lads and then takes the paper.
You drink your pint in one, belch, and set the glass on the table. You take out two pound notes. You put them down next to the empty pint pot.
‘What’s that for?’ says one of the boys.
‘Have one on me, lads,’ you say and walk back to the bar. You buy your take-outs and leave.
Outside it’s raining again. You go into the Chinky and get some lunch to take out. You get it cheap because you once defended one of the staff in an assault case.
You come out and there she is, crouched down on the other side of the road in front of the Army Recruitment, head on her knees.
You cross the road and say: ‘Not thinking of joining up, are you?’
Tessa looks up: ‘What?’
‘After a free trip to the Malvinas, are you? See the world?’
‘The where?’
You nod at the picture in the window: ‘The Falklands.’
‘Piss off,’ she says, fiddling with one of her badges.
You point up the stairs to Polish Joe’s: ‘How about a haircut?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘OK. See you then.’
‘Hang on,’ she says, suddenly. ‘Where you off?’
‘Home.’
‘Where’s that?’
You point up the road past the College pub: ‘Just up there.’
She looks at your carrier bags: ‘What’s in them?’
‘Lunch.’
She smiles.
‘You want some?’
She nods and holds up her hand.
You pull her up.
‘You got any blow?’ she asks.
‘I might have.’
She smiles again: ‘What we waiting for then?’
You set off up the road, past the College and the Grammar School -
‘Bet you went there, didn’t you?’ she laughs.