The Day Aberystwyth Stood Still (12 page)

‘Who indeed!’

‘Still, it was wrong. To kill a brother . . . I deserved your curse.’

‘No longer. I come to embrace you and beg forgiveness for the years I cast you out from my heart.’

Tears filled his eyes and overflowed, big drops fell down the sides of his face and thudded the counterpane. ‘Oh Lord! Quick, pass me my specs – they’re on the table somewhere.’

I looked at them lying on the bedside table. Calamity picked them up and hid them behind a flower vase.

‘I can’t see them, Huw.’

‘Is there someone else there? I sense a presence.’

‘My daughter Eluned. I never told you.’

‘A daughter!’

‘Yes.’

‘Wonder of wonders! How old? No, not you. Let me hear her speak.’

‘I’m eighteen, Uncle Huw,’ said Calamity.

‘She sounds just like you. Quick, dear niece, hold your uncle’s hand.’

Calamity pulled a face and placed her hand in his. ‘I’ve prayed for this reconciliation every day,’ she said.

‘She’s studying Law now,’ I said. ‘At Bangor.’

‘My oh my! A Pugh at university, who’d have thought it! Makes a change from the debtors’ prison.’

Mrs Pugh brought in the tea and left without a word. We drank politely, trying to change the subject.

‘We read about you in the papers,’ I said.

Huw Pugh nodded and answered dreamily. ‘Yes, it was a great strain; having to tell all those lies, having to pretend all the time about Ifan. I had to keep making phone calls to relatives and folk, asking if they’d seen him, even though I knew he was dead in the cellar. “We think he might have lost his memory,” I’d say. “He might be wandering around all lost. You will look out for him, won’t you?” And I’d say to mam, “See? He’ll be back next week, you mark my words. He won’t be able to keep away from your home cooking much longer, not if I know old Ifan.” ’ Huw Pugh wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his nightshirt. ‘You remember Old Gelert the dog? He used to bark at the cellar door, and scratch at it. And if I went near him, his hackles would rise and he would snarl. If I put food out, he wouldn’t eat it. I told mam it was just a reaction to losing Ifan and she would say, “But what’s that got to do with the cellar? Ifan used to be scared of the cellar; he never went near it.” Eventually I decided the only thing to do was get rid of the dog. Smash his head in with a brick, I thought. But he was a clever bugger, that dog – he knew, you see. He knew what I was thinking. It’s funny how they can tell, isn’t it? I spent a whole month trying to catch him and all the time when my back was turned he’d be there whining and scratching at the cellar door. It was doing my head in. Then I had an idea. I dressed up in Ifan’s clothes and came back down the lane like he always used to. Well, I tell you, that fooled him, he came bounding up the lane, barking and yapping with joy until he was about 5 foot away, then he screeched to a halt like they do in the cartoons; amazing it was, he left skid marks in the dirt; you wouldn’t think a dog could do that, would you? But I tell you, he did. It was too late, though, I had him by the collar so there was nothing he could do. Bashed him in good and proper, although he fought like a tiger. Then I left him in the road so it would look like he’d been hit by a car. I was almost high and dry until mam came back from the shops early whooping with joy, saying she’d seen Ifan in the lane with Gelert. “He’s back!” she cried, “he’s back!” She wouldn’t be persuaded neither; she went round telling everyone in the village she’d seen him. That’s why they had to commit her. After that, I waited a while, then moved the body to Tregaron Bog.’

‘Let’s not dwell on the past,’ I said.

‘No, you’re right,’ he said.

‘Now we need to get you well again. Tell us about the flying saucer.’

‘Oh that,’ he said without interest. ‘First, come and give your brother a hug and let him feel your love.’ He reached his arms out.

I looked at Calamity. Her expression said plainly that here was a challenge that could not be ducked. I leant forward into his embrace and dug my arms under him, clasping him in a bear hug. He squeezed. ‘Oh Rhys,’ he croaked. ‘Rhys, Rhys, Rhys.’ The bristles of his unshaven chin, hot with tears, rasped against my cheek. ‘Oh Rhys bach . . .’

I let my hug go limp but waited patiently to be released.

‘Sometimes I used to stand on the railway line and think, Welshpool is only an hour away. I am no more than an hour from the love of the brother I have wronged. But really I knew the distance between us was unbridgeable, or so I thought until the Lord blessed this day.’

I extricated myself and stood up. ‘Tell us about the alien, we’re all agog. Is it true she wanted to make love to you?’

‘She did, but I’m afraid she was in for a bit of a disappointment.’ He stared up with a sheepish look. ‘You know how it is first time with a girl. We all brag about it down the pub, don’t we? But when it comes down to brass tacks . . . well, it’s not the same. Especially if the girl is experienced. To tell you the truth, Rhys, I can’t do it unless I’m pissed. It’s different then, isn’t it? And then doing it on a table inside the saucer . . . it felt all wrong, sort of clinical. She was ever so nice about it, she said I shouldn’t worry because she’d done this loads of times, but that’s what worries you, isn’t it? I mean, I wasn’t expecting her to tell me I was the first, but we like our little illusions, don’t we? And there was another thing: the table was in the centre of the room and there were two other blokes, aliens like, operating a console set against the wall and looking over their shoulders at us and then flicking buttons and levers on the console, and it was almost like she was responding to their inputs. She said, “Please don’t worry, earth-man, your semen will be safe with me.” And then she looked confused and asked what was wrong, and I asked, like, if she had any music and she said she would sing to me and bugger me if she didn’t! “Myfanwy” she sang. Quite good, too, but it wasn’t what I had in mind. The mood was all wrong, you see. Then the blokes on the console pressed a red button and she told me she loved me and couldn’t bear to be apart from me. It still didn’t do any good and so then she cried and said this had never happened to her before. Then I woke up sitting in the car, and twelve hours had passed.’

‘In the papers it says you couldn’t remember much about it,’ said Calamity.

‘I told the press I couldn’t, but I was lying wasn’t I? I’m hardly going to tell them the truth now, am I? It’s bad enough all me mates laughing down the pub as it is. Imagine it if I told them I couldn’t perform!’

‘We heard they asked about Iestyn Probert,’ I said.

‘They did, and I told them the Proberts are not from round here, they used to live over at Ystumtuen, but they’ve moved. I didn’t say they hanged Iestyn because it didn’t seem nice if they were friends of his.’

‘Maybe they told you lots of interesting things but you can’t remember them,’ said Calamity hopefully.

‘Maybe they did, but if I can’t remember them, they’re not much use to me, are they?’

‘We were wondering, maybe you should be hypnotised to stop you getting nightmares.’

‘I’m not getting nightmares.’

‘But you will,’ lied Calamity. ‘They always do. We could arrange a hypnotism session to straighten you out. You know Mrs Bwlchgwallter from Ginger Nutters? She could do it. I mean, you must be curious to find out what happened.’

‘Not really, to tell you the truth.’

Chapter 8

Refugees from
caravan sites shuffled through the town, glistening and torpid in the wet, not so much a drizzle as a tingling miasma of rain. The damp seeped up through my bones and made the climb up the stairs to the office feel more difficult, as if gravity had increased.

The window had been left ajar and rain formed a pool on the windowsill. Calamity had put newspaper down to soak up the puddle. The rooftops of the town looked like they had been varnished. The phone had been replaced and was ringing as I entered. I picked it up.

‘This is Mrs Lewis.’

‘Hello Mrs Lewis.’

‘You remember me? From Laura Place.’

‘The doctor’s housekeeper! How is he today?’

‘Never mind that. I have something that might interest you.’

‘Really?’

‘Information that might be useful to your case.’

‘What case is this?’

‘Don’t get fresh with me, Mr Knight. The whole town knows you are a private detective.’

‘I expect they do; it’s not a secret.’

‘I haven’t got much time; the doctor is taking his afternoon nap but he is easily roused. Listen very carefully. The price will be £25. Cash would be preferable, but I will accept a personal cheque drawn on an account bearing your name.’

‘What about a postal order?’

She hesitated. ‘That’s a bit troublesome, but I expect . . . oh I see. That was a wisecrack, wasn’t it? I was warned to expect this sort of flippancy.’

‘I’m not sure if it counts as a wisecrack.’

‘Mr Knight, do you want the information or not?’

‘Tell me what it is.’

‘You must think I’m daft. If I tell you what it is you won’t have to pay for it.’

‘But how can I pay for it if I don’t know what it is?’

I could sense a growing exasperation. ‘B . . . but you . . . you always pay for your information, don’t you?’

‘Not always. Sometimes people give it to me for free, although that happens less and less these days. Usually when I pay it’s for something I want and I know the party has but doesn’t want to give me.’

‘But that’s me.’

‘Yes, but I don’t know what you’ve got.’

‘It’s about the matter you were discussing with the doctor.’

‘And what was that?’

‘As if you didn’t know.’

‘Oh, I know all right; I was just wondering how you knew. You weren’t there.’

‘It’s possible I may have overheard some of your conversation with your girl while I was waiting for the kettle to boil.’

‘That can happen.’

‘Sometimes words carry –’

‘I’ve noticed that. Especially through keyholes. It’s something to do with the acoustics in old houses . . . Aberystwyth is famous for it.’

‘Such impertinence!’

‘Just tell me what you’ve got, and I can warn you now it won’t be worth £25. Maybe a tenner if it’s really good.’

‘Fifteen pounds is my final offer.’

‘OK, twelve if I really like it. That’s
my
final offer.’

‘It’s about someone called Iestyn Probert.’

‘What about him?’

‘He came to see the doctor the night the boys robbed the Coliseum cinema.’

I tightened my grip on the phone; it was almost as if she had sent an electric jolt along the line. Mrs Lewis cackled like a witch discussing holiday plans with her familiar. ‘Ha ha! You’re not so cocky now, are you, Mr Big Shot Wise-Cracking Snooper.’

I said nothing, waited for the moment of cheap triumphalism to pass. It took a while.

‘Oh yes, not so cocky now, are we?’

‘That’s very interesting.’

‘More than interesting, I’d say, wouldn’t you? I was surprised, you see, they never mentioned it in the papers.’

‘Yes, I can see why that would surprise you.’

‘Fifteen pound.’

‘It’s not that interesting,’ I lied.

‘Don’t play games with me, Mr Knight, I heard you gasp from here. And that was just the starter, that’s nothing compared to what else I know.’

‘Mrs Lewis –’

‘I’ve got to go, I can hear him stirring. Meet me at the community singing at Castle Point tonight at 9.00.’

There was a pause.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘I was just waiting for you to say, “No police and no funny stuff”.’

‘I won’t rise to your bait. Bring £15 and make sure you are not followed. Castle Point community singing, at the back.’ She hung up.

Calamity having divined that the call had taken me aback, stared at my face for clues.