Dialogues of the Dead

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.”