Deadheads

'He's dead,' said Wield in a hoarsely vibrant tone. 'He's dead!'

Below the moving hands, Cadet Singh's eyelids twitched, then opened.

'You'd better not tell him that,' said Pascoe. 'Now for God's sake, go and rustle up an ambulance!'

6

 

FELICITE ET PERPETUE

(Climber.Vigorous, healthy, abundant foliage, profuse white flowers with faint blush, high climbing, sweet-scented.)

Dick Elgood had not been lying when he said that he liked to relax alone on the night before an important meeting.

He left the offices of Perfecta at six o'clock, pausing to glance at the old Elgoodware artefacts on display in the vestibule. This is how it had all started. Here were the beginnings of the road which had led him to where he was now. Which was where? He felt uneasy at the thought. It was daft! How could the condition, the achievement, which only a few weeks ago had seemed such a cause for congratulation, for complacency even, now appear hollow, empty, meaningless? Perhaps a man needed more than work. An interest, an obsession. Like Aldermann's garden and his bloody roses! What did he have? Women, a lot of 'em, more than he could recall. That was something, surely. Pleasure; ecstasy; and more to come. His strength was less than it had been, but far from failing. Perhaps he should have arranged for a bit of company tonight. He thought of telephoning around, but decided it was too late. And surely it was best to stick to his plan.

Nevertheless, the desire for company remained, and he didn't go straight to the cottage but drove first to a favourite restaurant some ten miles up the coast where he had a steak. There was a new waitress, a smiling lass, who caught his fancy and he lingered longer than he intended over his coffee and brandy. But when he judged the moment ripe to ask what time she finished, she replied promptly, as though the question had been anticipated, that her father collected her shortly after eleven. Dick finished his brandy philosophically, guessing that one of her colleagues had played bitch in the manger and warned her off. He had certainly used the place often enough for his reputation to be known, and like most dedicated followers of the fancy, his sexual vanity did not permit him to consider that perhaps the girl simply didn't like the look of him.

It was after ten-thirty when he arrived at the cottage, much later than he had intended. He felt vaguely dissatisfied as he stood by the white post which marked the furthest encroachment of the sea and gazed down at the darkling shore where a thin white line and a rhythmic susurration signalled the retreating tide. He should have stuck to his original intention and come straight down. Now he would have to forgo his anticipated swim. Food, alcohol and an ebb tide were ingredients which mixed to disaster. And in any case, though usually he regarded the water as simply an alternative element, tonight the moving darkness stretching away to an imperceptible horizon filled him with a sense of menace and being alone. Shivering, he turned and went inside.

His customary pre-bed cup of cocoa with a shot of rum soothed his slightly ruffled nerves and he soon fell asleep. But he passed a broken night, waking frequently out of ancient dreams of flying and falling to listen to the strange patterns of noise that sea and wind and darkness were weaving all around. He was glad to get up on Wednesday morning, gladder to see that even so early the sun was already beaming promises of great warmth from an untroubled sky. The sea was its old self, dancing invitingly in the little bay below the cliff. He was tempted to go straight down, but at his age such suddenness was to be avoided. He did some stretching and warming exercises, then took his usual little breakfast of pure apple juice and a dry crispbread and black coffee. Then he relaxed and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Finally he was ready.

He put on his towelling robe and clambered down the broken cliff face to the beach. He removed the robe, looked around, and removed his trunks also. He liked to swim naked but was very careful to do so only when he could be almost completely certain of being uninterrupted. He had no desire to be dragged into court on an indecency charge.

As always, his swim invigorated him mentally and physically, reminding him of both his fitness and his self- sufficiency. He was hardly puffing as he clambered back up the cliff and re-entered the cottage.

He went straight into the shower cubicle to wash off the salt water. Carefully adjusting the jet till he got the perfect temperature, he stepped inside. First he soaped himself all over, then he poured shampoo on to his still thick and vigorous hair and began to massage it to a lather. The water ran steadily, caressing his body. It wasn't for some time that he felt the first prickles of discomfort. It wasn't bad, just as if he were showering after too long an exposure to a burning sun. He raised his head to the streaming water, letting it run over his face. His eyes prickled as if he'd got soap in them. He opened them to wash it out. And screamed as they seemed to burst into flame.

He staggered sideways out of the shower, but the pain came with him. His mouth tasted acrid, he couldn't see out of one eye and vision from the other was blurred and distorted. He crashed across the living-room, making for the front door. He was twitching convulsively and his mind was hardly able to function beyond his desperate desire to get down to the sea. The sea would cleanse him, soothe him, save him. He was in the little garden now. He hit the white post, reached the edge of the cliff and fell rather than descended down its broken face. Now he could hear the water though sight was almost gone. Even the bold red sun was only a match-head to his unblinking gaze. He staggered on, his feet dragging through the shingle and the sand till he felt the waves lapping at his feet. He kept going a step or two further, then fell forward and let the water take him. After a while he rolled on his back and tried to float. Above him seagulls mewed, but the sound barely touched his ears, like the cry of children playing on a distant shore.

Shaheed Singh awoke first to the dawn chorus of hospital life and didn't manage to get back to sleep till after nine A.M. When he opened his eyes an hour later, Dalziel, Pascoe, and Sergeant Wield were standing by his bed.

'Morning, lad,' said Dalziel. 'We've finished your grapes. How're you feeling? Always thought you needed a turban to finish you off.'

Singh put his hand to the swathe of bandage which crowned his head and smiled, not at the comment but at Inspector Pascoe's undisguised pained reaction to it.

'They wouldn't let us see you till last night and by then you were asleep,' said Dalziel accusingly. 'You sleep a lot for a young copper.'

'The doctors say that there's no fracture, just a heavy concussion,' said Pascoe. 'You'll be out in a day or two. Your dad's outside, but he insisted we came in first.'

'What about Jonty and them others?' said Singh. 'Did we get 'em?'

'Oh yes. And don't worry, we'll see you get mentioned in all the right places,' smiled Pascoe.

Wield said, 'I brought you some books. And some chocolate.'

'Thanks, Sarge,' said Shaheed.