“Excuse me, ladies?”
The three fat women turned round and stopped.
“Mrs Myshkin?”
“You’re joking?” spat the largest woman.
“Fress are you, love?” smirked the oldest.
I smiled and said, “
“Bit late aren’t you?” said the largest.
“I heard she worked here?”
“Until yesterday, aye,” said the oldest.
“Where’d she go?” I asked the woman with the steel-rimmed spectacles who hadn’t said anything.
“Don’t look at me. I’m new,” she said.
The oldest woman said, “Our Kevin says one of your lot is putting them up in some posh hotel over in Scarborough.”
“That’s not right,” said the new one.
I stood there, thinking fuck, fuck, fuck.
There were shouts from the playground and a charge of monkey boots.
“They’re going to put that bloody window through,” sighed the largest woman.
I said, “You two worked with Mrs Myshkin, yeah?”
“For more than five years, aye,” said the oldest.
“What’s she like then?”
“Had a hard life, she has.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well he’s on Sick because of dust…”
“The husband was a miner?”
“Aye. Worked with our Pat,” said the largest.
“What about Michael?”
The women looked at each other, grimacing.
“He’s not all there,” whispered the new woman.
“How do you mean?”
“Bit slow, I heard.”
“Does he have any mates?”
“Mates?” said two of the women together.
“He plays with some of the young ones on his street, like,” said the oldest woman, shuddering. “But they’re not mates.”
“Ugh, makes you feel sick, doesn’t it?” said the new woman.
“There must be someone?”
“Don’t pall around with anyone much, not that I know.”
The other two women both nodded their heads.
“What about people from work?”
The fattest woman shook her head, saying, “Doesn’t work round here, does he? Castleford way?”
“Aye. Our Kevin said he’s at some photographer’s.”
“Mucky books, I heard,” said the new one.
“You’re having me on?” said the oldest woman.
“What I heard.”
The man in the blue overalls was stood back at the school gates, a padlock and a chain in his hands, shouting at the children.
“Bloody kids these days,” said the largest woman.
“Bloody nuisance they are.”
I said, “Thanks for your time, ladies.”
“You’re welcome, love,” smiled the older one.
“Anytime,” said the largest lady.
The women giggled as they walked away, the new one turning round to wave at me.
“Merry Christmas,” she called.
“Merry Christmas.”
I took out a cigarette and fumbled in my pockets for some matches, finding Paul’s heavy Ronson lighter.
I weighed the lighter in my left hand and then lit the ciga rette, trying to remember when I’d picked it up.
The pack of children ran past me on the pavement, kicking their cheap orange football and swearing at the caretaker.
I walked back to the padlocked school gates.
The caretaker in the blue overalls was walking across the playground, back to the main building.
“Excuse me,” I shouted over the top of the red painted gates.
The man kept walking.
“Excuse me!”
At the door to the school the man turned round and looked straight at me.
I cupped my hands. “Excuse me. Can I have a word?”
The man turned away, unlocked the door, and went inside the black building.
I leant my forehead against the gate.
Someone had tattooed
Into the night, wheels spinning.
Farewell Fitzwilliam, where the night comes early and nowt feels right, where the kids kill cats and the men kill kids.
I was heading back to the Redbeck, turning left on to the A655, when the lorry came screaming out of the night, slamming its brakes on hard.
I braked, horns blaring, skidding to a stop, the lorry inches from my door.
I stared into the rearview mirror, heart pounding, headlights dancing.
A big bearded man in big black boots jumped down from his cab and walked towards the car. He was carrying a big black fucking bat.
I turned the ignition, slamming my foot down on to the accelerator, thinking Barry, Barry, Barry.
The Golden Fleece, Sandal, just gone six on Thursday 19 December 1974, the longest day in a week of long days.
A pint on the bar, a whisky in my belly, a coin in the box.
“Gaz? It’s Eddie.”
“Where the fuck you sneak off to?”
“Didn’t fancy Press Club, you know.”
“You missed a right bloody show.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Jack totally fucking lost it, crying…”
“Listen, do you know Donald Foster’s address?”
“What the fuck do you want that for?”
“It’s important, Gaz.”
“This to do with Paul Kelly and their Paula?”
“No. Look, I know it’s Sandal…”
“Yeah, Wood Lane.”
“What number?”
“They don’t have fucking numbers on Wood Lane. It’s called Trinity Towers or something.”
“Cheers, Gaz.”
“Yeah? Just don’t fucking mention my name.”
