Last Tango in Aberystwyth an-2

by Malcolm Pryce

  'I knew you would come,' he whispered.

  Oh moon of Alabama, we now must say goodbye ...

  'What have you done to your wrists?'

  He turned his palms upwards as if showing off a new set of cuff-links.

  'I opened the veins about an hour ago.'

  We've lost our good old mama, and must have whisky, oh you know why ...

  A cold shiver slithered up through my innards. That same shiver all decent people feel when they walk down the street past a doorway where there's been a fight and they see spots of blood or even teeth. Or when you drive past an accident and catch a half-glimpse in the corner of your eye of something red that had once been a man.

  'Did you change your mind?' I asked like an idiot. Did he change his mind? What a stupid thing to say.

  He shook his head wearily. 'No, it's an old Roman trick, described by Petronius, I think. You open the veins and then you bandage them so you die slowly and peacefully. The custom was for those for whom no hope remained to pre-empt the vengeance of the courts and choose their own time of dying. One last night, a few hours to bid adieu. To dine, to take a last skin of wine, to listen to some poetry and perhaps amuse oneself with the slave boys. Such is the custom for the last night. But alas in Aberystwyth the choice of entertainments is ... is ... well, you can imagine it.'

  'Should ... should I call an ambulance?'

  'I would be grateful if you didn't.' And then with a slight twist of his head, 'Would you be so kind as to fetch me a drink?'

  I went over to the drinks cabinet. And as I did he recited from the book in his hand.

  'Footfalls echo in the memory

  Down the passage which we did not take

  Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden ...'

  Most of the bottles were empty but there was some sherry left. I poured us a couple and handed him one. He took a sip and closed the book. 'You know what he said, don't you?'

  'Who?'

  'Petronius. "The pleasure of the act of love is gross and brief and brings loathing after it."'

  I said, 'You don't look like a Raven.'

  'You think they would send a disco-dancer to ensnare Mrs Bligh-Jones? She needs to be wooed like any other woman. Or flattered.'

  'Or offered a part in a movie.'

  He nodded. 'Yes, that one always works well.' He put the book down by his feet and picked up a discarded shoe. It was a dancing-shoe.

  'But it is not the best way ... not the best.' He traced his finger along the contours of the sole and pressed his eyes tightly shut as if stabbed by a shard of memory. When he opened the lids again, they were heavy with wetness. He held the shoe out towards me. 'This is the best, my friend. To dance! Ah! Yes, to dance all night until the skylight fills with the milk rose of dawn ... if you can do it well, with йlan and ... gentillesse, ah! it is ... is ... voodoo itself! I learned this when I was just twenty-one, apprenticed to the Pier Ballroom to partner the rich widows who came on holiday but had no beau. A penny a dance they gave me. Such wonderful times, such deep joy ... I cannot speak now of ... of ... what does the poet say? Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glory now?'

  He paused and gave the shoe in his hand a wan look; then placed it down by his foot as gently as if it were a sleeping infant.

  'They closed them, you know. Closed them all, those wonderful glittering ballrooms. The people had no use any more for sophistication, or elegance, or courtly manners. They wanted rock and roll, and television and bingo. I was left with nothing but my shoes. And one other thing, a thing that every man in this world craves, but very few ever truly possess: the knowledge of how to please a lady. The people who recruited me for the Ravens understood this.'

  'But you used it to kill Mrs Bligh-Jones.'

  His features hardened. 'Spare me the catcalls, Mister Knight. You dishonour my death-bed.'

  'I'd like to know why you killed her.'

  'Because my orders told me to of course. Because I am a Raven, it is my job. Do you ask the postman why he bears bad news?'

  'Yes but why did she have to die?'

  'Why do any of us have to die? The important thing is that we all do and the various reasons are of little consequence when set against such an implacable fact.'

  'You killed her because of some corny piece of philosophy?'

  'No I killed her, if you must know, because her methods had become unsound. Brilliant, but unsound.'

  'You mean Pumlumon?'

  He nodded.

  'So it's true then? My God. My God!'

  Jubal threw the book to one side. 'Personally, I do not share the general revulsion. To me what happened on Pumlumon was nothing, just a piece of routine cannibalism —'

  I gasped.

  'I'm at a loss to understand such fastidiousness in the face of death. In a situation such as this, a matter of survival, such things arc accepted. The literature of nineteenth-century seafarers is full of references to the practice. After sodomy it was the greatest occupational hazard a cabin-boy had to fear. Seafaring folk understand these things, but the city people get jittery. It is the one crime they do not forgive. And thus she had to die; thus once she had embarked on that road, the order, the inevitable order came: Terminate Mrs Bligh-Jones's command -with extreme prejudice.'

  'And yet you were her lover?'

  'How else does one ensnare the heart of one's victim? Oh I admit that it was not without its pleasurable side. Mrs Bligh-Jones is a fine woman. A feisty woman, with passion and scalding-hot fire in her veins. I found much to admire in her. That clean, sharp purity of vision, that exquisite mixture of beauty and cruelty and ... and ... and certainty. Yes that was what I most admired. A woman of action, a woman unfettered by doubt who could eat her bowling partner of twenty years because she knew there was no other way ...'

  'How can a man love a woman he knows he is going to kill?'

  'Don't be such an arse! I am a Raven, it is my mission to spring the honey-trap, it would be impossible if I did not enjoy the taste of the honey, even Mrs Bligh-Jones's honey. And now it is my turn to die. I do not complain.'

  'But why?'

  'Because my work is over.'

  'Who do you work for?'

  He raised his head slightly and smiled a smile of pure evil. 'Mrs Llantrisant, who else? You see they call me a Raven but really my true nature is different. A soldier ant would be more appropriate. I mate and die. Steadfast in the service of my queen. Her survival is all that matters. Now that I have done my task I am content to make my exit. Although sadly I will miss the final act in Mrs Llantrisant's masterful plan.'

  'Calamity.'

  'Ah yes, Calamity.'

  'This was Mrs Llantrisant's plan?'

  'Of course, who else would have the genius to conceive of such a mission? In this respect, brilliant though I am, I am a mere puppet. My job was to eliminate Bligh-Jones, facilitate the escapes of Herod, Custard Pie and Mrs Llantrisant; and then arrange Mrs Llantrisant's piиce de rйsistance, the Little Red Riding Hood murder. Masterly. We have a special agent up from Cardiff to play the wolf. When it is finished Mrs Llantrisant will send you the tape to watch in your long lonely hours of self-hatred.'

  '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, but 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.'<
br />
  '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.