Tapping against the pane -
Monday 30 May 1983 -
She is lying on her side in a sleeveless black T-shirt with her back to you -
Branches tapping against the pane;
You are lying on your back in your underpants and socks -
The branches tapping against the pane;
Lying on your back with the taste of fried rice and vodka in your mouth -
Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;
Monday 30 May 1983 -
You are listening to the branches tapping against the pane.
It is raining again outside and they are arguing again upstairs.
You sit in the kitchen eating Findus Crispy Pancakes in silence, the radio on:
‘
You get up. You change stations. You find some music:
Spandau Ballet -
She stands up. She switches off the radio.
You go over to the sink. You rinse cold water over the plates and the grill. You turn around, hands still wet. You say: ‘What was Jimmy doing in Morley?’
‘What?’
‘When they nicked him? Why was he in Morley?’
She shrugs. She says: ‘He was coming to see me.’
‘You?’
‘It’s where I live, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Do now.’
She goes out of the kitchen. You follow her into the front room. She is putting on her coat.
You are stood in the doorway. You say: ‘Dangerous place, Morley.’
She doesn’t say anything. She walks towards you. She says: ‘Excuse me.’
You say: ‘Do you know Hazel Atkins? Her family?’
She shakes her head. She tries to push past you.
You grab her arm: ‘What about Clare Kemplay? Did you know her?’
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Jimmy did.’
‘Fuck off,’ she hisses. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Michael Myshkin told me.’
‘What does he know.’
‘He knew Jimmy; they were mates.’
‘Fuck off,’ she spits. ‘It was years ago and they were never
‘
‘It was years ago and Jimmy’s bloody dead because of that fucking Joey!’
And that’s it:
She’s gone -
You drive through Wakefield and out over the Calder, the car retching and then coughing, hacking its way up the Barnsley Road and out past the Redbeck -
Putting one and one together:
Michael Myshkin and Jimmy Ashworth -
Jimmy and Michael, Michael and Jimmy -
One and one to make:
Sweating and then freezing, your clothes itching with hate, you’ve got shadows in your heart and a belly full of fear -
Putting two and two together:
Fear and hate, hate and fear -
Michael and Jimmy, Jimmy and Michael -
Fitzwilliam.
Another silent house on Newstead View, Fitzwilliam -
The fire and TV off -
Just the clock ticking and the whistle of another boiling kettle.
Mrs Ashworth comes back in with two mugs of tea.
She hands you yours: ‘Sugar?’
You nod.
‘How many?’
‘Three please.’
She passes you the bag: ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
She sits down. She says: ‘I’m sorry about other day. I’m feeling more myself now, I suppose.’
‘That’s good,’ you say. ‘But it’s going to take a bit of time.’
She nods: ‘That’s what the doctor says. But everyone’s been very helpful, very kind.’
You say: ‘I saw Tessa.’
Mary Ashworth rolls her tired eyes. Mary Ashworth sighs.
You wait. You wait for her to say what she wants to say -
Wait for her to say: ‘She’s another one, you know?’
You shake your head.
She squeezes her hands together. She leans towards you. She whispers: ‘Another bloody lost cause; I tell you, if there was ever a saint for lame ducks, it was my Jimmy.’
‘That how he fell in with Michael Myshkin?’
She shakes her head: ‘She’s been through a lot, his mother, I know. But, and may God forgive me, I wish with all my heart they’d never moved here and then Jimmy would have never met him and Jimmy…’
‘When was that?’
‘That they moved here?’
You nod.
‘Must have been when Jimmy was about three or four and him, he’d have been ten or so. Not that you’d have known.’
‘They knew each other a while then?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t till Jimmy was ten or eleven himself that they started palling around.’
‘So Michael would have been a teenager? Sixteen or seventeen?’
