Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

They said their farewells. At the door I turned to give Bill a wave of gratitude and he made an approving nod of his head.

The tickets said Row D. Because of the size of the orchestra and all the choirs involved, rows A, B and C had been removed. We were in the front row.

"The front row!" Annabelle whispered, incredulously. "We're in the front row!"

"I don't muck about," I told her. "I just hope the conductor is not too enthusiastic with the baton. I could easily lose an eye."

"Watch out for the trombones," she warned.

"Maybe we should have brought an umbrella," I replied.

The warm-up piece was a Stockhausen. The orchestra pl inked and clanged through it with concentrated enthusiasm that wasn't matched by its reception from the audience. A few know-alls cheered and everybody took too many bows. Then the removal men came on and reorganised everything. When the stage was set for the new piece the orchestra began to filter back. The percussionists tuned the big timpani, hinting at what was to come. Line after line of choristers filed on, recruited from every choral society in the North, plus a couple of school choirs. Slowly the huge stage filled and everybody coughed and tuned instruments and fidgeted for the last time. Then, as if to a signal from the back of the hall, a hush came over the auditorium.

I winked at the cello player. He winked back.

Annabelle leaned towards me. "I think the cello player fancies me," she whispered.

"No. He fancies me. I fancy you," I hissed, taking her hand.

The leader entered and bowed and was applauded. Then the conductor. He was popular. Not everyone had my view of him. His shirt looked as if he'd worn it all week and his suit needed cleaning. He turned to the stage, raised his baton, and, a few seconds later, the first crashing chords of Orff s greatest hit shook the fabric of the building.

I'm a lowbrow when it comes to music. Decent melodies and plenty of biff-bash are what I like. Sitting there, next to the most beautiful woman in the place, I'd probably still have been as happy as a sparrow on a chimney if they'd just tuned up for the next hour, but the music engulfed me. Carmina Burana is based around a collection of medieval verses written mainly in Latin. Some are sacred, others profane. It could have been written for us, I thought. All too soon the orchestra began the relentless build-up to what must be the longest finale in the repertoire. At the end every pair of lungs on stage was at full extent, fiddlers' elbows were going like mating rabbits and the drummers were flailing their arms as if attempting flight. And then it was over.

After a moment's breathless silence some courageous soul shouted:

"Bravo!" and we erupted into applause. I turned to Annabelle and she was as delighted as a schoolgirl. The leader and conductor had more bows than the Royal Navy and she clapped every one.

We joined the throng shuffling up the aisle, the rhythms and tunes and wa-wump! of the big drums still pulsing through our bodies. "That was wonderful," Annabelle told me. "It's so nice to have an influential friend." She took my left arm in both of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. I buried a kiss in her hair.

In the foyer we merged with a sea of excited, smiling faces and were borne slowly towards the exit, which is a revolving door, flanked on each side by a swing door. Coming from the centre aisle we were in the stream of people heading towards the revolving door.

I remember wondering what etiquette demanded in such situations, but it was out of my control. When it was our turn the pressure of bodies propelled me in first and Annabelle squeezed behind me. We shuffled forwards, and she placed her hands on my hips. It didn't feel right I ought to be following her. I made a few movements with my feet, as if doing a party dance, and felt her echo my steps.

We moved round in a semi-circle and slowly a gap appeared and enlarged.

Eager to make amends for my slip of manners, I stepped briskly out and skipped to one side, raising my arm in an extravagant gesture, like a bullfighter making a pass.

Both barrels of the shotgun roared simultaneously.

The blast passed between my body and my arm, taking bits of my jacket with it, and I felt the heat of the muzzle-flash on the side of my face. Glass shattered and Annabelle jerked backwards against the panel of the door behind her, before flopping to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, like a discarded marionette, after the curtain has fallen.

I tried to get to her, but the people in the segment behind were screaming and yelling and trying to get back into the building. I heard a voice, my own, shouting "No! No!" somewhere outside my head.

When the people behind were safely in the foyer I attempted to pull the door open but Annabelle's body was jamming it. Eventually I made a gap and squeezed through to her. I grasped her under the shoulders and reversed out on to the town hall steps, her long legs unfolding as I retreated and broken glass crunching under my feet. I sat there on the top step, with Annabelle cradled in my arms, trying to stem the blood, until the ambulance came and they took her from me.

They lifted her on to a stretcher with infinite gentleness and wrapped her in a bright blue blanket. The stretcher fitted on to a trolley which was exactly the same height as the back of the ambulance. It slid straight in and the wheels folded up. The paramedic closed the door and swung the handle to fasten it. I watched the ambulance slip away into the night, lights flashing, as sirens and other blue lights converged on the town hall.

Inside the station everyone was running around like ants on a pan lid.

An exasperated sergeant kept asking me for a description of the gunman, and couldn't believe that I hadn't seen anything. I sat hunched on a hard chair in an interview room, feeling like a figure of ridicule, while officers ran in and out, shouted instructions and cursed. Bill Goodwin appeared and rescued me from further harassment by taking me to his office. He found a West Yorkshire Police sweater and I swapped it for my jacket and shirt.

"I should have gone with her," I said.

"No, you'd only have been in the way. You did the right thing."

I picked up the phone to ring the hospital, but he put his hand over it. "Give them a few more minutes, Charlie, then I'll ring. They won't know anything yet." He asked a constable to make us two teas, but I didn't touch mine.

Gilbert arrived, closely followed by Sam Evans. "Are you all right, Charlie?" Sam asked.

"I'm OK, but I wish I'd gone with the ambulance. Will they know how she is yet?"

"Have you tried ringing?"

"No," Bill replied. "I thought we'd give them a bit longer."

"They might tell me," said Sam, picking up the phone.

He asked for the sister in Casualty and introduced himself. He listened and nodded and looked grave. We heard him ask: "Could you let me know as soon as there's any further news?"

I sat up; that meant she was still alive.

"They're taking her to surgery, they'll let us know."

"I'm getting over there," I told them, jumping to my feet.

"I'll take you," Gilbert said. "You're in no fit state to drive."

Sam came with us. A police car was parked outside the hospital entrance, its lights switched off. Gilbert and I recognised it as an ARV.

Sam led us expertly down various dimly illuminated corridors until we were in the casualty department. It was rush hour. The place was filled with Friday-night boozers, suffering stab wounds, broken arms and sundry minor injuries. Somebody in a cubicle made gurgling noises as a pipe was passed into his stomach to drain its alcoholic contents.

A youth with a Mohican haircut and gold rings in his nose and eyebrows was complaining that his girlfriend was having a bad trip.