Dialogues of the Dead

271 the sergeant and said with a sigh, 'OK. You win. Let's go and make our apologies.' They'd arrived at the door of the studio. The tiered seats rose up steeply on three sides from the brightly lit shallow stage and it looked like a full house. Indeed the only empty seat he could see was at the front next to Ellie. She did not look pleased. The length of time he'd been absent without explanation became apparent when suddenly there was a burst of applause and a cry of delight exploded at the back and a woman who didn't look much over sixteen jumped out of her seat crying, 'It's me!' as the beam of a tight-focused spot swung across the audience till it picked her out. She'd won third prize it emerged during a rambling and tearful thank you speech which out-Oscared the Oscars. Wield said urgently, 'Pete. End of row, left-hand wing, five rows back.' Pascoe counted. 'Thank you, God,' he said. Franny Roote was sitting there, dressed as always in black so that his pale face seemed to float out of the semi-gloom of the auditorium. An image came into Pascoe's mind from some poem read long ago of a condemned prisoner being led to his death through a press of spectators. Even at a distance it was impossible to mistake that pale face. So it was with Roote; except, if Pascoe had got it right, here was the executioner, not the executed. On the acting floor, Mary Agnew was announcing the runner-up who had written a story which, if the judges were to be believed, plumbed the depths of man's inhumanity to man. The title and the pseudonym were read out, the envelope ripped' open, and from the balcony came another delighted cry as a second woman, this one old enough to be her predecessor's great grandmother, saw fame descend. 'Come on,' said Pascoe as the audience applauded the newcomer; on to the stage. He hoped to slip unnoticed past Ellie, but failed. Her accusing' gaze hit him like a sling-shot. He winced, smiled weakly, and I pressed on up the aisle steps towards Roote. ( 'Mr Roote,' he murmured. 'Could we have a word?' I 'Mr Pascoe, hello. Of course, always glad to talk with you.' J The young man gazed up at him expectantly, the usual faint smile on his lips. 'I mean, outside.' 'Oh. Couldn't it wait? This will be over soon. It's going out live, you know.' 'I'd rather ...' Pascoe's voice faded under an outbreak of irritated shushing, and he realized the second-place winner was into her thank you speech. Fortunately age had taught her the value of economy and it had twice the style in half the length of number three's. As she left the stage to renewed, and relieved, applause, Pascoe said firmly, 'Now, please, Mr Roote.' 'Just a couple more minutes,' pleaded the man. Pascoe glanced round at Wield who shook his head slightly as if in answer to the unspoken question, How about I put him in an arm-lock and drag him out? Below, Agnew was saying, 'And now to our winner. The judges were unanimous in their choice. They said feel-good stories may not be popular in an age preoccupied with the seamier side of human experience, but when they are as beautifully Grafted as this one, with a depth of humanity and a lightness of touch rarely found outside the great classical masters of the genre, then they are a reassuring affirmation of all that is best and most worthwhile in human experience. With a testimonial like that, I bet you can't wait to read the story - which you'll be able to do in the next issue of the Gazette. Its title is "Once Upon a Life", and its author's very fitting pseudonym is Hilary Greatheart, whose real name is . ..' Dramatic pause while the envelope was torn open. Roote stood up. Pascoe, a little surprised by this sudden capitulation, said, 'Thank you. Let's head out of the back door, shall we?' Roote said, 'No, no, I don't think you understand,' and tried to push past. Pascoe seized his arm, feeling a surge of deplorable pleasure that at last he was going to have an excuse to pass on some positive pain. Then Wield seized his arm and said, 'Pete, no.' And at the same time a great light exploded in both his face

27^ Chapter Thirty