Aberystwyth Mon Amour

'Didn't anyone ever tell you not to hit a lady?' Hate filled his eyes and his orchestra of keys became silent for once, as the passion immobilised him. Even here, in the thick nicotine-heavy fug of the basement bar, I could detect the faint whiff of gin. It was an odour that had oozed out of Pickel all his life, since the days of a childhood spent clinging to his gin-soaked Mam.

'I would tell you to pick on someone your own size,' I quipped, 'but they might not be easy to find.' It was a cheap remark, and showed how drunk I was.

Pickel jumped up but allowed himself to be easily stopped by Valentine's ivory-handled cane which was now resting against his chest.

'Pickel!' snapped Valentine.

Furious, Pickel looked at Valentine, then me, then back to Valentine. 'Who's he think he is, talking to me like that?'

Valentine responded in a cold, businesslike tone. 'The gentleman is right, Pickel. You muthn't mithtreat the ladies.'

Pickel was boiling, but some instinct stopped him from pushing it too far. 'What ladies? They're all slags!'

'Pah!' Bianca stood up and pranced haughtily through the crowd over to the other girls. At that point the manager appeared and interposed himself between me and the argument.

'Sorry sir,' he said politely, 'only Druids allowed in this section.'

It was a watershed. A single wrong syllable here and I would never be allowed back in the Moulin again. Whether or not I paid a visit to the Accident and Emergency department on the way home would depend on the syllable.

'That's OK,' I smiled cheerfully, 'my mistake. Wouldn't want to be mistaken for a Druid.'

I decided to leave. As I retrieved my coat the manager reappeared carrying a silver tray which he proffered to me.

'For you sir.'

There was a mobile phone on it. I picked it up.

'Yes?'

'Now that you have established your credentials ath a gentleman, maybe you will be tho good as to honour our little agreement.' It was Valentine.

'I'm still considering.'

'No, you don't have that luxury. My organisation is getting rather impatient. We've been very fair with you, but time is in very limited thupply in thith matter.'

'Who do you represent?'

'That doesn't concern you.'

'Tell Lovespoon that I'll only deal with him directly.'

'Please, Mithter Knight, you really aren't in a position to make conditions.'

'No meeting with Lovespoon, no deal.'

He sighed. 'You're one man. You know the power of our organisation. Why be tho foolhardy?'

'It's the way I was brought up.'

'You've got until thunthet tomorrow. After that we can forget about being "gentlemanly".'

He hung up.

The next day was Sunday, and as usual I went to meet my father for a pint down at the Ship's Biscuit. I arrived shortly after eleven and Eeyore was already there sitting outside at one of the tables. He was wearing his trademark raincoat and cap despite the warm weather and there was straw on his coat from the donkeys. Another trademark. We looked at each other and nodded; no other greeting was necessary. I went in to fetch two pints and then joined my father in the sun.

'You just missed Mr Giles.'

'I saw him the other day. He wasn't doing too well.'

Eeyore made a sympathetic grimace into his pint glass. 'It's this thing about the dog.'

'I know, but why's he so upset about it? He's seen plenty of worse things up at that school.'

I looked across the harbour and over the rooftops. Aberystwyth was overshadowed by two hills: Pen Dinas with its iron-age hill fort; and Pen-y-Graig with its iron-age school.

Eeyore sighed. 'It's just one thing after another for him, though, isn't it? What do they need a gardener up there for anyway? There's no garden.'

'You seem thirsty today.'

He shrugged.

'Something on your mind?'

'Not really, apart from where the next bale of hay is coming from.'

It was the best time of day to enjoy a drink. The doors were wedged open to allow the fumes of the previous night to escape and in their place was the sharp, reassuring tang of disinfectant. The juke box and fruit machines were silent. The only sounds were the silvery tinkle of someone across the street practising scales on a piano; and the occasional cry of a gull.

Eeyore took a gulp from his pint and then spoke.

'How about you? Got any work?'

I thought about the answer. 'Someone came round on Friday with a case. Missing person. Evans the Boot.'

Eeyore made the sort of hissing sound you make when you burn your finger. 'Did you take it?'

'I'm not sure. I think I turned it down.'

He nodded. 'Probably wisest move.'

I shook my head. 'I don't know. I told the client "no", but I seem to be mixed up in it all the same. I'm not getting paid for it, though; so I don't call that very wise.'

'That's good.'

I looked at him. He was still staring ahead, but talking to me. Which bit did he mean was good?

'What is?'

'If you're helping someone and it's not for money, stands to reason it must be for a reason that's a lot better than money. When I was on the Force we did things because they were right, not because of the money. We'd have been stupid if we'd exposed ourselves to all that danger for money, because they didn't give us any. Not much anyway.'

I took a deep drink. The beer was good.

'The trouble is, I'm not sure if I'm doing it for good motives or just pigheadedness.

'Often there's no difference,' said Eeyore.

On my way back I cut across past the town hall and heard from up ahead the jingling of Pickel and his keys, although it was too far for the smell of gin. He was scurrying with that strange bobbing, bent-over gait reminiscent of the gorillas in the Planet of the Apes movies. Some instinct made me stop halfway across the square and hide behind the slate plinth of Lovespoon's equestrian statue. I waited as Pickel entered the side door to the clock tower. It was a strange life he lived up there in the belfry: washing in an old tin tub that collected rainwater and cooking in a cauldron donated by the Shawl & Sorcery Society. Pickel was in school at the same time as me, but we seldom saw him there. Mostly, he would be playing truant and loafing around the Square, looking up at the clock with a curious love; an emotion that was hard to explain except in the terms of the saloon bar psychologist who saw it as the surrogate for a mother's love. The real commodity had been sold long ago to the sailors down at the harbour. Pickel got the job as clock-keeper when the previous incumbent, Mr Dombey, died after falling into the workings. It was the Aberystwyth version of the Kennedy assassination, and since it took a week to clean all his flesh off the teeth of the clockwork, time really did stand still for a while. There were many in town for whom the prospect of Mr Dombey dying that way seemed as unlikely as a fireman being run over by his own fire engine. But the police were satisfied that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding the accident. Yet even they could not deny that there was a strange whiff of gin in the clock tower that day, and Dombey never drank. Still, someone had to wind that clock.

A voice interrupted my chain of thought.

'Hi!' It was Calamity.

'Hi!'

'Where have you been?'