I’m gaseous and flaccid and hurting
But you know too well, from that time when we wrestled
We spark like Taylor and Burton.
I could say it’s love, but it’s sex too, you see?
If I weren’t just a vapour, I’d be your bit of rough
But it’s not going to happen - ach y fi,
But Un-dhu-miluhk would if he could.
And the dream expands; an imagined exchange:
UN-DHU-MILUHK
Rhu-thmar-duhk!
RHU-THMAR-DUHK
Un-dhu-miluhk!
UN-DHU-MILUHK
I am the spawn of an Elder God and am mad with love. I love you more than all the hot Welsh cakes in Wales, fresh off the griddle and mellow with butter; than the oil cloth, the dragon, the stove pipe hat, Tiger Bay, Tom, Shirley and Bonnie; than elaborate amourous spoons, Chippy Alley, collieries and Porthgain crab. I have risen from these malnourished, tar-black depths to claim you once again. Throw away your frilly bed-socks and flannelette house-coat. I will warm the sheets like a Breville. I will coax puckering from your many lips about your whole body, like a sink plunger… like an owl, I could have the wit to woo you?
RHU-THMAR-DUHK
I am the eternal concubine. Widow of the Western Winds. And I will sing you a song using all of my expectant mouths, all of my honeyed gullets, to help your mind and body to rest. I will warm your cockles with both fire and fur, so your cockles are both firmed and fired…
UN-DHU-MILUHK
Rhuth, Rhuth, before the miners, those blind mice, wake me and I come to find you once again, will you say
RHU-THMAR-DUHK
Yes, Un, yes, yes, yes…
UN-DHU-MILUHK
And all the celestial bells of the universe shall ring for our wedding.
And now, still, in spite all dreams, it is chill in the town; it is night in the Methodist chapel, hymning in the pews and piles of bible-black bibles; it is night in the bingo hall, as quiet as an empty card; it is night in Howard Street, snaking silent, with sponges-inside-socks on its paws, past curtained collectable toys, paint by numbers, potted lava bread, love-spoons on nails, wooden dressers, Denbeighshire display pots and the blinking red eye of neddying VCR players.
He dreams. It is night. Time passes. Time passes. Time passes.
They’re coming closer, the miners are, slowly digging him out. Any day now. Time passes. More time passes. Dawn comes, day dies, night falls; dawn comes, day dies, night falls. And yet no pointed pick comes to liberate him; there’s no drill to prise the lock of his jail. He sleeps in the seams, ever quiet, ever nothing, ever vapour.
Treorchy news, 22nd December, 1990 – Maerdy pit closes.
At one time, there were over fifty pits in the Rhondda valley, making the area, synonymous with coal mining during the industrial revolution. Now, the last of those pits has closed. Maerdy’s gates were locked for the last time. What future the local towns face is uncertain. Maerdy employed 2,024 men at its zenith in 1918, and even though that number has steadily dropped over the years, it is still thought that even this single closure will put considerable strain on the local economy.
Any day now. Time passes. More time passes. Dawn comes, day dies, night falls; dawn comes, day dies, night falls. Sleep.
PERIPHERY
Paul Lewis
I write this while I still have time. I can see them now, those fleeting grey preludes of death, glimpsed in the periphery of my vision as they dart past me in their hateful, taunting way.
Let me make it clear from the outset: this is my brother’s story, not mine, though with his demise was sown the seeds of my own, our fates intertwined in death just as they were in life.
We were twins. Not identical in looks, though the resemblance was strong, and most definitely not identical in personality.
Jason was sensible, never doing anything without considering the consequences, whereas I tended to leap first, look later.
My brother lectured physics in Swansea University, not far from the house where we grew up. He was smart and could have gone far but chose to stay close to home even after our parents died.
I worked for a newspaper, an old-fashioned hack. I stuck around because I lacked the talent and drive to go further.
I am twice divorced. Jason never married.
We lived in the same city but rarely saw each other, staying in contact by emails, texts and the occasional phone call. We met up at Christmas, our birthdays and to mark the anniversaries of our parents’ deaths. Yet no matter how distant we were in the physical sense, emotionally we remained close.
No, it was more than just close. As can be the case with twins we shared what I can only describe, for want of a less cliched expression, as a psychic bond. I could sense when there was something wrong. One minute, out of the blue, I would suddenly think of Jason. The next, the phone would ring and even before answering I knew it would be my brother calling.
I had one such intuition a fortnight ago. I was sure there was something amiss. I could have called him but that would have felt like an intrusion. Jason would call me if he had a problem he wanted to share.
A week or so later, that moment forgotten, I was on a day off and driving to Mumbles, a popular seaside village on the edge of Swansea. Jason lived close by and on impulse I decided to stop off to see him, telling myself it was not prying, just making the most of an unexpected opportunity. It was August. University was done for the summer so I knew there was every chance he’d be home. Sure enough his car was on the driveway.
I rang the bell and turned to enjoy the view across the broad expanse of Swansea Bay while I waited for an answer. The afternoon sky was cloudless. Sunlight scattered diamonds across the sea. Surely, I thought, there was no room in the world for anything bad on such a perfect day. Then Jason opened the door.
The look of surprise with which he greeted me could not disguise how pinched his face had become, or hide the dark circles under his eyes. He was pale, too, despite the heat wave that had tanned my face and arms a nutty brown.
My eyes were immediately drawn to the ragged scratch on his forehead, still raw and edged with blood. There were more scratches along both arms. I assumed he had been in an accident of some kind.
“Richard,” he said, in a tone that made me feel more like a cold caller than his brother.
“This a bad time?” I asked, still taken aback by his appearance.
“No, no. I was just ... Sorry. I was doing a bit of work. Nodded off.” He took a step back from the doorway. “Please, come in. Place is in a bit of a mess. Wasn’t expecting visitors.”
I followed him into the living room, where I looked around in dismay and some concern. Wrinkled clothes were heaped on both chairs, and dirty plates and dishes left on the floor. Jason had always been fastidiously clean.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating the sofa, which was clear of debris. He scurried around the room as he spoke, hastily gathering up the dirty crockery and carrying it out to the kitchen.
“Been so wrapped up with work I’ve let the place go,” he called over the sound of running water. He hurried back into the room and grabbed handfuls of clothing. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” I said, wondering if I should offer to help before deciding that would deepen his embarrassment. “Thanks.”
“Back in a minute,” he said, then disappeared out of the room again, taking the clothes upstairs.
As I waited I noticed there was something else out of place. A faint smell of cigarettes. Jason had smoked in his younger days but, as far as I knew, had given it up years ago.
He ran back downstairs. “Right,” he said as he entered the room, clapping his hands together with such enthusiasm I knew I was witnessing a performance. From the kitchen I could hear a rumble as the kettle came to the boil. “I’ll go and sort the drinks out,” he said, and hurried off again as if he would explode if he slowed down.
I hadn’t intended staying long. Now I could not leave until I had
got to the bottom of his odd behaviour. He brought in two mugs of coffee and handed me one. I did not miss the way his hand trembled, or the way his eyes darted around the room. Whatever had happened, it must have been serious. Thoughts crowded round my head, demanding my attention. I ignored them. He was my brother. I could not bear to dwell on the dark explanations that suggested themselves.
“So how’s tricks?” I asked casually as he sat in one of the armchairs. I wanted to give him the chance to confide in me before I had to ask outright.
“Oh, you know,” he said vaguely, still nervously eyeing the room instead of looking at me. He rubbed one of the scratches on his arm. “Work piling up. Should have got on with it at the start of the holiday, not leave it all until the last minute.”
I sensed that was a lie. But then he looked directly at me and gave me a fleeting smile that came close to breaking my heart.
“Maybe you need a break. There’s still time for a holiday.”
“I guess so. We’ll see.” He seemed to gather himself, obviously making an effort. “How are things with you?”
“The usual,” I said, aware of his clumsy attempt to steer the conversation away from him. He was clearly volunteering nothing. I had to take the direct approach. “Mind if I ask a personal question?”
He was gazing around the room again. “Fire away.”
“Has something bad happened?”
His hand jerked, almost spilling his coffee. He stared at me with an expression somewhere between shock and fear. Maybe it was because of the sunshine that streamed through the bay window but his eyes appeared to glisten, as though he was close to tears. “What?”
“Well look at you,” I said. “It’s not just the place that’s in a mess, Jason. You are too. And what’s with all those cuts? You been doing something you shouldn’t?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come off it,” I snapped back, concern giving way to mild anger. “I’m your brother. You can fool others but you can’t fool me.”
“Honestly. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just—”
“Don’t give me any more crap about work. You’ve been doing the job long enough and you’re bloody good at it.” I realised I was almost shouting and lowered my voice. “Just tell me you haven’t done anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
Like drugs, I thought, or self-harming. I could not think of any other way he could have come by those scratches. But I said nothing, just fixed him with a level gaze until he looked away.
“You won’t believe me,” he said after a moment.
“Try me.”
His eyes met mine, and I was taken aback by their fierce intensity. “I’m not just saying that, Richard. It’s beyond belief.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I answered. “Just tell me.”
So he told me. And he was right. God help me, I did not believe him. I did not believe him until it was too late for both of us.
One warm night Jason lay awake in bed, listening to the soft scratching from the loft overhead. At first he managed to convince himself it was a bird, nesting in the eaves. Then, a few nights later, there came a rapid pattering back and forth along the floorboards, his nocturnal visitor having grown bolder and more inquisitive. That was when he had to accept it was a mouse, not a bird. The thought made him sick. He hated mice. Hated rats. Hated spiders too. The idea that a mouse could have got inside his home was as gross a personal intrusion as a tapeworm in his gut.
Mice were dirty. They carried fleas and diseases, or at least he assumed they did. Laying awake, listening to that darting, tapping movement, peering at the ceiling as if that would allow him to see through it, he itched in a dozen places and had to scratch them all.
He phoned the council the next day. To his dismay he was told the pest control team was run ragged because of the weather. A home visit would not be possible for another two days if he wanted to make an appointment. He did.
Afterwards he bought half a dozen mousetraps from the nearest DIY store. Not the snap-shut version beloved of cartoon animators but a green plastic wedge with a round hole at each end and a poisonous block at its centre.
Back home, heart thudding, he made himself check the attic.
He climbed the stepladder and pushed the hatch up, letting it fall back on its hinges in the hope the resultant crash would scare off any lurking rodent. The loft was silent. Slightly emboldened by this, Jason reached up and turned on the light, ready to dash back down the ladder at the first glimpse of movement. To his relief the attic appeared deserted, even if there was no shortage of boxes for a mouse to hide behind.
Jason pushed three traps against the nearest of them. Then he turned off the light, grabbed the edge of the hatch and pulled it into place before hurrying down to the landing.
He had to endure the sound of his unwelcome guest for two more nights before the pest control man turned up. By then Jason had inspected the external walls, trying in vain to determine how the mouse had got in. The exterminator, a cheerful type, red of face and with middle-aged plumpness, arrived in an unmarked white van. As Jason opened the door to him, he bellowed, “Got a moose in the hoose, have we?” in a mock Scottish accent, which made the anonymity of the van somewhat redundant.
The man did a cursory search around the house, then asked to check inside the garage. Within moments he had found where the mouse had got in. The garage was integral. In the side wall of the house, obscured by the garage door frame, was a crack between the bricks that had not been properly filled in.
“There’s your problem,” the exterminator said, poking a fingertip into the gap as if to prove the point. “If it’s big enough to stick a pencil in, it’s big enough for a mouse.”
“I’ve put some traps down,” Jason said, wanting to prove he was not entirely useless.
“Waste of time and money,” the man said. “Might as well leave sweeties out for him. I’ve got some stuff in the van that will sort your little chum out, don’t you worry about that.”
What he had in the van was an industrial-sized tub of white pellets and four shallow plastic bowls. He filled and left two of the bowls in the garage and repeated the process in the attic. “Should do the trick but it might take a couple of days,” he said. “Oh, and you might want to get some filler for that crack.”
So Jason bought some sealant, which he used to plug the hole. It never occurred to him the mouse might still be in there. The sounds it made by night always stopped before dawn. He simply assumed the mouse went away, to wherever mice went to hide in the daylight.
He was wrong, as he discovered that night when he turned on the bedroom light and saw the tiny brown horror scurrying across the carpet towards the wardrobe.
Jason froze, fingers still on the switch.
The dirty little bastard must have come through the floorboards. For a moment Jason remained shocked into immobility. Then he was filled with a rage that surprised him with its sudden intensity and he lunged after it, wanting to stamp it into a squealing bloody pulp.
Anger turned to dismay when the mouse slipped under the wardrobe. Refusing to be beaten, Jason pushed the wardrobe so that it rocked on its rear edge, then let go. The weight of it falling back into place made the floor shudder. Before Jason had time to react the mouse shot out from beneath it, running over his foot before disappearing under the bed.
Chest heaving, soaked with sweat, Jason grabbed the bed and dragged it across the floor, revealing the lidded plastic boxes of books and DVDs he kept stowed beneath. He reached for the nearest of them and pulled. As he did, the mouse scuttled away from behind it, fur standing on end.
And then it vanished.
Jason had no idea whether it had run behind another box or found its way back under the floorboards. Neither did he have any intention of finding out. Leaving the light on and the bed where it was, he hastened out to the landing, slamming the door shut.
Next he went into the bathroom and grabbed so
me towels to block the gap beneath the bedroom door. He was determined to trap the mouse in one place. In his fury he was blind to the fact that it had other ways of getting around the house.
He spent the night on the sofa, feet dangling uncomfortably over the end. Between that and the unrelenting heat he became resigned to laying awake until dawn. At some point, however, he drifted off and remained dead to the world until sunlight on his face woke him. Opening his eyes, he realised he had forgotten to draw the living room curtains. He looked at the clock. It was almost nine.
He got up and went into the kitchen to boil the kettle, wincing at the smell of stale sweat. He should not have slept in his clothes but a vision of the mouse running over him had convinced him not to undress. There was nothing else for it. He would have to shower and get some clean clothes from his wardrobe.
Jason went upstairs and paused outside his room. The towels had not been disturbed so, unless the mouse had indeed gained access through the floorboards, it would still be in there. He briefly considered going down to the garage and getting the garden spade or some other impromptu weapon, then decided against it. The mouse offended him with its presence but it could not hurt him. By trying to hit it with something heavy he would probably end up damaging the room, its contents or both.
He pulled out the towels and opened the door.
Sunlight bathed the walls and the pale blue carpet, rendering the scene of minor carnage from last night’s exertions almost surreal. Jason blinked. There, stretched out on the carpet, smaller, thinner and altogether more fragile than he remembered, was the mouse. It must have died of fright, he thought with a sudden grin of triumph.
Unable to bring himself to handle it, he went down to fetch the spade, shovelled up the tiny corpse and carried it at arm’s length downstairs and out to the bin. Then he got out the Dyson and gave the room a thorough cleaning.
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