Asking for the Moon: A Collection of Dalziel and Pascoe Stories

‘Photo in there. You in a robe and funny hat.’

‘Graduation ceremony. When I got my degree. That means—’

‘I know what it fucking means! I could’ve gone to college!’

Pascoe nodded, aiming at something between Sorry you missed out and It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, and trying to hide And I’m to be Queen of the May!

‘Old girl with you, that your mam?’

‘Grandmother.’

‘Where’s your mam then?’

Over Trotter’s shoulder, Dalziel mouthed, ‘Dead.’

‘Dead,’ said Pascoe.

Trotter nodded and said, ‘This great-grandfather of yours in the Wyfies, squaddie was he? Or an officer?’

Dalziel’s huge lips formed the word, ‘Captain.’

Thinking, this could be a mistake, Pascoe said, ‘I’m not sure but I think he was a captain.’

‘So you’ve got a degree, and your great-granddad was an officer, and you’ve still got to jump when this bag of dogshit says Jump!’

‘Life does funny things to you,’ said Pascoe.

‘Don’t I know it. What do you reckon to his boots?’

Pascoe glanced at Dalziel’s boots.

‘They’re OK?’ he said.

‘OK?’ echoed Trotter incredulously.

‘Well, a bit dull, maybe.’ Something in Trotter’s expression showed him he was on the right track and warming to the role he went on, ‘In fact I think they’re pretty filthy.’

‘Pretty filthy,’ said Trotter savouring the words. ‘Why don’t you tell him?’

‘Yes. Certainly. Look, you, er, Dalziel’ – it came out Dyeel – ‘why are your boots so, er, filthy?’

‘Don’t have any polish,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Aagh!’

The groan was pumped out of him by a sudden jab of the sawn-off shotgun into his belly causing the landslide of his newly promoted chest.

‘What do you do when you’re addressed by an officer?’ screamed Trotter. ‘What do you say?’

‘I salute, sir!’ shouted Dalziel saluting. ‘And I say sir, sir! Please, sir, I don’t have any polish, sir!’

‘That’s better. And you watch it, soldier. I catch you not addressing this officer correctly and you’ll start to wish you hadn’t been born.’ To Pascoe he said, ‘This one needs watching, sir. Perhaps you could keep an eye on him make sure he gets to work on them boots.’

‘But if he doesn’t have any polish …’ objected Pascoe weakly.

‘He can spit, can’t he?’ said Trotter. ‘Ought to be able to. Full of piss and wind, I’m sure he’s got some spit to spare. Next inspection in thirty minutes if that suits you, sir.’

‘Er yes. Er, fine. Er … carry on.’

He had a vague recollection from The Bridge on the River Kwai that that’s the sort of thing they said. It seemed to work. Trotter crashed in a thunderous salute, span on his heel and marched out. The door closed behind him and the key rattled in the lock.

‘Not bad,’ said Dalziel, sitting on the bed. ‘Though you’ll need to work on it a bit.’

‘Work on what?’ demanded Pascoe.

‘Being an officer. You’re lucky, lad. He’s decided to treat you as a genuine buckshee, not just surplus to requirements. You’re on the team, but you’d best play to the rules else you might get dropped, from a great height.’

The Fat Man had taken off his boots and was examining them with pursed lips.

‘Candle, a metal spoon and some blacking and I’d have these bright enough to get a kiltie done for indecent exposure.’

Pascoe worked this out, then asked, ‘You’ve been in the army, have you, sir?’

‘Aye, I’ve done the state a bit of service,’ said Dalziel, spitting on the boot. He wrapped a huge khaki handkerchief (his own, not part of Trotter’s issue) round his index finger and began polishing the toecap in with tiny circular movements.

‘And which way did it send you? Mad or bad?’ enquired Pascoe.

Dalziel stopped polishing and regarded him almost sympathetically.

‘Don’t give up, lad,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Only reason a sprog like you reckons he can get cocky with someone like me is you don’t hold much hope we’re ever going to get out of this. My advice is, until you’re dying and I’m dead, stay polite and call me sir. Except when Tankie’s around that is. Then I’ll call you sir and you can call me what you like, short of vulgar abuse. Vulgar abuse is for warrant officers and NCOs.’

The fat oaf isn’t joking, realized Pascoe. Curiously it was almost comforting.

He said, ‘What did Trotter mean, he could have gone to university?’

‘Now that’s a good question. More you know about a man, the more you open up opportunity.’

‘For negotiation, you mean?’

‘For kicking his bollocks into his brain-pan,’ growled Dalziel. ‘I’ve been trying to fill you in on the background ever since you let yourself get dragged into this. One thing you’ve got to grasp about Tankie is, he’s no deadhead. He were a bright lad. Passed eleven plus, went to the grammar, got ‘O’ levels, and it were right enough, he could’ve stayed on for his ‘A’s and mebbe gone to college, but that would’ve meant going away, leaving his sister and his mam alone wi’ his father. Now he were a real bruiser, Thomas. Tankie were named for him, but he’d never answer to Tommie so that’s why he got Tankie. He grew into it when he got on in his teens, but he were nowt alongside Thomas. Made me feel like a ballet dancer, he did!’

Pascoe had a brief vision of Dalziel in a tutu. It was like a snip from Fantasia.

‘Glad to see you can still smile, lad,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Lose your sense of humour, and what you got left? Your job, maybe. But what’s a job to a man wi’ a degree?’

‘This Thomas, am I right in assuming Tankie didn’t get on with him?’ said Pascoe.