Putting them together and getting:
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper.
Sweating and then freezing, your clothes still itching with hate, you’ve got the shadows all over your heart again, a belly brimming over with fear -
Putting it all together to get:
Fear and hate, hate and fear -
A pocket full of paper, a pocketful of -
It is getting late -
Everywhere.
The silent houses of Newstead View, Fitzwilliam:
69 Newstead View:
‘Took your time?’ spits Ma Ashworth, almost closing the door in your face.
‘I’ve been busy.’
She stares at the dinner medals on your shirt. She says: ‘So I see.’
You put down the two large brown paper bags at her feet: ‘I brought you these.’
She holds open the front door. ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting your cup of tea with three sugars?’
You shake your head: ‘I’m not stopping.’
She shrugs. She looks at the bags. She says: ‘What about the belt?’
You lean down. You open the bag nearest her, the black leather belt coiled on top.
She bends down. She picks it up.
‘Was that his?’ you ask.
Her shoulders are shaking, her rough hands holding the worn belt.
‘Mrs Ashworth?’
She stares down at the belt in her hands, the tears falling from her face.
‘What about this?’ you ask. ‘Was this his?’
Mrs Ashworth looks up at the tiny newspaper photograph in her face -
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper -
‘You know who this is, don’t you?’
The tears streaming down her face -
‘It was in his wallet, in the lining.’
The tears down her face -
‘He’d cut it out.’
The tears -
‘No,’ she cries.
You hold it closer to her face, to the tears and the lies -
‘Why would he do a thing like that?’
But she’s turned her face to the dark grey sky, mumbling hymns and whispering prayers, saying over and over: ‘I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was, in his other jeans. I went upstairs and opened his wardrobe door and there it was…’
‘I’ll see you,’ you say -
You walk down Newstead View -
The plastic bags and the dog shit.
You go up the path. You knock on 54 -
No answer.
You knock again.
‘Not your lucky day, is it?’
You turn round -
There are three men at the gate. They have pointed faces and pale moustaches. They are dressed in denim and grey. They are wearing trainers.
‘I’m a solicitor,’ you say.
They rock back and forwards on their heels. They spit.
‘You look like a fat cunt to me.’
‘A fat cunt who can’t keep his hands to himself.’
‘Fat cunt who’s going to get his head kicked in.’
They walk up the path towards you.
You swallow. You say: ‘I know who you are.’
‘And we know who you are,’ they laugh.
You look across the road -
The neighbours paired up, arms and brows folded -
You shout: ‘Will someone please call -’
The nearest man punches you hard in the face.
You put your hands up to your nose.
They grab your hair. They pull you off the step. They punch you in the stomach.
You fall forwards.
They knee you in the stomach. They hit you with a dustbin lid.
You fall on to the garden path.
They kick you in the back. They kick you in the front.
You put your hands and arms over your head. You curl up.
They smash the dustbin lid down into your head. Into your back.
You try to crawl down the path.
They grab your hair. They pull you down the path.
You reach up to your scalp.
They drop you by the gatepost. They jump on you.
You -
They close the gate in your face. Repeatedly.
‘Mr Piggott?’ Kathryn Williams is walking across the
No outstretched hand today -
‘What on earth happened to you?’
You are swollen and wrapped in bandages. You pull yourself up out of your seat: ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’
Kathryn Williams stares at you. She says: ‘You should be in hospital.’
‘A mental hospital?’
She doesn’t smile. She asks: ‘What can I do for you, Mr Piggott?’
‘Miss Williams, I -’
‘
‘OK,
‘Mr Piggott, I told you everything I know about Jack -’
‘You didn’t tell me about the flat.’
‘The flat?’
‘On Portland Square.’
‘I -’ she starts then stops.
You say: ‘
‘I thought he was still in Stanley Royd.’
‘Well, he ain’t.’
