Reginald Hill - Death

It was short for Macumazahn, the native name for Allan Quartermain, the hero of some of Wield's beloved H. Rider Haggard novels. It meant he-who-sleeps-with-his-eyes-open and had been given to him by a long-lost lover. No one else had ever used it until a few years ago a young man had briefly entered his life…

He put the memory of the tragic end of that relationship out of his mind. This wasn't a young man, this was a kid, and, thank God, he'd never fancied kids. It was time to wrap things up here and get himself back to the domestic peace and safety of Enscombe.

He finished his drink, pushed his chair back and said, 'OK, let's forget saving your soul and get your body delivered safely home.'

'Home? Nah. It's early doors yet.'

'Not for kids who're roaming the streets getting into fights with strange men.'

'Aye, you're right, it's been my night for strange men, hasn't it? Anyway, not sure if I want to get back on that ancient time machine of yours. No telling where you'd take me.'

Again the knowing grin. It was time to stop messing around.

Wield took out his wallet and produced his police ID.

'I can either take you home or down the nick till we find out where home is,' he said.

The boy studied the ID without looking too bothered.

He said, 'You arresting me, or wha'?'

'Of course I'm not arresting you. I just want to make sure you get home safe. And as a minor if you don't co-operate by giving me your address, then it's my job to find it out.'

'As a minor?'

The boy reached into his back pocket, pulled out a billfold thick with banknotes and from it took a ragged piece of paper. He handed it over. It was a photocopy of a birth certificate which told Wield he was in the company of Lee Lubanski, native of this city in which he'd been born nineteen years ago.

'You're nineteen?' said Wield, feeling foolish. He should have spotted it from his demeanour straight off… but kids nowadays all acted grown up… or maybe he hadn't been looking at the youth like a copper should…

'Yeah. Always getting hassled in pubs is why I carry that around. So no need to see me home, Mac. Or should I call you sergeant now? I should have sussed when you went on about domestics. But you seemed. .. OK, know what I mean?'

He smiled insinuatingly.

Wield now saw things very clearly. He said, 'That car… he wasn't trying to pull you in, he was pushing you out.'

Lee said, That's right. Don't do the park any more, upmarket, that's me. But I were at a loose end, went for a stroll and this guy. .. well, he seemed all right, said the money was fine but he only gave me half upfront and, when we'd done the business, he tossed the rest out the window. Didn't surprise me, lot of 'em are like that, gagging for it till they've had it then they can't get away quick enough. But when I picked it up I saw it were twenty light. I got the door open as he tried to drive away and… well, you saw the rest.'

'Yes, I saw the rest. Why are you telling me this, Lee?'

'Just wanted to save you the bother of putting out a call on that Montego. Unless you fancy getting my money back? But you wouldn't want your mates to know how wrong you got things, would you? Can't imagine what you were thinking of’ he said, grinning.

'Me neither,' said Wield. 'Thought you were in trouble. Well, you are in trouble, Lee. But I reckon you know that. OK, no use talking to you now, but one day maybe you'll need someone to talk to…'

He handed the youth a card bearing his name and official phone number.

'Yeah, thanks,' said Lee. He looked surprised, as if this wasn't the reaction he was expecting. 'Bit of a do-gooder after all, are you, Mac?'

'Sergeant.'

'Sorry. Sergeant Mac. Look, don't rush off, my treat now. Have a bit of cheesecake, it's not bad. Could be an antidote to that immigrant ham.'

'No thanks, Lee. Got a home to go to.'

'Lucky old you.'

He said it so wistfully that for a second Wield was tempted to sit down again. Then he caught the gleam of watchful eyes beneath those long, lowered lashes.

'See you, Lee,' he said. 'Take care.'

'Yeah.'

Outside, Wield mounted the Thunderbird with a sense of relief, of danger avoided.

Through the grubby window of Turk's he could see the boy still sitting at the table. No audience to impress now, but somehow he looked more waif and forlorn than ever.

Making as little noise as possible, Wield rode away into the night.

Letter Received Mon 17 ^ th PP

St Godric’s College

Cambridge

Sat Dec 15th The Quaestor's Lodging

My dear Mr Pascoe,

Honestly, I really didn't mean to bother you again, but things have been happening that I need to share and, I don't know why, you seemed the obvious person.

Let me tell you about it.

I got down to the Welcome Reception in the Senior Common Room, which I found to be already packed with conference delegates, sipping sherry. Supplies of free booze are, I gather, finite at these events and the old hands make sure they're first at the fountain.

The delegates fall roughly into two groups. One consists of more senior figures, scholars like Dwight who have already established their reputations and are in attendance mainly to protect their turf while attempting to knock others off their hobby-horses.

The second group comprises youngsters on the make, each desperate to clock up the credits you get for attendance at such do's, some with papers to present, others hoping to make their mark by engaging in post-paper polemic.

I suppose that to the casual eye I fitted into this latter group, with one large difference – they all had their feet on the academic ladder, even if the rung was a low one.

Of course I didn't take all this in at a glance as you might have done. No, but I related what I saw and heard to what Sam Johnson had told me in the past and also to the more recent and even more satirical picture painted by dear old Charley Penn when he learned I was about to attend what he called my first 'junket'.

'Remember this’ he said. 'However domesticated your academic may look, he is by instinct and training anthropophagous. Whatever else is on the menu, you certainly are!'

Anthropophagous. Charley loves such words. We still play Paronomania, you know, despite the painful memories it must bring him. But where was I?

Oh yes, with such forewarning – and with the experience behind me of having been thrown with even less preparation into Chapel Syke – I felt quite able to survive in these new waters. But in fact I didn't even have to work at it. Unlike at the Syke where I had to seek King Rat out and make myself useful to him, here at God's he came looking for me.

As I stood uncertainly just within the doorway, the only person I could see in that crowded room that I knew was Dwight Duerden. He was talking to a long skinny Plantagenet-featured man with a mane of blond hair so bouncy he could have made a fortune doing shampoo ads. Duerden spotted me, said something to the man, who immediately broke off his conversation, turned, smiled like a time-share salesman spotting an almost hooked client, and swept towards me with the American in close pursuit.

'Mr Roote!' he said. 'Be welcome, be welcome. So delighted you could join us. We are honoured, honoured.'

Now the temptation is to class anyone who talks like this, especially if his accent makes the Queen sound Cockney and his manner is by Irving out of Kemble and he's wearing a waistcoat by Rennie Mackintosh with matching bow tie, as a prancing plonker. But Charley's warning still sounded in my mind so I didn't fall about laughing, which was just as well as Duerden said, 'Franny, meet our conference host, Sir Justinian Albacore.'

I said, 'Glad to meet you, Sir Justinian.'