Death

'So he killed this Frobisher 'cos he were jealous of his relationship with Johnson?'

'He's killed before. For less reason.'

'Mebbe,' said Dalziel. 'And your evidence for this is what? Something a nurse going on early shift might have seen? After a night spent on the nest, she were probably too knackered to tell which way were up on a bedpan!'

‘There's the missing watch. And the missing drugs.'

'Oh aye? Which Roote stole? Why?'

'Drugs, obvious. For use or profit. The watch because Johnson had given it to Jake Frobisher as a love token. Roote took it as a trophy, maybe.'

'Maybe. You got this inscription there?'

Pascoe had photocopied it and sent the original rubbing back to Sophie Frobisher as promised. He now produced the copy with his own transliteration underneath.

'More sodding poetry,' said Dalziel gloomily.

He reached into his desk, found a jeweller's eyeglass and peered at the rubbing.

'Reckon you got it wrong’ he said, not without satisfaction.

'Wrong? How so?'

'I'd say it isn't YOUR’S TILL TIME INTO ETERNITY FALLS OVER RUINED WORDS. but TILL TIME INTO ETERNITY FALLS OVER RUINED WORLDS YOUR S.'

'Let's have a look’ said Pascoe.

He peered through the glass and said, 'I think you're right. That just makes it even more definite it was a gift from Sam!'

'Or Simon, or Syd or Santa fucking Claus.'

'No, it has to be Sam Johnson. I checked out the quote, or rather I got Ellie to check it. It's from Death's Jest-Book, that's a play by Beddoes whose Life Sam was researching. That's the Life that Roote has been given the job of finishing by Linda Lupin. She's…'

'Please, God, no more! My brain feels like someone's stirring it with a porridge ladle. I give in. The watch was a prezzie from Johnson to Frobisher. Right, but what's it prove? I reckon we'll have a long day in the outfield if we rely on you getting enough evidence to put him back in the Syke. We're pissing in the dark here. Best thing if we don't want to end up with wet boots is for me to have a heart-to-heart with little Miss Pomona, find out exactly what's going off. And even if she's not talking, I might get a hint how soon it'll be afore she takes whatever she thinks she knows to the grave!'

Pascoe shook his head in disgust.

There you go again’ he said. 'Same as with Lubanski. To you death's just another policy tool, isn't it? These are real people we're talking about!'

'No’ said Dalziel. 'Not Lubanski. He's a dead person, Pete. Not real any more. Where he was is a space. That's what Wieldy's so cut up about. We go, and despite all the memorial services and monuments and pious crap about living on in memories, we have ceased to exist. Where we were is a space an elephant could fart through and we'd never notice the smell. It's like losing a tooth. It hurts for a bit, then we notice the space for a bit, then we start chewing on our gums or the other side of our mouth, and soon both tooth and space are all forgotten. End of sodding sermon. I'll talk to the lass, do the old paternal act. They all love their daddies, ain't that what Freud says? Now to more important things. This DI Rose, you rate him, do you?'

'Yes, sir. I think he's OK.'

'Well, I've got my doubts about anyone who can come up with a name like Operation Serpent. Watches a lot of movies, does he? All right, all right, I accept your judgment. It's his show. But it's us as will take the crap if it goes wrong on our patch. I'll be seeing Desperate Dan shortly and if I'm to get his go-ahead, it'll be because I'm telling him I've got you overseeing the job. Thinks the sun shines out of your backside, does Dan.'

'That's nice,' said Pascoe.

He stood up and swayed slightly but not so slightly Dalziel didn't notice.

'You sure you're OK?' he said.

'I think so.'

But he was lying. He'd spent much of Saturday sharing air with Kung Flu germs and he knew for certain now they were advancing on him with wild Asiatic screams, chopping and stabbing and kicking.

But he wasn't going to give in! No way… no way… no way…

Life is nothing without death, for it is death that defines life, giving it meaning even when it seems completely meaningless. Ask yourself, what could be more meaningless than a life without death?

Peter Pascoe, lying on a bed of pain, was absolute for death. Every bone in his body seemed to have its peculiar ache. He'd never before been so conscious of himself as an osseous being, an articulated construct. It seemed very odd to him that in art Death should be so often figured as a skeleton. It was in his bones that life persisted, painful miserable unbearable life. His flesh and his mind and his soul were all desperate to wave the flag of surrender, but these insurgent bones persisted in defying Death's violent engines. He lay like Leningrad under that siege, kept alive by the sheer pain of the assault that was aimed at destroying him.

Not that his bones were good for anything other than aching. He had crawled out of bed on Tuesday morning, dismissing as female fuss all Ellie's attempts to persuade him he was unfit even for Dalziel's company. He had got into his car and sat there for a little while feeling that something was not quite right but unable to put his finger on it. The main problem seemed to be finding somewhere to insert his ignition key. Gradually it came to him that he was sitting in the rear seat. It was during his attempt to rectify this error that the unreliability of his limbs made itself absolutely clear, and Ellie, who had been watching his contortions from the house with growing concern, emerged to half lead, half drag him back inside.

Death is our constant companion from the moment we are bom, never more than a heartbeat away, and yet we make a stranger of him, a dangerous stranger too, a bitter enemy.

Not me, said Pascoe fervently. Not me. Come on, mate. I'm all yours, let's be off, over the hills and far away!

He heard Rosie on the landing being refused admittance by Ellie.

'Why?' she asked. 'Is Daddy dying?'

'Of course not,' said Ellie. 'He's just got the flu.'

Why did she lie? You shouldn't lie to your kids. Tell them the truth. Of course he's dying! Could a man feel like this and not be dying? Most of his body knew it. If only these bloody bones, the incorruptible, the immortal part, would accept the majority vote and let him die in peace! At least his daughter understood how serious his illness was.

'If Daddy does die before Saturday, would that mean I'd miss Suzie's party at Estotiland?' said Rosie anxiously.

'Not necessarily,' said Ellie. 'I'm sure we could find a comer of the bouncy castle to lay him out in.'

When the sun shims and the sky is blue and our hopes are high, then we give thanks to God for life. It is only when the storm clouds blot out all light and hope lies crushed that we turn to death with pre-emptive thanksgiving. But it is in that glorious morning that we should be giving thanks for death also.

Later of course when he recovered, the memory of his wimpish self-pity filled him with shame. At what point he had picked up Frere Jacques' autographed book from his bedside table he didn't know, but from time to time he dipped into it at random, hoping to light upon a strategy for dealing with these Kung Flu assailants.

While we are living, every third thought should be our grave, but when we are dying every third thought should be our life.

He tried that and he found that the plural possessive was very apt, for the feverish nightmarish world which he inhabited for much of the time was lit by brief flashes of total awareness in which he knew everything that was going on. Perhaps he picked up hints from things Ellie said, as well as from the brief distance-keeping visits of Dalziel and Wield, back at work and, apparently, back in control.

He knew for instance that Dalziel had talked to Rye Pomona because Dalziel was telling him this during his visit, but somehow he found himself experiencing their conversation rather than just listening to a precis of it…

‘Time for a quick word, luv?' said Andy Dalziel.

'For you, Superintendent, always,' said Rye.