Aberystwyth Mon Amour

by Malcolm Pryce

‘What’s wrong with Aberystwyth?’

  She put the mop in the water.

  ‘I’m surprised to hear you ask that, Mr Knight. What do you like about it all of a sudden?’

  ‘It may have its faults but at least it’s not currently under ten thousand feet of water.’

  ‘Not ten thousand, less than twenty fathoms. Scarcely a puddle.’

  Suddenly, Mrs Llantrisant lost her balance and fell into me. I grabbed her arm and held her upright.

  ‘I’m all right, really I am,’ she moaned. ‘Just slipped on the wet step, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re pushing yourself too hard, you are. We don’t want another repeat of Easter do we?’

  Bianca and I walked along the Prom, heading for Sospan’s.

  ‘Silly old bag.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘Did you see the look she gave me?’

  ‘She can’t help it. She’s old and set in her ways.’

  ‘What happened at Easter?’

  I ordered a round of ice creams. ‘She had a funny turn. Said it was the apples in her pie but she took so bad she called a priest to administer the last rites. She’s been all right since, though.’

  Bianca leaned her head on my shoulder and said, ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘What about!’ she cried.

  Of course. The last time we met had been the night I took her home.

  ‘I’m sorry, I –’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’

  I put my palm against the side of her face and ruffled her hair. Sospan handed us the ice creams with the discretion of a brothel madam. We ate them in silence for a while, and then Bianca spoke to the folds of my shirt.

  ‘I’ve got something for you. I haven’t got it yet, but I can get hold of it. That’s if you want.’

  ‘What is it?’ I spoke to the top of her head.

  ‘Something very, very special.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something you’d give your right arm for.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d give my right arm for.’

  ‘I bet you’d give it to marry Myfanwy.’

  ‘No I wouldn’t.’

  ‘It’s an essay.’

  I breathed in sharply and Bianca giggled.

  ‘Really?’ I said cautiously. ‘What sort of essay?’

  ‘Ooh, just Dai Brainbocs’s last essay.’ She giggled again.

  I pushed her away and looked into her face. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Dai Brainbocs’s last essay. You are looking for it, aren’t you?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Myfanwy told me.’

  I closed my eyes in pain.

  ‘It’s all right, I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘What do you expect, she’s a big mouth.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘I know you think the sun shines out of her backside, but she’s not all sugar and spice you know.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s not. No one is.’

  ‘So do you want it?’

  I didn’t answer for a while, just stared at her. ‘Are you being serious? You know where Brainbocs’s last essay is?’

  She nodded. ‘I know where there’s a copy of it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Pickel’s got one.’

  ‘Pickel?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Lovespoon asked him just after Brainbocs died to design a safety box so good, no one in the world could open it, not even the person who made it. Pickel agreed to do it even though he said there wasn’t a lock in the world he couldn’t open. He said Lovespoon was a wanker. Lovespoon used the box to keep Brainbocs’s original essay in – the one he told the papers he’d lost. Pickel took it out when he wasn’t looking and made a copy. His insurance policy he called it.’

  ‘Pickel told you this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know he’s not just making it up?’

  ‘Why should he? Besides, I know where he hides it – in the belfry. I could get it, if you wanted.’

  I held her head in my hands and stared into her eyes. ‘Don’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to think about it.’

  The lightning was already flashing in the sky far out over the western horizon when I left for the Moulin that night. I was too late to get a good table and had to sit right at the back with a very bad view of the stage. The showgirls didn’t normally venture so far back and I was served by a plain Jane of a waitress in a simple black skirt and white blouse. I had to share the table with a group of men who looked like they had just been picked up off a desert island by the air-sea rescue helicopter. Their hair was wild and unkempt, their clothes torn and ragged. One of the men offered me his hand to shake and, not wishing to offend, I took it gingerly.

  ‘Welcome, brother,’ he croaked in the voice of a mariner who hasn’t spoken to another soul for ten years. The rest of the group looked at me intently, their gazes playing over my face like searchlights.

  ‘I’m not your brother.’

  The man giggled in a way that made my flesh crawl and turned to his companions. ‘He says he’s not our brother!’

  The rest of the group broke into hoarse, wheezing laughter.

  The first man looked at me and said, ‘I’m Brother Gilbert. This is Brother Frank, and this is Brother Bill. I’ll introduce the rest of us later.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘Oh it’s no bother. It’s such a pleasure to have you join us. We have so much to talk about.’

  My drink arrived and I drank it down in one and ordered another.

  ‘I used to be a bank manager,’ said Brother Gilbert. He grabbed my arm and added with a strange urgency, ‘And Brother Bill used to be a Justice of the Peace. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I thought you were all fishermen.’

  They turned to each other and laughed again.

  ‘We like that,’ said Brother Gilbert. ‘Fishermen. That’s very funny!’

  When the laughter died down Brother Gilbert turned to his brothers and said, ‘I suppose in a way we are all hooked!’ The laughter erupted once more.

  I waited patiently, and then said, ‘Do you come here a lot, then?’

  ‘Oh yes, every day. Haven’t you seen us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That explains it then.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Why you don’t understand.’

  They all stared at me with a wild glimmer of madness in their eyes, expectantly gauging the effect of Brother Gilbert’s words on me. A showgirl passed through the tables halfway between our position and the front and for a moment I thought it was Myfanwy. I craned my neck for a better look.

  ‘She’s not here yet,’ said Brother Gilbert knowingly.

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  There was a split-second pause and then the brotherhood fell about laughing again. This time the laughter swept them away. Tears streamed down their cheeks and thighs were slapped. Whenever the laughter looked like petering out, one of the brotherhood would repeat the word ‘who?’ and it would start all over again.

  ‘You all seem to have a very similar taste in humour.’

  ‘That’s because we’re a fraternity.’

  ‘We’re five people with one mind,’ added Brother Bill.

  ‘Like a colony of ants, in a way,’ explained Gilbert. ‘We’re united in suffering.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cried Gilbert, ‘we don’t need your sympathy; you’re one of us now!’

  That took me aback for a second. Again they stared at me like dogs outside a butcher’s window display.

  ‘Me? Why?’

  Gilbert leaned closer and, as he did, the rest followed suit. His voice took on a cloying, conspiratorial air. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  I lowered my voice, ‘No, what?’

&nbs
p; ‘We’re from Myfanwy Anonymous!’

  The eyes of the brothers as they scrutinised my face were as wide as children’s on bonfire night.

  ‘We used to sit up the front like you,’ said Brother Gilbert.

  ‘But not any more,’ added Brother Frank forlornly. ‘That was a long time ago. Now it’s someone else’s turn.’

  ‘Now we just sit here and wait for our turn in the sun again,’ said Brother Bill.

  ‘I’ve never heard of your organisation.’

  ‘Not many people have,’ hissed Gilbert excitedly, ‘you can join if you like!’

  ‘Why would I want to join a bunch of losers like you?’

  The brotherhood looked at me sadly. Not with indignation, but with that infuriating understanding that holy men have for other people’s human failings.

  ‘Ah, Brother Louie, you’re still in denial.’

  ‘Don’t give me your cheap armchair psychology,’ I shouted.

  ‘Please don’t get annoyed,’ said Bill. ‘For a long time I was just like you.’

  ‘Look, I’m not like you, OK? I’m a good friend of Myfanwy.’ It sounded pathetic.

  They exchanged glances with a mute understanding but said nothing.

  ‘And don’t look at me like that!’ I had started to shout again, and to speak faster as if speed would somehow add the conviction that I now felt irresistibly seeping away. ‘I’m not like you. This is all a mistake. I came late so there was no room at the front. That’s why I’m sitting here; you watch, when she comes she’ll come and talk to me!’ I was staring around wildly now, almost challenging anyone in the brotherhood to contradict me. But all I met with was a bottomless well of compassion and understanding.

  ‘It’s all right, Louie, we understand.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s all a mistake. Don’t worry, there’s no need to get upset.’

  ‘I’m not upset!’ And then aware of the passion in my voice I said again in a controlled tone, ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘Of course. But there is one thing you should know. Myfanwy won’t come back here to talk to you, the girls don’t come back here.’

  This time Brother Bill grabbed my arm with sudden urgency, ‘But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a chance. Everyone has a chance.’

  ‘Oh really!’ I sneered. ‘Is that what you think? Everyone has a chance, do they? Even old Brother what’s-his-face over there drooling into his pint?’

  They turned and looked sadly at an old man at the end of the table. He was trying desperately to follow the conversation but it was obvious his hearing wasn’t good enough. Instead he sat there trembling and forcing himself to laugh when the others did.

  ‘That’s Brother Tobias, and he has as good a chance as anyone.’ The warmth had left Brother Gilbert’s voice now.

  Brother Bill leaned across to me. ‘You didn’t ought to talk about the brothers like that. You didn’t ought to disrespect them.’

  ‘Well wise up and see the truth. Brother Tobias doesn’t stand a chance with Myfanwy and neither do any of you.’

  Brother Frank punched the table and squealed at my heresy. ‘No! No! No! It’s not true! Everyone has a chance!’

  ‘Because Myfanwy is so good and pure.’

  ‘Is that what you think, is it?’ I sneered.

  ‘I can prove it!’

  ‘Yeah! How?’ If only I hadn’t asked.

  Brother Frank brought his face right up to mine, his eyes moist with anger.

  ‘Because … because she even went out with that crippled schoolboy!’

  ‘Could have had any man in Wales, as well,’ added Gilbert.

  I sat there aware that my stomach had just dropped into my shoes. For seconds I couldn’t speak, until finally I managed, ‘Wh … what did you say?’

  ‘The crippled schoolboy – with the bad leg. The one that died. Lovers they were.’

  ‘You mean Dai Brainbocs?’

  ‘Yes!’ Gilbert insisted. ‘Him!’

  ‘Good God!’ I said finally.

  I sat unable to speak or move. Twenty minutes later Bianca walked in and told me Myfanwy was up at the hospital. Evans the Boot was dead.

  Chapter 13

  IT WAS RAINING heavily outside and the streets, glassy and shiny, were largely deserted as I sped down Great Darkgate Street to the hospital. My heart was racing and my mouth dry with fear; the news that Evans the Boot was dead meant nothing, but the revelation that Myfanwy and Brainbocs had been lovers was a pile-driver to the heart. At the hospital I parked as close as I could get to the main door, stepped out and walked across through the driving rain to the garishly lit entrance. A policeman stepped out of the shadows and blocked my way.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Is there a law against visiting the hospital?’

  ‘It’s not visiting hours, come back in the morning.’

  Another figure stepped out of the shadows. It was Llunos. As usual he didn’t look pleased to see me.

  ‘Your mum shag a vulture, or what?’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Every time I find a corpse, you turn up.’

  ‘I could say the same for you.’

  ‘You could but you’d need to visit the dentist after. What do you want?’

  I realised there was no way Llunos was going to let me in, so I decided on a long shot – the truth. ‘I need to see Myfanwy.’

  I could see he was unused to dealing with it.

  ‘What makes you think she’s here?’

  ‘Someone told me they found Evans and she’s down at the morgue. I don’t need to go in, my business is with her, not Evans the Boot. If you could get a message to her, to tell her I was here, I could wait over there in my car.’

  The uniformed policeman started to laugh, ‘Oh isn’t that sweet! If we could just get a message –’

  Llunos shut him up by waving an impatient hand at him. Then he looked at me, ‘In your car?’

  I nodded.

  ‘OK we can do that. I’ll let her know.’

  I waited in the car for about half an hour, listening to the rhythmic droning of the windscreen wipers. Eventually I saw Myfanwy walking through the parked cars towards me. I flashed the lights. When she got in we were both in near-prefect darkness but even though I couldn’t see, I could tell she’d been crying.

  ‘Myfanwy –’

  ‘Don’t.’

  Silence filled the car and amplified the sounds as we shifted in our seats.

  ‘Can we just drive somewhere?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere, it doesn’t matter. Please.’

  I turned on the engine.

  ‘Anywhere as long as it’s away from Aberystwyth.’

  The rain was driving hard, sweeping in from the sea. Outside the hospital car park I turned right, up over Penglais Hill, and on into the darkened landscape beyond. Myfanwy told me about Evans. He’d been found earlier in the day by a man walking his dog. The dog had run off to fetch a stick and returned with a finger. The body had been crudely buried under gorse bushes but little attempt had been made to conceal it. Someone had disfigured it and removed the fingerprints in the time-honoured way of immersion in a mixture of battery acid and local cheese. Police were still hopeful of a positive identification when the pathologists were finished.

  We drove to the caravan. I shouldn’t have revealed its location to Myfanwy but I didn’t care. The park was quieter than a cemetery when we arrived, the only sound the squeaking of the Fresh Milk sign from the general store and the far-off hum of the ocean beyond the dunes. The rain had stopped. It was cold and damp inside the caravan, but the camping-gas heater soon filled the interior with a cosy yellow warmth. The lamps sighed as they burned. Myfanwy sat at the horse-shoe arrangement of seats at the end, rested her elbows on the Formica table-top and buried her head wearily in her hands. I made two cups of packet soup in the kitchenette, poured a shot of rum into each, and took them over to the table. Myfanwy had found the
ludo and was setting out the counters.

  ‘Suppose you tell me about Brainbocs.’

  She rolled the dice. Four and a five; you needed a six to start.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I rolled a six and a one, and set off on my journey around the board. How many other people, honeymooners and young families, had made the same journey as the rain swept in from the sea and pounded on the plywood roof of their shoebox on wheels? Families who had driven for two or three hours, stopping occasionally for puking children, to this world of gorse and marram grass, dunes and bingo and fish and chips.

  ‘Your cousin’s dead, Myfanwy. Don’t you think it’s time to stop playing games?’

  She picked up the dice and shook. They made a hollow clip-clopping sound inside the cup.

  ‘I’m not playing games.’

  ‘You haven’t been straight with me.’ Clip-clop, four and three.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’ Double six. ‘Oooh!’

  I put my hand palm down on the counters before she could move them.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you and Brainbocs were lovers.’

  It caught her by surprise and she bit her lip. ‘We weren’t.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear.’

  ‘Well whoever told you that was a liar. We weren’t lovers. I mean we didn’t you know … do it.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. Honest.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

  ‘It’s not like you think.’

  ‘You don’t know what I think.’

  ‘We weren’t lovers, he just had this thing about me. All through school he’d had a thing about me; a lot of boys did. It’s not a crime.’

  ‘No,’ I said gently, ‘but a crime has been committed, and now you have to be straight with me.’

  Clip-clop, double five. She paused. ‘It started just after I took the job at the Moulin – when he found out about it he was really upset. He came down one night but they wouldn’t let him in. So he waited outside. I left that night with a gentleman and I saw Brainbocs just as I got into the car. He was standing in the doorway of Army Surplice and staring like he’d seen a ghost. The next night he was there again. And the next. It came to be a pattern: he’d come down and try to get in, they wouldn’t let him, and then he’d spend the rest of the evening standing outside. At first the bouncers tried to frighten him away. But he didn’t seem to care. I think he knew there wasn’t much they could do to a poor lame boy. When it rained he stood there in the rain, soaked and not even shivering. Eventually the boss asked me to go and speak to him. So I did.’