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‘What do you want?’

You grab her hair. You tip her head back.

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘You set Michael up. You set Jimmy up.’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’

‘No!’

You wrap the telephone cord around the tops of her arms.

‘Please…’

You pull it tight.

‘It’s not what it looks like,’ she is saying. ‘Not what you think.’

You knot it. You push her through into the front room. You throw her on the floor. You draw the curtains. You switch the TV off. You light a cigarette.

‘John,’ she says. ‘Please, listen to me…’

You are stood over her.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she whispers. ‘But you’re wrong.’

You shake your head. ‘You called Jimmy.’

‘No -’

‘You told me you did.’

‘No -’

‘He came to meet you.’

‘No -’

‘The police were waiting for him.’

‘No -’

‘You planned it with McGuinness.’

‘No -’

‘You set him up.’

‘No -’

‘You set Jimmy up just like you set Michael Myshkin up.’

‘No -’

‘You had to, because it was you who told the police about Michael. It was you who said he exposed himself. You who said he’d been wanking in the graveyard.’

‘It’s -’

‘You were one of the girls they were going to call.’

‘I -’

You look down at her.

She nods.

You shake your head.

She looks away.

‘How could you?’ you say. ‘How fucking could you?’

She looks up at you.

You look away.

‘It was during summer holidays. Jimmy was working on the new houses. Michael used to pick him up from work in his van every night. We used to see them mucking around in churchyard. We started talking to them, me and some of the others. Michael could get us booze and cigs from off-licence. Used to all get pissed. Just mucking about in churchyard. I started to go out with Jimmy. But Michael was always about because of his van and fact he could get us the booze and stuff. Jimmy used to say Michael had never had a girlfriend. Never been kissed or anything. Jimmy was dead rotten to him. Just used him. Teased him. Bullied him. Made Michael try and get off with some of the lasses or Jimmy would pay some of lasses to get off with Michael. It was fucking cruel, I know. But Michael wasn’t bothered. He wasn’t interested. He had eyes -’

You look down at her.

‘He only had eyes for one girl.’

‘No,’ you say.

‘He went on about her all the time.’

‘No -’

‘How he could save her.’

‘No -’

‘He had a photo -’

‘How -’

‘From his work.’

‘No -’

‘All the time -’

‘No -’

‘He’d look at it all the time -’

‘No -’

‘For hours.’

‘No -’

‘He talked to it.’

‘Shut up!’

‘It’s the truth -’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s the truth, John!’

‘Fuck off!’ you shout. ‘You ever actually see them together, did you?’

She looks up at you. She shakes her head.

‘Rumours. Innuendo. Circumstantial fucking -’

‘Not Clare,’ she whispers.

You look at her.

‘Jeanette.’

You close the door. You walk down the drive. Back down Springfield Avenue. You turn on to Victoria Road. You go back down the road towards the graveyard, the Church and the school. You cross the road. You take out your car keys. You unlock the car door. You open it -

‘Help me,’ she says -

A ten-year-old girl with medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, wearing light brown corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket, holding a black drawstring gym bag -

‘We’re in -’

You fall backwards into the road -

An election van brakes -

A woman drops her shopping -

You lie in the road in a ball -

The rain falling through the dark quiet trees -

The rain in your bandages, the rain in your bruises -

A man shouts: ‘Somebody call the police!’

You pull into the car park behind the Redbeck Cafй and Motel -

The Viva is gone -

Hazel too.

You park. You wait. You watch -

You watch the row of deserted rooms -

Their boarded glass, their padlocked doors.

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

That depressed, coarse car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot.

You walk across the rough ground to the bogs round the side -

They reek. The tiled floor covered in old, black piss. The mirror broken and the light smashed. The sink stained with brown water from a busted tap. There is one cubicle without a door, the toilet inside without a seat. The whole room engrossed in a thousand different inks and words of -

Hate.

Always hate, always -

Fear -

Fear and hate, hate and fear;

You’ve been here before -

Now you’re back for more -

Always back to here;

This the place -

The place you never left:

Never left the motel room of a forgotten cafй on a tedious road in a barren place; the place you’ve been for the last six years -

Stolen wine/stolen time.

Piss on your bandages and down your trousers, you walk out of the toilets and along the row, past the broken windows and the graffiti, the mountains of rubbish and the birds and the rats that feast here, walking towards the door -

The door to one room in a row of disused motel rooms -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain -

You stop before the door:

Room 27 -

The place you’ve been for the last six years.

You pull open the door -

The room is dark and cold.

You step inside -

The remains of a devoured mattress against the window;

No light here -

No words upon the wall, no photographs -

Nothing but pain.

You walk across the floor -

Shattered furniture and splintered wood underfoot;

Walk across the floor to stand before the wall.

You take the photograph from your pocket -

A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper;

You take the photograph and you stick it on the wall.

You sit down upon the base of the bed -

The relentless sound of the rain on the window and the door;

The door banging in the wind and the rain.

You close your eyes -

The Fear here -

The place you never left;

The dogs barking -

The Wolf at the door.

Chapter 39

It’s Christmas and I’m coming up hill, swaying, bags in my hand. Plastic bags, carrier bags, Tesco bags. A train passes and I bark, stand in middle of road and bark at train. I am a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three-quarter-length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it and dark brown trousers and brown suede calf-length boots. I turn left and see a row of six deserted narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti and their doors showing remnants of green paint, last door banging in wind, in rain. I hold open door and I step inside. It is small, about twelve feet square, and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex. There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish. In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty. A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing. A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing. On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint. I hear door open behind me and I turn around and I’m -