1983

1983.

‘Now?’ said Dick. ‘This very minute?’

‘And not a word, not even to Jim.’

‘Can I get my coat?’ he asked, standing.

‘Meet you downstairs in five minutes.’

‘Right,’ he said, opening the door.

‘And Dick,’ I said.

He stopped.

‘Not a word, yeah?’

He nodded like, this is me Maurice, this is me.

‘I mean it,’ I said.

‘I know you do,’ he said and I hoped he did -

Hoped he fucking did.

He drove.

I drifted, dreaming -

Underground kingdoms, forgotten kingdoms of badgers and angels, worms and insect cities; mute swans upon black lakes while dragons soared overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swept down through lamp-lit caverns wherein an owl guarded three sleeping little princesses in tiny feathered wings, guarded them from -

Waking afraid of the news:

‘Police today continued their search for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins, as Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, the detective leading the search, admitted that so far the response from the public had been disappointing…’

Afraid of the news:

‘A young girl doesn’t simply vanish into thin air. Someone somewhere must have seen something.’

I took off my glasses. I rubbed my eyes, that taste in my mouth -

Meat -

Afraid.

*

We waited on plastic chairs, listening to the doors and the locks, the shuffling footsteps and the occasional scream from another wing. We waited on plastic chairs, staring at the different shades of grey paint, the grey fittings and the grey furniture.

We waited on plastic chairs for Michael Myshkin.

Five minutes later the door opened and there he was -

In a pair of grey overalls, fat from institutional living and sweaty from institutional heating -

Michael John Myshkin.

He sat down across from us, eyes down in front of a full house.

‘Michael,’ I said. ‘Do you remember us?’

Nothing.

‘My name is Mr Jobson and this is Mr Alderman. We’re policemen from West Yorkshire,’ I continued. ‘Near where your mum lives.’

He looked up now, a quick eyeball at Dick then back down at the chubby hands in his tubby lap.

‘How are you, Michael?’ asked Alderman and I wished he hadn’t because now Myshkin was fair wringing those chubby hands of his.

‘Michael,’ I said. ‘We’re here to ask you some questions that’s all. Be gone before you know it, you tell us what we want.’

He looked up again, my way this time -

I smiled. He didn’t smile back.

‘Been a while,’ I said. ‘In here a while now, yeah?’

He nodded.

‘Must miss home?’

He nodded.

‘Know I would; my family, my mates?’

He nodded.

‘Fitzwilliam, yeah?’

He nodded.

‘Just you, your mam and dad, wasn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Dad was a miner?’

He nodded.

‘Passed away, yeah?’

Another nod.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Been sick a while, had he?’

Two quick nods.

‘Where’s your mam now?’

‘Fitzwilliam,’ he whispered.

‘Same house?’

He nodded.

‘Bet she’s keeping your old room for you,’ I smiled. ‘Keeping it just the way it was.’

He nodded again, twice.

‘Comes here often, does she, your mum?’

‘Yes,’ he said, a whisper again.

‘How about mates, they come and all, do they?’

He shook his head.

‘Hear from them much, do you?’

He shook his head again.

‘What about Johnny thingy,’ I said. ‘Never hear from him?’

He looked up: ‘Johnny?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, tapping the table. ‘Johnny, hell-was-his-last-name?’

‘Jimmy?’ he said. ‘Jimmy Ashworth?’

‘That’s it,’ I nodded. ‘Jimmy Ashworth. How’s he doing?’

He shrugged.

‘Never comes? Never writes?’

‘No.’

‘Christmas card?’

‘No.’

‘But you two were best mates, I heard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thick as thieves, weren’t you?’ smiled Dick.

He nodded.

‘Not very nice that,’ I said. ‘Some bloody friend he turned out to be, eh?’

Nothing.

I asked him: ‘What about the others?’

He looked up.

‘Your other mates?’