you that we missed a big scandal today. That bastard, Endor, who'd have thought it? Just goes to show you can't tell a melon till you squeeze it. Good work, Joe.'
Meaning I'm a melon as well as Endor? wondered Joe. And Hardiman too, maybe. Perhaps he really does believe we were all pals together at school. And perhaps he's not so wrong there as I think he is. After all, I had him high on my suspect list from the start, so just how partial was I being the way I looked at him?
'My pleasure, Hooter,' he said. 'See you around.'
He caught Willie Woodbine entertaining a little crowd of admirers with a potted version of how he'd cracked the Poll-Pott murder case. When he clocked Joe smiling from the edge of his audience, Woodbine, like a seasoned trouper, didn't break stride but said, 'Joe, glad you could make it,' (like he'd issued the invite personally). 'Ladies and gents, this is Joe Sixsmith, living proof of just how much us pros rely on the eyes and ears of the great big British public.'
Not exactly sharing the glory, but the kind of public endorsement which was worth its weight in parking tickets.
All in all, it was a pretty fair kind of party, he decided, as he accepted another glass of the bubbly wine which seemed to be on endless stream.
As he sipped it, Beryl's voice spoke in his ear like a nun's conscience.
'Joe, I'm not staying on the orange juice tonight. And I said I wouldn't be back late. Sis is good hearted but she don't like to feel overused.'
'OK,' said Joe. 'Let's just see Zak do the opening stuff then we'll be on our way.'
The time for the official part of the evening had arrived. In a shallow alcove in the art gallery's main wall, two squares of curtain hung, each with its own tasselled draw cord. The mayor stood at a lectern and gave a brief antenatal account of the Pleasure Dome.
He concluded, There have been those who sneered at the undertaking from the start, those who opposed it on financial and political and even ecological grounds. We have, I think, met all their arguments with better arguments and if any doubts remained, I am sure they were washed away in that great surge of emotion every true Lutonian shared when we witnessed our own Zak Oto's magnificent achievement this afternoon.'
Lots of applause, with Starbright's beady eye checking to see if anyone was being a touch languid.
'Zak is, of course, not only the finest athlete of her generation ...' (If you're going to lay it on, lay it on thick, thought Joe.) '... but a trained and talented artist. So when it came to deciding who should perform this final opening ceremony here in the gallery tonight, there was only one possible choice. That lady of all the talents and all the graces, our very own, Zak Oto!'
Even more applause. Zak took centre stage looking very young, very shy, and very beautiful. Her voice, at first hesitant, quickly gained strength and she seemed to know instinctively that what was wanted was quality not quantity of words.
A few quick but vibrantly sincere thanks then ... 'and so it is with great pleasure that I declare this gallery and the whole of this splendid Pleasure Dome open.'
She pulled on a tassel and the first curtain slid aside to reveal an ornately carved plaque bearing the Lutonian coat of arms and all necessary details of the occasion.
But it wasn't over yet.
She moved to the second curtain.
'Someone had the bright, or perhaps not so bright, idea that maybe they could hang one of my own paintings here permanently as another mark of the occasion,' she said. 'Well, one of the things I've learned as a runner is to know myself, to assess how far and how fast I can move. I think I'm making fair progress' Laughter 'but when I apply the same touchstone to my progress as an artist, I know just how far I've got to go. Maybe in ten years I'll have something I may dare to submit to public view here. At the moment all I would be doing is offering a permanent proof, by comparison with the work of really mature artists, of just how much I had to learn. So I said no. But the idea of having a permanent exhibition of the very best of local talent is a good one. And I thought I would set the ball rolling by presenting to this gallery, and to the lovely old town of my birth, a remarkable piece of art by someone whose name may surprise you but whose talent will astound you!
Joe looked fixedly at the un drawn curtain which showed the outline of something standing proud from the wall. Art he knew dick about, but a length and breadth he could gauge to the nearest centimetre, and he didn't like what he was thinking.
Turning to Beryl, he whispered, 'OK, let's be getting you back to Desmond.'
'No, hang on, she's almost finished.'
Zak was saying, 'This is, I think, a profound statement of oh so many modern themes. Maybe it's his job, which brings him into contact with life in the raw, that gives him this profound and subtle insight
Joe said, 'I don't feel so good. Let's go. Please.'
He didn't wait to see the result of his plea but headed out of the door. A few steps on he turned his head to see if Beryl was following. She was. The door opened to let her out just as Zak reached the climax of her address. She pulled the remaining tassel and Joe had the briefest glimpse of the curtain opening on what to his eyes was unmistakably a cat's plastic litter tray with a picture printed on its base. Then the door swung shut.
'Joe,' said Beryl as she joined him. 'You OK? You shouldn't drink that stuff if you can't take it.'
I'm fine. Just needed the air,' said Joe.
'Oh good. Funny, I was sure I heard Zak mention your name as I came out.'
'Me? Shoot, you could put everything I know about art down on the bottom of Whitey's litter tray,' said Joe Sixsmith.
And hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, because it's hard to move fast when you're giggling and kissing at the same time, they made their way to the Magic Mini.
REGINALD HILL was brought up in Cumbria where he has returned after many years in Yorkshire, the setting
