REGINALD HILL
THE ONLY GAME
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 1991 under the authors psuedonym Patrick Ruell
Copyright © Patrick Ruell 1991
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is >available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007334858
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780007391912
Version: 2015-09-17
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Part Two
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part Three
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part Four
1
2
3
4
5
6
Part Five
1
2
3
4
5
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Reginald Hill
About the Publisher
Part One1
Life is either comedy, tragedy, or soap, said Oliver Beck.
All right. What are these two?
A middle-aged couple strolled by them on the promenade deck.
Hes tragic, shes comic, together theyre soap, said Beck promptly.
She laughed out loud and for the next half hour they lounged in their deck chairs, categorizing passers-by and giggling together behind a glossy magazine.
The all-seeing purser intercepted her as she went down to the gymnasium.
Miss Maguire, he said grimly. I think you should remember youre a recreation officer on this ship, not a first-class passenger.
We could soon change that, said Beck casually when she told him.
For what?
For good maybe.
Shed come to his cabin for a night cap, but she knew then she was going to stay.
It was her first time and she modestly turned aside as she slipped off her pants. His hand flapped her buttocks, more a caress than a slap, but she spun round, modesty forgotten, and blazed, Dont do that!
A small child being dragged unwillingly along a busy street, her mother pausing to lift the girls skirt and administer a sharp slap to the upper leg. Ill really give you something to cry about, my girl, if thats what you want. People passing by, indifferent. Sorry, he said. She saw a veil of wariness dim the bright desire in his eyes. Im spoiling it, she thought desperately. A child again, but now a child wanting to please, she raised her right leg till it pointed straight in the air, then bent her knee and tucked her foot behind her head against the cascade of long red hair.
Can you do that? she challenged.
Oh my God, he said thickly. Thats real crazy.
If she amazed him with her double-jointed athleticism, she amazed herself even more with the depths of her sensuality. Afterwards they rolled apart, exhausted, and she examined his face. In the liners public rooms he looked smooth, sophisticated, a successful businessman in his thirties, clearly at least ten years her senior. Now, his hair tousled, his face muscles relaxed with satisfied desire, he looked barely twenty.
What are we? she asked softly. Tragic, comic, or pure soap?
He grinned and lost a couple more years.
None of those, my crazy Jane, he murmured. Theres a special category for people like us. Were the ones who decide what the rest are. We switch them on and off. Were the Immortals, baby. Were the Gods.
And lying there, lulled by the great seas streaming under the ships bow and bathed in the afterglow of those ecstasies which had lifted her out of this time, this space, into a universe of their own creating, she almost believed him.
The sea again, that same sea, picked up in handfuls and hurled like gravel against the storm windows of their house on Cape Cod. A ringing at the door bell. Two men in sou westers.
Mrs Beck?
Yes?
Its bad, Im afraid, Mrs Beck. Your husbands boat. Theyve spotted some wreckage.
But that could be anything. In weather like this
They found this too.
An orange life preserver. Stencilled on it The Crazy Jane.
Still she protests. But that doesnt mean
The second man, impatient of hope, cuts in. He was wearing it, Mrs Beck. Well need you for identification.
She begins to sway, clutches the door frame for support.
Behind her, deep in the house, a child begins to cry.
So youre back, said her mother. You could have given me a bit more warning.
It was a snap decision.
Act in haste, repent at leisure, always your way. And hes dead? Drowned, you said?
Yes.
Well, Im sorry for your sake. I cant say more than that, never having had the pleasure of meeting him. And this is the boy.
Thats right.
Come over here, Oliver, and lets be taking a look at you. Whats up with the child? Im your gran, Oliver. Though its maybe not so odd hes shy. Most kiddies know their gran before they get to four.
Hes a bit tired. And we I call him Noll.
Noll? Hell not thank you for that. Whats the point of baptizing a child if youre going to start fiddling with his name?
Its what I want to call him. And hes not baptized.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. How can you take such a risk? We never know the moment when well be called. You should know that better than most, you whove had both your da and your man snatched away from you in their prime. Never mind. We can soon put that to rights.
No! she cried. I dont want him baptized, Mam. And its no use bringing in the Inquisition, Ill not talk to any priests, especially not old Father Bleaney from St Marys. Hes half dotty and he doesnt wash!
Youre not wrong there, girl. He smells of more than sanctity, theres no denying it. But hes a holy man for all that. And youd better understand this. Im the one who says wholl come into this house, and youre the one wholl be polite to them while youre living here. God preserve us, if youd come a half hour earlier youd have met Father Blake. What would you have done then, my girl? Turned on your heel and flounced off like you used to do?
No. Of course not. Whos Father Blake anyway?
A colleague of your Uncle Patricks, rest his soul. Do you not read my letters as well as not answer them? He comes across from time to time to inspect the Priory College where your uncle worked. He always calls to pay his respects and he brought me pictures of Patricks grave. Youll meet him if you stay long enough. And youd better be polite. How long are you staying, anyway?
Till I get settled, if thats all right.
All right? This is your home, whatever you may treat it as. What do you mean, settled?
Till I find a job.
Did he not leave you provided for? Typical Yank. All show. Any man rich enough to drown in his own boat ought to be able to leave his wife looked after. Whatll you do? Try the teaching again?
No!
Mist on Ingleborough. Not yet thick but blowing in patches. A crocodile of teenagers descending, now visible along its length, now segmented.
Two girls crouching in the lee of a rock to light cigarettes.
What are you two playing at? Didnt you hear Miss Marks tell you to keep close?
Well be along in a minute, miss. Well soon catch up with them wallies.
Youll get along now. Come on. Put those fags out and move yourselves.
The girls exchange glances, neither wanting to show weakness.
For heavens sake, dont act so stupid. Dont you know how dangerous it can be out here in the mist?
Were almost down, arent we? And who are you calling stupid?
Dont give me any of your cheek, Betty. Im not asking you, Im telling you. Move it.
One girl rises, the other lowers her head sullenly, draws deep on her cigarette, mutters, Get stuffed, you smelly dyke.
Mist on Ingleborough. An experienced teacher might play deaf, save it for later.
What did you say, Betty?
A glance at her friend. Too far for retreat. The cigarette dangling from the side of her magenta mouth. Everyone knows what old Ma Marks is like. Same with all PE teachers, I expect. Is that what the hurry is? Cant wait to get us in the showers?