Part 5. Total eclipse of the heart

‘Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.’

– Voltaire


Chapter 51

There is a light summer rain falling on empty flowerbeds below my window.

Doctor shines torch in my eyes again. He gives me three injections. Nurse cleans my wounds. She administers to my bandages. Doctor smiles. He shakes my hand. Nurse nods. She kisses my cheek. They leave me to dress.

Rain has stopped and there is sunshine somewhere behind clouds.

I get out of bed. I put on a heavy army greatcoat. I straighten my cap. I turn my collars up. I walk down corridor. I go into dayroom. I walk across carpet with a swastika held high in hand, rest of room prostrate at my feet in their dressing-gowns -

Fugitive sunshine caught in their tears -

I’ve been so far away;

I say my goodbyes -

So far from her arms;

Hospital clock strikes thirteen -

Hate Week.

This is North -

Where they do what they want -

Wellington Street, Leeds.

I get off bus. I go into coach station toilets. I take off my cap and coat. I unravel bandages. I look at my face in mirror. I tilt my head down. I stare up into glass -

It gets dark.

I take out my scissors. I cut my hair. I shake my head. Loose hairs fall into sink. I run taps. I take out my razor. I mix soap and water in my hand. I rub it over my scalp. I pick up razor. I shave my neck. I shave my face. I shave my head. I look at my face in mirror. I tilt my head down. I stare up into glass -

It gets dark and -

There are visions of sixes and sevens, swastikas and crucifixes inside my head, big black and white ones all splattered with blood in an underground bunker, in an upstairs bar, on a motel wall, in a hotel room on seventh floor -

A toilet wall.

It gets dark and I get confused.

I put my cap and army coat back on. I shine my best badge:

UK Decay.

I walk over to a phonebox. I step inside. I close door. I pick up phone. I dial her number. She does not answer phone:

Never answers her phone, she never answers her phone; that is her way -

It is a war of nerves.

I am hungry now. I go into cafй. A lovely girl asks me what I want. I take a cup of tea from her and a hot toasted teacake. I give her money. She smiles at me. I take my tea and toast over to a table. I sit down. I watch her work. I enjoy my tea and toast. I thank her. I pick up my bag and leave.

I walk down Wellington Street into City Square -

There are voices from vans;

Past two stone lions and Leeds City Station -

There are posters on walls;

Along Boar Lane, past Griffin Hotel -

There are ghosts on every corner;

Across Vicar Lane and along Call Lane -

In windows and doorways;

Through Market into Bus Station and Millgarth -

A black winged gargoyle looming;

It watches me with talons pointed as memories are dull -

It is dark now. I am confused;

I wait for bus to Fitzwilliam -

A shadow on wall.

Bus comes. I get on. I sit upstairs -

Backseat hard.

I light matches. I smoke cigarettes. I read seats -

Thornhill Whites; Jeff is gay; LUFC; Barry 4 Clare.

I light matches. I remember faces. I remember hers -

I think about her all time.

I light matches -

Will she like me? Love me? Let me in? Let me stay, way people say -

Or will she remember me? Hate me? Wish me dead, way people do.

I let them fall to floor -

Fucking cunts treat us like pricks.

I light another match -

Why this person is liked and that one is not -

Why this one is loved and that one is not.

It burns my fingers. I let it fall -

A lie to him but not to her -

A kiss for him and a slap for me.

I close my eyes -

It gets dark.

I want to open them again. I cannot -

My trousers are round my ankles. Your hands are on my cock. Your own is in my mouth. You come in my face. You beat me. You rape me all over again. You give me money. You tell me to shut my mouth. Shut my mouth or you’ll kill my mum -

My stop is next -

I am nine years old.


1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 -


All good children go to heaven.

I cross road. I cut through Corporation Cemetery. I come out on to street -

My street, our street:

Newstead View.

This is where it started:

Fitzwilliam, 1967 -

Not heaven.

I look at watch again. It says thirteen o’clock -

Hate Week.

I walk down street -

Our street;

I come to house -

Our house;

I open gate. I walk up path -

It is dark now. I am confused;

I press doorbell. I wait -

A shadow on her wall in silence of her night;

I hear footsteps. I see a small body through glass -

I think about her all time;

Wait almost over -

I’ve been so far away, so far from her arms;

Now I’m home -

Back from underground.


Chapter 52

I have found her. She is safe and well. I hold her hand. We get into my car. Her family will be overjoyed. I start the car. We drive. She needs the toilet. We pull into a motorway service station. I park among the lorries and the coaches. We get out of the car. I lock the doors. We walk across the tarmac. I hold her hand. She goes into the ladies. I stand outside. I wait. Her family will be overjoyed. I wait. It starts to spit. I wait. Lorries come and lorries go. I wait. She does not come out. I go inside to look for her. There is blood on the floor. Blood up the walls. I push open the cubicle doors. I come to the last one. It is locked. It will not open. I knock. I knock and knock and knock. Blood on the floor. Up the walls. I step back. I kick in the door. She’s not there. I run outside. She’s not there. The lorries and the coaches gone. Not there. The car park empty. Blood on my shoes. On my socks. A Bloody Tide, lapping at my ankles. Up my legs. I start to run. The waters rising. The Bloody Waters. The rain coming down. The Bloody Rain. I slip. I fall to the ground. I cannot stand. I am drowning here. The Bloody Tide, a Bloody Flood.

I woke on my knees, my hands in prayer, in the shadows and dead of the night, the house quiet and dark, listening for something, anything: animal or bird’s feet from below or above, a car in the street, a milk bottle on the step, the thud of the paper on the mat, but there was nothing; only the silence, the shadows and the dead, remembering when it wasn’t always so, wasn’t always this way, when there were human feet upon the stairs, children’s feet, the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, bicycle bells and front doorbells, laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, the smells, sounds and tastes of meals cooked, served and eaten, of drinks poured, glasses raised and toasts drunk by men with cigars in black velvet jackets, their women with their sherries in their long evening dresses, the spare room for the long summer nights when no-one could drive, when no-one could leave, no-one wanted to leave, before that last time; that last time the telephone rang and brought the silence that never left, that was here with me now, lying in the shadows and dead of a house, quiet and dark, empty -

Tuesday morning.

I reached for my glasses and went down the stairs to the kitchen and put on the light and filled the kettle and lit the gas and took a teapot from the cupboard and a cup and saucer and unlocked the back door to see if the milk had been delivered yet but it hadn’t and there wasn’t any milk in the fridge but I still put two teabags in the teapot and took the kettle off the ring and poured the water on to the teabags and let it stand while I washed the soup pan from last night and the bowl and then dried them both up, staring out into the garden and the field behind, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a man fully dressed in dark brown trousers, a light blue shirt and a green v-necked pullover, wearing his thick lenses with their heavy black frames, an old man fully dressed at four o’clock in the morning -

Tuesday 7 June 1983.

I put the teapot and cup and saucer on the plastic blue tray and took it into the dining room and set it down on the table and poured the tea and lit a cigarette and then switched on the radio and sat in the chair and waited for the news on Radio Leeds:

‘Police searching for missing Morley schoolgirl, Hazel Atkins, are expected to come under renewed pressure for a breakthrough in the investigation following criticisms of the police handling of the case made by Hazel’s parents.

‘In a newspaper article in this morning’s Yorkshire Post, Mr and Mrs Atkins say they have not been kept informed of the progress of the inquiry into their daughter’s disappearance and have only learned of certain key developments through the press or television. Mr and Mrs Atkins were particularly critical of Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, the man leading the investigation. Hazel’s parents say that Mr Jobson spoke to them on just three occasions early in the inquiry but that he has since been either unavailable or unwilling to meet them.

‘Mr Jobson has so far refused to comment on…’

Radio off, glasses off -

I was sat in the chair in tears again;

In tears -

For I knew there was salvation in no-one else -

No other name under heaven.

In tears -

Tuesday 7 June 1983:

Day 27.

Just gone seven -

Morley Police Station -

The Incident Room.

No-one here but me -

No-one and nothing here but two dozen four-drawer filing cabinets, nearly two hundred card-index drawers, a two-tier wooden rack for the scores of Action books and ten trestle tables with five huge computers and twenty telephones, the telephones on tables fitted out as desks for writing up Actions, statements and reports, card-writing and cross-checking the house-to-houses and the cars, cross-indexing and entering data, updating files and sending out for more -

Or not, marking them:

No Further Action.

I opened the door to a small adjoining room:

Officer-in-Charge Investigation.

I sat down at my desk opposite a huge, pin-spattered map of Morley -

A huge, pin-spattered map of Morley and a photograph -

A photograph of a little girl -

A little girl, still lost.

I turned on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Old trees with old hearts cut, losing their leaves in June;

I parked in the drive of 28 Blenheim Road -

One big old tree, one big old house, one big old cut;

I closed my eyes. I opened them. I saw a star

– A single star, an angel -

A silent little angel;

I got out. I locked the car door. I spat -

Flesh;

I walked up the drive -

Shallow ugly daylight, brown stagnant rainwater;

The bottoms of my trousers, my shoes and socks, bloody -

Everything bloody;

I went inside. Up the stairs to Flat 5 -

Damp and stained -

Hearts still lost;

The door was open -

I stepped inside. I stood in the hall. I said: ‘Hello?’

There was no answer.

I walked down the hall.

The doors were all closed.

I stood before the bedroom door. I whispered her name.

Silence -

The branches tapping upon the glass.

I tried the door.

The door swung open.

The room and everything in it had been destroyed.

I went across the hall.

I stood before the bathroom door. I whispered her name again.

Silence -

The branches tapping upon the glass, their leaves lost.

I tried the door.

The door swung open.

The bath taps were on. The sink too. The room flooded.

I stepped inside. I turned off the bath taps. I pulled out the plug. I went over to the sink. I turned off the taps. I took off my glasses. I washed my face and hands in the water. I pulled out the sink plug. I dried my face and hands on my coat. I put my glasses back on. I looked into the mirror above the sink. I put my fingers to the glass -

The lipstick:

Everybody knows.

I ran back down the stairs. I ran back down the drive. I got in the car. I locked the doors.

I stared back up at the flat. I took off my glasses. I closed my eyes again;

The windows that looked inwards, the walls that listened to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cried.

Inside -

Inside our scorched hearts.

There was a house -

A house with no doors.

The earth scorched -

Heathen and always winter.

The rooms murder -

Here was where we lived:

Jeanette, Susan, Clare, Mandy and -

Caught in the branches and the tree -

An angel -

The branches tapping upon the glass, their leaves lost and never found -

Wanting in -

Sobbing, weeping, and asking to be found -

Hazel.

I looked down at the bruises on the backs of my hands -

The bruises that never healed.

Hazel, Hazel, Hazel -

The motorway across the Pennines, raining with occasional shotgun blasts of thunder and lightning as I drove over the Moors -

More missing children, more lost children -

More children, taken and murdered;

More voices -

Terrifying, hysterical, and screeching voices of doom, disaster and death.

I drove. I drifted -

Underground kingdoms, evil kingdoms of badgers and pigs, worms and insect cities; screaming swans upon black lakes while dragons soared overhead in painted skies of fading stars and then swept down through lamp-lit caverns wherein a blind owl searched for the last princess in her tiny feathered wings, the wolf back -

Past Manchester and on to Merseyside, that familiar taste in my mouth:

Flesh -

Fear.

I looked down at Michael Myshkin strapped to the bed.

He looked up at me -

His face sore. His eyes raw.

He whispered: ‘Only you today?’

‘Only me.’

‘Can’t keep away,’ he said.

I nodded. I smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

I opened my briefcase. I took out a photograph. I held it over him.

Michael Myshkin tried to turn away.

I pushed it towards him.

He closed his eyes.

‘She’s missing,’ I said. ‘Been missing twenty-seven days now.’

Silence -

‘I want you to tell me everything, Michael.’

Silence -

‘Everything -’

Silence -

‘About the Wolf.’

Michael Myshkin looked up at me. He said: ‘But you already know.’

I swallowed.

‘I told you,’ he said.

I fought tears.

‘A long time ago.’

I took a pen from my pocket. I wrote four words on the back of her photograph. I held it over him.

Myshkin looked up at the four untidy words:


I REGRET WHAT HAPPENED .


He began to cry.

I leant over the bed. I took his huge shoulders in my hands. I held him. I put my head on his chest. I listened to his heart. I held him in his dumbness -

In his dumbness and my blindness.

In both our tears.

I said: ‘It’s not too late -’

‘I still see the Underground Kingdom. It is evil and an animal place; a kingdom of lost corpses and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the tears and blood of the dead -’

‘Other times,’ I whispered -

‘A dragon howling at the burning skies and the empty churches, while local mobs search me out -’

‘Not your fault,’ I said -

‘For I was the Rat Man, Prince of Pests,’ he cried. ‘And I, I could have saved her. I could have saved them all. But -’

‘Never mind,’ I shouted.

Michael stopped. He was looking over my shoulder.

I turned around and there they were -

Stood in the open doorway:

Mrs Myshkin and Mrs Ashworth.

I let go of Michael. I stood. I started to speak -

Mrs Ashworth stepped forward. She slapped me hard across my face:

‘Rot in hell,’ she spat.

I nodded.

‘We’re all going to rot in this hell…’

I nodded.

Mrs Myshkin holding Michael -

His straps in one of my hands;

Michael rocking back and forth in his mother’s arms -

The photograph of Hazel Atkins in my other hand.

‘This hell,’ Mrs Ashworth shouted again.

Mrs Myshkin whispering: ‘Why didn’t you say, Michael?’

Michael looking up at me from his mother’s arms -

Trembling and blinking through his sores and his tears;

He looked up -

Blood on his face. Tears on his cheeks -

His face as beautiful as the moon, as terrible as the night;

He looked up. He blinked. He screamed: ‘He told me not to!’

I turned away. I turned back to the doorway -

‘This hell!’

Dick was standing there, panting. ‘Boss -’

Michael Myshkin screaming over and over: ‘He told me not to!’


Chapter 53

Tuesday 7 June 1983 -

Do not let us fall into the trap -

60 miles an hour -

Of voting for a schoolyard bully -

70 miles an hour -

Or we will deserve to live on our knees.’

80 miles an hour -

Mr Scargill warned yesterday -

90 miles an hour -

People will have to stand and fight -

100 miles an hour -

Sooner or later.’

Foot down -

Everybody knows; everybody knows; everybody fucking knows.

The hate nailed to the shadows of your heart -

The fear stitched into the fat of your belly -

Hate and fear, fear and hate -

Putting hate and fear and fear and hate -

Putting them together and getting -

The Kingdom of Evil.

The key in your pocket -

The key to the Kingdom -


D-2 .


You pull in behind the Redbeck Cafй and Motel. You park in the empty car park -

The Fear here -

The dogs barking, the waiting over -

The Wolf near.

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

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot;

You run across the rough ground to the row of disused motel rooms -

The broken windows and the graffiti, the rubbish and the rats;

You run along the row towards the door -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain.

You stop before the door:

Room 27.

You pull open the door -

The room is dark and cold.

No light here:

Only pain -

Someone has been decorating:

The walls inscribed with pain -

Maps, charts, photographs of pain:

Photographs of little girls -

Pale skin, fair hair, white wings.

Across the maps, the charts, and the photographs -

Swastikas and sixes;

Across every surface -

Six six sixes.

You step inside – You try the light switch again -

No light here:

Only pain and darkness.

You step further inside:

Shattered furniture, splintered wood -

The base of the double bed pulled out into the centre of the room -

On the base of the bed, a portable tape recorder -

A cassette case marked:

On care to be had for the Dead.

You walk towards the bed -

You walk towards the bed and then you see her -

See her -

See her feet first -

Her tiny, tiny feet -

Her -

On the floor, between the bed and the wall -

Between the bed and the wall, on her face -

Her -

Hazel Atkins.

You look -

You look away.

You look -

You look down.

You kneel upon the base of the double bed. You lean against the wall.

You reach down. You turn her over -

In pen upon her chest:


6 LUV .


You collapse on the base of the bed and the portable tape recorder -

The only thing you learn in school is ABC -

But all I want to know about is you and me -

You switch it off.

Silence -

The weeping the only sound;

Sat among the silent sixes, weeping on the base of the double bed -

Staring up through your tears at the photographs and the sixes -

The silent sixes, waiting -

Six six sixes.

The silence -

The long silence until you hear car tyres on the car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil under their wheels.

Doors banging, slamming -

Car doors slamming.

Boots across the car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot.

You look down at the baby on the floor -

You look away;

Sat among the silent sixes, on the base of the bed -

Your wings, huge and rotting things -

Big black raven things that weigh you down, heavy -

That stop you standing -

Leave you sitting on the base of the double bed -

Staring through your tears at the photographs and the sixes -

The silent sixes, waiting -

Six six sixes.

They come to the door -

This door banging in the wind, in the rain.

They stop before the door:

Room 27.

They open the door -

Two figures in the doorway.

They step inside:

Maurice Jobson and another man.

They look at the walls -

The photographs and the sixes.

They look at the floor -

The girl on the floor.

They look at you -

The fat man on the double bed -

His wings, huge and rotting things -

Big black raven things that -

That weigh him down, heavy and burnt -

That stop him standing.

Maurice Jobson walks across the room -

He stands before you.

He reaches out to your face -

His cold fingers touch your damp cheek.

You bob your head forward -

You lean into him.

He holds you -

Holds you and strokes your hair.

You raise your hands -

You clasp your hands around his.

You squeeze his hand with yours -

His bruised hand in your bruised hand.


Chapter 54

Hate week:

I press doorbell again -

Again clock strikes thirteen.

I knock upon door. I bang upon door -

Never answers her phone, never answers her door; that is her way.

I sit down on doorstep with my back to door. I reach inside my army greatcoat. I take out an orange. I start to peel it.

Door opens a crack.

I turn round. I hold out a piece of orange.

Little lad, he tiptoes out into gloom. He reaches for outstretched orange -

Tips of our fingers touch.

I take his hand. I hold him by his wrist. I place a piece of orange in his mouth. It breaks skin of his little lips. He can taste old orange and his own blood. He is unable to speak. He is unable to tell me his mum’s not here, that she is at shop -

But she’ll soon be back, I nod.

I swing him through door and back inside his house, which is our house now -

Our house in middle of our street.

I close door. I wait.

Television is on: Play your cards right; Give us a clue; Only when I laugh -

I have no idea, I am a shadow.

I turn out lights -

Only television lights now: Dynasty, Fall Guy, Kids from Fame -

I have no fucking idea.

I take other orange from inside my army greatcoat. I offer it to little lad.

He shakes his head.

I say: ‘Your name is Barry, is it not?’

Little boy, he nods.

‘My name was Barry too,’ I tell him.

Little boy looks at his feet.

‘Here,’ I say. ‘Would you like this badge?’

Little boy looks up at badge in my hand:

UK Decay.

He shakes his head.

I hear key turn in door once -

(We think of key, each in his prison) -

and turn once only.

She opens door and her mouth. She turns to go, but I am on my feet across room.

I pull her back inside our house -

This was where we used to sleep (to dream, to scream) -

I spin her across room on to settee. I slam door -

(We keep pain on inside round here) -

‘Dream on,’ I say.

She sits on settee. She looks up at me, chest rising and chest falling -

Little lad watching us both.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Hello from one that got away.’

She just sits and stares.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

She sits. She stares. She says: ‘I thought you were dead?’

‘Oh no, not me,’ I say.

She starts to cry.

I sit down beside her. I put my arm around her.

Her hair smells of fat and smoke -

They are big tears that are falling on her old clothes.

‘Oh, don’t start with them waterworks, now will you?’ I smile.

She stops. She sniffs. She rubs her red nose. She dries her red eyes -

Little lad still watching us both.

‘Do you believe in ghosts, little Barry?’ I ask him.

He shakes his head.

‘Well, you bloody ought,’ I swear. ‘Didn’t he, mum?’

Then I hear them -

Hear them coming;

Coming to our house -

Our house in middle of our street (our house in middle of our hell).


Chapter 55

Sirens down the Doncaster and Barnsley Roads, into Wakefield:

Two cars, a van, and an ambulance -

No sirens on the ambulance.

Piggott cuffed and bagged on the floor of the van as we swept into Wood Street, taking him underground before the pack had either a hint or a whiff -

Just our lot all lined up and waiting for him, punching and kicking and spitting on him as we dragged him by his heels up and down the corridors -

Up and down the corridors.

Then we stripped him. We fingerprinted him. We photographed him -

Threw him in a cell.

‘Keep him sweet,’ I told Dick.

‘With the exception of the slight ligature marks on the ankles and wrists,’ Dr Alan Coutts was saying, ‘there are no wounds.’

I stopped writing. I said: ‘Cause of death then?’

‘Preliminary -’

‘What?’

‘Starvation and -’

‘What?’

‘Hunger and -’

‘What?’

‘Possibly vagal inhibition.’

‘Strangled?’

He shook his head: ‘A sudden and unexpected shock can also be enough to stimulate the vagal nerve and cause death -’

‘She died of fright?’

‘Or hunger.’

‘When?’

‘I can’t be precise yet,’ he said. ‘But -’

‘Approximately?’

‘Within the last 72 hours.’

‘Where?’

‘Initial examination of particles from the skin and nails have revealed the strong presence of coal dust.’

‘Local?’

He nodded.

‘Underground?’

He nodded.

I looked down at my hands -

History and lies.

They were standing at the end of the corridor, black shadows under the white lights -

Under the spreading chestnut tree -’

I walked down the corridor towards them.

They were waiting for me.

‘Mr and Mrs Atkins,’ I said.

They were staring at me.

I gestured to the four grey plastic seats against the cracked magnolia wall. I said: ‘I think we should sit down.’

There were staring -

‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you that we have found a little girl and -’

They were waiting -

‘The little girl is not alive.’

They held each other’s hands in their own. They squeezed them.

‘The body was discovered earlier today in a disused room at the old Redbeck Cafй on the Doncaster Road.’

They both looked at the linoleum. They shook.

I had nothing more to say to them.

Mr Atkins looked up. Her father said: ‘How did she die?’

‘It would appear she died from a combination of a lack of food and water and -’

They were both looking up at me now.

‘Fright.’

‘When?’

‘Possibly within the last 72 hours but -’

Mrs Atkins’ mouth was open, contorted and screaming and howling -

She was slapping and scratching and punching me, trying to murder me -

Murder me -

Murder me -

Murder me -

Murder me -

I wished her mother would murder me -

Where I sold you and you sold me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Can I see her?’ asked Mrs Atkins, quietly.

I looked up.

WPC Martin had her by the arm, trying to ease her away.

I nodded.

Dr Coutts opened the door.

He switched on the overhead lights.

They flickered and then came on.

She was lying under a sheet on a gurney in the middle of the room.

Dr Coutts pulled back the sheet as far as her shoulders.

They stepped forward.

They fell on her.


Chapter 56

They take you naked into a ten by six interrogation room with white lights and no windows. They sit you down behind a table. They handcuff your hands behind your back. They throw a bucket of piss and shit across your face. They hose you down with ice water until you fall over in the chair. Then they leave you alone.

You are lying on the floor, handcuffed to the chair.

You can hear screams from other rooms -

You can hear laughter -

Dogs barking.

The screaming goes on and on for what seems like hours.

Then it stops.

You close your eyes.

You have dreams -

And in your dreams -

In your dreams, you have wings -

But all these wings in all your dreams -

Are huge and rotting things -

The room red.

The door opens. Three men in suits come in. They are carrying chairs.

One man has a grey moustache. The other is bald but for tufts of fine sandy hair:

Moustache and Sandy.

The last man you know:

Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson -

Thick lenses and black frames:

The Owl.

They pick you up. They sit you in the chair. They undo your handcuffs.

‘Put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Sandy.

You put your palms flat upon the desk.

Sandy sits down. He takes a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his sports jacket. He passes them to Moustache.

Moustache walks around the room. Moustache plays with the handcuffs. Moustache sits down next to Sandy. Moustache puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist. Moustache stares at you.

Maurice closes the door. He leans against it, arms folded. He watches you.

They all smile.

Moustache jumps up. Moustache brings his handcuffed fist down on to the top of your right hand.

You scream.

‘Put your hands back,’ says Sandy.

You put them back on the table.

‘Flat,’ says Sandy.

You try to lie them down flat.

‘Nasty,’ says Moustache.

‘You should get that seen to,’ says Sandy.

They both smile at you.

Sandy stands up. He goes out of the room.

Maurice follows him.

Moustache says nothing. He just stares.

Your right hand is red and throbbing.

Sandy comes back in with a blanket. He puts it over your shoulders. He sits back down. He takes out a packet of JPS from his sports jacket. He offers one to Moustache.

Moustache takes out a lighter. He lights both their cigarettes.

They sit back. They blow smoke at you.

Your hands are shaking.

Moustache leans forward. Moustache dangles the cigarette over your right hand. Moustache rolls it back and forth between two fingers.

Your hand is twitching -

You pull your hand back a bit.

Moustache reaches forward. Moustache grabs your right wrist. Moustache holds down your right hand. Moustache stubs his cigarette out in the bruises on the back of your hand.

You scream.

Moustache lets go of your wrist. Moustache sits back.

‘Put your hands flat,’ says Sandy.

You put them flat on the table.

The room stinks of burnt skin -

Yours.

Moustache sweeps the ash and tobacco off the table.

‘Another?’ says Sandy.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says Moustache. He takes a second JPS from the packet. He lights the cigarette. He stares at you. He leans forward. He begins again to dangle the cigarette over your hand.

You stand up: ‘What do you want?’

‘Sit down,’ says Sandy.

‘Tell me what you want!’

‘Sit down.’

You sit down.

Moustache and Sandy stand up.

‘Stand up,’ says Sandy.

You stand up.

‘Eyes front.’

You stare straight ahead.

‘Don’t move.’

You don’t move.

Moustache and Sandy put the three chairs and the table to the side. Maurice opens the door. They step outside into the corridor.

You can hear screaming -

Laughter -

Dogs barking.

They close the door.

You stand in the centre of the room. You stare at the white wall. You are naked. You want a piss. You listen to the screaming. You listen to the laughter. You listen to the barking. You do not move. You close your eyes.

You have dreams -

And in your dreams -

In your dreams, you have fears -

But all your fears in all your dreams -

Are islands lost in tears -

The room white.

The door opens again. Moustache and Sandy come back in.

Maurice does not.

Moustache and Sandy walk around you in silence.

They smell of drink and curry. They smell of sweat.

They bring the chairs and the table back to the centre of the room.

Moustache puts a chair behind you. He says: ‘Sit down.’

You sit down opposite Sandy.

Moustache picks up the blanket from the floor. He puts it over your shoulders.

Sandy lights a cigarette. He says: ‘Put your palms flat on the desk.’

‘Please tell me what you want.’

‘Just put your palms flat.’

You put your palms flat on the desk.

Moustache walks about behind you.

Sandy puts a brown paper package on the table. He opens it. He takes out a pistol. He lays it down on the table. He smiles at you.

Moustache stops walking about. He stands behind you.

‘Eyes front,’ says Sandy.

You stare straight ahead.

Sandy jumps up. Sandy pins your wrists down.

Moustache grabs the blanket. Moustache twists it around your face.

You fall forward off the chair. You cough. You choke. You are unable to breathe. You hit the edge of the table -

Crack.

Sandy holds down your wrists.

Moustache twists the blanket around your face.

You kneel on the floor. You cough. You choke. You are unable to breathe.

Sandy lets go of your wrists.

You spin round in the blanket into the wall -

Crack.

Moustache throws off the blanket. He picks you up by your hair. He stands you against the wall.

‘Turn around, eyes front.’

You turn around.

Sandy has the pistol in his right hand.

Moustache has some bullets. He is throwing them up. He is catching them.

‘Maurice says the cunt wants to die,’ whispers Moustache. ‘So just make it look like he topped himself.’

Sandy holds the pistol with both hands at arm’s length. He points the gun at the side of your head.

You close your eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks.

Sandy pulls the trigger -

Click.

Nothing happens.

‘Fuck,’ says Sandy.

He turns away. He fiddles with the pistol.

You have pissed yourself.

‘I’ve fixed it,’ says Sandy. ‘It’ll be all right this time.’

He points the pistol again.

You close your eyes.

Sandy pulls the trigger -

Bang.

You think you are dead.

You open your eyes. You see the pistol. You see shreds of black material coming out of the barrel. You watch them float down to the floor.

Moustache and Sandy are staring at you.

You shout: ‘What do you want?’

Moustache steps forward. Moustache kicks you in the balls.

You fall to the floor.

‘What do you want?’

‘Stand up.’

You stand up.

‘On your toes,’ says Moustache.

‘Please tell me?’

Moustache steps forward again. Moustache kicks you in the balls again.

You fall to the floor.

He whispers: ‘Man had his balls removed after being kicked by the Leeds SPG.’

Sandy walks over. Sandy kicks you in the chest. Sandy kicks you in the stomach. Sandy handcuffs your hands behind your back. Sandy pushes your face into the floor -

Into your own piss.

‘Do you like dogs, Johnny?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Do you like dogs?’

‘What do you fucking want?’

‘I don’t think you do, do you?’

The door opens.

A uniformed policeman comes in with an Alsatian on a lead.

Moustache sits astride your back. Moustache pulls your face up by your hair.

The dog is staring at you, panting -

Tongue out.

Moustache shouts: ‘Get him! Get him!’

The dog is growling. The dog is barking. The dog is straining on its leash.

‘Careful,’ says Sandy to the uniform.

Moustache pushes your head forward -

‘He’s starving,’ he says. ‘Just like little Hazel was.’

You struggle.

The dog is getting nearer -

‘Just like little Hazel.’

You try to get loose.

Moustache pushes your face in closer -

‘Starving.’

You cry.

The dog is a foot away.

‘Alone in that room.’

You see its gums. You see its teeth. You smell its breath. You feel its breath.

‘Starving.’

The dog growling. The dog barking. The dog straining on its leash.

‘Starving to death alone in that room.’

You shit yourself.

‘Fucking knew, didn’t you?’

The dog is inches from your face.

‘Did nothing.’

Everything going black -

‘Nothing!’

Going black -

‘Tell me what I’ve done.’

‘Again!’

‘Please -’

‘Please what?’

Black -

‘Please tell me what I’ve done.’

‘Again!’

‘Please tell me what I’ve done!’

‘Clever boy,’ he says -

Everything black now.

You fall backwards, handcuffed upon a tiny plastic chair -

Through the floor of the cell, through the walls of the Station -

Through the earth and through the oceans -

Through the atmosphere into outer space -

To the gulfs between the stars -

Always away from the dog -

Away from this place -

This rotten, un-fresh linoleum place;

Light years distant, Jobson still standing at your side -

The dog gone.

You have dreams -

And in your dreams -

In your dreams, you see things -

But all these things in all your dreams -

Are big black raven things -

The room blue.

You open your eyes.

Maurice Jobson is staring back at you.

You are still in the room with white lights and no windows.

But you are dressed in your own clothes again.

Maurice Jobson takes off his glasses. He rubs his eyes.

‘I didn’t do it,’ you say.

‘Not guilty?’ he smiles.

‘Not guilty.’

He puts his thick lenses and black frames back on. ‘We’re all guilty, John.’

You shake your head. ‘Not me.’

He nods. ‘We all are.’

You close your eyes.

When you open them again, he is still staring at you -

Still waiting.

‘Will you make it right?’ he asks.

You nod -

‘Yes, sir,’ you say. ‘I will.’

You have dreams -

And in your dreams -

In your dreams, you cry tears -

But all your tears in all your dreams -

Are islands lost in fears -

The room red, white, and blue (like you).

He leads you down the corridor to the double doors and the courtyard.

A black van is waiting, its back doors open.

Moustache and Sandy are sitting inside.

‘You’re not coming?’ you ask.

He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been there before.’

There are tears in your eyes again. ‘We’ll meet again?’

‘Don’t know where, don’t know when,’ he says without a smile.

‘Some sunny place?’ you ask.

‘Where there is no darkness.


Chapter 57

Here come sirens, here come blue lights -

I turn back from window. I say: ‘They’re here.’

She is kneeling before settee. She is sobbing. She is clutching her rosary.

I drag her to her feet, left arm round her neck, right arm on shotgun.

I manoeuvre us over to door.

I yank it open just as two uniforms come through garden gate up path.

‘Get back!’ I shout. ‘Get back or I’ll blow her fucking head off.’

She is screaming, legs half off ground.

Uniforms scramble off back down garden path and out gate, back behind their car.

I lower shotgun. I pull trigger -


BANG!


Through hedge into side of their car -

Lights out.

I drag her back up path into house. I slam front door shut.

I push her back into living room. I tie her hands and feet together.

I pull back curtain. I break glass. I let off another shot into night -


BANG!


I reload:

We’ve only just begun.

I head straight into kitchen. I tip dresser and fridge in front of back door.

I break milk bottles. I break all her best china. I scatter it across barricade.

I tear back through into front room. I start shifting stuff in front of window.

She is just lying in middle of it all, teeth chattering.

I put my boot through TV. I take petrol. I splash it all over -

All over kitchen, all over front room.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Time for bed.’

I drag her out front room upstairs into back bedroom.

I toss her on spare bed. I rush into front bedroom.

I tip bed and mattress on their ends. I put them over window, wardrobe behind them.

Downstairs I can hear phone ringing.

I take doors off bathroom and front bedroom. I put one over bathroom window and other across top of stairs.

I return to back bedroom. I move her off bed on to floor. I make sure she is secure. I upend bed. I put it low along bottom of window.

Downstairs telephone is still ringing.

I go back down stairs into hall, low as I go, no lights on:

Keep pain on inside.

I pick phone up. I say nothing -

Listen -

I say: ‘I want to talk to Maurice Jobson. Tell him I need a friend.’

I hang up.

I go halfway up stairs to wait.

It starts ringing again, phone.

I can see them moving about in garden.

I take off my shoe. I lob shoe at phone. I knock receiver off hook.

I hear them shout: ‘Go.’

I point shotgun at door. Just before it opens, I do -


BANG!


‘FUCK! FUCK! -’

Both barrels:


BANG!


‘FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!’

I go back upstairs. I put door across top again. I go into back bedroom.

She is lying on floor, skirt up around her ears as bloody usual -

Bawling, waterworks.

I can hear more sirens.

I look up -

There are posters on bedroom walls, Karen and Richard -

Yesterday Once More.

‘Where’s Barry?’ I yell at her. ‘What fuck you done with him?’


Chapter 58

Darkness -

Pitch black fucking darkness:

Wednesday 8 June 1983.

Thunder, no lightning -

Never-fucking ending:

Cars across the night, the sirens and the blue lights.

Heart of a darkness, belly of a nightmare -

Fitz-fucking-william:

My darkness, my nightmare.

Two radios on -

Police and fucking local -

Stereo hell:

A man is believed to be holding a woman hostage in Fitzwilliam following an incident in which shots were fired at police officers responding to reports of a break-in at an address in Newstead View.

‘Armed officers have been deployed but Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable, issued a statement insisting that the police were anxious to end this incident without injury to anyone. This comes after mounting criticism in recent weeks over revelations that armed police are now deployed on routine patrols in Greater Manchester and West Yorkshire.’

I cut that crap off with the heel of my fucking boot -

One, two, three -

Crack!

Ellis driving, eyes and foot down on wet streets: ‘Sir?’

Fourth, final kick -

Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Plastic flying, radio dead.

Into the handheld, shouting: ‘Alderman? Prentice?’

Static: ‘No, sir.’

‘Where the fuck are they?’

‘Netherton.’

‘That was fucking hours ago.’

‘Sir -’

‘Fuck it,’ I screamed.

‘We have got a description -’

‘Give it!’

‘White male, mid to late twenties; shaved head with a deep indentation -’

‘Indentation?’

‘A hole, sir.’

‘Name?’

‘We’re working on it -’

‘Work fucking harder,’ I yelled, tearing the flex out -

The radio dead in my hand -

The rain and the night all over the windscreen -

Tears and blood all over my cheeks.

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ whispered Ellis -

I raised my right leg. I put my boot through that fucking windscreen -

Smaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaash!

The rain and the night all over us now -

The tears and the blood, the tears and the blood -

Everywhere.

Parked at the end of the road among the other blue lights -

We waited. We watched.

A sergeant came crouching up the street. He leant in the window. ‘Sir?’

‘What is it, Sergeant?’

‘He’s asking for you, sir,’ he panted. ‘The man inside the house.’

‘By name?’ asked Ellis.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s he say?’

‘Says he needs a friend, sir.’

I opened the door. I got out of the car, my wrists and ankles all bloody.

‘He’ll kill you,’ said Ellis -

I nodded. I walked up the road through the blue lights -

The white floodlights -

The red rain.

I came to the house -

Ellis running up the street. Ellis shouting: ‘Kill you -’

I nodded again. I opened the gate, thinking -

Murder me.


Chapter 59

They take off the handcuffs. They take off the blindfold. They open the back doors.

The van slows.

They throw you out on to the road. They drive away.

You lie in the road. You don’t know if it is dawn or dusk.

It is raining.

You get up off the ground. You stand up.

There is a green Viva parked outside the little white bungalow.

There are no lights on. The curtains aren’t drawn.

You go round the back. You climb over the stone wall into the field. You walk up the tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill.

It is pissing down now.

You are ankle deep in mud and animal shit.

You slip.

You fall.

You get up.

You look back down the hill at all the little bungalows tucked up together, sleeping soundly -

Day in, day out.

You wipe the mud off your hands. You start walking again.

You slip again.

You fall again.

You get up again.

You reach the row of sheds. You walk along. You come to the last one:

The one with no windows and the black door -

The black door banging in the wind and the rain:

The door to hell.

You step inside -

The pictures on the wall have gone.

There is a workbench and tools, bags of fertiliser and cement, pots and trays.

There is a hole in the ground. It is surrounded by sacks and a piece of thick and muddy rope hooked through a manhole cover.

You look into the hole -

It is a ventilation shaft to a mine.

You squeeze yourself down into the shaft -

Your hands and boots upon the metal ladder;

You start down -

Everything is wet. Everything is cold. Everything is dark;

You come down to a second horizontal passage -

There is a dim light from the end of the passage;

You turn around. You pull yourself out of the shaft into the tunnel -

It is narrow and made of bricks. It stretches off into the faint light;

You think you can hear familiar music playing far away:

The only thing you ever learn in school is ABC -

You crawl upon your fat bleeding bloody belly across the bricks towards the light:

But all I want to know about is you and me -

Crawl upon your fat bleeding bloody belly across the bricks towards the light:

I went and told the teacher about the thing we found -

Upon your fat bleeding bloody belly across the bricks towards the light:

But all she says to me is that you’re out of bounds -

Your fat bleeding bloody belly across the bricks towards the light:

Even though we broke the rule I only want to be with you -

Fat bleeding bloody belly across the bricks towards the light:

School love -

Bleeding bloody belly across the bricks towards the light:

School love -

Bloody belly across the bricks towards the light:

You and I will be together -

Belly across the bricks towards the light:

End of term until forever -

Across the bricks towards the light:

School love -

The bricks towards the light:

School love -

Bricks towards the light:

School love -

Towards the light:

School love -

The light:

Love -

Light.

The music stops. The roof rises. There are beams among the bricks.

You stagger on, on fat legs and fat feet -

Through the muck and the mud, the sound of rats here with you -

Near.

You stumble on a shoe -

A child’s summer sandal, covered in dust -

You wipe away the dust -

A child’s summer sandal, scuffed.

You leave it. You go on -

Back ripped raw from the beams and the bricks -

Until the roof rises again and you can stand in the shadow of a pile of rock.

You wait. You wait. You wait.

You turn the corner past the pile of rock and -

Fuck -

You see two skeletons lying on a bed of dead roses and old feathers, skulls turned up to a faded sky of bricks once blue, black cotton wool clouds stuck here and there among dim swinging Davy lamps -

Two skeletons entwined in osseous embrace -

Their black son rising out of the ground into the dim lamplight -

Into the lamplight, a hammer in his hand:

Leonard Marsh -

Little Leonard Marsh, a hammer in his hand -

Head shaved and chest bare, coming towards you -

His chest in bloody scars, it reads:


O LUV .


You do not move. You wait for Leonard Marsh -

A hammer in his hand, coming towards you.

You do not move. You wait until Leonard Marsh is almost upon you -

A hammer in his hand, coming towards you.

You raise the brick in your fist. You bring it down hard into the side of his head -

Leonard Marsh howls. He tries to bring the hammer down -

The hammer in his hand.

You raise the brick in your fist again. You bring it down hard again -

Leonard Marsh howling, trying to stand.

But you are behind him now and you have his hammer in your hand-

‘Remember me?’ you whisper.

Blind with his blood, you stop -

In this one long tunnel of hate, you see yourself;

In the ten broken mirrors -

The boxes and the bones -

The shadows and the lights -

The tape recorders and the screams -

The dead flowers and the feathers -

You see yourself and Leonard among the feathers -

Among the wings;

Your feathers and your wings -

Both stuck with his blood.

His mouth opens and closes again -

You put the hammer down.

‘No-one even looked,’ he whispers.

‘I know,’ you nod.

‘No-one.’

You wipe the tears from his cheek. You kiss his head. You say: ‘I know.’

He closes his eyes.

You put your wings over his mouth -

‘The children of sinners are abominable children -

Your wings, huge and rotting things -

‘And they frequent the haunts of the ungodly.

Big black raven things -

‘Children will blame an ungodly father -

Heavy and burnt, over his mouth.

‘For they suffer disgrace because of him.

He tries to raise his hand -

‘But whatever comes from the earth returns to the earth -

Tries to stop you -

‘So the ungodly go from curse to destruction.’

Stop you -


D-1 .


Chapter 60

He walks up path. He knocks on door.

‘It’s not locked,’ I shout downstairs.

He opens door. He steps inside.

‘Up here.’

He turns. He starts to walk upstairs. He reaches top of stairs. He stops.

Door is on its side, blocking his path.

He can see my mother lying on floor of back bedroom.

He climbs over door -

I turn -

Turn from out of front bedroom -

I thrust knife though his coat -

Through his coat, deep into his belly:

‘Hello,’ I say.

I pull knife out. I push it back in -

Back in, up and under his ribs.

‘Hello from back seat hard on last bus home, one that got away and lived to tell tale, from Barry Gannon and Eddie Dunford, Derek Box and his mate Paul, from my mate Clare and her sister Grace, Billy Bell and his spilt pint, from John Dawson and his brother Richard, Donald Foster and Johnny Kelly, from Pat they fucked and left behind, Jeanette Garland and her mum Paula, from Susan Ridyard and Clare Kemplay, Hazel Atkins and every missing child in this whole fucking world, from Graham Goldthorpe and his murdered Mary, Janice Ryan and Bad Bobby Fraser, from Eric Hall and his wife Libby, Peter Hunter and Evil Ken Drury, from Steve Barton and his brother Clive, Keith Lee and Kenny D, from Two Sevens and Joseph Rose, Ronnie Angus and George Oldman, from lovely Bill Shaw and Blind Old Walter, poor Jack Whitehead and Ka Su Peng, from Strafford Public House and Griffin hotel, Millgarth and Wood Street nicks, from Gaiety and both St Marys, motorways and car parks, from parks and toilets, idle rich and unemployed, from Maggie Thatcher and Michael Foot, from SWP and National Front, IRA and UDA, from M &S and C &A, Tesco and Co-op and every shopping centre in this wounded, wounded land, from shit they sell and shit we buy, my old mum and Queen sodding Mum, from kids with no mum and mums with no kid, Black Panther and Yorkshire Ripper, from Liddle Towers and Blair Peach, black bodies in Calder and ones in Aire, from all dead meat and my dead friends, pubs and clubs, from gutters and stars, local tips and old slag heaps, from ladies of night and boys in bogs, headlights and brake-lights, high life and low, from mucky mags and dirty vids, silent pits and page three tits, from Nazis and Witches, West Yorkshire coppers and their bent mates, from all little shits and things we get to see, dead bodies piled up in first-floor bars, stink of shotguns mixed with beer, sirens that howl for ten long years bloodstained with fear, from one that got away, un-lucky one, from Dachau to Belsen, Auschwitz to Preston, from Wakefield to Leeds, Stanley Royd and fucking North, from West bloody Riding and Red Riding Hood, final solution and wrath of God, from Church of Abandoned Christ and her twenty-two disciples, Michael Williams and Jack’s wife Carol, from pictures and tapes, murders and rapes, from whispers and rumours, cancers and tumours, from badgers and owls, wolves and swans -’

I twist knife:

‘This is for all things you made me do, for all things you had me see, for every cock I’ve ever sucked and every night I’ve never slept, for voices in my head and silence of night, for hole in my head and scars on my back, words on my chest, for boy I was and them boys that saw, Michael Myshkin and Jimmy Ash, fat Johnny Piggott and his brother Pete, Leonard Marsh and his dad George, for every little lad you ever fucked and all their dads who liked to watch, with their cameras in their hands and their cocks in my arse, your tongue in my mouth and your lies in my ear, loving you loving me, his nails in my hands and yours in my head, for that knife in my heart and this one in you -’

‘Goodbye Dragon,’ I spit -

I pull knife back out again and -

With one last kiss -

I let him fall -

Backwards -

Down -

Stairs.

Bare-chested and soaked in blood -

I turn. I see myself in bathroom mirror:

Hole in my head -

Stumps in my back -

Seven letters on my chest:

One Love.

‘Barry!’ she is screaming. ‘Barry!’

I follow him downstairs to front door -

I open it.

Maurice is coming up garden path.

I strike a match.

He stops. He stares.

I let it fall -

Our house starts to burn.

I step over dead body of Martin Laws -

Into red rain, white floodlights and police lights blue.

My shoes gone, I walk barefoot into garden.

Head bobbed and wreathed, I drop knife and raise shotgun.


Chapter 61

There were no sirens, only silence -

No lights, only darkness.

We parked under Millgarth. I did not go upstairs -

Angus would be waiting:

More crimes and more lies, more lies and more crimes.

I walked through the market. I walked through the dawn -

Thursday 9 June 1983.

I cut through the backstreets. I ran up the Headrow.

I turned on to Cookridge Street.

I opened the door into the Church of Saint Anne.

I staggered down the side aisle.

I fell before the Pietа.

I took off my terrible glasses. I closed my tired eyes.

I prayed:

‘Lord, I do not understand my own actions.

I know that nothing good dwells within me, in my flesh.

I do not do what I want, but I do the very things that I hate.

I can will what is right but I cannot do it.

I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.

When I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand.

Wretched and damned man that I am!

Will you rescue me from this body of death?’

I opened my eyes. I looked up at Christ -

The wounded, dead Christ.

I was crying as I stood -

I was crying as I turned to go -

I was crying when I saw him.

He was sat among the Stations. His head shaved -

He was dressed in white, bleeding from his hands and his feet.

There were children sat around him -

Little girls and little boys.

‘Jack?’

He smiled at me.

‘Jack?’

He stared through me.

‘What?’ I cried. ‘What can you see?’

He was smiling. He was staring at the Pietа-

‘How can you still fucking believe?’ I shouted. ‘After all the things you’ve seen?’

‘It’s the things I’ve not seen,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘During an eclipse there is no sun,’ he smiled. ‘Only darkness.’

‘I don’t -’

‘The sun is still there,’ he said. ‘You just can’t see it.’

‘I -’

‘But in your heart you know the sun will shine again, don’t you?’

I nodded.

‘Faith,’ he whispered -

‘The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’

I turned again to the Pietа. I turned back to the wounded Christ -

No other name.

There was a hand squeezing mine -

A ten-year-old girl with blue eyes and long straight fair hair, wearing an orange waterproof kagool, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, pale blue denim trousers with a distinctive eagle motif on the back left pocket and red Wellington boots, holding a plastic Co-op carrier bag in her other hand.

I looked down at my hand in hers -

There were no bruises on the backs of my hands.

‘He was not abandoned,’ smiled Clare. ‘He is loved.’


Chapter 62

Thursday 9 June 1983-

D-Day:

Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Heart lost.

You can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep; you can’t go to sleep -

The branches still tapping against the pane -

Everybody knows;

You are lying on your back in your underpants and wings -

The branches tapping against the pane -

Everybody knows;

You are lying on your back in your underpants and wings, black with his blood, black with all their blood -

The branches banging against the pane -

Everybody knows;

You are lying on your back in your underpants and wings, black with his blood, black with all their blood, that terrible tune and her words in your head -

Everybody knows; everybody knows, everybody knows and -

The branches cracking the pane.

You look at your watch. You see it is time:

2.25 a.m.

You get out of bed. You walk across the floor upon your knees.

You switch on the radio. The TV too -

The Hate:

‘Where there is discord, may we bring harmony -

The Hate:

‘Where there is error, may we bring truth -

The Hate:

‘Where there is doubt, may we bring faith -

The Hate:

‘Where there is despair, may we bring hope.’

Radio off. The TV too -

The branches have smashed the pane.

The rain pouring in -

No hope for Britain.


*

You open the bathroom door. You step inside. You turn on the bath taps. You put a circle of salt around the bath. You take out a pair of scissors. You cut your hair. You cut your nails. You take out a razor. You shave your head. You place the hair and the nails in an envelope. You put the envelope in the sink. You light a match. You burn the envelope. You look up into the mirror.

In blood, it states:

Nobody cares.

You get in the bath. You lie in the bath in your wings -

The water is warm.

You see the scenes; see the scenes as you could not at the time -

The shadows in your heart, the fear and the hate -

The hate and the fear.

You put all your fear and all your hate together and get:

Yorkshire, England, 1983.

You pick up the razor blade from the side of the bath:

My county, my country, right or wrong.

Four tears trickle down the sides of your nose.

But it’s all right, everything is all right, the struggle is finished -

The water red.

You write three last words on a piece of damp paper.


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