Just five more last little words from his wife -
Spinning round for one last little attack. Before the pills. Before her bed: ‘Bitch! Bloody fucking Polish bitch!’
You walk back up the path. You put an arm around Mrs Myshkin. You take her back inside -
The neighbours paired up and shaking their heads.
You close the door behind you. You get a brush and shovel from under the stairs. You sweep up the broken glass as Mrs Myshkin dusts the little pieces from in between the photographs and paintings, the photographs and the paintings of men not here -
Up the road in 69 another man gone, a young man:
Jimmy Ashworth -
Not here.
‘Used to happen all the time, this kind of thing,’ says Mrs Myshkin. She has a splinter of glass in her palm, blood running down her wrist. ‘Should have seen the place after they first arrested him.’
You nod: ‘My mum said.’
You drive around looking for a DIY shop or something and eventually find one in Featherstone and you buy some chipboard, because that’s all they have, chipboard like you and Pete had your trains on, then you go back to Fitzwilliam and tack the chipboard over the broken glass, Mrs Myshkin saying they’ll be out the next morning to put in a new pane of glass.
You decline her offer of beans on toast, telling her you’ll be in touch as soon as you have any news, and you leave her, leave her in her dark front room with the chipboard over the windows, alone with her photographs and paintings, her photographs and her paintings of men not here.
You leave her like you left your mother, alone in a dark front room with chipboard over the windows and a swastika on the door, alone with her photographs of your father, her photographs of her sons, of men not here.
You stand at the gate and look back up Newstead View, back up the road to 69 and another man gone, a young man:
Jimmy Ashworth -
Yet another young man -
Not here.
You stand at the gate and close your eyes and think of all the other young men -
Not here:
Friday 27 May 1983 -
Fitzwilliam -
Yorkshire.
On the radio on the drive back into Wakefield they are playing a record about ghosts and you wish they weren’t because as you pass your old house and then the Redbeck Cafй and Motel, both still boarded up, you feel afraid again -
Like you’ve suddenly got something to lose -
For them to repossess.
You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You switch off the radio. You go inside. The old Pakistani with the white beard is stood behind the counter with his young daughter. He is wearing white robes and she is wearing green. They do not speak. You buy vodka and fresh orange, beer and cigarettes, writing paper and envelopes, notebooks and pens -
These are your provisions -
For their coming siege.
You put the carrier bags on the passenger seat. You lock the doors. You head up the road and on to Blenheim. You park in the drive. You get out. You lock the doors. You go into the building. You go up the stairs. You let yourself in. You double-lock the doors. You close all the windows. You check all the rooms. You switch on the lights. You are afraid -
Something to lose -
Something they want.
You turn out the lights.
You can’t sleep so you drink again. Drink and drink and drink again. Drink until you puke again. Puke again and lose consciousness. Lose consciousness and then wake on the living room floor.
It is still night. The TV still on -
The front page of an old Yorkshire Post is stuck over the screen:
Missing -
The colours and light from the screen illuminate the photograph of her face. The holes in her eyes. The hole in her mouth. The colours and light from the screen make her move. Make her live:
Hazel.
You retch. You run into the hall. You puke in your hands. You open the bathroom door. You puke on the floor. You spew. You turn on the taps. You wash your hands. You clean your teeth. You look up into the mirror.
In lipstick, it says:
D-13 .
The branches are tapping against the pane.
Chapter 18
Thursday 20 November 1975:
Lost and now found -
Preston, Lancashire:
They mean murder.
There’s banging and banging and banging on door -
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Walter.’
‘Not now.’
‘Let me in.’
BJ get up, head pounding and pounding and pounding -
BJ open door: ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Clare,’ says Walter.
‘What?’
‘I think she’s gone to meet him.’
‘What?’
‘She’s not in her room.’
‘So?’
‘Way she was talking last night…’
‘What?’
‘“They’re going to meet me and kill me today,” she said.’
Trousers and jumper on, shouting: ‘When?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘You weren’t here, were you.’
‘Shit.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Fuck off,’ BJ spit at him, pushing past him -
Out door.
St Mary’s, Preston:
A church in Hell -
Into saloon, heavy velvet-flowered wallpaper, leather-look seats and Formica-topped tables, lipstick on glasses and lipstick on cigs -
A big woman in other room murdering Superstar.
‘Where’s Clare?’
‘Just missed her, haven’t you, love?’
‘Where she go?’
‘Business.’
‘Fuck.’
‘If you want.’
Back outside in black night, black rain -
Down hill -
Down through town -
Down to Roger Kennedy’s house -
Banging and banging and banging on his door -
His wife answering door, a kid in her arms: ‘Yes?’
‘Roger in?’
‘No, he’s -’
‘Where?’
‘He’s still at work.’
‘Hostel?’
She nods, confused.
Black night, black rain -
Up through town -
Up hill -
Into St Mary’s, into hosteclass="underline"
Banging and banging and banging on door to office, fluorescent light flickering on and off -
But it’s not Roger, it’s Dave Roberts: ‘What is it?’
‘Seen Roger?’
‘He’s gone home.’
‘Not what his wife says.’
Dave Roberts is frowning: ‘What?’
‘Just been down his house, haven’t I?’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t find Clare, can I?’
‘So?’
‘I’m worried about her.’
‘What’s it got to do with Roger?’
‘You got eyes in your head.’
Dave is shaking and shaking and shaking his head: ‘BJ -’
‘Fuck you,’ BJ say before he even starts.
‘Listen -’
But BJ up stairs again, checking her room again, checking BJ’s again:
Nothing, no-one.
BJ walk down to end of corridor. BJ bang on Walter’s door:
Nothing, no-one, but door’s open.
BJ step inside. BJ look about room.
On table in window there’s his old red exercise book.
BJ walk over. BJ open it:
Cuttings about Michael Myshkin, cuttings about murdered prostitutes.
BJ close book. BJ turn to go -
But there he is, standing in doorway:
‘What you doing?’ he asks from out of shadow.
‘I’m looking for Clare,’ BJ stammer.
‘In an old school exercise book?’
BJ look down at brown carpet.