'I get along,' said Roote with a serene smile. 'You know who she is, do you?'
'She keeps telling us her dad's some VIP and he's going to come along and whip our arses. She can certainly talk, I'll give her that. Couldn't think how to shut her up till I found that whoever uses this desk is a chocoholic. Fancy a Mars Bar?'
'No thanks. She's DCI Pascoe's daughter.'
'Is that right?' said Polchard indifferently. 'Bad choice then. Could have been worse, though. Could have been that fat bastard's lass.'
'Still not good, Mate. The security guard that got shot's still alive, by the way.'
'Glad to hear it. Nothing to do with me though. You can't get the help these days.'
'No? This the same mad bastard who topped the kid in the canal?'
'You know a lot,' said Polchard, looking at Roote speculatively. 'That was definitely nothing to do with me. What are you doing here anyway?'
'Helping out a friend. Two friends, if I include you, Mate. Think about it. Good lawyer, few years improving your chess, no sweat.'
'Good lawyer.' Polchard smiled wanly. 'Used to have one of those. Reckon I might be needing another now. What you got in mind for the endgame, Franny?'
'I walk out of here with the girl, tell them you're coming out too. Couple of minutes later, you show; the hard men with guns do a lot of shouting but no shooting, and before you know it, you're nice and comfy where you don't have to worry about the taxman.'
Polchard bent his head over the board for a long moment. Then with his forefinger he flicked the black king off its magnetic base.
'Off you go then,' he said.
'Right,' said Franny. 'How about the guns? You want I should take them too?'
Polchard laughed.
'There's only the one, and I knew nothing about it till it went off. No, Franny, leave the gun to me. I really don't think you want to hang around and try to persuade your old chum to hand it over to you, do you?'
'My old chum?' said Franny, puzzled.
For the first time Polchard looked surprised.
'You don't know? Well, well. And here's me thinking you were really brave! He's wandering around looking for a way out.' Polchard glanced towards the stock-room door and lowered his voice. I'd push off before he comes back if I were you.'
'But who…?'
'Go while you can!'
When Polchard spoke with that degree of urgency, even the screws at Chapel Syke had jumped.
He went to Rosie and offered her his hand. She stood up. Her mouth was stained with chocolate. The serpent crown which was too big for her slim head slipped to one side. She looked like a tipsy cupid.
'Your dad sent me’ he said.
She looked at him assessingly. He had seen the same expression in her father's eyes. This time it was followed by belief and acceptance, which had never happened with Pascoe.
They walked hand in hand to the door. He opened it slowly and stood there a moment just to make sure the watchers on the far side of the display area registered who it was.
It was a moment too long.
'Roote! It is you that Roote, you fucking bastard! I've been waiting a long time for this! Bring the kid back inside.'
Franny's brain, always hyperactive behind that calm front, had already worked out who Polchard had to be talking about. It wasn't hard. All he had to do was run a finger down the list of people he'd met in the Syke, looking for the kind of madman who'd disobey even the great Mate's instructions and smuggle a gun on a job and use it.
He reached down and took the serpent crown off the girl's head and said in a low voice, 'Rosie, when I say run, run! But not straight. Run right. OK?'
'OK,' said the little girl, deciding she'd been wrong and maybe he was fun after all.
Slowly Roote turned and faced the man who stood in the stock-room doorway.
He was big, very big. He had a black woolly hat like a funeral parlour tea-cosy pulled very low over his brow. And he was holding a shotgun.
Seeing he had Franny's full attention, he took one hand off the weapon and tore off the hat to reveal a bald head tattooed with an eagle whose talons were poised over his eyes.
Roote's face split in a broad grin.
'No, Dendo, you didn't… it's real, is it? You got yourself tattooed in loving memory of poor old Brillo! Now that's really touching. You make a great tombstone!'
'Get inside! Brillo would want this to be slow!'
'Of course he would,' said Franny Roote, stepping forward so that his body was between the gunman and the girl. 'He needed everything slow, didn't he, the poor bastard. Run!'
Rosie set off right. Roote sent the serpent crown spinning towards Bright then hurled himself left. The first shot ripped along his shoulder but he kept running. Bright came to the doorway, his face mottled with such rage it was hard to see where the tattoo ended and unsullied flesh began. And then a fusillade from the waiting marksmen punched a new and final pattern into his body. But he still managed to get off one more shot.
Roote felt a blow in the middle of his back. It didn't feel all that much, the kind of congratulatory slap one overhearty sportsman might give another to acknowledge a good move. But it switched off the connection between his brain and his limbs and he went down like a pole-axed steer.
Men in police combat gear carrying guns came running across the floor to the stock room. Rosie Pascoe leapt into Ellie's arms with such force they both collapsed to the ground and already, even as they lay there locked together, the girl was describing her wonderful adventure. Dalziel took possession of an unresisting Mate Polchard. Wield stepped over Dendo Bright's body like it was a dog dropping and stooped to pick up the serpent crown. He saw nothing of its beauty. To him it was a bit of bent metal which wasn't worth the loss of a single second of Lee Lubanski's life.
And Pascoe, after sinking his face briefly in his daughter's hair, left her to her mother and went straight to Franny Roote.
He put his arm round him to make him more comfortable and felt the warm blood oozing between his fingers.
"Medics!' he screamed. 'Get some help here, for fuck's sake!'
'Made up your mind yet, Mr Pascoe?' said the youth in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper. 'Going to put me on trial? No, of course you're not. It's not in you…'
'Don't be too sure. I can be a right bastard when I try’ said Pascoe with an effort at lightness. 'We'll talk t about it when you're convalescing.'
'Convalescing? I don't think so.'
His eyes clouded for a moment then cleared again and he seemed to take in his surroundings and began to laugh, painfully.
'Remember that inscription I told you about? Need a change now. Franny Roote… Born in Hope… Died in Ladies Underwear… even better, eh?'
A paramedic arrived and knelt down beside the wounded man. Pascoe tried to move aside but Roote's fingers found strength from somewhere to hold him back.
'Know what the date is?' he said. 'January the twenty-sixth. Same day Beddoes died. Funny that.'
'Don't talk about dying,' said Pascoe sharply. 'You can't die yet. It's not your time.'
'Want to keep me alive, Mr Pascoe? It would be a good trick. For all his talk of death, I sometimes think Beddoes would have liked to master it. But why should you want me alive if you're not going to try me?'
'So I can thank you, Franny’ said Pascoe desperately. 'So you can't die.'
'You know me, Mr Pascoe… always looking for someone who'd tell me what to do’ said Roote smiling.
The paramedic was doing what he could, all the while talking urgently into his lapel radio, demanding to know where the hell the stretcher was and saying they needed a chopper here, an ambulance would be too slow. Franny showed no reaction to the sound of his voice or the touch of his hands or the prick of his needle. Still he kept tight hold of Pascoe's hand and never once took his eyes off his face, and Pascoe locked on to the young man's gaze as if by sheer force of will he could hold it steady and bright.
All around them was noise and bustle, pe
ople moving swiftly, men shouting orders, radios crackling, distant sirens wailing; but for all the heed either of them took of this, they might have been a pair of still and isolated figures sitting under the solitary moon in the hush'd Chorasmian waste where the river Oxus flows on his long and winding journey to the Aral Sea.
Imagined Scenes from
AMONG OTHER THINGS: The Quest for Thomas Lovell Beddoes by Sam Johnson MA, PhD
(revised, edited and completed by Francis Xavier Roote MA, PhD)
It is January 26th, 1849. In the Town Hospital of Basel, Thomas Lovell Beddoes awakes. It is early. The large garden overlooked from his window is still in darkness and the birds that winter there have not yet unlocked the first notes of their aubade.
He feels a stab of pain in his right leg, just beneath the knee joint. He grimaces, then smiles as the pain fades. The ghost of a poem in the comic macabre style flits through his mind. In it the amputated limbs tossed into the furnace of the hospital mortuary sing their resentment at this enforced exile from their proper sphere and send farewell messages to the bodies that have betrayed them.
He shifts in his bed and a book falls to the floor. He shares his bed with numerous volumes which range across all his interests, from medical treatises through modern German novels and translations of the classics to a new collection of Goethe's letters to Frau von Stein. Absent only are the radical tracts of earlier days. He has said goodbye to all that.
He lies there with his eyes staring into the dark until light begins to seep through the edges of the heavy curtains, then he throws back the coverlet in a torrent of books and rolls out of bed.
With the aid of a crutch he has achieved an agility which is the wonder of Dr Ecklin and Dr Frey and all the hospital attendants. His generally lively demeanour gives them hope of a matching mental recovery and if his jokes have something of a macabre cast, then they always did.
Later in the day, as he moves rapidly out of the hospital grounds, he returns cheerful greetings to those he encounters who often pause to watch his progress with admiration.
On his way into town he passes the house where Konrad Degen is lodged but he does not pause. That too is over. Degen has been persuaded by mutual acquaintance to return from Frankfurt to Basel to aid his old patron's recuperation. But a true friend would have needed no persuasion. And a son would have crawled over hot coals to comfort his stricken father.
In a quiet side street he pauses a while to make sure he is unobserved by anyone of his acquaintance. Then he enters an apothecary's shop where he is greeted deferentially as Herr Doktor Beddoes and offered a chair in which he sits and chats about his medical researches while his required prescriptions are made up.
Back at the hospital, he tells his attendant that his excursion, though enjoyable, has fatigued him and he is now going to rest for a few hours.
Locking his door, he takes from his pocket the drugs he has obtained. Only one of them does he have any use for. He mixes it in a glass of heavy Rhenish wine, sips, makes a wry face, adds a little more wine, sips again, then sits down at the table which stands before the window and sharpens a pen. His mind meanwhile is running through a list of possible correspondents. His sense of drama, though it falls well short of that necessary to a practical rather than a literary playwright, is refined enough to know that more than one last letter is a profligacy which risks touching the absurd.
His choice is made. Phillips, a good and noble man, head of a happy family and a pattern for fathers everywhere.
He scrawls across the head of his paper To Mr Revell Phillips, The Middle Temple, London, and begins to write, pausing from time to time to sip his wine.
Outside the day is dying young.
My dear Phillips,
I am food for what I am good for – worms.
Food for… good for… I could use that. Make a note? Hardly worth it! The echo of Hotspur's dying speech makes him think of Konrad. He pushed the thought aside.
‘I have made a will here which I desire to be respected, and add the donation of?20 to Dr Ecklin, my physician.
W. Beddoes must have a case (50 bottles) of Champagne Moet 1847 to drink my
He pauses. My health? Hardly. Then he smiles and starts writing again. death in.
Thanks for all kindness. Borrow the?200. You are a good amp; noble man amp; your children must look sharp to be like you.
Yours, if my own, ever,
T. L. B.
He throws down his pen.
It is over.
But the retiring actor does not leave the stage without many a backward glance and the retiring singer can never resist one last reprise, and no real writer ever truly retires.
So he takes up his pen again and scribbles a few more lines.
Love to Anna, Henry, the Beddoes ofLongvill and Zoe and Emmeline King -
Anyone missed out? Of course, the most important of them all. also to Kelsall whom I beg to look at my MSS and print or not as he thinks fit. I ought to have been among other things a good poet. Life was too great a bore on one peg and that a bad one.
Bit self-pitying that? Perhaps. End on a jest, that's the true way of death! He winces as he feels a spasm in his gut from the poison. Then he smiles again. A little medical joke to finish with.
Buy for Dr Ecklin above mentioned one ofReade's best stomach-pumps.
Perhaps he should elaborate on this but now the pen feels heavy in his hand and his lids feel heavy on his eyes.
He sets the pen down, takes up the note and carefully pins it to his shirt. He drains the wineglass and hops across to his bed across which he sprawls supine.
By now it is quite dark outside. Or is the darkness his alone? He does not know. His mind ranges across his life, his huge hopes – for himself, for mankind – and their huge failure, which somehow at this moment of departure does not seem quite so huge. Fantastic images spin across his brain and instinctively he reaches out to them and tries to trap them in a net of words. Now he is seeing death, not on the slab, not on the stage, not on the printed page, but real and active and standing before him, rendering all those thousand of words he has used to describe it sadly inadequate – shards of a broken glass, ashes of an incinerated painting, echoes of a distant music. If only he could raise his pen now, he might after all be more than a good poet, he might be a great one.
Is it too late? Who knows? Can death take a joke as well as make one?
His lips part, his collapsing lungs strive to uncrease thernselves and take in that rich and healing air which he knows can revive him, but his strength has gone. Death's jest is complete.
So Thomas Lovell Beddoes exhales his last breath bearing his last words.
'Fetch the cow… fetch the cow…'
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Death dap-20 Page 51
