Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"You never had children?"

The clouds came back. "No. It wasn't to be. Something else that Peter put down to God's will. Understanding what is willed by God and what isn't is a science known only to a few."

For the first time I detected that things had not always been sunshine and roses between the bishop and his lady. "What happened to him?" I asked.

"Cancer. He wouldn't see the doctor because he thought it was the malaria and it would just run its course. When he did go for tests it was too late. It took him two painful years to die." She fixed me with her blue eyes. "My faith was never as strong as his, Charles.

What I experienced in Biafra saw to that. But I'll never forget how brave Peter was; right to the end. If faith can do that I wish I had more."

It was my turn to reach out and place my hand over hers. She turned her hand over so that our fingers intertwined. I couldn't help comparing her childhood with my own: an only child of doting parents who took exaggerated pride in my modest achievements. "You've had some rough times," I said. "It hasn't all been bedtime cocoa and Winnie the Pooh, has it?"

"No. Did you think it had?"

"Yes," I confessed. "I probably did."

"C'mon," she said, rising to her feet. "Let's go where it is more comfortable."

We went through into her sitting room. It was a tasteful amalgam of the modern and the traditional; bold prints and lots of dark wood. I sank into the settee while Annabelle searched for a CD.

"Any requests?" she asked.

"Something light and breezy," I suggested.

"Vivaldi?"

"Perfect."

She came to sit alongside me and we waited for the first crystal notes to fill the room.

It wasn't really a Zen experience. Exactly the opposite, I suppose, but the feeling was similar. All of my senses were switched off except my hearing, as if I were floating in a bath of liquid so perfect that I couldn't feel its presence. Maybe my eyes were closed, or perhaps they were open but there was a complete absence of light to trigger the optic nerve. This was the state of grace that drug-takers and religious fanatics crave. The music was Mozart.

I appreciated him as I had never done before. Perfection. Maybe he was the master after all. But why Mozart? I thought. Where am I?

Ought I to be going somewhere? Has the alarm gone of? Surely it was Vivaldi a minute ago.

Oh Carruthers! I remembered where I was. It's at unguarded times like this that the real inner you expresses itself. I sat up and blurted out: "I fell asleep!" Not very bright but it could have been a lot worse.

Annabelle clutched her sides with laughter. She was sitting in one of the easy chairs. I held my head in my hands and said: "Oh God, what must you think of me?"

"I think you must have been exhausted," she said, still giggling at my discomfort.

I looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. "I'm sorry, Annabelle.

You must think I'm dreadful company. I just felt so relaxed and…"

"Don't worry about it, Charles." She'd regained her composure. "You were tired. Actually, it was quite nice to have a man snoring on the settee again." The giggling erupted once more.

"I didn't snore!" I exclaimed in horror, adding: "Did I?"

"Mmm just a little."

"Oh no! It gets worse." I slipped my shoes back on, not remembering having taken them off, and rubbed the fur from my teeth with my tongue.

"Would you like a drink before you go?" She was in full control again.

"No thanks, Annabelle. I've already overstayed my welcome. It's been a lovely evening for me, if not for you." I retrieved my jacket from the kitchen and we walked towards the front door. I said: "Annabelle, I'd like to see you at the weekend. There's a few loose ends to sort out in the office, then I want to change my priorities; sort out my life. May I see you?"

"Yes, Charles. I'd like that."

"Saturday? I'll book a table somewhere."

She shook her head. "No. I'll cook us something. You bring the wine."

"That sounds nice," I said. It was my entry for the Understatement of the Millennium competition. We were at the door. "Thanks for putting up with me."

"It should be me thanking you, Charles."

"For what?"

"For asking about Peter."

She'd opened the door slightly, allowing a blast of cold air into the hallway. I pushed it shut again and took her in my arms. I could feel the heat of her body as it moulded to mine. She was so slim my arms easily encircled he rand her ribs were a gentle ripple beneath my hands. Her lips were strong and mobile… and she took them away far too quickly.

"You smell nice," she whispered. "What is it?"

"Oh, it's er, called… Nigel's," I croaked, tracing her spine with my fingertips. "Nigel's aftershave."

"I think you ought to go, Charles," she sighed.

"Me too," I lied, adding: "Saturday," as I gave her a farewell peck on the cheek.

The rain had stopped. Or maybe a blizzard was raging — I forget. I drove away from the Old Vicarage as quietly as I could. At the end of the street I mixed up the gears and stalled the engine. Then I switched on the wipers when I tried to indicate.

The wind and rain had scrubbed the air clean, so you could see for ever. All the lights of the valley were stretched out below, prickly bright against the blackness of the night. Just above the horizon, barely broken free from the earth, was the slenderest arc of a new moon I had ever seen. It was red, like the imprint of a thumbnail dipped in blood. The thumbnail had belonged to a madman called Purley, the blood to the late Michael Ho. Bad memories came pressing in, trying to dislodge the good ones, but I didn't let them.

Dewhurst didn't die. He was charged with murder and transferred to the hospital wing at Bentley Prison. CPS didn't envisage any problems with my evidence. We have some good friends in the Chinese community, so instead of going to the police social club and getting rat-arsed I suggested we have a speciality banquet at the Bamboo Curtain. To my surprise, everyone agreed.

It was a memorable meal. Ten of us sat round the table and the dishes kept coming until we could eat no more. Sparky earned our displeasure by snaffling all the won tons He said he liked junk food. Nobody laughed. Then we went to the social club and got rat-arsed.

Houses were still being burgled in Heckley. Old ladies were having their pensions snatched and cars were being taken from unconsenting owners. Three tortoises had been stolen from different addresses.

"Tut tut," I said. "We can't have this, can we? Three tortoises purloined. What has the world come to while I've been busy? We'd better send a posse out." We were in the Super's morning meeting and I was looking at the print-out of of fences "Don't mock," rebuked Gilbert. "They're an endangered species and mean a lot to their owners. Ask the pet shops to look out for them.

Apparently it's an offence to sell one these days."

"Yes sir!"

"I've heard it said," Sparky informed us, his face a mask of solemnity, 'that some members of our immigrant population like to gamble huge sums of money on tortoise fights."

Gilbert removed his spectacles. "Listen, you cocky sods," he said.

"While you've been swarming around at vast expense to the force looking for a murderer who was under your noses all the time, everybody else has been up to their ar… ar… ar…"

"Arseholes?" '… armpits in proper crime. Earning their bread and butter. So go to it!"

Getting back to normality was difficult. I sent the troops out and settled down to writing thank-you letters to various people. Towards the end of the morning DI Peterson called in to offer his congratulations. He wanted to sit and talk, and had a defeated air about him. The library trail had grown cold so he was retreating back to Trent Division. The Mushroom Man had dropped out of the newspapers, until the next time. As Peterson left, Sparky came in.