‘What was it before, a furniture van?’
‘Mobile library. Cost me two hundred quid.’ He brought out two cups and we sat on the Prom, drinking rum in the dim light of midday.
‘Mobile library.’
‘I like that. There’s an air about it, hard to define, an air of learning, of scholarship. And a hush like you get in a proper library.’
‘You got a bed in there?’
‘Got a bed and a cupboard and a primus. Got some water and some candles. Got some petrol. Got everything I need. Might even try a different country in the new year.’
‘Still got the hush, huh?’
‘I know it sounds strange.’
‘I don’t think it does.’
‘You going to the carol concert this year?’
‘Hadn’t thought about it.’
‘They say Myfanwy won’t be singing.’
‘Doesn’t look like she will. She’s lost her voice.’
Cadwaladr leaned back in his chair and stared at sea darker than an evergreen tree. ‘Won’t be the same.’
‘She knows that.’
‘Every year Myfanwy is the high point.’
‘She knows that. I think the pressure of expectation is part of the problem.’
‘Won’t be the same, even if Hoffmann does turn up.’
‘You think he will?’
‘Me? No. But everybody else does. Tickets are already sold out. Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. I gave up hope of redemption many years ago, after I came back from Patagonia and found that no one would look me in the eye. The way I see it, we’ve done nothing to deserve our fate in the first place. We shouldn’t even be in this position. If God wants to redeem us, he can just go ahead and do it. No need to make us jump through hoops first.’
‘This Hoffmann stuff is pure craziness. It’s a word written by a dead man in blood. No one’s going to come and redeem us.’
‘Your dad’s supplying the donkey.’
‘He supplies the donkey for the nativity scene every year.’
‘They’re going to have a torchlight procession led by Clip.’
‘Is it true something terrible happened in the war—’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean at the Mission House siege. They say the priest went mad.’
Cadwalader rolled a cigarette. ‘That definitely didn’t happen. He was mad before he went.’
I touched the violin. ‘Did you learn to play this in the war?’
‘Learned as a kid. Do you know what the secret of a Stradivarius violin is?’
I was about to tell him but then I thought better of it. The world is full of smart alecs. ‘No, I’ve no idea.’
So he told me.
‘I always think of that story at Christmas. Those spruce trees growing slowly somewhere far away in the Alps. No noise at all, just silence and the sound of a tree growing slowly. Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘That’s all there is. Just emptiness, bright grey light; the sound of snowflakes landing, the rustle of sifting snow. The tiny noise of a wolf’s paw in the fresh snow. Must have been beautiful. Maybe far off there is a post horn, if they had them then. Two travellers, perhaps, wandering lost in the blizzard, calling with their horns.’ He paused and looked sad. ‘The man who told me that story about the violins used to make rocking chairs.’
‘Yes, I met him. He once asked me if I’d ever ridden on an escalator.’
‘They found the poor chap dead in the snow above Talybont yesterday.’
‘The rocking-chair man is dead?’
‘Someone smashed his head in with a tyre iron. They found him in the trees behind his house. Never had an enemy in the world, that bloke. Just a mystery.’
‘He was a nice old man.’
‘Every Christmas I’ll think about him, too, from now on. The wolf, the post horn, and the rocking-chair man face down in the snow.’
They say the human heart is a mansion with many locked rooms and wings which are closed to the public. All the nice furniture is in the parlour at the front; the one that gets plenty of sun through those fine bright Georgian windows; the one that looks out onto a gravel forecourt and beyond to neatly clipped privet hedges and topiary.
This section is open to the public.
Towards the back there is a roped-off section, leading to stairs and a labyrinth of dim corridors. The sun doesn’t shine here; the doors are locked; the furniture is covered in sheets. Sometimes at night you can hear moans and cries echoing down the empty corridors, the cries of long-dead people. And you can see an ancient white-haired servant taking a tray of food and collecting an empty one. He has a key to the final set of locked doors at the corridor’s end. Someone lives there, someone they would rather you didn’t see. A man in a tracksuit. The school games teacher.
Reluctantly, I decided it was time to pay a visit to the circus. If I was lucky maybe I could get in and out during the strongman’s performance. I would not have to meet my former games teacher. But I needed to speak to his moll, Mrs Llantrisant. For years she had swabbed the steps of my old office in Canticle Street, and had given every indication of being a dim-witted, gossiping busy-body in her headscarf and curlers; we were later surprised to learn that she was a criminal mastermind at the top of the hierarchy of druid gangsters. As such, unless she had lost her power it was inconceivable that the Moth Brothers could have done a hit on Santa without her foreknowledge or consent. Unless it was an opportunistic slaying, but even then she would know about it. Although the chances that she would tell me what she knew were small.
If you are leaving town, the road east along Llanbadarn is not the prettiest, but it gets the job done. You drive past some nice houses for a while, then follow the floodplain of the Rheidol; before long you begin to climb through ancient hills where the eternal contours are obscured by undifferentiated rows of Forestry Commission conifers. The dark rows between the trees flicker past at the periphery of your field of vision, dark enchanted aisles into oblivion. The manufactured uniformity of the trees is unpleasant and conceals like a cheap suit an immemorial world; ancient stone hills criss-crossed with the tracks and the stone remains of our ancestors. The world here is old and misty, always misty, and it feels pagan. Somewhere beyond Ponterwyd you fall off the map into a desolate place designed for fugitives to hang out in and slowly starve; the sort of land where someone on the run would eventually get so spooked by the emptiness that he would turn himself in, even if it meant going to the chair; because the touch of the man who applies the electric conducting jelly to your temples is still a form of human contact.
I drove onto the grounds of the circus and parked behind some bales of hay. A passing dwarf pointed out the trailer belonging to Mrs Llantrisant. I went over and knocked. Her voice, thin and feeble, bade me come in and I found her lying on a bed, propped up by pillows, and watching a small portable black and white TV. Her hair was loose and fell across her shoulders in drab grey skeins like darning wool. On her forehead in the centre was a livid red sore.
‘I wondered how long it would be before you showed up. I said to Herod, “You mark my words, he’ll be here before Christmas.”’
‘You were right.’
She pulled her glasses higher on her nose and scrutinised me. ‘You’ve lost weight around the jowls. And your hair is thinner, and I can see some grey.’
‘That must be me getting old.’
‘You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’ve still got that pleasure to look forward to.’ She reached out, pulled back the curtain, and sighed with exasperation. ‘Mist still hasn’t lifted.’
The Perspex window was so scratched it was difficult to tell whether the mist had gone or not; but I didn’t say it.
‘You can take some lion droppings home if you want, put them on your garden. Not that there’s anything worth growing this time of the year. I’ve always hated winter. It’s the spring I like. But will I see another one?’
‘You
should go home, where people can take care of you.’
‘I’d rather die out here than be in prison.’
‘I haven’t come to turn you in.’
‘It wouldn’t be up to you.’
‘If you’re sick—’
‘What I’m dying of no hospital can cure. There’s a hex on me.’ She touched the red spot on her forehead, uncannily close to the place where Tadpole’s mum had stuck her pin. She took a glass of water from the side table and drank slowly, making loud gulping sounds. From far away there came the sound of cheers and gasps. An elephant trumpeted in vain for the far-off plains of Africa.
‘Do you believe time is an illusion, Mr Knight?’
‘I don’t see how it could be.’
‘Some people say so. All the moments of time exist at once, like the different cards in a deck. The sequence is a human construct. Do you believe that?’
‘It means nothing to me.’
‘Me neither.’
The hand holding the glass fell to her chest, as if the effort of holding it was too great.
‘I know why you’re here. It’s about Father Christmas. You want to know who killed him.’
‘I know who did it: the Moth Brothers. I want to know why, who authorised it.’
‘No one authorised it.’ She sighed. ‘Yes, I see the doubt in your eyes.’
‘Father Christmas has always enjoyed immunity in this town.’
‘You think only I could give permission to change that. You think his death means I’m losing my power. Rest assured, Mr Knight, my sceptre is not broken, despite the scene you see before you. The people who did it have been punished.’
‘I know. They were found in a fishing net.’
The elephant trumpeted again and there were more thin, distant cheers. Mrs Llantrisant’s attention was diverted for a second.
‘He’ll be on soon. You shouldn’t hang around, Herod won’t take kindly to seeing you here.’
‘I have no more quarrel with him.’
‘Is that why you knocked him out of the plane with a cricket bat?’
‘My lawyer says he jumped for the ball.’
‘Don’t joke with me, Mr Knight. You’ve never understood how much it grieves him, have you? It crucified him, that boy not coming back from the cross-country run. He never got over it.’
‘He got over it the same afternoon.’
‘That’s how much you know about it. I hear you’ve raffled the cricket bat.’
‘No, I lent it to the Rotary Club just like I did last Christmas. You pay fifty pence to take a swing with it; the money goes to the deaf school.’
‘Who’d pay fifty pence for that?’
‘A lot of men in this town passed through his games lessons over the years. They still remember. It’s surprising how many want a go with the bat. They bought a new adventure playground with the proceeds last Christmas.’
‘They should go down on their knees to thank him, not mock him.’
‘Thank him for what? The nightmares?’
‘For preparing them for life. It’s a teacher’s job to prepare the child for what he finds beyond the school gates. It’s not a bed of roses, in case you haven’t noticed. You need guts and vim in the heart. He gave them that; he didn’t like it, but he knew where his duty lay. Nobody would have thanked him for turning out milksops like you.’
‘This is Aberystwyth not Sparta.’
She snorted.
‘I think it’s time I went. Are you going to tell me why the Moth Brothers did the hit?’
‘There’s nothing to tell. There’s no mystery. They did it of their own volition, without authority. For kicks, I suppose. Well, they won’t do it again.’
‘Is there anything you need from town?’
‘Nothing that lies in your power to give.’ She took her eyes off me and spoke to the ceiling. ‘You know, I expected disillusionment at the end of my life. But I thought it would be better than this.’
I bought a ticket and took a seat at the back. Herod stood inside a large cage placed in the centre of the ring, wearing a leopard-skin suit. He was in his sixties now and the leonine locks that were part of his act were stained with dark dye. Thick mascara lent him a freakish aspect like Bela Lugosi in some long-lost silent horror movie. Torn-up telephone directories littered the sand around his feet. He preened and displayed his muscles while a smaller cage was rolled into the arena and wheeled into the bigger cage containing Herod. Inside, asleep, was the Methuselah of tigers. The fur round his muzzle was snow white with age, and elsewhere his coat was ragged and threadbare like a boardinghouse carpet. One ear was missing; the tail was half the length it should have been; ribs poked through the skin. There was a roll of drums, the door to the cage dropped open with a dramatic clang, the crowd gasped, and nothing happened. Herod walked over to the cage and bent down to pick up an iron stick. Despite his age his body seemed in good condition and probably had many more telephone books left in it. But you could see the real toll of his life was on the spirit. It showed in every sinew of that bear-like body.
He jabbed the iron stick through the bars at the tiger’s rear end. The beast stood up, took a lazy step forward and slumped down again. Herod jabbed again, harder, and with a growl of irritation the tiger rose with great weariness and hobbled forth. He walked on all threes and kept one hind leg aloft betokening some injury or thorn contracted years ago and never removed. The crowd held its breath and the tiger continued to walk straight ahead towards the bars of the big cage, towards the audience. They began to pull back in fear, even though a wall of iron staves stood between them. The tiger walked straight into the bars and growled once more in irritation, taking a lazy swipe with a paw. It was clear he was blind. He lay down to sleep and Herod walked over and grabbed him and started wrestling. The tiger permitted this latest indignity with an air of weary submission. Perhaps he was too tired of the routine to care any more. Herod performed a judo throw and thrust the big cat down hard onto the sand of the arena. The crowd gasped again. The person in front of me turned to his companion and said, ‘They can smell fear, you know.’ But it was not clear whether he was referring to tigers or games teachers. Herod stood victoriously with one foot on top of the inert animal and preened to the crowd. I left my seat and made for the exit. The last I saw was Herod bending down, with a worried look on his face; pressing his ear to the tiger’s chest, checking for a pulse, and then applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The crowd hissed its dissatisfaction.
Chapter 14
I SPENT THE NEXT few days in my caravan, immersed in a cocoon of camping-gas warmth, swimming in the amniotic fluid of tea laced with rum. The weather had warmed up slightly and turned to sheets of rain that approached from across the Irish Sea in thin bands like interference on TV. I stared out at a sodden world: through smeared and scratched Perspex windows onto a bleary grey watercolour wash of wet dunes and beach and, beyond, the deeper grey of the sea. On the fourth day, in the fading light of late afternoon I saw a figure walking through falling rain which whipped against the window with tiny drumbeats. I watched for a while until I became aware that the figure was moving towards the caravan. The form took more distinct shape and I realised it was Myfanwy.
She came in, wiped her feet on the mat and said, ‘Surprise, surprise!’ She was holding a brown paper bag from the Chinese takeaway and the smell of hot food, sweet and sour and soy sauce and pineapples, filled my nostrils.
‘It’s a bit cold but it won’t take long to warm up.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in the nursing home?’
‘What sort of greeting is that? Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘Of course I am, I’m just worried.’
‘I discharged myself.’
I stood behind her and rested my face on the back of her hair, feeling the warmth of her pressed against me.
‘I was listening to them talk about how brave you were, how you risked your life for me and I felt so bad. I thought—’
‘Myfan
wy, please don’t say anything about that.’
‘But I—’
‘You don’t have to. I don’t want you to say anything.’
‘OK.’
She turned from the stove and looked up into my face. She put a hand on my cheek.
‘You look a mess.’
‘I am.’
‘Everything smells of rum.’
‘Must be the mince pies – I like them strong.’
She started to grin but stopped halfway as she saw the mirthless look on my face. ‘I heard Calamity left.’
‘Yes, she’s going to try some sort of associate partnership with the Pinkertons.’
‘Why did you let her go?’
‘I couldn’t find a pair of small enough handcuffs.’
‘Louie, don’t!’
‘Because I love her.’
‘But you two were such a great team.’
‘It was good, but nothing good ever lasts.’
‘How can you be so cold about it?’
‘I’m not being cold. Calamity leaving me is a car wreck, but it’s one I knew was coming. Everyone has to leave the nest.’
‘No, they don’t, that’s crap. Kids and stuff, of course, but she was your business partner.’
‘She has to make her own way. I would never stand in her way.’
‘But, Louie—’
‘Look, stop it! Why say all this to me? I’m not the one who left. I’m still in the same old office staring at the same old boring ceiling.’
She kicked a bottle on the floor. ‘This won’t help, you know.’
‘I’m not trying to help. Are you going to stay here?’
‘I thought I would for a couple of days, if that’s all right.’
‘Then what?’
She avoided my eyes and began to stir the food that was heating on the stove.
‘Then what?’
‘I . . . I might go to my auntie.’
‘Which one? The one in Llanrhystud?’
‘The one in Shrewsbury.’
‘Oh. When?
‘After the carol concert.’
‘I thought you couldn’t sing.’
‘I can now. My voice has come back.’
‘That’s good. I told you it would.’
Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth an-4 Page 14
