Day Aberystwyth Stood Still, page 12
‘Someone else must have done it, not me. It could have been anyone, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose it could.’
It was evening by the time we got back to Aberystwyth. It had grown chilly and the streets were empty, the damp tarmac gleaming beneath the street lights. We walked along Terrace Road towards the sea, without thinking about it. The same invisible force that sucked the water back from the land pulled at us too. The sound of a public speaker drifted over from the Prom, getting louder as we walked. Miaow slipped her hand in mine. On the Prom the emptiness became less stark, couples walked past holding hands, and a group was gathered round a man on a small raised platform who was addressing them with a microphone. He was short and squat with arms that seemed disproportionately long for his torso. A quiver ran involuntarily through my loins, it was Herod Jenkins, my old school games teacher. Miaow turned sharply.
‘Louie, what is it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re squeezing my hand so hard . . .’
‘It’s Herod Jenkins, he used to teach me games.’
‘He can’t hurt you now, silly.’
‘I know, I know. It’s . . . it’s like a dog that was beaten once long ago who sees his old master in the street again. Even if he saw his old master in a coffin being lowered into the ground he would still tremble. It’s involuntary.’
His words reached us; he was talking about the New Sparta he would build in the ruins of Aberystwyth once elected. Did we need one? The original Sparta didn’t sound very attractive.
Miaow frowned, sensing that something about the mood had changed, as if it was our wedding day and someone had reported seeing the Ancient Mariner at the bar. I turned and smiled. ‘On our first day at big school he gave us a talk about how it was going to be. He called us all milksops and pansies and told us we had had it too good for too long but things were going to change. He offered us a choice: shape up or ship out. We were eleven.’
‘They always make that speech, Louie.’
‘On that first day at school he said there would be no more free rides, those who lagged behind would be left behind. One boy put his hand up to ask if this applied to him because he suffered from asthma. He said he had a note from his mum.’ I peered into her eyes as if my words contained an urgent revelation. ‘Herod pretended to be sympathetic and related a story of his time as a prisoner of war in Patagonia. He told how one morning the commandant called the prisoners together and appealed to them for help. He said a number of llamas had died in the night and they didn’t have enough to pull the plough so they were appealing for volunteers. He said it would be a great help to them and also a nice day out on the farm, but if they didn’t fancy it or were too busy he would understand and would make sure the table-tennis room was left open back at the camp for them to amuse themselves.
‘ “You, boy, no talking at the back!” Herod called out to me; heads turned to look.
‘ “If you’ve got something to say,” he said, “perhaps you’d like to share it with the rest of us.”
‘ “Mr Jenkins, I just wanted to ask, in this New Sparta you describe, will there be room for everyone, the weak as well as the strong?”
‘He peered at me over the heads of the throng. People began to mutter, as if my question had chimed with their own misgivings. Herod Jenkins raised his arm and swung it across, appealing for calm. He paused for effect, then said, “There is no such thing as weakness.” The muttering started again. “Weakness is a state of mind, born of sloth and idleness. Those who truly want to be strong will be strong. And those who can’t be bothered, who prefer to sit on their backsides and shirk their duty, they will be weak. But it is their choice.”
‘ “What about sick people?” I asked. “Are they sick because they are too lazy to get well?”
‘He stepped towards the edge of the podium and screwed his eyes up. He nodded as he recognised me.
‘ “It’s you, isn’t it? Louie Knight. I remember you. The troublemaker. Of all the milksops that ever crossed my path, you were the worst. Yes, I accept some are too sick to play their part. But you? Louie Knight? What excuse do you have for standing on the sidelines and mocking? Oh yes, I remember you well. You were not sick or halt or in any way infirm. The Lord blessed you with healthy thews. And yet you refused to take part. What excuse do you have?”
‘ “Quite often I was sick, I had a note excusing me from games, but you mocked me for it. What right did you have? Are you a doctor?”
‘He flashed with indignation. “A note from your mum, you say? Let me tell you the truth of this world, boy. If you take a lion cub and separate it from the pride and bring it up in a marble palace, if you feed it milk and dainty roasted goat flesh each day of its life such that it never learns to hunt, is that a kindness? No! And if you then turn it loose into the wild, having no comprehension of the struggle that awaits it, will it survive, do you think? Has your kindness, your diet of milk and kid, helped the lion to make its way in the world? Just so does it come to pass with men. When I was fighting in Patagonia, I learned that on the field of battle, which is but a metaphor for life, there is no note from your mum!”
‘ “But this is Aberystwyth,” I shouted. “We’re miles away from Patagonia!”
‘ “There is no distinction in the geography of the soul. All places are one. In Patagonia when I thirsted I drank the tears of the penguin; when I felt the ravening pains in my belly I chewed on the tapir’s foot. When I was weary I did not take the chinchilla for my pillow, but the armadillo! Not once did I cry out in the night for a note from my mum. When I fell into captivity I did not waste time cursing my fate, my thoughts were only for escape. I did not petition the commandant with notes from my mum! You know what would have happened if I had done that? You know what he would have said?” Herod Jenkins sneered and shouted, “You want to know what a note from your mum got in Patagonia? This!” And he ripped his shirt off to show us the stripes on his back.’
We wandered down to the wooden steps where they post the tide tables. Out in the darkness the end of the Pier hung over the water, studded with lights like an ocean liner. Is there any sight more calculated to thrill the heart than a big ship at night? There is something deeply affecting about those lights floating over the watery wilderness. Maybe it is the contrast, the interface of two worlds separated by a membrane of painted steel. Outside salt, and flung spume, endlessly dark, an abyss so profound it would take you twenty minutes to reach the bottom. On the other side of the steel, men and women in evening dress, warmth and light and a theatre performance in which they act out the play called Don’t Mention the Iceberg. We carried on walking until the harbour. The jetty brooded and the beacon standing proud at the end flashed like the light of an angler fish. The symmetry of the concrete was broken by the silhouettes of two fishermen, a man and a boy; the dark lines of their rods waved like the whiskers of a dim-bodied crustacean. A breeze rose, fish-scented, from the water and raised goose bumps on Miaow’s arm. She shivered and pressed herself against me. I linked my arms behind her and she turned to look up at me.
‘Do you know why they call me Miaow?’
‘No.’
‘Because of my green eyes.’
‘They’re nothing like a cat’s eyes.’
‘Why not?’
‘The green is the wrong shade. Cats’ are more like the digits on a luminous watch.’
‘What are mine like, then?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Of course!’
I pushed a filament of hair away from her cheek as if it were blocking my view and stared intently into her eyes. ‘The green is paler, like a phial of seawater held up to the light, and there are flecks of grey radiating like the striations in a slice of lime. At the rim of the iris there is a thin dark band that acts as a frame around a grey-green disk . . . it’s like watching the full moon through a bottle of absinthe.’
‘Do you want me to cry tears of absinthe?’
I shook my head. In the black waters of the harbour the town lay inverted like a nebula; skeins of shining gas hung like a necklace from the street lamps of the Prom. It was beautiful. Miaow peered into my face, her hair drawing forward like curtains to block out the world. She kissed me lightly on the lips. ‘I won’t let Herod Jenkins hurt you.’
Chapter 11
I slept badly and arrived late at the office next morning. The new desk had been delivered. It was already installed, and a man, who probably hadn’t been delivered with it, sat on the client’s chair with his feet on the desk. His shoes were black leather, badly scuffed, his trousers turned up and shiny with age. He wore a mackintosh that looked like it had spent six months tightly rolled up at the bottom of a packing case; his thin brown hair was congealed in a slick of police-issue hair cream. It was the cop who had sat sneering in the interrogation room the night I was taken to see the Aviary. He was eating an ice cream.
I slapped his feet off the desk. They fell to the floor with a thump.
He grinned. ‘I knew I wasn’t wrong about you.’
‘I like to be introduced before I let a man put his feet on my desk.’
The grin widened. ‘You can call me Sauerkopp.’ He raised a foot and crossed his leg. ‘They say the chief of police has a good relationship with you. That’s always a mistake in my book.’
‘Mistake for who?’
‘Everyone.’
‘And what makes you think I give a damn what’s in your book?’
The phone rang. The visitor picked up the phone, listened and said, ‘It’s a girl, wants you to find her lost handkerchief.’ He spoke to the receiver. ‘Sorry lady, he’s a dick, not a Boy Scout.’ He hung up and smiled. ‘Another big case slips through your fingers.’
‘Did you come for a reason or were you just passing?’
He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a Polaroid. He threw it towards me. I picked it up. It was the corpse of a woman, hair wet, face bloated.
‘Recognise the party?’
‘It’s Mrs Lewis.’
‘Someone tied her to one of the supports under the pier night before last, just before the tide came in. Ain’t that a shame!’
Something clenched in my loins, it was like an angry baby kicking against the wall of its womb; I didn’t let evidence of it reach my face. ‘She should have known better, the tide tables are clearly posted. Where did you get the snap?’
‘From my camera.’
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘I would say so, wouldn’t you?’
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘You look the type that might enjoy it.’
He made a sour grin. ‘Not really. Arresting people is boring. It looks fun in the TV cop shows, but in real life it’s just paperwork and spending a lot of what the Americans call quality time with people who don’t wash very often. Sometimes they try and bite you. They never show that on TV, but that’s what it often comes down to. Being bitten by a fully grown man is a very unpleasant experience. Sometimes they struggle in such a way that they threaten to injure themselves. That’s not necessarily a big deal, but it means more paperwork, so you have to spray a little something in their eyes; nothing calms a man down faster than a little something in his eyes. Trouble is, it makes them produce a lot of mucus – from their eyes, their nose, out of the mouth. You’d be surprised how much the body can pump out in a situation like that. Believe me, grappling with a man producing loads of mucus isn’t fun. I don’t arrest people, I get the flatfoots to do it.’
‘You can arrest me, I wash every day.’
He smiled. ‘You are forgetting one thing: I like you. How are you getting on with Raspiwtin? Anything you want to tell me?’
‘There’s nothing I want to tell you.’
He threw another photo down on top of the first. It showed me and Mrs Lewis talking on the Prom. ‘Looks like you had a date the night she died. As far as I can tell, the cops don’t know about it. They’re not as quick on their feet or as well informed as old Sauerkopp. But it could change. If something happens that might interest us and you are tempted to forget to tell us, I could forget not to show them the photo.’
I picked up the photo and stared at it while my heart tumbled slowly down the stairs.
‘Don’t look so sad, it’s not as bad as it seems. I know what you are thinking: you don’t photograph too well these days. It’s the light; sodium lighting is very harsh; it gives a greenish cast. I should have used a filter but I can never remember which one to use. Orange, I think.’ He took the photo out of my hand and walked out, saying, ‘Pack a toothbrush just in case.’
I loosened my tie, leant back and closed my eyes. Cops and ex-cops have a routine disdain for private operatives, and I don’t blame them. I would feel the same too if I were a cop. They know if they want to use testimony in court it helps if it comes voluntarily. When they arrive at a crime scene the first thing they have to do is seal it off, record everything in detail and take great care not to contaminate it with stuff from somewhere else. Not because they care about justice and fairness and due process but because they have learned through bitter experience that all their hard work will end up wasted if they don’t follow the rules. The first thing a private operative does when arriving at the scene of a crime is walk all over it looking for significant stuff before the cops come. He doesn’t care about contaminating it; let someone else worry, he doesn’t have the time. On occasion he will rearrange it, sometimes to eliminate his own presence, at others to try and effect a rough natural justice he has no right attempting but he does anyway. Sometimes he will wipe a murder weapon of prints or put someone else’s on it. Sometime he simply takes a key piece of evidence and throws it in the river, leaving a crime scene like a jigsaw puzzle missing a piece. I know the private operative does all these things because I have done them, and the cops know it too. In fact, if they know someone like me is sniffing around they assume the worst right from the start, and this often results in the private operative taking a tumble down the police-station steps.
I made a call to Meirion, a friend of mine on the crime desk at the Cambrian News. I asked him what he knew about the Mrs Lewis case. He didn’t know anything and so I told him to forget I’d even asked. Calamity walked in and I told her what had happened.
She put on a deep frown. ‘Who do you think did it?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The mayor, maybe.’
‘Or the doctor.’
I nodded.
‘Do you think it’s connected to us?’
‘What do you think?’
She thought for a while. ‘Iestyn and Skweeple turn up at the doctor’s surgery. They call Preseli. When he comes, Iestyn escapes, so he takes Skweeple away. That’s the last we hear of him. A week later Iestyn is caught and hanged. The papers don’t mention Skweeple. Something must have happened to him while in Preseli’s custody. The doc knows about it too. They’re both in on it.’
‘Why kill Mrs Lewis; she doesn’t know what happened.’
‘Maybe she does know, or maybe they think she knows. Or maybe just knowing that Preseli took him is enough.’ She stood up. ‘I think it is definitely time to try the Barney and Betty Hill routine.’
‘I’ll probably regret this, but what is that?’
‘Barney and Betty Hill are one of the most famous contactee cases of all time, from 1961. They were driving home through New Hampshire after a vacation in Quebec and they saw a bright light in the sky . . .’ She stopped.
I looked at her sourly. ‘You might as well go on, although try and keep in mind that someone I spoke to the day before yesterday has been murdered and I was probably one of the last to see her. Presumably it won’t be long before the cops find out.’
‘Fine,’ said Calamity. ‘We don’t do the Barney and Betty Hill.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘You might as well finish it.’
‘What’s the point, you are going to think it’s dumb.’
‘OK. I promise to try not to. Tell me in the car.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Remember James the Less and his son the forensic linguist?’
‘The kid who knows more types of duck than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘I thought we could go and show him the letter Raspiwtin gave me.’
We set off for Cwmnewidion Isaf and Calamity told me about Barney and Betty Hill.
‘They were driving home one night,’ she began, ‘and they saw a bright light. They stopped and got out to take a look. Then somehow they found themselves at home and six hours had passed which they couldn’t account for. After that they started getting nightmares. Eventually they were questioned by the military and offered hypnotism, and it all came out. How they’d been abducted aboard the saucer and given medical examinations and stuff. The aliens were baffled by Barney’s false teeth.’
‘This was 1961?’
‘Yes. In America.’
‘Were they Greys or Nordics?’
‘Greys.’
We drove south out of town and turned off the main road at Rhydyfelin.
‘Mrs Bwlchgwallter from the gingerbread shop does hypnotism. I thought we could get her to hypnotise the farmer.’
‘What do you expect to learn?’
‘I don’t know. My hunch is they are looking for Skweeple. They asked for Iestyn because they think he can tell them what happened to Skweeple. What do you make of Jhoe?’
‘Three possibilities,’ I said.
‘Number one,’ said Calamity, ‘he’s from the star system Noö.’
‘That’s number three. Between number two and number three there is a wide gap.’
‘What’s number two, then?’
‘He could be an actor sent by the Aviary, or some other body, to bamboozle us.’
‘I thought about that, but why?’
