'It's kind of you to be so concerned about me, sir,' said Pascoe only half satirically. 'But I get the impression it's you Tankie's really after.'
'Right. And that's why I'll play along with the little game he's got planned. What I don't want is you trying any Boy's Own stuff. Don't lose sleep being grateful. Way I see it is, Tankie's not killed anyone yet. Last thing I want is him finding out how easy it is. Now sit down out of the way and let me get this lot sorted.'
Pascoe squatted on the floor near the door, his back against the wall, and uneasily contemplated his new role as the buffer zone between Dalziel and death.
Suddenly the Fat Man who'd been arranging the items on the bed with a housewifely deftness, snapped to attention, chin high, arms rigid, thumbs pointing straight down the side seams of his trousers. He even managed to hoist part of the bulge of his belly to swell the overhang of his chest.
Pascoe had heard nothing, but now the door flew open sending him scrambling out of its path. Trotter strode in and snapped to a halt inches in front of the Fat Man. He was holding the sawn-off under his arm, like a sergeant major's stick, with his finger on the trigger and the barrel levelled at Dalziel's chest.
But his back was to Pascoe, and for half a second he weighed up the odds of flinging himself onto Trotter's shoulders.
Then he saw the fall shotgun barrel sticking through the doorway and met the still, grey eyes of Judith Trotter fixed unblinkingly on his face.
Trotter was speaking in a low impassioned voice.
'You are disgusting,' he breathed. 'You are the most disgusting fucking object it's been my misfortune to see since I joined this man's army. WHAT ARE YOU?'
'Disgusting, sir!' bellowed Dalziel.
'And what's this?' asked Trotter turning his attention to the bed.
'My kit, sir!'
'Kit? This milo heap of rubbish? I've seen cleaner looking gear in a Port Said bazaar. In fact, I've seen cleaner cat crap. And you've actually put it on your bed! You've got to sleep on this bed, soldier. This is unhygienic! UNHYFUCKINGGIENIC!'
He stooped, took the mattress in his left hand and threw it against the wall, spilling all the kit onto the floor.
'That's better. Probably saved your life there, soldier. Now when I come back in here in half an hour's time, I want to see this place looking so neat and fucking tidy you could invite Her Gracious Majesty the Queen Mother, God bless her, to sit down and take tea with you!'
'Sir!' shouted Dalziel.
Trotter stepped back and glanced down at Pascoe who wondered if he was meant to snap to attention too. Sod that!
'You dropped this,' said Trotter tossing Pascoe's wallet onto the floor.
'Oh yes. Thanks,' said Pascoe, trying to conceal his dismay.
'Photo in there. You in a robe and funny hat.'
'Graduation ceremony. When I got my degree. That means -'
'I know what it fucking means! I could've gone to college!'
Pascoe nodded, aiming at something between Sorry you missed out and It's not all it's cracked up to be, and trying to hide And I'm to be Queen of the May
'Old girl with you, that your mam?'
'Grandmother.'
'Where's your mam then?'
Over Trotter's shoulder, Dalziel mouthed, 'Dead.'
'Dead,' said Pascoe.
Trotter nodded and said, 'This great-grandfather of yours in the Wyfies, squaddie was he? Or an officer?'
Dalziel's huge lips formed the word, 'Captain.'
Thinking, this could be a mistake, Pascoe said, 'I'm not sure but I think he was a captain.'
'So you've got a degree, and your great-granddad was an officer, and you've still got to jump when this bag of dogshit says Jump!'
'Life does funny things to you,' said Pascoe.
'Don't I know it. What do you reckon to his boots?'
Pascoe glanced at Dalziel's boots.
'They're OK?' he said.
'OK?' echoed Trotter incredulously.
'Well, a bit dull, maybe.' Something in Trotter's expression showed him he was on the right track and warming to the role he went on, 'In fact I think they're pretty filthy.'
'Pretty filthy,' said Trotter savouring the words. 'Why don't you tell him?'
'Yes. Certainly. Look, you, er, Dalziel' – it came out Dyeel – 'why are your boots so, er, filthy?'
'Don't have any polish,' said the Fat Man. 'Aagh!'
The groan was pumped out of him by a sudden jab of the sawn-off shotgun into his belly causing the landslide of his newly promoted chest.
'What do you do when you're addressed by an officer?' screamed Trotter. 'What do you say?'
'I salute, sir!' shouted Dalziel saluting. 'And I say sir, sir! Please, sir, I don't have any polish, sir!'
'That's better. And you watch it, soldier. I catch you not addressing this officer correctly and you'll start to wish you hadn't been born.' To Pascoe he said, 'This one needs watch-ing, sir. Perhaps you could keep an eye on him make sure he gets to work on them boots.'
'But if he doesn't have any polish…' objected Pascoe weakly.
'He can spit, can't he?' said Trotter. 'Ought to be able to. Full of piss and wind, I'm sure he's got some spit to spare. Next inspection in thirty minutes if that suits you, sir.'
'Er yes. Er, fine. Er… carry on.'
He had a vague recollection from The Bridge on the River Kwai that that's the sort of thing they said. It seemed to work. Trotter crashed in a thunderous salute, span on his heel and marched out. The door closed behind him and the key rattled in the lock.
'Not bad,' said Dalziel, sitting on the bed. 'Though you'll need to work on it a bit.'
'Work on what?' demanded Pascoe.
'Being an officer. You're lucky, lad. He's decided to treat you as a genuine buckshee, not just surplus to requirements. You're on the team, but you'd best play to the rules else you might get dropped, from a great height.'
The Fat Man had taken off his boots and was examining them with pursed lips.
'Candle, a metal spoon and some blacking and I'd have these bright enough to get a kiltie done for indecent exposure.'
Pascoe worked this out, then asked, 'You've been in the army, have you, sir?'
'Aye, I've done the state a bit of service,' said Dalziel, spitting on the boot. He wrapped a huge khaki handkerchief his own, not part of Trotter's issue) round his index finger and began polishing the toecap in with tiny circular movements.
'And which way did it send you? Mad or bad?' enquired Pascoe.
Dalziel stopped polishing and regarded him almost sympathetically.
'Don't give up, lad,' he said.
'I'm sorry?'
'Only reason a sprog like you reckons he can get cocky with someone like me is you don't hold much hope we're ever going to get out of this. My advice is, until you're dying and I'm dead, stay polite and call me sir. Except when Tankie's around that is. Then I'll call you sir and you can call me what you like, short of vulgar abuse. Vulgar abuse is for warrant officers and NCOs.'
The fat oaf isn't joking, realized Pascoe. Curiously it was almost comforting.
He said, 'What did Trotter mean, he could have gone to university?'
'Now that's a good question. More you know about a man, the more you open up opportunity.'
