Dialogues of the Dead

He hurled himself forward and seized Dick Dee from behind, one arm round his neck, the other grappling the knife arm, and tried to drag him away from Rye. He came with such ease that Hat was taken by surprise and fell backwards. But he didn’t release his grip and without the use of his arms to break his fall, he crashed heavily to the ground, his head whiplashing against the crystal tile dish. The flames of the fire seemed to dance into his mind, filling it with smoke and shifting shadow. He felt a gush of liquid over his already misting eyes, blood, tears, he didn’t know what except that it stung and blinded. The weight of Dee was pressing down upon him. He threw it off and as he tried to sit up, he felt something run like a soldering iron along his left ribcage. Rye was screaming again. Not for herself this time, because he could still feel Dee’s body close by his side. It must be for him, and the thought gave him strength. He tried to rise again. Something smashed against the side of his head. He flailed out blindly, his fingers touched metal-grasped-straightened as a blade cut into flesh-adjusted.

And now they tightened around a bone handle.

He had the knife.

But his assailant had something almost as lethal in its place which came crashing once more against the side of the detective’s head.

Minimum force. For some reason this phrase came into Hat’s mind from his not so distant training days. Force may be used to effect an arrest, but it must always be the minimum force commensurate with the lawful restraint of a suspect.

When you were on your back, and blind, and wounded, and losing consciousness, and grappling with a homicidal maniac, minimum was hard to define.

He swung his arm up high then drove the knife down hard. That felt like minimum. And again. Still felt like minimum. And again …yes, still well within the limits …and again …if this were minimum, what in this case would be maximum…?

The question danced in and out of the flickering flames and shifting shadows in his mind, pursuing an elusive answer among broken definitions and the shards of words. Then the rising ululation of what he knew was a siren but still sounded to him like that ill-omened bird of night rose to a climax.

Then stopped.

And darkness fell.

47

The darkness lasted a long time.

Or perhaps a short time. He couldn’t know. It was punctuated by flashes of cognition in which his senses worked but in a mixed-up way. He smelt movement, felt colours, saw sounds. None of these impressions made any sense or seemed related to any other. Whether they belonged to real time or to that dream-time which can pack infinity into a grain of sand, he didn’t know.

So when he finally awoke, he was ready to find himself still helpless on the floor of Stangcreek Cottage.

His eyes weren’t functioning properly but at least they were registering images albeit dimly on his retina and he could make out someone standing over him.

Oh shit. He was right. It was still the cottage …

He tried to move. Couldn’t. This got worse. He was bound down.

He tried to speak. His mouth was dry as …

There were half a dozen laddish similes in common canteen use but he couldn’t recall any of them.

The looming figure stepped closer.

The features came into focus. They were frightful, contorted, menacing.

The dreadful lips moved.

“She’s all right, lad.”

And the ogreish features dissolved and resolved themselves into the comfortable because familiar dissonances of Edgar Wield’s face while at the same time the bonds which held him down turned into the starched and tightly tucked sheets of a hospital bed.

“She’s all right,” repeated Wield.

If Wieldy said it, then it must be true. And he knew he’d be eternally grateful to the sergeant for knowing the one question his disfunctional tongue had wanted to ask.

He closed his eyes again.

Next time he opened them, Pascoe was there.

The DCI called a nurse who helped him raise his head, which he only now realized was heavily bandaged, and gave him water.

“Thanks,” he gasped. “My throat was dry as a screech owl’s crotch.”

Vulture’s, he meant. But it was coming back.

The nurse said to Pascoe, “Don’t overtire him. Don’t let him move too much. I’ll let the doctor know he’s awake.”

Hey, I’m not only awake, I’m here! thought Hat. But he was too weak in body and will to protest.

“Where …? How long …?” he croaked.

Pascoe said, “You’re in the Central Hospital. You’ve been here for eleven days.”

“Eleven …? I’ve been out of it for eleven days?”

Eleven days was worrying. Eleven days was a huge step on the way to brain death.

Pascoe smiled.

“It’s all right. Mr. Dalziel allows a fortnight before he tells them to switch everything off. In any case, you were never comatose. But you do have a depressed skull fracture and there was pressure on the brain. It’s OK. They’ve got you sorted. You’ll be able to do The Times crossword again.”

“Never could before,” said Hat. Then thought, Christ! don’t relapse into plucky little trooper mode, you’re fucking terrified!