Reginald Hill: Deadheads

'All right, lad,' growled the sergeant, advancing.

Jonty feinted to retreat, then suddenly sprinted forward, ducking under Wield's outstretched arms and nearly falling. Wield grabbed and the boy swung the heavy candlestick against his kneecap.

'Jesus Christ!' cried Wield as Jonty recovered his balance and went dashing up the stairs. On the landing he paused uncertainly. In some little pain, Wield was hobbling after him. The fleeing boy turned once more and rushed into the master bedroom.

Wield heard a babble of voices, then one voice — Jonty's — screamed, 'You fucking black wanker!' Then there was a crash and a cry and a thud, then silence.

Pain forgotten, Wield ran up the last flight of stairs and flung himself into the bedroom.

The window was open. On the floor beneath it lay the crumpled body of Police Cadet Singh. By his head was the silver candlestick and from his head coiled a line of blood like an undone ribbon.

There was a cry from the window. Wield peered out. Distantly he saw the green van careening down the drive, doors still open and banging against the sides like some discordant cymbals. But it was going nowhere. A police car was gently nosing forward between the avenue of holly bushes, blocking the way.

The cry was closer at hand. Jonty Marsh had swung himself over the sill and was trying to reach a drainpipe some five feet to his left. He clearly wasn't able to make it. The one hand by which he still clung to the sill was white with the strain, but not as white as the terrified face that looked up towards Wield.

The sergeant instinctively grabbed the boy's wrist just as the fingers began to slide off the smooth stone. Despite his slight build, he was heavy enough to make Wield gasp as he felt the full weight pulling at his arm. He was leaning too far out for his strong back and leg muscles to contribute much to the effort, but the greatest weakness was in his will. His mind was full of the boy at his feet with his eyes closed and his head bleeding, rather than the boy at the end of his arm with his eyes wide with terror and his mouth piping piteous bird-like cries. The sweat of effort and the sweat of fear lubricated their gripping hands and he could feel Jonty Marsh slipping away and he was not sure that he cared.

Then Pascoe was by his side, leaning out to grab the boy by the arm, saying 'Come up, you young bastard!' and suddenly he was a feather weight and came plunging back through the window like a hooked trout.

Pascoe dumped the boy on the floor with a force which knocked the remaining breath out of him and said, 'Lie still, sonny, or I'll chuck you back.'

Now he turned to help Wield with the injured cadet. To his surprise the sergeant was kneeling by the boy's head, his hands fluttering nervously over but not touching him, his craggy face, in whose rocks and hollows emotion usually lay deeply hid, cracked wide in an earthquake of violent grief.

'Sergeant!' said Pascoe.

The stricken eyes turned up to meet his.

'He's dead,' said Wield in a hoarsely vibrant tone. 'He's dead!'

Below the moving hands, Cadet Singh's eyelids twitched, then opened.

'You'd better not tell him that,' said Pascoe. 'Now for God's sake, go and rustle up an ambulance!'

(Climber.Vigorous, healthy, abundant foliage, profuse white flowers with faint blush, high climbing, sweet-scented.)

Dick Elgood had not been lying when he said that he liked to relax alone on the night before an important meeting.

He left the offices of Perfecta at six o'clock, pausing to glance at the old Elgoodware artefacts on display in the vestibule. This is how it had all started. Here were the beginnings of the road which had led him to where he was now. Which was where? He felt uneasy at the thought. It was daft! How could the condition, the achievement, which only a few weeks ago had seemed such a cause for congratulation, for complacency even, now appear hollow, empty, meaningless? Perhaps a man needed more than work. An interest, an obsession. Like Aldermann's garden and his bloody roses! What did he have? Women, a lot of 'em, more than he could recall. That was something, surely. Pleasure; ecstasy; and more to come. His strength was less than it had been, but far from failing. Perhaps he should have arranged for a bit of company tonight. He thought of telephoning around, but decided it was too late. And surely it was best to stick to his plan.

Nevertheless, the desire for company remained, and he didn't go straight to the cottage but drove first to a favourite restaurant some ten miles up the coast where he had a steak. There was a new waitress, a smiling lass, who caught his fancy and he lingered longer than he intended over his coffee and brandy. But when he judged the moment ripe to ask what time she finished, she replied promptly, as though the question had been anticipated, that her father collected her shortly after eleven. Dick finished his brandy philosophically, guessing that one of her colleagues had played bitch in the manger and warned her off. He had certainly used the place often enough for his reputation to be known, and like most dedicated followers of the fancy, his sexual vanity did not permit him to consider that perhaps the girl simply didn't like the look of him.

It was after ten-thirty when he arrived at the cottage, much later than he had intended. He felt vaguely dissatisfied as he stood by the white post which marked the furthest encroachment of the sea and gazed down at the darkling shore where a thin white line and a rhythmic susurration signalled the retreating tide. He should have stuck to his original intention and come straight down. Now he would have to forgo his anticipated swim. Food, alcohol and an ebb tide were ingredients which mixed to disaster. And in any case, though usually he regarded the water as simply an alternative element, tonight the moving darkness stretching away to an imperceptible horizon filled him with a sense of menace and being alone. Shivering, he turned and went inside.

His customary pre-bed cup of cocoa with a shot of rum soothed his slightly ruffled nerves and he soon fell asleep. But he passed a broken night, waking frequently out of ancient dreams of flying and falling to listen to the strange patterns of noise that sea and wind and darkness were weaving all around. He was glad to get up on Wednesday morning, gladder to see that even so early the sun was already beaming promises of great warmth from an untroubled sky. The sea was its old self, dancing invitingly in the little bay below the cliff. He was tempted to go straight down, but at his age such suddenness was to be avoided. He did some stretching and warming exercises, then took his usual little breakfast of pure apple juice and a dry crispbread and black coffee. Then he relaxed and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Finally he was ready.

He put on his towelling robe and clambered down the broken cliff face to the beach. He removed the robe, looked around, and removed his trunks also. He liked to swim naked but was very careful to do so only when he could be almost completely certain of being uninterrupted. He had no desire to be dragged into court on an indecency charge.

As always, his swim invigorated him mentally and physically, reminding him of both his fitness and his self-sufficiency. He was hardly puffing as he clambered back up the cliff and re-entered the cottage.

He went straight into the shower cubicle to wash off the salt water. Carefully adjusting the jet till he got the perfect temperature, he stepped inside. First he soaped himself all over, then he poured shampoo on to his still thick and vigorous hair and began to massage it to a lather. The water ran steadily, caressing his body. It wasn't for some time that he felt the first prickles of discomfort. It wasn't bad, just as if he were showering after too long an exposure to a burning sun. He raised his head to the streaming water, letting it run over his face. His eyes prickled as if he'd got soap in them. He opened them to wash it out. And screamed as they seemed to burst into flame.