Reginald Hill - Under World

‘You reckon? Try being a motorcyclist. Try not being a cop,’ said Wield. Then he added in a voice a little lower but quite audible, ‘Try being gay.’

‘Thanks but no thanks!’ Pascoe heard himself say, then, ‘Oh shit, Wieldy, I’m sorry, it’s the booze.’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Wield equably. ‘It’s a conditioned response. The station canteen, the Club bar, that’s the kind of thing you’ve got to say to show your credentials. I’ve done it myself in the early days.’

‘And now?’ asked Pascoe.

‘And now? I’ve been in a kind of limbo these past few weeks. I’d said to myself: No more, I’m coming out, from now on in I’ll be myself. But what’s that? I mean, for me to start going up to people who know me and saying, “Have you heard? I’m gay!” that’s so far from what I am that it’d almost be as dishonest as the way I was before. I’ve never been promiscuous, or mebbe I conditioned myself there too, and with these scare stories about AIDS around, I’m certainly not about to start. I did go into the Jolly Waggoner on Childersgate one night, you know, the one they call the Gay Galloper. I bought a drink and someone said, “My God, darling, the fuzz are really scraping the barrel for their agents provocateurs , aren’t they?” I drank up and left. I mean, what else was there to do? I couldn’t see any future, or much point, in standing on a chair and trying to persuade them all I really was gay. More to the point, I found myself thinking it was none of their bloody business. In fact it’s no one’s except mine. I am what I’ve made myself and that’s the way I’ll stay till I make myself something else. So no crap. I’ll never lie again about being gay, but I’ll not take a full-page spread in the Post to advertise it either. Does that make sense to you, Peter?’

This was certainly the longest and most personal speech Pascoe had ever heard Wield make.

He said, ‘What do I know? But yes, it makes sense to me, for what that’s worth.’

‘A lot,’ said Wield seriously. ‘Right. That’s that. And don’t worry. If you don’t go on about your sex life, I’ll not go on about mine! Is there owt new about Mr Watmough?’

Pascoe accepted the change of direction with a relief he felt slightly ashamed of.

‘I gather there’s a lot of pressure from high up to get him to shut up, but I doubt if he’s really in control now and it takes lawyers with a good case to shut someone like Ogilby up. I’ve tried two or three times to get hold of Monty Boyle, but he’s never available and he never rings back. I think I’ll have to go out looking for him. But there’s no way next Sunday’s piece won’t be printed, I’m afraid.’

Ellie came back into the room. Pascoe knew at once that there was something bothering her. She said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go out.’

Pascoe said, ‘What’s up? Not your father, is it?’

Ellie’s father in Lincolnshire had for some time been drifting into the happy but hazardous land of senile dementia. He was quite capable of going for a walk on a country path which had been replaced by a four-lane highway twenty years ago.

‘Oh no,’ said Ellie. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just one of my students. He sounds a bit agitated about something so I think I ought to put in a bit of the old pastoral care.’

Wield began to rise, saying, ‘I really ought to be going …’ but Ellie put her hands on his shoulders and pressed him firmly down again.

‘No, don’t make me feel guiltier than I do,’ she said. ‘You stay, finish the bottle. Or Peter will make you some more coffee.’

‘Do you have to go?’ asked Pascoe petulantly, because petulance hid his real feelings.

Ellie smiled without much humour.

‘That’s usually my line when Dalziel rings, isn’t it? And don’t tell me that’s different. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

She left too swiftly for him to reply. He thought of going after her and continuing their discussion in the hallway but he knew that would only upgrade it to a row. A moment later they heard the sound of Ellie’s car.

‘I hope she missed your leathers,’ said Pascoe, trying for brightness.

‘I thought Mrs Pascoe — Ellie — had given up her job at the college,’ said Wield speculatively.

‘This is a University course, extra-mural,’ said Pascoe. ‘Miners.’

‘Miners?’ said Wield. His face as usual gave nothing away. Pascoe wished he could feel as sure of his own control. He’d never heard the voice on the phone before, but he’d recognized it instantly with a certainty which his conscious mind had dismissed as absurd. Colin Farr, the Marvellous Boy. Colin Farr.

‘Why am I driving so fast?’ Ellie Pascoe asked herself. ‘I’m like some kid rushing out on her first date, terrified she’ll be late and he’ll have gone on without her!’

The comparison was not as amusing as it should have been. There was a light drizzle in the air, enough to smear but not to clear the screen. Wield was going to need his leathers. She pressed the cleaner button but no water squirted out. She remembered now that she’d noticed the bottle was empty last time she’d tried to use it. She slowed down, straining her eyes to see through the dirt-striated glass. Ahead a signpost pointing down a minor road said Lardley 6 miles . She turned down it. There were no cat’s-eyes and any number of ambiguous forks but finally she saw ahead of her the obscure light of a telephone box standing at a five-lane crossroads.

Anyone else would have been sheltering inside but Colin Farr was sitting on the grass verge with his back against the door and his eyes closed. Between his legs was a bottle. As she got out of the car she saw with horror that his golden curls were caked with blood, his face was bruised and his jerkin and jeans were torn.

‘Colin, what’s happened?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Are you hurt badly?’

He opened his eyes, laughed and said, ‘Why? Will you kiss it better?’

‘For God’s sake, get up and get into the car,’ she said angrily. ‘If you want to get pneumonia as well, that’s your business, but I don’t.’

She climbed back into the car and a moment later he opened the passenger door and slumped in beside her.

‘Right,’ she said firmly, determined not to risk having sympathy mocked again. ‘What’s going on? You weren’t all that coherent. Have you been in an accident?’

‘Very sharp of you, Mrs Pascoe,’ he said. His voice was slurred.

‘Was anyone else involved?’

He started counting on his fingers.

‘Well, there was me and the bike and the tree,’ he said. ‘That makes three.’

He burped and she smelled the sweet heavy smell of rum. The sailor’s drink.

‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said.

‘Christ, you sound just like my mam, or a bloody wife!’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ve had a couple of jars. So what?’

‘So you shouldn’t have been driving,’ she said weakly.

‘I wasn’t,’ he said with his slow smile. ‘I had my eyes closed and me hands on me head. If they built straight roads round here, I’d likely still be going.’

‘Why did you ring me, Colin?’ she demanded.

‘Why’d you come?’ His voice was stronger.

‘I thought you were in trouble.’

‘And that bothered you? Must be bloody good money they pay you at yon University to come running like this! Was that your husband that answered the phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t he mind you rushing off like that?’

‘He didn’t say what he thought.’

‘Silly twat,’ said Farr.

Ellie said, ‘All right, Colin. I’m pleased you’re not badly hurt and I see now I misunderstood you. So, out you get. Have you got plenty of change? You may have to ring quite a few taxi firms before you find one that will come out here.’