Spandau Ballet -
True.
She stands up. She switches off the radio.
You go over to the sink. You rinse cold water over the plates and the grill. You turn around, hands still wet. You say: ‘What was Jimmy doing in Morley?’
‘What?’
‘When they nicked him? Why was he in Morley?’
She shrugs. She says: ‘He was coming to see me.’
‘You?’
‘It’s where I live, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Do now.’
She goes out of the kitchen. You follow her into the front room. She is putting on her coat.
You are stood in the doorway. You say: ‘Dangerous place, Morley.’
She doesn’t say anything. She walks towards you. She says: ‘Excuse me.’
You say: ‘Do you know Hazel Atkins? Her family?’
She shakes her head. She tries to push past you.
You grab her arm: ‘What about Clare Kemplay? Did you know her?’
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Jimmy did.’
‘Fuck off,’ she hisses. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Michael Myshkin told me.’
‘What does he know.’
‘He knew Jimmy; they were mates.’
‘Fuck off,’ she spits. ‘It was years ago and they were never mates; they were only bloody kids.’
‘Best mates, Michael said.’
‘It was years ago and Jimmy’s bloody dead because of that fucking Joey!’
And that’s it:
She’s gone -
Just like that.
You drive through Wakefield and out over the Calder, the car retching and then coughing, hacking its way up the Barnsley Road and out past the Redbeck -
Putting one and one together:
Michael Myshkin and Jimmy Ashworth -
Jimmy and Michael, Michael and Jimmy -
One and one to make:
‘… and 1970s are in urgent need of repair; senior detectives searching for missing Morley schoolgirl Hazel Atkins will again travel to Rochdale having discounted the reported weekend sighting of Hazel at an Edinburgh fair…’
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.
Another silent house on Newstead View, Fitzwilliam -
The fire and TV off -
Just the clock ticking and the whistle of another boiling kettle.
Mrs Ashworth comes back in with two mugs of tea.
She hands you yours: ‘Sugar?’
You nod.
‘How many?’
‘Three please.’
She passes you the bag: ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
She sits down. She says: ‘I’m sorry about other day. I’m feeling more myself now, I suppose.’
‘That’s good,’ you say. ‘But it’s going to take a bit of time.’
She nods: ‘That’s what the doctor says. But everyone’s been very helpful, very kind.’
Just the clock ticking -
You say: ‘I saw Tessa.’
Mary Ashworth rolls her tired eyes. Mary Ashworth sighs.
You wait. You wait for her to say what she wants to say -
Wait for her to say: ‘She’s another one, you know?’
You shake your head.
She squeezes her hands together. She leans towards you. She whispers: ‘Another bloody lost cause; I tell you, if there was ever a saint for lame ducks, it was my Jimmy.’
‘That how he fell in with Michael Myshkin?’
She shakes her head: ‘She’s been through a lot, his mother, I know. But, and may God forgive me, I wish with all my heart they’d never moved here and then Jimmy would have never met him and Jimmy…’
‘When was that?’
‘That they moved here?’
You nod.
‘Must have been when Jimmy was about three or four and him, he’d have been ten or so. Not that you’d have known.’
‘They knew each other a while then?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t till Jimmy was ten or eleven himself that they started palling around.’
‘So Michael would have been a teenager? Sixteen or seventeen?’
‘Physically.’
‘Didn’t worry you then, them two being friendly?’
‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘He was harmless, leastways that’s what folk thought.’
You nod.
‘And,’ she continues. ‘Wasn’t like it was just them two. There were others.’
‘Others?’
‘Four or five of them.’
‘They still about?’
She sits back. She scratches her nose.
You push: ‘Remember who?’
‘Kevin Madeley, he would have been one of them. Little Leonard, but he was a bit younger and maybe they’d moved by then. It’s such a long time ago. The Hinchcliffes’ lad, Stuart maybe. There were others and all, you know how kids are?’
The clock ticking -
The bells ringing: ‘They still about?’
‘Kevin Madeley, he moved over Stanley way. I think the Hinchcliffe lad went down South. Birmingham somewhere.’
Distant bells: ‘Their parents? They still live local?’
‘The Madeleys do,’ she says. ‘Mrs Madeley, she worked with his mother.’
‘Mrs Myshkin?’
‘Aye,’ she nods.
‘Dinner lady?’
She nods. She finishes her tea. She keeps hold of her mug on her lap.
You pull your notebook from your pocket. You find your pen. You start to write down some of the names and dates.
She says: ‘What about your brother?’
You stop writing. You look up. You say: ‘What about him?’
‘Always lived round here, hasn’t he?’
You shrug.
‘Not close these days?’ she smiles. ‘You and your Pete?’
You shake your head: ‘Not really, no.’
‘He blame you, does he?’ she asks. ‘Business with your father, then your mother?’
‘Mrs Ashworth, I -’
‘Mr Ashworth does,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes with the ends of her apron. ‘Blames me, I know he does. See it written all over his face every time he looks at me.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ you lie again.
She sniffs. She tries to smile. She says: ‘He might know something, mightn’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Your Pete.’
You shake your head. You think about your brother -
Men not here -
Your father -
Not here.
You say: ‘I want to talk to you about Clare Kemplay.’
She stares at you. She says: ‘Is this for my Jimmy or her down road?’
‘I need to ask you -’
‘Not again,’ she sighs.
‘It’s important -’
‘It’s so bloody long ago -’
‘But -’
‘What’s the point in -’
‘Please -’
‘Raking over -’
‘Mrs Ashworth, please I -’
‘Not going to bring him back -’
‘Look,’ you shout. ‘Clare Kemplay is the bloody reason they picked Jimmy up.’
She stops speaking. She closes her eyes. She clutches the mug tight in her hands. She opens her eyes. She looks at you. She says: ‘He had nothing to do with that and he had nothing to do with this.’
‘He knew Clare Kemplay.’
‘He didn’t know her. He’d seen her. That’s all.’
‘He said she was beautiful.’
‘Who did?’
‘Your Jimmy.’
‘No.’
‘To Michael.’
She shakes her head.
‘He knew her. He found her.’
‘The wrong place -’
‘What about Hazel Atkins?’
She shakes her head again.
‘He was in Morley one week later, the exact time she’d gone missing.’
‘The wrong time -’
‘But why?’
She closes her eyes again.
You tell her: ‘Tessa says he was there to meet her.’
She shakes her head. She opens her eyes. She says: ‘He didn’t…’