Blood At The Root

“Partly. Yes.”

She shook her head. “Not really. I’ve been lucky, I suppose. Oh, I’ve been insulted in the street and stuff. You know, called a Paki bitch or a Paki slut. It’s always ‘Paki.’ Can’t they think of anything else but that?”

Banks smiled. “That’s part of their problem. Severely limited thinking. No originality.”

“I suppose so. I’m not saying it doesn’t bother me when it happens. It does. It upsets me. But you get used to it. I mean, it starts not to surprise you as much, so you don’t get shocked by it as easily. But it still hurts. Every time. Like hot needles being stuck through your skin. Sometimes it’s just the way people look at you. Am I making any sense?”

“Perfect.”

“I remember once when I was a kid back in Shipley – oh, this must have been in the seventies, twenty years ago now – and I was walking back from my aunt’s house with my mum and dad. We walked around this corner and there was a gang of skinheads. They surrounded us and started calling out racist insults and shoving us. There were about ten of them. There was nothing we could do. I was terrified. I think we all were. But my dad stood up to them, called them cowards and shoved them right back. At first they just laughed, but then they started to get worked up and I could tell they were getting ready to really hurt us. My mother was screaming and I was crying and they got my dad on the ground and started kicking him…” She trailed off and shook her head at the memory.

“What happened?”

Pamela looked up and smiled through her tears. “Would you believe it, a police car came by and they ran off? A bloody police car. About the only time the police have ever been there when I’ve needed them. Must have been a miracle.”

They both laughed. The waiter came by and took their plates.

“What now?” Pamela asked, after she’d wiped her eyes from the mingled tears of humiliation and laughter.

“Coffee? Dessert?”

She hit him on the arm again. “I don’t mean that, idiot. I mean, you. Your future.”

“Looks bleak. I’d rather concentrate on dessert.”

“Just a cappuccino for me.”

Banks ordered two cappuccinos and lit another cigarette.

“You’re smoking too much,” Pamela said.

“I know. And just when I’d managed to cut down.”

“Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”

“What question was that?”

“You know quite well. Your future. What are you going to do?”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early to say.”

“Well, surely when this chief constable person has done his investigation, he’ll have to reinstate you?”

“I doubt it. Even if a disciplinary hearing really does reinstate me, it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Think about it,” said Banks. “I hit the chief constable. Even if he does keep that just between the two of us, it still means I can’t work with him anymore. He’d find ways to make my life a living hell.”

“I understand it might make things difficult.”

“Difficult? It was difficult before all this. After…” He shrugged. “Impossible, more like.”

The restaurant was full of students now. They looked like an artsy, literary crowd, all talking excitedly about the latest music, arguing loudly about books and philosophy. They made Banks feel old; made him feel he had wasted his life. A waiter passed by carrying plates, leaving a trail of garlic and basil smells.

“But you can get a job somewhere else,” Pamela said. “I mean as a policeman. In a different region. Can’t you?”

“I suppose so. I don’t mean to be negative, Pamela, I just haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

“I understand.” She leaned forward and put her hand on his. Candlelight glittered in her diamond stud, made shadows of burnished gold and lit the fine down between her breasts.

Banks swallowed and felt his excitement rise. He wanted to take her home and lick every inch of her golden skin. Or did he? There would be consequences, confidences shared, a relationship. He didn’t think he could handle anything like that right now.

Pamela sat back and flipped a long tress of hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand. “What about this case you were working on?” she asked. “You seemed to imply that it’s not over.”

“Everyone thinks it is.”

“And you?”

Banks shrugged.

She toyed with a gold bracelet on her arm. “Look, Alan, this person you talked about earlier. Mark Wood. Did he do it?”

“I don’t know. He might have done. But not, I don’t think, the way he said he did, or for the reason he claimed.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. It could mean the difference between manslaughter and murder. And if someone else was behind it, say Neville Motcombe, I’d hate to see him get away with it while Mark Wood takes the fall alone.”

“If you were still on the force, would you be working on this case?”

“Probably not. The chief constable’s got his confession. Everybody’s happy. Case closed.”

“But you’re not on the force.”

“That’s right.”

“So that means you can still work on it if you want.”

Banks smiled and shook his head. “What impeccable logic. But I don’t think so. I can’t do it, Pamela. I’m sorry. It’s over.”

Pamela sat back and studied him for a moment. He reached for another cigarette, thought twice about it, then lit up anyway.

“Remember when I was hurt?” she said.

“Yes.”

“And thought I might never play again?”

Banks nodded.

“Well, if I’d taken your negative attitude, I wouldn’t have played again. And, believe me, there were times when giving up would have been the easiest thing in the world. But you helped me then. You encouraged me. You gave me strength and courage when I was at my lowest. I’d never had a friend like… someone who didn’t want…” She turned away for a moment. When she looked back, her eyes were deeply serious and intense, glistening with tears. “And now you’re giving up. Just like that. I don’t believe it. Not you.”

“What else can I do?”

“You can follow up on your ideas. On your own.”

“But how? I don’t have the resources, for a start.”

“Someone will help you. You’ve still got friends there, in the department, haven’t you?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” Banks gestured for the waiter and paid, waving aside all Pamela’s attempts to contribute. “My idea, my treat,” he said.

“So you will do something? You promise me you won’t just sit around at home and mope?”

“Yes, I promise. I’ll do something.” He scraped his chair back and smiled. “Now, come on. Let me take you home.”