1983

LUFC, UDA, NF, RIP .

You read the words:

LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS .

You stare at the swastika and noose painted above the door.

You turn away.

You look down the side of the house. You can see the edge of the back garden.

You walk slowly down the side of the house. You turn the corner. You stop -

You look down the back garden. You see the shed -

The shed with your trains and your tracks;

The shed -

Where you thought you could see your dad inside;

The shed -

You walked towards the door;

The shed -

You opened the door;

The shed -

You smelt the smoke;

The shed -

You saw the blood;

The shed -

You saw your dad;

The shed door banging in the wind, in the rain -

Your mother’s mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling;

You turn away -

‘Why?’

You close your eyes -

‘Why?’

You open your eyes -

You look over the broken fence. You stare up at another empty house next door -

You remember a family that lived there a long time ago -

The two little kids, the mother and father -

‘A very nice man’.

The father -

‘So good with the kids.’

The father -

George Marsh.

Haunted, you drive -

She is dripping wet and as skinny as a rake;

Haunted -

Silently she points.

You park in front of a little white bungalow with a little green garden and nothing in it:

16 Maple Well Drive, Netherton.

You knock on the glass door. You have a mouthful of brackish water. You spit.

A chubby woman with grey permed hair opens the door.

You wipe your mouth. You ask: ‘Mrs Marsh?’

She shakes her head. She says: ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I thought -’

‘They used to live here, the Marshes,’ she nods. ‘Years ago.’

‘Don’t know where they went, do you?’

She shakes her head again. ‘They flit, didn’t they?’

‘Flit?’

‘Almost ten year ago,’ she says. ‘Bank repossessed place.’

‘They just vanished?’

‘Thin air,’ she nods.

‘I remember they had an allotment or something -’

She shakes her head. ‘Some up field behind here, but we don’t -’

‘Didn’t come with the house then?’

‘No,’ she laughs.

‘Who owns them then?’

‘Them allotments?’

You nod.

‘Don’t know,’ she says. ‘Coal Board, maybe?’

‘Thanks,’ you say.

She nods.

You turn. You walk back down the garden path.

‘Sorry,’ she calls after you. ‘Who are you anyway?’

‘Solicitor,’ you say. ‘John Piggott.’

‘No trouble is there, I hope?’ she asks. ‘About the house?’

‘No,’ you say. ‘Friends of my parents, that’s all.’

The gate to the field behind the bungalow won’t open.

You climb up over the stone wall. You lumber up the muddy tractor path towards the row of dark sheds at the top of the hill.

The sky is heavy and about to piss all over you again.

Halfway up the hill, you turn around. You look back down at the little white bungalow and the little green garden next to all the other little white bungalows and little green gardens.

You can see the chubby woman with the grey permed hair at her kitchen window.

You take out your handkerchief. You wipe your face.

Your breath smells of shit.

You spit again. You start walking again.

You reach the row of sheds -

You peer in through the gaps in the wood, the cracks between the bricks:

Seed trays and yellow newspapers, plant pots and old copies of the Radio Times -

All seed trays and plant pots until you come to the last one:

The one with the bricked-up window. The padlocked black door.

You knock on the door -

No answer.

You rattle the padlock -

Nothing.

You pick up half a house brick. You batter the padlock off the door.

You open the door -

You open the door and you see the pictures on the wall -

Pictures you’ve seen on a wall once before:

Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, Clare Kemplay and -

One new photograph, cut from paper, dirty paper -