Dialogues of the Dead

13

the fourth dialogue

Preview.

Now there’s a word to make a ghost laugh!

It amused me too. First thing I noticed as I wandered round the gallery was that nobody actually seemed to be viewing anything other than the wine glasses in their hands and the people they were talking to over them.

And as the crowded gathering seemed to comprise all the great and the good of Mid-Yorkshire who presumably had viewed each other many times before, it was hard to see where the actual previewing came in.

The only exhibit which attracted instant attention was a sort of priapic totem pole, six foot high, carved in oak with a chainsaw. But even that, after an initial lewd comment or two, was generally ignored except by those who used its rough-hewed ledges to rest their glasses on, though I did hear as I passed the art critic from the Gazette saying to his epicene companion, “Yes, it does have a certain, how shall I put it? a certain aura.”

Aura.

Now there’s another word.

From the Greek αυρα meaning breath or breeze.

But in medicine it is used to describe the symptoms which presage the onset of an epileptic fit.

Remember old Aggie who suffered from epilepsy?

That’s the one. Her aura consisted not of the usual facial twitchings or muscular spasms, but a sudden euphoria. Knowing what it presaged, she would cry, “Oh God, I feel so happy!” in a tone of such despair that strangers would be thrown into greater confusion by the oxymoronic clash of manner and meaning than by the subsequent fit.

Later when my burgeoning interest in the arcana of our existence made me aware that the old medicines interpreted fits as the reaction of weak human flesh to the invasion of divine energy when used as a channel for prophetic utterance, I thought of Aggie but I couldn’t bring to mind anything of significance in the sounds she made during her attacks. Might be worth asking her if you see her.

Please yourself. Anyway, now I’ve got personal experience to confirm what the old priest-doctors diagnosed.

For I too experience an aura, a divine breath blowing through me, though my aura might as easily be cognate with Latin aurum, meaning gold, as with the Greek. For the beginning of a new Dialogue is like a summer day’s dawning in me. I feel my whole being suffused in an aureole of joy and certainty which spreads further and further, stilling time for all who are included in its golden limits.

I felt its onset as I moved around the gallery but I confess to my shame that at first I tried to deny it. For though I knew that in the light of that aura, I had no one to fear, yet my Thomas of a mind kept asking, how could such a thing be, here, among all these people?

How could it be?

When Hat arrived at the preview, it was already fairly crowded, but to his surprise Percy Follows, gold mane freshly permed, and Ambrose Bird, ponytail freshly curried, broke off in mid-altercation and, like a quarrelling couple surprised by the vicar, made a bee-line towards him, their faces split by welcoming smiles.

It was only when they both passed him by that he realized with some relief that he was not their obscure object of desire.

Behind him, the Lord and Lady Mayor had arrived. He was Joe Blossom, a stout middle-aged man known in the local business community as Lord of the Flies as he’d made his money out of breeding maggots for the fishing fancy. She was Margot Blossom, the second wife for whom he’d abandoned his first, a one-time cabaret wrestler, ten years his junior, over whom he watched with possessive jealousy and on whom he lavished whatever gifts he felt would make her happy, or at least keep her honest, which included expensive foreign holidays, emerald nipple-studs, capped teeth and silicone implants. Of late she had developed a range of cultural pretensions which included passions for the classical ballet, fine wines, and the works of Charley Penn. Despite, or perhaps because of, these new and spiritually uplifting preoccupations, she was still capable of reverting to the habits of her youth and body-smashing anyone foolish enough to make a reference in her presence to the source of her husband’s wealth. Risk takers used the local pronunciation of her name which voiced the t, and behind her back they dropped the r too, but only those in love with death did this to her face.

Bird and Follows were competing wildly to be my host. For a moment it looked as if things might turn nasty, but in the event only verbal blows were struck and they divided the spoils, Bird making off with the maggots and Follows with the silicone.

Watching the bright check suit recede, Hat, who’d agonized over his own choice of burgundy chinos and a leather jerkin over a pale blue T-shirt inviting you to Save the Skylark, felt better already.

Now, like a good policeman, before progressing further into the gallery he paused and scanned the crowd. The casual observer might have thought he was checking faces against a mental mug-book, but in fact he paid scant attention to individuals till he’d spotted what he was looking for, that head of rich brown hair with a silver-grey flash.

She was moving around offering a trayful of drinks and nibbles to the guests. As if attracted by the intensity of his gaze, she glanced his way, nodded a welcome and resumed her duties.

Helping himself to a glass of wine from another young woman who gave him a smile he might have responded to if Rye hadn’t been within clocking distance, Bowler now began to register the crowded room in detail.

There was a police presence significant enough to make him wonder if he couldn’t perhaps claim overtime. The DCI was there and his wife whom Bowler liked. On their previous meetings Ellie Pascoe had run her bold and friendly gaze over him in a manner which was assessing and approving but in no wise inviting, and called him Hat, and not pulled any vicarious rank, confirming her reputation of being all right. She was standing next to Charley Penn on the edge of a group into which Follows had just insinuated his mayoral prize, who looked as if she were already favouring them with her considered judgment of the exhibits. As Hat watched, Ellie Pascoe turned her head away to yawn behind her hand, glimpsed him, and smiled. He smiled back and continued his scan and found himself smiling at the super, who didn’t smile back. Was there no escaping the man? By his side was the woman who’d been with him at the Taverna, a well-made lady but very much cruiser-weight to Dalziel’s super-heavy. Still, not a mismatch, by all accounts.

He broke away from the Fat Man’s basilisk gaze, but his sense of being back at work still continued, for now, perhaps even more surprisingly, Sergeant Wield’s unmissable features gloomed out at him like a goblin who’d strayed into an elfin rout. But why should this be a surprise? A man didn’t need to be a work of art to appreciate art, and in any case, as Bowler knew himself, there were reasons other than aesthetic to urge attendance.

Rye was still moving, but not in his direction, so he let his gaze keep drifting.

He encountered the quiet reflective gaze of Dick Dee who gave him a friendly nod which he returned. OK, so he felt jealous of the guy, but no need to give him the satisfaction of knowing he felt jealous. Lots of others he recognized. He was good at faces and he’d made it his business on arrival in his new patch not only to study the mug-shot albums but also to get acquainted with the features of anyone else likely to prove important in an ambitious young copper’s life. Journalists, for instance …there was Sammy Ruddlesdin, the Gazette reporter, lean and cadaverous and clearly bored out of his skull, into which from time to time he inserted a cigarette until memory of the prohibitive age into which he’d survived made him take it out again. …At least his suffering seemed less than that of his editor, Mary Agnew, who was talking with head averted to a bald man shovelling canapés into his mouth from a piled-up plate like he’d just escaped from a health farm. He reached for a name …found it …Councillor Steel a.k.a. Stuffer …a man to avoid, by all accounts, not only because of his lethal breath but because it was frequently expended badmouthing the police and all other alleged abusers of the public purse. Still, the way he was gobbling that grub, he wouldn’t be long for this world!

Rye had disappeared now. Perhaps she’d gone to replenish her tray. Would need to if there were many appetites like Stuffer’s. Or perhaps she was secretly observing him to see if he took an intelligent interest in the exhibits. He certainly felt observed. He turned his head suddenly and caught the source of the feeling. Not that it was hard to catch, as the man viewing him from behind what looked like a huge wooden phallus didn’t turn away guiltily but gave him a friendly nod.

It was Franny Roote. Whose discreet surveillance he’d been boasting about to the DCI only yesterday.

But if he’d been so sodding discreet, how come Roote was smiling at him like an old buddy and heading his way?

“Hello,” he said. “DC Bowler, isn’t it? Are you into art?”

“Not really,” said Bowler, seriously hassled and trying for sang-froid. “You?”

“As an extension of the word, perhaps. Words are my thing, but sometimes the word is a seed which needs to flower into something non-verbal. It’s a circular thing, really. Pictures came first, of course. Nice cave paintings, a lot of them done, recent research suggests, while the artist was high on grass or whatever they used in prehistoric times. It’s easy to see how their pictures might have some sort of religious significance. Also they could have been of practical use, such as saying, If you go out of the cave and turn left down the valley you’ll find a nice herd of antelope for supper. But when it came to saying, Run like hell, boys. Here comes a Tyrannosaurus, pictures left something to be desired. So language, to start with, was no doubt born out of necessity. Yet soon it must have flowered into song, into poetry, into narrative, into the exchange of ideas, and out of these developed new and subtler forms of art, which in turn …well, you take my point, I’m sure. It’s a circle, or perhaps a wheel as it makes forward progress as it turns, and we are all bound upon it at some point or other, though for some it is a Ferris wheel, and for others it is a wheel of fire.”

He paused and looked at Bowler as if he’d just said something like, “Is it still raining outside?”

Bowler, slightly punch-drunk, said, “Have we met? I don’t remember you …”

“No, you’re right. In fact we haven’t actually met, though I think we may have come close to an encounter recently. Roote. Francis Roote. Franny to my friends.”

“So how do you know me, Mr. Roote?”

“I’m not really sure. A mutual friend could have pointed you out, I suppose. Sergeant Wield, perhaps. Or Mr. Pascoe. There he is now.”

He gave a little wave. Bowler followed its direction and found himself looking straight into DCI Pascoe’s accusing eyes. He couldn’t blame him for not looking happy. To come to something like this and find the guy you suspected was stalking you chatting merrily to the DC instructed to check him out with maximum discretion was enough to give anyone a touch of the Dalziels.

Roote said, “Excuse me. Time to get down to business, I think. Jude Illingworth the engraver’s here demonstrating her techniques and I don’t want to miss that.”

He moved away towards an alcove in which Bowler could see a tall woman with no hair talking to a knot of people. At the same time out of the corner of his eye he saw Pascoe heading in his direction and prepared to be defensive.

“Sir,” he said pre-emptively as the DCI arrived, “I’ve no idea what he’s doing here. Shall I check the invite list? Or maybe he came with a friend …”

“Relax,” said Pascoe. “I’ve a good idea how he got in. What I’d like to know though is how come you’re so friendly with him?”

Bowler explained what had happened.

“I’ve no idea how he got on to me, sir,” he concluded unhappily. “I really did tiptoe around …”

“The man’s a spider,” said Pascoe. “Not the kind that builds a web but one of those who leaves trailing threads drifting in the breeze. Slightest touch and he knows you’re there.”

This was almost as airy-fairy as Roote’s spiel, thought Bowler.

“Anyway, glad you’ve made it, Hat. I won’t keep you any longer. You’ll be keen to look at what’s on offer. And if you see something you fancy, grab it, that’s my advice. Don’t waste time.”

Jesus, why did the sight of young love provoke even sensible cops like Peter Pascoe into the jocularity of maiden aunts? Hat asked himself resentfully.

Then he glimpsed what he’d been looking for: Rye, appearing with a newly laden tray of nibbles.

“No, sir,” he said, moving away from Pascoe. “I’ll not waste any time.”

Time was still here and I was still in it, but as I moved around and regarded those who are its unwitting servants, my aura was coming in waves, or rather pulses, as if its source were a great beating heart like the sun. Twice, three times, its heat and brightness grew almost unbearable as I encountered first this face, then that. Could they all be marked down? Perhaps …but their time, or rather their time-out, was not yet …and in any case could surely not be here …

And then you brought us face to face.

“Councillor Steel, I’d like a word with you,” said Charley Penn.

“Oh yes? Normally I’d say words come cheap, but not from you writers, eh? I saw the price of one of your books in Smith’s the other day. Feed a family for a week, you could, on that money.”

“Not your family, I shouldn’t have thought,” said Penn, glancing at the nibble-loaded plate in the councillor’s hand.

“Me?” Steel snorted contemptuously. “Don’t have no family except meself, Mr. Penn.”

“That’s what I mean.”

Steel laughed. One of his political strengths was that he was uninsultable.

He said, “You mean I like my grub? Fill up while you can, that’s what growing up rough taught me. Mebbe if I’d gone to a posh school like you, I’d eat more dainty. Not that a man’s going to get fat on this bird-seed they feed you here. And who’s paying for it, eh? And the vino, too. The rate-payers, that’s who.”

“Well, they can afford it, can’t they? Out of those millions they’ll be saving once you get my literature group grant axed. Feeling pleased with yourself now you’ve kicked that bunch of sheep on your committee into recommending it, are you?”

“Nowt personal, Mr. Penn. You’ve got to treat the symptoms till you can cure the disease.”

“And what would that disease be?”

“Civic melogamania,” said Steel, mispronouncing the word carefully.

“That would be, what? An over-enthusiasm for music?” said Penn.

“Got it wrong, did I?” said Steel indifferently. “Doesn’t matter, you know what I mean. Building Fancy Dan centres like this when they’ve cut the council house budget by sixty per cent in ten years. That’s melogamania, however you say it. You want to complain about a few trendy trollops not getting paid to read mucky books, you should speak to the mayor. Or his missus. She’s a big fan of yours, I hear. Not big enough to save your class, but, not even rationing his oats. Not to worry, more to go round the rest, eh? Talk of the devil, there he is. How do, Your Lordship! Who’s looking after the maggots?”

The mayor was passing by. He gave Steel a nasty look, while across the room his wife turned her head to send Steel a promissory glare which turned to a lionizing smile when she saw Charley Penn.

Steel appropriated the smile to himself, and called, “How do, Margott? Looking well. Hey, luv, don’t pass a starving man without throwing a crumb.”

This change of direction was caused by Rye Pomona’s approaching within hailing distance with her tray which the councillor proceeded to lighten with more speed than discrimination.

“Shall I get you some more, Mr. Steel?” enquired Rye sweetly.

“No, lass. Not unless you can lay your hands on something a bit more substantial.”

“Such as?”

“A few slices of rib beef and a couple of roast spuds wouldn’t come amiss.”

“Rib beef and roast spuds. I’ll mention it in the kitchen,” said Rye seriously.

“I bet you will,” said Steel, laughing splutteringly. “You work in the library, don’t you, luv?”

“That’s right.”

“So tell me, this waitressing job you’re doing, you getting paid library rates plus overtime, or skivvy rates plus tips?”

“Watch it, Steel,” grated Penn. “That’s offensive even by your low standards.”

Rye looked at him coldly and said, “I think I can speak for myself, Mr. Penn. In fact I’m doing it on a purely voluntary basis, so there’s no charge to the public purse. But of course, if you care to leave a tip …”

“Nay, lass,” laughed Steel. “Only tip I’ll give you is, I like my spuds roasted almost black. But I don’t suppose I’ll be getting any here, so I’ll just have another handful of these to put me on till me lunch.”

He reached towards a plateful of cocktail sausages but Rye pushed the whole tray towards him so that he had to grasp hold of it to keep it off his chest.

“Tell you what, Councillor,” she said. “Why don’t you take the lot, then you can pick through them at your leisure. And I can take a look at the art.”

She let go of the tray, nodded at Steel, ignored Penn’s congratulatory smile and turned to meet Hat Bowler.

“So you made it, then?” she said. “Come on, there’s something I want you to see.”

There are some revelations which are certain without being clear.

For a fraction of a second-though I knew without doubt that this was the one-I didn’t understand why, and I could not foresee how.

But even before I could commit the blasphemy of asking why and how, my averted head let my eyes see the single answer, and all that remained was when.

Though whether when? is appropriate for an event which takes place outside of time is a question to scotch a Scotist.

Perhaps, the fancy came to me, time suspended would permit me to perform my duty, and when time resumed, all these people, policemen and journalists included, would find to their uncomprehending horror that one of their number lay dead among them, and no one had noticed a thing!

But it was not to be. My aura still burned bright but the flow of time was not yet slowing. I was still here and now.

But soon …

Oh yes, I knew it must be soon …