Nineteen Eighty-Three (Red Riding, #4)

by David Peace

The newspaper lying on the mat, face up; Hazel Atkins: Missing. You go back upstairs and puke up all the pancakes and the tea, a flabby man on his knees before his bog, a flabby man who does not love his country or his god, a flabby man who has no country, has no god – You don’t want to go to work, you don’t want to stay in the flat: A flabby man on your knees.

I like to tweet from the kindle what can i say

Fuck them – Them and the depressing music and the grating jingles on the radio, the constant rain and the tepid wind, the mongrel dogs that bark all night and shit all day, the half-cooked food and the lukewarm teas, the shops full of things you don’t want on terms you can’t meet, the houses that are prisons and the prisons that are houses, the smell of paint to mask the smell of fear, the trains that never run on time to places that are all the same, the buses you are scared to catch and your car they always nick, the rubbish that blows in circles up and down the streets, the films in the dark and the walks in the park for a fumble and a fuck, a finger or a dick, the taste of beer to numb the fear, the television and the government, Sue Lawley and Maggie Thatcher, the Argies and the Falklands, the UDA and LUFC sprayed on your mother’s walls, the swastika and noose they hung above her door, the shit through her letterbox and the brick through her window, the anonymous calls and the dirty calls, the heavy breathing and the dial tone, the taunts of the children and the curses of their parents, the eyes filled with tears that sting not from the cold but the hurt, the lies they tell and the pain they bring, the loneliness and the ugliness, the stupidity and brutality, the endless and basal unkindness of every single person every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single month of every single year of every single life –

I am a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three-quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it and dark brown trousers and brown suede calf-length boots. I turn left and see a row of six deserted narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti and their doors showing remnants of green paint, last door banging in wind, in rain. I hold open door and I step inside. It is small, about twelve feet square, and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex. There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish. In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty. A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing. A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing. On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint. I hear door open behind me and I turn around and I’m –

Back out on the pavement, staring across the road through the skeletons of half-built semis, the tarpaulin flapping in the breeze, watching the lines of black figures beating their way up the hills through the empty spaces with their big sticks and downward glances, the silent police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, the white ambulance parked at the top of the street, waiting.

much happens round here, Inspector.’

She was falling backwards into enormous depths, away from this place, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the animal sound of a mother trapped and forced to watch the slaughter of her young, contorted and screaming and howling, prone upon the linoleum floor, on the white squares and the grey squares, on the marks made by boots and the marks made by chairs, contorted and screaming and howling under the dull and yellow lights blinking on and off, on and off, the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and driving at Christmas, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of dirty dogs and overcooked vegetables, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their numbers, telling them all the things you were going to do to them, all the shit that they were in, how fucked they really were, but they were just stood there silent, waiting for the Brass to come and take you both downstairs, the whole station silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, one young gun at the back, rocking on his chair, hands behind his head, noisily chewing his gum until you flew through them, tried to reach across and grab him, choke him, but his brother officers were holding you back, telling you all the things they were going to do to you, all the shit you were in, how fucked you truly were, her back on her feet, mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, the sound of her glasses breaking under police boots, a...

We walk the hills for a third day in our black cloaks with our big sticks and our police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, searching for the scene of a crime, walking the hills for the third day in our black cloaks with our big sticks until day becomes night and we return to our wives called Joan and Patricia, Judith and Margaret, to laughter and telephones ringing through the rooms, meals being cooked, served and eaten, to our children called Robert and Clare, Paul and Hazel, to their feet upon the stairs and the slam of a ball against a bat or a wall, the pop of a cap gun and a burst balloon, to our houses in Harrogate and Wetherby, Sandal and West Bretton, our houses safe and far from harm and – Here. Until the next day when we return to walk the hills for a fourth day in our black cloaks with our big sticks and our police dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, searching for the scene of the crime, the next day and the next, walking the hills in our black cloaks with our big sticks until days become night, one endless night and we’ve got no wives called Joan or Patricia, Judith or Margaret, no children called Robert or Clare, Paul or Hazel, only our black cloaks and our big sticks, our dogs called Nigger and Shep, Ringo and Sambo, our houses in Harrogate and Wetherby, Sandal and West Bretton, our houses big and empty and – Full of nothing, nothing but – Here.

You leave her like you left your mother, alone in a dark front room with chipboard over the windows and a swastika on the door, alone with her photographs of your father, her photographs of her sons, of men not here.

I sit back down. I take out a packet of Everest from the pocket of my sports jacket. I offer one to Bill. Bill takes out a lighter. He lights both our cigarettes. We blow smoke across Marsh. His hands are flat upon the desk. Bill leans forward. Bill dangles the cigarette over Marsh’s right hand. He rolls it between two fingers, back and forth, back and forth. Marsh never flinches. Marsh silent – Room 4 quiet, the Basement quiet – The Station silent, the Headrow silent. Bill reaches forward. Bill grabs Marsh’s right wrist. Bill holds down Marsh’s right hand. Bill stubs his cigarette out into the back of Marsh’s hand. Marsh screams – Screams – But not much, not much at all. I say: ‘Put your hands flat.’ Marsh puts them flat on the table. The room stinks of burnt skin – His. ‘Another?’ I say.

Alderman steps forward. The barrel touches Marsh’s forehead. Alderman pulls the trigger – CLICK – Nothing happens. ‘Fuck,’ says Alderman. He turns away. He fiddles with the pistol. Marsh is staring straight ahead. ‘I’ve fixed it,’ says Alderman. ‘It’ll be all right this time.’ He points the pistol again – Marsh staring straight back into him. Alderman pulls the trigger – BANG – Marsh falls to the floor. I think he’s dead. Marsh opens his eyes. He looks up from the floor. He sees the smoking gun in Alderman’s hand. He sees the shreds of black material coming out of the barrel. He sees them floating down to the floor, over him – He sees us all laughing. George Marsh smiles.

You stand in the drive of a house that nobody wants to buy and you wonder what the Atkins will do, if they’ll go down South or if they’ll stay around here, stay around here and watch their neighbours’ children grow, watch their neighbours’ children grow while their own daughter rots in the ground, rots in the ground of the very place that took her away.

– An underground kingdom, an animal kingdom of badgers and angels, worms and insect cities; white swans upon black lakes while dragons soar overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swoop down through lamp-lit caverns wherein an owl searches for a sleeping little princess in her tiny feathered wings – My underground – My underground kingdom, this animal kingdom of corpses and rats and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the dirty water of old tears, dragons tearing up burning skies, empty churches and barren wombs, the fleas, rats and dogs picking through the ruin of her bones and wings, her starved white skeleton left here to weep by –

The whole room still grey and damp, grey and damp with the same smell of people who’ve travelled hundreds of miles along motorways still grey and damp, the same overweight men in uniforms still grey and damp, the same government seats still grey and damp, the same bad news still grey and damp, as the bolts and the locks slide back and forth and the alarms sound and the numbers are called and the people cough and cough and the children stare and stare until the voice from the desk by the door cries out: ‘Thirty-six’.

‘The Christian Church has always condemned magick, but she has always believed in it. She did not excommunicate sorcerers as madmen who were mistaken, but as men who were really in communion with the Devil.’ – Voltaire

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.

chiasmus

He found me hiding – In Church of Abandoned Christ on seventh floor of Griffin Hotel in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost; all covered in sleep and drunk upon a double bed, BJ lost in room 77; hair already shaved and 8 eyes shined, BJ be Northern Son. Black Angel beside BJ upon bed; his clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt; Father of Fear is weeping, whispering from among wine his death songs: Knew I was not happy –

‘And after this Joseph of Arimathæa, being a disciple of Jesus, but secretly for fear of thee Jews, besought Pilate that he might take away thee body of Jesus; and Pilate marveled if he were already dead and calling unto him thee centurion, he asked him whether he had been any while dead. And when he knew it of thee centurion, Pilate gave Joseph leave. He came therefore and took thee body of Jesus.’ Scratching my head – ‘And there came also Nicodemus, which at thee first came to Jesus by night and brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundred pound in weight. Then they took thee body of Jesus and wound it in linen clothes with thee spices, as thee manner of thee Jews is to bury their dead.’ Confused beyond existence – ‘Now in thee place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in thee garden a new sepulchre, wherein was never man yet laid, but when they laid him out upon thee rock, they saw his wounds were bloody and bleeding beneath thee white linen, they saw he was not dead –’ Sat in the corner, shivering from fright – ‘Only bleeding –’ Feeling strung up – ‘And as they were afraid and bowed their faces to thee earth, he said to them: Why seek ye thee living among thee Dead?’ Out of my clothes and into the bed – ‘E am here; E suffered and am now risen from thee Dead and ye are witnesses of these things. But know ye who did this thing, for only one person could do this, thee one who did not forsake me, for whom death is not thee end.’ The movements in his bed...

In Church of Abandoned Christ on seventh floor of Griffin Hotel in ghost bloodied old city of Leodis, BJ lost; drunk and all covered in sleep upon a double bed, BJ lost in room 77; hair already shaved and 8 eyes shined, BJ be Northern Son. Black Angel is beside BJ upon bed; his shabby clothes and burnt wings; Father of Fear, he weeps and whispers from among wine: ‘You must choose a side to be on.’ In the shadow – BJ take off every ring – In the shadow of the Horns – Head bobbed.

hmmm

When I looked for good, Then evil came unto me: And when I waited for light, There came darkness. My bowels boiled, And rested not: The days of affliction prevented me. I went mourning without the sun: I stood up, And I cried in the congregation. I am a brother to dragons, And a companion to owls. My skin is black upon me, And my bones are burned with heat. My harp also is turned to mourning, And my organ into the voice of them that weep.

Bill raises his glass: ‘To us all and to the North – where we do what we want!’ But – ‘The North,’ we reply as one and drain our whiskeys again. Many.

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 – Hazel. It is getting late – Everywhere.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. ‘Skin the cunt alive!’ he screams into BJ’s blindfolded face. BJ pass out in a pool of BJ’s own piss. The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt.

The Black Angel, the hair in his eyes and the blood on his teeth, he is standing by the window in the Church of the Abandoned Christ on the seventh floor of the Griffin Hotel in the ghost bloodied old city of Leodis. His clothes are shabby and his wings are burnt. There is a white towel upon the bed. He draws the curtains and places the wicker chair in the centre of the room. He takes off my shirt. He picks up the razor. He finishes and he blows the loose hair away. He picks up a Philips screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer. He stands behind me. He puts the point of the screwdriver on the crown of my skull. He brings the hammer down –

Susan Louise Ridyard – All big white teeth and a long fringe, smiling. The framed photograph of two girls and one boy that’ll become just one girl and one boy in the photographs on the sideboard, the photographs in the hall, the photographs on the wall, the one girl and one boy growing – Always growing but never smiling – Never smiling because of the little girl they’ll leave behind on top of the TV, the little girl who’ll be always smiling – Never growing but always smiling: Susan Ridyard – The one they’ll leave behind.

Horror – Horror and pain, rage and sadness, raining down between her bone-white fingers, raining down between her bone-white fingers on to her children, the children she clutches between her bone-white fingers and broken arms, arms shaking with the tears, the tears of pain and the tears of horror, the tears of sadness and the tears of rage, the tears for – Susan –

Saturday 14 December 1974: 100 miles an hour – North up the motorway: Never leave home, never leave home, never fucking leave home ever – Through the night, screaming: Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I am the Owl and I see everything from behind these lenses thick and frames black, everything in this upstairs room with its carpet of innocent eyes and trusting smiles, abused and exposed under a single dirty light – Unblinking –

In the underground kingdom, this animal kingdom of corpses and rats and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the dirty water of old tears, dragons tearing up burning skies, empty churches and barren wombs, the fleas, rats and dogs picking through the ruin of their bones and wings, their starved white skeletons left here to weep by the wolf –

But it is gone – Gone. I fall to my knees in the mud. I raise up my eyes and heart, blind and raw up towards the vast grey sky and I let the coarse black rain wash away the blood – From my eyes and heart, his heart and mine – I let the rain wash away the blood, wash it into the earth – This scorched and heathen earth – These scorched and heathen hearts.

the kitchen reflected back in the glass, an undead man undressed but for his white underpants, an undead man undressed in a dead woman’s flat at six o’clock in the morning –

the faded poster warning against the perils of drinking and dying at Christmas, contorted and screaming and howling, the smell of dirty clothes and unshaven faces, contorted and screaming and howling as you took down their names and their memories, telling them of all the hells they were in and all the fresh hells you’d bring, how damned they truly were, but they just sat there silently waiting for new hells to come to their houses and flats, to take them upstairs and fuck them on their bed with their eyes open wide and their mouths shaped like fish, the whole house silent but for her, her mouth open, contorted and screaming and howling, her husband rotten in his box, already on his way back down underground, a tie around his neck and truncheon by his side, stitched up stones for his teeth, as you flew across the church, tried to reach across the pews and grab Badger Bill, to kill him here and kill him now,

‘Thy way is thee sea and thy path in thee great waters, and thy footsteps are unknown.’

Hazel, Hazel, Hazel – The motorway across the Pennines, raining with occasional shotgun blasts of thunder and lightning as I drove over the Moors – More missing children, more lost children – More children, taken and murdered; More voices – Terrifying, hysterical, and screeching voices of doom, disaster and death. I drove. I drifted – Underground kingdoms, evil kingdoms of badgers and pigs, worms and insect cities; screaming swans upon black lakes while dragons soared overhead in painted skies of fading stars and then swept down through lamp-lit caverns wherein a blind owl searched for the last princess in her tiny feathered wings, the wolf back –

You turn the corner past the pile of rock and – Fuck – You see two skeletons lying on a bed of dead roses and old feathers, skulls turned up to a faded sky of bricks once blue, black cotton wool clouds stuck here and there among dim swinging Davy lamps – Two skeletons entwined in osseous embrace – Their black son rising out of the ground into the dim lamplight –

Into the lamplight, a hammer in his hand: Leonard Marsh – Little Leonard Marsh, a hammer in his hand – Head shaved and chest bare, coming towards you – His chest in bloody scars, it reads: O LUV.

‘This is for all things you made me do, for all things you had me see, for every cock I’ve ever sucked and every night I’ve never slept, for voices in my head and silence of night, for hole in my head and scars on my back, words on my chest, for boy I was and them boys that saw, Michael Myshkin and Jimmy Ash, fat Johnny Piggott and his brother Pete, Leonard Marsh and his dad George, for every little lad you ever fucked and all their dads who liked to watch, with their cameras in their hands and their cocks in my arse, your tongue in my mouth and your lies in my ear, loving you loving me, his nails in my hands and yours in my head, for that knife in my heart and this one in you –’

‘Lord, I do not understand my own actions. I know that nothing good dwells within me, in my flesh. I do not do what I want, but I do the very things that I hate. I can will what is right but I cannot do it. I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. When I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand. Wretched and damned man that I am! Will you rescue me from this body of death?’

‘What?’ I cried. ‘What can you see?’ He was smiling. He was staring at the Pietà– ‘How can you still fucking believe?’ I shouted. ‘After all the things you’ve seen?’ ‘It’s the things I’ve not seen,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘During an eclipse there is no sun,’ he smiled. ‘Only darkness.’ ‘I don’t –’ ‘The sun is still there,’ he said. ‘You just can’t see it.’ ‘I –’ ‘But in your heart you know the sun will shine again, don’t you?’ I nodded. ‘Faith,’ he whispered – ‘The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’ I turned again to the Pietà. I turned back to the wounded Christ – No other name.