'I was just wondering if you'd ever play football again,' he said.
The tango ended and the band stuttered into an old-fashioned waltz.
'Try me,' said Ellie, rising.
They did a couple of circuits without talking. Then Pascoe felt a tap on his shoulder.
'Excuse me,' said Dalziel, a gigolo grin scimitaring his face. 'Man with a wooden leg can't be satisfying a lovely mover like this.'
'Fuck off,' said Pascoe amiably.
They waltzed away. Ellie's arms were round his neck pulling him close.
'That's the nicest thing I've heard tonight,' she said. 'I love you.’ ‘Me too.'
'So why don't we practise what you preach?'
'Eh?'
'I mean fuck off.'
They stole away without fuss. How simple life could be sometimes, thought Pascoe. All you had to do was walk away from the Titanic.
As long as you were aware, of course, that you might be stumbling into the Battle of Waterloo.
part five
Lucifer: Me needs not of noy for to neven, All wealth in my wield have I wielding; Above yet shall I be bielding, On height in the highest of heaven.
There shall I set myself full seemly to sight, To receive my reverence through right of renown;I shall be like unto him that is highest on height.Oh, what I am dearworth and deft - oh deuce! all goes down!
The York Cycle:
The Fall of the Angels'
April 3rd
Dear Mr Dalziel,
It's been a long time, more than a month. Did you think I'd given up the idea? Or perhaps simply gone off quietly and done it? I don't suppose you'd much care which as long as I was out of your hair! Don't think I'm complaining. It was your likely indifference I chose you for in the first place, remember? The last thing I want is for the Great Detective to actually set about tracking me down! Of course, even though I'm beneath your notice, you might fob me off on to one of your underlings. That bothers me a bit. I shouldn't like to think that someone who actually cares might end up picking up the pieces, particularly if I opted for something messy like jumping under a train. Now what put that idea into my head? Perhaps because it's St Pancras' day? Wrong St Pancras, I think, so no need to send your minions rushing off to the station!
I'm rambling. Sorry. Just because it's a ramshackle meaningless world we live in doesn't mean we should give up control of our own thoughts. What I'm saying is I don't want to add to all the misery on offer, so keep me clear of the sensitive plants if you can.
It was good to see you enjoying yourself at the ball last month, by the way, even though you didn't ask me to dance! The Hospice Fund must have done well. I felt so unselfish, knowing I couldn't personally benefit from it. And at the same time I felt like standing up and saying, no need to waste your money, I can teach you how to die! But that would have been a dead giveaway, wouldn't it? And I mustn't make life easy for you. Though come to think of it, it might be nice if I could. I owe you something for laying all my troubles on you like this. It would really please me if I could compensate for dropping one insoluble problem in your lap by helping you out with another. The coroner wasn't very kind to you the other day, was he? And by all accounts you weren't very happy with him. Naturally I can hardly hope to succeed where the Great Detective has failed, but I promise I'll keep my ears open.
It will give me something useful to do during the countdown.
CHAPTER ONE
It had been a mistake to play God.
Especially when you'd solved the old paradox: if God created everything, who created God?
The answer was Chung. And Chung the creator was very different from Chung the malt whisky drinker, or Chung the last tangoist.
Rehearsals at ground level had been demanding enough both of time and energy. But it was his first sight of a pageant wagon that brought matters to a head.
'I'm not going up that,' proclaimed Dalziel. 'Not even if you fit me with crampons.'
That was a narrow ladder up the back of a triple decker stage mounted on a flat-car. The lower deck represented hell, the middle earth, and the upper heaven. And over the upper deck, perched amid polystyrene clouds, was a tiny platform for the maker unmade, the mover unmoved, God Almighty, Andrew Dalziel.
'Come on, Andy,' said Chung. 'The frame's really secure. And there's a safety harness.'
'Aye, but is there a bloody parachute?' asked Dalziel.
'A couple of times and you'll be running up there like a mountain goat,’ she said persuasively. 'Look.'
She was more like a mountain lion, lithe and tawny, as she scaled the ladder with no apparent effort. Dalziel looked up at her, erect and magnificent, on the tiny platform. She beckoned to him, smiling encouragingly.
'Care for a bunk up, Superintendent?'
He turned and looked at Philip Swain. This was another of the troubles with playing God. As Chung had rightly
