Читать книгу Bones and Silence - Reginald Hill - Страница 7

January 1st

Dear Mr Dalziel,

You don’t know me. Why should you? Sometimes I think I don’t know myself. I was walking through the market place just before Christmas when suddenly I stopped dead. People bumped into me but it didn’t matter. You see, I was twelve again, walking across a field near Melrose Abbey, carefully balancing a jug of milk I’d just got from the farm, and ahead of me I could see our tent and our car and my father shaving himself in the wing mirror and my mother stooping over the camp stove, and I could smell bacon frying. It was such a good smell I started thinking about the lovely taste that went with it, and I suppose I started to walk a bit quicker. Next thing, I caught my toe in a tussock of grass, stumbled, and the milk went everywhere. I thought it was the end of the world but they just laughed and made a joke of it and gave me a huge plateful of bacon and eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms, and in the end it almost seemed they loved me more for spilling the milk than fetching it safely.

So there I was, standing like an idiot, blocking the pavement, while inside I was twelve again and feeling so loved and protected. And why?

Because I was passing the Market Caff and the extractor fan was blasting the smell of frying bacon into the cool morning air.

So how can I say I know myself when a simple smell can shift me so far in time and space?

But I know you. No, how arrogant that sounds after what I’ve just written. What I mean is I’ve had you pointed out to me. And I’ve listened to what people say about you. And a lot of it, in fact most of it, wasn’t very complimentary, but this isn’t an abusive letter so I won’t offend you by repeating it. But even your worst detractors had to admit you were good at your job and you weren’t afraid of finding out the truth. Oh, and you didn’t suffer fools gladly.

Well, this is one fool you won’t have to suffer much of. You see, the reason I’m writing to you is I’m going to kill myself.

I don’t mean straightaway. Some time soon, though, certainly in the next twelve months. It’s a sort of New Year Resolution. But in the meantime I want someone to talk to. Clearly anyone I know personally is out of the question. Also doctors, psychiatrists, all the professional helpers. You see, this isn’t the famous cry for help. My mind’s made up. It’s just a question of fixing a date. But I’ve discovered in myself a strange compulsion to talk about it, to drop hints, to wink and nod. Now that’s too dangerous a game to play with friends. What I think I need is a controlled outlet for all my ramblings. And you’ve been elected.

I’m sorry. It’s a big burden to lay on anyone. But one other thing which came out of what people say about you is that my letters will be just like any other case. You might find them irritating but you won’t lose any sleep over them!

I hope I’ve got you right. The last thing I want to do is to cause pain to a stranger – especially knowing as I do that the last thing I will do is cause pain to my friends.

Happy New Year!