The sound of the samba drifting up from Aberdare’s Latin Quarter filled the bar with its contagious rhythm. It was hard to stop my feet matching the beat, but this was no time for dancing. Someone was trying to kill me.
Breathing deeply to calm my pounding heart I studied my surroundings. The bar was all greasy neon and steam-shrouded duct-work, dingy and dark despite the swarm of plasma screens overhead. They pumped out a bewildering torrent; W-Pop, sports news and frenzied Welshperanto coverage of the mardi gras below. On one big screen a holographic Tom Jones gyrated, as a line of dancers in shawls and stovepipe hats twerked themselves into a frenzy. For once I had to disagree with Uncle Tom – this whole thing was most definitely ‘unusual’.
The bar’s patrons appeared unimpressed by the show. Not big fans of the samba, blurry X-rated tattoos and thatched body hair seemed more to their liking. They sat nursing kaleidoscopic drinks and perfecting an air of suppressed menace. Some of them were very good at it.
In one corner a group of druids in full ceremonial dress sat hunched over their mead, muttering through thick beards. One of their number must have been communing too intimately with the spirit world – he lay face down in an ornate cauldron bubbling over with green foam. No amount of mistletoe-waving by his sniggering friends could seem to revive him.
A group of gaudy partygoers stumbled through the doors, clad in nothing but feather boas and jaunty smiles, blowing whistles and clicking castanets. How they managed in this climate I didn’t know. The rain tumbling from the granite sky was the only familiar thing from home. Gwen had told me the mardi gras was an annual event, the biggest this side of Fishguard. It celebrated the Revolution, and the liberation of Patagonia which came soon after. That didn’t make it any easier to accept – that it took place at all, here amidst this nondescript dead-end town. Except of course, it wasn’t.
I don’t mean the carnival wasn’t carving its colourful, nipple-strewn path along the boulevard somewhere far below. As I sat in the towering jungle of steel and glass that comprised the gleaming Upper-City, I was only too aware of the delirious fiesta taking place beneath my feet. I only had to glance up at the plasma screens to witness the vast beached whale of an event, driven by explosive sexual tension and crowds resplendent in bulging Lycra and dayglo face paint. And the ladies weren’t much better. What I mean is this wasn’t the Aberdare I’d grown up in. In fact it wasn’t anywhere I’d grown up in, or ever hoped to visit. I’d never understood the term ‘culture shock’, but it seemed I’d signed up for a crash course. This place would do that to you – Under Milk Wood meets Blade Runner, but with more rain and sequins. No, this wasn’t the Aberdare I was familiar with. This Aberdare was slightly different.
In a vain attempt at distraction I cast my eye over the cocktail menu. I didn’t like the sound of the Tonypandy Hand Shandy, so had ordered another Leek Daiquiri instead. At least four parts Brains Bitter, to which I’d developed a passable tolerance, it came with a real leek stirrer, and a miniature parasol in the shape of a witch’s hat. Gwen got it for me, before disappearing into the night to ‘organise the next leg of our journey’. Where had my mysterious guide vanished to? The first drink had left a ringing in my ears and a coating on my tongue like industrial disinfectant. At least it took my mind off the surroundings.
In a nearby booth a fight broke out. Insults were thrown, then drinks, finally punches – the traditional sequence of escalation. The drinks were likely the most dangerous part. Few other patrons paid the brawlers much heed; just another day in the life and death of Aberdare. Some things never change. With a start I realised I had company.
‘Here ewe goes dalin.’
Suddenly my frothing drink had a twin. The waitress was built like a brick privy and wearing traditional bonnet and shawl. The fishnet stockings and basque were no doubt traditional too, but I couldn’t think where – maybe Sodom or Gomorrah, which if I remembered were up just past Brecon. She gazed at me cow eyed and grinned a jowly grin. Some of her teeth might have been her own. I hoped she only wanted a tip.
Before I could fumble in a pocket for a coin (which would likely get me locked up over here), her eyes went wide with fear. She gazed at the opposite side of the booth. Her puffy face grew paler still, before she bolted, leaving just a whiff of stale sweat and a hint of eau de Cwmbran. Slowly, I turned to see what had spooked her.
‘We meet at last, Señor Jones.’
The guy opposite was dressed to kill, no doubt for my sake. But I hardly noticed his razor-sharp lilac suit and matching feather-adorned hat, tilted at a rakish angle. Even his rapier-thin moustache and blazing indigo eyes barely registered. What drew my attention was the unfeasibly large gun he had pointed at my head, a cluster of barrels each as big as a sewer pipe and as menacing as the grave.
‘Wait, you’ve got the wrong man.’
‘Amigo, I am thinking I definitely have the right man.’
‘No, I’m just…’
His face creased in a smile which got nowhere near his dead shark eyes. He must have shared a dentist with the waitress. ‘You have no idea what you are. How significant your death will be.’
‘Wait… please…’
He cocked the hammer with a ring-encrusted thumb. ‘You die today for the greater good of mankind – well… some of it, anyway.’
I closed my eyes and the carousel parade of my life flashed by. I had been working on getting this movie up to an 18 rating, but have to admit it barely stretched to a PG – a straight-to-DVD release over before it began. When I met my maker I intended to have a few choice words. That meeting might be very soon. Before I could compose myself my world exploded in a bolt of blinding light and a deafening roar. Everything went black.
Today was not turning out to be a good day – at all. I won’t lie to you, I’m the sort of guy who puts a big emphasis on his own survival. Some might mistake this for cowardice; I prefer to say I have a well-developed sense of my own preservation. I like the quiet life – more la dolce vita than la vida loca. Not exactly risk averse, but why leave the safety of your home unless strictly necessary? Much like me, you’re probably wondering how I got into this mess. My first meeting with Gwen would have unbalanced the best of us. If you think you would have fared better, please let me know. Perhaps I need to backtrack a little.
I’d been living back at home with Mum for a while, getting my thoughts together after college and planning the next stage of my career. The stepping stones to greatness were proving slippery and covered with moss. Courageously I’d not gone gently into that dark night – of paid employment – instead raging against the dying of my right to do whatever I wanted. Five and a half terms at Telford Art School could take their toll on anyone and, despite what some might say, I was no different to most. I was due some well-earned downtime.
Perhaps this preparatory stage had stretched longer than intended, but I’m nothing if not thorough. Sure, Aberdare was a quiet town, but its dreaming spires and derelict shops let me get to work on my graphic novel with none of the distractions you get from big shot agents or salivating Hollywood producers. Recently I’d begun to think I was doing too well in this respect. But I was finding the gentle rain, which washed in off the hills every day, watered the rich loam of my imagination in ways California sunshine never could. Plus Mum wasn’t asking for any rent.
Our lives had settled into a comfortable routine. Mum went off to work down the council offices and I’d hold the fort at home, conserving my strength at keeping abreast of popular culture through the mediums of daytime TV and classic film. Us creative artists work best when our feet are grounded firmly in the rich manure deposited by the common man. I was diligent in this respect. It wasn’t easy, but we all have our crosses to bear. Mine was to be a sophisticate amongst simpletons. If I felt adventurous I’d stretch to a trip to the library. As you can tell I’m not one to complain, unless, that is, I’ve got someone to complain to and they sit still long enough for me to unload.
Several times a week I’d visit Grandad up at the nursing home. Gafr Rhywiol was a pleasant enough place, but basically a warehouse for those on their way out. It sat atop the hill behind our row of terraced houses, overlooking the valley and smelling faintly of disinfectant and evaporating hope. When Gran died Mum moved Gramps up from the coast to be nearer to us. He wasn’t as with-it as he used to be, but enough of his old personality remained to keep the nurses on their toes. He’d tell me endless tales of his time in the Air Force and what he’d done in The War. It was sad to see him go downhill, but I owed it to the old fella to give something back for all the time he’d spent with me growing up. He seemed happy enough. Only problem was we had no idea how we’d pay the fees once the money from his house sale ran out. We’d have to think of something fast.
Most days by mid-afternoon I was ready to start work. And what work it was. There is a deep abiding satisfaction which comes from knowing you’re engaged in your finest labours, maybe the finest of your life. The Windy Ninja wasn’t my first venture into the graphic novel market, but I knew with a certainty bordering on the divine it was my best. I’ve always had a deep respect for Japanese culture and, despite what my philistine schoolmates might say, this didn’t begin and end with my massive collection of hentai tentacle porn. There is a profound spiritual meaning at the heart of Japanese civilisation which combines deep universal truths about the human condition with compelling images of young ladies in knee socks and tartan skirts. I’m unsure which elements first drew me, but I knew my contribution to the canon was coalescing daily at a heart-warming rate.
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The Chronicles of the Windy Ninja, ’twas a tale of darkness, betrayal, redemption, hope and yet more betrayal, set in Muromachi Era Japan (1336–1573). Betrayal and extreme flatulence played a big part in the plot. It was as if Sergio Leone and Akira Kurosawa had spawned a bastard lovechild who got betrayed and chopped people into bits while farting a lot. Through this the gassy protagonist gained redemption, whilst propelled on a uniquely ballistic character arc. The work was packed with symbolic meaning, intense bloody violence, body parts and betrayal. And redemption.
Marketing could wait until my baby was fully formed, but Mr Watkins who ran the church newsletter promised to take a look as long as it wasn’t ‘too packed with filth’, as I freely admit my previous efforts had been. Every auteur is destined to encounter censorship – small-minded roadblocks on the path to creative nirvana. If anything these made me more certain of my convictions. Exhausted after a long day at the creative coalface I’d pack up my pens and ink at 4.30 ready for Mum to cook my tea when she got home. I’m lucky enough to have inherited her sense of humour. She was always joking and pulling my leg.
‘When you going to get a proper job you lazy scrounger?’ she’d shout, before heading off down the bingo. But I knew she loved me really, maybe too much. Like all our family, apart from Gramps, she disguised her feelings behind insults and jest. Most nights, I’d continue my research down the pub. That’s if my Jobseeker’s Allowance would stretch to it.
Just as back in my schooldays, I remained a fish out of water in Aberdare. When I explained my plans to people they just stared at me in wonder, perhaps unused to meeting someone as driven and focused as myself. Some of my peers were still around, those who hadn’t hit the big time and moved to Swansea. The good-natured ribbing had changed little from our younger days.
‘Kevin, you’re full of shit, you are!’ they’d shout from across the street, before running back to their safe, mundane lives of quiet desperation and forlorn hope.
‘Sticks and stones,’ I’d call back, before avoiding the inevitable barrage of actual sticks and stones. But I cared little once the bruises had faded. They’d laugh on the other side of their bloated, tear-streaked faces when I collected the Oscar. Revenge is a dish best served cold, while sat in your Malibu condo. It was ironic considering the central themes of my magnum opus. Ok, so I hadn’t technically suffered much in the way of betrayal, but I sensed the fates were already carving me a big slice of redemption pie from the bulging feast of life.
So those years were the best of times, and the worst of times, as they often are in situations like this. Admittedly, they’d been mainly ‘the worst’, but they must have wrapped back around, at least a little. Aberdare wasn’t what it had been, and it hadn’t been much to begin with. Our house had recently been broken into, but the intruders couldn’t be arsed to take much of anything – seemed more like they just wanted to turn the place upside down. Even the care home had been raided, causing Grandad to speculate some reverse tooth fairy was building a castle made out of dentures and soiled surgical trusses. But Aberdare was the town I called home and it was into this heady, bittersweet mix Gwen first crashed unbidden – a beautiful iceberg in the path of my surging Titanic.
Like most afternoons when I wasn’t with Grandad I was reading in the library. It was a vast Victorian pile in the centre of town, built back in the days when the local miners’ collective harboured dreams of liberating the masses through the works of H.G. Wells and William Morris. It was run with Stalinist efficiency by Mrs Abergavenny, a fearsome old trout who’d rolled in out of nowhere the year before and swept away the ancien regime in a blaze of lavender breath mints and punitive late fines. She was small and compact, a geriatric pit bull who dressed like an Edwardian jumble sale and swore like a Milford Haven docker. Ours had been quite a first meeting in its own right.
‘Boils my piss, it does – bloody kids, always on your phones! Hand it over before you disturbs the peace of my serene ffwcing establishment.’
I’d cast a sceptical eye over the dusty halls around me. The only one disturbing the peace of this deserted tomb was the smouldering pocket battleship in front of me. Still, I’d handed over my phone without a fuss: she was scary. Like I’ve said, I’m no fool.
For many weeks this was the procedure on arrival – I had to check in my mobile at the desk. It was draconian, but I learned to play the system. As long as you avoided overdue charges you were safe from the gulag. I became her favourite; perhaps she sensed a fellow seeker for the tree of knowledge, a burgeoning man of letters. Either that or I was her only customer. After a while she even let me keep my phone, as long as I kept it quiet.
Not long after that, the fateful day arrived.
It was a slate-grey afternoon at the arse end of a wet and dismal summer. My spirits were low. I’d hit an impasse with The Windy Ninja and couldn’t think of any fresh ways for my protagonist’s unruly bowels to land him in hot water. To cap it all Mum had gone AWOL without even so much as a note – probably off with one of her bingo mates again – and I was having to cook my own meals. Little did I know it, but destiny had me in her sights and was about to pull the trigger. I sensed a presence and looked up.
And there she was, backlit in the doorway and the pouring rain. An angel amongst devils, moisture clinging to her short chestnut hair as if it couldn’t bear to be parted. I could see the attraction. She was the type of girl who fires an exploding harpoon through your heart before slowly reeling you in. Luckily I’m more resilient to such charms than most ruggedly handsome, yet sensitive guys my age.
She shrugged water from her short leather jacket then reached inside with a fingerless gloved hand. Tall and lithe, maybe a few years older than myself. I was put in mind of a hunting panther crossed with an ancient goddess. She looked down at her oversized smartphone, some weird foreign brand, then carefully back at me. You could have lost continents in those big brown eyes. I wanted to warn her about Mrs Abergavenny and the library Gestapo, but my lips had stopped working along with my legs. The newcomer had a modulated lilting Valleys accent, as if local but well travelled.
‘Kevin Gwydion Jones?’
I couldn’t take my gaze off her. ‘Yes,’ I think I managed to whisper, my mouth very dry. ‘Are you here for The Windy Ninja? It’s not finished yet.’
She looked at me blankly. ‘I know nothing of ninjas, windy or otherwise – but you have to listen if you want to live. We have to get going. We don’t have much time.’
I was more than ready for pretty girls asking me if I wanted to live. I won’t lie to you, I had been wondering for some time if my life in Aberdare constituted any sort of living at all. And here she was, my saviour, ready to whisk me away to a life of A-list parties, loose drugs and hard women. I pondered her proposition sagely, as was my way.
‘Too bloody right I am! When do we leave?’
This seemed to be the reaction she was looking for. My new friend nodded, her eyes sweeping the room – perhaps she’d been warned about rogue librarians after all. She needn’t have worried – as usual the place was deserted. Satisfied we were alone she turned back to me.
‘Tidy. But there’s no time to explain. You need to come with me now.’
‘Now in a minute, or proper now?’
‘Proper now.’
‘But what about –’
‘No time for that.’
‘But –’
‘No time for that either.’ She gripped my forearm. Her hands were warm and soft but oh so very strong. It didn’t strike me as a grip which it would be easy to wriggle out of. Which was beside the point – I would have followed her to the very gates of hell if she’d asked. I couldn’t have resisted if I’d wanted to. I didn’t want to.
I thought at first she might take me to a waiting limousine, or a helicopter – either that, or at least the bus station. Instead, she led me deeper into the musty depths of that ancient library. It was the first time she took me by surprise; it wouldn’t be the last.
‘So what’s your name?’ Time to turn on the charm.
She walked fast, scanning all around as if in search of danger. ‘I’m Gwendolyn, but we don’t have time for any of that nonsense right now.’
I had so many questions – chief amongst them being: was she single? What did she look for in prospective boyfriends? But before I knew it we were at the dented service lift doors – the ones the pearl-necklaced Taliban used to bring trolleys of age-worn books up from the Stygian depths below. Perhaps foreshadowing later events, I found myself mightily confused.
‘Are we looking for inspiration downstairs? I can tell you now the manga collection here is not extensive. They’ll order books in, as long as they’re not filled with smut.’
She looked at me stunned, no doubt impressed at my ability to think three steps ahead. ‘Something like that, yes.’
Gwen slapped the big red lift recall button. With a creaking and a groaning that made my teeth vibrate the elevator arrived like a bicycle passing through a mangle. The door clanked open and she bundled me inside. Just what Mrs Abergavenny would say at this breach of procedure, I shuddered to think. The lift wasn’t for use by the great unwashed, or any lacking the mystic sacrament of a senior librarian. Inside twinkled an oddly modern control panel mounting just three buttons. The library had a ground floor, a first floor and a storage cellar I was dimly aware of as a concept but had never visited – a bit like Nando’s. The antique doors clanged shut.
Gwen took great pains to position herself in front of the panel, then cracked her fingers like a concert pianist warming up for a performance. I’m unclear what she did next, but it involved pressing the buttons in a bewildering sequence interspersed with carefully timed pauses.
‘Doesn’t do to get the programming wrong,’ she muttered.
‘Programming? How hard can it be, there’s only three floors.’
Her job done, Gwen pinned herself against the back wall. ‘Brace yourself.’
‘Brace?’
My stomach joined my heart in my mouth as we plummeted like a stone – a stone attached to a cord of elastic stretched taut down a deep mineshaft. My rising scream couldn’t get past the logjam in my throat. I don’t know how far the cellar went down, but we must have passed through in the first few blistering seconds. In defiance of all logic, not to mention laws of physics, we kept accelerating hellwards. I don’t like lifts at the best of times, and this definitely wasn’t the best of times. My feet lifted gently from the floor.
‘What have you done, you mentalist!’
Gwen looked at me sideways but otherwise remained calm. ‘You might want to suck one of these. It will help with the nausea.’ Straining against the G-force, she offered me a mint.
‘What nausea?’
Okay, I’m sometimes a slow learner. The lift didn’t so much come to a shuddering halt as squirt sideways through a crack in reality, bungeeing between this world and the next like an unfortunate conjoined twin. It felt like my constituent molecules were stripped, then randomly reassembled by some mad laughing demigod. The fillings in my teeth hummed and my eyeballs itched. I could taste my breakfast, but not in a good way.
Gwen helped me to my feet. ‘Next time, take a mint.’
‘There won’t be a next time, not if I have any say in the matter.’
She looked at me coolly. ‘You don’t have any say in the matter.’ She handed me a packet of mints.
Only one thing was certain – I needed some new trousers. As if that wasn’t enough Gwen pulled a large gun from inside her jacket and held it at the ready. She looked at me and smiled.
‘Some reckon diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but I prefer .357 hollow point ammunition.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
She just winked at me. ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.’
Placing an elegant finger beneath my chin she eased my mouth shut. The creaking doors slid open, revealing the new improved reality I’ve already begun to describe; Aberdare+1 – the version with the mardi gras, levitating cars and freelance cathedral enthusiasts. The familiar library was gone, we were in the bowels of some vast high-tech hotel. Things only went downhill from there. Typically I soon found myself in a bar. Ah yes, we must get back to the bar, and my new moustachioed, gun-toting friend.