God’s purpose in everything, my old mate Father Joe Kerrigan once told me.
I looked closely.
Here was a road leading down to Sandytown which had to have a pub, and I was leaning up against a car.
Joe were right. Suddenly I saw God’s purpose!
They were nice folk in the car. Real friendly. I sat in the back with this lass. Could have been thirteen, could have been thirty, hard to tell these days. Turned out I knew her dad. Played rugger against him way back when I were turning out for MY Police. He were a farmer and used to play like he were ploughing a clarty field. Couldn’t see much point to having players behind the scrum. Reckoned all they were good for was wearing tutus and running up and down the touchline, screaming, Don’t touch me, you brute! We had a lot in common, me and Stompy.
They dropped me at this pub. The Hope and Anchor. I didn’t have any money with me. Likely I could have talked the landlord into giving me tick, but this guy Tom in the car volunteered to sub me twenty quid, so no need to turn on the charm. I went into the pub. The main bar were full of trippers eating sarnies and chicken tikka and such. On the other side of the entrance passage were a snug, half a dozen tables, only one of ’em occupied by a couple of old boys supping pints. I went in there, put the twenty on the bar, and said, ‘Pint of tha best, landlord.’
Don’t expect he gets many customers in their sleeping kit, but to give him his due, he never hesitated. Not for a second. Drew me a pint, set it down.
I took the glass, put it to my lips, and drank. Didn’t mean to be a hog but somehow when I set it down, it were empty.
‘You’ll need another then,’ he said with a friendly smile.
I was really warming to this man.
‘Aye, and I’ll have a scotch to keep it company,’ I said. ‘And a packet of pork scratchings.’
I nodded at the old boys who nodded back as I took my drinks over to a table in a shady corner. When a landlord treats me right, I try not to offend his customers.
I nibbled my scratchings, sipped my scotch, gulped my beer, and took in my surroundings. Nice room, lots of oak panelling, no telly or muzak, bright poster above the bar advertising some Festival of Health over the Bank Holiday. With medicine like this, I thought, it couldn’t fail! And for perhaps the first time since that bloody house in Mill Street blew up, I felt perfectly happy.
It didn’t last long. Rarely does. According to Father Joe, that’s ’cos God likes to keep us on the jump.
Certainly kept me on the jump here.
Hardly had time to savour the moment when the bar-room door opened and a man in a wheelchair came rolling through.
He halted just inside the door in the one shaft of sunlight coming through the window. His head were shaven so smooth the light bounced off it, giving him a kind of halo. His gaze ran round the room till it landed on me.
Perhaps there was summat in the Sandytown air that stopped people showing surprise. The landlord had kept a perfectly straight face when a slightly bleeding man wearing jim-jams and one slipper came into his pub.
Now the wheelchair man went one better. His face actually lit up with pleasure at the sight of me, as though I owed him money and we’d arranged to meet and settle up.
‘Mr Dalziel!’ he exclaimed, driving the wheelchair towards me. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world, you had to walk into mine! How very nice to see you again.’
I did a double take. Couldn’t believe my eyes. Or mebbe I didn’t want to believe them.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘It’s Franny Roote. I thought you must be dead!’
Had a little sleep there. Bloody pills!
Where was I?
Oh aye. Franny Roote.
First time we met were at this college Ellie Pascoe used to work at not far up the coast from here. They’d found the old principal’s body buried under a memorial statue. Roote were President of the Students Union. Bags of personality. Made a big impression on everybody. Made a specially big one on me by cracking a bottle of scotch over my head. Insult to injury, it were my own bottle.
He got banged up – not for attacking me but for being involved in the principal’s death. When he came out a few years back, he showed up again in Mid-Yorkshire, doing postgrad research at the University. Then his supervisor got murdered. So did a few other people.
Folk were always dropping dead round Roote.
Pete Pascoe were convinced he was involved, in fact he got a bit obsessed about it. But he never got close to pinning owt on him. Then Roote started writing him letters from all over the place. Funny bloody things they were, dead friendly on the surface, saying how he really admired Pete. But they really began to freak the poor lad out.
But finally, big twist, what happens is Pascoe’s lass Rosie gets taken as a hostage by a bunch of scrotes Roote had known in the nick. Roote manages to get her out, but only at the expense of getting a load of buckshot in his back. Looked a goner. But he hung on. Got transferred to some specialist spinal injury unit down south. Pascoe kept in close touch. Practically took control of his insurance and compensation claims. Felt he owed him, specially after all the nasty thoughts he’d had about him.
Me, I were real grateful too. Rosie’s a grand kid, got the best of both her mum and dad in her. But just ’cos I were grateful didn’t make me elect him St Franny!
Pete gave us bulletins. Quadriplegia seemed likely to start with, so when it finally came down to paraplegia, Pascoe acted like he’d won the lottery. Bothered me a bit. I told him, be grateful, OK, but that don’t mean feeling responsible for the sod for the rest of your life. Pascoe slammed off out after I said that and I heard no more about Roote for six months or more. That’s a long sulk in my book so finally I mentioned him myself.
Turned out the reason Pascoe said nowt was ’cos he’d nowt to say. He’d lost touch. Seems that when the medics decided they’d done all that could be done for Roote, he just vanished. Pascoe had traced him as far as Heathrow where he’d got on a plane to Switzerland. We knew he’d been there before. That’s where some of the funny letters had come from. This time no letters, not even a postcard. Best guess was, being Roote, he weren’t settling for a life viewed from belly level, he were going to spend some of that compensation dosh looking for a cure.
Would have been easy enough for us to get a fix on him. Even in our borderless Europe, a foreigner in wheelchair tends to leave a trail. But I reckon Ellie said to Pete that if Roote didn’t want to keep in touch, that was his choice.
Now here he was, large as life, back on my patch – all right, on the very fringe of it – and I didn’t know a thing about it.
I didn’t like that. OK, I’d spent a bit of time in a coma recently, but that’s no reason not to know what’s going off.
He manoeuvred his chair alongside me and said, ‘I read about your bit of trouble and I’m so pleased to see reports of your recovery haven’t been exaggerated. Though tell me, is the bare
