not reply but its grip tightens round the Fat Man’s broad frame and he finds his weary legs being urged into an even wilder dance which feels as if it will only end when those bony arms have squeezed out of him everything that makes up the life force—sun and wind and air and rain, good grub and mellow whisky, light and laughter—and whirled what little remains away into some icy eternity.
For a moment he is lost. He, the great Dalziel, who on his day has danced from dusk to dawn and then washed down the Full British Breakfast with a tumbler of whisky, has no strength to resist as Death, or Hector, bears him off to oblivion.
Then at the very point of submission, something happens.
New resolve seems to course through his weary limbs like an electric shock. Then another, even stronger. A third…a fourth…a fifth…
Sod this for a lark! he thinks. I’ll give this bugger a run for his money afore I let him dance me off my feet!
Pressing Death or Hector even closer to his chest, he rises on to his toes and goes whirling round the room, once more the leader not the led, faster and faster, till he leaves the wild music trailing in his wake. And this time, instead of blurring out his surroundings, the speed of the dance seems to bring them back into focus. First the high windows with their multi-coloured lights, and then white-clothed tables laden with provender, and finally he becomes aware that the brittle bones in his arms are once more clothed in the warm and yielding flesh of Tottie Truman from Donny.
‘He’s stable now, but it was a close-run thing,’ said Dr John Sowden. ‘With anyone else I’d have called it after the fifth shock. But I looked down at the fat old bastard lying there and I thought, I’m not going to risk being haunted by you! And I gave him one more go.’
Dr Sowden was an old acquaintance of the Pascoes, a relationship which had started way back in a close encounter with Andy Dalziel under suspicion of causing death by drunk driving.
‘And that did the trick?’ said Ellie Pascoe.
‘It started his heart beating again. Which is something, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s only back to where he was. Still showing no sign of regaining consciousness. And we’ve no idea what state he’ll be in if and when that happens. You, Peter, on the other hand are looking remarkably spry, considering.’
‘So when can I go home?’ said Pascoe. ‘I feel fine.’
It was almost true. The anxiety caused by the news about Fat Andy, the relief at hearing they’d got him back, and the pleasure of having Ellie sitting on his bed, had seemed to combine as a sort of tonic. John Sowden ought to be showering praise on him for his resilience rather than pursing his lips.
‘Let’s see how you are in a couple of days,’ said the doctor dismissively. ‘Ellie, nice to see you again. Make sure he behaves himself.’
He went out.
‘John ought to brush up his bedside manner, don’t you reckon?’ said Pascoe.
‘I think he’s a bit worried there may be some delayed emotional reaction,’ said Ellie carefully.
‘He’s been talking to you, has he? Don’t tell me he actually used those tired old words posttraumatic stress disorder!’ Pascoe laughed harshly. ‘Listen, if ever I start feeling sorry for myself, I just have to think of Andy lying up there in a coma.’
Ellie took his hand and squeezed it.
‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘I often wished the earth would open up and swallow the fat bastard, but it’s almost impossible to imagine a world without Andy, isn’t it?’
‘Not almost,’ said Pascoe. ‘You said you’d seen Cap. How’s she taking it?’
‘Hard to say. She once told me that the only worthwhile thing she learned at St Dot’s Academy was to deal with crisis and catastrophe by not letting it mark your upper crust. While us plebs scream and shout and run about, people of Cap’s class maintain an even keel and look to the practicalities.’
Pascoe smiled at ‘us plebs’. Ellie’s family were irremediably petit bourgeois despite all her efforts to downgrade them to acquire street cred in the class war. By contrast Cap Marvell, while making no effort to deny her upper-class background and education, had been much more successful in her efforts to disoblige her old connections. Having a secret weapon like Andy Dalziel you could produce at will can’t have been a disadvantage either.
Pascoe liked her in a cautious kind of way. She was good for Dalziel emotionally and intellectually and, one presumed, physically, but her readiness to strain the law in pursuit of her animal rights causes was a ticking bomb for a working cop. On the other hand it struck him as one of God’s better jokes that after many years of heavy-handed jesting about Ellie’s unbecoming behaviour as a political activist, Dalziel should find himself hoist with the same petard.
‘What are you grinning at?’ demanded Ellie.
‘Just smiling with pleasure at having you here,’ he said.
‘I hope so. I can’t stay long. Rosie’s rehearsal finishes at seven.’
Pascoe shuddered. Public performances by the school orchestra in which his daughter played the clarinet were bad enough. He couldn’t bear to think what a rehearsal must sound like.
‘Didn’t she want to visit me?’ he asked plaintively.
‘Of course she did. But no point in traumatizing the kid. I wanted to be sure you weren’t going to be too much of a shock to the system, so I told her the hospital had banned child visits till tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be coming home tomorrow,’ protested Pascoe. ‘I really do feel fine, no matter what the amateur psychiatrists say.’
‘Let’s wait and see what John says,’ said Ellie. ‘They may need to do more tests.’
‘You know me,’ said Pascoe confidently. ‘Show me a test, I sail through it.’
‘Yeah? Well let’s try this one,’ said Ellie.
She leaned forward and kissed him long and hard, at the same time slipping her hand beneath the bed sheet.
After about thirty seconds she pulled back and said, ‘Yes, you seem to be making firm progress.’
‘Better than you imagine,’ said Pascoe rather hoarsely. ‘Test me again.’
‘I think once is enough at this stage in your convalescence,’ she said primly.
‘You reckon? Do you think the NHS trains its nurses in this technique?’
‘Yes, but you need BUPA for that. By the way, that nice matronly woman with the Scottish accent, who is she exactly?’
‘Sandy Glenister? She’s a Chief Super from the anti-terrorist unit.’
‘I thought that’s what she said, but I wasn’t paying too much attention.’
‘So
