Reginald Hill: The Price of Butcher

Right, Dalziel, sod the little thoughts, let’s start with the biggest question of them all.

How the fuck did I end up here in Sandytown talking to meself like the village loony?

Let’s try and build it up bit by bit like Ed Wield ’ud build up a case file.

Back to the big bang in Mill Street that set it all rolling.

That were the Bank Holiday, end of May.

Don’t recall much of June, mebbe ’cos I spent most of it in a coma.

Good thing about a coma, they told me, was it gave my cracked bones time to start mending. Bad thing was it didn’t do much for my muscle tone.

Never knew I had muscle tone before.

Found out the hard way.

First time I tried getting out of bed by myself, I fell over.

Let a week go by, then tried again. But this time I made sure there was a nice fat nurse to fall onto.

Third time I took three steps toward the door and fell into Pete Pascoe’s arms.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Home,” sez I. “Soon as I bloody well can.”

“How do you propose doing that?” sez he in that prissy voice he puts on.

“I’ll bloody well walk if I have to,” sez I.

He let go of me and stepped back.

I fell over.

I lay there and looked up at him with pride.

When I first met him he were a detective constable, soft as shit and so wet behind the ears you could have used him to clean windows.

Now he were my DCI, and he were hard enough to let me fall and leave me lying.

He’d come a long way and ought to go a lot further.

“Okay, clever clogs,” I sez. “You’ve made your point. Now get me back into bed.”

Soon it were getting on for August, and I were still the only one talking about going home. Cap made encouraging remarks, but changed the subject when we got on to dates. I thought, sod this for a lark, they can’t keep me here when I want to be off!

I said as much to Pete and the bugger sent in the heavy squad.

His missus, Ellie.

From the first time I met her, I saw she were already hard enough to let me fall and leave me lying. In fact, back in them early days I reckon she’d have been happy to give me a helping push.

She said, “I hear you’re talking of discharging yourself, Andy. So who’s going to look after you when you get home?”

“I’ll look after myself. Always have done,” I said.

She sighed. Women have two kinds of sighs. Long suffering and ooh-I’m-really-enjoying-that. Lot of men never learn the difference.

She said, “Andy, you got blown up in a terrorist explosion, you suffered multiple injuries, you lay in a coma for weeks…”

“Aye, and most of the time since I came out of it I’ve spent on this bloody bed,” I said. “So where’s the difference?”

“Don’t exaggerate,” she said. “You’re on a carefully planned course of supervised physiotherapy. They say you’re doing well, but it will be ages before you can look after yourself.”

“So I’ll get help from Social Services. That’s why I pay my bloody taxes, isn’t it?”

“How long do you think that’ll last?” she asked.

“Till I get fed up wi’ them? Couple of weeks mebbe. By then I should be fine.”

“I meant, till they get fed up with you! Who’ll look after you then?”

I said, “I’ve got friends.”

“Arse-licking friends maybe,” she said. “But arse-wiping ones are a bit thinner on the ground.”

Sometimes she takes my breath away! Mebbe I were taking too much credit for putting the steel into Pascoe’s backbone. Should have known that all them years the bugger were getting home tuition!

“For you mebbe,” I said. “Treat folk right and they’ll treat you right, that’s my motto. There’ll be folk queuing up to give me a hand.”

“Takes two to make a queue,” she said. “You’re talking about Cap, aren’t you?”

Of course I were talking about Cap. Cap Marvell. My girlfriend…partner…bint…tottie…none of them fits. Or all of them. Cap bloody marvelous in my book, ’cos that’s what she’s been.

“So I mean Cap. She won’t let me down. She’ll be there when I need her.”

I let it out a bit pathetic. Could see I were getting nowhere slogging it out punch for punch, but even the really hard ones are often suckers for a bit of pathos. Vulnerability they call it. Make ’em feel you need help. Stood me in good stead many a time back in my Jack-the-ladding days.

Didn’t take long to realize it weren’t going to get me anywhere now.

“Boohoo,” said Ellie. “You’ve been together a good few years now, you and Cap. But you never set up shop together, you’ve both kept your own places. Why’s that?”

She knew bloody well why it was. We’ve got our own lives, our own interests, our own timetables. There’s stuff in my pack I don’t want her getting touched by. And there’s definitely stuff in hers I don’t want to know about. Every time there’s an animal rights raid, I find myself checking her alibi! But the real big thing is lots of little things, like the way we feel about muddy boots, setting tables, using cutlery, eating pickles straight out of the jar, watching rugby on the telly, playing music dead loud, what kind of music we want to play dead loud, and so bloody on.

I said, “An emergency’s different.”

“So this is an emergency now? Right. Whose place will you set up the emergency center at? Your house or Cap’s flat? And how long will you indenture Cap as your body servant before you set her free?”

“Don’t go metaphysical on me, luv,” I said. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re not thick, Andy, so don’t pretend to be,” she said. “Cap’s life has been on hold since you got blown up. You know she’s got a very full independent existence-that’s one of the reasons you’ve never shacked up together, right? She’s not one of those ground-you-walk-on worshippers who only live for their man.”

“I know what she is a bloody sight better than thee, Ellie Pascoe!” I declared, getting angry. “And I know she’d be ready and willing to put in a bit of time taking care of me if that’s what I need!”

“Of course she would,” said Ellie with that smug look they get when they’ve made you lose your rag. “Question is, Andy, do you really want her to?”

No answer to that, at least not one I wanted to give her the satisfaction of hearing. And I didn’t say much either when she started talking about the Cedars out at Filey, the convalescent home provided by our Welfare Association for old, mad, blind, and generally knackered cops. Alcatraz, we call it, ’cos the only way out is in a box.

What I did say, all grumpy, was, “Were it Cap that put you up to this then?”

She grabbed hold of a bedpan and said, “That’s the daftest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Andy Dalziel. And if you let out so much as a hint to Cap what I’ve been talking to you about, I’ll stick this thing so far up your behind, they’ll need a tow truck to haul it out! You just lie here and think about what I’ve said.”

“Yes, miss,” I said meekly. “Tha knows, lass, Pete Pascoe’s a very lucky man.”

“You think so?” she said, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Aye,” I said. “It’s not every husband’s got a big strapping wife he can send up on the roof if ever a tile comes off in a high wind.”