DIALOGUES DEAD MM

by HILL REGINALD

• ISBN13: 9780060528096
• ISBN10: 0060528095
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publications

Summary

When Dialogues submitted to a local literary competition claim responsibility for three deaths, Dalziel and Pascoe find themselves embroiled in a deadly duel of wits against a sociopathic killer known only as the Wordman.

Excerpts

Dialogues of the Dead

Chapter One

The First Dialogue

Hi, there. How're you doing?

Me, I'm fine, I think.

That's right. It's hard to tell sometimes, but there seems to be some movement at last. Funny old thing, life, isn't it?

OK, death too. But life ...

Just a short while ago, there I was, going nowhere andnowhere to go, stuck on the shelf, so to speak, past oozingthrough present into future with nothing of color or actionor excitement to quicken the senses ...

Then suddenly one day I saw it!

Stretching out before me where it had always been, thelong and winding path leading me through my Great Adventure, the start so close I felt I could reach out and touch it,the end so distant my mind reeled at the thought of what laybetween.

But it's a long step from a reeling mind to a mind in reality, and at first that's where it stayed -- that long and windingtrail, I mean -- in the mind, something to pass the longquiet hours with. Yet all the while I could hear my soultelling me, "Being a mental traveler is fine but it gets you nosuntan!"

And my feet grew ever more restless.

Slowly the questions began to turn in my brain like ascreensaver on a computer.

Could I possibly ...?

Did I dare ...?

That's the trouble with paths.

Once found, they must be followed wherever they maylead, but sometimes the start is -- how shall I put it? -- so indefinite.

I needed a sign. Not necessarily something dramatic. Agentle nudge would do.

Or a whispered word.

Then one day I got it.

First the whispered word. Your whisper? I hoped so.

I heard it, interpreted it, wanted to believe it. But it was still so vague ...

Yes, I was always a fearful child.

I needed something clearer.

And finally it came. More of a shoulder charge than a gentle nudge. A shout rather than a whisper. You might sayit leapt out at me!

I could almost hear you laughing.

I couldn't sleep that night for thinking about it. But the more I thought, the less clear it became. By three o'clock in the morning, I'd convinced myself it was mere accident andmy Great Adventure must remain empty fantasy, a video toplay behind the attentive eyes and sympathetic smile as Iwent about my daily business.

But an hour or so later as dawn's rosy fingers began tomassage the black skin of night, and a little bird began topipe outside my window, I started to see things differently.

It could be simply my sense of unworthiness that wasmaking me so hesitant. And in any case it wasn't me whowas doing the choosing, was it? The sign, to be a truesign, should be followed by a chance which I could not refuse.Because it wouldn't be mere chance, of course,though by its very nature it was likely to be indefinite. Indeed,that was how I would recognize it. To start with atleast I would be a passive actor in this Adventure, butonce begun, then I would know without doubt that it waswritten for me.

All I had to do was be ready.

I rose and laved and robed myself with unusual care, like a knight readying himself for a quest, or a priestess preparingto administer her holiest mystery. Though the face maybe hidden by visor or veil, yet those with skill to read willknow how to interpret the blazon or the chasuble.

When I was ready I went out to the car. It was still veryearly. The birds were caroling in full chorus and the easternsky was mother-of-pearl flushing to pink, like a maiden'scheek in a Disney movie.

It was far too early to go into town and on impulse Iheaded out to the countryside. This, I felt, was not a day toignore impulse.

Half an hour later I was wondering if I hadn't been justplain silly. The car had been giving me trouble for some timenow with the engine coughing and losing power on hills.Each time it happened I promised myself I'd take it into thegarage. Then it would seem all right for a while and I'd forget.This time I knew it was really serious when it startedhiccoughing on a gentle down-slope, and sure enough on thenext climb, which was only the tiny hump of a tiny humpbackbridge, it wheezed to a halt.

I got out and kicked the door shut. No use to look underthe bonnet. Engines, though Latin, were Greek to me. I saton the shallow parapet of the bridge and tried to recallhow far back it was to a house or telephone. All I could rememberwas a signpost saying it was five miles to the littlevillage of Little Bruton. It seemed peculiarly unjustsomehow that a car that spent most of its time in townshould break down in what was probably the least populatedstretch of countryside within ten miles of the cityboundary.

Sod's Law, isn't that what they call it? And that's what Icalled it, till gradually to the noise of chirruping birdsongand bubbling water was added a new sound and along thatnarrow country road I saw approaching a bright yellow AutomobileAssociation van.

Now I began to wonder whether it might not after all beGod's Law.

I flagged him down. He was on his way to a Home Startcall in Little Bruton where some poor wage-slave newlywoken and with miles to go before he slept had found hismotor even more reluctant to start than he was ...

Dialogues of the Dead. Copyright © by Reginald Hill. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Dialogues of the Dead by Reginald Hill
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