Read Online The Day Aberystwyth Stood Still by Malcolm Pryce - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Malcolm Pryce
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brand of toothpaste he uses and what he has on his breakfast toast. I know because I know. Unfortunately Mr Raspiwtin is unwell in the head, and in that head there is an obsession with matters from the past that I wish to remain private. But there is no soothsayer, just a prediction that your fate will mirror that of your desk if you decide to oblige Mr Raspiwtin.’
He glanced for effect at his watch. ‘Goodbye, Mr Knight. Your time, I’m afraid, is up, both here in this office and in the wider context of life in Aberystwyth. I gave you fair warning; let’s hope I haven’t wasted my time. The mayor of Aberystwyth is not a guy who likes to have his time wasted; he’s not the sort of guy who likes to give duplicate warnings, it’s wasteful.’ He reached forward and pressed a buzzer that indicated the interview was over.
It was just after midnight, maybe 1.00 or 2.00 in the morning. I lay asleep in my caravan in Ynyslas. The far-off susurration of the waves was barely audible, but the wind coming in off the sea cuffed the caravan like the hand of a giant schoolteacher and made the metal fabric sing. There is something deeply comforting about that sensation, of feeling protected and cocooned in warmth and yet aware, too, of the proximity of the ocean. Ynyslas is 6 miles north of Aberystwyth and lies hidden from the world in a corner of sand adjacent to the estuary. During the day in summer nothing moves here except tide and cloud and, occasionally, across the estuary on the distant hill, two carriages of a toy train going north.
There was a noise. Close. I opened my eyes, knowing without knowing how that there were people inside. The deepest, darkest fear of every householder in the night. The one that has never changed throughout time. The moment when you come face to face with your own mortality. Someone shone a flashlight into my face; someone put a gloved hand over my mouth; someone pressed the barrel of a gun into my eye. I was ordered to dress, and a hessian sack was placed over my head. I was pushed out into the cold night and into a car. We drove off. Fifteen minutes later the chimes of the station clock striking 2.00 told me we were passing through Aberystwyth.
When the hood was removed, I was sitting in a hard-backed chair facing four men across a desk in a dingy room. It felt like a basement but there were no clues for thinking this. Just the conviction that the business to be transacted was probably going to be hidden from the world. An Anglepoise lamp was trained on my face. After the darkness of the hood it was unbearable. I pushed the lamp down to cast its beam on the desk. One of the men was an officer in the military, wearing combat fatigues; he had silver hair, closely cropped, and his face was red. One was dressed in the neat, sober and expensive suit of a Whitehall mandarin in his sixties, with the pallor of a snail, the Man from the Ministry but not one you can find in the telephone directory. The third had cop written all over him: standard-issue crumpled suit, police hair grease, truncheon-battered ear – he was eating an ice cream. Next to him, doing his best to counterfeit a kindly face, was a military chaplain. The brass hat looked to the mandarin for a cue regarding the lamp. The mandarin nodded acceptance. His shirt was crisply ironed, the tie knot small and rammed home without compromise. He looked tired, his face lined and pallid with the air of one used to dispensing authority in rooms that seldom saw daylight. The cop simply stared at me with a look that might have been bored contempt or maybe amusement. The brass hat spoke first.
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘No problem, I was passing anyway.’
He looked round to the mandarin, as if unsure how to react and needing a cue. The mandarin made an impatient grimace and said, ‘We want you to help us.’
I smiled.
‘If it was up to me,’ the brass hat added, ‘I’d have you flogged.’
‘What a shame it’s not up to you;
He glanced for effect at his watch. ‘Goodbye, Mr Knight. Your time, I’m afraid, is up, both here in this office and in the wider context of life in Aberystwyth. I gave you fair warning; let’s hope I haven’t wasted my time. The mayor of Aberystwyth is not a guy who likes to have his time wasted; he’s not the sort of guy who likes to give duplicate warnings, it’s wasteful.’ He reached forward and pressed a buzzer that indicated the interview was over.
It was just after midnight, maybe 1.00 or 2.00 in the morning. I lay asleep in my caravan in Ynyslas. The far-off susurration of the waves was barely audible, but the wind coming in off the sea cuffed the caravan like the hand of a giant schoolteacher and made the metal fabric sing. There is something deeply comforting about that sensation, of feeling protected and cocooned in warmth and yet aware, too, of the proximity of the ocean. Ynyslas is 6 miles north of Aberystwyth and lies hidden from the world in a corner of sand adjacent to the estuary. During the day in summer nothing moves here except tide and cloud and, occasionally, across the estuary on the distant hill, two carriages of a toy train going north.
There was a noise. Close. I opened my eyes, knowing without knowing how that there were people inside. The deepest, darkest fear of every householder in the night. The one that has never changed throughout time. The moment when you come face to face with your own mortality. Someone shone a flashlight into my face; someone put a gloved hand over my mouth; someone pressed the barrel of a gun into my eye. I was ordered to dress, and a hessian sack was placed over my head. I was pushed out into the cold night and into a car. We drove off. Fifteen minutes later the chimes of the station clock striking 2.00 told me we were passing through Aberystwyth.
When the hood was removed, I was sitting in a hard-backed chair facing four men across a desk in a dingy room. It felt like a basement but there were no clues for thinking this. Just the conviction that the business to be transacted was probably going to be hidden from the world. An Anglepoise lamp was trained on my face. After the darkness of the hood it was unbearable. I pushed the lamp down to cast its beam on the desk. One of the men was an officer in the military, wearing combat fatigues; he had silver hair, closely cropped, and his face was red. One was dressed in the neat, sober and expensive suit of a Whitehall mandarin in his sixties, with the pallor of a snail, the Man from the Ministry but not one you can find in the telephone directory. The third had cop written all over him: standard-issue crumpled suit, police hair grease, truncheon-battered ear – he was eating an ice cream. Next to him, doing his best to counterfeit a kindly face, was a military chaplain. The brass hat looked to the mandarin for a cue regarding the lamp. The mandarin nodded acceptance. His shirt was crisply ironed, the tie knot small and rammed home without compromise. He looked tired, his face lined and pallid with the air of one used to dispensing authority in rooms that seldom saw daylight. The cop simply stared at me with a look that might have been bored contempt or maybe amusement. The brass hat spoke first.
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘No problem, I was passing anyway.’
He looked round to the mandarin, as if unsure how to react and needing a cue. The mandarin made an impatient grimace and said, ‘We want you to help us.’
I smiled.
‘If it was up to me,’ the brass hat added, ‘I’d have you flogged.’
‘What a shame it’s not up to you;
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