Reginald Hill

Franny Roote lay back along the window-sill, his still form blocking out the sunlight. He was wearing his usual summer dress of white beach-shoes, light cream-coloured slacks and a white shirt which was almost a blouse. This colour scheme combined with his own fair colouring somehow blurred the edges of his frame. Without moving, he dominated the room. Only twenty-three, he had developed a repose and still self-sufficiency beyond the reach of many twice his age; and these things put together gave him the indistinct almost inhuman menace of a figure magnified and blurred by sea-mist. It was an image he worked at.

“You heard nothing more, Elizabeth?’ he asked quietly.

“No, Franny,’ said the pretty girl in the blue nylon overall. ‘ about the lists.”

She sounded apologetic, almost distressed, at having so little to tell.

“You did well, love,’ he said, nodding once, still not looking at her.

“Franny,’ said the girl. Tonight. It is tonight, isn’t it? May I come again?”

Now he turned his head and looked full in her face with his light blue eyes.

“Of course you may. We were expecting you.”

Flushing with pleasure, the girl slipped out of the door with the expertise of one used to leaving rooms unobtrusively.

“Is that wise?’ asked a long-haired sallow-faced girl with low-slung breasts.

“Is what wise, Sandra?’ he asked patiently.

“Her, Elizabeth, coming along. I mean, outsiders can mean trouble.”

“What you mean is, she’s a kitchen-maid,’ said a small, dark-haired, moustachioed youth fiercely. This was Stuart Cockshut, the Union secretary and Franny’s right-hand man. ‘, what’s the point of trying to do anything if you can’t shake off your reactionary concepts of an elitist society?” “Belt up,’ said Anita Sewell who was sitting on the floor staring moodily into the empty fireplace. ‘ talking like a colour-supplement student. It’s not politics that’s bothering Sandra. It’s sex. And she’s right. Franny knows when he’s on to a good thing. He gets an extra slice of juicy meat at dinner. And all the gravy he can manage, don’t you, ducky?”

“Nervous, love?’ Franny said to her gently. ”t be.”

“She’ll be all right on the night,’ said Sandra viciously.

Stuart sniggered. Franny spoke again, reprovingly.

“It has nothing to do with appetite of any kind, my loves. Nor with politics, Stuart. We do live in an elitist society, despite all you say.

But the elites have nothing to do with class, or intellectualism.”

He swung his legs down off the sill and stood up.

“This business interests me. I’ve always had a feeling about that statue. Something compelled me to it.”

Suddenly he laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, looking for a moment about eighteen.

“I thought it was just the tits.”

The others laughed too, except for Sandra who was seated on the floor next to Anita. He looked down at her thoughtfully and moved his leg till his calf touched her shoulder. She leaned into his leg and closed her eyes.

“I wonder whose bones they are,’ said a petite round faced girl from a corner.

“The police will find out soon enough,’ said Stuart, making it sound like a fault.

“Perhaps we can beat them,’ said Franny.

They looked at him puzzled for a moment.

“Of course!’ said the round-faced girl, jumping up and opening a cupboard behind her. From it she took a large box which she put on a low coffee-table. Out of the box she produced a Ouija board which she quickly set up on the table.

Franny knelt down and put his index finger on the planchette. He contemplated Sandra’s pleading gaze for a moment, shook his head minutely and said, ‘.”

The girl touched the other side of the planchette.

Slowly it began to move.

Eleanor Soper was immersed in her favourite recurring day-dream in which her first novel had met with tremendous critical and popular success.

Her elbows rested lightly on the untidy sheets of closely scribbled-on foolscap which were scattered over her desk. She was modestly accepting the plaudits of her colleagues and in particular, like a television instant replay machine, her mind kept on bringing Arthur Halfdane forward to offer his obviously deeply felt congratulations.

She was brought back to reality by a knock at the door.

“Shit!’ she said. Her own subconscious was capable enough of diverting her energies away from her novel without the additional annoyance of external interruption.

The knock again.

Angrily, she opened the door.

“Hallo, Ellie,’ said Pascoe.

“For Godsake,’ she said, motionless with surprise.

Pascoe reached out his hand. She took it and they stood there holding hands, looking at each other.