The Price of Butcher's Meat (64 page)

Tom appeared—took in what was

happening—his face filled with

delight—if hed stage managed it things couldnt have turned out better!

Andy Dalziel too got into the ring—looked Fran right in the face—hard to tell what he was thinking—but before he could say anything—who should come rushing forward but Ess Denham! Never heard her say a good word to—or about—Franny Roote—but now she grabbed hold of him like he was her long lost twin—& hit him with a hug that made his previous embrace of Gord look like a near miss!

What the hells going off here?—I asked myself.

Then Ess lowered Fran back into his chair—saying—dont overdo it.

People pressed close now—oohing & aahing & shooting questions & not listening to answers—& I saw Gord slip away into his tent.

I followed him—grabbed hold of his shoulder. He turned—& said—what?—I said—congratulations! He

said—it wasnt me. I

said—yes I know, the spirit

working through you—He said—no—I dont know—Im not sure—& I said—oh stop being so negative!—do yourself a favor—be positive once in your life!

He looked straight at me—then he said—right!—I will be!—

& next thing I knew hed grabbed hold of me & plonked his lips on mine—like he was trying to gag me!—

My first reaction was—do I knee him or just push him off?

Then I thought—doesnt he realize hes the worst kisser in the universe?—& purely in a spirit of charity & education—I ran my tongue along his lips till his mouth opened—& I stuck my tongue in—

It was like igniting the blue touch paper on a firework—except there was no chance to retire! I could tell this was undiscovered country to him—the way he dived down my throat—& pulled me so close I felt my spine creak.

When one of his hands slid down onto my buttock—the left one—I think—I managed to pull my head back & said—you think Ive got a boil on my bum needs healing or what?—

His hand jerked away like Id turned red hot.

I grabbed it & put it back.

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—dont be shy—I said—or if you are—I can cure that—

Perhaps Sis—I do have the nursing instinct after all.

Or maybe it was just I realized I was really having a good time!

Thought it would take a pickax to prize us apart—but all it took was a small figure bursting into the tent—Minnie Parker of course.

She said—looking at Gord with some distrust—if you marry him—will he be my brother- in-law when I marry George?—

—Min—I said—whats with all this marrying?—thats the way old books end. Nowadays on the other hand . . .

I wasnt sure how to fi nish. I neednt have worried. Min was quite up to the task.

—people just do sex—she said—but youll still be my sister-in-law if I do sex with George—wont you?—

—Ill always be your friend Minnie—I said—now bugger off!—

’Cos I wanted to get back to educating Gord!

There you have it. Crazy huh? Me & the healer! Nowhere for it to go of course—but somehow Im looking forward to going nowhere with him!

What about Loathsome Liam & his fulsome apology—you ask?

Well—I read through the letter a dozen

times—couldnt make up my

mind—one minute it was forgive!—next it was forget!—but no problem now.

First thing I did when I got back here was—tear it up! Why repeat an old mistake when theres a whole world of new ones out there just waiting to be made!

Cant wait for the Headbanger to meet Gord! Tonight perhaps—or maybe tomorrow morning. Havent told George

yet—but hes just taking my bag

home—me—Im getting a lift in the famous sidecar—& its my intention to return to Willingden by way of Willingdene—where I look forward to putting Godly Gordons miraculous powers to a strenuous & extended test!

But I shouldnt joke. After all—I did see today what in another age would be called a miracle. I hope—for Frannys sake—it proves permanent.

& I suppose—in a way—me snogging Gord has to be some kind of miracle too—hasnt it? Or is that just overstating the totally unexpected?

Doesnt matter. Getting what you know you want is rarely a big deal. Plus theres usually some small print somewhere that we havent noticed.

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Its when you get what was unimaginable—even in your daftest dreams—that you may find youve got an unconditional bargain!

Callous? Selfish? Certainly daft as a brush? I hear you say.

So whats new? Youve called me all of those—several times—ever since I was old enough to take notice of what you were saying!

For the time being the important thing is—Im happy. Like you—I hope.

Your good works may get you to heaven—but I bet its the mahogany hunk that makes you glad to wake up every morning!

So sweet dreams sis. Come home safe to us sometime soon. Bring the mh with you. Or if it all goes pear shaped—well—never worry. Completely free of charge—Godly Gordon will cure your physical ills—& for a very reasonable fee your clever little sister will give you a one to one analysis session!

Love love love

Charley xxx

VOLUME THE SIXTH

. . . There is something wrong here . . . But never mind . . . It could not have happened, you know, in a better place.—Good out of Evil—The very thing perhaps to be wished for.

1

It was late afternoon when Andy Dalziel got back to the Avalon.

It had been a peculiarly unsatisfactory day. He had set out for the Grand Opening determined to resolve some of the questions still nig-gling away in his mind. But instead of answers, all he was coming back with was more questions. A lot of them centered on Franny Roote, but there’d been no chance to put them. The deliriously happy young man had been taken over by Lester Feldenhammer who, aided by Pet Sheldon, had probed and prodded at his legs, watched as he took a few still unsteady but increasingly confident steps, then invited him to attend at the Avalon for a comprehensive examination. After that he had sat down again in his wheelchair—talking to the crowds of people who came to congratulate or simply gawk—occasionally standing up as if to reassure himself he could still do it—& all the while smiling so broadly it would have taken a harder man than Andy Dalziel to try and wipe it off his face.

Maybe it was for the best, thought Dalziel. Maybe for once in my life I should let sleeping dogs lie.

But an old lion on the prowl doesn’t give a toss about dogs, waking or sleeping. It’s his nature to carry on hunting till he sinks his teeth in his natural prey!

His temper had not been improved when he decided to call in at the Hope and Anchor on his way back to the Avalon. A perfect pint and a quiet chat with Alan Hollis, for whom he also had a few questions, seemed a good way to end his sojourn in Sandytown. But a notice in the window said the pub would not open on Saturday until six p.m., presumably to allow Hollis and his staff to go to the festival opening, though he could not recall seeing the landlord there.

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So it was in a mood of some disgruntlement that Dalziel pushed open the door of his room.

Despite the fact that it was bright daylight still, the curtains were drawn.

He switched on the light.

The beams from the central bulb bounced back off the silver surface of Mildred, resting demurely on his pillow.

His mind threw up a possibility—some more than usually conscientious cleaner had looked in the lavatory cistern, spotted this intrusive object, removed it, and left it on the bed for its owner to claim.

His mind threw this up and in the same mental gesture threw it away.

He went slowly forward and picked the recorder up.

He knew at once this wasn’t his. The same make, the same model, meaning it was probably exactly the same in weight and shape. Yet one touch told him this wasn’t Mildred. Man doesn’t get to survive as long as he had without instantly being able to identify the woman he’s touching.

He went quickly into the bathroom to confirm what he’d guessed, that Mildred was no longer there.

Then he sat down on the counterpane with the false Mildred and looked at it for a long moment.

Finally he let his thumb stray to the Play button.

And pressed.

2

Good day to you, Andy.

Surprised to hear my voice?

Of course you are, but not perhaps as surprised as a lesser mortal
might have been. For it is your capacity for taking a couple of long
strides in a direction you’ve no reason to be going in, plus of course your
sheer bloody tenacity of purpose, that have made me decide to contact
you like this.

I know you hate loose ends, you hate a story unfinished, and so do I.

So let me, like the all- seeing, all- knowing author of an old novel, stepping
from behind the scenery he or she has created and addressing the reader
direct, finish this one for you. Nor is this a simple act of that overinflated
egotism you have accused me of in the past. There is a strong possibility, if
left to your own devices, that you might inflict considerable collateral
damage traveling by your normal elephantine route to the sunny uplands
of knowledge I am now going to open up for you—damage to myself, I
admit it, but also and more important to Peter’s career, to the lives of various other people I have come to love, to the prospects and reputation of
dear little Sandytown, which has taken some hard knocks recently, and
even perhaps to yourself.

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort. Myself included. This is not a confession. I have committed no crime, or at least none so serious as to be
unforgivable by such a magnanimous judge as yourself.

Some brief autobiography first, to confirm or build on your speculation. I went to Europe determined to find a cure, and not much caring
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what form it came in. Ultimately, death is the cure of all diseases, is it
not? I found a doctor as careless of his patients’ lives as I was of my own.

To him each death was a necessary step on his way to greater understanding. I will skip the months of pain and struggle which ensued. It is
not your sympathy which I am trying to win. But if you are interested, I
gave Peter some of the details, slightly confused since, of course, I could
only leave him with the hope of my restoration, not its fact. Suffi ce it to
say, I learned how to walk again. I would have been happy to heap
praise and gratitude on Dr. Meitler, my savior, and demand that his
groundbreaking techniques be universally acknowledged and developed.

Alas, he was as reckless of his own well-being as he was of his patients’,
his laboratory was a firetrap, and while I was still learning how to crawl
out of my chair, the good doctor and all his research rec ords went up in
fl ame.

So I kept quiet. My motive at first was a kind of vanity. I wanted to
reappear before those who knew me fully restored. I wanted to amaze
them! But as the long months of recovering my strength passed, I began
to see that there might be certain advantages to keeping the change to
myself. Travel, for instance. As I explained to you, it had become clear
that, in the present climate, there was no way I would ever be able to
visit America again. But if I could find another persona, another identity for my upright, perambulating self . . .

When I returned to the Davos Avalon, my thoughts were still confused, and I think I might have revealed everything to the head of the
clinic, Dr. Kling, with whom I’d developed an excellent relationship.

But I found he had done an exchange with Lester Feldenhammer, so I
kept quiet, and kept to my chair. Then two things happened. Firstly,
and sadly, a young man I had become friendly with in my previous stay
at the clinic, Emil Kunstli-Geiger, died. He had just been admitted
when I first met him and there were hopes he might recover. But after
some false starts, his condition had deteriorated and now the end was
near. He was pleased to see me again and I gave him what comfort was
in my power. Strangely it was talking to Emil then as much as my own
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experience that made me start taking the ideas of Third Thought seriously. But my first and second thoughts were always of life, and one day
while getting something for him from a drawer in his room, I came
across his passport and his driving license. As I made the sad comparison between the way he’d looked then and the way he looked now, it
struck me that there was a certain resemblance between us: shape of
face, bone structure, that sort of thing.

A few days later he died. Before he passed away he thanked me for
my care and urged me to take something to remember him by. I took his
passport and driving license.

A long wig and a fringe of wispy beard, and suddenly I had another
identity, though what I was going to do with it, I still wasn’t sure.

Meanwhile my relationship with Lester had been developing. Here
was a man I could talk to. We were not yet so intimate as to be on confidential terms, but when Daphne Denham and her entourage showed
up last Christmas, I quickly assessed the situation. She was the predator,
he was the prey! But I had little time to spare analyzing Lester’s problems. I knew I had one of my own.

Do you believe in love at first sight, Andy? When you first encountered your partner, Cap Marvell, did you know she was the one for you?