Last Tango in Aberystwyth

Then there was strength inside him for no more. His head fell back to rest on the bench; he closed his mouth, exhausted at the effort of those six syllables. I tugged my trousers away from his childlike grip and left him staring at the ceiling with eyes bigger than saucers, waiting for release of death.

As I left the club I saw the cowgirl's holster hanging up by the door and, making sure no one saw, I slipped the toy gun into my pocket. Outside, the pavements were wet with spray from the sea. Patrons were starting to leave. I kissed Ionawr and pressed some money into her pocket and told her to go. I had things to do that night that it was better she didn't see. But no sooner had she left than I was cheated of my dark design. In a riot of drunken giggling, Mrs Bligh-Jones climbed awkwardly into the back of Jubal's car and stuck her legs through the wound-down window, wiggling them until a shoe fell off into the gutter. And Father Seamus, with whom I had an appointment tonight, got in the front and the car sped off.

The shoe lay in the gutter next to the drain, a tawdry spoor of a Cinderella with size twelve feet. I took a half-step and scooped it up on to the pavement with the toe of my foot. Then I kicked it towards the cleansing sea. It toppled through the air like a rugby ball, over the white crossbar of the railings. It did little to lift my despondency. The moment called instead for an act of penance.

I walked up to the stand and ordered a hot dog. As I waited, breathing in the rich perfume containing all the disappointments of my life, I thought of Myfanwy. Who had been on the other end of the line? Was it her? Where was she calling from? South America? How could it be and yet why could it not? There was no way of knowing, and yet my heart was deeply troubled. I took the hot dog and walked off into the night and thought of Mrs Bligh-Jones, the heroine of Pumlumon. True, she might have lost an arm up on that mountain, I thought grimly, but who could deny that in return she gained a kingdom?

Chapter 12

It was just a comment passed in an Aberystwyth bar. After half a lifetime presiding over the mortal remains of Aberystwyth folk, he decided to go and see where the course materials came from. Just a passing comment made to a harmless stranger in the sort of bar where the strangers never are. My trade is death.

I stirred the tea in the pot and set out two cups then leaned back in my chair and let the hot fug of the paraffin heater lull me. Calamity walked in and I poured the tea as she emptied her schoolbag on to the desk: copper wire, anti-rheumatics, nylons, chocolate, fake library tickets ... and a packet of sugar marked 'Property of the Red Cross, Geneva'. The last item out of the bag was a packet of bird seed. I asked her what it was for.

'Custard Pie asked me to get it.' She looked at me slyly.

'You went to see him, then?'

'You said I could.'

'I know.'

'It wasn't as bad as you think. He was quite friendly, really. The guards think he's lost it. Do-lally.' She twirled an index finger next to her temple to demonstrate his mental state.

'And he asked you for bird seed?'

'There's an air vent leading up to the ground, he thinks he can tame some birds like the Birdman of Alcatraz.'

'I suppose he can't eat it and fly out of there. But just be careful. Make sure you sell it dearly. Tell him to give you some information about the Dean and then when he does, say: "You call that good information! The whole town knows that, give me something I don't know." Or something like that, OK?'

'Right.'

'And be careful, whatever you do, don't trust him.'

Calamity took her tea and stood staring out of the window. 'Actually, Louie, I was thinking, seeing how dangerous this project is, I may need a heater on this one.'

'Put on a jumper, like your mum keeps telling you.'

'You know what I mean, stop messing around.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Not that sort of heater — you know, a heater.'

'A heater?'

'Protection ... an equaliser ...'

'A what?'

She sighed loudly. 'A rod, an iron, a gat ...'

'You mean a gun?'

'Yes.'

'Sorry, kiddo, you're only licensed to carry a catapult.'

'I'm serious, this is a crucial aspect of the case.'

'Is that so?'

'I get the feeling it all hinges on this, we can't afford any mistakes here. I could take yours.'

'I haven't got one.'

'Yes you have, it's locked in the sea-chest. Mrs Llantrisant told me. The key's taped behind the picture of Noel Bartholomew.'

I changed tack. 'Calamity, as long as you work for me, you'll never carry a gun. I never carry one and it's probably the only reason I'm still alive.'

A floorboard creaked and we both looked round. The door opened and Gretel stood framed in the doorway. 'Hi! Can I come in?'

She was wearing a hessian trouser suit and a wide-brimmed hat and had painted her nails scarlet. I had an awful feeling it was an attempt at glamour. There was also something slightly stilted and unnatural in the way she walked, as if her recent exposure to the tarnished streets of Aberystwyth was causing her to affect a growing worldliness. I poured out another tea and Gretel told me the news. The Dean had telephoned her and pleaded with her to call off the sleuths.

'He was very angry with me,' she said. 'He said there were some very bad men looking for him who wanted him dead and having two bungling private detectives hunting him was just making it easier for them.'

I nodded thoughtfully.

'He knew you'd been to the hotel and the Seaman's Mission and the Komedy Kamp at Borth. And he said Mister Marmalade was ... was ... what's the word?'