Death's Jest-Book (49 page)

One thing she knew now for
certain. She had to re-enter at the same point as she went out. There
was no escape to the past.

She sighed and stepped back into
the middle of one of his well-balanced sentences.

'How long will I live without
treatment?'

A blink. Not an indicator this
time of an increase in his fee, she gauged, but perhaps a mental
bookmark to remind his secretary to make sure Ms Pomona's bill was
placed in her hands immediately.

'At best months, but it could be
much less. Tumours of this kind are very fast-growing and . . .'

'With treatment, how long?'

He looked at her, looked down,
took a breath as if in preparation for a long speech, looked into her
unblinking eyes again, and said, 'Longer.'

'Much longer?'

'Who knows?' he said. He sounded
unhappy. Was it because of her future or his ignorance?

'Long enough to ... do things.'

'Like what?'

'Like prepare yourself for ... I
mean, it might not happen ... so quickly, I mean . . . and there are
things, practical and personal. . . nowadays there's a whole raft of
strategies . . . it's possible to be ready . . .'

Strange how her insistence on
directness should in the end drive him to hesitant obliquities.

'Ready for death?'

He nodded.

'Death?' she repeated, determined
to make him say it.

'Death,' he said.

'OK. You haven't said anything
about my old injury.'

He looked bewildered, then
relieved. He was being offered an escape route from her short future
into her slightly longer past.

He said, 'Well, I thought about
it, of course, in terms of the whole range of symptoms you described.
Indeed, I had a chat with a colleague of mine who specializes in
neuropsychology and has produced a couple of highly regarded papers
on various categories of psychiatric disorder which can occur as a
long-term result of brain injury. Not that I was thinking of you in
terms of serious psychiatric disorder, of course, but merely
exploring the possibility that some of your physical symptoms might
be explicable in terms of some minor affective disorder

He was getting away from her
again behind those defences of verbiage and syntax which must have
done such sterling service for him over the years.

Rye said, 'So what did he say,
your colleague? Just the gist will do.'

'Of course, yes. Though you
realize this is not at all relevant to your current condition.'

The tumour that has been giving
me headaches and made me have a fit and is eventually going to kill
me, you mean? Yes, I realize that, and I understand that once you
knew about the tumour you would naturally lose interest in my old
head injury. But seeing as you did include it initially in your
hypothesis . . . sorry, diagnosis ... I might as well get full value
for my money, mightn't I?'

'Well, there is a wide range of
categories of psychiatric disorder which can occur after a brain
injury such as you clearly experienced when you were fifteen. I
mentioned affective disorders, which include conditions like mania
and depression, plus obsessive compulsive and panic anxiety
disorders. Associated with these may be arousal and motivational
disorders. Psychotic disorders may also present, and there can be an
associated inclination to violence and aggression, but none of this
really has any relevance to your condition, Miss Pomona

'Bear with me. This is really
fascinating stuff,' she said. 'I know how busy you are, but if I
could just take up a little more of your time while I get myself
together

It was a good tactic. He smiled
and said, 'Of course.' 'These psychotic disorders, what sort of
thing's involved there?'

'In general terms, hallucinatory
experiences, visual and’or auditory . ..'

'Seeing people who aren't there
and hearing their voices, you mean?'

'Yes, that sort of thing. This
can be associated with delusional belief, that is an apprehension of
situations and relationships which is based on a false premise which
resists all centra-evidence. Thought disorders linked to problems of
language function or information processing '

‘Could not being able to
remember my stage lines fit in here?'

He looked at her curiously and
said, 'Yes, I suppose it could.'

'How fascinating,' she said.
'Just one thing more. My tumour She found she quite liked the
possessive. My flat. My books. In my opinion. My boyfriend.

My tumour.

'.. . is it in any way, could it
be in any way, related to that old brain injury?'

He frowned as if feeling it was
unfair of her to remind him she was going to die, then said,
'Actually, I don't have the faintest idea. Seems unlikely, but lots
of things we now take for granted once seemed unlikely.'

She nodded as if to reassure him
that this was the kind of frankness she wanted.

'But, like an accidental brain
injury, is a tumour also likely to cause psychiatric disorders? Or
have any effect on the way that the mind functions?'

'Well, certainly, but I really
don't think you need to start worrying about that.'

'Because it is going to kill me
too quickly for any behavioural changes to become significant, you
mean?' she said solemnly.

He frowned again. She gave him a
quick grin.

'Not all bad then!' she went on.
'But it could be having some effects on my behaviour and thought
processes, right? In which case, it could be that some of these new
effects might actually counterbalance or negate some of the old
effects of my head injury, right?'

He shrugged helplessly. He looked
almost vulnerable.

'Anything's possible,' he said,
'but honestly, I don't think there's much point in concerning
ourselves with effects when what we need to do is -'

She stood up, saying, 'Thanks a
lot, Mr Chakravarty. You've been really helpful.'

'deal with causes’ he
concluded, determined to get back to the consulted’consulting
relationship. 'Miss Pomona, about your treatment

'No time for that,' she said
crisply. 'Don't worry. I'll pay your bill by return of post.'

Then, feeling that he hadn't
really deserved such a parting sting, she smiled and said, 'And I'm
really grateful. Take care now.'

She went out to the car park. It
was curious. She'd been condemned to death and yet what she felt was
the kind of euphoria you experience as you leave the dentist's!

It was five thirty. She didn't
want to go home yet. She wasn't ready for Myra's sympathetic
questioning and even less ready for the possibility of finding Hat
sitting on her doorstep. She turned on the car radio and listened to
some Country and Western for a while. Its unsophisticated
emotionalism seemed just about right. At six o'clock she drove to the
Centre. Most of her colleagues would be homeward bound by now and, in
any case, as far as they were concerned, she'd spent the day
shopping.

She made her
way to the Centre theatre. Its director had been one of the Wordman's
victims. No, one of my victims, she corrected herself. She didn't
know if she could bring herself to confess her sins but at least she
could confront them. One of the core members of the company, a young
woman called Lynn Crediton, had been appointed as stand-in director
and, if the current holiday production of
Aladdin
was anything
to go by, the Council might do worse than to make the appointment
permanent.

. In the little theatre there
was the usual bustle as they got ready for the evening performance in
just over an hour. Rye spotted Lynn in the aisle, checking some
lighting adjustments. She waited till she'd finished shouting her
instructions, then went up to her.

They'd met a couple of times
before, and Rye's association with the Wordman case underlined the
encounters.

'Hi,' said Lynn. 'You an early
punter, or do you fancy being the back legs of a camel?'

'Both, maybe,' said Rye. 'Look,
it probably sounds daft, but I used to do a bit of acting and I
wondered if I could try out a few lines?'

'You want to audition?' The woman
regarded her doubtfully, then said, 'Sure, why not? Can you come
along say tomorrow morning, about ten?'

'Well actually, I wondered if I
could just go on stage now and do a bit? Just thirty seconds,
honestly. I can see you're really busy, but it's just that I feel
really up for it. No one has to stop doing anything, then I'll be out
of your hair.'

Lynn shrugged.

'OK, help yourself. But I can't
promise I'll be able to listen, even for thirty seconds!'

Rye smiled her thanks and stepped
on to the low stage.

She stood there for a moment
looking out into the theatre. They came back to her, those days
before . . . before Serge died, this is what it had been like,
standing in the light, looking into the dark.

Now here she was again.

Standing in the light, looking
into the dark.

She cleared her throat, then
opened her mouth with no idea what, if anything, was going to come
out.

She heard herself begin to sing.

Come away, come away death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.

Fly away, fly away breath,

I am slain by a fair cruel
maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all
with yew,

O prepare it.

My part of death no one so
true Did share it.

When she started the theatre was
full of noise and her soft voice was like the song of a lark above a
cattle mart. But by the time she finished, every other sound had
stopped, and all eyes were fixed on this slim young woman stock-still
at the front of the stage.

Not a flower, not a flower
sweet On my black coffin let there be strewn.

Not a friend, not a friend
greet

My poor corpse, where my bones
shall be thrown.

A thousand thousand sighs to
save

Lay me O where

Sad true lover never find my
grave, To weep there.

She finished. There was silence.
Then Lynn Crediton began to applaud and soon everyone else joined in.
Flushing, Rye clambered down off the stage.

That was
great’ said Lynn. 'Maybe not quite the mood for
Aladdin,
but
you got pretty close to the day!'

'What? Oh, Twelfth Night, you
mean. Don't know why I chose that. It was just something we did at
school.'

'And you played Feste?'

'No. I loved the play so much I
think I had the whole thing by heart. I played Viola, who found her
lost brother. Maybe I should have played Olivia who knew how to mourn
hers.'

'Lots of time for that. Like I
said, can you come tomorrow morning . . . are you OK?'

She was looking with concern into
Rye's eyes, which were brimful of tears.

'Yes, yes, never better . . .
happy and sad . . . lost and found . . . I'm sorry, I've got to go.'

She hurried away towards the
exit. Lynn called after her, 'You'll come in the morning then for a
proper audition?'

Over her shoulder Rye cried, 'No.
Sorry. No more auditions, no more acting. Sorry’

And ran through the exit door,
leaving the director uncertain whether she had just played a small
role in a comedy, a tragedy, or simply a pantomime.

On
Tuesday morning Pascoe, after several unsuccessful attempts to hack
into the Central Police Computer in search of information about
Sergeant Thomas Roote, disgraced, deceased, did what any sensible man
did when matters of high technology were concerned, he went to see
Edgar Wield.

Usually when
faced with such special requests, the sergeant's mosaic features
underwent a small rearrangement which experienced Wield-watchers took
to indicate a certain degree of pleasure at being given another
opportunity to go places that neither Dalziel's strength nor Pascoe's
subtlety could reach. Today, however, as soon as Pascoe said, 'Can
you do me a
favour, Wieldy?', he rolled his eyes and ground
his teeth and looked unambiguously pissed off.

'Something bothering you?' asked
Pascoe.

'Just get the impression
sometimes that no bugger round here thinks I've got owt better to do
than hack into places I shouldn't be,' he replied.

'Himself, you mean? As well as
myself, of course.'

'Aye, he's on my back to dig up
all I can about some guy called Tristram Lilley, but without letting
anyone know we're taking an interest. I ask him why he's after this
guy and he just growls like a bear that's swallowed a hornets' nest!
So it's me fishing blind again, and if I wake some sodding great
shark, it's only me that'll get bitten!'

'Come on, Wieldy, you can't say
that. You know full well we'd come and visit you in the prison
hospital,' said Pascoe. 'So what have you found out about this
Lilley?'

'That if you want your computer
hacked, your phone tapped, your bank account audited and your
intimate moments on video, he makes me look like an amateur.'

'Interesting. But Andy often
plays his cards pretty close to his chest till he's ready to thump
his Royal Flush on to the table. So why does this one get up your
nose so much?'

Wield looked at him speculatively
then said, 'I'm getting as secretive as he is. There's more. He's got
me checking on a German called Mai Richter a.k.a. Myra Rogers.'

'That rings a faint bell.'

'It should. Myra Rogers lives
next door to Rye Pomona and from what Hat's said they've become good
mates. He told me not to bother with her official check sheet, so
presumably he's got that already. What he wants is how she came into
the country, when she changed from Mai to Myra. Well, I took a look
at her sheet anyway. She's a journalist, Pete. A ferret. Got some big
stories to her credit on the Continent. So what's she doing here,
cosying up to the girlfriend of one of my lads, that's what I want to
know. That's what I think I'm entitled to know!'