announced a Dashing White Sergeant.'
'That would be Sergeant Wield, would it, sir?'
'Don't be cheeky. Grab that lass of thine and show us your style.'
'Don't think we can do this one, sir.'
'Then it's time you bloody learnt.'
It was a terrifying experience being in the same set as Andy Dalziel, who moved his great bulk around with what at first seemed like reckless abandon, but quickly it dawned on Hat that the Fat Man was in perfect control. Like Henry VHI shaking a leg at Hampton Court, he was at the centre of all movement, directing by command and example. And if he was the king, Rye was the queen. Hat knew from visits to discos what a natural mover she was, but tonight was the first time he'd seen her in more formal dances and it was a revelation which made him feel gauche and inadequate.
As the music came to an end and the dancers started to move away in search of refreshment, Dalziel clapped his hands thunderously and shouted, 'Nay, lads, we're just getting warmed up! More! More!' Recognizing the voice of authority when they heard it, the band launched into the tune once again, and Hat too reluctantly turned back to the fray. But strangely it was Rye who resisted. Her hand felt cold and limp in his and her body, which a moment ago had seemed to be floating weightlessly, seemed stiff and heavy.
He said, 'Hey, come on, can't let him think he's worn us out, can we?'
She looked at him and tried to smile. Suddenly he noticed how very pale she was.
He said, 'You OK, love?'
She said, 'Yes, fine.' And indeed as she moved back on to the floor, her step seemed as light and graceful as ever.
They took their places, the band started playing, fairly sedately at first but under Dalziel's booming demands that they 'put a bit of oomph into it!' the beat got faster and faster and soon Hat found himself spinning round at a pace that set his head reeling. He abandoned any attempt to put in the steps but simply concentrated on keeping up with the other members of the set, all of whom seemed determined not to let a big fat cop outface them. But it was no contest. Dalziel danced like a man possessed, but also like a man perfectly under control, never off- balance, never missing a step. Only Rye kept up with him without giving any sign she found it an effort. She winked at Hat whenever the pattern of movement brought them together and when she encountered Dalziel, she looked straight into his eyes with a faintly mocking smile on her lips.
The music was now at breakneck speed and only a macho determination not to show weakness in front of the Fat Man… or Rye
… or maybe both… kept Hat going. Dalziel had Rye in his grasp, spinning her round then releasing her to the next in line. Like a queen she moved, such balance, such grace, such… Hat felt a surge of pure pleasure at the notion that she was his… no, not his… not in any controlling, possessive sense… but that he and she were…
His thoughts stuttered to a halt. There was something wrong… no, not wrong… it was Dalziel's fault… he had thrown Rye from him with far too much force… she was spinning away from the other dancers across the floor… she'd come to a graceful stop in a moment then returned, smiling… but suddenly there was nothing graceful about the way she was moving… from Queen of the Dance under perfect control she had become mechanical doll with the spring broken… still she was turning, but now her arms were flailing the air as if to fight off a swarm of marauding bees… and then she went down.
The music stuttered to a stop. Hat was running towards that writhing, twisting form which wasn't Rye, couldn't be Rye, mustn't be Rye! He was running with all his power, but it felt as if he were running through water.
Her mouth was open but nothing came out. Her eyes were wide and staring but they weren't seeing anything that anyone else in that room could see. Hat reached her, collapsed to his knees by her side. He was trained to deal with emergencies, but now not a single course of action suggested itself. He could only kneel here feeling a paralysing blackness envelope him, unwilling, unable to let himself admit that everything he loved and thought most lovely in the world could in the twinkling of an eye be reduced to this.
Then Myra Rogers pushed him aside, knelt by the young woman's head and forced open her mouth to check that her tongue wasn't blocking the air passage.
She looked like she knew what she was doing. Dalziel was close too, shouting, 'Get a doctor. I've seen at least three of the buggers here. Get to the bar, that's where they'll be.' And Cap Marvell had produced a mobile and was talking urgently to the ambulance service.
Rye had stopped moving now. For a moment beyond definition Hat thought she was dead. Then he saw her chest move. A doctor arrived and began to examine her. Myra Rogers eased Hat upright.
'She'll be OK,' she said reassuringly. 'Probably the heat and all the activity…'
Dalziel said, 'Ambulance on its way. Can hear it now. She'll be fine, lad.'
For once the Fat Man's reassurance felt light and worthless.
The ambulance arrived. As Hat followed the stretcher trolley out, he glanced upwards. It was a clear frosty night. Stars crowded the dark vault of the sky. Was there life up there? Who gave a fuck?
Somewhere close a raucous drunk yelled, 'Happy New Year!'
Hat climbed up into the ambulance, and the doors closed, shutting out indifferent stars and happy drunks together.
9
Ell Pascoe's New Year had been rather flat. The most bubbly thing about it had ' been the two bottles of fizz Pascoe had bought. One was your genuine vintage Widow, the other a supermarket selection Cava, the idea being, Pascoe alleged, to test if they could spot the difference, but really, she guessed, having forked out whatever huge sum had been necessary to get the former, he couldn't bring himself to double it. They had made a thing out of testing each other blind, but the fun had been rather forced and the only significant result of the experiment was to thwart Pascoe's efforts to make love to her on the lounge floor. Whenever drink had disappointed them in the past, they had been able to make jokes about it and find other ingenious things to do, but this time he seemed to take it to heart, and her efforts at jollity came out like the cliches of reassurance.
Happily what drink knocks down sleep builds up and she took advantage of his matutinal stiffie before any memory of last night's fiasco could have an inhibiting effect.
That was good,' he said, 'though next time I'd prefer to be awake all the way through.'
I've often wondered what it would be like myself,' she said. 'But make a note for next year. Less champers, more con gas.'
'Yeah, and maybe we'll go to the Hogmanay Hop.'
'Good idea,' she said. But when he rang her later in the morning to pass on news of how the Hop had ended for Rye Pomona, she felt a selfish pang of relief that they hadn't been there to see it. She'd grown very fond of Hat Bowler. He'd gone through a lot, and to see him suffering again just when he must have thought that from now on in it was going to be roses all the way would have been unbearable. As it was, the shock was diluted by the news that Rye was in no danger, and though she had not yet recovered consciousness, it was a deep and, they hoped, healing sleep that encompassed her.
Ellie was a devout atheist, but it wasn't such a clinical condition that she feared the odd tot of prayer would being about a relapse into full religiosity.
She sat before what was to her non-technical mind the most persuasive evidence of the supernatural she had so far discovered i.e. her computer screen, and said, 'God, if you're in there, spare a thought for Rye Pomona and for Hat Bowler too. Give them the happiness they deserve. OK?'
She stabbed a finger down on the keyboard and watched as the name Franny Roote blossomed on the screen.
Hardly the answer to a maiden's prayer.
So maybe it was as well a maiden wasn't praying.
Meanwhile in a quiet side ward of the Central Hospital Rye Pomona was aghast to find herself once more talking to her dead brother.
