Bring it Back Home

by Niall Griffiths

  Lewis nodded. 'Why tell me all this, tho’? What's the point?'

  'What, these stories? No point really, except to show you that everything's connected. In ways you'd never dream of. There are enough secrets in this village alone to make a library full of books, boy. We're all mysteries to each other but we're all linked to each other, too. Everything's connected. D'you know what I mean?'

  Lewis gave no answer. Just sipped his lager.

  'Ah, you'll find out for yourself, soon enough,' the Old Man said. 'But everything's connected. Remember that, son. In ways you'd never dream of. The links are everywhere. You've just got to learn to look for them.'

  The Old Man's words were coming out a little slurred and Lewis realized that he was a bit drunk. Probably been in the pub all afternoon, drinking whisky, that's why he was talking gibberish. Just rambling, that's all the Old Man was doing. Not making much sense. Interesting stories, but did they mean anything to Lewis? Was there a point in telling them? Christ, the whole world was a soap opera.

  Robat and Marc came over with a tray of drinks and soon Lewis had forgotten the Old Man's tales; had forgotten the link between the barman and the pool-player, would've been surprised to find out that the fat man's half-sister was a prostitute in Bristol. All Lewis could think was: Manon. Tomorrow. Two-thirty p.m. It became like the rhythm of a train in his head: Manon, tomorrow, two-thirty p.m. Manon, tomorrow, two-thirty p.m. A runaway train, an out-of-control train. A train he couldn't stop, even if he wanted to.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day, round about noon, Jonathan 'Cakes' Cunningham crossed over into Wales, over the Severn bridge. Half-way across the bridge he wanted to get out and admire the structure, the awesome feat of engineering that it represented, but of course he couldn't. Like all restrictions on his behaviour, this made him grit his teeth and grip the steering wheel tighter. Angered him slightly. He took the motorway past Newport and Cardiff and then Port Talbot, like a city of soot on his left with the glittering sea behind it. Richard Burton was born around here, he thought. Anthony Hopkins too. Strange how such talent can be born in such places, such dirty places, dusty and black and polluted. At Swansea he continued towards Carmarthen, where he had to pull into a lay-by to check directions. He took the crumpled envelope out of his pocket and smoothed it out on the dashboard. He tried to read the words, smudged with sweat. He could make out 'Ferryside'.

  He drove on. At Ferryside he checked the directions again and took the road up into the hills. The ground rose around him, green and wooded. He began to feel a little uncomfortable, in his van on these high hills. He didn't trust the higher ground. He wanted to be back on a flat road again. Wanted to be back down at sea level, where he felt he belonged.

  He entered a village, but he had a feeling it wasn't the one he was looking for. He stopped at the kerb outside a small general store and wound his window down. An old man came out of the shop carrying a loaf of bread and a two-pint plastic bottle of milk. Cakes beckoned him over.

  'Scuse me, mate.'

  The old man approached the van. 'Ga i’ch helpu chi?'

  'Erm…d'you speak English?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good. I'm looking for this place.'

  Cakes pointed to the place name written on the envelope. He didn't want to try and pronounce it – all those 'ch's and double 'l's. He'd make a fool of himself.

  'Ah yes,' the old man said. 'You're not there yet. It's about another five miles that way.'

  The old man pointed to a small lane, Cakes thanked him and took that lane. A tiny lane, barely wide enough for his van and hemmed in by high hedgerows. God knows what he'd do if he met any other traffic, he thought. But he didn't, and the next village he entered was the one he was looking for. He knew this without even consulting his directions; an affirmative feeling in his heart and stomach told him that this was the place where he'd get back what was his. There was a church on a hill and a shop and a garage and oh yes, look, a pub called the Miner's Arms. This was the place.

  Cakes drove the van up the hill above the village and parked by the church where, he reasoned, neither he nor his van would be seen. He got out of the van and pulled his jacket tighter around him to keep the chill out and entered the churchyard where, to kill time, he read the inscriptions on the gravestones. He liked doing that, Cakes did; reading evidence of lives too short or lives too long although, in his more relaxed moments, he was of the opinion that all lives were too short. At a big marble headstone under a yew tree by the Garden of Rest he stopped and lit a cigarette while gazing out over the village below. Smoke rose from chimneys, the sound of some industrial machine came from the garage workshop. Little people were coming and going. A peaceful scene. A rural idyll, some might say, and despite himself Cakes felt his pulse slowing, felt his heartbeat calming. He felt at home amongst traffic and noise and crowds, but he had to admit to himself that here, in this little village in the middle of the hills, he didn't feel as angry as he usually did.

  But still, he had things to do. If all went according to plan, if Smithy and Scottish Jim and Daft Larry and Parcelforce did their jobs properly, all Cakes would have to do would be to say a few words and bugger off again. Taking what belonged to him with him. It should all take care of itself. It should be easy. But he couldn't wait to see the look on that thieving bastard Lewis's face.

  He checked his watch; nearly half past two. He left the churchyard and went down into the village. Towards the back room of the Miner's Arms.

  It had been an interesting journey, over the past couple of days. And it wasn't over yet.

  Chapter Nine

  Thump thump thump went Lewis's heart. His mouth was dry and his palms were damp. His future and his happiness were about to be decided. It all depended on what another person would, in the next few minutes, tell him. The plans he'd made might be ashes in just a few minutes, and if so what would he do then? The possible life he'd built for himself might fall to bits. Never to be put back together again. Thump thump thump went his heart.

  He went around the side of the pub, to the back door. Let himself in. There was Manon, sitting behind a table, looking beautiful. And next to her was the Old Man.

  Lewis was surprised. 'What are you doing here? I don't need any support, y'know. I'm a big boy now.'

  'Sit down, son,' the Old Man replied.

  He pointed at a chair opposite Manon. Lewis took it. The table was now between him and Manon like a kind of barrier between them. He didn't like it.

  'We've both got something to tell you, Lewis. Haven't we, love?'

  Manon swallowed and nodded.

  'So just be quiet and listen. Don't say a word until we've finished. Right?'

  The Old Man nodded at Manon and sat back, lacing his fingers over his little pot belly. Manon cleared her throat. Her eyes were big and wide and had worry in them. Lewis sat still and listened and watched in wonder as the world spun out of control around him. He'd pictured a possible scene of damage and of heartbreak but this …this was a nightmare. Devastation.

  'Remember I told you I'd spent time in London? That I lived in Swansea but spent a lot of time in London?'

  Lewis felt himself nod once.

  'Well, that wasn't quite true. See, I went to London in the first place to find you. I figured that's where you'd go. I knew you had friends there – you used to talk a lot about going there and I wanted to find you. I missed you, Lewis. Despite all that happened I missed you. Because the baby was yours too, y'know.'

  Lewis felt himself nod again. His eyes burned.

  'Plus I was worried that you might hurt yourself or something so I went looking for you. Daft, I know, in a city that big, but…' She shrugged. 'I stayed in a friend's bedsit. Got a job delivering cakes around the Holborn area on a bike. It seemed strange right from the start – I mean, I was delivering doughnuts and cream slices and stuff to squats and tower blocks and places like that. Not shops or offices at lunchtime or anything. Just didn't seem right.'

  Lew
is's heart began to sink into his body. It plopped into his stomach.

  ‘So she called me,’ the Old Man said. 'Couldn't call her father ’cos he was still looking to blow your bloody brains out, so she called me. Said there was something fishy about the bakery she was working for. She sounded frightened so I went to Swansea and caught the first train to London.'

  'I met him at Paddington,' Manon said. 'With a box full of éclairs that should've been delivered to a squat in Clerkenwell earlier that day. We went back to my bedsit and cut them open…I'm sure you can guess what we found.'

  Lewis swallowed, although there was nothing to swallow. Just hot and stale air inside his mouth.

  'So I went round to the bakery,' the Old Man said. 'Angry, like. Furious, I was. Innocent young girl being taken advantage of like that, not on. I was all up for teaching some bugger a lesson like, but in that bakery I met a feller who told me some very interesting things. Like who else was working for him. As a barman in a pub he owned, called the Queen's Head. Isn't that right, Cakes?'

  The Old Man nodded at a spot above Lewis's head and Lewis spun in his seat. There he was. Just standing there and smiling down at him. Cakes, here in the Miner's Arms. Cakes here in Wales. Cakes, the rumoured killer, just standing there in the village where Lewis was born, where he still called home. Nowhere was safe.

  The world spun around Lewis. Spun and fell apart.

  Lewis's heart fell further.

  'So we came to an arrangement,' Cakes said, perching himself on one arse cheek on the end of the table, next to Manon. 'That certain people kept shtum about my little bakery business and I, in return, kept watch over a certain barman. Made sure no harm came to him. Especially made sure that he stayed unfound by a certain shotgun-wielding feller from Wales, whose daughter had just had a miscarriage. Ring any bells? Understand what I'm saying, Lewis?'

  Lewis couldn't take his eyes off Cakes's face. His hands were shaking. His heart was in his groin. He wanted to run.

  'But why didn't you just…just…'

  My God, was that his voice? That pathetic squeak?

  'What, have them bumped off?' Cakes said, nodding his head sideways at Manon and the Old Man. 'Shut them up? Permanently, like?'

  He smiled. 'Because I liked them. I warmed to them. And besides, I knew one day they'd come in handy.'

  Cakes dug a creased and tatty envelope out of his pocket. 'Thanks for the directions,' he said, and both the Old Man and Manon nodded. Cakes balled the envelope up in his fist and tossed it at a bin in the corner. It bounced off the wall above and dropped in.

  'Bull's eye. As good a shot with a ball of paper as you are with a fucking whisky bottle, Lewis, yeah?'

  Cakes took his hat off and tilted his head so that they could all see the bump there. Like an egg, a maroon and blue egg, with yellowing around it. Black streaks of blood under the skin. Very colourful.

  'You did that?' Manon asked Lewis, startled.

  'Oh yes, he did,' Cakes answered, replacing his baseball hat. 'He never told you about whacking me on the noggin with a whisky bottle, no? While he was stealing my money, like. Never told you about using violence, no?'

  He looked at Lewis and shook his head sadly. 'Tut tut, Lewis. A liar as well? Dear oh dear oh dear.'

  Manon and the Old Man stared at Lewis. Cakes leaned so that his face was just an inch or so from Lewis's. Lewis saw the tiny hairs up Cakes's nose, the red veins thinner than those hairs in the whites of his eyes. Smelled his breath, coffee and tobacco, bad.

  'Just give me my fucking money back, Lewis. You thieving bastard. I should really take your fucking fingers off, but just give me what's mine and we'll say no more about it. I won't hurt you. Alright?'

  Lewis couldn't speak. His heart had sunk into his crotch and he thought he might piss himself. Cakes stood upright.

  'Where's the money, Lewis? My money. Where is it?'

  'I know where it is,' Manon said. 'It's in a locker in the garage. I know where the spare keys are, too.'

  'Good girl,'said Cakes. 'Knew I could rely on you. Let's go and get it, eh?'

  Manon stood. Went around the table to stand at Cakes's side. He put his arm around her waist and she leaned her head on his shoulder and looked, without smiling, at Lewis.

  'Oh yes,' Cakes said. 'I forgot to ask. He did propose, did he? Was my hunch correct?'

  Manon nodded. 'Yesterday. He wanted us to run off together to New York.'

  Cakes laughed. 'How romantic. New York? Aw Christ. The dreams some people have!'

  He kissed Manon on the cheek. 'I've missed you,' he said.

  'And I've missed you,' she replied, still looking at Lewis, but talking to Cakes.

  'Still want to go?'

  'Where?'

  'New York. To stay in that condo on the Upper East Side I bought last year.'

  'Of course I do. There’s nothing I’d like more.'

  'Well let's go, then. Let's go and get my money back and then catch the first plane to the States. Goodbye, Lewis. Goodbye, William.'

  He nodded at Lewis and the Old Man and turned to go with Manon. At the door Manon turned back and mouthed 'I'll write' at the Old Man and then stared at Lewis.

  'You deserted me,' she said. 'You ran away when I needed you most. Don't you ever forget that. ’Cos I won't.'

  And then she closed the door behind her.

  The empty shell that was Lewis turned to face the Old Man. It looked like Lewis, it moved like Lewis, but it was just a shell. There were tears on its cheeks and a roaring in its head.

  'What can I say, son?' William said. 'Never trust anybody. Everything's connected, just look for the signs. And never leave a woman when she needs you most. Nobody loves a coward.'

  The Old Man rose and left. The world was rubble at Lewis's shoes.

  He stared at the tabletop. He looked at the words carved into its surface, but didn’t really read them. His heart went on beating and his lungs went on taking in air but he was no longer alive. He looked at his watch: 3 p.m. The hour of his death.

  A knock at the door. He got up and answered it. A man in a uniform holding a huge wedding cake.

  'Special delivery,' the man said. 'Congratulations. Where should I put it?'

  Without waiting for Lewis to answer he walked over to the table and put the cake down on it. Then he congratulated Lewis again and left.

  Such a big cake. A wedding cake. The tiny bride and groom on top of it held hands and had minuscule painted smiles on their tiny faces. The bride had long dark hair like Manon. The groom had short brown hair like Lewis. Maybe Manon had ordered this. Maybe she was coming back. Maybe this business of leaving with Cakes was just to teach Lewis a lesson. Maybe they were laughing outside the door and she was just about to come back in again and say she'd forgiven him really; that she wanted to marry him, yes, and she wanted to go to New York with him and not with Cakes and –

  Some life came back into Lewis. He turned to face the door. He would be smiling when Manon came back through that door which he knew she would, any second now. He'd be smiling and ready to hug her. Ready to begin their new life.

  He stood there smilingand waiting as the clock ticked on the wall. As the clock ticked many times.

  Footsteps outside. The door handle turned. Here she was. Coming back to him. Bringing it back home.

  The door swung inwards. Lewis smiled, holding his arms out wide.

  Chapter Ten

  'Do you want to do it or shall I?'

  'I'll do it,' Manon said, holding the rucksack tightly to her stomach where it bulged like a pregnancy. 'My phone or yours?'

  'Neither,' Cakes said. 'The call can be traced. We'll have to use a phone box.'

  They drove down out of the hills and found a public phone box outside a chapel in a little village. Manon put the rucksack safely beneath the passenger seat and then she and Cakes got out of the van and crammed themselves into the phone box. She lifted the receiver and dialled 999. Asked for the police.

  'Miner's Arms,' she said t
o the voice on the other end of the line. 'The back room there. There's a man in there with a wedding cake. Look inside the cake. You'll find something very interesting.'

  'Miner's Arms?' the voice said. 'Whereabouts?'

  She named the village, the place where she was born, where she got pregnant and lost the baby, the place she once called home.

  'Thank you,' the voice said. 'I'll send someone round there right away. Can I ask who's calling? You could be in line for a Community Action Trust reward.'

  Manon hung up and she and Cakes ran back into the van, laughing. Inside, Cakes turned the key and the engine barked into life. He and Manon leaned and kissed each other deep and long and then he drove away out of Wales, heading east, in the direction of Heathrow airport.