Aberystwyth Mon Amour (20 page)

‘He’s with her every night.’

‘He stole something from Lovespoon and kept it hidden. He shouldn’t have had it, but he did. He boasted to Bianca about it, so she stole it. If Lovespoon had found out, he would have killed Pickel so he told him first. The Druids took her and tortured her to find out what she had done with the thing she had stolen. They must have gone too far. Beaten her too much. She was probably going to die. So they arrange a car crash and use my car. Kill two birds with one stone.’

I could tell he was listening hard. It was troubling him, this murder. He probably had enough evidence to send me down. But he knew in his heart I didn’t do it.

‘What did she steal?’

‘Some important papers belonging to Lovespoon.’

‘Papers? Why would the girl care about papers? She couldn’t hardly read.’

‘She did it for me. She thought I wanted them.’

‘Did you?’

‘Not like that. Not for her to get involved.’

‘What was so special about the papers?’

‘They could prove that Lovespoon killed those schoolboys.’

There was silence. Had I got him? My heart started to beat a little faster.

‘You know where the so-called papers are now?’

‘Not really.’

‘What do you mean not really? You’re hanging by a thread, Louie. You tell me this cock-and-bull story –’

‘Look, all I know is she hid them in the stove.’

‘Which one?’

‘Look, I know it’s a big job, but a team of men could probably –’

‘Louie!’

‘What?’

‘Look up at the sky.’

I leaned back and looked out of the café window. It looked like someone had burst a feather pillow in the sky.

‘See that white cold stuff?’

I held the phone cradled against my cheek for a few seconds and then hung up.

Snow in June. Five minutes from now, every stove in Aberystwyth would be lit.

Chapter 17

THE SNOW FELL all afternoon but didn’t stick, it just turned to a dirty grey slime on the pavement, and soon it was gone. I hung around the deserted town all day, dressed as a veteran and forced to live the life of one, which meant no life at all. There was no bar or café which would allow me in, and eventually I took refuge in Eeyore’s stable where I could find warmth among the donkeys. I stayed there until evening and then I wandered over to the south side of Trefechan Bridge and waited in the shadows behind the bus stop. After half an hour I heard Myfanwy clip-clopping down the wet pavement in her high heels. In my veteran’s outfit she didn’t give me a second glance and came and stood right in front of me.

‘Myfanwy,’ I whispered.

She ignored me.

‘Myfanwy!’

She moved up to the other end of the bus shelter.

‘Myfanwy, please!’

She looked round. ‘You leave me alone, mister, do you hear?’

‘Myfanwy, it’s me, Louie.’

She peered at me and then gasped.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Don’t come any closer.’

‘Do you think I would hurt you?’

‘Is that what you said to Bianca?’

I sighed. This was all wrong.

‘Myfanwy!’ I begged. ‘Please. I didn’t kill Bianca, it’s all wrong what they are printing in the paper. It was the Druids. I can prove –’

She looked back up the street as the green bus trundled up to the lights. They were on red. The yellow electric glow from the interior of the bus looked warm and inviting in the chill evening gloom.

‘That’s my bus.’

‘Get the next one.’

‘I can’t, I’m already late.’

Without being able to stop myself, I made a move towards her lifting my arm out to touch her shoulder. She started backwards, raising her arms, but then stopped. We both stood frozen in our respective positions. She looked at me and our eyes met.

‘I didn’t do it,’ I said simply.

She nodded. ‘Promise?’

‘I loved Bianca. You know that.’

She rushed over and I took her in my arms. ‘But not as much as me, right?’

I hugged her.

‘You smell.’

‘I know.’

She breathed deeply and pressed her head into my chest. ‘Louie, take me away.’

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere.’

‘OK.’

She pulled away and looked up into my face. ‘You mean it?’

‘Yes.’

‘When can we go? Tonight?’

I shook my head. ‘No, not tonight.’

The lights changed and the bus eased forwards.

‘Please, Louie, it has to be tonight.’

‘A few days won’t make any difference.’

‘They will, oh they will, Louie, if only you knew.’

The bus approached.

‘It has to be now.’

‘If I go now, they will track me down. I’ll go to prison.’

‘We’ll go somewhere where they won’t find us.’

I shook my head sadly. ‘I locked Llunos in a toilet, he’ll find me.’

The bus stopped and the doors swished open. Myfanwy broke away and took a step towards the bus, looking back over her shoulder. As she stepped aboard she bit her lip and her face became disfigured with grief.

I walked the seven miles back to the caravan; on the beach between Borth and Ynyslas there was a bonfire surrounded by a group of War veterans. They were cooking rabbits and drinking from cans of strong lager. One of them had a guitar on which he strummed tuneless ditties. I skirted round them, not anxious to come into contact with a group of people who would quickly see through my disguise. But I was too late, they called out to me. I tried to pretend I hadn’t heard and carried on walking, but one of the tramps stood up and came towards me.

‘Hey, friend, come and share some supper.’

I twisted on the spot, uncertain what to do. Could I convince them I was a real veteran? Almost certainly not. How would they react to an impersonator? Laugh? Or get angry? If they got angry, what would they do? When you’re on the lowest rung of society’s ladder you don’t have a lot to lose. Damn. The soldier walked up to me.

‘Come and have some supper. I owe you a dinner, remember?’

‘I think you’ve got the wrong person, my friend.’

He chuckled. ‘I don’t think so. It’s not every day I get to eat strawberries and Black Forest Gateau. Especially in the company of a famous night-club singer.’

He laughed at the expression on my face. ‘Do you think you can go round dressed like that and we won’t notice?’

*   *   *

The rabbit was good, and so was the company. There was an easy informality about it and genuine sense of brotherhood. No one asked me the first thing I expected to be asked: what I was doing pretending to be a vet. It seemed to be understood that I must be in dire straits. And these were men with an instinctive understanding for suffering. They could sense my plight and knew better than to make it worse by asking stupid questions. For the first time in weeks I felt good. We sat there until late in the night, sucking the hot juicy goodness out of the roast rabbit and swapping stories; War stories mostly and sometimes stories from that life, impossibly distant to most of these men now, before the War. A life which was distinguished by a boredom and normality for which they could only ache. I’d never understood until now how beautiful a normal life could appear to those who can never possess it. For eight years I had been a private detective in Aberystwyth, never making any money and seldom getting a case that was remotely interesting; certainly never fighting off the hordes of beautiful female clients that Myfanwy was convinced from watching TV were a staple part of my routine. Every day I had bantered with Sospan, wandered up and down the Prom, stroking my father’s donkeys and drinking pints in silence with him, a silence which I now recognised could only be enjoyed between two people whose love has gone beyond the artifice of words. And of course I had exchanged the most excruciatingly banal platitudes with Mrs Llantrisant about the weather. And now I was an outcast, wanted for the murder of one of my own friends, and the thought of being able to discuss the weather again with Mrs Llantrisant appeared to me as a distant dream.

I thought about the circumstances which had brought me to this pass, and when finally the conversation died slowly down and the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the distant sighing of the sea I turned to Cadwaladr.

‘Remember what you once told me about Rio Caeriog? About the version of events they never tell anyone?’

Cadwaladr threw a bone into the fire, sending bright sparks up into the night sky.

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Would you tell me that story now? The true story of Rio Caeriog?’

There was a murmur around the fire. Cadwaladr laughed softly and said, ‘By rights there’s only one man who should tell that story.’ His words hung in the air and were followed by a rustling around the fire as the men shifted their positions and turned their gazes to a man sitting in the shadows next to the guitarist. He eased himself forward into the glow from the fire; an air of expectancy spread round the circle.

‘You ask about Rio Caeriog?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me what you know about it.’

‘I know what the history books say, that it was a great military victory –’

Scoffing sounds erupted from all sides of the circle.

‘Oh yes,’ the man laughed bitterly, ‘a great military victory. That’s why there’s no statue of General Prhys outside the museum, and why you never find him mentioned in any of the history books.’

There were more scoffing sounds.

‘And what else do you know?’

‘I know that they put a radio beacon inside a Rolex watch, that the watch was lost in a rigged card game to one of the bandits who then took it back to the rebel base and then the Legion sent in the Lancaster bomber to home in on the radio beacon.’

The man nodded. ‘In these history books you talk of, do they tell you where the card game took place?’

‘It was a place called San Isadora, in the foothills of the Sierra Machynlleth mountains.’

‘That was a hundred miles behind the lines in hostile territory. Do you know how we got there?’

‘Marched, I suppose.’

The man spat. ‘Marched.’ His voice rose in anger. ‘You think you can just walk a hundred miles in hostile territory and no one will notice?’

The guitarist placed a mollifying hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Johnny, take it easy. It’s not this man’s fault.’

Johnny turned sharply towards the man. ‘Were you there? Were you there, huh?’

‘No, Johnny, I wasn’t. I wasn’t there.’

‘Don’t you think I have the right to be angry?’

Cadwaladr answered. ‘Yes, Johnny, you have a right to be angry. We all know that. But this man is a guest. He isn’t the one responsible for your pain.’

‘Tell him the story, Johnny.’

‘And us too; tell us about Rio Caeriog.’

‘Yes tell it, Johnny!’

Johnny sat back and resumed his story in a calmer voice. ‘I’ll tell you how we got there; General Prhys made us march those hundred miles disguised as United Nations peace-keepers. He gave us all a tin of blue paint and made us paint our helmets. That’s how we did it.’

I whistled, not sure whether I was supposed to be impressed or shocked. Then there was a pause, and as the fire died down to a glow, and with the far-off lights of Aberdovey gleaming behind him, Johnny told the story of Rio Caeriog.

‘When we got to San Isadora we billeted and went to the cantina. A young private by the name of Pantycelyn was chosen to play the card game. There was nothing special about him. He was like most of the other kids there. Young and frightened and wishing he could go back to his parents’ farm in the shadow of Cader Idris. But he was chosen.’ Johhny paused. ‘Or maybe he was chosen because he was sober and reliable. The sort of person who could be trusted not to get the watches mixed up. Because everyone had Rolexes in those days, cheap from the PX store.’ He stopped again and sighed sadly. ‘Yes maybe that was why they chose him.’ Johnny stopped and took a sip from his can. ‘Do they tell you any of this in your books?’

‘Yes, this much I have heard.’

He nodded. ‘Everything went well at first. Losing the watch was easy – the only hard part was not making it look too obvious. As soon as they won the Rolex, the bandits rode out of town, shooting their pistols in the air as they went. A Rolex watch was worth ten years’ salary in those parts. Then after the game Pantycelyn went to join the rest of the platoon. They were listening to the radio in the front bar. It was the semi-final of the Copa Americana and Brazil were playing Argentina. The entire town was there. When the kid walked in, something funny happened. The radio reception went haywire. The peasants hooted and threw enchiladas at him. And the kid starts to get scared. He realises that he must have got the watches mixed up. The bandits had got the genuine Rolex and he was wearing a radio beacon on his wrist with a Lancaster bomber heading directly for him. So he tries to get the thing off, but he’s so clumsy in his terror that he breaks the catch. Well, as you know, a Rolex is made to last: try as he might he can’t get the damned watch off. So his mates take him outside to work out what to do. There’s about an hour to go and everyone is getting jumpy. Someone suggests to the kid he does the noble thing and get on a mule and ride out of town for five miles. And, of course, he’s getting really jittery now and says, “Fuck off, why don’t you all ride out of town on a mule?” And they say, “So we can save all these innocent people here,” and he says, “Do I give a fuck? I’m dead anyway.” So then the medic pipes up and says, “Why don’t we amputate his arm?” This strikes everybody as a good idea, except Pantycelyn who’s now only too pleased to ride out of town for five miles, in fact, he’s begging to do it. But no one trusts him. So he makes a break for it, and they chase after him. All around the town he runs, with the platoon on his trail. Eventually they catch him. They hold him down, give him a shot of morphine, and amputate the arm – just below the elbow. Then they strap the arm to a mule and fire a gun behind it. Wham! The mule covers the first mile in less than a minute. Leaving Pantycelyn to sleep off his anaesthetic they go back into the cantina. Soon they hear the far-off drone of the bomber approaching above the clouds. By now it’s the last five minutes of the game and Argentina are one-nil up. The peasants are on the edge of their seats. They’re all betting like crazy on the outcome and the tables are all piled high with money. Well, what do you know! As soon as the soldiers walk in, the radio goes haywire again. Turns out it’s just something to do with the radio waves reflecting off the helmets. It means they cut the kid’s arm off for nothing. Of course, they’re pretty upset, but they agree among themselves not to tell the kid when he wakes up. After all, if there was nothing wrong with the watch on the arm they amputated, then the bandits must have taken the one with the radio transmitter all along. So as the sound of the plane gets louder, everyone goes outside to watch the fireworks. And from the roof of the cantina they watch as the bomber drops 14,000lbs of high explosive and phosphorus on to the orphanage. It seems the bandit had donated the watch to the one of the holy sisters. Twenty-seven children killed. Within hours every hoe, axe, hammer and shovel for two hundred square miles was raised against us. As we started our retreat, the rain came and washed the blue paint off our helmets.’