1983

frames, a married man undressed in another woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning -

Monday 27 March 1972.

I put the teapot and cups and saucers on a tray and take it into the big room, stopping to pick up the paper, and I set the tray down on the low table and pour the tea on to the milk and I open the paper:

POLICE CHIEF’S SON KILLED IN CRASH

George Greaves, Chief Reporter

The son of top local policeman George Oldman was killed when the car his father was driving was involved in a head-on collision with another vehicle on the A637 near Flockton, late Saturday night.

Detective Superintendent Oldman’s eldest daughter was also described as being in a serious condition in intensive care at Wakefield’s Pinderfields Hospital. Mr Oldman and his wife, Lillian, and their other daughter were being treated for minor injuries and shock and it was believed they would be discharged later today.

The driver of the other vehicle is described as being in a serious but stable condition, although police have yet to release the driver’s name.

It is believed that Mr Oldman and his family were returning from the wedding reception of another policeman when their car collided with a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction.

Mr Oldman’s son John was eighteen.

‘What is it?’ says Mandy behind me -

I hold up the paper.

She says nothing -

‘You knew?’ I ask.

Nothing -

Just the branches tapping against the pane, whispering over and over:

‘We’ll see you in the tree, in her branches.’

Part 4. There are no spectators

‘There are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times.’

– Voltaire

Chapter 38

You can’t sleep; you can’t sleep; you can’t sleep -

Your head hurts, your mouth hurts, your eyes hurt;

But you drive; drive all night; drive in circles -

Circles of hell; local, local hells:

‘The mother of the missing Morley child, Hazel Atkins, yesterday renewed her appeal for information about the disappearance of her ten-year-old daughter.

‘“I know in my heart that Hazel is alive and that someone somewhere is keeping her. I would like to ask that person to please bring Hazel home to her family and we will help you in any way we can. But we need you to bring her home today because we miss her very, very much.”

‘Hazel disappeared on her way home from school in Morley three weeks yesterday. Police have made a number of arrests since that day but have yet to charge anyone in connection with the case nor have they had any confirmed sightings of the missing girl since her disappearance on May 12.’

It is Friday 3 June 1983 -

You can’t sleep because you hurt; you hurt so you drive; you drive in circles;

Circles of tears; local, local tears:

D-6 .

Shangrila -

An enormous white bungalow lain bare on a wet black hill.

You walk up the drive, past the goldfish and the new Rover, the rain on your bandages and your bruises.

You press the doorbell. You listen to the chimes.

It is six-thirty and the milk is on the doorstep.

The door opens -

He is in his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas. He blinks. He says: ‘John?’

‘Clive.’

‘Look like you’ve been in the wars, John?’

‘I have,’ you tell him. ‘A fucking long one and it isn’t over.’

‘That which doesn’t kill us -’

‘Fuck off, Clive.’

McGuinness looks at you. He says: ‘So what brings you out to my house at six-thirty on a Friday morning, John?’

‘Answers, Clive. I want some fucking answers.’

‘And you can’t just pick up a bloody phone and set up a meeting like anyone else, can you?’

‘No.’

‘John, John,’ he sighs. ‘He was guilty. He hung himself. End of fucking story.’

You don’t say anything.

‘Give it up as a bad job, mate.’

You wait.

‘OK?’ he says.

You cough. You turn. You spit once on his drive.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’ he says. ‘Now if you don’t bloody mind, John, I want to get dressed and have my breakfast. Some of us have still got an office to go to.’

You have your foot in his door. You say: ‘Michael Myshkin.’

‘What?’

‘I’m here about Michael Myshkin, Clive.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s appealing. I’m representing him.’

He looks at you.

‘What?’ you say. ‘Didn’t Maurice Jobson tell you?’

He blinks.