Candlenight

plentiful in this area. Max Canavan, of the Sun, had been left with an attic, while Peter Warren, of the Independent, couldn't find anywhere in town and would be forced to commute each day from a hotel on the seafront at Aberystwyth.

'Bloody BBC,' said Ray Wheeler.

'What have we done now?' Shirley Gillies demanded.

'Only block-booked the best hotel in town.'

'Advance-planning,' Shirley smiled sweetly. 'I shall think of you guys when I'm sitting down to dinner at the Plas Meurig in approximately an hour's time. Still, it's awfully, you know, homey here, isn't it.'

'Piss off, Shirley,' said Charlie Firth.

'The Plas Meurig,' Gary Willis said, 'is where the Tories'll be having their daily Press conferences, yeh?'

'And the Liberals,' Shirley said. 'It's a big place. They're at opposite ends. I'm not sure where Labour are, but at least you won't have to get up too early to cover the Plaid pressers, will you?'

They've got bloody great green signs all over the door of the other bar,' Ray Wheeler said. 'Listen, are we going to tackle the bugger about this assault stuff tomorrow?'

'Assault stuff,' Shirley leaned forward. 'Do tell.'

'Come on, Shirley.' Ray said. 'Everybody knows about that.'

'The merchant banker he filled in.' Charlie bunched a fist. 'Think you can buy up all our farms and get away with it, do you' you English swine? Take that.'

Charlie pretended to hit Gary Willis.

'Oh, that' Shirley said. 'Is it actually true?'

'What's that matter to these buggers?' Gary said.

'Watch it. Willis.' Ray held Charlie's beer glass over Gary's head and tilted it threateningly.

Just then a customer put down his glass of lager, detached himself from a small group of companions and leaned across the reporters' table in a conspiratorial fashion, like a trader in dirty postcards.

'Not met him yet then, this nationalist maniac?'

Charlie and Ray favoured this native with their open, friendly, reporters' smiles. They couldn't see him very well because the public bar had bad lighting, as distinct from soft lighting.

'Do you know him, then?' Shirley Gillies asked.

'Surprisingly distinguished-looking, he is. Not you know, tremendously tail. But powerfully-built. What the Welsh consider a fine figure of a man.'

'Like, short and fat?' said Charlie.

'Stocky,' corrected the customer. 'A good beard on him, too, but tidy. Dresses casual, like, but not… not a slovenly man.'

'Looks a bit like you, then?' Ray Wheeler said.

'Indeed.' The man put out a hand. 'Guto Evans, my name.'

He took a deep breath and, with visible effort; added, 'At your service.'

A dark-haired man came in through the bottom door and quietly look a seat at the adjacent table, behind Shirley Gillies.

'Hullo, Berry,' Shirley said.

'Hi,' he said quietly.

'Where are you staying?'

'Dunno yet. I just got here. Where are you staying?'

'Plas Meurig.' Shirley said smugly. 'Beeb's taken about ten rooms, what with all the telly boys and the technicians. Charlie and Ray are awfully miffed.' She lowered her voice. 'That's Guto Evans, by the way, the Plaid Cymru candidate. Isn't he perfect?'

'You here on your own. then?' Ray Wheeler said to Guto. 'No aides, agent, entourage?'

'My local, this is.' Guto told him. 'I tend not to require any political advice on which brand of lager to select. Can I get you boys a drink, or is the English Press immune to bribery?'

'Son,' said Ray Wheeler, 'you've obviously got a big future in politics. Mine's a brandy.'

'Come and talk to us.' Charlie said. 'Tell us what this election is really about.'

'Off the record, is it?' Guto said dubiously. 'I've been warned about you boys.'

'Oh, sure.' Charlie said. 'Don't you worry about a thing, Guto. We're all old hands at this game, except for Gary, and his paper ignores everything he writes anyway.' Gary Willis looked very annoyed, and Charlie chuckled and offered Guto a cigar.

'Look, I have to walk back to the Plas Meurig,' said Shirley Gillies, 'or I won't get my dinner. I'll talk to you again, Guto. OK?'

'I'll walk with vou.' Berry Morelli said. 'Dark out there.'

'Amazing, isn't it.' Shirley said, plump body even plumper in an enormous pink padded ski-jacket. 'I mean, it's just a village, really. A big, untidy village.'

Seven p.m. The lights of Pontmeurig seemed vague and sparse, suffocating in a cold night mist. There was no moon, no stars.

'You were expecting neon?' said Berry.

Shirley shivered and wobbled. 'I suppose not. Still…'

'Yeah, I know what you mean. That frontier-town feel.'

They walked across the Meurig bridge. No lights were reflected in the river heaving sluggishly below.

'Berry, look. I was awfully sorry about Giles,' Shirley mumbled. 'We weren't very kind to him, were we?'

'Kind?'

'It's horribly ironic, though, isn't it, that we're all out here and he's… I mean, I was picturing him in that pub. He'd have been centre stage, holding forth, correcting our pronunciation of Welsh names. Absolutely in his element.'

'Yeah.'

'I mean, isn't it just so cruel?'

They walked down from the bridge and after a few yards there was a right turning, a sweeping drive and pillars supporting illuminated AA and RAC signs. In the middle distance, a floodlit facade, a colonial-style verandah. The Plas Meurig Hotel. Two-star.

'Thanks Berry. I don't think I would've enjoyed walking down here alone. Are you here for the duration?'

He shook his head. 'Two days.'

'So where are you going to sleep tonight?'

'This an invitation, Shirley?' He was being polite.

'Gosh…' Shirley simpered. 'I suppose it is rather a cold night to spend in one's car. But I think not, really. Not at the start of a campaign. I generally prefer to let the excitement build a little before I start to let myself go.'

Shit. Berry thought sourly, heading back over the bridge. This was what they meant by election fever?

The thought of even attempting to spend a night in an Austin Healy Sprite made Berry quicken his pace. It hadn't occurred to him that accommodation might turn out a problem.

What he didn't want was to stay in the same establishment as Firth and Wheeler and those guys. He was here on a mission, and it didn't have anything to do with politics.

He speeded up, seeking to stride through his own sadness and guilt, but they were frozen around him in the mist. It had made big, deep razor-slits in his life, this thing. Might have cost him the only person who could still make him laugh.

'Well, really, it's no good, is it?' Miranda had said as he brought down the lid of his suitcase. For once, being low-voiced, low-key, absolutely and uncharacteristically serious. Sitting on a hard wooden chair well away from the bed.

'Honestly,' she'd said. 'I'm terribly, terribly sorry about your friend.'

'But?'

'But I'm not sure I want to be associated with a really crazy person anymore.'

So, there it was. The bottom line. The boy's neurotic.

'Listen, maybe you're right.' Spreading his hands, appealing for some understanding. 'Like, I can't say if I'm