‘It looks like they were right.’
‘No.’ He walked up to me and positioned his face six inches away from mine and looked up. He was about seven or eight inches shorter than me and wearing the standard-issue CID crumpled suit and shabby raincoat. And he had been eating salami. ‘No, pal, they were wrong. I told them no shamus ever gives me problems. Not twice anyway.’
Llunos sat on the client’s chair. ‘Detective Harri Harries will be helping me out for a while. I’d appreciate it if you’d give him all the co-operation you can.’
I ducked out of the way of the salami breath. ‘He won’t get anything out of me until he improves his manners.’
‘Go on, cross my path, snooper, you’ll be doing me a favour. I’m already bored of this dump, I could do with some entertainment.’
I looked at Llunos. ‘Do they learn this dialogue in Llanelli?’
He shrugged. Harri Harries took a half-step to me until his coat was brushing lightly against my wrist. I could feel the heat from his body and detect the faint sour reek of Boots aftershave and unwashed ears.
‘Llanelli, Carmarthen, Pontypridd … fine towns. You want to know why? Because there are no peepers in any of them. There used to be, but I cleaned them all out.’
I turned to Llunos. ‘What do you need him to help you for? You seem to be doing a fine job all on your own.’
Llunos didn’t answer but the discomfort was evident on his face. Something had happened to make them send this monkey to sit on his back.
‘Getting the whole town washed away in a flood is doing all right in your book, is it?’ sneered Harri Harries.
‘That’s history.’
‘Oh, you don’t like history? How about something hot off the press? Like some cheap shamus busting into a private party and trying to put the frighteners on the Mayor?’
‘Or what about the Mayor ordering his men to beat up the shamus and chuck him unconscious into the sea?’
Harri Harries paused for a second. It seemed Jubal had omitted to mention this aspect of the night’s entertainment. I could see Harri Harries didn’t like that. Didn’t like the fact that the Mayor was handing out unauthorised beatings, or that he had pulled the wool over his eyes. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t like it less than he didn’t like me being at the party.
‘Shouldn’t have been there in the first place, should you?’ he snarled.
‘Nor should the Mayor. They sent you all the way up here just for that?’
‘No, there’s this other thing.’
‘What other thing?’
He stopped and looked at Llunos who stared solidly at his shoe.
‘None of your business. Although I don’t suppose you know what that phrase means, do you?’
‘I could learn.’
‘Oh you’ll learn all right!’
He walked to the window. At the desk he picked up the photo of Marty.
‘Who’s this, your wife?’
I said nothing and Llunos jumped slightly. ‘Hey, that’s … er …’
The new cop held the picture close to his face and then turned it round and read the back. ‘Hey, I know who this is, it’s the schoolkid isn’t it? The one that died on the cross-country run –’
I looked at Llunos who said simply, ‘He didn’t get that from me.’
Harri Harries sneered. ‘No I read it in your file, peeper. I bet you didn’t know you had one, did you? So I know all about your little pansy friend freezing to death during games.’ He dropped the photo into the bin. ‘Tragic. No reason to push your games teacher out of an aeroplane, though.’
‘I didn’t push him, he fell.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Not a lot to you, perhaps. But a lot to me. What happened to him was an accident; but what he did to Marty wasn’t.’ This was a lie, of course. He fell out when I hit him with a cricket bat. I glanced quickly at the bat which was standing in the corner of my office and then at Llunos who had been in the plane; he didn’t seem inclined to contradict me.
Harri Harries sneered, ‘Stop breaking my heart, snooper. Kid has a weak heart, dies on a cross-country run, so what? It happens. Doesn’t give you the right to charge round town on a white horse all your life and throw mud at the Mayor.’
‘And what the hell gives you the right to tell me what to do? You haven’t been in town five minutes yet!’
‘I’m the law round here, that’s all you need to know.’
I walked to the door and opened it. ‘Thanks for coming, tough guy.’
He walked through. ‘Keep your nose clean, peeper, or I’ll clean it for you.’
*
Llunos stood up and followed him. At the door he stopped and looked at me with the helpless expression of a friend who wants to explain but is struggling for the words. For years there had existed a sharp animosity between the two of us. Like most cops he didn’t like private operatives, but since that time we fought side-by-side in the plane a warm bond of friendship had arisen. Strengthened, I liked to think, by his growing awareness that despite the different approaches we were still on the same side. I waved him to go. I knew how much he hated this, he didn’t need to say.
As their footsteps receded down the wooden stairs I took the photo of Marty out of the bin and replaced it on the desk. For some time now the colours had been gradually lightening – a slow cinematic fade to white that echoed the moment in the fourth year when he disappeared into the blizzard. Only in my mind is the image still vivid. That day when the games teacher, Herod Jenkins, rejected his medical note and sent him on the cross-country run. Marty the consumptive schoolboy who never stood a chance. I picked up the cricket bat and took a swing, re-enacting the scene from three years ago when I finally avenged his death: when I faced up to Mr Jenkins in the fuselage of the plane and delivered the stroke that knocked him for six and sent that horizontal crease in his face they called a smile spinning out of this world. Since then I had lost count of the number of former pupils who had sidled into my office on account of it. Men who stood there in shabby suits, ill at ease and unsure how to say what they’d come for. They always smiled with relief when I said I understood and, without a word, handed them the bat. Howzat! they would shout as I bowled a piece of crumpled-up paper. Often the only other words they uttered before shaking me solemnly by the hand and leaving down the echoing, bare wooden stairs, were, ‘I was there from ’70 to ’75.’
*
I poured the untouched drinks back into the bottle, sat down and cradled my own glass and swirled the drink round. And wondered what this other thing was, the one that Harri Harries had mentioned and then didn’t want to talk about. The one that was none of my business. I was beginning to get that faint prickly sensation on the back of my neck. The one that said trouble ahead. There weren’t many certainties in the job I did. But there was one prediction I could make that was copper-bottomed. When some tough guy told me something was none of my business it always ended up being plenty of my business.
Chapter 4
CONSIDERING THE NUMBER of garden sheds and herbaceous borders that were swept away, how much of the season’s jam-making was ruined, there was surprisingly little rancour against the people who bombed the dam. Most people agreed justice had largely been done. Dai the Custard Pie, whose own joke shop had disappeared completely, was now imprisoned in a specially adapted dungeon, deep beneath Aberystwyth Castle. A clown of evil, doomed like a troglodyte never to see the face of the sun again. Mrs Llantrisant, the woman who swabbed my step for so many years, now exiled like Napoleon on Saint Madoc’s Rock fifteen miles out to sea. Lovespoon the druid and Welsh teacher, missing presumed drowned. Herod Jenkins, last seen falling from the plane. Only Dai Brainbocs had escaped. The evil schoolboy genius and chief architect of our soaking. Somewhere at large now in South America, the traditional holiday destination of fugitives and renegades: Butch Cassidy and Sundance, the officers of the Third Reich, the Great Train Robbers, and now Brainbocs. And with him also, that most
unlikely moll – the girl who should have been mine – Myfanwy.
The cleaner from the Seaman’s Mission had hardly been specific. Meet me at the Game. But it was enough. There might be many games in town but only one began with a capital G: ‘Mrs Beynon Says’, also known as Fishwife’s Chess. The contest that depended on knowing more about your neighbour’s secret vices and indiscretions than anyone else in the street. It had once been a harmless parlour game played for matches at Christmas, but nowadays an entire week’s pension or a dead husband’s war medals could be staked on it. I wandered off in search of tonight’s game, somewhere in the ghetto. Down some back alley, under a line of washing and through a hole in a fence where the touch of creosote was just a memory, like the scent of an old love letter. But which washing-line and which fence?
I could hear the ghetto long before I reached it. That far-off sound of carousing sailors found in all the world’s great ports. And mingling with it, incongruously, the sweeter strains of the Sweet Jesus League out on their own shore patrol, singing hymns and warning the men of the dangers of unbridled fornication. A mixture of sounds that perfectly encapsulated the contradictions of the hour – captured the spiritual divide that the receding waters had left behind. To the puritans, the disaster had been a well-deserved punishment for our ill-defined iniquity. You saw them every night, singing hymns and carrying torches through the streets like columns of monks in a Gothic painting. Sometimes you caught the eye of one, who tried to avoid your gaze, and you’d think to yourself, isn’t that our postman? For other people, it was all just a reminder that our tenure here is short and that we should make the most of it. So the people of Aberystwyth gulped their pleasure giddily for a while, like Paris in La Belle Époque or Berlin in the Roaring Twenties, dancing like the marionettes on a music box playing at the wrong speed. Sospan capitalised on the mood with that innate understanding of the Zeitgeist by creating new recipes based on a suggestion that life is precious and fleeting: Dance of the Mayfly, Gossamer Happiness, and the ever popular Lost Eden. Or the saucy one that caused all the trouble with the Sweet Jesus League, Hornucopia. This was also the time when the Chief of Police had to confiscate a lot of large-print pornography.
*
As I walked up Bridge Street, the battered old Bentley belonging to the Philanthropist swept past. A cat darted across the road. There was a squeal of tyres quickly followed by a soft furry thud and the sad but comic sight of an inert cat cartwheeling through the air. The car stopped and the chauffeur got out. He picked up the cat by its tail and, with a loud clattering noise, slung it into a rubbish bin. Then he slapped his hands together and drove off. I strolled on and thought of some lonely old lady sitting at her kitchen table tonight, looking round sharply every time the wind blew open the catflap, a saucer of unlapped milk standing on the tiled floor. Or was it a little girl walking down the street with her mum, pinning notices to the trees saying: ‘Have you seen Bathsheba?’ Aberystwyth could get to you sometimes.
In the old days, of course, if we wanted to gulp our pleasure giddily we just went to the Moulin – Wales’s most notorious nightclub. A place that had stood for so much that was good and bad about the town. But they hadn’t reopened it, had moved it instead to the end of the pier. I’d never been and I said I never would. The Moulin without Myfanwy was Troy without Helen. The gods obviously thought so too because the swooping new Perspex entrance to the pier funded by the Bucket & Spade Aid concert blew away in a storm. And since then the front had been permanently obscured by builders’ plywood.
But tonight I needed only information. The sort that was supposed to be impossible to obtain, but could be bought in any of the pubs in the ghetto. I walked into the Angel.
It was crowded, hot and dark. And reeked of beer. Fishermen and sailors rubbed shoulders with town councillors and ladies of the night. Added to that was the usual haul of holiday-camp impresarios, bingo callers, whalebone dealers, shawl salesmen, out-of-work actresses from the ‘What the Butler Saw’ movie industry, and here and there, looking even more furtive than most, a few monks from Caldy Island. A typical early-evening crowd in the Angel. I pushed my way to the bar and ordered a rum and went to sit in the corner by the fireplace.
A figure detached itself from the shadows leaning against the wall and sauntered over to me.
‘Are you enjoying your holiday, love?’
The voice was soft with a husky rawness, the sort of rawness a voice gets when you see more before you are nineteen than most people see in a lifetime. The girl was wrapped up in a fur coat. The silky brush against my wrist suggested it was real, though probably full of moth-holes.
‘Like that, huh?’ she said when I didn’t answer, and sat down next to me. A syrupy thud filled the room as someone, somewhere, clumsily dropped a needle on to a record, and after a few seconds Jim Reeves struggled to raise his voice above the bacon-frying hiss and sing, ‘Welcome to My Home’.
‘It’s not a lot of fun, really, I know,’ said the girl. ‘The summer’s much better and that’s not a lot of fun either.’
I smiled. There seemed something familiar about her, although there was almost nothing physical to see in the darkness. Reflections of flames dancing in her eyes, an edge of gold outlining her cheek, giving her the air of a wench in a Rembrandt painting. It wasn’t her voice that was familiar and since I couldn’t see her face I couldn’t put it down to that, but still there was something. And when you work as a private eye in Aberystwyth you learn not to worry too much about where your hunches come from.
‘I could show you round if you like … show you things.’
‘So you’re a tour guide, are you?’
‘Well not exactly … no … well yeah, in a way.’
‘Is there much to see?’
‘There’s the castle. I could show you that.’
‘And I bet you know all about it, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Who built it, then?’
‘The Romans.’
‘The Romans!’
‘Yeah, I s’pose. Or Robin Hood or someone. I don’t know – who cares?’
She took out a cigarette and a lighter and the flame gave her young features a tender wash of light. When the cigarette was alight she flicked the lighter again and held it up to my face. Through the harsh hot glare I could see the glints of her eyes as she scrutinised me. The flame went out.
‘You’re Louie, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘I’ve seen you about. I’m Ionawr.’ She grabbed my hand in the darkness and shook it gently. ‘Nice to meet you.’ The hand was cold and smooth like a pebble on a beach.
‘Do I know you?’
‘We haven’t met, but I know you through my sister.’
‘Is she here?’
‘She’s dead.’
I peered at her intently through the blackness.
‘My sister was Bianca.’
We found the game in a cellar on Prospect Street. Ionawr, who had sold me the information for the price of a drink, insisted on coming with me, saying I wouldn’t get in otherwise, which was hard to believe. But she refused to come in herself, knowing better than me what sort of reception a girl like her would get in this crossroads for the world’s gossips, shrews, scolds and harpies. Inside, the air was fetid and moist, filled with the gamy fug of wet hair drying, infused with cellar smells of old stored potatoes, and Mintos, and camphor, cheap scent from grandsons at Christmas, ointment … and everywhere the air tingled with an intense, feverish mood of anticipation. It was partly the buzz you get at any big fight but also there was the build-up of static brought on by the rustling of pacamacs, and which had on occasion, so they said, given rise to the appearance of ball-lightning at these events.
The two contestants sat at a small kitchen table either side of a pot of tea. The audience was gathered round in rows of seats. We sat down as the umpire clumsily shuffled a pack of very big cards and called on a woman in the front row to
draw. These were the Pleasantry cards and carried bonus points. The woman took three and the umpire read them out. ‘Well, that’s what I heard, anyway’ (murmur of disapproval from the crowd and shouts of ‘easy’). ‘Well you can’t be too careful now, can you?’ (more grumbling). And, finally, one that drew a ripple of applause: ‘’E’d have bloody flattened her if he’d found out, wouldn’t he!’
The bell dinged and the lady in the red scarf started.
‘Well, anyway, Mrs Beynon was just saying that it’s not her first one that Mrs Jenkins was talking about. It’s the elder one – she’s got two, hasn’t she? – the youngest one is still in Penweddig, isn’t it? And the eldest is out at Talybont married to the chap whose father ran the garage that was knocked down, anyway it wasn’t him it was his brother whose two boys were in the same class as the daughter of the one from the woman who lives above the bakers in Llanfarian –’
There were cries of ‘Logic! Logic!’ from the blue corner and after a quick conference among the judges the charge was upheld and points were deducted for logic. The woman in the red scarf picked herself up off the canvas and came out fighting: ‘Anyway, it was her niece what made the jam for the “bring and buy” after her husband came back from the mines with emphysema –’
There was a roar of delight from one section of the crowd and the other section looked on stony-faced. Two ladies in front of me turned to each other and swapped disapproving nods. Another lady in front of them turned round and said, ‘It wasn’t emphysema at all – it was nothing to do with the aureoles as such –’
‘I heard it was viral,’ said another spectator, ‘but they weren’t quite sure what.’
‘You’d think she’d test her weak spot with mumps and measles or something first, wouldn’t you!’
‘Or maybe sciatica, that’s always a good one, that is.’
‘You watch!’ the first one scoffed. ‘Mrs Jenkins will trump her now with the pneumoconiosis.’
People in the other rows turned round and told them to hush and I saw the cleaner from the Seaman’s Mission waving to me from the adjoining room.
Last Tango in Aberystwyth Page 4
