In the shower I used the last of the blue jelly stuff that somebody bought me about ten Christmases ago. Choosing which suit to wear wasn't a problem. I mated it with a dark blue shirt and a bold tie in a Picasso design. He's my favourite painter. I considered the socks with little clocks on them but settled for a diamond pattern in the same colours as the tie. I brushed my hair and looked in the mirror.
Fan-bloody-tastic.
Annabelle answered the door immediately. I thrust the roses forward.
'Oh Charles, they're lovely,' she said. 'They are my favourites; how did you know? Come in, I'll put them in some water.'
I followed her through into the kitchen, where she filled a large plain vase and arranged the flowers in it. She was wearing a suit in an unusual lilac colour, with a very short skirt which I quickly realised was a pair of culottes. The jacket had three-quarter-length sleeves and her blouse was a deep blue in a curious material. It had a bloom to it, like yeast on a grape, that exactly matched the colour of the suit. Her tanned legs were bare and she wore high- heeled shoes.
Annabelle never tried to disguise her height she rejoiced in it.
The effect on me was like a kick in the stomach. The pain was physical. I wandered what the other bishops' wives had thought of her.
And the other bishops.
I didn't start the engine immediately. Faith might move mountains but compliments work better on people. 'You look absolutely wonderful,' I told her, shaking my head in disbelief.
'Oh, just a few rags I threw on,' she declared with obvious delight, adding: 'You don't look bad yourself.'
We hit the usual Friday-evening traffic but I'd allowed plenty of time.
'Will you be able to find a parking place?' Annabelle asked.
'Leave it to Uncle Chas,' I reassured her, with a conspiratorial wink.
At the town hall I drove round the back and through the entrance to the police station private car park. All the top brass were at home, tucking into their quiche, so I pulled up in a spot marked CH. SUP.
'Tonight,' I announced, 'you are in the company of an honorary chief superintendent. I told them it was a special occasion, so they've promoted me. It runs out at midnight, though.'
'Will the car turn into a pumpkin?' she asked.
'Oh, a pumpkin. A lay-by. It'll turn into something.'
The tickets were at the front desk. During the drive I'd told Annabelle how we'd acquired them. I led her in and pressed the button.
A WPC appeared.
'My names's Priest,' I told her. 'DI Goodwin has left some tickets for me.'
'Yes. Mr. Goodwin is still here. He asked me to let him know when you arrived.' She picked up the phone and dialled his number. He was with us in seconds. I introduced him to Annabelle.
'I'm so sorry to hear about your wife, Bill. How is she?' Annabelle asked.
She was doing well, so we didn't feel too bad about deriving so much pleasure from her misfortune. Bill was going straight round to the hospital. He handed me the tickets and I slipped him a cheque.
Annabelle said: 'Well, give Joyce our best wishes, and as soon as she's better we will try to repay you by inviting you both round for dinner, won't we, Charles?'
'Yes, of course,' I said. We. I liked the sound of that.
There's a passage leading from the nick into the main body of the town hall, with a door locked on this side. Prisoners are transferred to the courts that way. I said: 'Any chance of using the private entrance, Bill?'
'Sorry, Charlie,' he replied. 'No can do. It's a fire door now; emergency use only. If you open it you'll start the sprinkler system.
That'd make you popular.'
'You mean we've to walk round the outside, with the hoi polloiV I sounded hurt.
'Fraidso.'
'This is no way to impress a lady. C'mon, Annabelle, let's go.'
They said their farewells. At the door I turned to give Bill a wave of gratitude and he made an approving nod of his head.
The tickets said Row D. Because of the size of the orchestra and all the choirs involved, rows A, B and C had been removed. We were in the front row.
'The front row!' Annabelle whispered, incredulously. 'We're in the front row!'
'I don't muck about,' I told her. 'I just hope the conductor is not too enthusiastic with the baton. I could easily lose an eye.'
'Watch out for the trombones,' she warned.
'Maybe we should have brought an umbrella,' I replied.
The warm-up piece was a Stockhausen. The orchestra pl inked and clanged through it with concentrated enthusiasm that wasn't matched by its reception from the audience. A few know-alls cheered and everybody took too many bows. Then the removal men came on and reorganised everything. When the stage was set for the new piece the orchestra began to filter back. The percussionists tuned the big timpani, hinting at what was to come. Line after line of choristers filed on, recruited from every choral society in the North, plus a couple of school choirs. Slowly the huge stage filled and everybody coughed and tuned instruments and fidgeted for the last time. Then, as if to a signal from the back of the hall, a hush came over the auditorium.
I winked at the cello player. He winked back.
Annabelle leaned towards me. 'I think the cello player fancies me,' she whispered.
'No. He fancies me. I fancy you,' I hissed, taking her hand.
The leader entered and bowed and was applauded. Then the conductor. He was popular. Not everyone had my view of him. His shirt looked as if he'd worn it all week and his suit needed cleaning. He turned to the stage, raised his baton, and, a few seconds later, the first crashing chords of Orff s greatest hit shook the fabric of the building.
I'm a lowbrow when it comes to music. Decent melodies and plenty of biff-bash are what I like. Sitting there, next to the most beautiful woman in the place, I'd probably still have been as happy as a sparrow on a chimney if they'd just tuned up for the next hour, but the music engulfed me. Carmina Burana is based around a collection of medieval verses written mainly in Latin. Some are sacred, others profane. It could have been written for us, I thought. All too soon the orchestra began the relentless build-up to what must be the longest finale in the repertoire. At the end every pair of lungs on stage was at full extent, fiddlers' elbows were going like mating rabbits and the drummers were flailing their arms as if attempting flight. And then it was over.
After a moment's breathless silence some courageous soul shouted:
'Bravo!' and we erupted into applause. I turned to Annabelle and she was as delighted as a schoolgirl. The leader and conductor had more bows than the Royal Navy and she clapped every one.
We joined the throng shuffling up the aisle, the rhythms and tunes and wa-wump! of the big drums still pulsing through our bodies. 'That was wonderful,' Annabelle told me. 'It's so nice to have an influential friend.' She took my left arm in both of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. I buried a kiss in her hair.
In the foyer we merged with a sea of excited, smiling faces and were borne slowly towards the exit, which is a revolving door, flanked on each side by a swing door. Coming from the centre aisle we were in the stream of people heading towards the revolving door.
I remember wondering what etiquette demanded in such situations, but it was out of my control. When it was our turn the pressure of bodies propelled me in first and Annabelle squeezed behind me. We shuffled forwards, and she placed her hands on my hips. It didn't feel right I ought to be following her. I made a few movements with my feet, as if doing a party dance, and felt her echo my steps.
We moved round in a semi-circle and slowly a gap appeared and enlarged.
Eager to make amends for my slip of manners, I stepped briskly out and skipped to one side, raising my arm in an extravagant gesture, like a bullfighter making a pass.
Both barrels of the shotgun roared simultaneously.
The blast passed between my body and my arm, taking bits of my jacket with it, and I felt the heat of the muzzle-flash on the side of my face. Glass shattered and Annabelle jerked backwards against the panel of the door behind her, before flopping to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, like a discarded marionette, after the curtain
