Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“Well, they can afford it, can’t they? Out of those millions they’ll be saving once you get my literature group grant axed. Feeling pleased with yourself now you’ve kicked that bunch of sheep on your committee into recommending it, are you?”

“Nowt personal, Mr. Penn. You’ve got to treat the symptoms till you can cure the disease.”

“And what would that disease be?”

“Civic melogamania,” said Steel, mispronouncing the word carefully.

“That would be, what? An over-enthusiasm for music?” said Penn.

“Got it wrong, did I?” said Steel indifferently. “Doesn’t matter, you know what I mean. Building Fancy Dan centres like this when they’ve cut the council house budget by sixty per cent in ten years. That’s melogamania, however you say it. You want to complain about a few trendy trollops not getting paid to read mucky books, you should speak to the mayor. Or his missus. She’s a big fan of yours, I hear. Not big enough to save your class, but, not even rationing his oats. Not to worry, more to go round the rest, eh? Talk of the devil, there he is. How do, Your Lordship! Who’s looking after the maggots?”

The mayor was passing by. He gave Steel a nasty look, while across the room his wife turned her head to send Steel a promissory glare which turned to a lionizing smile when she saw Charley Penn.

Steel appropriated the smile to himself, and called, “How do, Margott? Looking well. Hey, luv, don’t pass a starving man without throwing a crumb.”

This change of direction was caused by Rye Pomona’s approaching within hailing distance with her tray which the councillor proceeded to lighten with more speed than discrimination.

“Shall I get you some more, Mr. Steel?” enquired Rye sweetly.

“No, lass. Not unless you can lay your hands on something a bit more substantial.”

“Such as?”

“A few slices of rib beef and a couple of roast spuds wouldn’t come amiss.”

“Rib beef and roast spuds. I’ll mention it in the kitchen,” said Rye seriously.

“I bet you will,” said Steel, laughing splutteringly. “You work in the library, don’t you, luv?”

“That’s right.”

“So tell me, this waitressing job you’re doing, you getting paid library rates plus overtime, or skivvy rates plus tips?”

“Watch it, Steel,” grated Penn. “That’s offensive even by your low standards.”

Rye looked at him coldly and said, “I think I can speak for myself, Mr. Penn. In fact I’m doing it on a purely voluntary basis, so there’s no charge to the public purse. But of course, if you care to leave a tip …”

“Nay, lass,” laughed Steel. “Only tip I’ll give you is, I like my spuds roasted almost black. But I don’t suppose I’ll be getting any here, so I’ll just have another handful of these to put me on till me lunch.”

He reached towards a plateful of cocktail sausages but Rye pushed the whole tray towards him so that he had to grasp hold of it to keep it off his chest.

“Tell you what, Councillor,” she said. “Why don’t you take the lot, then you can pick through them at your leisure. And I can take a look at the art.”

She let go of the tray, nodded at Steel, ignored Penn’s congratulatory smile and turned to meet Hat Bowler.

“So you made it, then?” she said. “Come on, there’s something I want you to see.”

There are some revelations which are certain without being clear .

For a fraction of a second-though I knew without doubt that this was the one-I didn’t understand why, and I could not foresee how .

But even before I could commit the blasphemy of asking why and how, my averted head let my eyes see the single answer, and all that remained was when .

Though whether when? is appropriate for an event which takes place outside of time is a question to scotch a Scotist .

Perhaps, the fancy came to me, time suspended would permit me to perform my duty, and when time resumed, all these people, policemen and journalists included, would find to their uncomprehending horror that one of their number lay dead among them, and no one had noticed a thing!

But it was not to be. My aura still burned bright but the flow of time was not yet slowing. I was still here and now .

But soon …

Oh yes, I knew it must be soon …

As PAsCOE watched Bowler move away, making a bee-line for the girl from the library, he found he was smiling.

Who was it said that middle age began when you started looking fondly on the young, and old age when you started really resenting the bastards?

Probably Dalziel.

Time to check out the art.

He’d been checking for several minutes without much enthusiasm when someone touched his shoulder and said, “Peter, how’re the muscles? Recovered enough for another go?”

He turned to see Sam Johnson grinning at him.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he said. “Nice to see you, though. I wanted a word. I spotted Franny Roote earlier. He with you?”

It was hardly a subtle approach but Johnson was too sharp for obliquities, as Pascoe had discovered when he’d checked out Roote’s story with him. Now the lecturer emptied his wine glass, seized another off a passing tray, and said, “Yes, I got Franny an invite. Is that a problem?”

“No problem. Just an occupational reflex,” said Pascoe lightly. “You see him as a bright student, I see him as an old customer.”

“I also see him as a friend,” said Johnson. “Not a close friend maybe, but getting that way. I like him very much.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” said Pascoe. “Can’t be much wrong with a bright student whose supervisor likes him very much.”

It came out a bit sharper than he intended. Something about Johnson acted on him as a mild irritant, the same thing probably which had provoked him into that farcical non-game of squash from which his shoulder was still aching. Not that there was anything obviously irritating about the young academic. Boyish without being childish, good-looking this side of matinee idol, bright but not in-your-face smart ass, entertaining in a self-mocking rather than self-congratulating style, totally non-menacing, he had somehow contrived to ripple the Pascoe pond. The DCI had thought about it long and hard. Jealousy? A man might be forgiven for feeling a little jealous of someone who could make his wife laugh so much. But Ellie Pascoe had been through experiences in recent months which might have crushed a lesser woman and to Pascoe the sound of her laughter was a blessed affirmation that all was well. He heard it now and over Johnson’s shoulder glimpsed her with a trio consisting of Charley Penn, Percy Follows and Mary Agnew. Which of them had made Ellie laugh wasn’t clear, but Pascoe felt nothing but gratitude. Not that either of these men looked possible candidates for jealousy. Penn with his cavernous eyes and sunken cheeks was hardly a romantic threat, while Follows was of the type Ellie unkindly categorized as prancers, with his mane of honey gold hair, his flamboyant gestures, his flowery language, his bow ties and garish waistcoats. “I don’t mind if he’s really gay,” Ellie had said, “but I can’t be doing with it as a fashion statement.”

So, no jealousy there, and not even in the case of the much more desirable young lecturer. Then what was it in Johnson that stirred him up?

Eventually and reluctantly he’d come to the conclusion that he felt Johnson as a challenge to, or more accurately perhaps, a comment on his way of life.

There’d been a point years back at the end of university when he’d stood uncertainly at a fork in the track; then, with a deep breath and many a half-regretful backward glance, he’d set his foot on the road that had brought him to his present state.