1983

‘Not had a falling out, have you? You and the Chief?’

‘What do you want, John?’

‘I told you; answers.’

He swallows. He says: ‘I haven’t heard any questions yet, John.’

You smile. You say: ‘Well, I’ve heard quite a few about you, Clive.’

‘From Michael Myshkin?’

You nod.

‘So fucking what?’ he says. ‘He did it. He confessed.’

‘Just like Jimmy.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Just like Jimmy.’

‘Except Michael tells me that he didn’t do it. That his confession was gained under duress. That he told you this. But Michael says you advised him to stick to the confession. That you would help him. That he would only stay in prison for a short time.’

‘He did it, John.’

‘You were his solicitor, Clive. You were supposed to advise him of his legal rights. You were supposed to defend him.’

‘He -’

‘Protect him.’

‘Look,’ he shouts. ‘He fucking did it.’

You shake your head.

‘There was forensic evidence, John. Witnesses.’

You shake your head.

‘You know what hypogonadism is, do you, John? It means your balls don’t grow. That’s what Myshkin had. Doctors shot him full of fucking hormones. Cranked him up to ten. Poor bastard couldn’t control himself. Week before he did what he did to that poor little lass, he was wanking himself off in front of two teenage girls in the fucking graveyard next to Morley Grange Infants. He did it. He might not have been able to help himself, John, but he did it. He fucking well did it.’

You stand on his doorstep, the rain in your bandages and your bruises. You say: ‘What were their names, Clive?’

‘Who?’

‘The girls in the graveyard.’

‘I can’t remember, John,’ he sighs. ‘Be in the court records.’

‘He pleaded guilty, Clive. They were never called. Remember?’

‘For the life of me, after all these years, John, I couldn’t tell you.’

You look into his eyes, look into the lies -

The lies and the greed -

The stains from the hours before the mirror:

The lies, the greed and the guilt.

‘John, John,’ he says. ‘There’s no need for it to be like this.’

‘Be like what?’

‘Just look at the state of you, man.’

You stare at him.

‘Walk away, John,’ he tells you. ‘Walk away.’

You stare at him in his silk dressing-gown and his best pyjamas.

‘There’s nothing but pain here,’ he says. ‘Nothing but pain, John.’

‘You’re going to be the one in fucking pain, Clive.’

‘I hope that’s not a threat, John?’

‘Call it a prediction.’

‘In the fortune-telling business are you now, John?’

‘And what business are you in, Clive?’

He starts to speak -

You say: ‘How about the intention to pervert the course of justice business?’

He shrugs. He says: ‘You do like your lost causes, don’t you, John?’

You turn. You say: ‘See you in court, Clive.’

‘Don’t doubt it, John,’ he says. ‘Don’t doubt it.’

You walk down the drive, past the new Rover and the goldfish, the rain in your bandages and your bruises.

‘Maurice told me about your father, John,’ McGuinness shouts down the drive. ‘Sounds like brave men run in your family.’

You stop. You turn round. You walk back up the drive.

He starts to close the door -

You start to run.

‘Fuck off, John!’

You crash into the door. Into him -

‘Fuck off -’

You have him by his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas -

‘Fuck -’

You clench your fists. You raise them. You look down at him -

He is struggling on the floor, wriggling -

Struggling and wriggling in his silk dressing-gown and best pyjamas -

Pleading with you:

‘John, John -’

You pull him up towards you. You look at him -

‘John -’

You spit in his face. You let him go.

He falls to the floor.

You walk away.

You park in the lay-by. You turn off the engine. You wait. You watch.

Twenty minutes later, the Rover pulls out of the end of the road.

You wait for a moment. You watch it go round the bend.

You turn on the engine. You follow the Rover:

Methley -

East Ardsley -

Tingley -

Bruntcliffe Road on to Victoria Road, left up Springfield Avenue -

Morley.

You pull up on Victoria Road. You turn the car around. You park opposite Morley Grange Junior and Infants School, in the shadow of the black steeple -

The graveyard.

You are facing Springfield Avenue. You get out. You lock the doors. You cross the road. You run back along Victoria Road. You turn up Springfield Avenue. You can see his new Rover parked outside a semidetached house on the right. You walk back to your car. You get in. You wait. You watch.

Forty minutes later, the Rover comes out of Springfield Avenue. It turns left. It comes towards you.

You duck down in your seat -

McGuinness alone. McGuinness gone.

You get out. You lock the doors. You cross the road. You run back along Victoria Road. You turn up Springfield Avenue. You walk up the drive of the semi-detached house on the right. You knock on the door.

‘Spot of afters,’ she says as she opens the door. She is wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt and a pair of yellow knickers. Her mouth is open -