Death's Jest-Book Read Online Free

know.
    After a long minute, still
without looking up, he said, 'Chair.'
    A chair was thrust against the
back of my legs and I sat down.
    He spent the remaining period of
association studying the board.
    When the bell went to summon us
back to our cells he looked me in the face for the first time and
said, Tomorrow.'
    And thus I moved out of the
first, which is the most dangerous, stage of my prison career, Mr
Pascoe. If I'd just sat around rehearsing revenge on yourself, I
would by this point probably have been raped, possibly mutilated,
certainly established as everyone's yellow dog, to be kicked and
humiliated at will. No, I had to be pragmatic, deal with the existing
situation as best I could. Which is what I'm doing now. I make no
bones about it. I-no longer want to be constantly glancing back over
my shoulder, fearful that you are out there, driven to pursue me by
your own fears.
    Perhaps one day we may both come
to recognize that flying from a thing we dread is not so very
different from pursuing a thing we love. If and when that day comes,
then I hope, dear Mr Pascoe, .that I may see your face and take your
outstretched hand and hear you say, '

    â€˜Jesus
bloody Christ!' said Peter Pascoe.
    'Yes, I know it's that time of
year’ said Ellie Pascoe who was sitting at the other side of
the breakfast table looking without enthusiasm at a scatter of
envelopes clearly containing Christmas cards. 'But is it fair to
blame a radical Jewish agitator for the way western capitalism has
chosen to make a fast buck from his alleged birthday?'
    'The cheeky sod!' exclaimed
Pascoe.
    'Ah, it's a guessing game,' said
Ellie. 'OK. It's from the palace saying the Queen is minded to make
you a duchess in the New Year's Honours list. No? OK, I give up.'
    'It's from bloody Roote. He's in
Cambridge, for God's sake!'
    'Bloody Roote? You mean Franny
Roote? The student? The short story writer?'
    'No, I mean Roote the ex-con. The
psycho criminal.'
    'Oh, that Roote. So what's he
say?'
    'I'mnot
sure. I think the bastard's forgiving me.'
    'Well that's nice,' yawned Ellie.
'At least it's more interesting than these sodding cards. What's he
doing in Cambridge?'
    'He's at a
conference on Romantic Studies in the early nineteenth century,' said Pascoe, looking at the programme enclosed with the letter.
    'Good for him,' said Ellie. 'He
must be doing well.'
    'He's only
there because of Sam Johnson,' said Pascoe dismissively. 'Here we
are. Nine o'clock this morning. Mr Francis Roote MA will read the
late Dr Sam Johnson's paper entitled Looking for the laughs in
Death's Jest-Book. That sounds a bundle of fun. What the hell
does it mean?'
    'Death's
Jest-Book? You remember Samuel Lovell Beddoes, whose life Sam was
working on when he died? Well, Death's Jest-Book is this play
that Beddoes worked at all his life. I've not read it but I gather
it's pretty Gothic. And it's a revenge tragedy.'
    'Revenge. Aha.'
    'Don't make connections which
aren't there, Peter. Let's have a look at the letter.'
    'I'm not finished yet. There's
reams of the bloody thing.'
    'Well, give us the bit you've
read. And don't take too long reading the rest. Time and our daughter
wait for no man.'
    There had been a time when an
off-duty Saturday meant a long lie in with the possibility of
breakfast or, if he was very lucky, even tastier goodies in bed. But
this was before his daughter Rosie had discovered she was musical.
    Whether any competent authority
was going to confirm this discovery, Pascoe didn't know. While not
having a tin ear, his musical judgment wasn't sufficiently refined to
work out whether the faltering and scrannel notes he could even now
hear issuing from her clarinet were much the same as those produced
by a pre-pubescent Benny Goodman, or whether this was as good as it
got.
    But while he was waiting to find
out, Rosie had to have lessons from the best available teacher, viz.
Ms Alicia Wintershine of the Mid-Yorkshire Sinfonietta, whose
excellence was evidenced by the