There’s a pub at Midhopestones called the Pepper Pot/ he said. Till pick you up there at two o’clock, and we can go somewhere quiet to talk/
‘Ben, you’re not planning to do anything silly, are you? It would be a mistake, you know/
‘It’s entirely up to you/ he said. ‘Don’t come if you don’t want to. I’m not really bothered/
‘All right, all right. I’ll be there. No problem/
Cooper put the phone down and shook his head sadly. It seemed that Angie Fry hadn’t changed her low opinion of him, even now.
377
i i
34
Saturday
Tommy was killed by eleven-thirty on Saturday morning, which was a little later than planned. But on the Edendale Day of Dance, nothing ever got done on time.
Tommy died in the Market Square, just outside the Wheatsheaf Inn, with the sweet smell of Bank’s Best Bitter drifting from the doorway of the pub, and the setts underneath him still damp from the morning’s showers. He lay curled in a foetal position, with his arms clutched across his chest and his legs pulled up into his stomach.
The small crowd that had gathered on the pavement stood and stared at him for a while. They had been attracted by the noise, but had been expecting more excitement, perhaps a little more blood. When nothing else interesting happened, they gradually began to drift away, hoping to find something to look at in the shop windows in Nick i’ th’ Tor and Nimble John’s Gate.
As always when he was dead, Tommy went into his method acting mode. You could practically see his limbs stiffening with rigor mortis and the blood draining into the parts of his body that were in contact with the ground. He was so convincing that a few flies were beginning to gather. Some of them landed on his sleeve, sniffing with interest at the beer stains and a lingering trace of chicken buryani. In a moment, they would be clustering in his available orifices, eager to lay their eggs while he was still warm.
‘Where’s the chuffin’ Doctor?’ he muttered through clenched teeth.
‘Get up,’ said one of his friends standing nearby.
‘I can’t. I’m dead.’
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‘Get up.’
‘Not until the Doctor’s cured me.’
‘The Doctor isn’t here.’ ‘He has to cure me with the virgin, and all that.’
‘He isn’t here. We think he’s in the pub.’
‘Is he looking for a virgin?’
‘No. Just getting pissed.’
‘Bastard.’
The morris dancer playing Tommy in the mummers’ play rolled over and sat up stiffly. The flies buzzed off him angrily.
‘It’s coming to something when you can’t trust the Doctor/ he said.
That’s the NHS for you. Maybe you should go private.’
‘These cobbles get harder every time.’
A mummer helped him up off the street.
‘I could have died for real down there, and nobody would have noticed,’ he said.
‘We had quite a good crowd, but they’ve buggered off now.’
‘Did anybody get round with the hat for the money?’
‘No, we didn’t have a chance.’
‘Bastard.’
Diane Fry stood quite still as the beast came towards her. Its progress was unsteady, and there was no way of knowing which direction she should dodge to avoid it. It veered from side to side as it stumbled across the cobbles, lowering its head and snapping its jaws. Red and yellow ribbons fluttered from its neck. It lunged towards a small girl, who flinched away with her hand covering her eyes. When the beast was within a couple of feet, it darted towards Fry, its mouthing gaping and red.
Fry put out a hand and tapped on its muzzle. It sounded hollow, and wooden. A pair of eyes peered up at her through the jaws. Fry saw a glint of sweat on a forehead and caught a blast of beery breath.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘We’re looking for the Border Rats.’
The voice that answered her was muffled, because it came from somewhere deep inside the canvas frame.
‘Piss off,’ it said. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘What time do you finish, then?’
‘When these prancing buggers get tired.’
The beast staggered away, roared half-heartedly at some teenage
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girls, and veered back towards the team of morris dancers.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen Mr Fox?’ said Gavin Murfin.
Diane Fry stared at the retreating hobbyhorse.
‘Who?’
‘They’re a group from Langsett, just over the hills from Withens. I saw them about two years ago.’
