1983

‘What now?’

‘Best call our Georgie, hadn’t we?’

Chapter 17

She leaves. You puke. You dress. You puke again. You clean your teeth. You lock the door. You retch. You go downstairs. You heave. You run back up the stairs. You puke in your hands. You open the door. You puke on the floor. You spew. You start all over again.

It is Friday 27 May 1983 -

D-13 .

A change of clothes, a change of heart -

54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.

Having all the fun -

The patterned carpet and assorted furniture, the taste of air-freshener and the fire on full; the photographs and paintings, the photographs and the paintings of men not here.

Up the road in 69 another man gone, a young man:

Jimmy Ashworth -

Not here.

The clock is ticking, the kettle whistling.

Mrs Myshkin comes back in with the two cups of tea and sets down the tray.

She hands you yours: ‘Three sugars?’

‘Thank you.’

She says: ‘I’m sorry about that; once I start I just can’t seem to stop.’

You mumble something crap and meaningless.

‘But that poor boy,’ Mrs Myshkin says again. ‘His poor, poor mother.’

You mumble again. You take a sip of tea.

‘I’m so happy you’ve changed your mind though,’ she says. ‘My sister, she said you would.’

Upon her settee again, you are sweating, burning, and melting again -

‘I -’

‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘You do what you can for him, that’s enough. You’ll do your best, I know you will.’

You are about to say something else crap and meaningless, when -

Out of the corner of your eye you see something, see something coming -

Incoming -

Hard against the window:

CRACK!

Mrs Myshkin on her feet -

Hands to her mouth, shaking her head.

You hear it then, over and over -

Contorted and screaming and howling -

Hear it outside, again and again:

‘It’s all your fault, you fucking bitch!’

You are on your feet, over to the window.

‘You fucking bitch! You Polish fucking bitch with your fucking pervert son!’

Look it straight in the eye, see it coming again -

Incoming -

You duck -

SMASH!

Broken glass everywhere, a brick at your feet.

Out into the hall, you open the door -

Open the door and there she is:

Mrs Ashworth standing on Mrs Myshkin’s path, a plastic Hillards carrier bag of rocks in one hand, a half-Charlie in the other -

You walk towards her. You say: ‘Put it down, love.’

‘Never a moment’s trouble until he met your bloody spastic son. The dirty little pervert, him they should’ve hung. Had bloody done.’

‘Please,’ you say again. ‘Put it down.’

Half a house brick in one hand, her mouth white with spit and fleck, Mrs Ashworth screams again: ‘Fucking bitch! You killed him. You fucking killed my Jimmy!’

You are close to her now and now she sees you -

‘You!’ she shrieks. ‘Fat fucking lot of good you did him!’

You reach out to try and stop her arm, but it’s already up in the air -

The brick away -

‘You don’t know how it feels, do you? I wish to God they’d show you.’

There is the sound of breaking glass again, the sound of sobs from the door -

‘Please, Mary, no -’

‘Don’t you Mary me, you Polish fucking bitch,’ cries Mrs Ashworth, trying to get her hand back into her shopping bag, trying to get her hand on a brick or a stone -

But you’ve got her by the tops of her arms now, trying to talk to her, talk some sense into her: ‘Mrs Ashworth, let’s go and sit -’

‘You useless fat bastard, where were you when he needed you? I saw you sat in that posh car with bloody McGuinness. I saw you, don’t think I didn’t. Least McGuinness had manners not to show his fucking face inside. Not like you, you fat -’

‘Mary!’

She stops -

‘Mary!’

Stops at the sound of the voice behind her; stops and drops her bag of bricks.

Mr Ashworth is coming up the path: ‘I’m sorry. Didn’t realise she’d got out. Doctor says she’s to take it easy for a bit. Shock of it all.’

You are nodding, catching Mr Ashworth’s glance at Mrs Myshkin in her doorway, his glance at the broken window to her right, at the neighbours pairing up for a chat about the bother, their arms and brows folded.

But Mr Ashworth says nothing to Mrs Myshkin, just leads his wife by the shoulders back up the road to number 69, says nothing to Mrs Myshkin in her doorway with her broken window to her right, nothing to the neighbours paired up and chatting about the bother, their arms and brows crossed -

Just five more last little words from his wife -

Spinning round for one last little attack. Before the pills. Before her bed: ‘Bitch! Bloody fucking Polish bitch!’

You walk back up the path. You put an arm around Mrs Myshkin. You take her back inside -