Free Death's Jest-Book by Reginald Hill

Wield.
'Hop on. You got a name?'
    'Lee’ said the boy as he
swung his leg over the pillion. 'You?'
    'You can call me Mac. Hold on.'
    The boy ignored the advice and
sat there loosely as if not anticipating any need for anchorage.
Wield said nothing but accelerated along the car park till the lime
trees began to blur, then braked to swing between them and rejoin the
main road. He smiled as he felt the boy's arms swing round his
midriff and lock on tight.
    Turk's caff was situated in the
lee of the Central Station. It was basic just this side of squalid,
but had the advantage of staying open late, the theory being it would
catch hungry travellers after the station snackbars pulled down their
shutters early in the evening. In fact the regular - indeed one might
say the permanent - clientele seemed to consist of solitary men in
shabby parkas hunched over empty coffee mugs, who gave few signs that
they ever contemplated travelling anywhere. The only person who
showed any sign of life, and that only enough to offer a customer
slow and resentful service, was the morose and taciturn owner, the
eponymous Turk, whose coffee was reason enough to keep a country out
of the EU, never mind Human Rights, thought Wield, as he watched the
boy drink Coke and tuck into a chunk of glutinous cheesecake.
    'So, Lee,' he said. 'What
happened back there?'
    The boy looked at him. He'd shown
either natural courtesy or natural indifference when Wield had
removed his helmet to reveal the full ugliness of his face, but now
his gaze was sharp.
    'Nowt. Just a bit of hassle,
that's all.'
    'Did you know the guy in the
car?'
    'What difference does it make?'
    'Could make the difference
between some nutter driving around trying to kidnap kids and a
domestic.'
    The boy shrugged, chewed another
mouthful of cake, washed it down with Coke, then said, 'What're you
after?'
    'What do you mean?'
    'Getting mixed up with this.'
    'You mean I should've ridden on
by?'
    'Mebbe. Most would.'
    'I didn't.'
    'OK, but the chat and this -' he
waved the last forkful of cheesecake in the air then devoured it -
'what's all that for? You some sort of do-gooder?'
    'Sure,' said Wield. 'Let me buy
you another piece then I'll save your soul.'
    This amused the boy. When he
laughed, his age dropped back to the original low estimate. On the
other hand, being smart put as many years on him.
    'OK’ he said. ‘`Nother
Coke too.'
    Wield went up to the counter. The
cheesecake looked like it contravened every dietary regulation ever
written, but the boy needed fattening up. Watch it, Edgar, he told
himself mockingly. You're thinking like your mother! Which thought
provoked him into buying a ham sandwich. Edwin was going to be miffed
that he was even later than forecast, and it wouldn't help things if
Wield disturbed the even tenor of their pristine kitchen with his
'disgusting canteen habits'.
    As he resumed his seat, the boy
pulled a face at the sandwich and said, 'You gonna eat that? He makes
them out of illegals who didn't survive the trip.'
    â€˜I’ll take my
chances,' said Wield. 'OK. Now, about your soul.'
    'Sold up and gone, long since.
What's your line?'
    'Sorry?'
    'What you do for dosh? Let's have
a look . . .'
    He took Wield's left hand and ran
his index finger gently over the palm.
    'Not a navvy then, Mac,' he said.
'Not a brain surgeon neither.'
    Wield pulled his hand away more
abruptly than he intended and the boy grinned.
    He's sussed me out, thought
Wield. A couple of minutes and he's got to the heart of me. How come
someone this age is so sharp? And what the hell signals am I sending
out? I told him to call me Mac! Why?
    Because Wield sounds odd? Because
only Edwin calls me Edgar? Good reasons. Except nobody's called me
Mac since . . .
    It was short for Macumazahn, the
native name for Allan Quartermain, the hero of some of Wield's
beloved H. Rider Haggard novels. It meant
he-who-sleeps-with-his-eyes-open and had been given to him by a
long-lost lover. No one