New Welsh Short Stories

by Author: QuarkXPress

  12.

  It took a while to understand what the police suspected.

  ‘Attempted burglary,’ the bald one finally said. ‘You could go down for eight years for this.’

  I pictured the courtroom, the cell, the release at twenty-five with a wizened face that wasn’t my own.

  My eyeballs sat heavy in their sockets.

  Gareth had left the key in the house, and they wouldn’t let us ring anyone, so we couldn’t prove the house belonged to his aunt. In the oar they thought they’d found a weapon for smashing the door, and the dinghy, what? A possible means of escape? Were we going to row our way to freedom?

  The neighbours across the road were the ones who had heard the shouting and the smashing. They’d looked from behind their velvet curtains and seen a figure kicking the door. They had called the police, but now weren’t sure if there’d been one person or more.

  Oh, we were being had alright.

  13.

  Drunk deep to my stomach and wearing vomit on my sleeve, I made the biggest mistake. We were at a silver-surfaced club, where songs by Usher seemed to be on loop. Jessica had lost her phone, an expensive birthday present from her father, and she was in tears. I meant to say to her that it was okay, that we’d find it, but what came out of my staggering mouth was, ‘I love you.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be better in the morning,’ she said, patting my head. ‘Come on, let’s find my phone.’

  That evening, at her father’s house and with Jessica still phoneless, we had unprotected sex and twice fell off the bed. I tried taking her from behind but didn’t know what I was doing. I moved her limbs every which way. But still confused by it all, I grew frustrated and complained about the lack of moisture. In short, I became a dick.

  In the morning, awakening to an empty house and emboldened by the intimacy of the night before, I left the bathroom door open while I peed. Passing in the hall, she rested a hand on the newel post, looked at me and sighed.

  I don’t know if it was the love or the sex, but after that night we saw less of each other. At a house party a week later she got so drunk and so stoned that she passed out on the living-room floor and threw up all over herself. With Larry’s help, I carried her to the bathroom. I sat her up, her head over the toilet bowl, and from her hair I picked out bits of vomited pasta. All the while she was somehow still asleep. In the morning I asked her how she felt.

  ‘Pretty good,’ she said, ‘but who the hell threw up on my clothes?’

  I lectured her. I made a martyr out of myself. I wrote a poem about it and sent it to her in an email.

  ‘I’m not sure I like the tone of this poem,’ she replied. ‘But I like the way you rhymed “pasta remnants conditioned hair” with “do you ever care?” – that was nice.’

  She grew distant. She started spending time with older people. And the tendon in my ear and the jut of my jaw ached from the heat of the phone continually resting, from the calls I kept making to her home.

  And when she broke up with me, the feeling that peeked out – like a hilltop above it all – was guilt for wanting to sleep with other girls during our time together. It was like when I was seven and spent a week at a Welsh-language heritage centre, where sheep lived in our garden, and I silently wished to have a sheep at home instead of my blind and stupid dog – only to return home to find Rosie had died, had been cremated on bonfire night by my father.

  14.

  A few days after the Pull The Bull party, Larry ran into the girl with Down’s syndrome at the shopping centre. He told us she hugged him, put her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

  Her mother apologised and pulled the girl away. But Larry assured her that it was okay, that it happened to him all the time – he said he must have one of those faces. The mother smiled and – I really doubted this part – gave Larry a scone from a clear bag of cakes.

  He said he ate half and fed the rest to the ducks in the castle moat.

  I don’t know why this is relevant. It’s just another scene I can never shake.

  15.

  They wouldn’t believe us.

  ‘It was the guy next door,’ Gareth said.

  ‘We’ve asked him,’ the bald one answered. ‘He says he was out all night.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Watch your language,’ Elvis said. ‘And that’s a serious allegation you’re making against Mr Spencer there. Think carefully before you repeat it. Now, one more time, what were you doing on the property?’

  Gareth told them to look in the house, to see the photos of him on the mantelpiece. They finally permitted him to call his aunt, but she didn’t answer. She was still at her meeting with the bereavement group. We could hear everything – or almost everything – from the back of the car.

  Larry, meanwhile, had the policeman’s hat back on and was admiring himself in the mirror.

  ‘’Allo, ’allo, ’allo,’ he said, stroking the hat.

  ‘Do you ever take anything seriously?’ I said.

  He turned to me slowly. ‘No,’ he said, ‘never.’

  ‘Gareth should just call his parents,’ I said. ‘They could sort all this out.’

  ‘Nah, his old man’s as crazy as the neighbour,’ he said. ‘God, as if they were ever going to arrest a former cop. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I just don’t get why they’re keeping us here,’ I said. ‘Unles—’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Do you reckon they know about you kissing the Down’s syndrome girl?’

  He carried on watching himself in the mirror, stroking his tufts of hair.

  ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Anyway, not even illegal.’

  ‘What about the fifteen year old in the alley?’ I said.

  ‘Doubt it.’ He leaned over the seat and fiddled with the radio. ‘Do you reckon we can get Radio One on this?’

  He found a clear frequency – a woman’s voice talking about a disturbance at the castle.

  ‘Eight years in prison?’ he said, sitting back and adjusting the hat. ‘I could do that in my sleep.’

  Outside, the police were laughing.

  16.

  After I broke my collarbone, and word of my wrestling had spread, I was called in to see the headmaster.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. On the wall behind him was a poster with a picture of a wolf, a sheep, a bag of a grain, two islands and a boat, and the words: There’s Always A Solution. The sling chafed my neck and my armpit smelled.

  ‘Absolutely perfect,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘I’m just concerned,’ the headmaster said. ‘We’ve had reports of you trying to arm-wrestle the dinner ladies.’

  ‘Those were private words shared in private.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Do you know what you’ll do when you’re finished with school?’

  ‘I will become a useful contributor to society.’

  ‘And the wrestling?’

  ‘That too may still have a role,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit early to tell.’

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of waking up at 7am. And I’m tired of making breakfast, eating breakfast, getting dressed, brushing my teeth, walking to the bus, getting on the bus, giving money to the driver, sitting on the bus, coming to school, going to lessons and staying there as the day grows darker. My legs are tired and my hips are tired, and my ankles are aching, and my head always feels like I’ve just done an exam. I find it hard to keep focused on a thought without thinking about thinking about that thought. And I’m finding it hard even talking to you now. And you know what I’m most tired of? Knowing that this is just the start, that I’ll only get more tired as I get older, that I’ll have a life of being…’

  There was no school counsellor so I wasn’t referred to one.

  I was glad of that.

  17.

  And though I wouldn’t find out about Jessica until the morning after, I remember exactly those s
eventeen words that came over the police radio:

  ‘Quit messing those kids and come to the castle,’ the voice said. ‘We’ve found a body in the fucking moat.’

  ON THE INSIDE

  Trezza Azzopardi

  She was looking at a light low down in the sky, a sudden bloom of colour that could have been a firework or a flare. It spread across the horizon, shimmering red and orange over the waves before dissolving into the sea. Immediately it grew darker, and the wind came up and agitated the plastic carrier bag she was holding. Kenny was only just visible at the edge of the water. He had his head on one side, as if he was studying something. After a minute he turned to look at her, making a broad gesture with his arm. He wanted her to go to him. She picked her way between the rock pools, trying not to slip. It was even colder at the shoreline, with the wind buffeting her legs.

  Starfish, he said, when she reached him. At first she couldn’t see for the foam of the breaker, but as the wave subsided she caught sight of them under the surface, dozens of golden handspans bobbing into each other.

  Don’t normally get so many this time of year. They feed on the mussel beds. You know, they eat with their stomachs, said Kenny.

  And? she said.

  And nothing. I just thought you might be interested, that’s all.

  I was watching that weird light. Did you see? she asked, nodding into the distance.

  Atmospheric refraction, he said.

  Isn’t that just a sunset? she asked.

  I suppose so.

  Kenny had said she would love the sunsets here, the special clarity of the air after the choke of the city, but this one looked eerie and cold. He’d said she’d be amazed at the breathtaking views and the friendly people, the great food literally on the doorstep. So when the car tipped over the hill and showed them the sea below, she tried to feel impressed. The view was of a distant mountain range jagging round like a scorpion’s tail, a wide stretch of open water, a couple of cottages battered into the land, and not much else.

  Kenny pointed to a low grey building way out on the peninsula.

  That one’s ours. But we’ll get our supper first, eh, Bee?

  She pictured a tiny stone pub just out of sight, with a blazing log fire and friendly locals with ruddy faces. They’d be serving steak and ale pie or fish and chips. She could almost taste the lovely cool shudder of Sauvignon. She didn’t imagine they’d be finding their own supper out on a dark, freezing beach with the wind blowing up her skirt.

  The croft had thick walls and small windows. The view from the kitchen window was of shadowy trees; she could feel the night coming down even though it was early evening. She’d put the carrier bag on the draining board when they’d first come in, and as she stood at the sink she could hear it ticking and pocking. Supper was going to be the winkles Kenny had ‘foraged’ from the rock pools. She emptied them out of the bag into a colander, as Kenny instructed, and rinsed them under the tap.

  The light had fallen away completely when she next looked up; she could only see her reflection, mooning in at her. She hadn’t taken her coat off. The croft was freezing, her breath came out white, and her fingers were numb from the icy water. The ceilings were too low and the furnishings, such as they were, looked shoddy. The words ‘mean’ and ‘cruel’ flashed into her head.

  Kenny had emailed her a list of supplies to pack – a very precise email with various sourcing suggestions – and now he was unloading the first box, placing the items in neat rows on the worktop.

  Olive oil, check, balsamic, check, garlic, check, chillies –

  She zoned out for a minute or two and simply watched as his fingers did a little dance over the pasta, noodles, tinned tomatoes.

  Artisan bread? he asked, his eyebrows making high arches.

  In the other box, she said, then quickly, No, I’ll get it, hang on.

  The other box was full of her stuff. She found the bread and handed it to him, and deftly footed her box under the counter at the same time.

  The perfect accompaniment, he said, pointing the thick loaf at the winkles. You get them started and I’ll light the fire.

  When she turned back to the sink, most of the winkles had slithered up the sides and onto the draining board. She couldn’t find a spatula in the cutlery drawer, nothing that would allow her to sweep them back into the colander. She didn’t really want to handle them, so she flicked them back one by one using a tablespoon, like a golfer perfecting a stroke.

  There must be electricity, she said, watching as Kenny rummaged in the cupboard. In his right hand, like a stick of explosives, he held a bunch of candles.

  Och no, he said, exaggerating his accent, We dinna need it.

  But the winkles will need cooking. And the pasta. Do you eat them with pasta?

  He gave her a look.

  You can if you like, sweetheart, he said, stacking a pile of saucers onto the counter, But I’ll take mine the auld way.

  You mean raw? She glanced over at the sink, where a few valiant winkles had made another attempt to escape.

  The stove’s gas. Did you not see the canister? You boil ’em, Bee.

  She wanted to say, You boil them, and my name’s Beryl, but she didn’t. She put a pan on the hob.

  Kenny sat at the table to eat. She sat away from him, in front of the fire, spooning up the pasta from her bowl. The room was so small she could still smell the sticky salt tang of the winkles. The silence was broken now and then by a quick squelching sound as Kenny plucked one from its shell. He’d brought his very own kilt pin, which looked to Beryl like the kind that used to fasten babies’ nappies. She didn’t say this to him; it was bound to be some sort of heirloom. Once or twice, he held a morsel out to her, which hung like a snotball in the space between them.

  You should try ’em, he said, How d’you know you don’t like ’em if ya don’t try ’em?

  And she said, after the second attempt at coaxing, The same way I know I won’t like dog, or giraffe – or spleen.

  And he laughed at that and left her alone.

  *

  She’d met Kenny on a works outing. Every Christmas the sales team went to a Greek restaurant round the corner, the same place each time, where they had turkey with all the trimmings. But this year, the new girl, Ali, suggested St John. Beryl had never heard of it, but Ali said everyone upstairs raved about it, how marvellous it was, food like your granny used to make, and then all the girls started swooning about toad in the hole and spotted dick. Beryl would have preferred the old place and the traditional dinner, but supposed St John would be alright: there’d be party poppers and Christmas crackers and a set menu, so she could still have something normal.

  Reindeer was the first item on the specials list, like some awful joke. And the girls made awful jokes: would it be Prancer or Dancer, asked Ali, swishing about in her seat; Sasha said she wouldn’t want to eat Rudolph because he was the important one. Then they couldn’t remember any more of them, and someone offered to buy champagne for the first one to name all of Santa’s reindeer. Beryl leaned back in her seat while they listed and argued. At the table behind her, Kenny leaned back too.

  Vixen, he said, into her ear, Donner and Blitzen. Have the spleen, it’s just phenomenal.

  The spleen was horrible. The taste of metal lingered for days. But he’d asked for her number. Of all the women at the table, of all the women in the restaurant, Kenny had singled her out and asked for her number.

  The next time she met Kenny, at the Chop House, she refused to try the oysters. He had steak tartare and she had fishcakes, and the pattern was set. It became a joke with them, how unadventurous she was, how cosmopolitan he was. The winkles were another joke, another small victory for Kenny. They’d come all the way up the country for this.

  After she’d finished her pasta, Beryl had a Twix and Kenny ate an apple, throwing the core on the fire where it sparkled and spat. She would have liked more wine, but Kenny had bought some whisky at a supermarket on the way up, and insisted they
try it. He poured a measure into two tumblers, holding his glass to the light, swirling it gently.

  You have to look for the tears, he said, See how they develop.

  Beryl copied him, not sure of what she was doing, and splashed the whisky over her hand. As she licked it off, he pointed out the ‘legs’ running down the inside of his tumbler, then went on about ‘mouthfeel’ and whether it was an aggressive or mellow malt. She finished hers in one burning gulp, suppressing the urge to laugh.

  An early night was the only alternative to a lesson on bourbon versus sherry casks. She lay down in bed and listened to the distant waves, sudden blurts of wind, and, underneath the wind, faint knocking.

  Was someone at the door? she asked, when he finally joined her.

  No, Bee, he said, There’s no one near. Not for miles. Unless you count the ghost.

  *

  The morning started fine and clear and quickly turned the colour of ash. Kenny had planned an outing for them – a hike across the bay if the weather allowed. Beryl found him in the kitchen, packing his rucksack. A row of items was placed along the worktop, and she watched as he did his finger-dance over them, checking, double-checking, repositioning the torch, the whistle, the hip-flask, the spare cagoule, spare hat. He packed – methodically – each piece of kit. The window was silvered with frost. She rubbed a hole in the glass to see out, saw the dripping trees and the putty-tinted sky, and glanced back at Kenny, who was sitting on the step, pulling on his hiking boots.

  The weather’s not very promising, she said, willing him to look at her.

  Aye, it’s ony a fret, he said.

  The Scotlish was beginning to grate.

  All the same, I could get the forecast online.

  Beryl went into the living area to plug in her laptop, then remembered there was no electricity. She’d charged the battery before they left, but as she was opening the lid, Kenny appeared at her side and closed it again.

  There’s nae wi-fi out here, he said, a smile hatching on his face, D’ye ken, goon?

  Beryl looked up.

  Do I what?