See How They Run

by Lloyd Jones

  However, after months of getting nowhere, Big M and Ziggy had visited less and less frequently, since the drive over to the unit took a tankful of petrol and they were running short of ready money – Pryderi was the keeper of the purse, and he’d kept all the spondulicks in his back pocket. After many months like this the situation had become desperate and the duo on the outside were forced to dream up an alternative plan. They had to act quickly in the end because a new and more pressing problem arrived to drive them on. This problem was well documented in the blue memory stick. Having trawled through it, and having spent a lot of time knocking out the corrupt matter and deciphering its absurd jumble, Lou was able to recover and isolate a new segment at the end which shone a new light on this period in Big M’s history. It was in the form of a diary, probably an extract from a much larger document. The diarist was obviously Ziggy, and her starting point was the very end of autumn that year, when she was staying in the boarded-up Hotel Corvo with Big M, just the two of them thrown together now. It had been a difficult time, evidently. Ziggy had really missed her husband, and she was also worried that she might succumb to Big M’s legendary charms. She confided in her diary that a storm was brewing, in more ways than one. Two erotically charged, sex-starved people benighted in a ghostly hotel with nobody else in sight was a recipe for disaster. The diary entries began on her thirtieth birthday.

  October 21 – Happy birthday (not) to me. What a way to celebrate – I already hate being thirty, lines around my eyes and nothing to wear on my first date with Mr Gravity. Checked for stretch marks & cellulite etc, OK for now but the only way is down. Massive depression, not helped by the fact that P won’t talk to me, squats in his hut with the other maniacs and holds hands with his mum, what does that mean? Where am I in all this? Lost in wild Wales with no company, not much food, and as of yesterday no electricity either. Cut off. M gave me a kiss and promised to cook me a smurfday dinner. Told him I needed a big party with loads of people but he waved at the outside world and said you find me some people and I’ll organise the party. So I went into a bad place, got grumpy with him. He tried to cuddle up but I wasn’t having any of that, dirty sod, I know where he’s been.

  October 21 evening – Fair play, he made a real effort. Bless. I was sitting upstairs in my room, looking out over the sea, feeling low – can’t concentrate on anything, this last year always on my mind. Hotel Corvo boarded up, everyone gone. All those good times we had, hotel heaving, party every night. Sea wild today, crashing on the cliffs in huge white waves and throwing foam and spray all over the lower fields. I could hear the roar, awesome. Decided to make an effort for my birthday in the afternoon so got dolled up, went downstairs and suggested a run over to the psychiatric unit. Big mistake, P wouldn’t even see me today so I walked out feeling really shitty and we came back in silence, M trying to be supportive and loyal as usual, which only made things worse. Running out of fags so feeling very tense. Worst birthday of my life. Then, when I was back in my room wondering if things could get any worse, a knock on the door and ta-rah! M was there with a trolley – he was wearing his chef’s hat with the blue band, big meal laid out in no time, really good of him. Delish food with two magnums of Moet & Chandon – trying to get me pissed by the look of things. Sitting there like a couple of lovebirds, he went off on one about birthdays and star signs; he’s into astrology (or pretends to be). Said he’d cooked the perfect meal for a Libran like me, romantic and ideal­istic, and he was generally mega charming. Found myself flirting back at him but after a while I started to feel drunk & a bit paranoid because I know from bitter experience that Librans are gullible and easy to fool so I went all quiet and broody. What’s up says M, did I say something? No, just feeling a bit vulnerable I say. He puts his paw on mine, looks at me with those big blue eyes of his and I get suspicious, pull my hand away and ask him if he’s trying it on. God no, he says. I could trust him completely, blah-de-blah, usual ape-talk. I say I know about the other women.

  Ach, says M, they were just a bit of fun. Rhiannon knew all about them, she also knew that they meant nothing to him. So I reply typical male, double standards, and he just laughs, it’s just a joke to him.

  You won’t be doing any sex god stuff with me I can tell you now, says I, you can keep your mitts to yourself and no mistaking. Then I get hiccups and he laughs even more. We end up talking about star signs, how desperate can you get, but I wanted to start a row so I could put some space between us. Turns out he’s Taurus and he says he’s typical – practical, reliable, stubborn, laid back, comfort-loving, stable, tenacious, strong, successful.

  But don’t worry luv, Taureans and Librans aren’t compatible, he says all nonchalant, sit­ting back with that annoying habit he has of put­ting his feet up on the nearest chair after a meal. What I don’t tell him is that Libran girls and Taurean males get on just great between the sheets, good sexual chemistry, but after that there’s nothing, not enough to keep them together for a day. But I don’t say that in case he gets funny ideas. Actually, says M all innocent, Librans and Taureans are supposed to have terrific sexual rapport. Both born under Venus, lots of passion.

  That was enough for me, I grabbed one of the bottles and went upstairs without another word, locked the door and got stonking pissed. Woke up in the night, face down on the bed in a puddle of champagne.

  October 24 – He’s not there in the morning, returns at noon with his rod and a bag over his shoulder. He’s all over me when we meet on the stairs, sorry this sorry that, head down like a naughty boy. He says for God’s sake Ziggy, I absolutely promise you that I wasn’t trying to take advantage last night. Just fooling around, you know me. And you’ve got to admit you were pretty flirty yourself.

  I was pissed, keep well away from me you animal, says I.

  He holds his head in his hands and says no no no in a quiet voice, sounds desperate. You’ve got it all wrong, he moans, and he looks at me imploringly.

  But I leave him on the stairs and tell him to keep away. Men are all the same, walking pricks. Anyway, I say as I walk away, we’ve got to make some money quick or we’ll starve to death. Got any bright ideas? I slam the door and lock it. Hopefully he’s got the message now.

  October 28 – I’ve spent a few days trying to work out how we could make some dosh. Made a list of our strengths and weaknesses and it’s obvious that M’s rugby fame is our biggest asset. Why not market a new-style rugby boot with his name on it? We could get a grant. Will suggest it to him tomorrow.

  October 29 – The rugby boot idea went down like a lead balloon. He says he’s been out of the game too long, people want a happening person, someone on the scene right now. Spent the day in my room putting together a business plan. I’m sure it’s a possibility. What else can we do in a place with no people, no jobs? Heard him rattling on my door, saying let me in Ziggy, I need to talk to you but I ignore him, let him stew. Are you all right in there, he asks in his best voice but I stay by the window, smoking. Down to my last 100 fags now, will have to do something soon. Maybe leave without him?

  October 30 – Breakthrough! I tell him about my plan to go it alone and he comes over all soft and concerned, says he can’t let me go away on my own, he’s promised Pryderi he’ll look after me etc. etc. I beg him to consider my plan.

  But Ziggy, he says, who’ll design these boots, how do we make them? What about finance?

  Listen, I say to him, I’ve got it all sorted. We’ve got to leave Wales, no jobs here. Never has been much to do around here except be Welsh, been like that since the Ice Age. We’ve got to go back to England for a while, they love fiddling about with their little businesses, it’s in their blood. Something to do with neat Saxon compounds, goats in tidy little pens, yeoman values, puritan prosperity. We’ll get a grant easy peasy, set up shop on one of those interminable industrial estates with bleeping lorries and pallets stacked up like bodies at Belsen. Scenes from a zombie movie every dinnertime, dead-eyed people wandering about looking for flesh.


  I say to him – you design the shoes and I’ll market them, we’re onto a winner. Besides, I’m running out of fags.

  Can’t argue with that, says M.

  Anyway, I wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer, says I.

  Meaning?

  Those deadly charms of yours would get to me eventually. I can feel myself weakening.

  He comes over and gives me a hug. Brotherly, keeps his pelvis well away from me.

  Ziggy, you’re a crazy woman, he says. Any other time I’d be running after you with a club, you’re gorgeous, but I’m a nice guy, really. Rhiannon and me, we’re for life now. And you and Pryderi will be together soon, I just know it somehow. He’ll come out of it one day a happier man, trust me. We’ll have a big party at Hotel Corvo, we’ll open those windows and give the place a lick of paint. Seven bars humming every night, good times again. Trust me? He steps away and holds me at arm’s length. He’s smiling like he’s everyone’s best friend. Those flecks in his eyes seem extra lovely, I feel a tug.

  Yes, I say. I trust you. Now let’s get the Bentley and go. An hour later we’re on the road with two cases in the back and just enough petrol – maybe ¬– to get us over the border. Besides, I say to his left profile, it would be nice to see some real living people again.

  Even if they’re English?

  Even if they’re Martian, I reply.

  I like the open road, top down. Don’t care if I never see Hotel Corvo ever again. I know we’ll go back to get P and R when they’re in better shape.

  Sometimes people need to be left alone to sort things out. Mental illness builds a wall around you, like you’re an obscene statue with huge naughty bits, people want to hide you from children and Daily Express types.

  M holds my hand for a bit and I know it’s all right now, he’s not on heat. He’s a real gent really, gone up in my estimation. I squeeze his hand and tell him so. I like the way a web of little white lines spread around the corners of his eyes, slicing up the sunburn. I like the smell of him too, solid and warm. He was in blue denim today with strap leather boots. Still in good shape, one of those men who keep their looks till they’re old I’d say. He’s like a brother to me now, I feel safe. What a relief. The Bentley hums along country roads, air coming in bands of warm and cool. Green and brown smells, cattle vapours, huge oaks crouched like trolls by the roadside, ready to pick us up and swallow us up.

  November 1 – We arrived late in the evening at a border town, some thirty miles into England. Petrol low and we failed to find anywhere to stay, so he put the top up and we slept under rugs in the car, somewhere quiet by the river. We were dropping off, me on the back seat, him in the front, when a copper arrived to annoy us, shining his torch through the windows. Asked us what we were doing. Told him we’d heard the streets were paved with gold, wanted to get rich quick, seen The Apprentice and knew it was a doddle in England, everyone a millionaire. He got suspicious and asked us if we were Welsh, suggested we buggered off back home. Big M managed to pacify him, fortunately the cop was a rugger fan and when he found out who Big M was the two of them were off talking about rugby until I got testy.

  November 2 – Managed to find a cheap B&B but we had to sell the Bentley, nearly broke M’s heart. Never actually seen him in that state before, he’s usually so even tempered & accepts everything that comes, in that cool way of his. Bentley another matter, I thought he was going to cry. It wasn’t the value of the motor or the kudos of driving it, he said. He just loved its sheer good looks and its classiness. Like his footwear and his clothes, M likes top stuff. Says he was born like that, regal tastes.

  November 3 – M in a funk, completely thrown by the Bentley sell-off. Moping around, so I went out and bought a couple of sketch pads and some colouring pens, told him to draw. Mournful looks all round. But Ziggy, he says, we’ve lost everything now. I can cope without any people, he says, I can cope without a home, but I can’t cope without any style in my life.

  Well get weaving, I says. Design some great shoes, set the rugby world on fire. You’ve got the golden touch, everything you’ve done has star quality.

  Ziggy, do you really mean that? he asks.

  Of course I really mean it you plonker, look at your track record, I says.

  Great rugby player, brilliant cook, all round nice guy and great friend...

  Can it be that this guy has no confidence in himself, under all that bravado?

  Bloody men, they always manage to surprise me. Don’t try to tell me there’s a sensitive little soul lurking beneath the surface. National hero, or is he just a little wuss?

  November 5 – Really busy week, setting up the business. For now the boots are called Big M’s. Enterprise Agency have agreed to give us a free home for a year and free advertising for a month, then it’s up to us. M will have to get some more dosh from P, then off we go. M’s designs look great to me, but what do I know about rugby boots?

  He’s asked me to go back to the huts with him to see P and R, get some money. Don’t know if I can face P, all this action has taken my mind off things and I’ve enjoyed it all. M has been great fun, his enthusiasm infectious. Initial ebay run of 150 boots – with a signed picture of M taken on the day Wales beat Ireland at Dublin – have sold within a few days, so things look good.

  November 12 – Manufacturing unit on the industrial estate starts full-time work with an initial staff of 12, using imported Sami reindeer leather, with his signature in gold, final product nicely packaged and sold at sports outlets in Britain’s main cities as well as on the web. Orders very encouraging. Bank not so impres­sed and wants £10,000 injected into our account asap, so we’re off back to Wales tomorrow. Need to see P anyway.

  November 14 – Drove back to Wales in a hired saloon, M grumbled and made me drive. We got to the psychiatric unit at dinner time and had to wait in the foyer till they’d finished. Both of them came out to see us, hugs all round and a bit of hope I think; at least their eyes were alive, looking at us sadly but clearly. M managed to get a wad of cash off P, said it was urgent or Hotel Corvo would go into repossess and we’d all have to move to a council house, that’s if we could get one. We promised we’d be back soon to take them home. Tried to give them some hope.

  November 20 – Things going well, cash flow has increased. M’s designs are wowing everyone; one of the Welsh stars has promised to wear a pair for this year’s internationals so it’s all going in the right direction.

  December 1 – Bad news, very bad. Couple of hoods walked into the office today, waved a gun and frightened us all. Shades, expensive suits, could have been the same mob as the Hotel Corvo outfit. Told us we’d outstayed our welcome, the Welsh weren’t welcome on their manor. Gave us a week to sell up and move on. M just sat there in his chair without saying a word. Wasn’t much point really with a Smith and Wesson stuffed up one of his lugholes.

  Why can’t they leave us alone Ziggy, he says afterwards. Is it me or something?

  We sit around, trying to decide what to do. If it’s the same mob following us around, playing cat and mouse with us, we’re in deep shit. They won’t mess around. Shallow grave in the woods, farewell cruel world.

  Lou unscrambled the final part, which had been added as a coda by someone else. Faced with an execution-style death, Ziggy and Big M had no option but to cut and run. This time it was Ziggy who was heartbroken; seeing all her hard work go down the drain was too much. They lost almost everything – the bank took the business and left them with a grand to get home. Even Lou was moved by their final plight: left with nothing but their clothes and a few belongings, they’d had to buy old charity-shop rucksacks and hitch to the border. From there they got back to Hotel Corvo by attaching themselves to a small travelling fairground which was moving westwards; the journey must have taken many weeks. Apparently Big M had earned his keep by fooling around in a clown’s outfit, complete with red nose, revolving bow tie, water-squirting flower and floppy outsize shoes. Even in adversity he’d m
anaged to hold on to his unusual footwear. Lou had a vision of a small convoy of wagons, trailers and caravans travelling slowly under a huge western sky; he saw the big top on a village green somewhere, ringed by the yellow grasses of winter; and finally he saw Big M’s clown-face captured in a swag of multi-coloured bulbs: his hair shining purple, his hands green, his feet mauve.

  When they got to their home patch in the western region the audiences had faltered and then dwindled to none, as people began to recognise Ziggy and Big M; the old curse had returned. It seems that the two of them had left the troupe rather emotionally because they’d grown to like their new friends, and had fitted in well.

  They completed their return to Hotel Corvo in a battered taxi, after calling at a supermarket to stock up on tinned goods and essentials, and then at a farmers’ co-operative to get some seeds and grain. They knew that life at Hotel Corvo would be difficult and bare as they waited for Pryderi and Rhiannon to recover; Big M planned to grow all their own food, since they would have to be self-sufficient and resourceful. A hard winter lay ahead, the two of them living alone on the wild, remote cliffs of Dyfed.