Dialogues of the Dead

It came out a bit sharper than he intended. Something about Johnson acted on him as a mild irritant, the same thing probably which had provoked him into that farcical non-game of squash from which his shoulder was still aching. Not that there was anything obviously irritating about the young academic. Boyish without being childish, good-looking this side of matinee idol, bright but not in-your-face smart ass, entertaining in a self-mocking rather than self-congratulating style, totally non-menacing, he had somehow contrived to ripple the Pascoe pond. The DCI had thought about it long and hard. Jealousy? A man might be forgiven for feeling a little jealous of someone who could make his wife laugh so much. But Ellie Pascoe had been through experiences in recent months which might have crushed a lesser woman and to Pascoe the sound of her laughter was a blessed affirmation that all was well. He heard it now and over Johnson’s shoulder glimpsed her with a trio consisting of Charley Penn, Percy Follows and Mary Agnew. Which of them had made Ellie laugh wasn’t clear, but Pascoe felt nothing but gratitude. Not that either of these men looked possible candidates for jealousy. Penn with his cavernous eyes and sunken cheeks was hardly a romantic threat, while Follows was of the type Ellie unkindly categorized as prancers, with his mane of honey gold hair, his flamboyant gestures, his flowery language, his bow ties and garish waistcoats. “I don’t mind if he’s really gay,” Ellie had said, “but I can’t be doing with it as a fashion statement.”

So, no jealousy there, and not even in the case of the much more desirable young lecturer. Then what was it in Johnson that stirred him up?

Eventually and reluctantly he’d come to the conclusion that he felt Johnson as a challenge to, or more accurately perhaps, a comment on his way of life.

There’d been a point years back at the end of university when he’d stood uncertainly at a fork in the track; then, with a deep breath and many a half-regretful backward glance, he’d set his foot on the road that had brought him to his present state.

The other path, he guessed, might well have led him to some condition not unlike that of Johnson. They were, roughly speaking, of the same generation, but Sam looked younger, dressed younger, talked younger. On campus, the casual observer would probably find it hard to distinguish him from the students he taught. Yet he could take his place among his seniors at conferences or in the senate as a respected equal, even a potential superior, with a bright beginning behind him and the promise of glittering prizes ahead. At the very least he had the prospect of spending the years of his maturity in comfortable old rooms looking out on a smooth razed lawn running down to a river gay with punts in term time and serene with swans through the long vacations. …

OK, that was probably a pie-in-the-sky picture of academic life which didn’t exist or, if it did, had no appeal to Johnson. But in his own career, not even his most way-out fantasies could devise any comparable pastoral idyll.

Toil and trouble, trial and tribulation, till he was put out to grass, which was the only version of pastoral his future seemed to offer.

On the other hand, he didn’t have a drink problem, and his heart, so he’d been told on his annual medical check-up, was in perfect condition.

Johnson was looking at him as if expecting a response.

“Sorry,” said Pascoe. “Hard to hear with all this noise.”

Enunciating very clearly as if in a large lecture hall with a bad acoustic, Johnson said, “I was saying, we all make mistakes, Peter. Happily, most of us come to terms with them and get on with our lives.”

For a moment Pascoe felt like he’d been thought-read, then the lecturer went on, “And it can’t be pleasant for Franny, feeling he’s under constant observation.”

How about not being pleasant for me either? wondered Pascoe. But it was a blind alley of a conversation so he said lightly, “Depends on who’s doing the observing. I think one of us is being summoned.”

Ellie was beckoning. He gave a little wave and she replied by pointing her finger towards Johnson.

“You, I think,” said Pascoe.

He followed in Johnson’s wake. Charley Penn gave them both a nod and Ellie smiled a welcome and said, “Sam, do you know Percy Follows who runs the library service? And Mary Agnew, editor of the Gazette?” “Hi,” said Johnson.

“Percy was just telling me about this short story competition the library and the Gazette are running together. It seems they’re having a bit of bother with the judging.”

“Yes,” said Follows. “To be quite honest, I don’t think that Mary or myself realized the degree of interest there was going to be. My staff are doing the preliminary sorting and it’s turned into quite a task for us, I can tell you. We’ve had well over seven hundred entries, a very high standard, and we want to be sure that our winners really are la crème de la crème.”