Frank found the DI leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on a journey to the centre of the earth.
“Well, he was surprisingly talkative once he got going wasn't he?” said Frank, as he waited for Don to move so he could get into the car. “I thought you got a lot out of him, in the end.”
“It’s quality that counts,” Don replied. “Not quantity.”
“Aye, right, I suppose so.” Frank jiggled his keys. Don remained immobile. Never mind, thought Frank. I was used to a lot colder up North. “He certainly seems to know a bit about darts, anyway, our Mr. Hall.”
Now Don moved—he span away from the car as if it was red hot, and turned on Frank with a look of deep disappointment. “Frank, he knows bugger all about darts! What are you talking about, all those books? All that twenty-five grammes crap? He’s a pot-hunter, Frank. He’s a mercenary. God, man, Sean Hall doesn’t know the fundamentals of the game! Listen, darts isn’t about stance and grip and all that rubbish.”
All that rubbish you were going on about in the pub the other day, thought Frank. “It isn’t?”
“Books of finishes, and quarter-finals, and trophies—it’s got nothing to do with all that.”
“It’s more a mental game, is what you’re saying?” Actually, now he came to think about it, bloody London could get cold enough, this time of year, thank you very much.
“Yes, yes, all that, but the point is, Frank, darts is about friendship. It’s about playing the game for its own sake. Look, for instance, there’s no handicapping in darts. Right? Not like golf. Now golf, that’s a game designed for keeping people in their place, a game designed to ensure the continuation of hierarchies. That’s why it’s only played by second-rate businessmen and shit comedians.”
“Right. Shall we get in the—”
“But darts—darts is a democracy. If you get beaten on the dartboard by someone who’s not a quarter the player you are, you’re really beaten—no handicap, no excuses. You see, Frank, darts is the only sport where there’s virtually no element of luck involved. Anything else—football, tennis, anything—you get a lucky bounce and you’re a hero. Or not. But with darts, you’re on your own, and a millimetre either way makes the difference between winning or losing.” Don ran his hands through his hair. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Oh, certainly. You’re saying—”
Don rattled the door handle on the passenger side. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?”
Frank bleeped the lock. “Yes, sir,” he said.
