'Are they any good?'
'Course they're any good. They're just the same. No middle man, that's the deal.'
'And no rates, rent, electricity, National Insurance and so on. How's business?'
'Pretty fair, Mr. Priest. Pretty fair. And with you?'
'Oh, you know. It's a bit like sex. Even when it's bad, it's good. Or so I'm told.'
He threw his head back and guffawed, the afternoon sun shining straight into his mouth and illuminating his teeth like a row of rotting sea de fences 'You're a case, Mr. Priest,' he said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
'Anything to tell me?' I asked.
'Aye, there is sum mat
'Go on.'
'Pickpockets, Saturday morning. About five of 'em. Not from round 'ere.'
'I'll send someone to have a word with you. What about burglars?
Someone is causing me a lot of grief.'
'You mean, these where they ties 'em up? Old folk?'
'Mm' 'Nasty jobs, them, boss. I'll let you know if I 'ear owl.'
'Ask around, will you? They take orders for stuff they can buy on credit cards. Expensive stuff, like sets of alloy wheels and televisions. Washing machines, anything like that.'
'Right.'
'One more thing,' I began. 'Find another pitch at the weekend. We're having a crackdown. Spread the word if you want to earn some kudos, then ask about the burglars.'
'Yeah. Right. Thanks, Mr. Priest. Thanks a lot.'
It was only half past four, but I went home. I rang the office, had a shower and set the alarm clock for seven. When it rattled into life I thought it was early morning and nearly went back to work, but the jaunty tones of the Archers signature tune saved me.
The prawn cocktail was tasteless, the steak dry and the mushrooms like bits of inner tube dipped in oil. I'd have preferred a curry but Jacquie doesn't eat them she has her customers to consider. She had to be up early so I forsook the massage and dropped her off at the door.
My ansa phone was beeping when I arrived home.
'Hello, Uncle Charles,' a female voice said. 'If you are home before midnight could you please give me a ring.' It was my favourite woman:
Dave's daughter Sophie. Apart from my mother, my previous girlfriend was the only person who had ever called me Charles. Sophie had been as besotted by her as I was and almost as devastated when she left.
Calling me by my Sunday name was an echo from the past. I sat down on the telephone seat and drummed my fingers on my knee, just for a moment wishing that things were different. But they weren't. Never would be.
Never could be. I dialled Sparky's number.
His son, Daniel, answered the phone. 'Is that Mustapha?' I whispered.
He said: 'If you're another one who wants to know if the coast's clear, ring the flipping coast guard I said: 'There were some very handsome camels for sale at the market today.'
He said: 'A handsome camel has a price beyond rubies.'
I said: 'Beyond Ruby's what?'
Sophie's voice in the background asked: 'Is that Uncle Charles?' and Daniel said: 'Hang on, Charlie, Slack Gladys wants a word with you,' rapidly followed by: 'Owl That hurt!' He's four years younger than she is and a good foot shorter.
'Hello, Uncle Charles,' she began, 'did you have a nice meal?'
'Not really. That sounded painful.'
'Mmm, it did hurt my hand a bit. It was me who found her.'
'Found who?'
'The girl with purple hair, of course. She's called Melissa. Melissa Youngman.'
I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt. Tonight I'd gone out smart. 'You found her?' I repeated.
'Just after lunch. It was looking hopeless, so I said to myself: 'What course was a weirdo most likely to be on? Let's try psychology.' I rang one of the postgraduates who still lives in Leeds and she remembered her, told us that she was called Melissa Youngman and had been the first punk at the university. Brilliant, aren't I?'
I told her she was. I wanted to take her in my arms and hug her, squeeze her to pieces, ask her to marry me, but she was only eighteen and there were three miles of telephone cable between us. And I'd have caught hell from her dad.
The weather was breaking. The Saturday-morning forecast said widespread thunder, followed by a cooler spell. I breakfasted early and gathered my walking gear together. I'd have a couple of hours in the office then hotfoot it up into the Dales for the afternoon. I was taking my boots out to the car when I saw him.
The spider, that is. It was a dewy morning and he was suspended in space, halfway between the wing mirror and the outside light, welding a cross-member into position. I pretended not to notice him as I sidled down the side of the house, then I struck. 'Yaaah!' I yelled and severed his web with a well-aimed karate chop. He fell to the ground, rolled expertly back on to his feet with a bewildered look on his face and fled for safety under the front tyre. He was definitely having a bad hair day. I flexed my fingers but no damage was done. Weight for weight, spider web is six times stronger than high-tensile steel.
Dave came in and told me all about it over bacon sandwiches in the canteen. They'd been getting nowhere fast until Sophie had her brain wave Jeremy in the students' office had taken her to the pub for lunch, much to Dad's disgruntlement, and she'd come back with the idea about looking for courses that might attract someone with purple hair.
Psychology had been the first guess. Dave suspected it was really Jeremy who'd thought of it, but who cares? It had saved us ploughing through several thousand records.
'I'd better buy her a present,' I said. 'She's saved the tax payers a few quid.'
'Er, not another Alice Cooper CD, if you don't mind,' Dave requested.
'Why? What's wrong with Alice Cooper?'
'She's a bit noisy, for a start!'
'She! He's a he!'
'A he? Well why do they call him Alice?'
'Er, weller because Alice is an ancient abbreviation of, er, Alexander.
Who, as you know, was a Greek. The name was popular among Greek immigrants to the States at the turn of the century and handed down through the male line.'
'Really?'
'Well, either that or he's living in Wonderland.'
I suggested Dave collect his boots and maybe the kids and come walking with me, but his mother-in-law's windows needed a final coat of Dulux gloss and Daniel had gone off with his pals. I didn't suggest Sophie tag along and neither did he. I bought a sandwich at the cafe across from the nick and drove to Bolton Abbey, about an hour away.
The Valley of Desolation is aptly named in winter, but in good weather it's a pussycat. I watched a succession of people crossing the Wharfe on the stepping stones, waiting for someone to come to grief on the low one in the middle. There's always one, halfway across, that's wobbly or slippery; it's a law of stepping stones. They weren't going anywhere, just crossing for the hell of it, determined to get the most from their day out. I decided not to risk it and used the bridge ten yards downstream. A rumble of thunder rolled down the valley, followed by a second of silence as every face turned towards the sky and noticed the black clouds above the trees.
In twenty minutes I'd left the tourists behind and was scrambling up the path that headed out on to the fells and towards Simon's Seat, a magnificent fifteen hundred feet above sea level. No chance of altitude sickness today. As I emerged above the tree line I saw a figure ahead of me, laden down with equipment, and shook my head in amazement at the amount of stuff some people take with them. They believe all they read about the dangers of walking on the moors.
