Dialogues of the Dead. Reginald Hill

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       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 and nowhere to go, stuck on the shelf, so to speak, past oozing through present into future with nothing of colour or action or excitement to quicken the senses …

       Then suddenly one day I saw it!

      Stretching out before me where it had always been, the long 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 lay between.

       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 winding trail, I mean – in the mind, something to pass the long quiet hours with. Yet all the while I could hear my soul telling me, ‘Being a mental traveller is fine but it gets you no suntan!’

      And my feet grew ever more restless.

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

       Could I possibly …?

       Did I dare …?

      That’s the trouble with paths.

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

      I needed a sign. Not necessarily something dramatic. A gentle 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 say it 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 and my Great Adventure must remain empty fantasy, a video to play behind the attentive eyes and sympathetic smile as I went about my daily business.

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

      It could be simply my sense of unworthiness that was making me so hesitant. And in any case it wasn’t me who was doing the choosing, was it? The sign, to be a true sign, 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 at least I would be a passive actor in this Adventure, but once begun, then I would know without doubt that it was written 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 preparing to administer her holiest mystery. Though the face may be hidden by visor or veil, yet those with skill to read will know how to interpret the blazon or the chasuble.

      When I was ready I went out to the car. It was still very early. The birds were carolling in full chorus and the eastern sky was mother-of-pearl СКАЧАТЬ