1983

No Further Action.

I opened the door to a small adjoining room:

Officer-in-Charge Investigation.

I sat down at my desk opposite a huge, pin-spattered map of Morley -

A huge, pin-spattered map of Morley and a photograph -

A photograph of a little girl -

A little girl, still lost.

I turned on to Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Old trees with old hearts cut, losing their leaves in June;

I parked in the drive of 28 Blenheim Road -

One big old tree, one big old house, one big old cut;

I closed my eyes. I opened them. I saw a star

– A single star, an angel -

A silent little angel;

I got out. I locked the car door. I spat -

Flesh;

I walked up the drive -

Shallow ugly daylight, brown stagnant rainwater;

The bottoms of my trousers, my shoes and socks, bloody -

Everything bloody;

I went inside. Up the stairs to Flat 5 -

Damp and stained -

Hearts still lost;

The door was open -

I stepped inside. I stood in the hall. I said: ‘Hello?’

There was no answer.

I walked down the hall.

The doors were all closed.

I stood before the bedroom door. I whispered her name.

Silence -

The branches tapping upon the glass.

I tried the door.

The door swung open.

The room and everything in it had been destroyed.

I went across the hall.

I stood before the bathroom door. I whispered her name again.

Silence -

The branches tapping upon the glass, their leaves lost.

I tried the door.

The door swung open.

The bath taps were on. The sink too. The room flooded.

I stepped inside. I turned off the bath taps. I pulled out the plug. I went over to the sink. I turned off the taps. I took off my glasses. I washed my face and hands in the water. I pulled out the sink plug. I dried my face and hands on my coat. I put my glasses back on. I looked into the mirror above the sink. I put my fingers to the glass -

The lipstick:

Everybody knows.

I ran back down the stairs. I ran back down the drive. I got in the car. I locked the doors.

I stared back up at the flat. I took off my glasses. I closed my eyes again;

The windows that looked inwards, the walls that listened to your heart -

Where one thousand voices cried.

Inside -

Inside our scorched hearts.

There was a house -

A house with no doors.

The earth scorched -

Heathen and always winter.

The rooms murder -

Here was where we lived:

Jeanette, Susan, Clare, Mandy and -

Caught in the branches and the tree -

An angel -

The branches tapping upon the glass, their leaves lost and never found -

Wanting in -

Sobbing, weeping, and asking to be found -

Hazel.

I looked down at the bruises on the backs of my hands -

The bruises that never healed.

Hazel, Hazel, Hazel -

The motorway across the Pennines, raining with occasional shotgun blasts of thunder and lightning as I drove over the Moors -

More missing children, more lost children -

More children, taken and murdered;

More voices -

Terrifying, hysterical, and screeching voices of doom, disaster and death.

I drove. I drifted -

Underground kingdoms, evil kingdoms of badgers and pigs, worms and insect cities; screaming swans upon black lakes while dragons soared overhead in painted skies of fading stars and then swept down through lamp-lit caverns wherein a blind owl searched for the last princess in her tiny feathered wings, the wolf back -

Past Manchester and on to Merseyside, that familiar taste in my mouth:

Flesh -

Fear.

I looked down at Michael Myshkin strapped to the bed.

He looked up at me -

His face sore. His eyes raw.

He whispered: ‘Only you today?’

‘Only me.’

‘Can’t keep away,’ he said.

I nodded. I smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

I opened my briefcase. I took out a photograph. I held it over him.

Michael Myshkin tried to turn away.

I pushed it towards him.

He closed his eyes.

‘She’s missing,’ I said. ‘Been missing twenty-seven days now.’

Silence -

‘I want you to tell me everything, Michael.’

Silence -