by Lloyd Jones
Duxie was tired of trying to solve the riddle. All those irresolvable questions. The past had many tits and he’d sucked them all dry. He’d been looking for an unfindable personal history. He’d rebirthed a monster so that he could slay it. He had told a story. Story-telling was an archetypal need, closely allied to dreaming. Who’d said that? And all those grey depressions he’d experienced over the years, he sort-of understood them now. Big grey marshes with mantles of grey mist hanging over them. It was his mind’s way of protecting him. In creating a near-constant but manageable diversion within him his mind has taken his eyes off those monstrous footprints in the mud. His unconscious had been a fretting goalkeeper, waiting for the next attack. Cunning, the mind. You can change childhood by deciding what not to say about it. Adam Phillips. Clever sod.]
When was your next encounter?
Tuesday morning. It was a lovely day, clear and bright, and we met in Stefano’s, as soon as it opened. The floor was still wet – the Gimp had a habit of putting old newspapers along the main walkway to protect it from muddy feet. I love the smell of fresh coffee. I had warm croissants and there were little flakes of pastry all over my hands and plate. I felt really happy as I sat listening to the coffee machine hissing away, and the banter of early customers. Duxie had a fit of the giggles because Mrs Griffiths had coffee cream all over her moustache. He just sat there and giggled. Stefano and the Gimp were huddled over the radio, and the Gimp said: Hey everybody, it’s good news. That little girl in the well, the one that got trapped. They’ve reached her. They’re bringing her up. She’s alive and she’s going to be OK. And everyone felt extra happy and I had to wipe tears from my eyes.
[She’d felt a hot surge of feeling coming up through her chest, a tightness in the neck too as a jet of pure, unadulterated emotion poured through her… it felt like a hot mouse going through a boa constrictor in a ripple, a peristalsis; and then the tears arrived, emerging into daylight, blinking – celebrities leaving a rehab centre in the glare of cameras, flashes… the shimmering eyes, the public announcements.]
And Duxie – did he behave normally?
Duxie was the happiest I’d ever seen him. He had a map and he laid it out on the table, facing me so that I could follow his finger as it traced a line from the coast, up through the foothills, past hamlets and villages. His finger stopped at a crossroads – no, a T-junction – up in the hills. There was a well there. He wanted to call on the way.
[At some stage, after the croissant crumbs had been swept off the table – he would use his gloved hands as a dustpan and brush – Duxie would wonder if there was time for one last game of snooker. Perhaps the cleaners would be up among the tables, swabbing the decks with those huge mops of theirs. He would ask them if it was OK. He’d play alone, under his solitary pool of light. He’d have one last contest against the forces of evil. He would go all out, make a break of 147. And he would give his children lots of extra lives, all of them. Afterwards he and Olly would execute the first part of their plan. Duxie had told her about the satellite. It watched him every day, it kept track of him. He had to account for every mile, every movement. It was enslavement. The Machine had finally won: this was a part of the New World he wanted to reject. But how? Olly would know. She’d giggle in that winsome way of hers which flooded him with concupiscence. Sitting together in the cab of his yellow pick-up, in the snow, in a tent of misted glass. That would be wonderful.]
What happened next?
We sat in the café and dreamt up a plan. He asked me how it could be done. I said: easy peasy lemon squeezy.
So it was your idea. You admit to that?
Yes, it was my idea. I’m not ashamed. In fact, I’m proud of it. It was great, really exciting. Standing by the flames, looking at all those colours. It was like watching a rainbow, close up. The van was like a box of fireworks going off. It warmed us up too. There must’ve been some glass in one of the parcels because there was a lot of smashing going on. That van looked really good, it was like bonfire night.
I don’t think the delivery firm enjoyed it quite so much.
Oh, fuck the firm. They’ve got plenty of money, they can buy another sodding van.
You do realise you could be prosecuted?
They can do what the fuck they like. I hate control freaks.
Can you describe what happened, right from the beginning?
With pleasure. We left the café and went to his place, up the hill, in his pick-up. Then we went in convoy, him driving the delivery van, me the pick-up, along Big Bay. The roads were quiet, it was during that lull after nine when most people have already gone to work. I remember seeing a really brilliant rainbow… one end was in the sea and the other end was miles inland somewhere. As usual, I wondered if there was a crock of gold at the end of it. We joined the expressway and travelled along the pass which winds around the mountain. When we came to a lay-by I parked up and waited for him to do the business. After waiting a while, until there was no sign of traffic in either direction, he drove on for a hundred yards and rammed the van into the wall at the side of the road.
Nobody saw him do this?
No, he’d timed it perfectly. He wasn’t hurt either, thank God. I saw him get out, unscrew a petrol can and douse the van in petrol. So I started the pick-up and drove up close to him, to make it look like I’d stopped after an accident. By this time the flames were taking hold. We just stood there, watching it all happen.
Other cars had arrived by now, presumably?
They started coming when the van was almost invisible, it was a mass of flames by now. Duxie ran to one of the cars and asked them to call the emergency services. Then we got in the pick-up and drove around the van, buggered off as fast as we could. I could see the van through the rear-view mirrors, enveloped in flames. Duxie said Yes! and did a wiggle with his middle fingers in the air, like he was a football star celebrating a great goal. The satellite had been blinded, he said. Like the Gorgon.
And Duxie had lost his job.
Big deal. He was glad. Elated, in fact. Freedom’s worth fighting for.
[Flickering red flames in the mirrors, a ball of fire. Queues of cars clinging to the shiny wet road, mosquitoes stuck to a lizard’s tongue. Goodbye to the eye in the sky. Duxie stuck a middle finger out of the window and jerked it at the glassy cloche above him. Fuck you, Big Brother, he screamed at a wispy little cloud.]
After that you headed inland?
No, we had to stop at a lay-by again. Duxie was having a major panic attack. He thought he’d left the plastic jar – his father’s ashes – in the van.
Had he?
No. The jar was in the back of the pick-up, in a plastic carrier bag, together with his telescope. So he got out and brought them into the cab.
[His immortal remains… Duxie’s father had refused to die. He had lived continuously in Duxie’s thoughts and dreams. Abnormally. And that was the nature of the beast. He had remained in stasis, like Damien Hirst’s shark, swimming forever in formaldehyde – neither in a natural state, alive, nor allowed to become dust, or sludge, or whatever sharks became when they died in the sea. That was what his father had been to him, throughout his life: a shark swimming in formaldehyde. In a state of suspension, in a gallery. Most parents could be buried in a normal fashion, but some bodies needed quicklime.]
No signs of emotion? Did he seem upset?
No, he seemed quite calm. But I was coming to the conclusion that he needed to let go. Draw a line under it all. I think he knew that too. It seemed like a final battle between Duxie and his father’s memory. He had been unable to grieve for him, to lay him to rest. That was quite clear. All through Duxie’s life his father had been swimming around inside his brain. It was time to get it sorted. He needed a bloody good cry, that’s what I thought. But there was one thing I didn’t understand. What’s the difference between memories of a normal parent and memories of a bad parent? Why couldn’t Duxie let go?
I think it’s the other way round. Normal parents let
you go, they just go to sleep. But abnormal parents won’t lie down and die. They call on you unexpectedly, shake you in the night, wake you up. They have a strong hold. The dead can be very demanding.
[He’d look at her through the corner of his eye. Yellow hair, and eyes the colour of ceanothus in a May garden, cornflowers in a field of bleached wheat. This would be a happy, happy day. And the picnic he’d made? They’d have it there in a rucksack. Where would she take him? They would head upwards, into the foothills of Snowdonia. The foothills of paradise.
When looked at from Anglesey, they seem to rear their lofty summits right up to the clouds… at the very top of these mountains two lakes are to be found, each of them remarkable in its own way. One has a floating island, which moves about and is often driven to the opposite side by the force of the winds. Shepherds are amazed to see the flocks that are feeding there carried off to distant parts of the lake…
And so they’d wind ever upwards, Duxie and Olly, towards Snowdon itself, looming out of the clouds. Travelling through Wales, a corner store in a supermarket age. A country – like Saki’s Crete – which produced more history than could be consumed locally. He’d guide her through Ysbyty Ifan, towards the well…]
Where did you go?
First, we went to a well. He wanted to make a wish. He was like that. Superstitious. Probably the most superstitious man I’ve ever met. We drove through an upland valley and then he guided me onto the moors, pointing with his little brown glove. I felt very close to him that day. He touched an Elastoplast on my arm and asked me about it – he wanted to know why I was wearing it. When we got out of the cab he pretended to take an Elastoplast off his own arm and then he did a little dance, pretending it was because of the pain – you know, that sting you get when you take a plaster off your skin. It was hilarious, but then it made me very sad and I started to cry. I’ve told you about his dancing already. He could make you laugh or cry, jiggling about stupidly as if he was in an old silent film, like he was Keaton or Chaplin in Limelight, messing around.
Sounds like he had quite a gift.
He’d have won the X-Factor for sure.
So he made a wish.
Yes, though why there I don’t know. It’s in a forlorn place, at a T-junction slap bang in the middle of nowhere. It’s called Ffynnon Eidda. Strange little edifice made of stone. You couldn’t drink the water, it’s quite disgusting. But under the water I could see a number of coins, some of them quite new and shiny, glinting in the water. It’s still used as a wishing well. How strange, I said to Duxie. That people are still doing this. He pointed to the inscription. It said ‘Yf a bydd ddiolchgar – Drink and be grateful’. He seemed a bit emotional himself at that moment, for the first time. I thought his eyes misted over. Then he fiddled about in his pocket and brought out some coins. He dropped some of them on the floor, because his gloves made it difficult for him to hold onto things properly. I picked up some coins off the ground and handed them back to him. He took them, then he gave me a fifty pence piece. He held another fifty pence himself. I said: What a waste of money, Duxie! Give us a two pee but he shook his head and said no. This was going to be a big wish, the biggest wish of his life, so he wanted to use fifty pences.
Why not use a pound coin, then?
He said people would notice them and take them out.
Yes, I can understand his reasoning.
Anyway, after we’d chucked our coins in the water he closed his eyes and made a wish. When we got back inside the cab I asked him what it was all about, throwing a coin in a well and making a wish. He said it went all the way back to the ancient past, when early Celts threw metal objects into lakes and rivers as a sacrifice or a tribute to the water god. Some people think they were asking for good luck, other people believe they were trying to make sure a dead person’s spirit wouldn’t come back to cause trouble. They thought that by throwing the dead person’s metal possessions into water they wouldn’t be able to bother living people ever again. Some gypsies still do it – they burn the caravan and throw the pots and pans into the nearest pond or lake. King Arthur’s sword is a version of the same story. That’s what he said to me, anyway. God knows if it’s true.
Did you ask about the wish he made?
Yes, but he just winked at me. Won’t come true if I tell you, he said with a big sloppy here’s-lookin-at-ya-kid smile.
[They would double-back, glide towards Llyn Cwellyn and its cold blue waters. By now a huge rabbit would be squatting over the pick-up, its fur pressing down on the windows. Snow would envelop them soon: greasepaint, for the final act. They’d arrive at the Cwellyn Arms and she’d stop. She’d park, and putting her hand on his arm again, in that wonderfully endearing way of hers, she’d whisper: ‘Stay here. I won’t be long.’
It would clear briefly; he’d watch ravens mottle the iris of the sky above, and trees swaying in a soundless wind on the slopes of Mynydd Mawr, the elephant mountain. Then she’d return, dashing suddenly from the door of the pub. She’d hoist herself into the driving seat, her left hand holding something out to him, and he’d look at it, startled. It would be half an onion, sliced cleanly into a hemisphere and still strong enough to make her eyes smart. Dumfounded, he’d ask her what was going on, and she’d snigger.
‘Just you wait,’ she’d say. ‘You’ll need that onion later,’ and he’d be filled with wonder.
They’d swing off the main road and go west, the Nantlle ridge towering above them, and they’d be dwarfed by three granite giants: Mynydd Drws-y-Coed, Trum-y-Ddysgl and Mynydd Tal-y-mignedd. They’d stop again, at a lay-by. He would look at her, wondering if there was going to be another incendiary incident, but no, she’d say come on and she’d shoulder her bag and slam the door, then head for a stile. He would sling his telescope under his arm and within minutes they’d be standing by the side of a lake and she’d be pointing to the middle, at a small island. A neat little bump with plenty of foliage and a rowan tree drooping its red berries over a fan of ferns.
‘This is Llyn-y-Dywarchen,’ she’d say. ‘The Lake of the Sod. I thought you might enjoy the joke.’
And then she’d feign impatience with him, put her hands on her hips and say: ‘For God’s sake, Duxie, your brain’s gone to sleep again. Where are the ashes?’
And he’d have to go back, across the stile to the pick-up; he’d retrieve the grey plastic jar, take it back to the lakeside. By now she’d be sitting in one of the fishermen’s boats, a nice blue one, and he’d say are you sure that’s allowed and she’d cluck and say just get in will you and they’d row out to the island in the middle of the lake. He would feel nervous. What if they were caught? Bailiffs could be very stern, they could shout louder than the men who watched football matches. Duxie would be feeling extra timid right now. He’d tremble and quake. Shows a talent for sitting alone in wet bracken, his school report had said once. Shows a gift for loneliness.
They would arrive at the island and they’d disembark. She would tie the boat to a tree stump. She’d stand for a while at the water’s edge, with her bag over her shoulder, and she’d hold the bit of onion in her left hand, saying: ‘You forgot this, you idiot.’ He’d notice, for the first time, that she was left-handed. He would stand by her side, looking back towards the other boats, hoping no one would come.
‘Right then,’ she’d say. ‘Let’s get down to business.’]
You rowed out to the island in a stolen boat?
Borrowed. We only borrowed it. It nearly sank – he was so heavy by then.
Arson and theft so far.
Have it your own way. I wanted him to be free.
Free to dream his childish…
We’re all children at heart. Bet you’ve got a little kid running around inside that big body of yours too.
Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about Duxie. Why, for instance, did he dream up a book called The Dexter Propensity?
The answer was in the gloves. Duxie hid a secret in those gloves, and The Dexter Propensity was a ma
jor clue.
[Duxie would daydream by the lip of the lake – a mass of liquid nothing, and the dark water would begin to swallow stray snowflakes: yes, the snow would begin to tumble out of the sky, into the blackness, a tumult of softness falling into a mouth agape. Snow tasted of metal and violence. She would say: ‘Duxie, this is important. We’ve come a long way to finish this story, and I don’t want to mess it up now. We’ve reached the journey’s end. You have created a causeway of words which stretch back a week. It has been a momentous time for you. You have introduced us to the seven rainbow messengers, PC 66, and a terrible man called Mr Cassini who has lived on in your dreams and your daydreams despite all your efforts to destroy his memory. There will be some people who will wonder why you called him Mr Cassini. I think you owe us an explanation.’
And he would deflect her questions: instead, he would tell her about all the islands in his head, beginning with Gondwanaland perhaps, moving on to Galapagos with its great flightless birds and Madagascar with its aye-ayes, pottos, lorises and lemurs; the Islands of the Blest, Conan Doyle’s Lost World, and Prospero’s Isle too, full of sounds and sweet airs that gave delight… but the only true island was the one inside his head. Going to real islands was too risky. Like taking drugs, the trip could be either very good or very bad (and here he’d mention Cuba with its malign Guantanamo, and the Chagos Islands with their equally repugnant airbase, Diego Garcia). Like drugs, islands could enhance or destroy reality – sometimes they were sanctuaries, sometimes hellholes.]
And how did he get his name – this Mr Cassini? So far, Duxie’s explanations have sounded rather unconvincing.
Duxie did have some sort of rational explanation, but only just. He said he was a melancholic, born under the sign of Saturn. The Romans were very clever people, he told me one day. They used every stratagem they could to tame and woo the people they encountered on their way to supreme power. They discovered that some of the tribes used secret names for their deities. This empowered the tribesmen: it gave them magical authority. So the Romans invited the tribesmen to Rome and seduced them with subtle promises. They gained the secret names of the gods. Once they had relinquished their secret knowledge, the tribesmen were powerless. This process of disempowerment by gaining tribal secrets was known to the Romans as elicio. When Duxie learnt about elicio he realised that he had to use a name which gave him power.