A Cure for All Diseases. Reginald Hill
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Mill Street blew up, I felt perfectly happy.
It didn’t last long. Rarely does. According to Father Joe, that’s ’cos God likes to keep us on the jump.
Certainly kept me on the jump here.
Hardly had time to savour the moment when the bar-room door opened and a man in a wheelchair came rolling through.
He halted just inside the door in the one shaft of sunlight coming through the window. His head were shaven so smooth the light bounced off it, giving him a kind of halo. His gaze ran round the room till it landed on me.
Perhaps there was summat in the Sandytown air that stopped people showing surprise. The landlord had kept a perfectly straight face when a slightly bleeding man wearing jim-jams and one slipper came into his pub.
Now the wheelchair man went one better. His face actually lit up with pleasure at the sight of me, as though I owed him money and we’d arranged to meet and settle up.
‘Mr Dalziel!’ he exclaimed, driving the wheelchair towards me. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world, you had to walk into mine! How very nice to see you again.’
I did a double take. Couldn’t believe my eyes. Or mebbe I didn’t want to believe them.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘It’s Franny Roote. I thought you must be dead!’
Had a little sleep there. Bloody pills!
Where was I?
Oh aye. Franny Roote.
First time we met were at this college Ellie Pascoe used to work at not far up the coast from here. They’d found the old principal’s body buried under a memorial statue. Roote were President of the Students Union. Bags of personality. Made a big impression on everybody. Made a specially big one on me by cracking a bottle of scotch over my head. Insult to injury, it were my own bottle.
He got banged up – not for attacking me but for being involved in the principal’s death. When he came out a few years back, he showed up again in Mid-Yorkshire, doing postgrad research at the University. Then his supervisor got murdered. So did a few other people.
Folk were always dropping dead round Roote.
Pete Pascoe were convinced he was involved, in fact he got a bit obsessed about it. But he never got close to pinning owt on him. Then Roote started writing him letters from all over the place. Funny bloody things they were, dead friendly on the surface, saying how he really admired Pete. But they really began to freak the poor lad out.
But finally, big twist, what happens is Pascoe’s lass Rosie gets taken as a hostage by a bunch of scrotes Roote had known in the nick. Roote manages to get her out, but only at the expense of getting a load of buckshot in his back. Looked a goner. But he hung on. Got transferred to some specialist spinal injury unit down south. Pascoe kept in close touch. Practically took control of his insurance and compensation claims. Felt he owed him, specially after all the nasty thoughts he’d had about him.
Me, I were real grateful too. Rosie’s a grand kid, got the best of both her mum and dad in her. But just ’cos I were grateful didn’t make me elect him St Franny!
Pete gave us bulletins. Quadriplegia seemed likely to start with, so when it finally came down to paraplegia, Pascoe acted like he’d won the lottery. Bothered me a bit. I told him, be grateful, OK, but that don’t mean feeling responsible for the sod for the rest of your life. Pascoe slammed off out after I said that and I heard no more about Roote for six months or more. That’s a long sulk in my book so finally I mentioned him myself.
Turned out the reason Pascoe said nowt was ’cos he’d nowt to say. He’d lost touch. Seems that when the medics decided they’d done all that could be done for Roote, he just vanished. Pascoe had traced him as far as Heathrow where he’d got on a plane to Switzerland. We knew he’d been there before. That’s where some of the funny letters had come from. This time no letters, not even a postcard. Best guess was, being Roote, he weren’t settling for a life viewed from belly level, he were going to spend some of that compensation dosh looking for a cure.
Would have been easy enough for us to get a fix on him. Even in our borderless Europe, a foreigner in wheelchair tends to leave a trail. But I reckon Ellie said to Pete that if Roote didn’t want to keep in touch, that was his choice.
Now here he was, large as life, back on my patch – all right, on the very fringe of it – and I didn’t know a thing about it.
I didn’t like that. OK, I’d spent a bit of time in a coma recently, but that’s no reason not to know what’s going off.
He manoeuvred his chair alongside me and said, ‘I read about your bit of trouble and I’m so pleased to see reports of your recovery haven’t been exaggerated. Though tell me, is the bare foot part of a new therapy? Or have you finally joined the Masons?’
That was Roote. Misses nowt and likes to think he’s a comic.
I said, ‘You’re looking well yourself, lad.’
In fact he was. If anything he looked a lot younger than last time I’d seen him – not counting straight after getting shot, of course. The landlord came over to our table and set a glass of something purple with bubbles in front of him. Mebbe it were the elixir of life. If any bugger found it, it would be Roote.
He said, ‘Thanks, Alan. And thank you too, Mr Dalziel. Yes, I feel extremely well. So what brings you to sunny Sandytown? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. I’d say you’re down here to convalesce at the Avalon. You must have arrived fairly recently, they are still completing their preliminary assessment, which you, growing impatient, have opted to pre-empt by making your own way to this excellent establishment.’
Told you he were a clever bastard.
I said, ‘If we’d caught you younger we might have made a detective out of you, Roote. But I’m not complaining we caught you later and made a convict out of you instead.’
‘Still as direct as ever, I see,’ he said, smiling. ‘Any minute now you’ll be asking what I myself am doing here.’
‘No need to waste my breath,’ I said.
‘Meaning of course you’re just as capable as me at working things out,’ he said.
Like a lot of folk who love playing games, Roote always reckoned other folk were playing them too. Don’t mind a game myself, long as I’m making the rules.
I said, ‘No. Meaning I’d not believe a bloody word you said! But I can work out you’ve been here long enough for our landlord to know you drink parrot piss.’
‘Cranberry juice actually,’ he said. ‘Full of vitamins, you really ought to try it.’
‘Mebbe after morris dancing and incest,’ I said. ‘As for your reasons for being here, I’m not interested. Unless they’re criminal, which wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Oh dear. Still the old mistrust.’
‘Nay, just the old realism,’ I said.
Then I went on ’cos I’d never said it direct and it needed saying, ‘Listen, lad, I’ll be forever grateful for what you did for little Rosie Pascoe. Thought you should know that. Won’t make me turn a blind eye to serious crime, mind, but any time you feel like parking your chair on a double yellow line in Mid-Yorks, be my guest.’
His eyes filled. Don’t know how he does that trick, but the bugger’s got it off pat.
‘I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Mr Dalziel. And how is the girl? Must be growing up now. And dear Mr Pascoe and his lovely wife, how are they?’
‘All well. He were a bit upset losing contact with you. What happened there?’
He sipped