I took out the photos Mrs Dinorwic-Jones had given to me and slid them across the desk.
‘He hid these, too. This is a simpleton who lives in a house belonging to a girl called Tadpole. I don’t know its significance. This headstone is from the grave of Sundance’s daughter, Laura. She married a man called Llantrisant. It means that the granddaughter will bear the surname Llantrisant. It is a very rare surname and only one person has it round here: Gertrude Llantrisant, a woman who used to swab my step. She was the woman in the reading room of Buenos Aires library, the one who stole the coat.’
Elijah picked up the pictures and examined them. He put down the picture of the grave and held the other one, the picture of the simpleton at Tadpole’s house. He stared sadly at the image and said, more to himself than to me, ‘I have met this Tadpole yesterday. She tried to sell me a ticket to see Hoffmann at the Pier.’
‘I wonder how Tadpole knew about Hoffmann?’
Elijah tapped the photo with his finger. ‘This man, the simpleton who chops wood and hauls coal, a man who dresses like a little boy because he does not have the wits of a man any more, . . . he told her long ago who Hoffmann was. He knew because this man is my brother Ham. Or at least he used to be. What is he now, I do not know. A man who wears the outward appearance of Ham, but from whom everything inside, all the sweetness and grace, has been sucked out, leaving . . . leaving behind just an oaf. A man who mined the ore of the horizontal-crease motif in the caverns of folk mythology, who sought a troll but acquired only the wits of one. And so the quest devours itself. This I now see is the revenge of Hoffmann. This is the bell-jingling cap of motely that Fate places on the heads of those who pursue him. What could have robbed my brother of his wits like this? It is my belief that it was fear, the nameless terror that gripped his heart one day when he looked into the mirror and beheld that familiar mocking smile upon his own face.
Chapter 23
TINKER, TAILOR, teacher, preacher, doily salesman, war veteran, misery-guts, rocking-chair maker . . . and the people from my client’s chair. They had all come to the Pier to see Hoffmann. Two fat middle-aged men with short necks stood at the entrance and marshalled them, wearing evening dress and looking like tough penguins. People say it’s a profession now, nightclub bouncer, with a fancy new name like Door Supervisor or Ingress Manager; just as the guy on the train who checks your ticket is now a Train Manager. They study psychology and adopt police techniques of diplomacy and violence de-escalation. It’s not like it used to be. They don’t break heads any more. That’s the theory. But the reforms haven’t reached Aberystwyth. ‘De-escalation’ isn’t a word the police bandy around much, either, even at Christmas.
Tinker, gaoler, soldier for Jesus, librarian, whelk catcher . . .
To my surprise, Tadpole had put me on the guest list and after a cursory frisking I was admitted. Traditionally the main hall is used for dancing, or fighting; but tonight the people filing in were a noticeably different crowd, older and slightly unsure of themselves, as if it was many years since they had been to such a place. The dance floor had been taken over, with tables set for a banquet. Waiters and waitresses stood at the side, awaiting the beginning of proceedings. On stage, framed by red velvet curtains, there was a live tableau of the biblical stable: school children dressed as Mary and Joseph; a bright pink doll in a manger of real straw. Abishag stood placidly in attendance, because that is the great art of being a donkey and probably why she got invited to the first Christmas. Eeyore stood behind her, running a soothing hand on her mane; he was dressed as a shepherd, in that mixture of dressing gown and towel on the head which traditionally represents the Biblical shepherd.
Tinker, tailor, mason, Rotarian, hotelier, hotdog seller, shepherd from Palestine . . .
The tables filled quickly, and soon the hall was throbbing with an intense air of anticipation that even I was not impervious to. I pushed through the crowds, who were searching for their seats, and went towards the back. People began to stamp their feet and shout, ‘Hoffmann!’ This venue had, in its time, borne witness to all the manifold manifestations of the human condition: fights, and the unrestrained outpourings of lust; deaths; even children had been born in the middle of a ring of handbags. So many acts that cried to the stars for the redemptive balm of a saviour; but it had never seen a town gathered on the strength of such a promise as tonight. ‘Hoffmann! Hoffmann!’ they cried.
Tadpole took the stage. She was wearing a party frock, made of checked cotton with what looked like a doily at the neck. It reminded me the things people wear to go square dancing. She raised her hand to silence the rabble. Her cheeks shone like a well-polished saddle and her hair was plastered down and gleamed like a fish in the light thrown by the twirling disco balls, the tinsel and the single star behind her, above the stable.
‘I guess you are all impatient to be redeemed,’ she began. ‘God knows you need it!’
There were hoots and jeers.
‘You’ve been swimming in the swill of iniquity for long enough.’
More jeers and shouts of ‘You can talk!’
‘Yes. It’s about time someone did.’
‘Get ’em off!’
‘I’ve seen you: coupling and rutting like dogs on heat; drinking liquor at all hours of the day—’
The crowd shouted ‘Woooh!’ in mock horror. It began to dawn on me. They weren’t here to be redeemed at all. They were here for the entertainment.
‘Sharing the bed with your own kith and kin!’
‘Look who’s talking!’
‘Or with farmyard animals!’
Laughter.
‘Oh, yes, if anyone needs to be saved, it’s you lot, you bunch of slimy moral toads! But the funny thing is, you don’t know the worst bit yet.’ There were more catcalls and jeers, whistles and hoots. They were drunk and happy.
‘Well, tonight you’re going to find out the truth. You’re going to find out about the terrible sin on the conscience of this town. The reason why the good Lord saw fit to blight us; why He sent a big flood five years ago. The reason why everything in this town is wrong; why the ewe miscarries, why the bread is stale and the hearts are cold. Tonight I’m going to tell you.’
‘Get on with it!’
‘All right, I will, but you’ve all got to shut up first.’ She paused. The laughter subsided amid snorts of suppressed mirth.
‘It’s because we are party to a terrible deed, a secret shame that those horrible soldiers did in Patagonia.’
There were gasps of mock horror.
‘We all know about the terrible war in Patagonia. How the Lord saw fit, even though we did not deserve it, to send us one of His angels on the eve of battle. We’ve all seen the pictures of brave Clip and the beautiful angel who came to see us. You’d think those soldiers would be grateful, wouldn’t you? You’d think after seeing something as nice as that they would go and fight like men. But no! it wasn’t enough that they made us lose the great colony of Patagonia.’
The words ‘great colony’ produced ironic laughter.
‘When the angel went back to see them again, you know what they did? They were rude to her.’
There was an uproar of laughter and a barrage of bread rolls rained down on the stage.
Someone grabbed me by the sleeve; it was Calamity. She pulled me away and towards the door at the back marked ‘Private’. We walked through into the kitchen.
‘I have to tell you something.’
‘Can’t it wait? We’re going to miss the unveiling of Hoffmann.’
There were more roars from the main hall and Tadpole’s words floated over.
‘. . . put your hands together . . .’
‘I know who it is,’ said Calamity. ‘I know who Hoffmann is.’
‘. . . come all the way to be with us here tonight . . .’
‘I know who it is, too. It’s Herod Jenkins.’
‘. . . to expiate the grievous sins . . .’
‘How did you know?’
‘Caleb Penpegws told me.’
‘Pretty measly sort of redeemer, huh?’
‘The crowd won’t like it. How did you find out?’
‘Absalom said he saw him in the cinema queue, right? We all thought he must have met him, but there’s a poster of Herod and the circus there, too. Maybe that’s what he saw. I just sort of thought—’
‘That’s very good. Don’t you want to go in and see the big moment?’
Calamity looked wistful.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Everything’s turned out wrong, hasn’t it?’
‘Has it?’
‘I’ve been a dope. And now Myfanwy—’
I flinched slightly.
Calamity saw something in my eyes and retreated.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I know she’s going; she’s leaving after the concert. What’s wrong?’
‘But . . .’
‘What?’
‘She isn’t coming. She’s left already . . . on the bus to Shrewsbury.’
‘Oh.’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘She’s supposed to be singing.’
‘She can’t sing.’
‘She got her voice back.’
‘No, she didn’t, she was lying. She told me to tell you not to stop her.’
‘She said that?’
‘She insisted I tell you before seven thirty this evening. That’s when the bus leaves. She said, “You must promise to tell him not to come after me, and make sure you tell him before seven thirty.”’ She looked at her watch. It was seven forty-five. ‘As I said, I’ve been a dope.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘Yes, I have, a prize dope. None of that Pinkerton manual stuff worked out; the new office is a dumb idea. The Pinkertons never answered my fax. The only reason I didn’t come back was I am too ashamed. And I was scared you wouldn’t want me.’
‘You don’t know how wrong you are.’
‘Everything I did was a failure.’
‘What about that phoney leg routine? That was a piece of detective genius. It cracked the case wide open. Because of that we found out about the Butch Cassidy angle, and about Elijah and the people from Mossad. And now we’ve found the key to the whole thing because of your ballistics thing with the knitting needle. Remember Jack Ruby?’
‘It didn’t work.’ She blinked in surprise. ‘Did it?’
‘Llunos had a complaint from Dinorwic-Jones about your torch beam. We went round to see her and she sang like a canary.’
Calamity’s eyes sparkled. ‘Wow! I thought I was a hopeless bungler.’
‘You’ve still got plenty to learn.’
She smiled. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’
From inside came the climax of Tadpole’s introduction. ‘Your redeemer and mine. Please give a big hand . . .’
The band struck up, the crowd roared.
‘The saviour of saviours, the most sacred, most blessed truly holiest of holies. Hoffmann!’
More roars. And then, from the hall came the sound of five hundred drunken revellers booing. We walked to the door. Herod Jenkins, wearing his circus strongman’s leotard, was on stage, glowering at the mob. Someone threw a bread roll and it hit Herod on the chest. ‘Who threw that?’ he thundered. He cast an accusing eye at the front row; they cowered. ‘Was it you?’ he pointed indiscriminately. ‘If I catch anyone throwing anything again you won’t get redeemed.’
‘What a shame!’ someone cried.
‘Who said that?’ The years had evaporated, he was back haranguing the school assembly. ‘Come on, own up, or I’ll keep you all behind after this concert.’
‘Get off!’
‘Any more of this cheek and no one gets baptised in the river tonight.’
‘In this weather?’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Too bloody cold.’
‘You namby-pambys!’
‘Woooh!’
‘Right, that’s it.’ He pointed at a man in the second row. ‘I’m not redeeming you for a start.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘What the are you here for, then?’
An old woman in the third row stood up and pointed at Herod. ‘You can’t be Hoffmann, Herod Jenkins. You’re a troll.’
That went down well with the audience.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Your father came out of the mountain at Devil’s Bridge and your mother coupled with him. I was there. We threw her out of the village.’
‘It’s a lie!’ shouted Herod.
Someone else cried out, ‘All right, then, how come you’re so strong and hairy?’
The crowd roared and demanded to be answered.
‘If you must know,’ said Herod, ‘I owe my tremendous upper body strength to an accident when I was little.’ He stared defiantly at the crowd and waited for quiet. ‘I fell into a vat of special strength-development liquid, like Obelisk in the Asterisk cartoons.’
This time the laughter was cut short by the entrance of a new player. It was the Army chaplain, the man I had seen preaching on an orange box at the shelter, the man who they say lost his wits in Patagonia after seeing something terrible at the Mission House siege. He walked onto the stage and took the microphone off Herod. Quiet suddenly descended as the mob sensed something even better than the Obelisk story.
Tinker, tailor, teacher, preacher, doily salesman, war veteran, misery-guts, rocking-chair maker . . .
‘You’re all completely mad!’ shouted the priest. ‘And this girl . . .’ – he pointed at Tadpole – ‘would made the maddest of you look sane. You want to know the truth?’
The crowd cheered.
‘There was no angel. It was a hoax made up by General Llanbadarn because it was the only way he could get the troops to go on his suicide mission.’
‘It’s not true!’ shouted Tadpole. ‘Of course there was an angel! Don’t listen to him.’
The priest ignored her. ‘Oh yes! The angel was just a silly girl in fancy dress, riding through a crowd of fools. God isn’t punishing us for that. He doesn’t give a damn. He probably thinks it was funny. I do.’
‘We don’t believe you!’ cried Tadpole.
‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ he shouted with glee. ‘This thing about the secret passage that only Clip knew about, el pasadizo secreto. There was no secret passage; that was code for something else. You want to know what it was? I’ll give you a clue. They also called it la entrada trasera. That’s Spanish for ‘the back entrance.’ It was code for sending a despatch by secure channels. You know where they put the secret despatch? Up Clip’s anus.’
There was a riot. The people abandoned the tables and tried to storm the stage. A column of bouncers filed out of side doors. The priest continued, undismayed. ‘Clip was a turncoat, you see. They used to tie messages to his collar, but the enemy put sausages out for him and he let them read the secret messages. He was a turncoat. A hand-licker. The Lord Haw-Haw of dogs. That’s why they had to use the secure channel.’
The bouncers fought furiously with the mob. I grabbed Calamity and dragged her towards the rear fire exit. The towns-people were almost out of control and very angry. The disappointment at finding their redeemer was Herod Jenkins the school games teacher was bad enough. But this slander to the sacred memory of Clip was too much for any human heart.
Tadpole turned on Herod Jenkins and shouted, ‘Say it isn’t true! Say you never did that!’ Herod looked round in bewilderment. Tadpole picked up a mop handle and advanced on him, the fury in her eyes flashing like bolts of lightning. ‘Say it isn’t true,’ she demanded. ‘Say you never did that to Clip.’
The auditorium erupted; men and women picked up their chairs and used them as weapons in the manner of the saloon-bar brawl familiar from old cowboy films. I watched, temporarily immobilised by astonishment. The priest slipped out through the upstage curtains; and a shepherd, whom I took to be the Pinkerton, helped Eeyore and the donkey out by
the same route. The mayhem spread through the crowd like fire in a fireworks factory. I grabbed Calamity by the hand and we ran for the exit as the fighting crowd surged towards the stage. The thin black line of bouncers fought heroically until, on the point of being overwhelmed, they bowed graciously to the inevitable and joined in. We slammed the fire door behind us and wedged it shut with a wooden chair. The last image I saw within was that of Tadpole raising the mop handle high over the head of the cowering games teacher and demanding to be satisfied. ‘Say it isn’t true!’ she cried. ‘Say you never did that to Clip.’ Herod looked up at her in terror and then appealed to the howling brawling mob for understanding. ‘But we all did it,’ he wailed. ‘We had to! Don’t you see? We had to . . .’ And then came the time-honoured plea for exculpation, the last refuge of all moral pygmies: ‘I was only following orders.’
Chapter 24
THE SNOW WAS falling thickly now, and softly; slowly transfiguring the sea front. It gathered silently on ledges; formed a little conical hat on the fibreglass boy soliciting for charity; and melted wetly on the black muzzle of Abishag. Her eyes shone, her flanks trembled with fear. No one had told her it would be like this. There was no riot at the stable the first time round in Bethlehem. Eeyore ran a comforting hand down her neck. Joe Winckelmann, wearing a dressing gown and a fedora hat, held the halter. Two police vans pulled up and officers piled out with truncheons gleaming and raised like kendo swords.
Calamity and I stood and watched the cops pile in. The snow formed leopard spots on the dark fabric of her parka.
‘So what did you need to see me about?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I was going to ask you to help me find a new assistant.’
Calamity’s face dropped. ‘An assistant?’
‘Yes, I thought you could ask around. You know, see if any of your friends want the job.’
‘Oh,’ said Calamity. ‘Sure.’ The stricken look on her face pierced my heart. ‘I’d be glad to help. Yes, of course. Sure.’
Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth an-4 Page 24
