'Seems the same as ever.'
I chuckled and Llunos started to get irritated. 'What are you driving at?'
I pointed at the picture of Myfanwy pasted to the Bandstand wall. Though old and faded, it was still recognisable. It contained a detail that was missing from the photo in the letter. But you needed sharp eyes to see it.
'Do you remember where Brainbocs said he'd hidden the essay?' I prompted.
'A well-known beauty spot,' he said, snorting at the stupidity of such a hiding place and looking at me for support; all he saw was a big wide grin. His brow screwed up and I grinned wider and wider as he looked at the picture in his hand and at the picture on the Bandstand and then finally, the penny dropping so loudly it almost frightened away the seagull, he cried out: 'My God!' And then, running his hand through his hair in disbelief, 'My God!'
He looked up, eyes shining and I nodded encouragement at him. 'The mole!' he cried. 'It's gone! Myfanwy's mole has gone!'
He stared at me open-mouthed as saliva dribbled down his chin, and I held my breath watching the cogs whirr and the truth slowly come to light.
'Well bugger me!' His face was one of pure astonishment. 'He hid the fucking essay in a micro-dot!'
I laughed. 'The cheeky bastard!'
'All that time we were checking out the picnic spots and lovers' leaps and things!'
'I must have walked past that fucking micro-dot photo booth at the museum a hundred times. And never even considered it.'
'And all the time,' said Llunos, 'the answer was staring us in the face.'
And so we both laughed. What else was there to do? Brainbocs hadn't just outwitted us, he had waltzed around us and danced the Charleston on our heads. The essay had been in front of us all along — right under Myfanwy's nose. And we sat in the Moulin every night staring at it, and never knew. Llunos looked at me and I returned the gaze and we both burst out laughing again.
I left him still laughing into his latte and made a leisurely stroll along the Esplanade to my appointment. Father Renaldo had flown all the way from Rome and I didn't want to keep him waiting. It was a beautiful day and as I passed the audacious architectural hybrid of Edwardian ironwork and swooping Perspex that was the new Pier I struggled with the tumult of emotion in my breast. It was at moments like this that I continually returned to the same question: did it really happen the way I think it did? That night two years ago aboard a plane where a terrible secret was born? The secret that joins with unbreakable glue Llunos and me in friendship but about which, paradoxically, neither of us dare speak? Did it really happen the way I think it did? 'Five seconds! Four seconds! Three seconds!' the bombardier had shouted as lightning forked off the wing and the shining waters of Nant-y-moch loomed up before us in the Plexiglas nose. 'Two seconds, one second! Go! Go! Go!' And in that second our hands shot forward to stop the release of the bomb and save the Town. Yet as they did, they came together with a touch as soft as the beating of butterfly wings and there was that hesitancy - I'm sure it was there and that we both felt it — that strange feeling almost of telepathy between us as we became aware of the god-like power that had been given to us in that twinkling of an eye. We looked at each other and saw in a moment of shared vision the unleashed fury of the waters racing down Great Darkgate Street; saw the proud white horses of the waves crashing their hooves down on to the fudge shops and the slate paperweight shops; saw the windows of the Moulin explode and the tea-cosy shops on Harbour Row washed into the sea; we saw the end of the amusement arcades and toffee-apple dens. And in that scintilla of time we thought of everything that had been, and of all the things that might be, or might not be, and that look passed between us, and we sort of said 'fuck it' and withdrew our hands. And the bomb fell. It's a scene you won't find in the movie.
I'll never be certain. The world is full of mysteries. No trace of the Ark has been found, for example, if you discount the odd bits of gopher wood that wash up now and again. And then there is this other matter. The blemish that keeps appearing in the tarmac down at the harbour and which Meirion has called municipal stigmata. This is the fourth time they've laid down a new surface — those pragmatic bare-torsoed men from the Council with their cauldron of bubbling tar and stripy canvas hut. And once again it has appeared; as if the blood that was spilled that night had contained photographic fixative. Normally I would have no trouble dismissing the whole affair as the prattle of superstitious fools. And I certainly don't believe in ghosts; I even told her that, damn it! But as I push my way impatiently past the pilgrims and stalls selling relics, as I take my place among the ranks of the credulous and stare down at the stain in the tarmac, I have to wonder. Because no matter how hard I try, there are two things I find impossible to deny: the mark really is on the exact spot where Bianca died. And if you screw your eyes up tight you really can make out the outline of a girl in a basque wearing a stovepipe hat.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
After a brief career as the world's worst aluminium salesman, Malcolm Pryce worked as an advertising copywriter, in London and later in Singapore. During this time he created campaigns for the famous Singapore Girl, and also wrote tourist promotional advertising for the former headhunting tribes of Borneo — a group of people he describes as the most civilised clients he ever dealt with. In August 1998 he quit his job, booked a passage on a cargo ship bound for South America, and set to work writing
