Reginald Hill – Arms and the Women (страница 4)
Travelling light, thought Pascoe as he stepped back to get some privacy for his call home. The woman was now talking to the taxi driver and presumably paying him off. There seemed to be some disagreement. Pascoe guessed the driver was demanding the full agreed fare on the grounds that it wasn’t his fault he hadn’t got her all the way to Terminal 3.
Terminal 3.
Last time he’d flown out of Manchester, Terminal 3 had been for British Airways and domestic flights only.
You couldn’t fly charter to Corfu from there.
Perhaps the driver had made a mistake.
Or perhaps things had changed at Manchester in the past six months.
But now he was recalling the slight hesitancy before the sob story. And would a young woman on holiday really travel so light…?
Pascoe, he said to himself, you’re developing a nasty suspicious policeman’s mind.
He turned away and began to punch buttons on his phone.
When it was answered he identified himself, talked for a while, then waited.
In the distance he heard the wail of sirens approaching.
A voice spoke in his ear. He listened, asked a couple of questions, then rang off.
When he turned, Kelly Cornelius was standing by the taxi, smiling expectantly at him. A police car pulled up onto the verge beside him. An ambulance wasn’t far behind.
As the driver of the police car opened his door to get out, Pascoe stooped to him. Screened by the car, he pulled out his ID, showed it to the uniformed constable and spoke urgently.
Then he straightened up, waved apologetically to the waiting woman, flourishing his phone as if to say he hadn’t been able to get through before.
He began to dial again, watching as the policemen went across to the taxi and started talking to the driver and the woman.
‘Hi,’ said Pascoe. ‘It’s me. Yes, I’m on my way but there’s been an accident… no, I’m not involved but I am stuck, the road’s blocked, and I’m going to have to divert… yeah, take me when I come… give Rosie a kiss… how’s she been today?… yes, I know, it’s early days… it’ll be OK, I promise… love you… ’bye.’
He switched off and went back to the taxi.
‘What the hell do you mean, I can’t go?’ the young woman was demanding. Anger like injury did nothing to detract from her beauty.
‘Sorry, miss,’ said the policeman stolidly. ‘Can’t let you leave the scene of an accident where someone’s been injured.’
‘But I’m the one who’s been injured so if I say it doesn’t matter…’
‘Doesn’t work like that,’ said the policeman. ‘Need to get you checked out at hospital. There may be claims. Also you’re a witness. We’ll need a statement.’
‘But I’ve got a plane to catch.’ Her gaze met Pascoe’s. ‘Corfu. It’s my holiday.’
A sharp intake of breath from the policeman.
‘Certainly can’t let you leave the country, miss, that’s definite,’ he said. ‘Here’s the ambulance lads now. Why not let them give you the once-over while I talk to these other gents?’
Pascoe caught her eye and shrugged helplessly. She looked back at him, her face (still beautiful) now ravaged with shock and betrayal, as Andromeda might have looked if Perseus, on point of rescuing her from the ravening dragon, had suddenly remembered a previous appointment.
‘Well, if you’re done with me, Officer, I think I’d better start finding another route home,’ he said, looking away, unable to bear that devastatingly devastated expression.
The constable said, ‘Right, sir. We’ve got your name in case we need to be in touch. Goodbye now.’
As he made his way back to his car, Pascoe reflected on the paradox that now he felt much more guilty about Kelly Cornelius than he had before, when it had just been a question of simple reflexive desire.
Women, he thought as he sat in his car and put the necessary enquiries in train.
Women. How come they didn’t rule the universe?
COMFORT BLANKET
Arms and the Men they sang, who played at Troy
Until they broke it like a spoiled child’s Toy
Then sailed away, the Winners heading home,
The Losers to a new Play-pen called Rome.
– Submiss, submerged, but certainly not sung –
A wake of Women trailed in long Parade,
The reft, the raped, the slaughtered, the betrayed.
Oh, Shame! that so few sagas celebrate
Their
But mine won’t either, for why should it when
The proper Study of Mendacity is MEN?
‘Your pretty daughter,’ she said, ‘starts to hear of such things. Yet,’ looking full upon her, ‘you may be sure that there are men and women already on their road, who have their business to do with
CHARLES DICKENS:
The little patch of blue I can see through the high round window is probably the sky, but it could just as well be a piece of blue backcloth or a painted flat.
licks up the blood from the square where a riot has been…
Distantly I hear a clatter of hooves. They’re changing guard at… I’ve heard them do it thousands of times. But hearing’s as far as it goes. They could be mere sound effects, played on tape. You don’t take anything on trust in this business. Not even your friends. Especially not them.
I who know everything knew nothing till I knew that.
what does it mean?…
The only unquestionable reality lies in the machine.
But while reality hardly changes at all, the machine has changed a lot. It grows young as I grow old.
Shall I like my namesake grow old forever?
My namesake, I say. After so long usage, am I beginning to believe as so many of the young ones clearly believe that my name really is Sibyl? Strange that the name my parents gave me also labelled me as a woman of magic, but an enchantress as well as a seer. Morgan. Morgan Meredith. Morgan le Fay, as Gaw used to call me in the days of his enchantment.
But now my enchanting days are over. And it was Gaw who rechristened me when he saw that I had no magic to counter the sickness in my blood.
A wise man hides his mistakes in plain sight, then over long time slowly corrects them.
My dear old friend Gawain Clovis Sempernel is a wise man. No one would deny it. Not if they’ve any sense.
Aroynt thee, hag. Ripeness is all. And I have work to do.
When I first took on my sacred office, the machine loomed monumentally, like a Victorian family tomb. Thirty years on, it’s smaller than an infant’s casket, leaving plenty of room on the narrow tabletop for my flask and mug, and also my inhaler and pill dispenser, though generally I keep these hidden. Sounds silly when you’re in a wheelchair, but I was brought up to believe you don’t advertise your frailties.
That’s a lesson a lot of folk never learn, which is why so many of them end up frozen in my electronic casket where there’s always room for plenty more.
If I wanted I could ask it to tell me exactly how many people had passed through my hands, or rather my fingertips, for that’s the closest I get to actually handling people. But I don’t bother. This isn’t about statistics, this is about individuals.