Then Trotter stiffened, threw up a salute and said, 'Sir! Prisoner ready for inspection, sir!'
Slowly Pascoe advanced and with an expression of distaste not difficult to simulate he ran his eyes over the Fat Man's frame. Now what was it officers said as they went round the cookhouse? Oh yes.
'Any complaints, my man?'
Who was it who, asked the same question shortly after call-up in 1940, replied, 'Not one in the world, darling. Every thing's perfectly ducky'? He couldn't recall. He doubted if the Fat Man was about to make the same answer. ^
'Nosir!' bellowed Dalziel.
Pascoe found that, despite the underlying menace of the situation, he quite enjoyed this new relationship. He said, 'Good. Mr Trotter, has this man been shown the right way to lay out his kit or have regulations changed to permit a certain amount of idiosyncratic choice?'
Trotter said, 'No, sir. Regulations same as always. You hear what the officer says, you horrible little man?'
He stooped, picked up the mattress and shook the kit to the floor again.
'Next time get it right or you'll wish you had never been born!'
He wheeled towards Pascoe and said, 'Next inspection in twenty minutes, sir?'
The intervals were getting shorter. Must be something he could do to slow the trend. What would happen if he simply used his putative authority to say, no, make it an hour?
He looked into the mad grey eyes and thought, to hell with that! He'd probably cashier me. With his shotgun!
He looked away and saw the Fat Man's lips forming a word. F… something. He wasn't swearing at him again surely! No. It was food.
He said, 'Carry on, Mr Trotter.'
It was almost a pleasure to see the expression of fury which passed over Dalziel's face like the shadow of a storm cloud over a fell.
He got the thunderous 'SIR!' and the big salute from Trotter, then just as the man reached the door, Pascoe said, 'Oh, by the way. Has the prisoner had any refreshment?'
Trotter came to a halt at the door and turned. It wasn't a military turn and the look he was giving Pascoe wasn't a military look.
Oh hell, I've bounced him out of character, thought Pascoe.
Trying not to let his languid drawl accelerate into a terrified babble, he said, 'Regulations, Mr Trotter. Everything must proceed strictly according to regulations, or where are we, eh?'
Dead, he thought. That's where. Maybe this was the time for the last despairing leap. Hope that one or both of the shotguns jammed. Did shotguns jam? Probably not. All right, hope that the first wound wasn't totally incapacitating. The adrenalin of fury, or hate, or love, could keep a man going even when full of lead. Like Bill Holden in The Wild Bunch. Or Gary Cooper at the end of For Wham the Bell Tolls. No. Cancel those. They both snuffed it. Think of Shane riding off into the mountains after the big shoot-out, despite having taken one in whatever part of his apparently anaesthetized anatomy he took it in!
He tensed his muscles. All his life should be passing before him now… wouldn't take long… barely enough of it for a loony 'toon, let alone a full seven reeler.
Trotter too was stiffening up, slowly resuming his military erectness.
He said, 'Yes, sir. You're right, sir. I'll see to it at once. Sir.'
Then he was gone and the door was locked behind him.
Pascoe sat abruptly on the bed. He realized his legs were gently trembling.
Dalziel said, 'Not bad, lad. Do a bit of acting at this college of thine?'
'No,' said Pascoe. 'I was always more interested in films than the theatre. I once auditioned for a part in An Inspector Calls but that was only because there was this girl helping with the production.. .'
Relief was making him garrulous. Dalziel was grinning.
'They didn't put bromide in your tea then?' he said. 'An Inspector Calls, tha says? Good play that. It were written by a Yorkshireman, did you know that?'
'Yes, surprisingly, I did know that,' said Pascoe.
'I'm glad to hear it. And there's a bit of Yorkshire in you too, is there, with this great-granddad of yours in the Wyfies? That why you transferred up here?'
Pascoe thought, shall I tell him that I have no interest whatsoever in my great-grandfather and that my sole reason for applying for, transfer was to get away from a fascist superior whose methods and morality I equally deplored (but whom I am now starting to recall with nostalgic fondness) and whose halitosic daughter fancied me rotten?
He said, 'A man likes to be near his roots, sir.'
Their gazes locked, the younger man's warm with sincerity, the older man's steadfast with understanding.
Then Dalziel said, 'Bollocks. It'll either be trouble with a tart or your boss. Now give us a hand picking up this lot. What the hell were you playing at? All that idiosyncratic crap, encouraging him to fire it on the floor again?'
'I thought, sir,' said Pascoe stooping to pick up the scattered kit, 'that as he was certainly going to do it anyway, I might as well use the certainty to authenticate my own role.'
'By God, lad, if tha thinks as long-winded as tha speaks, I'm surprised you ever got out of nappies. Glad you picked me up on the food, but. I bet the bugger has me doubling to the cookhouse to collect it.'
'Is that why you suggested it, sir? To get a look around, perhaps suss out a way to escape?' asked Pascoe, impressed.
'Don't be bloody daft,' said Dalziel. 'I suggested it 'cos I'm bloody starving!'
I believe he means it! thought Pascoe helplessly. He's just like all of his type and generation. Not without a certain animal cunning and sharpness, but like an animal, incapable of dealing with more than the immediate moment, the short-term crisis. Either something will turn up or it will go away, that's his philosophy. If we're going to get out of this, it's going to need me to take the initiative.
He said, 'I was thinking, sir. The woman, Judith, how far do you think she'll go with her brother's schemes? I wondered if I should try to work on her…'
'Show her your dick, you mean, and tell her you love her? She'd shoot it off without a second thought. Very moral lass, Jude. Very faithful. A one man woman and she'll go all the way to protect them as she's given her loyalty to. Man who gets a lass like Jude can count himself lucky.'
Pascoe had finished collecting the kit, and now he watched as Dalziel once more neatly folded it and arranged it on the bed.
He said, 'Do you really think playing this crazy game is going to get us anywhere?'
'Game? Aye, that's what it is, I suppose. That's what the army is, in peacetime any road, and especially in the glasshouse. None of this daft rehabilitation stuff there. They don't want to make good citizens out of you. They want to make good soldiers, and a good soldier is one who does what he's told, no questions asked.'
'So why's Trotter doing this to you?'
'Because it's the worst thing he can think of. Also because he went through it for years and the poor sod reckons he came out on top. And he thinks a few days of what he suffered for years will break me like a pencil point. Which reminds me.'
He stepped onto the bed which groaned under his weight, removed his belt and with the buckle scratched on the damp granite wall the name trotter.
'There,' he said stepping down. 'My name kept Tankie going. Let's see if his can do the same for me.'
'He must have been really fixated on his mother to hate you so much,' said Pascoe.
'Oh aye. There were another reason, but his mum would've been enough. Worshipped her like she was the Virgin Mary. Mebbe that's why he's so bent on getting himself crucified. You'll have noticed the tattoo on Tankie's arm? Got that done when he were a lad. But the black border round it he did himself after she snuffed it. Used boot blacking and a sharpened bed spring while he were in the glasshouse. They thought they might have to cut off the arm, but he survived. Then while he were convalescing, he hit his guard with his drip, stole his clothes, jumped out of a third-storey window and headed home. Only this time it were my home he headed for. My missus opened the door and Tankie just walked* in.'
