Reginald Hill - Midnight Fugue

She drew all her strength together and forced out the words very distinctly.

‘Go…home!’

‘Ay, you’re right, Sleep on it. Except I can’t go straight home. After we got most of it tied up back at the factory, Pete said he were going to buy the lads a drink down the Black Bull. I said I wanted to call round here, see how you were, but I’d likely look in on my way home. Not that there’ll be anyone there now, it’s well after closing time, but Pete and Wieldy might hang on for me. I’ll give them your best, shall I? Don’t expect you’ll be back for a couple of days. You don’t want to hang about this place too long, but. Full of sick people, never know what you’ll catch.’

She heard the chair being pushed back, large feet hitting the tiled floor as he proceeded slowly to the doorway. Was it all a delusion? Most of it had been incomprehensible, but there was one bit she wanted to cling on to and believe in. The bit where he said she was a good ’un and would go far. She could never ask him if he’d really said it, but some sort of authenticating sign that he’d actually been here in the flesh would be a comfort and an inspiration.

The footsteps paused. Distantly she heard the voice say, ‘Oh, one thing more, Ivor. That forty quid I gave thee for tha lunch. In the circumstances, we’ll not bother about the change, eh?’

Asked for and given.

Smiling, she fell asleep.

Dalziel left the hospital and drove through the quiet streets. It had been a hell of a day. Could have turned out a lot worse. That poor Welsh lad getting killed were bad, but he’d thought a lot about it and it weren’t down to him any more than it had been down to randy old Hooky. But if Ivor’s injuries had been fatal, if they hadn’t got to Gina in time, then he had a feeling he’d have asked for his papers. Mebbe he wouldn’t have had to. Mebbe they would have given them to him anyway.

He’d skidded close to the edge round a very dangerous corner, but he was still on the bloody road!

He pulled up on a double yellow in front of the Black Bull. Not another car in sight out here, it was well after closing. There was a dim light showing through a window and hardly any noise. Jolly Jack the landlord and his team of innumerate zombies would likely be clearing up. He almost pulled away but just on the chance Pete Pascoe had hung on, he got out and tried the pub door.

It opened and he stepped into the gloomy entrance hall, then turned right towards the doorway marked Bar.

First time I’ve come in here and not really wanted a drink, he told himself sadly. Nowt more depressing than a silent pub after throwing-out time.

He stepped pushed open the door and was hit by a cacophony of cheers and hoots and whistling.

They were all there, his motley gang, crowded into the raised area at the far end that CID had made its own. You could tell by their clothes what they’d been doing when news of the assault on Novello reached them. No one had paused to change. They’d all rushed in to offer their help, and though some of them had turned out to be superfluous to requirement, none of them had gone home. But why were they cheering so much? This was the kind of reception he might have expected to get at the successful end of a long and difficult case.

But somehow it felt different. Somehow it felt like they were welcoming him back after a long journey.

‘You buggers got no homes to go to?’ he demanded. ‘Jack, draw us a pint and whatever this short-armed lot are having. Likely they’ve been waiting hours for some mug to come in and stand them a drink. Just the one, mind you. It’s nigh on midnight and you’ve all got to be up for the crime-review meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Standards have been slipping. I’ll have the bollocks off anyone who’s late.’

He sat down in his wonted chair of state beneath an ancient Vienna clock whose eagle had long since flown at the end of some previous night of constabulary triumph, took a long pull at his pint, and delivered an optimistic bulletin on Novello that won another cheer.

‘So all’s well that ends well,’ murmured Pascoe in his ear.

Was there just a touch of irony there?

‘Not so well for Gareth Jones,’ said Dalziel reprovingly. ‘And I don’t see a happy ending for Hooky Glendower. But it’s ended a bloody sight too well for that bugger Gidman.’

‘Nothing we can do about that, unfortunately,’ said Pascoe. ‘We’ll have to leave it in the hands of God. Talking of Whom, sir, one question me and Wieldy were just wondering about. When taking Mrs Wolfe’s statement, she said something about meeting you in the cathedral early this morning. That fitted in nicely with Mrs Sheridan’s mistaking you for a kerb-crawler. Wieldy and I were just wondering, what in the name of all that’s unholy were you doing in the cathedral? Sir?’

Pascoe had that look of deferential interest on his face which was his customary mask for a bit of not so gentle piss-taking. Wield’s natural expression could have hidden anything. Both pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

He sipped his drink slowly, buying some time.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We did meet in the cathedral. Often go there, specially on the Sabbath. Can’t say I’m surprised you two irreligious sods didn’t know that. Not much chance of running into you in church, is there?’

‘But why, sir?’ insisted Pascoe. ‘You’ve not been born again or something.’

Wield hastily supped his beer. Something must have gone down the wrong way as he choked slightly.

Dalziel said, ‘Born again? Nay. I’d guess it were a right painful experience for me mam the first time. Size I am now, I’d likely challenge an elephant. No, it’s the music.’

His two colleagues exchanged glances then Pascoe said incredulously on a sliding scale that would have got him the part of Lady Bracknell, ‘The music?’

‘Aye. You ought to go there and have a listen some time. Smashing acoustic. And the organist were practising his Bach this morning: “Art of the Fugue”. My favourite. Tha knows what a fugue is? Bit of a tune that chases itself round and round till it vanishes up its own arsehole.’

He whistled a series of random notes in alleged illustration. As if in sympathetic counterpoint, the old Vienna clock began to strike midnight.

Man and timepiece finished together. Dalziel stared at his interlocutors as if challenging response.

None came, and he said with some satisfaction, ‘Aye, there’s many a good fugue played on an old organ. You two might do well to remember that. Now, whose round is it anyway? I think some bugger must have drunk mine!’

Midnight.

Splintered woodwork, bedroom door flung open, feet pounding into the room, duvet ripped off, grim faces looking down at him…

He sits upright and screams, ‘NO!’

Even in his shock and terror a part of his mind is assuring him that this is a nightmare, not all that surprising in view of the evening’s stresses.

A voice he recognizes says ‘Hello, Goldie’ and, despite the oddity of hearing it in his bedroom, the very familiarity helps soothe his fears, and he closes his eyes in relief and lies back, thinking that this must signal his awakening.

When he opens his eyes again, the duvet is tucked under his chin and the room is full of light. But the grim faces are still there on either side of the bed, men in their twenties or early thirties, dressed in dark sweaters and jeans; only two of them, it’s true, but looking strong and active enough to dowse any thought of resistance, even if he had the strength.

He looks to the end of the bed and sees the source of the familiar voice and tries to rekindle the initial relief he felt at hearing it, but somehow it’s reluctant to return.