catastrophe, and it seemed incongruous, even grotesquely comical, that a man should have died so messily at the smug little golf club.
So it was that Simon Price, who had been one of the first to hear about Barry’s death, in his house on top of the hill overlooking Pagford, met a rebounding version at the Harcourt-Walsh printworks in Yarvil where he had worked ever since leaving school. It was borne to him on the lips of a young, gum-chewing forklift driver, whom Simon found skulking beside his office door, after a late-afternoon return from the bathroom.
The boy had not come, in the first place, to discuss Barry at all.
“That thing you said you migh’ be int’rested in,” he mumbled, when he had followed Simon into the office, and Simon had closed the door, “I cud do it for yeh Wednesday, if yeh still fancied it.”
“Yeah?” said Simon, sitting himself down at his desk. “I thought you said it was all ready to go?”
“’Tis, but I can’t fix up collection till Wednesday.”
“How much did you say again?”
“Eighty notes, fer cash.”
The boy chewed vigorously; Simon could hear his saliva working. Gum-chewing was one of Simon’s many pet hates.
“It’s the proper thing, though, is it?” Simon demanded. “Not some knockoff piece of crap?”
“Come straight from the warehouse,” said the boy, shifting his feet and his shoulders. “Real thing, still boxed up.”
“All right, then,” said Simon. “Bring it in Wednesday.”
“What, here?” The boy rolled his eyes. “Nah, not to work, mate…Where d’you live?”
“Pagford,” said Simon.
“Where’bouts in Pagford?”
Simon’s aversion to naming his home bordered on the superstitious. He not only disliked visitors — invaders of his privacy and possible despoilers of his property — but he saw Hilltop House as inviolate, immaculate, a world apart from Yarvil and the crashing, grinding printworks.
“I’ll come and pick it up after work,” said Simon, ignoring the question. “Where are you keeping it?”
The boy did not look happy. Simon glared at him.
“Well, I’d need the cash up front,” the forklift driver temporized.
“You get the money when I’ve got the goods.”
“Dun’ work like that, mate.”
Simon thought he might be developing a headache. He could not dislodge the horrible idea, implanted by his careless wife that morning, that a tiny bomb might tick undetected for ages inside a man’s brain. The steady clatter and rumble of the printing press beyond the door was surely not good for him; its relentless battery might have been thinning his artery walls for years.
“All right,” he grunted, and rolled over in his chair to extract his wallet from his back pocket. The boy stepped up to the desk, his hand out.
“D’yeh live anywhere near Pagford golf course?” he asked, as Simon counted out tenners into his palm. “Mate o’ mine was up there las’ night, an’ saw a bloke drop dead. Jus’ fuckin’ puked an’ keeled over an’ died in the car park.”
“Yeah, I heard,” said Simon, massaging the last note between his fingers before he passed it over, to make sure there were not two stuck together.
“Bent councillor, he was. The bloke who died. He was takin’ backhanders. Grays was paying him to keep them on as contractors.”
“Yeah?” said Simon, but he was immensely interested.
Barry Fairbrother, who’d have thought it?
“I’ll get back ter yeh, then,” said the boy, shoving the eighty pounds deep into his back pocket. “And we’ll go an’ get it, Wednesday.”
The office door closed. Simon forgot his headache, which was really no more than a twinge, in his fascination at the revelation of Barry Fairbrother’s crookedness. Barry Fairbrother, so busy and sociable, so popular and cheerful: and all the time, trousering bribes from Grays.
The news did not rock Simon as it would have done nearly everybody else who had known Barry, nor did it diminish Barry in his eyes; on the
So it was that Simon Price, who had been one of the first to hear about Barry’s death, in his house on top of the hill overlooking Pagford, met a rebounding version at the Harcourt-Walsh printworks in Yarvil where he had worked ever since leaving school. It was borne to him on the lips of a young, gum-chewing forklift driver, whom Simon found skulking beside his office door, after a late-afternoon return from the bathroom.
The boy had not come, in the first place, to discuss Barry at all.
“That thing you said you migh’ be int’rested in,” he mumbled, when he had followed Simon into the office, and Simon had closed the door, “I cud do it for yeh Wednesday, if yeh still fancied it.”
“Yeah?” said Simon, sitting himself down at his desk. “I thought you said it was all ready to go?”
“’Tis, but I can’t fix up collection till Wednesday.”
“How much did you say again?”
“Eighty notes, fer cash.”
The boy chewed vigorously; Simon could hear his saliva working. Gum-chewing was one of Simon’s many pet hates.
“It’s the proper thing, though, is it?” Simon demanded. “Not some knockoff piece of crap?”
“Come straight from the warehouse,” said the boy, shifting his feet and his shoulders. “Real thing, still boxed up.”
“All right, then,” said Simon. “Bring it in Wednesday.”
“What, here?” The boy rolled his eyes. “Nah, not to work, mate…Where d’you live?”
“Pagford,” said Simon.
“Where’bouts in Pagford?”
Simon’s aversion to naming his home bordered on the superstitious. He not only disliked visitors — invaders of his privacy and possible despoilers of his property — but he saw Hilltop House as inviolate, immaculate, a world apart from Yarvil and the crashing, grinding printworks.
“I’ll come and pick it up after work,” said Simon, ignoring the question. “Where are you keeping it?”
The boy did not look happy. Simon glared at him.
“Well, I’d need the cash up front,” the forklift driver temporized.
“You get the money when I’ve got the goods.”
“Dun’ work like that, mate.”
Simon thought he might be developing a headache. He could not dislodge the horrible idea, implanted by his careless wife that morning, that a tiny bomb might tick undetected for ages inside a man’s brain. The steady clatter and rumble of the printing press beyond the door was surely not good for him; its relentless battery might have been thinning his artery walls for years.
“All right,” he grunted, and rolled over in his chair to extract his wallet from his back pocket. The boy stepped up to the desk, his hand out.
“D’yeh live anywhere near Pagford golf course?” he asked, as Simon counted out tenners into his palm. “Mate o’ mine was up there las’ night, an’ saw a bloke drop dead. Jus’ fuckin’ puked an’ keeled over an’ died in the car park.”
“Yeah, I heard,” said Simon, massaging the last note between his fingers before he passed it over, to make sure there were not two stuck together.
“Bent councillor, he was. The bloke who died. He was takin’ backhanders. Grays was paying him to keep them on as contractors.”
“Yeah?” said Simon, but he was immensely interested.
Barry Fairbrother, who’d have thought it?
“I’ll get back ter yeh, then,” said the boy, shoving the eighty pounds deep into his back pocket. “And we’ll go an’ get it, Wednesday.”
The office door closed. Simon forgot his headache, which was really no more than a twinge, in his fascination at the revelation of Barry Fairbrother’s crookedness. Barry Fairbrother, so busy and sociable, so popular and cheerful: and all the time, trousering bribes from Grays.
The news did not rock Simon as it would have done nearly everybody else who had known Barry, nor did it diminish Barry in his eyes; on the
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