Singing the Sadness. Reginald Hill

      ‘That’s because you just dragged me out of my pit which I’d just fallen into.’

      ‘Hey, you not fornicating in my bed, I hope, Dildo?’

      ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Chivers got me on nights and I’m trying to catch up on sleep, which ain’t easy what with the phone ringing and that crazy cat of yours always wanting something but not letting on what.’

      ‘Yeah,’ said Joe, recognizing the problem. ‘But you’re getting on OK?’

      ‘Yeah, yeah. Eats everything I give it and anything else I don’t actually lock up. And keeps funnier hours than me. Joe, I’ve gotta get some sleep, I’m on again tonight. Things OK with you in the Wild West?’

      Joe considered the events of the past twenty-four hours and said, ‘Fine.’

      ‘Great. You do sound rough, though. Could have told you that Welsh beer would take the skin off your tonsils. Regards to all. Cheers.’

      Joe switched off the phone. Should he have asked to talk to Whitey? he wondered. Probably not. Dildo would have thought he was insane, and the cat wouldn’t have disagreed.

      He turned his attention to the more immediate problem of whether his hopes for Beryl would be better furthered as a bedridden invalid or a plucky convalescent.

      Being in bed already could be regarded as half the battle, except it left you vulnerable to the attentions of undesirable visitors from Auntie Mirabelle to Bronwen Williams.

      Not that Bron was altogether undesirable, but he doubted if it would help his cause with Beryl to be caught straddled by a Celtic masseuse. There was bedridden and bed-ridden.

      He smiled at his joke, and stored it up for later retrieval. It was OK if you were Oscar Wilde, shooting out off-the-cuff one-liners, but less gifted mortals had to work at it.

      So it was plucky convalescent. And in any case, if he was dining with the High Master tonight as ‘twere, he’d better start getting his sea-legs as ‘twere.

      There was no lock on the door so he placed the wooden chair against it. No point taking risks with Bronwen on the loose. Then he stripped off his pyjamas and stepped into the narrow open shower cubicle. The water came out more in a spout than a jet, but it was nice and hot and helped soothe his aches to a distant nag. He glanced through the steam at the round white plastic hospital clock on the wall opposite. High noon. He tried his Tex Ritter imitation which usually went down well on Karaoke Nite at his local, but after a couple of notes acknowledged that his current voice was fit only for Lee Marvin’s ‘Wand’rin’ Star’. More suitable anyway. He might be footloose in the Wild West, but to the best of his knowledge there was no one out there looking to blow him away.

      But maybe he’d better stick to whistling till he got his voice back.

       You know how to whistle, Joe?

      Now who had said that?

      Stepping out of the shower he began to towel himself down carefully to avoid reactivating the sensitive areas. Then, dried off, he put on his clothes, combed his hair and went out to explore.

       Chapter 5

      Outside the sickbay, Joe found himself in a stone flagged corridor which magnified the slap of his trainers and set up an echo so strong he looked back to see if he were being followed. He must have passed along it when he arrived, but the press of company and his own fragility meant he hadn’t paid much attention. To one side a line of high narrow windows with pointed arches looked out on to a rolling, wooded landscape, but it wasn’t the light they admitted that you noticed, rather the shadows they threw, creating the effect of a medieval cloister which Joe recollected from some old Robin Hood film on the telly. The only hint to the casual visitor that this was the twentieth century was the winking light of a security camera high on the walls at either end. Maybe any kid spotted running instead of walking got shot with an arrow.

      On the other side were classrooms. He pushed open a couple of doors and peered in. Rows of old-fashioned one-piece desks stood on carefully measured parade. The floorboards, though scrubbed clean, were old, uneven, and splintered, and the whitewashed walls were devoid of ornament and peeling.

      People paid for their kids to come here? thought Joe. They managed things better in Luton.

      A flight of stairs almost tempted him upwards but he decided best to keep his feet planted firm on the ground till he sussed out the geography, which didn’t promise to be easy. He turned a couple of corners and lost contact with the outside world for a while. Once more only the security cameras kept him reassured that he hadn’t time-travelled. Finally a narrow door opened on to what looked like a scaled-down version of the kind of baronial hall he recalled from that same old TV movie, its walls decorated with ragged banners, battered shields, rusty weapons and mouldering animal heads, plus (presumably the modern equivalent) photographs of scenes from college life, most featuring the High Master in close proximity to visiting dignitaries. One showed a sunlit group of boys in running shorts, flanked by a blazered Lewis and a tall angular, strawberry-nosed man in top-brass police uniform, looking like he was suffering from prickly heat. The legend beneath confirmed what Joe guessed, that this was DCC Penty-Hooser, who had presented the prizes at the last sports day.

      No point having important friends if you can’t use them, thought Joe, heading across the hall to a huge oak door, solid enough to deter a peasants’ revolt. But first impressions, especially Joe’s, weren’t always right. At the merest touch of his finger the door swung smoothly open and he stepped out into the light.

      As even The Lost Traveller’s Guide acknowledges, whatever the architectural shortcomings of Branddreth Hall, the guy who chose the site knew a thing or two.

      Built on the other side of the ridge from the burnt-out cottage, it looked out westward across a tumble of wooded hills to a line of high mountains whose every detail was swept clear by the house-proud sun.

      It was a great view. Even Joe, a devout bricks-and-mortar man, was impressed.

      Then a wisp of cloud floated across the sun, running its shadow towards him over the white fields like a wolf loping towards a lost traveller. Joe shivered and quickly turned his head to look at something closer.

      It turned out to be Frank Sinatra’s face, only a foot or so away.

      Joe took a step backwards, thinking, is there some big Welsh lookalike convention going on? Or has Ol’ Blue Eyes really made it back?

      ‘Shoot,’ he said, recovering. ‘Where you drop from, friend?’

      ‘You the one from the fire?’ demanded the man, who was in his forties, wearing dungarees and the kind of look Sinatra might have worn if he’d flown in from the States to discover he’d been booked for Karaoke Nite at the Llanffugiol Working Men’s Club.

      Or maybe it was just he was clearly suffering from a bad cold.

      ‘Suppose I am,’ said Joe distrustfully.

      The aggressive distrust vanished to be replaced by a broad smile showing the kind of teeth that probably got you jailed in Hollywood.

      ‘Dai Williams,’ said the man, wiping his running nose on the back of the hand he then thrust out to Joe. ‘I’m the caretaker. Glad to meet you, Mr …?’

      ‘Sixsmith,’ said Joe, reluctantly touching the proffered hand.

      ‘Sixsmith? That all?’ said Williams.

      ‘Joe to my friends.’

      ‘And I hope I can be one of those, Joe. What you did last night was the act of a man I’d be proud to call my friend.’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Joe, embarrassed. ‘The caretaker? Think I met your daughter.’

      ‘Bron. Not been bothering