1983

You stop writing.

There is light outside among the rain -

The branches still tapping against the pane;

You put down your pen.

There are seven thick envelopes before you -

The branches tapping against the pain;

You seal the envelopes.

It is Tuesday 7 June 1983 -

The branches tapping against the pain;

D-2 .

You open the bathroom door. You step inside. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You turn on the taps. You take off your bandages. You stand before the sink. Your eyes are closed. You wash your wounds. You dry them. You stand before the sink. You open your eyes. You look up into the mirror.

In lipstick, it says:

Everybody knows.

You drive out of Wakefield for the last time, the radio on:

‘The pathologist who examined Mr Roach told the inquiry yesterday that he believed the injury was self-inflicted and that Mr Roach had put the gun in his own mouth. He admitted, however, that he could not be 100% certain. The inquiry was also told that Mr Roach was hearing voices before his death. Colin Roach, aged twenty-one, died of shotgun wounds in the entrance of Stoke Newington police station in January…’

You drive over the Calder for the last time, the radio on:

‘Mr Neil Kinnock said yesterday that it was a pity that people had had to leave their guts on Goose Green to prove Mrs Thatcher’s strength. Meanwhile, polls continue to predict a Tory landslide with the Alliance and Labour battling for a poor second…’

You drive into Fitzwilliam -

For the last time.

Fitz-fucking-william -

Newstead View -

The street quiet:

No fathers, no sons -

The men not here.

You pull up outside 69 -

What’s left of 69:

There are boards across the windows and the door.

There are black scorch marks stretching up the walls.

There are piles of burnt furniture and clothes in the garden.

There are letters sprayed upon the boards:

LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP .

There are words:

Pervert, Pervert, Pervert, Pervert.

You start the car. You drive slowly down the road to 54:

There is an Azad taxi parked outside, waiting.

Mrs Myshkin and her sister are coming down her garden path. They are wearing headscarves and raincoats. They are each carrying two suitcases.

You get out of the car.

Mrs Myshkin stops at her gate.

‘Where are you going?’ you ask her.

She looks back up the road at 69. She says: ‘You seen what they did?’

You nod. ‘When?’

‘Two nights ago, a mob of them just set the place ablaze.’

‘Terrible,’ says her sister.

‘Where are you going?’ you ask again.

Mrs Myshkin nods at her sister. ‘Leeds eventually.’

You step forward. You take their cases. You say: ‘Eventually?’

‘I need to be near Michael,’ she says. ‘I’m going over to Liverpool today.’

‘I saw him yesterday,’ you say.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’ve spoken to them today?’

‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘Every day at the moment.’

You carry the cases round to the boot of the taxi. You bang on the boot.

The driver releases it.

You put the cases inside.

‘Thank you,’ say Mrs Myshkin and her sister.

‘Just hang on a minute,’ you say.

They nod.

You go over to your car. You take out two of the envelopes. You walk back to the two little women. You hand the two envelopes to Mrs Myshkin.

‘What are these?’ she asks.

‘One’s for you and Michael,’ you say. ‘The other is for Mrs Ashworth.’

‘You want me to give it to her?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘But I don’t know when I’ll next -’

‘I’m sure you’ll see her before me.’

Mrs Myshkin looks at you -

There are tears in her eyes -

Tears in yours.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For everything.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ you say.

Mrs Myshkin steps forward. She stands on her tiptoes. She kisses your cheek.

‘Yes, you did,’ she says. ‘Yes, you did.’

You shake your head.

She takes your hand. She squeezes it. She says: ‘I heard what they did to you.’

You shake your head again. ‘It wasn’t about Michael.’

She squeezes your hand once more. She lets go. She walks back over to her sister.

They get in the taxi. They close the doors. They wave at you.

You stand in Newstead View -

Among the plastic bags and the dogshit.

You wave back. You watch them go -

Your dried blood on the gatepost.

You park outside another boarded-up house on another street in another part of Fitzwilliam.

You get out. You walk up the path. You read the letters: