Death's Jest-Book (43 page)

He had a good voice for this, a
real Bonnie Tyler rasp, and as he approached the big belt-it-out
section of the song he urged the still silent Wield to join in.

'For I need you now tonight
and I need you more than ever

Fuck it, thought Wield. In for a
penny, in for a pound. And he started to sing, or at least to growl
out the words in a voice as cracked and fractured as his features.

'.. .
forever's gonna start tonight

As the final
'Turn around, bright eyes'
faded away, applause broke out,
enthusiastic generally and riotous from Wim's table with everyone on
their feet, clapping and cheering.

That was great, Mac,' said Lee,
his eyes shining. 'What shall we do for an encore?'

'Got to get back to my friends,
it's a birthday party, sorry,' said Wield.

The look of hurt disappointment
that switched off the light on the boy's face stabbed right through
him.

He squeezed his hand then let go.

'Hey, Happy New Year, Lee’
he said. 'Good to see you. Keep in touch, won't you?'

And it was almost as painful to
see the way in which this small sop of kindness brought back the
light.

'Yeah, sure, Mac. See you soon.
Enjoy your party.'

In the taxi on the way home,
Digweed said, 'Let me guess. That was Lee Lubanski?'

'Yes. Sorry if it embarrassed
you.'

'What's to embarrass in the sight
of a dad and his lad having a laugh together?'

'Dad and lad’ echoed Wield.
'Isn't there a poem about dads fucking up their lads?'

'Poetry now, is it? I'll have to
take you out more often. "They fuck you up your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do." That the one you're thinking
of?'

That's the one. It happens, I've
seen it. And that's what bothers me, Ed. I'm scared I'm going to fuck
the lad up.'

Digweed put his arm round Wield's
shoulders.

'Just so long as he doesn't do it
to you first, Ed. So long as he doesn't do it to you.'

Mon
Dec 31st

Dear
Mr Pascoe,

Safely
back in Fichtenburg, thank God. The weather was pretty foul in Basel
and if Beddoes experienced anything like those conditions, I don't
blame him for being suicidal, and I could well understand how Holbein
came to design his Dance of Death there. Or perhaps the real gloom
was in me. It's curious. I have always been a person happy with his
own company, but the fun I'd had with the others over Christmas
seemed to have affected me in a strange way, and for the first time
ever I felt really lonely.

I could have come back after
twenty-four hours without much loss to my researches, but I was
resolved not to give in. My hopes of a career depend very much on the
job I do with Sam's book and I'm determined not to let the chance
pass. Nor was it a complete waste of time. While I found little to
add to Sam's own researches in Basel (oh, for your detective skills,
that can take you in an empty room and let you emerge with clues to
the perpetrator of some long-forgotten crime!), I confirmed some of
his speculations and I came away with a sense that he (and dare I say
it? Beddoes too!) approved of the progress I was making in my quest.

But I confess
I hurried back here today, looking forward to company other than my
own, and with lively anticipation of a
Silvesterfest
(Hogmanay!)
to match our
Weinachtfest
(Christmas!)

Imagine then my gloom when the
first person I saw on my arrival was Frere Dierick! He greeted me
civilly enough and confirmed what I'd feared, that he was joining
Jacques and myself in the chalet. Well, you're not sharing my room,
not even if Linda commands it! I assured myself.

Jacques too seemed to have lost
his taste for communal living, and it emerged that Dierick was going
to bed down on the living-room floor for the couple of nights before
the house party broke up. There was a perfectly good sofa he could
have used, but he clearly thought the hard floor would be better for
his soul.

My slight depression of spirits
rapidly vanished when, for the first time since coming here, I
checked my answer phone back home. The only reason I've got one is
because Linda tried to ring me once and couldn't get through, which
seriously pissed her off, so the royal command came to get some kind
of answer service and put it down on my research expense tab. With
her in my view, who else was going to be ringing me?

But someone had! Professor Dwight
Duerden no less. Twice! He asked me to call him as soon as I could.
Naturally I rang immediately, and all I got was his answer service.
It was New Year's Eve over there also, so presumably he'd gone away
to do whatever Californians do to mark the end of the year.

I left the chalet number, telling
him that I'd be here for the next three days, after which I'd ring
him from my next destination.

I keep telling
myself it must be good news else why would he bother to get in touch?
Or perhaps he's just a very polite man and feels he ought to let me
know that St Poll Uni Press reckon a book about a poet not many
people have heard of by a dead academic ditto, brought to conclusion
by an ex-con student double ditto, is exactly the kind of thing
they'd pay good money
not
to be involved with!

But next time I write, maybe I'll
have something really exciting to tell you.

Now I must get ready for the
party.

Tues
Jan 1st

My
dear Mr Pascoe,

Here
I am again. And a Happy New Year to you and yours!

I ended above saying I might have
something really exciting to tell you, and in a sense I have. But it
isn't that I've heard from Dwight. Seven or eight hours behind us in
California, he's probably still welcoming in the New Year. Ah well.
Patience is the virtue of the temperate man.

But excitement there's been - or
perhaps I should say excitation!

The party was really jolly, lots
of music, games, dancing, with everyone showing off the local customs
peculiar to their own country or background.

I was tempted to introduce them
to some of the more arcane customs of the Syke, which involved
getting blind drunk (sometimes literally) on a potato-based
distillation liberally laced with medical spirit, but decided against
it! On the stroke of twelve we popped champagne corks and exchanged
hugs and kisses all round. I was expecting another bruising blow to
the cheek from Linda. Instead to my surprise she aimed right at my
mouth and followed through with what felt like six inches of
strenuous tongue. Still reeling from this, I was very glad to note
that I got nothing but a chaste peck from Mouse.

But, as perhaps you've guessed,
it didn't end there.

I finally took
my leave in the early hours and started back on the five-minute
stroll to the chalet. The weather here had been the same as in Basel
for the past few days, murky and wet, and skating had been banned as
the
See's
icy surface became unstable. But tonight the frost
had returned, and the air was bright and clear, a joy to be out in
after the heat and fumes of the party in the castle. The leperization
of smokers is by no means as advanced on the Continent as it is at
home and even the men who didn't smoke seemed to feel that
Sylvesternacht
would not be complete without setting light to
a huge tube of tobacco and sticking it in their mouths.

I stood and drew in mouthfuls of
fresh air. To liken it to champagne sounds like a cliche, but truly
that was how it felt, great draughts of coolth which bubbled along
the arteries and invigorated the mind.

I heard the crunch of snow behind
me as someone else came out of the castle. It was Linda. She said,
'God, I thought I'd smother if I stayed much longer in there.'

'Yes,' I said. 'But it's been a
great night though.'

'You've enjoyed yourself, have
you, Franny? That's good. I was worried you might be bored among all
us politicos.'

'No way,' I assured her. It's
been great.'

She looked really pleased and,
slipping her arm through mine, she said, 'I'll walk through the
forest with you a little way till I get cooled down.'

And so we strolled companionably
through the pine trees and I can honestly say I've rarely felt more
at peace with myself and the world than I did at that moment.

Eventually we reached the ruined
chapel that had filled me with such superstitious fear on the night
of my arrival. Here we paused. Suddenly Linda shivered, whether
because of the setting or simply because the cold had struck deep, I
don't know. But it seemed perfectly natural for me to unlink my arm
and put it around her shoulders and draw her close to share my
warmth.

Well, it was like pressing that
button in the Pentagon which starts World War Three!

She turned towards me and next
thing that tongue which I had felt at the back of my throat as the
clock struck twelve was now trying to lick my brain cells out of my
skull. We span round and round among the ruins like a pair of drunken
waltzers till we fetched up against the cloister wall. Somehow during
this mad motion buttons had got unbuttoned, zips unzipped and hooks
unhooked, and suddenly I was feeling the heat of her bare bosom
burning against my chest and the savage teeth of sub zero air biting
into my buttocks! It was, I thought, like having your haunches in
Dante's Cocytus while you dipped your member into Phlegethon. And if
such infernal images seem ungallant, I can only justify myself by the
context, for over her shoulder as we coupled I could see a whole
wailful of frescoed figures who seemed to be engaged in much the same
activity. Indeed, as I climaxed noisily, it seemed to me that one of
these figures, cowled and sinister, detached itself from the fresco
and moved shadowily away into the trees.

Afterwards, we got dressed
silently and with a speed that had as much to do (I hope) with cold
as with regret. Then she reached out her hand, touched my cheek and
said, 'Happy New Year, Franny. Sleep well.' And set off back to the
castle.

I watched her go then went
towards the end of the wall and looked down at the snow.

I saw the fresh prints of a rope
sandal. Only one person at Fichtenburg wore rope sandals.

Frere Dierick.

I hurried back to the chalet.
Jacques, who'd escaped the party straight after midnight, was on his
mobile when I entered. He brought the call to a rather rapid
conclusion. Could it be Emerald on the end of the line? I wondered.
No sign of Dierick. Jacques looked as if he'd have liked to sit and
chat with me, but I excused myself on the grounds of tiredness. He's
sharp of eye and apprehension and though he's possibly in no position
to cast stones, I still didn't want him to know that I'd been at it
with our patroness on what for all I knew was still consecrated
ground. I had a feeling that Dierick wouldn't be rushing to tell him
either. Info like that was best stored up and kept for a rainy day.

To my surprise, I slept like a
top and woke without a hangover, either alcoholic or psychological.
It had been, I assured myself, a one-night stand. Linda had too much
sense of her own dignity to risk any hint that she had got herself a
toy-boy (OK, I'm not that young, but young enough for the chattering
classes of Westminster and Strasbourg to have a good chortle over at
their cocktail parties). Once assured that I wasn't about to make a
big thing out of our brief encounter, we would resume our old
relationship, only enriched by that extra closeness which such a
shared memory always brings. As for Dierick, if he started hurling
accusations around, it would be Linda he'd be taking on, and she
could eat squirts like Dierick for breakfast!

But I must admit I was distinctly
uneasy until I'd strolled up to the castle and joined Linda and the
others for a cup of coffee. My prognosis seems to be right. She
greeted me warmly, but not too warmly. Like me, she seems to have
survived the celebrations with little after-effect, and as we looked
over the wrecked politicos beached all around us, we were able to
share a superior smile.