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Authors: Reginald Hill
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7
I’d seen him—not counting straight after getting shot, of course. The landlord came over to our table and set a glass of something purple with bubbles in front of him. Mebbe it were the elixir of life. If any bugger found it, it would be Roote.
He said, “Thanks, Alan. And thank you too, Mr. Dalziel. Yes, I feel extremely well. So what brings you to sunny Sandytown? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’d say you’re down here to convalesce at the Avalon.
You must have arrived fairly recently, they are still completing their preliminary assessment, which you, growing impatient, have opted to preempt by making your own way to this excellent establishment.”
Told you he were a clever bastard.
I said, “If we’d caught you younger, we might have made a detective out of you, Roote. But I’m not complaining we caught you later and made a convict out of you instead.”
“Still as direct as ever, I see,” he said, smiling. “Any minute now you’ll be asking what I myself am doing here.”
“No need to waste my breath,” I said.
“Meaning of course you’re just as capable as me at working things out,” he said.
Like a lot of folk who love playing games, Roote always reckoned other folk were playing them too. Don’t mind a game myself, long as I’m making the rules.
I said, “No. Meaning I’d not believe a bloody word you said! But I can work out you’ve been here long enough for our landlord to know you drink parrot piss.”
“Cranberry juice actually,” he said. “Full of vitamins, you really ought to try it.”
“Mebbe after morris dancing and incest,” I said. “As for your reasons for being here, I’m not interested. Unless they’re criminal, which wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Oh dear. Still the old mistrust.”
“Nay, just the old realism,” I said.
Then I went on ’cos I’d never said it direct and it needed saying, 4 8
R E G I N A L D H I L L
“Listen, lad, I’ll be forever grateful for what you did for little Rosie Pascoe. Thought you should know that. Won’t make me turn a blind eye to serious crime, mind, but anytime you feel like parking your chair on a double yellow line in Mid-Yorks, be my guest.”
His eyes filled. Don’t know how he does that trick, but the bugger’s got it off pat.
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Mr. Dalziel.
And how is the girl? Must be growing up now. And dear Mr. Pascoe and his lovely wife, how are they?”
“All well. He were a bit upset losing contact with you. What happened there?”
He sipped his drink. I had to look away. If the buggers can ban smoking, I reckon at least they should put up screens for folk wanting to drink stuff that color.
Then he said, “I was deeply touched by Mr. Pascoe’s concern for me.
He’s a man I admire greatly. I would love to be able to think of him as my friend. Perhaps it was because of this that, as I gradually improved, I began to worry in case the gratitude he felt should become a burden. It’s all too easy for gratitude to turn into resentment, isn’t it? Mr. Pascoe is a man of intense feeling. Sometimes perhaps overintense. It was a hard decision, but I felt it might be best if I cooled things between us, so when I concluded that medical wisdom as it stood in the UK had done everything possible for me and decided to head abroad in search of other treatments, it seemed a good opportunity. I’m sorry if that sounds too altruistic for your view of me, Mr. Dalziel, but it’s the truth.”
I found I believed him.
I said, “I reckon you got things right for once.”
The bar door opened and a young woman came in, laden with carrier bags. She were tall and skinny as a bowstring. Slim, they likely call it in the women’s mags, or slender or willowy, some such bollocks, but it’s all skinny to me. I like a lass with a bit of something to get a hold of.
Mind you, beggars can’t always be choosers and I’ve known a lot of bowstrings that had plenty of
I’d seen him—not counting straight after getting shot, of course. The landlord came over to our table and set a glass of something purple with bubbles in front of him. Mebbe it were the elixir of life. If any bugger found it, it would be Roote.
He said, “Thanks, Alan. And thank you too, Mr. Dalziel. Yes, I feel extremely well. So what brings you to sunny Sandytown? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’d say you’re down here to convalesce at the Avalon.
You must have arrived fairly recently, they are still completing their preliminary assessment, which you, growing impatient, have opted to preempt by making your own way to this excellent establishment.”
Told you he were a clever bastard.
I said, “If we’d caught you younger, we might have made a detective out of you, Roote. But I’m not complaining we caught you later and made a convict out of you instead.”
“Still as direct as ever, I see,” he said, smiling. “Any minute now you’ll be asking what I myself am doing here.”
“No need to waste my breath,” I said.
“Meaning of course you’re just as capable as me at working things out,” he said.
Like a lot of folk who love playing games, Roote always reckoned other folk were playing them too. Don’t mind a game myself, long as I’m making the rules.
I said, “No. Meaning I’d not believe a bloody word you said! But I can work out you’ve been here long enough for our landlord to know you drink parrot piss.”
“Cranberry juice actually,” he said. “Full of vitamins, you really ought to try it.”
“Mebbe after morris dancing and incest,” I said. “As for your reasons for being here, I’m not interested. Unless they’re criminal, which wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Oh dear. Still the old mistrust.”
“Nay, just the old realism,” I said.
Then I went on ’cos I’d never said it direct and it needed saying, 4 8
R E G I N A L D H I L L
“Listen, lad, I’ll be forever grateful for what you did for little Rosie Pascoe. Thought you should know that. Won’t make me turn a blind eye to serious crime, mind, but anytime you feel like parking your chair on a double yellow line in Mid-Yorks, be my guest.”
His eyes filled. Don’t know how he does that trick, but the bugger’s got it off pat.
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Mr. Dalziel.
And how is the girl? Must be growing up now. And dear Mr. Pascoe and his lovely wife, how are they?”
“All well. He were a bit upset losing contact with you. What happened there?”
He sipped his drink. I had to look away. If the buggers can ban smoking, I reckon at least they should put up screens for folk wanting to drink stuff that color.
Then he said, “I was deeply touched by Mr. Pascoe’s concern for me.
He’s a man I admire greatly. I would love to be able to think of him as my friend. Perhaps it was because of this that, as I gradually improved, I began to worry in case the gratitude he felt should become a burden. It’s all too easy for gratitude to turn into resentment, isn’t it? Mr. Pascoe is a man of intense feeling. Sometimes perhaps overintense. It was a hard decision, but I felt it might be best if I cooled things between us, so when I concluded that medical wisdom as it stood in the UK had done everything possible for me and decided to head abroad in search of other treatments, it seemed a good opportunity. I’m sorry if that sounds too altruistic for your view of me, Mr. Dalziel, but it’s the truth.”
I found I believed him.
I said, “I reckon you got things right for once.”
The bar door opened and a young woman came in, laden with carrier bags. She were tall and skinny as a bowstring. Slim, they likely call it in the women’s mags, or slender or willowy, some such bollocks, but it’s all skinny to me. I like a lass with a bit of something to get a hold of.
Mind you, beggars can’t always be choosers and I’ve known a lot of bowstrings that had plenty of
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