1983

Hair shaved. His mouth sores. Eyes inflamed -

He is sobbing.

‘You saw her one last time, didn’t you?’

He closes his eyes. He nods.

‘When, Michael?’

He opens his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling.

‘When?’

‘That day,’ he whispers.

‘Which day?’

‘The day she disappeared.’

‘Where?’

‘In Castleford.’

‘Where in Castleford?’

‘In a van.’

Shaved. Sore. Inflamed -

He is weeping -

‘She wasn’t smiling,’ he cries. ‘She wasn’t waving.’

‘Who -’

He sighs. He blinks. He says: ‘I loved her.’

You nod. You say: ‘Who was she with, Michael?’

He looks at you.

‘In the van?’

He smiles.

‘Who was it, Michael?’

He says: ‘You know.’

Hot. Bright. The smell of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies -

‘I want you to tell me.’

‘But you know.’

‘Michael, please -’

‘Everybody knows,’ he shouts.

You look at the floor.

‘Everybody knows!’

You stare at your shoes.

‘Everybody!’

You look back up at him. You say: ‘The Wolf?’

He nods.

‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I did,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t know.’

Michael Myshkin stares at you -

You turn away again.

‘Yes, you did,’ he whispers. ‘Everybody did.’

‘About the Wolf?’

‘Everything.’

This heat. The brightness. This shit. The disinfectant. These lies -

‘I didn’t know,’ you say again. ‘I didn’t.’

Michael John Myshkin laughs. ‘Your father did.’

Spittle on his chin, tears on his cheeks -

Tears on yours.

*

Doors locked, you check the rearview mirror then the wing. You switch on the engine and the radio news and light a cigarette:

‘The stars came out last night for Mrs Thatcher at a packed Wembley Conference Centre: Bob Monkhouse and Jimmy Tarbuck, Steve Davis and Sharon Davies, Brian Jacks and Neil Adams, Terry Neill and Fred Trueman; Kenny Everett shouted Let’s Bomb Russia and called on the crowd to Kick Michael Foot’s Stick Away; Lynsey de Paul composed and sang a song entitled Tory, Tory, Tory…’

You are crying again:

No Hazel.

You switch the radio off. You light another cigarette. You listen to the rain fall on the roof of the car, eyes closed:

Fourteen years ago, you waited in the same piss outside Wakefield Station for your dad to pick you up. Just graduated. A lawyer at last. The Prodigal Son. Your dad never came. You got the bus out to Fitzwilliam. There was no-one home. You had no key. You went round the back of the house to wait in the shed, the shed with your old trains and tracks. You thought you could see your dad inside. You opened the door -

You open your eyes.

You feel sick. Your fingers burning.

You put out the cigarette. You press the buttons in and out on the radio. You find some music:

Iron Maiden.

There’s no answer -

You are listening to Mrs Myshkin’s telephone ring and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof -

Nobody home -

The rain pouring down, car lights on a wet Monday afternoon in June -

The kind of wet Monday afternoon you used to spend in your office answering and asking questions about marriage and divorce, children and custody, maintenance and money, eating Bourbon or digestive biscuits, sitting behind your desk, listening to the rain fall on the windows, the raindrops on the wall outside so sharp and full of pain, listening to the relentless sound of the hard rain on the windows and the walls, not wanting to visit your mother, dreading it -

This fear even then -

You hang up:

This fear real -

This fear real and here again:

In a telephone box on Merseyside, listening to the dial tone -

The dial tone and the relentless sound of the hard rain on the roof, not wanting to leave the telephone box, dreading it -

This fear now:

Monday 6 June 1983 -

D-3:

This fear here -

The Wolf.

You park outside the off-licence on Northgate. You get out of the car. You go to the door of the shop. It is locked but there is a light on behind the handwritten postcards and the stickers for ice-cream and beer. You knock on the door. The old Pakistani with the white beard appears at the glass. He looks at you. He shakes his head. You rap on the door again -

‘I just want a paper,’ you shout.

The old Pakistani appears at the glass again. He shakes his head again.

‘Mr Khan,’ you say. ‘Please -’