Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth

Chapter 3

THE OLD JEW wandered off in the direction of the kids’ paddling pool and sat down on a bench. He stared out to sea but it was clear he was still observing us. Two workmen in overalls were pasting posters to boards attached to the sea railings. Two posters that represented in many ways the twin poles of love and terror to be found in the collective Aberystwyth heart.

One advertised a new movie, Bark of the Covenant, featuring Clip the Sheepdog. Clip had been the canine hero of the war in Patagonia at the end of the ’50s; a beloved star of the What the Butler Saw newsreels, the Welsh Lassie. After the end of that insane conflict the dog had been stuffed and now sat obediently in a glass case in the museum on Terrace Road, his muzzle permanently fixed in the bright smile that they said was a high-water mark of the taxidermist’s art. The movie was a re-release, the director’s cut. The other poster bore a different sort of smile, the grin of a man less beloved than Clip: it was the face of my old games teacher, Herod Jenkins. The bogey man who haunted all our nightmares. Years ago in school I had watched him send my consumptive schoolmate Marty off on a cross-country run into a blizzard from which he never returned. In later years Herod had tried to blow up the dam and drown our town. His face, too, was famous for its smile, or rather the horizontal crease across his face that he called a smile.

Calamity and I watched the two men dip their brooms in watery wallpaper paste and sweep them rhythmically across the paper. The long, slow arcs, like windscreen wipers, smoothing out the horizontal crease in the paper, but doing nothing for the one in Herod Jenkins’s face. According to the poster Herod Jenkins had found work at the circus: ‘Samson Agonistes, half man, half bear!’ It was a role created bespoke by the tailors of fate. Circus strongman, the last refuge for a renegade games teacher who has run out of options. The circus was parked about twenty miles outside town, at Ponterwyd. They didn’t dare cross the county line and come any closer to town because Herod was a wanted man in Aberystwyth. Although wanted only in the technical legal sense. I shivered.

‘What do you reckon?’ said Calamity.

I put a fatherly arm across her shoulders. ‘If he was telling the truth, and he really doesn’t know what the item you found is, he doesn’t know it’s a hat-check receipt, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So there’s no reason why we should tell him. We’ll come back and pick it up another time.’

‘I’m aching to know what it is.’

‘Me too, but sometimes you just have to be patient about these things.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘We’ll go to the Kamp and then talk to Father Christmas’s girlfriend.’

We drove out to Borth with heavy hearts. We hated going to Kousin Kevin’s Kamp; we always got thrown out. It was only a matter of how far we got inside the perimeter gate before it happened.

After the turning at Rhydypennau we bade farewell to the sun. The world was grey. It was just one of those accidents of geography. All the rocks found along this coast are grey, buff, beige or dirty mauve. In other parts of the world the hills are quarried for bright, shining Carrara marble. Just a little accident of geography, that’s all, but it is surprising how much it can affect the contents of the human heart. Try as you may, you can’t imagine people lolling about in togas and sandals, drinking wine, in buildings made of slate. Just as it’s hard to imagine them beneath the bright hills of Liguria, in their halls of white marble, sitting in crow-black rags, stirring cauldrons and tending spinning wheels like they do in Talybont.

We drove in through the perimeter fence and past the guard house, under a bleak wrought-iron sign, and on to the car park. The snow that had fallen a few days ago still remained here on the north-facing slope. Against the whiteness the buildings looked darker and more sombre, a world of two tones which reminded of those arty photography exhibitions they sometimes held up at the Arts Centre on campus. The sort of blurred, out-of-focus snaps that normal people threw away but that won prizes if you exhibited them.

‘You can get rickets if you stay at this place too long,’ said Calamity.

‘How do you know?’

‘I read about it in the paper. They recommend you to eat mackerel while you’re here because it’s high in vitamin D.’

I reversed into a parking space and butted the rear of the Wolseley Hornet up against a wire-netting fence on which was stapled a metal sign showing an Alsatian dog in silhouette attached to a leash held by a clown.

‘Judging by past experience we won’t be here more than ten minutes so you should be OK. If you start feeling dizzy, let me know.’

I was wrong. We were there less than six minutes.

Any time after mid-October was low season at the Kamp and it would get lower and lower until about late March. The only blip was around New Year when a few people turned up who had won weekends away in the works’ raffle. But it was too early for that, and as we wandered through the lines of dark brooding barracks we saw almost no one except the odd Klown slouched in a doorway, and up by the perimeter a party with buckets and spades digging in the kitchen garden. We headed straight down the rows and followed the smell of frying to the refectory.

It was warm and stuffy inside and reeked of fried bacon and tea that had been stewing in a big silver urn since the days of Noah. A few families sat eating from meal trays at long trestle tables. Nearer the door a man sat alone, scooping soup from a wooden bowl. We sat at his table.

‘Mind if we join you?’

He paused and looked and said nothing.

‘Great place isn’t it?’

His eyes narrowed but he kept on eating as if there was a time limit and he was up against it. It was probably true.

‘You been here long?’ I beamed at him.

He put the spoon down and said, ‘Why you asking? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Just being friendly.’

‘We were looking for the harp player,’ said Calamity.

‘The one in the stovepipe hat,’ I added. As if there were any other type.

The man narrowed his eyes and regarded us for a second; then, having decided it was safe to divulge this piece of information, said: ‘She doesn’t come on till the evening.’

We feigned disappointment.

‘Did you know she was seeing the Father Christmas who got whacked?’ said Calamity.

The man choked on his gruel. He picked up his bowl and spoon and scurried over to one of the Klowns. He spoke to him, turning and pointing to us as he did. The Klown took out a notebook, wrote something down, and then left the room. We decided to leave, too.

‘What are we going to say to the stovepipe hat girl when we find her,’ said Calamity.

‘Well, we could always try the subtle approach you just used there; that seemed to work quite well.’

‘Yes, I goofed. We need to be more oblique.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘The Pinkertons wouldn’t have done it like that.’

‘What would they have done?’

‘Psychology. That’s what they’d have used.’

‘I’m all for that.’

‘If we go straight in and ask the party about her relationship with the DOA, she’ll clam up, right? We have to find a way to make her drop her guard. We achieve that objective by enlisting her sympathy.’

‘How do we do that? Say our dog’s got a thorn in its paw?’

‘No, but you could pretend to be sick and we could knock on the door.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. You pretend to be sick and we knock on the door.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because they will feel more sorry for you, especially as you will look so sweet with those ribbons in your hair.’

‘What ribbons?’

‘The ones we will buy on the way.’

‘I’m not wearing ribbons.’

‘Think of it as going undercover.’

We were interrupted by the sound of an explosion somewhere towards the car park. Calamity and I exchanged glances and without needing to discuss it turned our steps in that direction.

A man wearing chef’s whites rushed out of the kitchen and came up to us. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘No, we’re just going over to the car.’

‘Your car?’

‘Yes, we heard something over there, sounded like a crash.’

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to go to the bus stop? There’s one due any minute.’

‘Bus stop?’

‘It’s a wonderful service, sir, truly wonderful. You really shouldn’t listen to those idiots who disparage it. Really you shouldn’t.’ He looked at me with a beseeching expression and watery eyes filled with imploring anguish. His voice was thin and had the whine that a regularly beaten dog gets. ‘Please, sir, it really is a wonderful bus.’ He grabbed my sleeve. ‘I wish I had time to take it myself.’

‘But we’ve got a car, we want to go to our car.’

His face fell and a look of utter hopelessness swept across it. ‘Your car, yes, of course you do. And why not? If I had a car, I’d want to go to it too. It would be crazy to expect anything else.’ He let go of my sleeve with the air of a man whose last hope of salvation has disappeared. ‘It was foolish of me. Absurdly foolish.’

‘I’m sorry but we really must be going.’

‘You can come, too, if you like,’ said Calamity.

The man struggled with himself in the grip of his anguish. He grabbed his wrist and twisted it. ‘But what are you going to do when you get to your car?’

‘Drive home, I suppose.’

‘But that’s a crazy plan . . .’

A man in a tuxedo and black bow tie appeared from around a corner and joined us. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘He wants to drive home,’ said the chef.

The man in the tuxedo grinned with joy. ‘My word, sir, my word! A sportsman, a true sportsman.’

‘We were going to drive to Talybont.’

‘I see, sir, you are an optimist. A man who, if I may be permitted the observation, sees always the doughnut and never the hole.’ He turned to the chef. ‘Don’t you agree, Johnny?’

‘Absolutely Mr Fortnightly. You have to admire it, you really do.’

The man who was Mr Fortnightly allowed a look of wan sadness to transform his face. It was acting, but it was good acting. ‘Ah, but alas, sir, I suspect even you would be rather less sanguine if you were to see the condition of your car now.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘I fear a rock may have hit the fuel tank.’

‘Is someone throwing rocks?’

‘Rocks are a common feature of the sea shore.’

‘But our car isn’t on the sea shore . . . is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how did it get there?

‘Plummeted.’

How?’

‘I’m afraid there you have me, sir. You will have to take the matter up with Mr Newton.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He’s in Westminster Abbey. Unless you are a modernist, in which case you would probably have more sympathy for the view of Mr Einstein . . .’

‘You’re referring to Sir Isaac Newton, aren’t you?

‘Indeed, sir. Your car has been gripped by the mysterious force of gravity and fallen off the cliff. In doing so, it has sustained what both the aforementioned physicists would describe as a massive increase in entropy, to a degree that would severely prejudice your plan of driving it home.’

We reached the car park and found, to our relief, that our car was still there. But the one next to it was being winched up from the beach. The two men exchanged gleeful glances and then burst out laughing. The man in the tuxedo handed me a card on which was written, ‘Kongratulations! You’ve just had your leg pulled by Johnny Sarkastik and his assistant, Mr Fortnightly.’ He grabbed my hand and shook it, saying: ‘Well done, sir, what a sport!’ Then he lowered his voice and added, ‘You had a lucky fucking escape this time, didn’t you, snooper.’

We interpreted this as an invitation to leave and drove to Talybont. On the way we stopped a district nurse who pointed out the cottage where the harpist lived. It was set away from the road at the end of a small lane, built from slabs of grey stone under a mauve roof of slate gleaming in the watery air. Dank weeds and grasses grew up against the walls and gave off a strong vapour of rottenness; a horse stamped in a stable nearby.

We stood in the doorway and knocked, Calamity doing her best to look sick and woebegone.

The door was opened by a girl wearing a red flannel shawl over a white blouse and a black-and-white checked skirt; on her feet were shoes with shiny Tudor buckles. She looked younger than the photo in the newspaper – about nineteen, perhaps – and prettier. She smiled.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘My daughter has had a nasty turn. Could we trouble you for an aspirin?’

‘Oh, you poor little mite,’ said the girl, automatically lowering herself a few inches as if Calamity were a five-year-old. She pressed the back of her hand against Calamity’s brow.

‘All I need is an aspirin,’ said Calamity with thinly disguised hostility.

‘She really isn’t very well,’ I said.

We were invited into the kitchen and seated at a table of unvarnished wood. The old man of the house sat in a rocking chair next to an open fire. He had thin white hair and white whiskers, and bright pink cheeks. A book rested on his knees, old and worn like a Bible or some ancient religious tract. Reading glasses lay on the book. Another man, much younger, stood with his back to us, staring out of the window. He stood stiffly erect, without the softness of the old man. Three stovepipe hats hung on a stand by the door. The girl picked up a sooty black kettle from the hearth, brought down cups and saucers from a Welsh dresser set against one wall, and made us tea.

‘You have a nice cup of tea, now,’ she said, ‘and I’ll have a little word with the spirits to see what we can do for you.’

‘Please don’t go to the trouble,’ I said hastily. ‘She’ll be fine. All she needs is to sit down for a few minutes and a little aspirin.’

‘Nonsense, it’s no trouble. It’s a pleasure to be able to help you.’

‘That’s if you are who you say you are,’ said the man standing at the window.

The girl screwed up her face in consternation. ‘Peredur, please!’

He about-turned like a soldier on a parade ground. ‘I mean no disrespect, but who are you? We don’t know. You could be anyone. We don’t take kindly to strangers bringing the troubles of Aberystwyth here like mud on their shoes.’ He wore a tight black jacket, cut like a frock coat, and had a dog collar. His face was young and glowed with the conviction of the zealot.

The girl walked over and put her hands either side of his face. ‘Please, Perry.’

He jerked away.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘we didn’t mean to cause you folk any problems. Maybe it’s better if we leave.’

‘No,’ said the old man. ‘Please do not be offended by Peredur’s sharp tongue. He forgets his manners sometimes.’

‘We’re not offended,’ I said. ‘We understand your caution. These are dangerous times. Why, a department store Santa was murdered in town last week.’

There was a palpable increase in tension in the room.

‘I expect you heard about it,’ I added.

‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘We read about it – Arwel does work in the village and he brings us the papers sometimes.’

‘And we have a wireless,’ said the girl with a nervous look at Peredur. ‘We sometimes listen to the BBC.’

The back door opened and a man came in carrying a shotgun and with a leather bag slung across his shoulder. His hair was thick and curly, jet black. He pulled a dead hare out of the bag and slung it down on the table. Dark blood where the jaws of a trap had closed was congealed in a ring around the hare’s hind leg.

‘This is my brother, Arwel,’ said the girl. She poured him a tea. He nodded but didn’t offer to shake my hand.

‘These people are from the city,’ the girl said.

He nodded again but said nothing.

‘Fancy that!’ said the old man. ‘Tell me, I hear they have cappuccino in Aberystwyth now. Is it true?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s true.’

The man smiled and gave a slight shake of his head. ‘My, my. And an escalator? I hear there is an escalator there now?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I think the nearest one is still in Shrewsbury.’

He looked slightly crestfallen, as if a trip on an escalator was the one dream still left burning in the embers of his life.

‘Oh, yes, of course. Shrewsbury, not Aberystwyth.’

‘Have you been on one?’ asked the girl.

‘Yes, many times.’

‘We were wondering,’ said the old man. ‘Do you need special shoes to stand on them?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘And is it true that when the step reaches the top it re-appears moments later as if by magic back at the bottom?’

‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’

He shook his head at the wonder of it. ‘Fancy that!’

‘We met a man in the village once,’ said the girl, ‘who came from Aberystwyth. He gave father a coconut. How about that!’

‘It was from the funfair,’ the old man added quickly, for fear I be misled into a misunderstanding about the climate of Aberystwyth. ‘He won it in a contest. Have you ever seen one?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen one or two.’

‘They say the coconut tree provides more materials for man than any other tree on earth. They eat the fruit, and cook with the milk. From the trunk they make ships, and the husk gives them matting; the leaves can be woven to provide shelter, and this is only the beginning of what that marvellous tree does. Burning the husk wards off insects—’

‘Oh, father, don’t start on your silly old tree stories.’ She turned to us and smiled. ‘Father used to be a rocking-chair maker. All he ever thinks about is wood.’

Ignoring his daughter, the man continued, ‘And do you know why a Stradivarius violin sounds better than all the others? It’s because of a mini ice age they had in the fourteenth century. The long cold winters made the spruce trees grow slower so the rings were more tightly packed and this extra density gives a Strad its unique sound.’

‘That’s very interesting,’ I said politely.

Peredur cut in impatiently. ‘I’m sorry if you have had a wasted journey but we have no aspirins here. There is a pharmacist in the village.’

It was time for the wild card.

‘Hey you’re not the girl in the papers, are you? The one who was going out with the dead Father Christmas?’

She flinched and looked down at her shoes.

‘My daughter gives her free time to play harp to the poor holiday-makers at the Kamp,’ said the old man. ‘And for this the papers print lies about her.’

‘I may have met him once or twice,’ said the girl with a slight stammer. ‘But that’s all. Nothing more. Peredur doesn’t . . . doesn’t like me talking to men.’

‘Why, is he jealous?’ I laughed.

Peredur flushed. ‘I regard that as impertinent!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean to cause offence.’ Even though that was exactly what I meant.

‘Perry, please!’ said the girl.

‘The imputation is abhorrent to me,’ said Peredur.

‘Oh, now! The man didn’t mean anything by it.’

Peredur spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Banon, I flattered you with the hope that your heart was not like the hearts of other women in this town – a toy, a sailing boat sent hither and thither by the storms of trivial passion and adolescent sentimentality. Perhaps I did you too great a compliment.’

‘Come on, folks!’ I chirruped. ‘It is Christmas!’

They all looked astonished by this remark; silence fell with the suddenness of a guillotine. The girl began to polish her silver buckles. The old man found something interesting to look at outside the window. Peredur fixed me with a cold stare. He spoke slowly and enunciated each syllable lest I miss one. ‘It is precisely this loathsome trivialisation of the sacred truth of the Christ Mass represented by the . . . the institution of the department-store Santa Claus that I abominate.’

‘Christ Mass is a time of grieving in this household, you see,’ said the girl. ‘We’re Church of the Sacred Insubordination.’

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.’

‘We are an austere Church,’ said Peredur. ‘Our beliefs are considered too severe for many of the people round here. We believe that the truth about God is contained in the Old Testament and that the New Testament is a perversion of his message by His Son.’

‘Jesus lied you see,’ said the girl.

‘Like a lot of children he disobeyed his father,’ added the girl’s father, giving her a meaningful stare.

‘But . . . but . . .’ I struggled for a response. ‘What about the bit, you know, “A new commandment I give unto thee, that ye love one another”?’

‘He made it up,’ said Peredur.

‘He was very naughty,’ added the girl.

‘And for two thousand years mankind has been deceived.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ I asked.

‘The evidence is there in the gospels but people just don’t have the eyes to see it. Has it never struck you? The startling difference in the personality of God between the Old and New Testaments? How do you account for such a thing? Do you suppose God, the divine and immutable, underwent a personality change? Or that He is somehow schizophrenic? That He perhaps drank a potion like Dr Jekyll to transform His character? It is absurd. The true God, as revealed by His prophets, is stern and vengeful, quick to anger, jealous and terrible to behold. And yet He is fair and loves us after His fashion, but demands obedience. He is, in fact, like most fathers. He wants only what is best for His children but He is wise enough to know that the route to their felicity does not lie through the fields of softness and indulgence. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was never more truly written than about God’s children. What He categorically is not is sentimental. And yet the New Testament, the outpourings of Jesus, is a febrile, toffee-coated chocolate box of vile and corrupt sentimentality. Love thy neighbour? How can a man in Aberystwyth follow such a precept? Oh, yes, I know they will say it is not literally true but we are not shilly-shallyers here, sir. For us a gospel is precisely that: gospel. The true and undiluted, literal word of God. If it says we must turn the other cheek, we suppose it to mean that. And yet who could take such a precept seriously? Is it not obvious, when you consider it, that Jesus was taking the piss when He said that? Love, forgiveness, charity . . . it is all the grossest sentimentality, foisted on a credulous world by a disobedient son. He was a terrible disappointment to His father.’

Calamity sneezed. ‘’Scuse me.’

‘Oh dear!’ cried the girl, seemingly grateful for the opportunity to divert the conversation from Peredur’s gloomy liturgy.

‘You poor little thing, all the time we’ve been prattling away and you there still suffering. Wait a moment.’ She put her face into her hands and started to groan. She groaned for a whole minute and then looked up.

‘I’ve spoken to the spirits and they recommend a little salve of wormwood, betony, lupin, vervain, henbane, dittander, viper’s bugloss, bilberry, cropleek and madder. That should do the trick.’

‘All I want is a goddam aspirin,’ said Calamity.

‘Don’t use bad words, Mary-Lou!’ I said with the sternest voice I could muster.

‘One of my salves is much better than a silly aspirin,’ said the girl. ‘You just boil it up in sheep’s grease, place under an altar, sing five masses, strain through a cloth and use it to anoint your face after meals.’

‘It works best at five-night-old moon,’ said the old man.

‘Oh, Dad!’ laughed the girl. ‘You are so old-fashioned!’ She smiled at us conspiratorially, adding, ‘If you replace the viper’s bugloss with blackthorn bark and boil it in ewe’s milk it’s good against goblins, too.’

‘And if you say, “Wizen and waste shrew till thy tongue is smaller than a handworm’s hipbone,”’ said the old man, ‘it’s effective against a chattering woman.’

The girl flushed. ‘Oh, Dad, really! You always go too far. You know I don’t like to hear such talk.’

The old man winked at us and said, ‘See what happens? I send my daughter to the school in Talybont and they send me back a feminist.’

We stood up and I said, ‘Maybe we’ll try a chemist.’

The girl showed us out to the car. I slid into the driver’s seat and she bent forward and whispered with a nervous backward glance at the cottage in case Peredur was in the window, ‘I’m sorry about Peredur. He’s frightened, you see. They say the man was killed by gangsters and it is better not to get involved.’

‘Is it true what the papers say, about you and . . . the dead man?’

‘You mean Absalom? Most of it is lies, of course.’

‘You knew him?’

‘You mustn’t tell Perry.’

‘Oh we won’t.’

‘You see . . . I went to Aberystwyth. To see Bark of the Covenant. Perry would go mad if he found out. He thinks Clip is a graven image. He hates idolatry.’

‘Of course we won’t breathe a word.’

‘I met him in the queue for the movie. He was a Jew, you see, and I was wearing my stovepipe hat because they told me I would get a concession on the ticket if I did. And Absalom saw my hat and thought I must be a Jew and started talking to me. He asked me what tribe I was from.’ She giggled.

We forced polite smiles.

The girl looked over her shoulder again and leaned further into the car window. ‘I had dinner with him afterwards. But you mustn’t tell Peredur.’

‘We won’t.’

‘We talked, you know, about things. Mostly about hats and stuff and the best way to re-black the brim. He had some good tips.’

‘Did he say anything unusual?’

‘Well, the funny thing is, he did say something rather odd. He said, “After seeing this movie tonight my life is fulfilled.” And I said, “Yes, it was a jolly good film, wasn’t it?” And he said, “No, I don’t mean that. I mean tonight at the cinema I saw a man, a man whom I have sought all my life. My quest is ended.”’ She smiled. ‘He was ever so posh!’

I pressed a card into her hand.

‘If you think of anything that might help us, feel free to drop in to our office.’

She stuck the card up the sleeve of her blouse along with her handkerchief.

‘It’s in Aberystwyth,’ added Calamity.

The mention of the town lit a small fire in her eyes. ‘Ooh!’

‘And merry Chr . . . er . . . Christ Mass.’

‘No, you mustn’t say that – it’s like saying merry funeral or something.’

‘Happy New Year, then.’

‘No, you mustn’t say that, either; God doesn’t like it because it implies there was something wrong with the old one.’

‘What about “Oh, the baby’s knuckle or the baby’s knee, Where will the baby’s dimple be?”’ said Calamity. ‘Can we say that?’

‘I’ve never heard that one.’

‘It’s traditional.’

‘Well, then, I think it would be suitable.’

I dropped Calamity at her bus stop and drove back to the office. The sky was overcast and, though it was still only midafternoon, the cloud had snuffed the last dregs of light from the day. Occasional flakes of snow fell. There was a small crowd gathered in the street outside the office. But, for once, they hadn’t come to complain. They were watching a crane winch a fat man into a garret across the road.

The woman from the all-night sweetshop said, ‘You’ve just missed the reinforced bed. You’d think he’d find somewhere on the ground floor, wouldn’t you?’

‘Who is he?’

A man leaning against a lamppost spoke from under the brim of a fedora hat pulled down low. ‘Nobody knows.’ He had a slight American accent and was impeccably dressed: two-tone black and white brogues, sharply creased, generously cut trousers. A silk handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket of a coat of midnight blue. The discretion of the handkerchief was good: just enough to see it. Most people get that bit wrong. The man walked off.

I stared up, along with the other good burghers of Aberystwyth. Flakes of snow, invisible in the gathering dusk, smarted coldly for the briefest of moments on my eyeballs. The man was a round shadow slung beneath the crane, with short arms and legs sticking out and giving the outline of an inflated rubber glove. He turned slowly, swivelling on the end of the chain as, down below, workmen in hard hats shouted instructions to the crane operator. As he turned he came to face us for the briefest of seconds and then the momentum swept him on to more orbits. Round and round. And then, a kid turned up dressed in a red tunic and red pillbox hat like a bellboy from one of the fancier hotels. He was holding an insulated food box, and said, ‘Who ordered the pies?’ There was no answer but fifteen bystanders turned to look at him and then with synchronised movements pointed at the fat man hanging from the crane. The kid walked over and handed the pies to the foreman. I stared up at the man for whom the pies were intended, and as he swivelled and turned again to face us my gaze was caught and locked for a second by two sharp bright points of light that were his eyes, set deep in the dark, shadowy pumpkin of his face.