claimed to have information to sell about Evans the Boot and told me to go to the 24-hour Whelk Stall tonight at lam.
The girl in the Welsh national dress appeared in front of me, blocking off the light.
'Hi, handsome!'
I looked up warily. 'Hi.' At close quarters I could see her outfit was only a faint echo of Welsh national dress: a basque, fishnet tights, a shawl and a stovepipe hat sitting at a jaunty angle on a mass of black curls.
She held out her hand. 'I'm Bianca.'
It would have been ungracious not to shake her hand, but I knew that once shook, that arm would act like a drawbridge enabling her to gallop across and sack the citadel of my wallet whenever she pleased. I hesitated which made her wiggle her hand impatiently in front of my face, grinning. Reluctantly I took her hand and shook. There was no resisting these girls, and if you wanted to - went the unvoiced accusation in their mocking smiles — why bother coming in the first place? She grinned and spun round excitedly before seating herself on the empty chair opposite me.
'Myfanwy told me to look after you.'
My heart fluttered unaccountably. 'She did?'
'Mmmm,' she giggled. 'She'll be along later, so she made me her deputy; only she didn't give me a star — boo hoo!'
'Are you sure she meant me?'
'Of course. You're Louie aren't you?'
I opened my mouth to speak but only managed a croak. She reached across and tousled my hair. As she did so, her basque slipped forward and I stared into the shadowy abyss of her cleavage. I groaned unintentionally before finally dragging my eyes back up to the safety zone of her face. But the damage was done: the cheeky expression poised halfway between a grin and a smirk made it clear she had registered the kill.
'Naughty boy!' she said and flicked my nose.
She moved her stool closer so we were sitting side by side, arms touching and her hair spilling out on to my shoulder, tickling my face. Her skin was hot next to mine and the moist animal scent of hair filled my nostrils like incense.
'Mmmm, I can see why she likes you!'
'But how did she know I was coming?' I said weakly.
'I don't know, I suppose you told her.'
'No I didn't.'
A waiter appeared.
'Did you tell her you weren't coming?'
'No.'
'Well, same thing then.' And then looking up at the waiter, 'Brandy-coke and another of whatever he's having.' The waiter nodded and moved off.
In a panic I shouted after him, 'Hey wait a minute!' He stopped and turned, but only slightly.
'What's wrong?' asked Bianca, her brow clouding.
I wanted to ask how much a brandy-coke cost, but thought better of it. Bianca waved the waiter away.
'Don't you want to have a nice time?' she cooed.
'Yes of course, but...' The words were lost as I considered the implications of what Bianca had just said. Myfanwy knew I would come. I hadn't said I was going to, and she hadn't invited me or anything; we hadn't even discussed it. In fact, I didn't even know myself until this afternoon. But she had known. Not just assumed it, which was bad enough, but had been so confident of it she had even appointed a friend to look after me. And damn it, here I was.
As the minutes ticked away after 11.15 the Club filled up quickly. Just before Myfanwy came on, one of the Druids from the roped off section got up and made for the gents and I followed him. I stood next to him in the stall and looked at him, but made no attempt to piss. After a few seconds he looked over. I smiled.
'That your Montego outside?'
'What the fuck's it to you?'
'Some people driving a car that like smashed up my place this afternoon. Wondered if you knew anything about it?'
He shrugged. 'Nothing to do with me.'
'It looked like they were searching for something.'
'You don't say.'
'Well tell your friends if they want anything from me, they should come and ask. It's more polite.'
'Dunno what you're talking about.' He shook his dick and walked out. I went back to my table.
By the time I returned to my seat, a change had come over the room. As if reacting to an unseen signal, the private conversations started to fizzle out, one by one, until in just a few seconds there were only three or four people talking. Then two, then none. We all looked to the stage like children who have scented that Father Christmas is in the building. A wave of restlessness then swept through the gathering like a breeze through a field of corn. A man appeared on the stage, clutching a microphone and holding out a supplicatory arm, admonishing the restless crowd into silence.
'All right, settle down, settle down!'
There was an outbreak of chair-squeaking as people turned their seats to face the stage.
'Settle down. We've got a long show ahead of us tonight, we can't start until you let us.'
The compere paused, as if to leave a respectable gap between his persona and the new one he was about to adopt. He adjusted his bow tie and then spoke in a voice borrowed from the days of Old Time Music Hall.
'My Lords, ladies, gentlemen!' he began to a huge roar of delight. 'Bards and High Priests, it's time once again to welcome our sweet little songstress from St Asaph
The audience went 'Ooooh!'
'The little lamb chop from Lampeter . . . the farmer's favourite and Druid's delight . . .'
The audience went 'Aaah!'
'The babe that makes the bards bubble at the brim with the basest beastliness ...'
The room thundered a delighted 'Whooah!'
'Ladies and gentlemen I give you the cute, the candy-coated, the coracle-sized crackerjack from Cwmtydu! The legendary, leek-scented lovespoon from Llanfihangel-y-Creuddyn, the one and only legendary Welsh chanteuse — Myfanwy M-o-n-t-e-z!'
It took a full three minutes for the applause to die down. During that time, the already dim lights were dimmed further, until nothing could be made out in the room except the cigarette ends in the faces of the audience and shadowy movements on the stage. Then, all of a sudden, dawn broke in the form of a single spotlight trained on Myfanwy, shimmering in an evening gown of pale blue silk.
She sang all the old favourites: 'David of White Rock'; the ancient Welsh hymn 'Galon Lan'; 'Una Paloma Blanca'; and, of course, 'Myfanwy', Everyone had heard it a thousand times before, and no one cared. It was a class act and lasted for well over an hour. Towards the end she came down from the stage and wandered like a minstrel among the tables, teasing the men who made good-natured grabs for her. I tried not to catch her eye, but it was impossible. For the final chorus of 'Myfanwy' she came and stood at my table. I looked slowly up from my glass, our gazes locked, and to the everlasting grief of the yearning audience, she delicately plucked the rosebud from her hair and threw it into my lap. Then the lights went out.
Outside, much later, the night had turned cold and the air was full of that moisture that hangs halfway between drizzle and rain. It was about five or so minutes to one and the streets were deserted except for the occasional lone figure lurching drunkenly home. I pulled up my collar and walked along the Prom past the old university building and towards Constitution Hill. Above my head, illuminated cartoon figures shone with electric smiles in the night, and on the other side of the road, high up on the wall of the old college, Father Time sat preserved in a mosaic. His long white beard and hour glass warning everyone who looked up — and in a language they could all understand — that, for every man alive, the hours left before closing time were short.
By the time I reached the Whelk Stall the drizzle had finally made up its mind and turned into rain, driving full and hard off the sea and into my face. The booth was quiet: no one there except the kid in charge - a pimply adolescent in a grubby white coat and a silly cardboard hat. I ordered the special and waited, as the youth kept a
