Exit lines

Chapter 29

'Tirez le rideau, la farce est jouee.'

It started snowing again during the course of the evening and by half past nine, when Pascoe with all loose ends carefully tied up or at least tucked out of sight was preparing to go home, it was settling in earnest.

He thought with alarm of Ellie's drive north the next day, and did not know whether he was more alarmed at the dangers of the drive or the prospect of being without her even longer if the weather was too bad for travel.

Dalziel he had not seen since leaving Haycroft Grange. Whether the fat man were in the building or not he didn't know and wasn't about to find out. There would be plenty of time to dot i's and cross t's over a reunifying pint; now all he wanted was to get back home and go to bed.

But the phone rang as he was leaving.

It was Dr Sowden.

'Just thought you might like to know Mrs Escott's fading fast,' he said rather curtly.

'Thanks,' said Pascoe.

What did it matter? There was nothing more she could tell them. It was probably better for her. What did the future hold but at best a few twilit years of being bullied by the nurses in a geriatric home? No, better by far for her to go now. And there was no point in his being there to see her go. None at all.

'You came, then,' said Sowden.

'Yes. ‘Didn’t sound very interested on the phone,' said the doctor.

'I'm not… interested,'' said Pascoe wearily. 'Involved, maybe. Though Christ knows why.'

Sowden grinned and said, 'I'll be off duty in twenty minutes. Let me buy you that drink we keep talking about.'

'I'm a bit knackered,' said Pascoe. 'Anyway, have you seen the weather?'

'With a bit of luck we could get snowed in some comfortable saloon bar. No crime, no one dying. Two or three days of that would probably do us both the world of good. Still, if you're too tired…'

He led the way into the ward. A nurse was drawing the curtains around Mrs Escott's bed.

'Isn't there, well, somewhere else,' said Pascoe, glancing uneasily at the other beds.

'A kind of dying room, you mean? Afraid not. We're pushed for space, you see. In any case, with these old folk, once you start wheeling them out to die, every time they're taken out of the ward for any reason begins to feel like a death sentence!'

Mrs Escott lay so still and with her face so composed that Pascoe thought he had come too late after all. He stood helplessly by the bedside and repeated to Sowden, 'I really don't know what I'm doing here.'

'In some of the ancient religions, last words are meant to be redolent of significance and power,' murmured Sowden.

Pascoe looked at him in surprise.

'That doesn't sound too scientific to me,' he said.

'Scientifically speaking, death is the great debunker,' said Sowden, feeling the woman's pulse. 'There it is. A faint flutter, like a… like a…'

Perhaps some poetic comparison had suggested itself which embarrassed him for he let the words tail off.

'Aren't there any relatives? Or friends?' asked Pascoe.

'To be here, you mean? No, no relatives that can be traced. Friends at Castleton Court, probably, but too old and not close enough to be brought out on a night like this.'

'So we're it.'

'That's right.'

Pascoe shook his head.

'Not much to show for threescore and ten, is it?' he said half to himself.

Suddenly the woman's eyes were open.

She said, 'Mr Pascoe.'

'That's right. How are you, Mrs Escott?' Pascoe heard himself saying absurdly.

'Mr Pascoe,' she repeated with an injection of urgency.

'Yes?' he said. 'What is it?'

'I saw Tap,' she said. 'He spoke to me.'

'Yes? What did he say?'

She smiled radiantly.

'Winner,' she said. 'Winner. Tap says the winner is…'

She stopped.

Sowden monitored her pulse once more, then shook his head.

'That's it, I'm afraid,' he said.

'Dead?'

'I'm afraid so. Nurse!'

The nurse reappeared. Sowden and Pascoe emerged from the curtains and walked together down the ward. Pascoe felt completely drained of all energy as if these old and dying people were reaching out to draw it from him.

'Last words,' said Sowden. 'Exit lines. I wonder what her friend's tip was?'

'It's not knowing that makes horse-races,' said Pascoe wearily.

As they reached the door, a patient at the far end of the ward began to make a noise. At first it was just a kind of moaning sound, but finally words came out quite clearly.

'Teeny! Teeny! Where's my tea?'

Pascoe stopped.

'Who's that?' he asked.

'That? Oh, some old boy who came in this afternoon. Had a nasty fall downstairs.'

Downstairs? Pascoe thought of Mabel Gregory's old father lying on his bed in the front parlour. Thought also of the woman's tired face and of her blank-eyed husband sitting far down the garden, smoking a cigarette and looking at nothing.

And then he thought of the news which had reached the Gregorys that evening.

'Why? You interested in him?' asked Sowden.

Pascoe shook his head. Somehow it didn't feel quite such a betrayal as a spoken no. Betrayal of what? Of whom? He realized he didn't want to go home to an empty house. Tomorrow with luck it would no longer be empty. Ellie would be there. And Rose. One-year-and-one-week-old Rose. Perhaps they would give him the strength to contemplate what he ought to do about the Gregorys. Perhaps.

Meanwhile.

They had reached the lifts. Pascoe stepped in. Sowden stood back and watched him.

'Goodbye then,' he said.

The doors began to close. Pascoe racked his brain for something to say. Every parting should be treated as a rehearsal for the last one; everyone should have some piece of farewell wisdom or wit at his tongue's end; but, alas, for most, even the best prepared, this was probably how it would be; the doors closing, the light fading, the lift descending, with nothing said, nothing communicated.

The doors closed. His hand shot out and his finger pressed the open button. The doors parted and Pascoe stepped back out into the corridor. He grinned triumphantly at Sowden who looked at him mildly surprised.

'Some rehearsal, huh?' said Pascoe. 'Now, about that drink.'