Aberystwyth Mon Amour

'But he's horrible, isn't he?'

'He repairs the clocks for the pensioners for nothing. You wouldn't believe how shy he is about it; they have to leave them on the back step and in the morning they're fixed — like the tooth fairy.'

She shifted in the seat, the shiny black plastic coat crackling as she moved. 'And if they get locked out, he opens their door for them. He can open any lock . . . besides, you don't know what it's like for him.'

'Do you?'

'He spent his childhood waiting for his mum to come home from the pub. I know what that's like.'

In the darkness the glare from the streetlights glistened on the pillar-box red of her lips and the whites of her eyes.

'You make things so difficult.'

'What things?'

'You know I like you?'

'No.'

'Well, I do.'

'Thanks.'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Nor did I.'

She looked across at me and smiled weakly. 'I know you're a nice guy.'

'Don't get carried away, I'm not that nice.'

She squeezed my hand in the darkness.

I asked, 'Why did Myfanwy tell you to come home with me?'

'She didn't. I wanted to.'

'I just don't get it.'

'Does everything always have to be something you can get?

I pondered that one for a while. Then she put her hand on my shoulder and said, 'Can we talk about something else?'

But we didn't talk; instead we drove round the block to Canticle Street and climbed the bare wooden stairs to the scrap of destiny which seemed so like a turning point but was probably nothing of the sort.

The following night I stayed home and drank half a bottle of rum and booked a table at the Indian restaurant.

'Do you have a reservation?' Two dark eyes studied me through the Judas hole in the door.

'Yes, Kreuzenfeld.'

The waiter nodded and pulled back the bolts.

'We've been expecting you.'

The door opened and I was shown past a sign saying 'Please guard your artificial limb against theft' and into a lounge packed with tables. The air was foggy with sweat, body odour, beery breath, hot curry spices, vomit and disinfectant. Most of the tables were full; a mixture of locals and nervous tourists. I sat down and the waiter held out a menu, regarding me with a mixture of anxiety and interest. I smiled at him. 'What's good tonight, then?'

He stared at me. 'Good?' he said in a flat Midlands accent.

'Yes, what does the chef recommend?'

'Are you trying to be funny?'

'No. I mean what should I have? What's good?'

It was plainly a request he'd never had to deal with before. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me, suspicion and confusion swimming in his eyes.

'You mean on the menu, like?'

'Yes.'

He laughed.

'Nothing of course, it's all shit.' And then, perhaps feeling a trace of guilt inspired by my guileless expression, he added:

'I mean look at this lot, what's the point?'

I looked round at the screaming hordes and nodded in sympathy.

'No point at all. You might as well open up a few tins of dog food and stir in some curry powder.'

'We do!'

I looked at him startled, and he burst out laughing. 'Just kidding, mate, but it's not a bad idea. They wouldn't know.'

I put the menu down on the table.

'Look, I'll tell you what I can do, mate, I'll ask the chef to do you some egg on toast or something?'

Before I could answer, a fight broke out in the corner of the room and the waiter strode off wearily and -without any sense of urgency to attend to the situation. I looked around. On the table next to me a man lay face down in his curry. And over in the bay window, among a group of bikers, sat the girl I was looking for. Siani-y-Blojob: dirty and frayed sleeveless denim vest over the standard-issue leather jacket; hair like wet straw and a pudgy pasty face.

The fight had developed from shouts and abuse to flailing fists as the two protagonists fell heavily on to a neighbouring table, occupied by a group of lads. Paradoxically, it was one of the few things you could do to someone in this restaurant that wouldn't cause offence. Brush their sleeve, look at their girlfriend, or just stare in the wrong direction for a second and you would be issued with a challenge. But throw a body on to a stranger's food and it was OK, the sort of forgivable mistake that could happen to anyone. The only danger was if you spilled their pint of lager and there was no danger of that because it would have been whipped out of harm's way the moment the fight broke out. It was a spectacle of synchronisation and choreography that put the wonders of the natural world to shame. A shout, a scream, the splintering of glass — and suddenly, to the accompanying shouts of 'incoming!' — thirty right arms shot forward like the tentacles of a sea anemone to remove the pints. What made it even more amazing was this: they all knew the difference, like veterans from the trenches in the First World War, between the real and the false alarms. Only the tourists embarrassed themselves by reaching for their pints at the wrong moment.

The fight rolled off the table and on to the floor and the waiters moved in to disengage the flailing limbs. Another late night in Aberystwyth. Over by the window Siani-y-Blojob, like a human oil rig, lit one of her farts with a plume of flame. As she did so a waiter brought three curries on a tray and scraped them all on to one plate for her. Reckoning that this gave me at least an hour's grace, I stood up and left.

I drove fast through the empty streets, along the one-way system which took me past the station, along to the harbour and over Trefechan Bridge out towards the council estate. Calamity had written down the address for me and I found it easily enough: a semi-detached house in a nondescript row with those metal gates and railings which council houses seem always to have painted either blue, red or yellow. There was a small patch of garden to the side and the underwear hung from one of those merry-go-round washing line contraptions. I put on a gardening glove.

*

I knew I would find Archie Smalls at the all-night diner on Llanbadarn Road. It was situated on a patch of waste ground set away from the road with room for the long-distance lorry drivers to pull up for bacon sandwiches and mugs of tea. The other customers — and there were never many at any one time — were the usual misfits you find in the early hours: burglars and drunks sobering up; night-shift workers going home and early-shift workers on their way. And people like Archie who like to start late in the night, long after the rest of the town has fallen into a drunken sleep. There was one waitress on duty in a stained pink tunic and a cook playing cards at the back. The night was hot and all the windows were open, but there was hardly any movement of air to take the edge off the heat from the kitchen. Archie was sitting morosely, staring into a cold mug of tea at a table just inside the doorway. I sat down opposite him. I could see he didn't want company.

'Morning!'

He looked up sourly, but said nothing.

'Fancy a chat?'

'No.'

'Don't worry, you will.'

He looked up again and stared at me.

'I hear you've been spending a lot of time in this neighbourhood.'

'If I have, it's my business, isn't it?'

'Not now I've made it mine.'

He put a grubby index finger in his mouth and gnawed at it and spoke without taking it out. 'What do you want?'

'I was just wondering what Siani-y-Blojob would say if she caught you stealing her knickers.'

He became convulsed with contempt. 'You think I'm stupid?'

He stood up to leave but stopped halfway when I put the panties down on the table-top.