mac coats. We stood entranced by the spectacle. Their hands worked feverishly like the mandibles of leaf-cutter ants sawing away at a cellophane rose. All of a sudden the bond which held the rose closed was broken, whereupon something even more extraordinary happened: a huge science-fiction dragonfly of polythene squirted upwards and attacked them. Gauzy wings caught the breeze and fanned out enveloping the pensioners in plumes of gossamer. Mrs Bwlchgwallter, in a bid to win back the crowd’s attention, launched into a rousing version of her trademark song, ‘Blue Suede Orthopaedic Boots’:
The pensioners completed their pac-a-mac dance and the crisis passed as soon as it had begun. A shaft of sunlight broke through the cloud and spattered the Prom with molten solder. The audience turned once again towards the stage, everything was as it had been, and yet they were all now mummified, side by side like giant moth pupae, shimmering with iridescent colour from the blue end of the spectrum: cobalt, ultramarine, mauve, electric blue. On their wet faces the spectacles glinted like slices of cucumber.
We caught up with Mrs Bwlchgwallter in the dressing room after the performance. She sat before the horseshoe of light bulbs around the mirror, pulled off a wig to reveal her own hair matted down underneath a close- fitting net. She tore off the fake eyebrows and picked up a tissue to wipe away the caked-on greasepaint. ‘If you want me to sign something, you’ll have to wait a mo,’ she said to our reflections in the mirror. We had already decided to give her the good agent/bad agent treatment. It was Calamity’s turn to be bad.
‘The only thing we want to sign is your contract for the Shrewsbury Palladium,’ I said.
She stopped wiping her face. ‘What was that?’
‘That’s if you want to be famous. Not everyone does.’
‘Forget it, boss,’ said Calamity speaking through the side of her mouth. ‘I told you we were wasting our time. We should have gone for the squeaker in Penrhyncoch.’
‘What’s a squeaker?’ asked Mrs Bwlchgwallter.
‘Squeaker. That’s what they call balloon-twisters –’
‘As if she didn’t know,’ scoffed Calamity.
‘W . . . who are you?’
‘This is the Shirley Temple Kid, you remember her, don’t you? Course you do. Best child star Cardiganshire ever produced. She’s retired now, wants to give something back.’
‘What about you?’
‘All you need to know is who I work for.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘The Man.’
Calamity picked up a tin ashtray and examined it with distaste. She chucked it down with a clatter. ‘Hmm,
‘Not everyone likes money, you should know that.’
‘I like money,’ said Mrs Bwlchgwallter.
‘So why spend your life making stinking gingerbread?’ asked Calamity.
For a moment, the slur upon the gingerbread-making trade, in particular her little shop, stirred the spirit of rebellion in Mrs Bwlchgwallter. ‘I’ll have you know that shop has been in my family three generations . . .’
‘How much do you make in a month?’ said Calamity. ‘Four-fifty? Four-ninety? Five maybe? I’d say five-ten tops.’
‘But that’s not the point is it?’
‘Isn’t it? You tell me, then, what is the point of spending your life turning sugar, eggs and flour into little brown homunculi? Because I’m damned if I can see it.’
‘It’s a service to the town . . .’
‘It’s a higher calling, isn’t that right?’ I asked.
‘In a pig’s valise,’ said Calamity.
I gave her a puzzled look and she returned a scowl that said, That’s what they say in Chicago; how come you don’t know that?
‘Mrs Bwlchgwallter,’ I said, ‘I’ll be straight with you. I’ve seen your act. It’s top drawer. I’ve seen a lot of acts, but it’s not often I meet someone as gifted as you. At the moment you are burying it beneath all that crowd- pleasing blancmange. It’s time to take the gloves off. The Kid here doesn’t always express herself very nicely. That can happen. You spend too long in Acapulco, it can happen. Maybe to you as well. Tell her how many millions you made last year.’
‘You know I can’t count higher than nine,’ said Calamity.
‘That’s what happens when you take them out of school to put them on the stage. She made fourteen million but only because of the three-month holiday in Acapulco. You ever been to Acapulco?’
‘No, I –’
‘Cancun is better. But how many months at a time can you spend in Cancun? Acapulco is the fall-back option. We can get you there.’
‘But first you got to go Shrewsbury,’ said Calamity.
‘And before that you have to go to Ynys Greigiog. Just for an hour.’
‘But what for?’
‘Exposure. I need some newspaper headlines I can take to the Big Kahuna.’
‘The deal is so simple, even you can do it,’ said the Shirley Temple Kid. ‘You know the farmer who saw the flying saucer? We want you to hypnotise him.’
‘That used to be your thing didn’t it? Part of your act back in the old days. Yes, I know all about you, I’ve done my homework. I’ve read the reviews: Borth Holiday Camp, Pwllheli Butlins, Barry Island . . . they say you were good. They say you were the best. The Kid says you’re washed up, I’ve got five bucks that says you’re not. First you have to go and speak to the farmer. Put him under and find out his story, then report back to us. We get you in the paper and from there it’s a short step to the Shrewsbury Palladium. What do you say?’
‘Well . . .’
I grabbed her hand and pumped. ‘I knew I wasn’t wrong about you. Throw the boots away, you don’t need the props any more.’ I handed her a business card, blank except for a telephone number. ‘If you need to get in touch, call this number and ask for Louie Knight. The Kid will write down the farmer’s address and give you the bus fare.’
We walked to the door.
‘One more thing,’ said Calamity. ‘You need a better name. Something that won’t make the neon sign-writer want to stick a gun in his mouth.’
Chapter 12
The next morning when I arrived at the office there was a note scribbled on the deskpad, from Calamity. She said she was going out to Borth with Jhoe, to have a picnic by the remains of the submerged forest. As directions go, you couldn’t get much more specific than that. The phone rang; it was Mrs Bwlchgwallter.
‘I can’t stop,’ she breathed, ‘I’ve just popped out from the hypnotism. He’s still under. He’s been saying some terrible things. He says he murdered his brother.’
‘I wouldn’t pay any attention to –’
‘Buried him in the cellar. And killed the dog.’
I picked a bottle of rum up off the floor next to my chair and tried to unscrew the cap one-handed. ‘I shouldn’t worry about it. Evidence from a trance is not admissible in court.’
‘Shouldn’t I tell the police?’
‘What if he denies it?’
‘They can dig up the cellar, can’t they?’
I gripped the receiver between shoulder and ear and used both hands to open the bottle. I needed to refill my hip flask. ‘The problem you’ve got there is, two things can happen. A, they don’t find anything, in which case they throw you in the sneezer for wasting police time. B, they find something, in which case they start wondering how it
