dispatch rider turned up and told Waldo the armistice had been signed a week ago. Waldo was shocked. All that time they had been trying to kill each other, and yet the war was over; they had been brothers all along. A tremendous burst of love surges through the veins of Waldo and he rushes over to the stricken man and weeps. He takes out his first-aid kit and tries to save him. 'My brother,' he cries, 'my brother! It's late in the day, but do not despair!' Waldo reckons if he can staunch the bleeding, and stabilise him, they can get him back to a hospital, and he might make it. In that instant saving this man becomes the most important undertaking in his whole life. It's as if the sun has burst through the cloud in his heart. Ever since he was a kid he has been confused about who he is and what he was put on this earth for. And now he sees with a rare clarity that for one tiny fragment of time he can perform an act that has meaning, a truly moral act — perhaps the only one he will ever perform in his life. Waldo was not a bookish type, not a thinker, but squatting down in the mud of I hat ravine holding a wound-compress to the bullet holes in the man's stomach he understood it in a way that was deeper than words. This pure human act of salvation that could stand as a bigger symbol: to redeem all the terrible carnage and slaughter of the past three years. Then the dispatch rider comes over and says, 'Hey, isn't that the guy who dived in the box?' And by God it was. Suddenly, the piercing sharp clarity of Waldo's vision has fled. The idea of salvation and brotherhood have vanished. Instead lying at his feet is the little jerk who fucked up the Christmas Day game.
''You dived didn't you!' they shout at him.
''Save me, my brother,' he pleads. 'Save me that I might go back to my little farm in the Sierra Machynlleth.'
''Don't change the subject, you're the little rat that dived in the box, aren't you?'
''Holy Mother of God,' he cries. 'I swear on all that is holy that I didn't.'
''Yes you bloody well did!'
''No, it wasn't me. It was someone who looks like me. My cousin Gabriel — he is a bad man, always making trouble, a
'That's it!' they cry. 'Turn your comrade in to save your skin.'
''No, my friends, it is not true. Please save me. Think of my wife and daughter Carmencita who is only two and knows nothing of the villainy of this world. Must she grow up an orphan because of Gabriel's treachery?'
''You should have thought about that before you dived in the box!' Both are incensed now. Not only that he did the terrible deed but that he should lie about it here on his death-bed to the only men in the world with the power to save him.
'So they try to extract a confession. They write it out for him and hold it under his nose. 'Go on,' they said. 'Admit to the dive, and we'll save you.'
''On the bones of the saints, I swear I didn't,' he cried, his breath getting weaker and weaker, since Waldo has removed the wound-dressing now and the man's rich crimson gore is staining the bed of that ravine.
''You Latin footballers are all the same,' says Waldo. 'You're always diving! This is your last chance to absolve yourself before you go to meet your maker.'
'But he refuses. And while he slowly dies, they break open a bottle of tequila and drink to victory and then dip their arms in his blood and laugh. They laugh. Two years ago on the shores of Lake Bala, Waldo would have cried to see a bird hit by a car. And now he laughs. Who can ever fathom the mysteries of the human heart? The enemy soldier went to his grave refusing to accept that it was a dive and left behind a daughter Carmencita and a legacy of knowledge concerning the villainy of the world about which she had known nothing and now knew all.
'When word got out about this incident the men were deeply shocked. 'For God's sake, Waldo!' they said. 'It was only a game of football! What were you thinking!' You see, peace had brought a new understanding to the men — the insight that the soldier Waldo killed had truly been his brother. It was the brass hats who were the real enemy: those officers who preferred to spend three years watching us get slaughtered rather than admit they'd made a mistake. In that moment the men understood what a terrible crime Waldo had committed. Just as his attempt to save the man had served as a greater symbol of Christ's mercy so the murder acquired a terrible universal significance. And they grew afraid and shunned Waldo. It was as if in spilling his brother's blood he had become the living embodiment of Cain. As if his crime would hang around the necks of all of them like the ancient mariner's albatross. They struggled to think of a way of expiating his sin. Then someone had the idea of organising a collection for the little orphan Carmencita. It was a simple solution but instantly the fear fell away from their hearts. Though no one had much to give, they all gave gladly what they could. Except for Dai the Custard Pie and Mrs Llantrisant. They jeered at the collectors and called Waldo a hero. But Herod did not join in their derision but seemed silent and thoughtful. Later he sought .the men out in the quiet of the evening and said that he had been deeply moved by the story of Carmencita and although he had nothing to give he would regard it as an honour if they would let him deliver the money. At first the men were dubious, but taking the view that the Lord rejoiceth more for one sinner who repents than nine who never strayed they accepted his offer. Two days later the owner of the cantina brought him back to the base in a wheelbarrow and left him snoring and reeking of tequila outside the gates. No one needed to ask what had happened to the money.'
'None of this really helps me find Custard Pie.'
'I'm telling you this because you need to understand what sort of people these are. Know your enemy, Louie, first rule of survival. Custard Pie will be with Herod, he must have a base somewhere, up in the hills. That's where they'll be.'
'But how do I track down Herod?'
'Not easily, that's for sure. Normally you need bait.'
'What sort of bait?'
He looked at me without expression. 'You'd be good.'
'Me?!'
'If it was my mission, I'd be using you.'
'You think he will just come and get me?'
'You did knock him out of an aeroplane. He might have lost his memory but I bet you anything he never forgot that.'
'I don't have the time to sit and hope he comes to me, don't you understand that?'
'In that case you're going to have to outfox him. The only way to do that is to speak to someone who knows him better than he knows himself.'
'Oh really. Do you have any suggestions?'
'Just one, because there is only one person in Wales who knows Herod like that. His old commanding officer, the one who trained him.'
'The man who trained him?'
'Taught him everything he knew.'
'And who's that?'
'Mrs Llantrisant.'
Chapter 17
Would she talk to me? The obvious answer was 'never in a million years'. But maybe today was the million- and-first. Maybe those postcards she had been sending me, babbling on about her little garden and the potatoes and the two puffins signalled a final mellowing in the iron heart of Mrs Llantrisant. Or maybe it was just another cheap attempt to get a ticket out of jail by feigning insanity. But there was only one way to find out and I owed it to Calamity to try, no matter how remote the chances. The only problem was how to get there. Since she was a category Triple-A prisoner, the only way on or off Saint Madoc's Rock was by the police launch. It was a rule strictly enforced and anyone who broke it would risk losing his mariner's permit.
I drove down to the harbour for a scout around. Within seconds I found out just how strictly enforced the prohibition was: Ianto the boatman was sitting on an upturned lobster pot, next to a blackboard on which was scribbled in chalk: 'Trips round the bay, deep-sea fishing, mackerel fishing, trips to Borth, Clarach and to see Mrs Llantrisant.' As I arrived he was drawing a chalk line through the last item. There was a storm heading in, he explained, and best not to go out so far. I pushed ten pounds into his hands and urged him and he agreed so long as we didn't stay more than an hour.
As we chugged out from the harbour, past the bar and on towards a sky that looked ominously dark, Ianto explained about the approaching storm. She wasn't due for a while yet, but she would be a big one, he said. We were approaching the autumn equinox which made the tides unusually high, and the moon was almost full which made them higher still. And the equinoctial storms could be fierce, he said. Add all those together and the town
