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 barroom 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 jimjams 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 toward 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!"
6
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, okay, 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 a 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. Okay, 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 foot part of a new therapy? Or have you finally joined the Masons?"
That was Roote. Misses nowt and likes to think he's a comic.
I said, "You're looking well yourself, lad."
In fact he was. If anything he looked a lot younger than the last time I'd seen him - not counting straight after getting shot, of course. The landlord came over to our table and set a glass of something purple with bubbles in front of him. Mebbe it were the elixir of life. If any bugger found it, it would be Roote.
He said, "Thanks, Alan. And thank you too, Mr. Dalziel. Yes, I feel extremely well. So what brings you to sunny Sandytown ? No, don't tell me. Let me guess. I'd say you're down here to convalesce at the Avalon. You must have arrived fairly recently, they are still completing their preliminary assessment, which you, growing impatient, have opted to preempt by making your own way to this excellent establishment."
Told you he were a clever bastard.
I said, "If we'd caught you younger, we might have made a detective out of you, Roote. But I'm not complaining we caught you later and made a convict out of you instead."
"Still as direct as ever, I see," he said, smiling. "Any minute now you'll be asking what I myself am doing here."
"No need to waste my breath," I said.
"Meaning of course you're just as capable as me at working things out," he said.
Like a lot of folk who love playing games, Roote always reckoned other folk were playing them too. Don't mind a game myself, long as I'm making the rules.
I said, "No. Meaning I'd not believe a bloody word you said! But I can work out you've been here long enough for our landlord to know you drink parrot piss."
"Cranberry juice actually," he said. "Full of vitamins, you really ought to try it."
"Mebbe after morris dancing and incest," I said. "As for your reasons for being here, I'm not interested. Unless they're criminal, which wouldn't surprise me."
"Oh dear. S
till the old mistrust."
"Nay, just the old realism," I said.
Then I went on 'cos I'd never said it direct and it needed saying, "Listen, lad, I'll be forever grateful for what you did for little Rosie Pascoe. Thought you should know that. Won't make me turn a blind eye to serious crime, mind, but anytime you feel like parking your chair on a double yellow line in Mid-Yorks, be my guest."
His eyes filled. Don't know how he does that trick, but the bugger's got it off pat.
"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Mr. Dalziel. And how is the girl? Must be growing up now. And dear Mr. Pascoe and his lovely wife, how are they?"
"All well. He were a bit upset losing contact with you. What happened there?"
He sipped his drink. I had to look away. If the buggers can ban smoking, I reckon at least they should put up screens for folk wanting to drink stuff that colour.
Then he said, "I was deeply touched by Mr. Pascoe's concern for me. He's a man I admire greatly. I would love to be able to think of him as my friend. Perhaps it was because of this that, as I gradually improved, I began to worry in case the gratitude he felt should become a burden. It's all too easy for gratitude to turn into resentment, isn't it? Mr. Pascoe is a man of intense feeling. Sometimes perhaps overintense. It was a hard decision, but I felt it might be best if I cooled things between us, so when I concluded that medical wisdom as it stood in the UK had done everything possible for me and decided to head abroad in search of other treatments, it seemed a good opportunity. I'm sorry if that sounds too altruistic for your view of me, Mr. Dalziel, but it's the truth."
I found I believed him.
I said, "I reckon you got things right for once."
The bar door opened and a young woman came in, laden with carrier bags. She were tall and skinny as a bowstring. Slim, they likely call it in the women's mags, or slender or willowy, some such bollocks, but it's all skinny to me. I like a lass with a bit of something to get a hold of. Mind you, beggars can't always be choosers and I've known a lot of bow- strings that had plenty of twang in them, but on the whole I've always steered clear of the lean and hungry ones. Not that this lass weren't bad looking in a hollow-cheek modelly sort of way, with wavy brown hair, a good full mouth, a determined little chin, and soft blue eyes that fastened on Roote.
She said, "Franny, hi."
"Clara," said Roote. "Hi! Come and meet my old friend, Andrew Dalziel. Mr. Dalziel, this is Clara Brereton."
She came toward us. She were a lovely mover even with the bags. Fair do's, probably being skinny helps here, though my Cap doesn't get many complaints on the dance floor.
She said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Dalziel," like she knew how to spell it. And she was another who didn't blink when she spotted how I were dressed.
I said, "Likewise, lass."
"Why don't you join us ?" said Roote, giving her the full smarmy- charmy treatment.
She sat down, saying, "Just till Auntie comes. Teddy's taking us to lunch at Moby's. He's supposed to be meeting us here."
She looked relieved to set the bags down.
I said, "They don't deliver round here then?" just to make conversation.
Roote chipped in, "Indeed they do, but there's a small charge, and why pay that when you've got your own personal service?"
They smiled at each other. Something going on here? I wondered. With Roote, owt's possible. A gent would likely have made an excuse and left them to get on with it, but gents don't find themselves sitting in public bars in their dressing gowns. Any road, I wanted to see how Roote would play it. But there weren't time to make his play.
The door opened again and another woman entered, this one a bit more to my taste. The way her gaze fixed on Clara and Roote, I guessed straight off this were the aunt. She were knocking on, sixties bumping seventy, but well preserved, and built like a buffalo, with an eye to match. If there weren't enough meat on young Clara to make a Christmas starter, there were plenty here for a main course with something left over for Boxing Day. Not bad looking for an old un, but in a very different way from her niece. No smooth pallor here, but weathered oak. Only thing in common were the determined chin that age had carved on her face into a bit of an icebreaker. This was a woman used to getting her own way.
She said, "There you are, Clara. You've got the shopping? Good. No sign of Teddy? No matter, so long as he turns up in time to pay the bill. Time for a quick one here I think. Alan!"
The landlord was ahead of the game again. There was already a G and T on the bar and an orange juice. No prizes for working out whose was which.
"Good day, Lady D," said Roote. "I hope you are keeping well."
"I am always well, Franny. I firmly believe most ailments are the invention of the medical profession to extort money from fools."
She brayed a laugh like it never struck her some poor sod in a wheelchair might not find this all that funny. Roote just grinned and said, "If Tom Parker wants a living testimony to the health-giving properties of Sandytown, he need look no further than you."
She preened herself and said, "Kind of you to say so, Franny. It's true I have been blessed with a strong and lasting constitution. In fact, I do believe I never saw the face of a doctor in all my life on my own account, but only on the two unhappy occasions when I was told of the death of a husband."
Roote looked solemn for a moment, then said slyly, "But surely, Lady D, you have seen the face of Dr. Feldenhammer, very much on your own account, and on occasions not so unhappy?"
She laughed archly, like a cracked hurdy-gurdy playing "The Rustle of Spring," and I reckon if she'd had a fan, she'd have rapped his knuckles with it as she said, "You naughty boy, that tongue of yours will get you into trouble one day."
"Then I shall call on you for a character reference," said Roote. "Can I introduce my old friend Andrew Dalziel?"
I'd seen those buffalo eyes taking me in during all this byplay and I don't think she much liked the look of me or mebbe it was just my outfit.
I said, "How do, missus?" and in return she gave me a nod that would likely have broken my nose if she'd been close up, then turned to hoist herself onto a bar stool, showing off a pair of haunches a man would be proud to have the tattooing of. The landlord put her drink before her and she leaned forward to engage him in a low-voiced conversation.
The lass gave Roote's hand a quick sympathetic squeeze, then went to the bar to join her aunt.
I took a drink of me ale. Didn't taste as good as before. Nowt wrong with the beer, but. It were me. Should have stopped with the first and certainly skipped the scotch. I definitely weren't feeling up to snuff. Mebbe that was what made me say, all surly, "You'll not get anywhere there, lad. Rich aunts look after dependent nieces."
One thing for Roote, he may play games but he doesn't play silly games, like pretending not to understand.
"Dependent nieces have wills of their own," he said, giving me a stage wink.
"Aye, and so have rich aunts, and they make bloody sure anyone gets cut out of them who doesn't toe the line," I said. "Any road, it could be a long wait if she's as fit as she looks."
"Oh yes. Dear Lady Denham is nothing if not healthy. And wealthy, of course," he murmured.
"And wise?" I said.
"In making and keeping hold of money, very wise indeed," he said.
"Why am I not surprised?" I said. "And I bet you know how much she's kept hold of, to the last decimal place."
He grinned and said, "You are forgetting, I suspect, that thanks to dear Peter Pascoes aid and acumen, I am now a man of moderately independent means, even without the income I generate by my writing. If such a one as I could have any interest in the fair Clara, it would only be cantered on her pilgrim soul."
When an ex-con starts talking about pilgrim souls, I know he's talking crap, but I knew Roote weren't lying about the money. Pete had felt so grateful and guilty, he'd moved heaven and earth to make sure Roote got top compensation from Criminal Injuries, plus the leisure compl
ex where he got shot had had a personal injury clause in their insurance which a smart brief persuaded a judge covered Roote's case. Best of all, Roote had just got back from the States on the day he got shot and when Pete were sorting out his stuff, he realized his travel insurance didn't expire till midnight. The buggers wriggled and wiggled like they always do, but in the end the same brief who'd done the leisure complex got them to cough up for total disability. When eventually it turned out Roote was going to be able to manage a wheelchair, this got considerably pared down, but it still amounted to a hefty chunk of money.
I said, "Independent means ain't the same as independence."
I were just talking about money but soon as I said it, I saw it could be taken as a crack about his legs. Me and buffalo woman had a lot in common. But I knew better than to say sorry and get the piss taken out of me, so I went on quick, "So what's this writing that's making your fortune? You're not Lord Archer in disguise, are you?"
"Happily not," he said. "Nor did I mention a fortune. It's academic stuff mainly, so it pays peanuts when it pays at all. I managed to finish my PhD thesis during my convalescence. Yes, strictly speaking it's Dr. Roote now, but no need to be embarrassed - I don't use the title. Strangers find it confusing and keep telling me about their back pain. Now I am completing Sam Johnson's critical biography of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. You recall dear Sam, my old supervisor, who was so foully murdered before he could finish his masterwork?"
"Aye, I remember the case," I said. "So you're getting paid in advance for writing this Bed-loving fellow's life?"
"I fear not," he said. "Though my publishers in California, the Santa Apollonia University Press, have made a substantial research grant available to me. There are, however, profitable spin-offs in the form of articles and interviews and seminars. In addition, I have a small retainer fee for my work as a consultant for Third Thought."
A Cure for All Diseases Page 5