The Day Aberystwyth Stood Still

Prologue

She was just a Baal-worshipping Phoenician princess who got thrown out of a window by her eunuchs and eaten by dogs; could have happened to anyone. All they remember Jezebel for now is painting her face, and for that they call her a tramp. But the one thing they never tell you is the reason she did it: she knew she was about to die. The rouge was scorn thrown into the face of her assassin, whose name was Jehel. He’s not remembered for anything much apart from the events of that day. He didn’t sack towns, nor take into captivity all the virgin girls; he didn’t even hang the king from a tree outside the city gates. In the Old Testament you were nobody if you didn’t do that. As kings go, he was a peanut grifter. But thanks to him the flesh of Jezebel was as dung upon the face of the fields. In Aberystwyth they named a club after her, on the caravan park. A quiet place where you could sit late into the night holding the hand of a girl in a stovepipe hat and forget for a while the disenchantments of this world. I met a girl there once, and bought her a drink. It didn’t cost much. Just my heart.