VI

An eerie, pregnant silence met Lou when he arrived home. As soon as he opened the door he suspected that something had changed. Old intuitions kicked in – those subliminal instincts which come into play when we suspect that someone is looking at us from behind, or following us.

Now, standing in the hallway with its pattern of blood and sand-coloured tiles, he sensed that there was no one there – the building had a cold, empty feel. He called her name, quietly then loudly and insistently, but there was no response. He bounded up the stairs and poked his head round all the doors, but every room held the same sarcophagal silence. Upstairs was like a morgue without a body; the newly painted nursery jangled his nerves and he experienced a few moments of panic and sickness.

Wondering what to do next, he wound up the Birdytweet mobile hanging over the empty cot and watched seven little plastic birds circle the empty nest below, moving their wings jerkily and twittering a mechanical dirge as their little beaks opened and closed. Lou was overwhelmed by sadness, and he was forced to sit down for a while. It was a tristesse which started with his own birth and then passed like a shadow over the tragi-comic minutiae of his life, before passing over the life of his unborn child also, through every rainy day and every small reversal, until the time came, many years in the future, when the child would wind up his own plastic birds in his own newly decorated nursery and feel the same timeswept sadness.

What if Catrin was ill? More importantly, was he culpable if she’d lost the baby? Had he been attentive enough? Had he actually cared enough, had he really meant it when he’d promised to be a good father? Or had the last few months indicated to Catrin that his own agenda was far more important to him than fatherhood? What had he been doing while her belly swelled and her mind fronded delicately in the luxuriant gardens of impending motherhood? Had he been there for her, his parental promise shining in his eyes? No, probably not. His distraction may have been evident as he pursued the Big M story; maybe they’d disengaged and drifted apart from each other, she retreating to her friends and her books, he to his corrosive microworld inside the memory sticks.

Lou had a resigned air when he walked downstairs, because by then he felt sure that Catrin had gone, possibly for ever, in the way that women sometimes make monumental decisions at crucial times, and then stick to them unerringly. Downstairs looked the same as it always had since Catrin became pregnant. She’d become obsessively clean and tidy; the worktops gleamed and the flowers beamed as usual in their vases, but there was one stark difference: Catrin’s absence was almost a physical presence. The lower rooms sat there in dumb resignation, as if they were three hostages who had been gagged, blindfolded and trussed up by burglars. But as he turned away from the sitting room he noticed an envelope leaning against the fruit bowl on their newly bought Ikea coffee table, with a scrawl on it. Closer up he saw his name – the Welsh version, Llwyd – underlined decisively. It had all the appearance of a Dear John letter, and when he opened it he saw that it contained two items. The first was a simple home-made card showing the view from his college window (when had she taken that?) with a short message inside:

Gone away to the coast for a few days to think things over. It’s been like living with a stranger recently, a stranger I don’t like very much. What happened, Llwyd? Did I do something? Why have you changed so much since I fell pregnant? I need to sort my head out. Catrin.

PS The Vice-Chancellor delivered this on his way to the airport, said he’d been very busy and he’d forgotten about it. He also said he hadn’t seen you for a while and he seemed worried about you.

The object she referred to had fallen onto the glass surface of the table when he removed the card. It whirred and tinkled, giving off a sparkling rotating light before wobbling to a standstill. Lou was fascinated by it and he toyed with it for a while, spinning it around in the palm of his left hand. It was just like the others, holding its silvery innards in a pretty plastic jacket; the only difference was that this one was light blue in colour. Once again he had the feeling that he was being toyed with. So the vice-chancellor had just happened to drop it by on his way to the airport. A likely story. And there was another thing which struck him: the first memory stick had come to him via a minor academic; the second had come from a professor, and this last one had come from the top dog himself. Lou was puzzled. Why would academia want to play silly buggers with a lowly pawn like him? Perhaps it was all a huge coincidence. Perhaps he was imagining things.

Catrin was already forgotten by the time he’d jabbed the blue memory stick into his laptop in the study. He watched the tail-light flashing its firefly signal; and since he had no mouse now he used his fingerpad to open its contents. It seemed to hold a number of documents, but again they were being corrupted by his software and he encountered a wasteland of meaningless symbols and signs before he found anything comprehensible. Two of the documents were virtually indecipherable, but a few subtle clues led him to the conclusion that they contained all the information which had come to him on the green and red sticks, but which he’d killed off on his computer at the college. He blanched. All that vitriol he’d shown had been a complete waste of emotion. Pissing in the wind. He’d spent an enormous amount of malign energy and sadistic forethought to no purpose. All the information had survived on this stick – and on many others, probably. He’d been outwitted, and once again the feeling came over him that he was being used. Powerful forces were at play, and he was being manipulated. Worse still, he had no idea who was playing cat and mouse with him, or why he was being kicked like an under-inflated ball from one end of the academic field to the other.

According to the blue memory stick, Big M and Ziggy had made occasional visits to the leper huts by the hospital to visit Rhiannon and Pryderi, but both inmates had become locked in some sort of mother-son complex, or a wordless relationship like Olaf the Peacock and this mute thrall-woman. By now they were living in their own submersible bubble, a diving chamber floating way below everyone else in a lagoon of silence. And because of official protocol the two on the outside weren’t allowed to know any details of their condition. Big M and Ziggy could only assume that an old trauma had been reactivated. Although facts were in short supply, they knew that Pryderi had been separated from his mother when he was very young, and that neither of them had been able to talk about the issue at any time in their lives. Perhaps the gunshot at Hotel Corvo had lit a slow fuse, or maybe the incident with the badger had acted as a catalyst. There was something about the smell of a badger, pungent and porcine, which came straight from prehistory; it had a musk-like ability to arouse primal fears and desires.

However, after months of getting nowhere, Big M and Ziggy had visited less and less frequently, since the drive over to the unit took a tankful of petrol and they were running short of ready money – Pryderi was the keeper of the purse, and he’d kept all the spondulicks in his back pocket. After many months like this the situation had become desperate and the duo on the outside were forced to dream up an alternative plan. They had to act quickly in the end because a new and more pressing problem arrived to drive them on. This problem was well documented in the blue memory stick. Having trawled through it, and having spent a lot of time knocking out the corrupt matter and deciphering its absurd jumble, Lou was able to recover and isolate a new segment at the end which shone a new light on this period in Big M’s history. It was in the form of a diary, probably an extract from a much larger document. The diarist was obviously Ziggy, and her starting point was the very end of autumn that year, when she was staying in the boarded-up Hotel Corvo with Big M, just the two of them thrown together now. It had been a difficult time, evidently. Ziggy had really missed her husband, and she was also worried that she might succumb to Big M’s legendary charms. She confided in her diary that a storm was brewing, in more ways than one. Two erotically charged, sex-starved people benighted in a ghostly hotel with nobody else in sight was a recipe for disaster. The diary entries began on her thirtieth birthday.

October 21 – Happy birthday (not) to me. What a way to celebrate – I already hate being thirty, lines around my eyes and nothing to wear on my first date with Mr Gravity. Checked for stretch marks & cellulite etc, OK for now but the only way is down. Massive depression, not helped by the fact that P won’t talk to me, squats in his hut with the other maniacs and holds hands with his mum, what does that mean? Where am I in all this? Lost in wild Wales with no company, not much food, and as of yesterday no electricity either. Cut off. M gave me a kiss and promised to cook me a smurfday dinner. Told him I needed a big party with loads of people but he waved at the outside world and said you find me some people and I’ll organise the party. So I went into a bad place, got grumpy with him. He tried to cuddle up but I wasn’t having any of that, dirty sod, I know where he’s been.

October 21 evening – Fair play, he made a real effort. Bless. I was sitting upstairs in my room, looking out over the sea, feeling low – can’t concentrate on anything, this last year always on my mind. Hotel Corvo boarded up, everyone gone. All those good times we had, hotel heaving, party every night. Sea wild today, crashing on the cliffs in huge white waves and throwing foam and spray all over the lower fields. I could hear the roar, awesome. Decided to make an effort for my birthday in the afternoon so got dolled up, went downstairs and suggested a run over to the psychiatric unit. Big mistake, P wouldn’t even see me today so I walked out feeling really shitty and we came back in silence, M trying to be supportive and loyal as usual, which only made things worse. Running out of fags so feeling very tense. Worst birthday of my life. Then, when I was back in my room wondering if things could get any worse, a knock on the door and ta-rah! M was there with a trolley – he was wearing his chef’s hat with the blue band, big meal laid out in no time, really good of him. Delish food with two magnums of Moet & Chandon – trying to get me pissed by the look of things. Sitting there like a couple of lovebirds, he went off on one about birthdays and star signs; he’s into astrology (or pretends to be). Said he’d cooked the perfect meal for a Libran like me, romantic and ideal­istic, and he was generally mega charming. Found myself flirting back at him but after a while I started to feel drunk & a bit paranoid because I know from bitter experience that Librans are gullible and easy to fool so I went all quiet and broody. What’s up says M, did I say something? No, just feeling a bit vulnerable I say. He puts his paw on mine, looks at me with those big blue eyes of his and I get suspicious, pull my hand away and ask him if he’s trying it on. God no, he says. I could trust him completely, blah-de-blah, usual ape-talk. I say I know about the other women.

Ach, says M, they were just a bit of fun. Rhiannon knew all about them, she also knew that they meant nothing to him. So I reply typical male, double standards, and he just laughs, it’s just a joke to him.

You won’t be doing any sex god stuff with me I can tell you now, says I, you can keep your mitts to yourself and no mistaking. Then I get hiccups and he laughs even more. We end up talking about star signs, how desperate can you get, but I wanted to start a row so I could put some space between us. Turns out he’s Taurus and he says he’s typical – practical, reliable, stubborn, laid back, comfort-loving, stable, tenacious, strong, successful.

But don’t worry luv, Taureans and Librans aren’t compatible, he says all nonchalant, sit­ting back with that annoying habit he has of put­ting his feet up on the nearest chair after a meal. What I don’t tell him is that Libran girls and Taurean males get on just great between the sheets, good sexual chemistry, but after that there’s nothing, not enough to keep them together for a day. But I don’t say that in case he gets funny ideas. Actually, says M all innocent, Librans and Taureans are supposed to have terrific sexual rapport. Both born under Venus, lots of passion.

That was enough for me, I grabbed one of the bottles and went upstairs without another word, locked the door and got stonking pissed. Woke up in the night, face down on the bed in a puddle of champagne.

October 24 – He’s not there in the morning, returns at noon with his rod and a bag over his shoulder. He’s all over me when we meet on the stairs, sorry this sorry that, head down like a naughty boy. He says for God’s sake Ziggy, I absolutely promise you that I wasn’t trying to take advantage last night. Just fooling around, you know me. And you’ve got to admit you were pretty flirty yourself.

I was pissed, keep well away from me you animal, says I.

He holds his head in his hands and says no no no in a quiet voice, sounds desperate. You’ve got it all wrong, he moans, and he looks at me imploringly.

But I leave him on the stairs and tell him to keep away. Men are all the same, walking pricks. Anyway, I say as I walk away, we’ve got to make some money quick or we’ll starve to death. Got any bright ideas? I slam the door and lock it. Hopefully he’s got the message now.

October 28 – I’ve spent a few days trying to work out how we could make some dosh. Made a list of our strengths and weaknesses and it’s obvious that M’s rugby fame is our biggest asset. Why not market a new-style rugby boot with his name on it? We could get a grant. Will suggest it to him tomorrow.

October 29 – The rugby boot idea went down like a lead balloon. He says he’s been out of the game too long, people want a happening person, someone on the scene right now. Spent the day in my room putting together a business plan. I’m sure it’s a possibility. What else can we do in a place with no people, no jobs? Heard him rattling on my door, saying let me in Ziggy, I need to talk to you but I ignore him, let him stew. Are you all right in there, he asks in his best voice but I stay by the window, smoking. Down to my last 100 fags now, will have to do something soon. Maybe leave without him?

October 30 – Breakthrough! I tell him about my plan to go it alone and he comes over all soft and concerned, says he can’t let me go away on my own, he’s promised Pryderi he’ll look after me etc. etc. I beg him to consider my plan.

But Ziggy, he says, who’ll design these boots, how do we make them? What about finance?

Listen, I say to him, I’ve got it all sorted. We’ve got to leave Wales, no jobs here. Never has been much to do around here except be Welsh, been like that since the Ice Age. We’ve got to go back to England for a while, they love fiddling about with their little businesses, it’s in their blood. Something to do with neat Saxon compounds, goats in tidy little pens, yeoman values, puritan prosperity. We’ll get a grant easy peasy, set up shop on one of those interminable industrial estates with bleeping lorries and pallets stacked up like bodies at Belsen. Scenes from a zombie movie every dinnertime, dead-eyed people wandering about looking for flesh.

I say to him – you design the shoes and I’ll market them, we’re onto a winner. Besides, I’m running out of fags.

Can’t argue with that, says M.

Anyway, I wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer, says I.

Meaning?

Those deadly charms of yours would get to me eventually. I can feel myself weakening.

He comes over and gives me a hug. Brotherly, keeps his pelvis well away from me.

Ziggy, you’re a crazy woman, he says. Any other time I’d be running after you with a club, you’re gorgeous, but I’m a nice guy, really. Rhiannon and me, we’re for life now. And you and Pryderi will be together soon, I just know it somehow. He’ll come out of it one day a happier man, trust me. We’ll have a big party at Hotel Corvo, we’ll open those windows and give the place a lick of paint. Seven bars humming every night, good times again. Trust me? He steps away and holds me at arm’s length. He’s smiling like he’s everyone’s best friend. Those flecks in his eyes seem extra lovely, I feel a tug.

Yes, I say. I trust you. Now let’s get the Bentley and go. An hour later we’re on the road with two cases in the back and just enough petrol – maybe ¬– to get us over the border. Besides, I say to his left profile, it would be nice to see some real living people again.

Even if they’re English?

Even if they’re Martian, I reply.

I like the open road, top down. Don’t care if I never see Hotel Corvo ever again. I know we’ll go back to get P and R when they’re in better shape.

Sometimes people need to be left alone to sort things out. Mental illness builds a wall around you, like you’re an obscene statue with huge naughty bits, people want to hide you from children and Daily Express types.

M holds my hand for a bit and I know it’s all right now, he’s not on heat. He’s a real gent really, gone up in my estimation. I squeeze his hand and tell him so. I like the way a web of little white lines spread around the corners of his eyes, slicing up the sunburn. I like the smell of him too, solid and warm. He was in blue denim today with strap leather boots. Still in good shape, one of those men who keep their looks till they’re old I’d say. He’s like a brother to me now, I feel safe. What a relief. The Bentley hums along country roads, air coming in bands of warm and cool. Green and brown smells, cattle vapours, huge oaks crouched like trolls by the roadside, ready to pick us up and swallow us up.

November 1 – We arrived late in the evening at a border town, some thirty miles into England. Petrol low and we failed to find anywhere to stay, so he put the top up and we slept under rugs in the car, somewhere quiet by the river. We were dropping off, me on the back seat, him in the front, when a copper arrived to annoy us, shining his torch through the windows. Asked us what we were doing. Told him we’d heard the streets were paved with gold, wanted to get rich quick, seen The Apprentice and knew it was a doddle in England, everyone a millionaire. He got suspicious and asked us if we were Welsh, suggested we buggered off back home. Big M managed to pacify him, fortunately the cop was a rugger fan and when he found out who Big M was the two of them were off talking about rugby until I got testy.

November 2 – Managed to find a cheap B&B but we had to sell the Bentley, nearly broke M’s heart. Never actually seen him in that state before, he’s usually so even tempered & accepts everything that comes, in that cool way of his. Bentley another matter, I thought he was going to cry. It wasn’t the value of the motor or the kudos of driving it, he said. He just loved its sheer good looks and its classiness. Like his footwear and his clothes, M likes top stuff. Says he was born like that, regal tastes.

November 3 – M in a funk, completely thrown by the Bentley sell-off. Moping around, so I went out and bought a couple of sketch pads and some colouring pens, told him to draw. Mournful looks all round. But Ziggy, he says, we’ve lost everything now. I can cope without any people, he says, I can cope without a home, but I can’t cope without any style in my life.

Well get weaving, I says. Design some great shoes, set the rugby world on fire. You’ve got the golden touch, everything you’ve done has star quality.

Ziggy, do you really mean that? he asks.

Of course I really mean it you plonker, look at your track record, I says.

Great rugby player, brilliant cook, all round nice guy and great friend...

Can it be that this guy has no confidence in himself, under all that bravado?

Bloody men, they always manage to surprise me. Don’t try to tell me there’s a sensitive little soul lurking beneath the surface. National hero, or is he just a little wuss?

November 5 – Really busy week, setting up the business. For now the boots are called Big M’s. Enterprise Agency have agreed to give us a free home for a year and free advertising for a month, then it’s up to us. M will have to get some more dosh from P, then off we go. M’s designs look great to me, but what do I know about rugby boots?

He’s asked me to go back to the huts with him to see P and R, get some money. Don’t know if I can face P, all this action has taken my mind off things and I’ve enjoyed it all. M has been great fun, his enthusiasm infectious. Initial ebay run of 150 boots – with a signed picture of M taken on the day Wales beat Ireland at Dublin – have sold within a few days, so things look good.

November 12 – Manufacturing unit on the industrial estate starts full-time work with an initial staff of 12, using imported Sami reindeer leather, with his signature in gold, final product nicely packaged and sold at sports outlets in Britain’s main cities as well as on the web. Orders very encouraging. Bank not so impres­sed and wants £10,000 injected into our account asap, so we’re off back to Wales tomorrow. Need to see P anyway.

November 14 – Drove back to Wales in a hired saloon, M grumbled and made me drive. We got to the psychiatric unit at dinner time and had to wait in the foyer till they’d finished. Both of them came out to see us, hugs all round and a bit of hope I think; at least their eyes were alive, looking at us sadly but clearly. M managed to get a wad of cash off P, said it was urgent or Hotel Corvo would go into repossess and we’d all have to move to a council house, that’s if we could get one. We promised we’d be back soon to take them home. Tried to give them some hope.

November 20 – Things going well, cash flow has increased. M’s designs are wowing everyone; one of the Welsh stars has promised to wear a pair for this year’s internationals so it’s all going in the right direction.

December 1 – Bad news, very bad. Couple of hoods walked into the office today, waved a gun and frightened us all. Shades, expensive suits, could have been the same mob as the Hotel Corvo outfit. Told us we’d outstayed our welcome, the Welsh weren’t welcome on their manor. Gave us a week to sell up and move on. M just sat there in his chair without saying a word. Wasn’t much point really with a Smith and Wesson stuffed up one of his lugholes.

Why can’t they leave us alone Ziggy, he says afterwards. Is it me or something?

We sit around, trying to decide what to do. If it’s the same mob following us around, playing cat and mouse with us, we’re in deep shit. They won’t mess around. Shallow grave in the woods, farewell cruel world.

Lou unscrambled the final part, which had been added as a coda by someone else. Faced with an execution-style death, Ziggy and Big M had no option but to cut and run. This time it was Ziggy who was heartbroken; seeing all her hard work go down the drain was too much. They lost almost everything – the bank took the business and left them with a grand to get home. Even Lou was moved by their final plight: left with nothing but their clothes and a few belongings, they’d had to buy old charity-shop rucksacks and hitch to the border. From there they got back to Hotel Corvo by attaching themselves to a small travelling fairground which was moving westwards; the journey must have taken many weeks. Apparently Big M had earned his keep by fooling around in a clown’s outfit, complete with red nose, revolving bow tie, water-squirting flower and floppy outsize shoes. Even in adversity he’d managed to hold on to his unusual footwear. Lou had a vision of a small convoy of wagons, trailers and caravans travelling slowly under a huge western sky; he saw the big top on a village green somewhere, ringed by the yellow grasses of winter; and finally he saw Big M’s clown-face captured in a swag of multi-coloured bulbs: his hair shining purple, his hands green, his feet mauve.

When they got to their home patch in the western region the audiences had faltered and then dwindled to none, as people began to recognise Ziggy and Big M; the old curse had returned. It seems that the two of them had left the troupe rather emotionally because they’d grown to like their new friends, and had fitted in well.

They completed their return to Hotel Corvo in a battered taxi, after calling at a supermarket to stock up on tinned goods and essentials, and then at a farmers’ co-operative to get some seeds and grain. They knew that life at Hotel Corvo would be difficult and bare as they waited for Pryderi and Rhiannon to recover; Big M planned to grow all their own food, since they would have to be self-sufficient and resourceful. A hard winter lay ahead, the two of them living alone on the wild, remote cliffs of Dyfed.

Lou heard the doorbell ring and a huge adrenalin rush set his heart racing. Was that Catrin, returning? But no, she had a key of course. The police? Would you like to sit down Mr Evans, we have some news for you...

He took the stairs in a rapid shuffle and opened the door to a young female face. It took quite a few seconds for him to recognise their Polish cleaner, Anka. He waved her in, but she immediately flustered and started to retreat. What could be the matter with the silly bitch? She stammered something in Polish and fluttered her hand apologetically, adding a confused sentence in broken English: I come again tomorrow maybe if Mrs McNamara here...

Then he remembered that he’d goosed her neat little bottom when he’d passed her in the hallway on his way to work the last time they’d met. Stupid girl, didn’t it go with the job?

He closed the door on her and returned upstairs, where he retrieved the memory stick and put the computer to sleep. After that he made himself a sandwich and sat in the kitchen, trying to form a plan. He’d have to do something about Catrin, or their relationship would be buggered for ever. That’s if it wasn’t already. And if she had genuinely disappeared the police might wonder why he hadn’t tried to find her. But where was she? West Wales, probably – her note had mentioned the coast, and her sister had a caravan not so far from Hotel Corvo. He’d mentioned the hotel to her so many times that she’d been fascinated by it. It seemed that fate was about to lead him back there again. Twice the place had drawn him in and enthralled him. Now, for a third time, he would have to return there to finish the matter.

He considered the word fate, and dismissed it. No, he was sure by now that he was being pulled into a man-made web. He would have to find out who was responsible. He put his plate in the sink, without washing it, and got ready to go.