1983

Bruises that won’t heal -

Ever.

Beneath her shadows -

Lost hearts.

Fucking -

The cat piss and petunia, desperate.

Fucking then fucking -

Desperate.

Fucking then kissing -

Her head upon my damp chest, I stroke her hair, her beautiful wet hair.

The branches of the tree tap upon the glass -

Sobbing, weeping -

Soaked and wanting in.

‘I love you,’ I say.

The branches tapping -

Sobbing, she whispers: ‘I can’t live like this.’

Sobbing and weeping -

Wanting out.

‘We’ll go,’ I tell her -

Her face in the candlelight: ‘Where?’

‘Far away.’

Her face white: ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

Her face white and already -

Dead -

Sobbing, weeping -

Hearts -

Asking to be let out.

*

The windows look inwards, the walls listen to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cry.

Inside -

Inside your scorched heart.

There is a house -

A house with no doors.

The earth scorched -

Heathen.

I wake suddenly in the dark again, beneath her shadows -

‘I’ll see you in the tree -’

Tapping against the pane.

She’s lying on her side in a black bra and underskirt, her back to me -

Branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table -

The branches tapping against the pane.

Lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, that terrible tune and its words in my head -

Listening to the branches tapping against the pane.

I’m lying on my back in my underpants and socks, my glasses on the table, that terrible lonely tune and her words in my head, listening to the branches tapping along against the pane -

‘In her branches.’

I look at my watch -

It is one o’clock in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974.

I reach for my glasses and get out of the bed without waking her and I go through into the kitchen and I put on the light and fill the kettle and light the gas and find the teapot in the cupboard and the two cups and saucers and I rinse out the cups and then dry them and then take the milk out of the fridge and I pour it into the cups and put two teabags in the teapot and take the kettle off the ring and pour the water on to the teabags and let it stand, staring out of the small window, the kitchen reflected back in the glass, a divorced man undressed but for a pair of white underpants and glasses, these thick lenses with their heavy black frames, a divorced man undressed in the other woman’s flat at two o’clock in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974:

‘Under the spreading chestnut tree -’

I put the teapot and cups and saucers on the tray and take it into the big room and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk when -

There are boots upon the stair, the doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -

She is standing in the hall.

I ask: ‘Tomorrow night?’

‘Tomorrow night,’ she nods.

The doorbell ringing, the knocking heavy -

I open the door -

Dick’s stood there, panting. ‘They’ve got someone.’

‘What?’

‘For Clare.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone we fucking know -’

‘Who?’

‘Michael Myshkin.’

‘What?’

‘He’s coughing.’

‘What?’

‘Come on. Get dressed.’

I turn back round -

She’s not there;

Just the branches tapping against the pane, saying over and over:

‘Where I sold you and you sold me.’

Dark hours -

Dark, dark hours -

Before the cock crows:

Three in the morning -

Wednesday 18 December 1974:

Yorkshire -

Wakefield:

Wood Street Police Station -

We walk down the long, long corridor -

Uniforms stood around, drinking and laughing, singing fucking carols -

Jingle Bells -

Jimmy Ashworth sat at the table in Room 1 -