Last Tango in Aberystwyth

by Malcolm Pryce

  ‘But what has Calamity ever done to Mrs Llantrisant?’

  ‘Nothing at all! Absolutely nothing. That’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? The pure blinding joyous beauty of it. It’s not Calamity she hates, it’s you, Louie, for destroying her dream and putting her away on that island. But how can she get back at you? Kill you? Pah! Too feeble! Too altogether paltry an act – a mere spoonful of liquor with which to assuage Mrs Llantrisant’s ravening thirst for revenge. No matter how slowly you died it would still be too quick. Whereas the death of Calamity, an innocent who placed her trust in you – whom you love like a daughter – ah! Think of that! No matter how quickly she died, the torment would last for ever. In your own soul, Louie, your own soul! It will burn like quicklime eternally inside you and there will be nothing you can do to undo your folly or soothe the pain. And should you ever try and forget you will always have the little tape to remind you. Oh, Louie, the beauty of it! The sheer spectral beauty of her genius!’

  ‘Except of course that none of this is going to happen. It’s fantasy.’

  ‘You think so? I think it will happen tomorrow night.’

  ‘You will tell me where they are. I’ll make you.’

  ‘And how will you do that? Threaten to kill me? I’ve beaten you to it! What possible threat could you wield with any power against a man who has taken his own life?’

  I stood up and rushed to the door. ‘Then I’ll have to save you.’

  The phone had been torn from its socket so I ran down four flights of stairs to the desk and called Doc Thomas. He wasn’t in so I called an ambulance and as I shouted instructions into the mouthpiece, telling them we needed an urgent blood transfusion, I saw Llunos walking up the steps of the hotel towards me. Together we rushed back to the suite on the top floor, burst through the door and found the room empty. The discarded bandages were lying on top of the TV set. Llunos picked them up and touched the red stain with his fingertip, then dabbed his finger to his tongue. He looked over at me. ‘Damson jam.’

  Pointlessly we searched the apartment. There was nothing apart from the dirty plates, the sticky glasses and the discarded clothes. Behind the sofa Llunos found the lid of a box and threw it to me. It said: The Essential Mr Kurtz. The Pro Agent’s Guide to simulating moral collapse.

  ‘The old Mr Kurtz routine,’ said Llunos. ‘Haven’t seen that one for a while.’

  I turned it over and read a list of contents. Digests of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Eliot, Sartre … Hamlet’s soliloquy. Posters of Mao, Guevara, Papa Doc. Recordings of Kurt Weill, Stravinsky, Marlene Dietrich … A concordance of degenerative diseases of the Self. The Dummies’ Guide to Despair. I threw the box at the wall.

  Llunos walked into the bedroom.

  ‘They’re going to kill Calamity,’ I shouted after him. ‘Little Red Riding Hood. Tomorrow night at full moon.’

  I heard him rooting around in closets and drawers and I walked over to the bay window and looked out over Aberystwyth Prom. Was Proteus the name of the Greek god who came from the sea and could change his shape at will? How many incarnations were there left? Jubal Griffiths, film-maker, and Raven, and black widow spider of the ballroom, and soldier ant … I picked up the dancing-shoe that was lying on the floor. Inside, the words engraved in silver were still faintly discernible: Property of the Pier Ballroom, 1947.

  ‘He said there’s a special agent up from Cardiff to play the wolf,’ I shouted.

  Llunos reappeared carrying a flesh-coloured, saddle-shaped piece of plastic, with straps.

  ‘What’s that about a wolf?’

  ‘A special agent from Cardiff.’

  ‘I think I know who it is. I got a phone call first thing this morning from the Bureau. They fished some chap wearing concrete boots out of Milford Haven harbour last night. He’d been in the water for quite some time so they just got the dental records sent over for an ID.’

  ‘Is it anyone we know?’

  ‘Yes, a man called Harri Harries.’

  I stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Any chance of a mistake?’

  ‘Not unless he stole Harri Harries’s teeth before he went for his swim.’

  ‘So who’s our friend with the plumbing-tools?’

  ‘I don’t know. But something tells me I’m going to enjoy asking him. You might like to come along.’

  He threw me the plastic saddle. It was some sort of medical contraption, a prosthetic.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Jubal’s hunch.’ And he laughed like a morgue attendant. ‘Keep it. Every detective needs a hunch.’

  Chapter 19

  THE NEEDLE JUMPED a couple of times with soggy, bass thumps and then through the clicks the crackles and pops the voice of Myfanwy emerged, singing ‘Ar Hyd a Nos.’ ‘All Through the Night’, a gentle stream of notes that perfectly captures the objectless longing and confusion of a night that won’t end. ‘Ar Hyd a Nos,’ the mid-point in her act at the old Moulin and the song that would get me through this night with help from my faithful friend, Captain Morgan.

  I raised a glass to the photo of Marty and to the picture of Myfanwy on the record cover. And I thought of Calamity. I raised a glass to them all, drained it, refilled it, drained it, refilled it, toasted them all once more and drained it, and finally felt better. I pondered whether I should go out now and get another bottle rather than wait until there was no more left and mild panic set in. My deliberations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs; the door banged open and a gale blew in scattering papers around like snow in a giant paperweight. When the door closed, the paper settled to reveal Ionawr holding a brown paper bag. She was drenched and the bag was soggy.

  ‘I baked you some rock cakes,’ she said holding the bag up. ‘Probably ruined by now. And I found this on the mat.’ She handed me a letter.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said without enthusiasm.

  She looked at me a little uncertainly. ‘Having a party?’

  ‘Just a little get-together with all the people I’ve let down recently.’

  The bright spirit slowly drained from her face.

  ‘That’s why there’s no one here then, isn’t it?’

  I made a circling gesture with the hand clutching the glass. ‘Oh they’re all here, Myfanwy and Marty … sorry to say I don’t have a photo of your sister.’

  ‘You didn’t let her down, you helped her. She thought the world of you.’

  ‘That just makes it worse.’

  ‘You’re talking crap because you’re drunk.’

  ‘I’m not drunk yet.’

  She took the glass from my hand. ‘You’re drunk and feeling sorry for yourself. And if Bianca’s ghost was here she’d call you a twat for talking like this.’

  She put the glass down and I picked it up. She grabbed it again and threw it against the wall. It didn’t break, just bounced and landed on the record player. The arm jerked back to the beginning and clicked to a halt.

  ‘You never let Bianca down, it’s other people who always let you down.’

  ‘Oh sure! It’s sweet of you but you don’t need to.’

  ‘But it’s true. That girl for instance …’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’

  There was something in her tone that signalled there was more than nothing.

  ‘Go on, you might as well say it.’

  ‘Well … that Judy Juice, I know it’s none of my business … but I can’t help what I hear.’

  ‘And what do you hear?’

  ‘That you and her … you know … I mean it’s nothing to do with me and I don’t care what you do but they say you should be very careful of her …’

  ‘They, whoever they are, always say the worst things about the best people, surely you should know that.’

  ‘Yes but sometimes they’re right, and –’

  ‘If it makes you feel better there was nothing between me and Judy. But I do like her.’

  ‘Of course, all the men do, b
ut what sort of girl would go with Jubal?’

  ‘She hates Jubal.’

  ‘Well that just makes it worse.’

  ‘She wouldn’t give him the time of day.’

  ‘She’s given him a lot more than that from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘You must have heard wrong.’

  ‘No I didn’t. She was seen with him tonight, kissing him, and cuddling, and then they went off together …’

  I groaned. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I mean if you liked her and that …’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just I’ve been such a fool today. I trusted her and it sounds like she was working for Jubal all along. Telling him everything I said … shit. Such an idiot.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘Oh believe me, I am. All it takes to make a fool of me is a jar of damson jam.’

  Ionawr rushed forward and grabbed my head and held it to her. ‘Oh come on, Louie!’

  I put my arms round her waist and squeezed and then she broke away and said, ‘Have a rock cake.’ She opened her bag and took one out. ‘I baked them myself, just for you.’

  ‘That was nice of you.’

  ‘They’re pretty crappy actually. I’ve never done them before.’

  I took a bite. ‘You got the rock bit right!’

  She grinned.

  I put the letter down on the desk and then noticed the writing on it. There was no address, just the name ‘Louie’ in a childish scrawl. I tore it open and groaned.

  Dear Louie,

  I have decided to Kwit because I no your going to fire me for screwing up like a dumbkopf. I cant believe I fell for that stupid bird seed rootine. Do not worry about me. I am going to bring custard Pie in on my own. It’s the only way. We probably wont meet again for a while because I’m going to leave Aberystwyth and get a job in another detective agensy some place where they won’t know what a bungler I am.

  Thanks for everything.

  I love you,

  Calamity Jane

  I let out a long deep sigh of despair. And then staring at Calamity’s handwriting a thought struck me; a soft tingling hunch that you sometimes get when you least expect it. I stood up and walked over to the bureau in the corner of the office. She had left a file of Aunt Minnies there, gathering dust in the way that often happens when a kid gets a passion for something and then moves on to the next. I took it back to the desk and started leafing through. It was the longest shot in the world, of course, but worth trying. Maybe there was something in them that might help, that might give me a clue to her movements. The photos had been neatly filed according to time of year, time of day and geographical vicinity. Shot after shot taken around town of people chosen only because something was happening behind them. On the Prom, down at the harbour, the camera obscura, outside the Cabin, and one at the railway station. It was clear that, try as she obviously had, the people in the background were no more shady than Aunt Minnie in the foreground. Just out of focus because she hadn’t mastered the depth of field. It wasn’t surprising she’d given up. I was about to do the same. And then my gaze lingered on the picture taken in the railway station. I blinked, snatched it up and peered at it. My heart lurched.

  *

  It was a snap of a family leaving for a walking-holiday, four of them, two adults and two kids, all wearing hiking boots with rucksacks on the dusty platform floor. And in the background there was a woman standing and looking as if she had just stepped off the train; at her feet a suitcase. Out-of-focus, indistinct, the colour washed out; but even so you could tell she was beautiful. And, more to the point, I knew who it was.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I groaned. ‘It’s Myfanwy.’

  I looked at the date under the photo. It had been taken six months ago.

  *

  The gale shrieked like a ghoul, sweeping roof-tiles like leaves into the night sky. Against the base of the Prom the waves crashed and tore out blocks of stone the size of steamer trunks, spitting them on to the road. We drove along the Prom, dodging the debris, the rocks and stones, the matchwood that earlier had been a bandstand. The hotels were dolls’ houses tonight, the seaside railings broken and bent like pipe cleaners. I remembered the tales from the South Seas I read as a kid, about the typhoons in which the coral islanders lashed themselves to the coconut trees to avoid being swept out to sea. The booming and pounding of the sea was relentless, as sustained and regular as the artillery barrage that preceded the assault on the Somme. And with each fresh wave, spray soared high into the sky, rising like a geyser above the rooftops and then remaining suspended at the acme, for breathless seconds, like poplar trees of milk glittering in the streetlights.

  Eeyore’s stables were down by the harbour on the Pen Dinas side, next to the oast houses. We found him knee-deep in straw, running a gentle, calming hand along the flanks of the frightened beasts. They were fearful and restless, flinching at the sound of every crash of the wind against the door and staring with terror in their lake eyes. The girl from the Chinese was also there in wellingtons, pouring the contents of a bucket into a manger.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Chop-suey!’

  ‘They eat that?’

  ‘They love it, it’s a treat for when they are frightened. It’s mostly grass anyway, isn’t it?’

  We went into the kitchen and sat at the unstained oak table listening to the fury of the storm. I told Eeyore about Calamity and asked what he thought I should do and he said he didn’t know.

  ‘The note isn’t necessarily bad,’ he said at length. ‘It doesn’t mean they’ve got her.’

  ‘But she’s going looking for them, it’s what they want. Obviously Custard Pie set her up.’

  ‘It still doesn’t mean they’ve got her yet. There’s still time.’

  I could feel his eyes on me, watching me, secretly willing me to be strong.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘wherever she is, I hope she’s not out in this.’ He stood up and walked to the rain-blasted windows. ‘You could die in a storm like this. We forget how puny we are. Everything we do in life conspires to hide from us this simple truth. And because every day we escape to live another day, the world deceives us … makes us believe there is some force protecting us … that says it can’t happen … When it does, we feel almost ashamed at the stupidity of it, embarrassed that we ever thought for a moment that we were immortal …’

  He stopped speaking and rested his chin thoughtfully on the top of his thumb, as if there was a part missing from his story but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. After a while, just as I began to think he was drifting off, he looked up and said, ‘Did you see that film A Night to Remember? About the Titanic?’

  ‘Yes a couple of times, only on TV.’

  ‘It was on at the cinema about the time I joined the Force. I went to see it with your mum when we first started courting. Marvellous film.’ The faint trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his eyes. ‘Of course we were kids then in the back row so we missed a lot of it, but … but … Stormy nights always make me think of it.

  ‘Women and children first,’ said the girl from the take-away. ‘I said you lot were sentimental. On a Chinese ship the order given would have been, Men first, children second, women last. It makes perfect economic sense.’

  Eeyore chuckled and then became thoughtful again. ‘It was just a tiny bump they said. It’s always haunted me, that bit. All those people drinking and dancing and partying late into the night, their lives so glittering and full of promise. And then a strange noise, a little bump – almost perceptible – and yet the shard of ice had opened up the ship like a tin-opener.’

  He turned to me, and said, ‘I know you’re scared, son, everyone gets scared. It’s what comes next that matters.’

  ‘But I don’t know what comes next.’

  ‘No, perhaps not yet. But you will. You just need to go beyond your medicine line.’

  I smiled softly. ‘Sitting Bull again.’

  ‘It’s like I was s
aying, you see. Most of the time we live like the sheriff’s posse, penned in by the medicine line. Never going beyond. But there are times when it disappears. Something happens and we just pass right through it like Sitting Bull and his braves. Such a moment, I believe, took place on the ice-strewn deck of the Titanic. In that precise instant when the men saw that they were doomed the code that bound them disappeared. For the first time in their lives, it didn’t matter what they did or how they conducted themselves. It didn’t make a difference any more what society thought of them. Each man stood there naked. That’s when you perceive the existence of the other code. The one that lies hidden all your life like the iceberg beneath the sea. That’s when you find out what you’re really made of. We know that many men became little better than snarling dogs. They panicked, and screamed, and lost their wits. But not everyone did. There were men there who …’ He stopped and thought for a second, struggling to find a suitable term to sum them up, these men who had made such a lasting impression on him. ‘There was some retired military chap there, for example, who stood before the lifeboats and fought those wild dogs back with an iron bar.’ Eeyore paused and smiled in admiration, perhaps imagining himself standing there too, his iron bar gleaming palely in the Newfoundland starlight.

  ‘It must have been an amazing scene,’ he continued, ‘but the one that has always haunted me took place elsewhere on the ship, away from the turmoil. It was about the time the water entered the engine room and hundreds of stokers were scalded to death; and the rest surged up on deck armed with shovels with which to beat their way to the lifeboats.

  ‘At this moment, Ben Guggenheim, the millionaire, walked into the first-class lounge with his servant. They were both dressed for dinner. The room was deserted now, the floor listing crazily, and an eerie silence prevailed, perhaps the only sound the distant strains of the band on deck playing “Autumn”. The ship’s officers pleaded with them to return to the deck and to a lifeboat, because it went without saying that such important passengers would get a place in a boat. But Ben Guggenheim said no. There he stood: the whole pre-war world of luxury, privilege and impossible splendour laid out at his feet … the savour of life could not have been sweeter for any man alive in the world that night. And he was being offered a place in a lifeboat. But Ben Guggenheim refused to go. Instead he calmly ordered a brandy and said, “Never let it be said that a woman or child died on this ship because Ben Guggenheim was a coward.”’