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!”
6
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.
4 6
R E G I N A L D H I L L
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, okay, 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 a 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. Okay, I’d spent a bit of time in a coma recently, but that’s no reason not to know what’s going off.
He maneuvered 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 the last time T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4
“Bloody hell,” I said. “It’s Franny Roote. I thought you must be dead!”
6
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.
4 6
R E G I N A L D H I L L
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, okay, 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 a 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. Okay, I’d spent a bit of time in a coma recently, but that’s no reason not to know what’s going off.
He maneuvered 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 the last time T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4
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