Aberystwyth Mon Amour

comfortable with. That act of cold animal coupling that so often in this town was nothing more than simple rutting. I didn't know why I had done it. Lonely and frightened, and drunk, perhaps. I hadn't given it any thought. Why? Because she was a Moulin girl and we all knew they had no feelings, or the ones they had were invented to suit the occasion. As men we warned each other with smug pride at our worldliness to steer clear of their treacherous hearts. And then this happens. She risked her life to help me; and might now be dead, or worse. A course of action that could only have been prompted by tenderness or love or some feeling she wasn't supposed to be capable of. And I thought of Myfanwy, so much more wise and versed in the ways of the Aberystwyth street, and I tried to imagine her sacrificing herself for me like that. And even as I tried to picture it, I knew with iron certainty that it was out of the question.

The first light was filtering through a veil of grey clouds when I reached Borth. I drove through the golf course and parked at the foot of the dunes and got out. I had intended going for a swim but when I reached the top of the dune, I thought better of it. Instead I sat on the sand and watched the slow, endless advance of the cleansing waves. My eyelids dropped lower and lower, until I slept. It was Cadwaladr who woke me. The war veteran Myfanwy and I had shared our picnic with. He offered me a drink from his can of Special Brew and I took it despite the waves of nausea brought on by the high-alcohol lager hitting an empty stomach. For a while we didn't speak, just stared out at the eternity of the ocean and I asked him the same question that I had asked Lovespoon. Who was Gwenno Guevara? This mysterious soldier Brainbocs had met in the week before he died.

Cadwaladr didn't answer immediately, and when he did he said simply, 'She was a whore.'

'Is that it? Just a whore?'

'Before the war she was a whore. A tea-cosy girl. Then she went to Patagonia and became a fighter. After the war — who knows? She disappeared.'

The old soldier stood up to leave and I called after him.

'You remember what you said about Rio Caeriog?'

He paused.

'You said they didn't teach your version of it in school. Do you remember?'

'Yes.'

'Can you tell me your version? The true story of Rio Caeriog?'

'No.'

'But you were there, weren't you?'

'Oh yes, I was there.'

He shook his head and added before tramping off: 'But I can't tell you that story. It's not mine to tell.'

When I got back to the office, there was a note from Eeyore to call him, and Llunos was once again sitting in my chair. He was picking bits of dirt from underneath his fingernails, and spoke without looking up, 'Have a nice swim?'

'Not bad; you should get out in the sunshine a bit more yourself.'

He continued to talk to his fingernails. 'You're probably right.'

I slumped down into the client's chair across the desk from him and waited for him to say what he had to say. Nothing came. We sat in silence like that for a while. The phone rang.

'Louie Knight Investigations.'

'If you want to see the girl, come to the harbour tonight at midnight. Outside the Chandler's.'

'Who is this please?'

'Come alone or we'll slice her up.' The caller hung up and I put the receiver down while trying to keep the look on my face neutral.

Llunos seemed too bored to even ask about the call. When he finally spoke it was about palaeoanthropology.

'Fascinating discipline,' he said looking up from his fingernails.

'If you've come to borrow a book on it I gave my last one to Mrs Llantrisant.'

'It's quite a hobby of mine, actually.'

I wondered why he was here. Had they found Bianca?

'Chap at the University specialises in it. He's got this wonderful 3D modelling software for his computer. He takes the skulls of stone-age men and scans them in and then slowly builds up the tissue and muscle and things until eventually presto! he gets to find out what Stone Age men looked like.'

'Why bother? We all know they looked like you.'

He flinched, but persevered with the air of studied detachment he'd adopted for the occasion. 'We found some fibres under Evans the Boot's fingernails. Hardly any really, but we gave them to this chap and he put them in his computer and he managed to recreate the knitting pattern. It was a tea cosy. Then we got two speedknitters up from the Bureau in Cardiff and they knocked us out a copy of the original cosy.'

I knew what was coming next.

'I just took it down to Mrs Crickhowell at KnitWits. She said it was the same as that South American cosy that was stolen from the Museum. Funnily enough, she said seen it quite recently — in your hands.'

He stood up and walked over to the toilet. He put his hand on the door handle and added, 'There are police officers posted downstairs in case you don't feel like waiting.' He went in and I dashed across and turned the key.

'I'm sorry about this, Llunos, really I am!' I shouted to the door. Then I walked over to the window and peeked carefully out. He wasn't lying. A police officer looked up and waved. It was time to use the escape route through the attic. It was clear that this time I would be in the cell for a lot longer than overnight, and I was desperate to stay free long enough to see Bianca tonight. Locking Llunos in the bathroom was a high price to pay, though. He wouldn't forgive me for that so easily.

*

Eeyore opened the door, took one look at the man in shaggy blond wig, dark glasses and false moustache and said, 'Oh it's you.' He led me into the kitchen where the smell of recently fried bacon hung heavily in the air.

'I've got someone here who wants to see you,' he said as he filled the old whistle kettle and placed it on the gas oven. 'It's an old friend of mine, from my days in the Force. He knows something about the ESSJAT.' Eeyore pulled up a chair and I sat down.

'He was given the task of breaking the organisation a long time ago; but his cover was blown and they had to give him a completely new identity.' He walked out and a few seconds later came back in with the former agent. A look of surprise consumed my face. It was Papa Bronzini.

'Buon giorno!' I gasped.

He smiled sadly and said in a voice filled with pathos, 'It's OK, sir, we can dispense with the arrivedercis.'

'So you're not Italian, then?' I said obviously.

He shook his head. 'Alas no.'

An awkward moment followed as I waited for him to explain, but he didn't.

'Well you had me fooled,' I said finally.

'I used to be a bit of an actor in those days — amateur dramatics. I expect you're quite familiar with that sort of thing?'

'I've seen a few plays.'

'Oh really, sir? Which ones?'

'Er . . . Lady Windermere's Fan,' I said desperately.

'Tennessee Williams?'

'Er . . . yes!'

He nodded. 'I was into method acting — eat, drink, live and sleep the part - that's the trick.' His eyes misted as he thought back to those days of greasepaint and footlights. 'Ah yes, I used to do a lot of that — Richard II... 'I wasted Time, and now doth Time waste me.' Are you familiar with that one, sir?'

'Yes, it's one of my favourites.'