by Dai Smith
Silence! Think the aggro in my voice had been too much for him. All I could hear was the amount of money on offer being repeated down the line. And the sound of water boiling in the kitchen where Mike was doing what he does best. Being English.
I’ve tried to talk to Mike. But I can’t.
The news of Dan Llywellyn’s imminent demise has followed me around for days. Ever since Mam told me. And all the memories slogged me in the guts!
That’s the last line of this poem by a guy called Harri Webb. We did him at college – You see, it wasn’t all boys running around in muddy fields and pumping iron, I told Mike earlier – and I really loved his stuff.
Mike’s painting at the time. What I still call the small bedroom is now his studio. Looks more like a clinic if you ask me. I’ve never heard of anyone being creative and so tidy at the same time. Whilst the canvas is awash with colour, Mike remains immaculate. But that’s Mike for you.
He was only half listening to me, I could tell. He then informs me that he’s never heard of Harri Webb. Another one of your trivial poets, he insists. But inside I know that he takes it as a personal affront to his dignity as an English lecturer that I’ve managed once again to draw attention to a lapse in his supposedly superior education.
He was still at it when Mam rang in the early evening. Painting that is.
Things are worse than first thought, apparently. For old Dan. He’s at home. But he’s shrivelled to a nothing and his hair’s all fallen out. Sick every other minute, it seems. All over the bus back from town. So she said.
And what’s his wife got to say on the situation? I chipped in. The usual fuck-all, no doubt.
Mam tells me to wash my mouth out with soap and water, but I tell you, that woman should have had ‘I see nothing, I hear nothing, I say nothing’ tattooed across her forehead years ago. She must have known what was going on. Wasn’t deaf, dumb and blind through ignorance, I’m almost sure. And I don’t think it was fear either. Doubt if Dan Llywellyn ever touched her. It was just indifference. She’d sit there like a beached whale in front of the telly, stuffing chocolates in her mouth, oblivious to the tip around her. And all I ever did was mumble some banality as I passed her on the way to the bottom of their stairs. Dan upstairs before me, usually.
You go on up, love, she’d urge me. And up I’d go.
Twp she was, I reckon. Probably still sitting there right now, incarcerated by her cholesterol consumption and jellied in cellulite, flicking from channel to channel in order to shut out the outrages going on around her.
I reckon our Joanne will go the same way. Already showing early signs of abandonment, despite all this breeding she’s intent on inflicting on the world. In fact, I’m convinced it’s part of it. All these brats of hers are only an excuse for doing less and less. That’s the reality. She has no creative aspirations in her at all. Not for herself. Not for her kids. Never did.
Leave her alone. She only wants to give me more grandchildren, pleads Mam on her behalf. Since you clearly don’t intend to give me any.
Joanne and Dean already have three. That was my point, I said. Why the hell would they want more? Going by the evidence so far, the possibility that some hidden pearl of genius is hiding away in their shared gene pool is pretty remote.
They scream a lot. Mam spoils them. Dean disappears down the pub. And Joanne gets fatter by the day, only admitting when pushed that she doesn’ t really care what the hell they do with their lives… so long as they’re happy. This is the happy heterosexual life we’re all supposed to aspire to, as lived halfway up a Welsh mountain. I swear the sheep have more fun.
It’s all over the Observer apparently. The latest Rhondda bombshell. Dan Llywellyn arrested amidst allegations of child abuse. They’ve torn his house apart. Even removed the telly and the video. So it’s a real crisis as far as his missus is concerned.
I chuckled to myself, but felt nothing. Said even less.
You used to spend hours down that gym with him.
I let her do the talking and grunted in agreement.
And round his house! Some weekends, you practically lived there.
Her hysteria was muted for once. I knew there was so much else she wanted to ask, but never would. Some places are too raw for even my mam to venture. I simply coughed. (This cold I’ve caught has made me croak incoherently when I speak, making my silence sound less guilty than it might otherwise have done.) Mam’s voice cracked in unison.
The mirror by the phone was briefly my only comfort. I flexed my free arm. And smiled at myself in approval. For a moment I remember wishing Mike had been there with me. But he wasn’t. It was just me and Mam… the mirror and the memories.
Got a worse drenching that night than I thought at the time. Must have. ’Cos I’m convinced that’s where I caught this lot. OK! I know I said I definitely wouldn’t do that job. But did in the end, didn’t I?
Fancied the run. That’s what clinched it, not the money. When you consider that it emerged he wasn’t paying mileage for the petrol, it wasn’t really that much. But I hadn’t been for a seriously long run on the bike for months. So, Valencia, I thought, why not?
The evening went well. Tidy little bar. Changed into my cut-off shorts and leather harness and did a few tricks.
Hadn’t even realised it was raining until I came out the back at 4 a.m. If I’d had any sense, would have asked that guy for somewhere to stop over. But in my mind, I’d been looking forward to those empty roads along the Costas in the middle of the night. So wiped the seat, got on and revved my way out of there.
How was I to know the ‘Med’ was due to have its worst storm for five years that night?
Bloody exhausted by the time I got back here. Had to keep my speed right down, see. Made the journey longer, which meant I got even wetter. Thunder sounding off all around me. Lightning. Hailstones the size of golf balls. Could feel her sliding underneath me. Probably should have checked the pressure before setting out. But didn’t. Could feel them tyres fighting the torrent for supremacy of the tarmac on certain corners.
Exhilarating at the time. But glad to get home, I can tell you. It was already light. The sun all bright in the sky as though nothing had happened. Mike still asleep, thank God. Squelched my way to the bathroom to strip out of my bike leathers.
Well! It’s been a week and I’m hardly any better. Still coughing my guts up. Sneezing. But the shivering’s gone. That was the only hopeful news I could give Raul when he called earlier. Wanted to give the man some glimmer of hope I might return to work before the end of the week.
The things you do, not to do the line dancing, he teased, accusing me of being a fraud.
Cheeky bugger! I leaned forward and pinched his nipple through his T-shirt.
I’m as honest as my prick is long, I said, choking as I coughed as I laughed.
He didn’t flinch. Just laughed along. I’m sure he’d be a kinky little bastard given half a chance. He knows I’m gay, of course. Always has. But we’ve never really discussed it.
That’s what made it rather embarrassing when the phone rang. Raul was still here in the lounge when they called. Over there across the table from me. He could tell I’d sobered up pretty quick after picking up the phone.
It was some bloody detective from the central police station at Pontypridd. Well! You don’t expect it, do you? Not in Barcelona during siesta on a Sunday afternoon.
It’s another world, you see. That’s what I keep telling Mam.
Nice for a week, love, but wouldn’t want to live there, she keeping replying.
She must have been the one to give them my number. Didn’t think to ask him where he got it from. And looking back on it, he didn’t really ask me anything either. Confirmed who I was. That I knew Dan Llywellyn. That I’d agree to see them when they came over. And that was it.
Must be serious, mind… coming all that way just to see me.
This coming Wednesday? asked Mike in disbelief when I told him. They are in a hurry.
Guess they have to be if Dan is fading fast. They’ll want to get their summons served before the death certificate is signed.
Explained very little to Raul after I’d put the receiver down. He had the sense to down the whisky I’d poured him pretty sharpish. Said he hoped I’d be better soon.
So do I. It’s no fun, this sickness lark!
I guess I should have. But I couldn’t, could I? Don’t ask me why, just knew I wasn’t going to before they rang that bell. And all that talk of ‘substantial financial compensation’ he kept dangling like a carrot in front of my eyes throughout our ‘little chat’ didn’t make a difference either.
This isn’t a formal interview, Joel, he said. I’m not obliged to caution you and you’re obviously not suspected of committing any criminal activity yourself. We just want a little chat.
He didn’t have a Valleys accent. Couldn’t really tell where he was from, the young burly one who talked. Impressive thighs though. He was lean and well-muscled. Not in my league, like. But I knew he was a fit bastard and guessed he probably punched above his weight. Wore a pair of safari shorts, which looked great on him. And a kind of pink cotton shirt, which didn’t.
Found the heat oppressive, he said. Never been to this part of Spain before. Investigating serious allegations made against Mr Daniel Llywellyn who ran the Junior Gym and Recreational Club down Bethel Street for many years.
Well, I knew why he was there! He could have saved his breath on that score.
How is he? I found myself asking.
Poorly, came the reply. God knows why, but somehow I’d expected more.
He already knew I was gay. He told me so when he first arrived.
Yes and very happily so, I fired back with confidence. Thought afterwards that I must have sounded defensive and regretted saying anything.
So I see. Beautiful city. Lovely apartment. Must be a very nice lifestyle.
I like it. I found myself agreeing like a sheep. He was setting me up for compliance and I wasn’t having any of it.
He also knew I was now working at a health studio myself. A bit different from your old haunts back in Wales, he sneered.
Told him I’d taken time off work especially to see them. He said he was grateful. But inside I knew every word he spoke meant something else.
Should have dropped Dan Dracula right in it, I suppose. The stupid bastard. But just couldn’t bring myself to do it, see.
Then he said he knew it was difficult to talk about such things.
His mate, meantime – the little short-arse git who hardly said a word – is still sitting in that armchair over by the door to the spare bedroom. Fascinated by art, it seems. Had a good look inside and his eyes devoured every painting we have hanging here in the lounge too.
It seems I can get back in touch with them anytime… or so the talkative one kept reminding me. No problem… day or night. When I’d thought it over. If I could remember any little incident when I’d felt uncomfortable… I shouldn’t hesitate. Any time. You just call me, Joel. Like all the other lads had done… the ones who’d come forward and were now in line for substantial financial compensation.
Wants us to meet again before they go back. Tomorrow evening after the gym closes. For a drink.
I suggested the Zanzibar bar on Las Ramblas. His tourist attire should look at home there.
We shook hands as they left. And I looked him in the eye. For the first time. Didn’t want him to think I was scared of doing that. But it’s not something I’ve ever been good at. Looking people in the eye.
Still have his card here in my hand. Detective Sergeant Gavin Hughes BSc. Can’t remember the name of the other one. He never left a card. But I told Mike how besotted he’d been with his paintings.
You see the truth doesn’t always come easily in this life, Joel. That must be his mantra. It’s his favourite sentence, most definitely. Heard it so many times this evening, it’s spinning round my brain. Which would make him happy back in his little hotel bedroom if he knew.
That was obviously his intention – to plant the seeds that would get me to spill the beans. But the truth doesn’t always come that easy in this life, does it?
Should have thrown the sentence back in his face… and added ‘Gavin’ at the end, like he kept adding ‘Joel’ to the end of everything he said to me. Like one big strapping full stop.
Still, he got more than he bargained for one way or another!
A strange evening really. Don’t quite know what to make of it.
Sorry! I just don’t do guided tours of gay Barcelona, I said.
Oh, don’t be like that, Joel! he pleaded. A wry, old-fashioned smile lit his face.
I gave in in the end. We ended up in Cuffs. Introduced him to Serge.
Shouldn’t have really. Gone round clubs drinking, I mean. I’m still taking the antibiotics for my chest infection. Don’t finish them till Saturday.
Added to which, Mike went ballistic when he heard I’d shown him some of the nightlife here. He’s a cop, for God’s sake!
He’s so paranoid, that boy! It’s unbelievable.
I know he’s a cop, don’t I?
I’ve done my share of hanging around in gay bars, Gavin assured me.
That was much earlier in the evening, when we’re sitting outside the Zanzibar, watching the world walk by on Las Ramblas. It’s a warm evening. (Aren’t they all, out here?) We down a few drinks. Just me and Gavin. His fat-git partner made his excuses after downing two beers in a hurry. Then headed back to their hotel. Needed his beauty sleep, he said.
Slugs do, I thought.
So that left me and good old Gavin, who proceeded to assure me that he didn’t intend to talk about Dan Llywellyn all evening. But then again… the truth doesn’t always come easy in this life… and he knew what I must be going through… how I mustn’t feel disloyal… how wishing to put the past behind me was natural… but how I never would until I had all this off my chest. Oh yes, he understood!
Which amused me, really. He was jolly about it all. One of the lads. Leaning over. Sharing a joke, where appropriate. His hand on my knee when occasion allowed. All textbook, ‘You can trust me, I’m a policeman’, stuff. I knew his game and went along with it all.
Why shouldn’t I let him ply me with drinks? Buy me a meal? As far as he was to know, my tongue might have started to loosen at any second. The one right word from him could have triggered an avalanche of juicy memories at any moment. My guard could be down. Floods of steamy recollections could be streaming from my lips. Salacious anecdotes. Times and dates and sordid details. All the conclusive evidence that would put Dan Llywellyn away for many years.
I’m the big fish he wants to haul. Worked that one out after he rang to ask to see me. And he virtually admitted as much this evening. I was, after all, Dan Llywellyn’s ‘star boy’. Played for the county at almost everything. Boxed for Wales as a schoolboy. Very nearly made the British Olympic wrestling team. Got to represent Wales in some World Federation weightlifting tournament in Budapest at the age of eighteen. More trophies than my mam could cope with. Which is why half of them ended up in Nanna’s house.
So it’s down to me.
You’re the man who can nail Dan Llywellyn, he tells me.
Seems to me the undertaker will do that soon enough, I said back to him.
He laughs at that and slaps me on the back. Furious inside, I reckon, ’cos he knows I’m making light of his mission. But he’s enough of a professional to know he mustn’t lose it. I would, after all, be the dream witness for him, if only I’d play ball. The ending of this dark chapter in the annals of Welsh crime lays in my hands. And maybe old Gavin needs this one for his CV to secure promotion or boost his self-confidence or his reputation amongst his colleagues or whatever else he feels is missing in his saddo life. He knows he mustn’t blow it with me.
Daft sod! Does he really think I’m going to dish the dirt on Dan?
Seven-thirty! The traffic’s buzzing. And the sun is up.
Raul will already be there. Cleaning. Setting everything up for the day. He works hard.
It must have been two o’clock when we left Cuffs. Early really, by Barcelona standards. The place was hardly getting going. But I told him I had work to go to in five hours’ time and that he was also flying home today.
All in all, he must have been resigned to the fact that his tactics hadn’t worked.
Guess I can’t break you tonight, Joel, he joked half seriously over our last drink.
You’ll never break me, man. All these sad wannabees who made these allegations against Dan, don’t know what they’re talking about.
Talking about tears in some instances, Joel, he comes straight back at me. The tales some of those boys had to tell have left them emotionally scared for life.
You’ll never find me crying, mate, I proclaimed adamantly.
Ah, Joel, the world is full of men like you who’ve lived to swallow bitter tears.
Tears are totally feminine things, I tell him. They’re void of any maleness. It’s a clinically proven fact. No traces of testosterone have ever been found in a man’s tears. Only feminine hormones.
He was stunned for a moment and didn’t know whether to laugh or not.
Oh! Men have the capacity to produce them, I said, but no means of instilling them with any masculine traits. It’s a fact.
When the taxi pulled up outside, he placed his hand on my knee once more. just as I was about to open the door. He half turned to face me full on and willing sincerity into his eyes with all the power he could muster, he said, Remember, Joel, I’m on your side.
I’m convinced the line about ‘truth not always being easy’ is about to get another airing and in a sublime moment of panic, I kissed him. A smacker on the lips.