Dialogues of the Dead

“Yeah. Broken this and that. But it was my head that caused the most concern. Fractured skull, pressure on the brain. They had to operate twice. By the time they got that sorted, the rest of me was just about knitted together.”

As she spoke her hand had gone involuntarily to the silver blaze in her hair.

Hat reached out and touched it.

“Is that when you got this?” he asked.

“Yes. I was shaved completely bald, of course, but they assured me it would all grow back. Well, it did. Except that for some reason which they explained without explaining their explanation, if you know what I mean, the hair over the scar came out like this. They suggested I should dye it, but I said no.”

“Why?” asked Hat.

“Because of Serge,” she said flatly. “Because I hate visiting graveyards, all that morbid crap, but as long as I’ve got eyes to see myself in the mirror, I’ll never forget him.”

Hat looked at her with troubled eyes and she said, “I’m sorry, I’m mucking up our day. I shouldn’t have told you any of this, not now anyway. I’ve never talked about it to anyone else, except Dick.”

Even in the midst of her unhappiness and his empathy, some selfish gene felt that as a blow.

He said, “You told Dick?”

“Yes. He’s like you, not pushy. Questions are easy to duck, but the weight of non-questions from people you like becomes unbearable. He just listened, and nodded, and said, ‘That’s hard. I know about losing someone young, you’re never happy again without recalling they’re not there to share your happiness.’ He’s very wise, Dick.”

Me too, thought Hat. Wise enough not to let my jealousy show!

But he must have looked pretty unhappy because suddenly she smiled broadly and said, “Hey, it’s OK. That little skid back there shook me up a bit, but really, I’m fine now. My own fault for showing off to myself that fast cars don’t bother me. Which they don’t. And to prove it, let’s get going before all those birds head south for the winter.”

She stood up, reached down her hand and hauled him to his feet too.

He didn’t let go of her hand but held it tight and said, “You’re sure? We can easily head back to town, spend the day watching telly or something.”

“I won’t ask you to interpret or something,” she said. “No, I promised to twitch and twitch I will, as soon as I get my hand back.”

They got back into the car.

As they pulled away, Hat said, “So what did happen to the acting career?”

“Career’s putting it a bit strong,” she said. “Thing was, when I finally got back to normal after about six months, I found it had all gone, all that ambition, all those dreams. I’d lost Serge and now I could see beyond all doubt what a sad pair my parents were. Incidentally, it came out later that the urgent business my father had to attend to that night was banging away with some stage-struck groupie who believed all his name-dropping big-time luvvie stories. It wasn’t a life I wanted to have anything to do with any more.”

He said, “So this is why you sounded so cynical when you were telling me about your name?”

“About finding out they’d lied about the parts they were playing? Yeah, that just seemed to confirm it. Even their real life was an act and the only way they could deal with their children was by making them bit players.”

“So you chose another role entirely.”

“Sorry?”

“Librarian. Traditional image is about as anti-luvvie as you can get, isn’t it? Quiet, demure, rather prim, glaring at noisy readers over horned-rim specs, staidly dressed, a bit repressed …”

“This is how you see me, is it?”

He laughed and said, “No. All I mean is, if that was what you were aiming at, someone ought to tell you you’ve missed by a Scots mile.”

She said, “Hmm. I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I? So now we’ve got me sorted, let’s turn the spotlight on your interesting bits.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” he said. “But tell you what, we’re nearly there. So rather than risk frightening the birds, let’s leave my interesting bits till after lunch, shall we? Then I’ll be happy to let you pick over them to your heart’s content.”

“OK, but just tell me one thing first,” she said as the car turned down a track marked by an ancient finger post which read Stang Tarn. “Do you cops learn innuendo during your probationary year or is it a prerequisite of joining?”

33

“Andy, you look like you’ve just come back from a trip to the underworld in every sense. Hard night on stake-out, was it?”

“You could put it like that,” said Andy Dalziel.

It was a hard thing to admit, but the days were past when he could drink and dance till dawn, take a taxi home, live up to his vainglorious sexual promises, snatch an hour or so’s sleep and be in The Dog and Duck at opening time without some evidence of his energy-sapping activities being inscribed upon his face.

“But it’s nowt that another pint won’t put right. How about you, Charley?”

“Nay, but I’ve just come in. Give us a chance to wash my teeth with this one,” said Charley Penn.