‘I just wish you hadn’t . . . I could forgive everything but that . . . just wish you hadn’t given them to her. That’s all.’ She turned to the door, with her knuckles digging into her eye.
‘Given her what?
‘M . . . my records.’
‘Huh?’
‘See! You thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?’
‘But, Myfanwy, I d-didn’t. I’d never do such a thing!’
‘Don’t make it worse by lying, Louie. She’s got them all. And you’ve scribbled my name out and written hers on the l-l-label.’
Myfanwy ran out the door, slammed it behind her. High heels clattered down the bare wooden stairs. I stared at the closed door. I sat there strangely inert, drained of energy. I looked out at the garret across the road. The Pieman’s light was still burning. Maybe he would know what to do about Myfanwy. I put on my hat and coat. The phone rang.
‘I’ve named an inlet after you.’
‘Lucky me.’
‘In Greenland. Louie Knight Sound. Just below Van Hoegafhgaaerden’s Land, a hundred and fifty miles south of Ultima Thule. That’s what I do, you see. Name inlets.’
‘That sounds like my kind of job.’
‘Trust me, you wouldn’t like. There are so many of them, the whole coastline is perforated like the edge of a postage stamp.’
‘Couldn’t you have named it Louie’s Gulch?’
‘What’s a gulch?’
‘I don’t know, but all the tough guys get one named after them.’
‘It doesn’t sound very Greenlandy.’
‘Not to worry. I’m not feeling very tough today.’
‘How’s the case going?’
‘Oh, pretty good. It’s largely solved, just tidying up a few loose ends. I was going to send you a report in the new year.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. Any chance of a heads-up?’
‘It’s all very complicated and not easy to reduce to a few sentences, but I think we have narrowed the field of enquiry down to a couple of main theories. Theory 1: the dead Father Christmas was a former Mossad agent gunned down because of historical links with Odessa and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Or . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Or theory 2: he was just an unemployed guy who took a seasonal job and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and got gunned down; and all the rest is moonshine.’
‘Hmmm. Quite different sorts of theory. You seem to have covered both ends of the spectrum.’
‘It’s a special technique I’ve devised. Start with two theories, the mundane and the outlandish, then work inwards. Never fails.’
‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid eh? I loved that movie.’
‘We all did.’
‘Sure hope that part of the theory comes good.’
‘We’re all keeping our fingers crossed on that one.’
‘Must go now, I’ve got “thank you” letters to write. I’ll send you some more money for what you’ve done, and we’ll talk after Christmas.’
‘OK. Thanks for the inlet.’
‘It’s nothing.’
The line went click. I replaced the receiver with exaggerated care, anxious not to disturb the silence with an upsetting clack of Bakelite. I don’t know why. There was no one here to disturb. I sat and thought about that other guy I pity, the twin of the one who was weaned. He’s lying there staring at a bare ceiling. Nothing to look at except discolouration in the distemper. A strange word that means a dog’s disease and cheap municipal paint. His teeth are in a glass on the bedside cabinet, next to the panic button. They keep him drugged because it’s cheaper than pictures or ornaments. Everything would be fine but for one thing: he’s not stupid. They haven’t found a drug that will do that yet. Or, rather, the ones that do can induce unacceptable side-effects such as euphoria and happiness. When the nurse puts her head round the door every morning he knows it’s only to see if he’s still alive. He can feel the impatience, like the chambermaid’s when you stay in your hotel room past noon. In front of other people she adopts a phoney cheery tone of voice, is nice to him in a patronising way. But it’s different when they are alone.
He feels like a dog being given a bath by a technician in an animal lab. In the periods of clarity he thinks of how things were many years before in Ynyslas. He digests the honeycomb of happiness gathered long ago and stored in his heart; subsists on it like a chick in the egg devouring the rich protein of the yolk; except he will never break out of this shell. Will fade away and dissolve to nothing in the sea of albumen. Sky, dunes, marram grass . . . A train like a tiny blue and green caterpillar far off crawls across the estuary, over a bridge of lollipop sticks and treacle; the estuarial waters glistening and sliding. The train glides without sound as in a silent movie towards Barmouth, along the coast, round the gentle curves, so close to the water you could lean out of the window and catch a fish. The train ducks into a tunnel and as it emerges into the bright summer sun the sea glitters and a party of heliographers in the lead carriage flash their mirrors in unison. He thinks of these things before the drugs kick in and the lids fall. He thinks of the sand dunes, the estuary, a girl with chestnut hair, chasing into the sharp, cold sea; hot breath of an embrace in the foam, her hair wet and sticky, goose bumps flickering along her salty arms . . . He winces at the sweet agony of remembrance, the gathered honeycomb of a life. She was a nightclub singer, the one whom the whole town loved, but whom no one loved more deeply than he did . . . What was her name, now? The last ceiling he’ll ever see; the last human touch, visits from Nurse Tadpole. She comes in one day with a marker pen and unbuttons his pyjama top. She’s giggling, he can smell liquor. He watches, too frail to intervene, as she holds the thick pen like a child and draws on his old white belly. A smiley. Then buttons him up and walks out snorting with suppressed laughter. Is that how it ends? At least I’ve got an inlet. Myfanwy is leaving. It’s time to talk to the Pieman.
Empty pie boxes were strewn outside his door. I knocked and waited. I knocked again, listened, pressed my ear against the door and listened harder. I went in. A small attic room. Bare floorboards, a reinforced iron bed, a chamber pot filled with yellow liquid, an incident board, a camera on a tripod, and various darkroom paraphernalia. And a fat man was staring out of the window with his back to me. The incident board was similar to ours except for one significant detail: it looked like someone had thrown a fruit pie at it – raspberry or strawberry. But when I looked more closely I saw it was not a fruit pie but the Pieman’s brains. One side of his head was missing and on the other side, corresponding to it, was a hole. I was no expert but I’d say he’d been shot. At close range. I touched his clammy skin. It was colder than a bathroom floor in winter. A floorboard creaked and I spun round. Erw Watcyns was standing in the doorway.
He smiled. ‘Lousy weather we’re having, isn’t it?’ He walked into the room and looked around. ‘I’m glad I found you. I’ve been looking all over.’ He wandered round and pretended to be taken by surprise at the mess on the board, but he said nothing. It was too droll for words. He bent forward, peered at the dead Pieman and said to me, ‘What’s up with him?’
‘I don’t know. He hasn’t said a word the whole time I’ve been here.’
‘He’s probably shy.’
‘That’s probably it. I knew there’d be an explanation.’
‘Some folks are like that, they clam up in company, they don’t feel at ease in social situations. You shouldn’t hold it against him.’
‘I don’t.’
‘It’s psychological.’
‘That’s OK by me. A man has a right to remain silent if that’s the way he feels.’
‘That’s about the way I see it, too.’
‘Most people don’t understand. They encounter a silence and they can’t resist filling it. They don’t care what they fill it with as long as there’s some noise.’
