and waved it in my direction, indicating that I should wait. I stood up straight and took my hands out of my pockets and then cursed myself for the cringing subservience. The only light was the lamp on his desk, and from outside the window the reflection from the huge wooden Ark which now filled up most of the scrub grass to the left of the games field. It shone in the intense white glare of the lights, and security patrols could be seen wandering up and down in front of it. Lovespoon finished marking with a dramatic flourish, closed the last exercise book and looked up.
'It's about that girl, isn't it?' And then adding, as he transferred his entire attention from the marking to this new subject, 'Such a silly girl.'
I said nothing and stared.
He scrutinised my face, trying to place me in the endless stream of pustulating, squeaky-voiced adolescent boys that had flowed through his life, boys who perhaps grew to be as indistinguishable as the leaves that littered the drive each autumn.
'Mr Ballantyne the careers master tells me you're a private detective?'
I didn't answer and the old Welsh teacher sucked on his tongue as he considered the merits of my career choice. 'I always had you down for something more clerical. Drink?'
He pulled a bottle of wine out from behind the angle-poise lamp.
'I'm not thirsty.'
'Ffestiniog Chardonnay, the '73. Really quite good.' He poured himself a glass and added, 'I was under the impression that hard-boiled private eyes were constrained by the requirements of stereotype to drink on every possible occasion.'
'Fuck you!'
The teacher flinched slightly and then said, 'Ah!' before drumming his fingers softly on the desk.
'Where is she?'
He smiled weakly and made an almost imperceptible shrug. 'I don't know.'
'Try again.'
'No, really I don't.'
He leaned slightly closer and peered at me. 'I don't remember teaching you actually.'
'You chipped my tooth when you threw the board rubber.'
He reached and picked up a pen, and then put it down again. 'This is all a terrible mess. Apparently she did it for you.'
Even in the dark I couldn't disguise my reaction.
Lovespoon laughed. 'So romantic. Still, you'd make a better match than Pickel, I dare say. So one can hardly blame her.'
'Just tell me where she is, and I won't hurt you.'
'Hurt me?' he said in phoney surprise.
'Not that you don't rucking deserve it, I owe you plenty.'
The Welsh teacher rutted at my language, and ran a hand lovingly along the ornately carved wooden arms of his chair. It was like a throne.
'Do you know what this chair is?'
I knew he was playing for time, trying to think of a way out or hoping someone would come, but it was difficult to resist the drift of his conversation.
'It's the bardic chair from the Eisteddfod. You won it for the poetry.'
'Three times. That's why I got to keep it.'
'Like Brazil in the World Cup.'
He winced. Then stood up wearily and walked through the darkened office to the window.
'That's the trouble with people like you, Knight, you only know how to mock. How to break things. You don't know how to create anything. You never did.'
'Where does killing your pupils fit into the picture?'
'Brainbocs was unfortunate.'
'You'll be telling me you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs, next.'
He shrugged and turned back to face me. 'It's not a bad philosophy.'
'Is that what Bianca is then?'
'Surely you're not going to get all sentimental about a tart?'
I jumped and lunged at him; he stepped back in time and I ended up grabbing his arm. As he struggled to break free we both fell on to the desk, scattering photos, half-marked essays and a pair of scissors.
'She's worth ten of you.'
He laughed wildly. 'She's not worth one of my farts.'
'Tell me where she is!' I shouted. We rolled off the desk on to the floor. Lovespoon struggled to push me off and I fought to get above him, to push him down. He was strong but I had twenty years on him. Soon I was kneeling on his chest. The struggle had knocked the table lamp over and the thin yellow beam pointed at his face.
'Where is she?'
Lovespoon was breathing hard and spoke in gasps. 'I told ... you ... I ... don't know.'
I balled my fingers into a fist and raised it. He looked straight at me with clear, calm grey eyes. There was no fear in them. It was then that I noticed the scissors on the floor. They were those heavy craft scissors with black- painted finger holes. I picked them up and held them hovering above his face.
'Don't make me do it.'
He sneered. 'You haven't got the balls! You never did have, did you? You were too much of a milksop to play rugby — yes I remember you; and now you think you can come here threatening me?'
I brought the scissors down so low that the point was almost touching his eye. The eyelashes brushed against it. I could see him visibly forcing himself to remain composed.
'You can't frighten me, you know. I fought in Patagonia.'
'With Gwenno Guevara.'
He sneered. 'You'll never find her, you know. Brainbocs managed it but he died, and you don't have the brains.'
'What have you done to Bianca?'
'Since when did you care so much about Pickel's tart?'
I tightened my grip on the scissors. 'If you don't tell me where she is I'll put out your eyes so you never see Cantref-y-Gwaelod.'
For a while there was silence except our breathing. Lovespoon stared up at me and I stared down at him and in between were the scissors. Finally he said: 'I'll make a deal.'
'You're not in a position to.'
'Herod has the girl; I don't know where. We'll bring her to you tomorrow.'
'Why should I trust you?'
'Because you haven't got the rucking balls to use those scissors, have you?'
Chapter 15
HE WAS RIGHT, of course. Maybe in the heat of a fight I could have used them but not like that in cold blood. Perhaps if I had paid more attention during Herod Jenkins's games lessons I could have done it, but I was, as he said, too much of a milksop.
There was nothing to be done. I left the school and drove aimlessly inland, through Commins Coch and on to Penrhyncogh, and then began a. long sweep west towards Borth. As I drove, the words of Lovespoon echoed through my thoughts. Since when did I give a damn about Bianca? I thought of the night I took her home. To perform that act — the one that along with money was responsible for most of the trouble that came in through my door. For years I had sat and watched them all squirming on the client's chair, gored by the suspicion that their partners were cheating on them. Each one thinking that the disaster that befell them was unique, thinking that paying me to confirm it would somehow make them feel better. I had heard it all a thousand times before, like a priest taking confession — me with my phoney absolution. That act that so twisted the heart. Which the newspapers called sexual intercourse, and Lovespoon called sexual congress, and the man in the pub called bonking and Bianca called, paradoxically, making love, and which Mrs Llantrisant didn't even have a name for which she felt
