Just like ancient Rome, Swansea was built on seven hills, one for each of the deadly sins. Trouble was they needed some new hills – they’d been busy enough inventing sins. But while in the Eternal City it was only slaves at the auction block who could be bought and sold, in Swansea every man had his price, and some were pretty low. It was a bubbling pressure cooker brimming with human flotsam, a fetid stew on the verge of boiling over; packed full of disgraced butchers, renegade bakers, erotic candlestick makers; pimps and pounces, whores, bores, freelance druids and traders in bodily fluids; sheep rustlers and bingo hall hustlers. There wasn’t much you couldn’t buy before midnight, and absolutely nothing you couldn’t get after. The shops shut early on a Tuesday so they could try to remove the stains. There wasn’t enough disinfectant in the world. Some said an ugly lovely town – but only if you wore industrial-strength beer goggles. Fortunately most of the inhabitants did. The indoor market sold excellent cockles. Just don’t ask what they fed on out in the bay. And that was the Swansea from my world – just what the place would be like over here I shuddered to think. I was about to find out.
We tumbled from the tacsi, yelling our thanks to the oblivious robotic driver, into a world of blaring neon and burning chrome. My heart was in my mouth, but what I really needed were eyes in the back of my head. As usual it was raining, but this rain had the good sense to vaporise before reaching the ground, filling the ozone-laden air with a swirling kaleidoscopic steam. Gwen took me by the hand and led me from the landing pad. ‘Come on. I know the way to go.’
We hurried down a busy commercial thoroughfare. Folk from every corner of the globe rubbed shoulders with burnished androids, diligently going about their business. Far above, glittering spires punched holes in the night sky as vast advertising holograms danced against the ragged clouds. Welshperanto, Korean, Cyrillic rippled and morphed before my wide eyes.
We passed a beggar with no arms and legs, a sign around his neck claiming they were back in Patagonia along with his innocence. Gwen tossed him a coin without breaking stride. A kid in thick NHS specs with a plaster over one lens tried to sell me a deep-fried rat on a stick. I politely said I’d eaten. Music blasted from an all-night nail emporium across the street, staffed by an army of tiny Chinese women and Shiva-armed robots. The local answer to George Michael knocking out ‘Wake me up before you go-go-goch’ like his heart depended on it. Maybe it did.
By my reckoning it was way past 3am – my watch had stopped somewhere along the line, and it seemed the dimensional time jumps had given it a nervous breakdown – but every shop we passed remained open. Unlike the false promises made in songs, this really was the city that never slept; shame it was locked in this walking nightmare. I’d already tried their cocktails; I didn’t want to think what their espressos might be like. We passed seedy all-night laverbread dens, fronted by scantily clad hawkers, and the biggest Greggs I’d ever clapped eyes on, complete with roped-off VIP area. At least the bouncers here were making a vain effort at chucking-out. I tiptoed through a minefield of shattered pasties and sausage rolls, while ahead of me Gwen picked up the pace. My legs ached and my ears throbbed.
I called after her. ‘Why the hurry? Unless you’re finding me a proper bed for what’s left of the night.’
In a flash she was in my face, pulling my ear down to mouth level against the din. ‘Don’t think for one moment we’re safe. The Consortium has spies everywhere. Be on your guard.’ She was gone again as fast as she’d arrived. It was all I could do to stumble in her wake.
Ahead of us a group of heavily armed cops were shaking down a gang of druids, who must have overstepped some local by-law. The swelling crowd of onlookers were growing restless, equally divided between supporters and detractors. Several ugly scuffles broke out. Overhead a police gunship hovered like a praying mantis, dancing spotlights fashioning a hideous disco on the rain-slick tarmac. Nervous bystanders stood around filming the floor show. Gwen gave the skirmish a wide birth. I struggled to keep up.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand?’
‘Really, just the one?’
I sidestepped a drunk barfing a torrent of glowing mucus onto his shoes. ‘Okay, there’re lots of things I don’t understand. But there’s one bothering me in particular.’
‘What’s that?’
‘This is the richest, most advanced country in the word –’
A hovering ball of LEDs and whirring gyros regarded us with a cyclopean eye as it pitched us life insurance – did it know something we didn’t? Gwen brushed it aside.
‘– but why is it all so… sordid?’
My companion carried on her way. ‘This is the sophisticated part of town – you should see the Under City.’ She saw my look of dismay. ‘On second thoughts, maybe not.’
I wasn’t deterred. ‘You know what I mean. Why does it have to be this way?’
She paused for a moment to check her bearings. A warbling ice cream van trundled by, horribly out of tune. ‘The more wealthy a society becomes, the more the inequality – it’s always been the way. If power corrupts what do you think ultimate power does to the soul of a nation? Come on, it’s just down here.’
We arrived at what must have been Castle Square, turning the corner at the base of a 500ft skyscraper bedecked in giant wraparound screens. The brightness blasting forth could have knocked the unwary off their feet – I think it might have been giving me a tan. The huge bank of shimmering pixels showed international rugby highlights – The All Blacks getting pounded, looking decidedly black and blue. Few of the revellers paid it much heed, our lot clearly winning so hard it had lost any sense of satisfaction.
The castle itself was still there, complete with eerily realistic holographic dragon gyrating in the throbbing air above, but the rest of the place had changed quite a bit. Gwen navigated a course through the crowded plaza, around the fountain – as ever foaming with drunken students. We zigzagged towards a plush parade of shops. There was a Tibetan wholefood takeaway – The Deli Lama – and what looked like a fancy nightclub – Crystal Tips Topless Ice Bar – come-along girls ushering swaying marks down the roped-off entry line. Our destination nestled between these two establishments. Through the huge plate glass windows I could see a bright interior; the place seemed to be an upmarket hairdresser. The glowing sign stretching along the facade read Celtic Fringe. I didn’t think a haircut was a priority, but Gwen seemed to know what she was doing.
We entered a well-appointed waiting room, complete with plush seating and haughty major-domo standing guard behind a podium – it was that type of joint. Even at this late hour the place was packed, evidently the most popular chop shop in town. Yet more screens set around the walls cycled images of the outlandish styles you could request. Each bore hairy testament to the powerful cantilevering effects of the local hairspray. Gwen had a quiet word with the major-domo, who looked us up and down with unconcealed disdain. I think he was about to give us the bum’s rush when a commotion broke out further back in the studio. A tall man tending a client’s towering ginger afro spotted us through the interior glass and dropped his tools with a clatter. Soon he was barrelling through the inner doors to greet us.
Gwen smiled when she saw him coming. ‘Kevin, meet Juan Llewellyn Ramirez, the best hair-wrangler this side of the Tawe.’
Juan was anything but, he had the sort of tan which would have got him sent to the back of the bus in the Confederacy. He was over six-four of lean muscle, shown off to devastating effect in a tight white shirt open to the navel. Michelangelo might have sculpted his close-cropped beard, the rest of him perhaps rendered by more talented artistes. Catching sight of Gwen his green eyes flashed as bright as his arctic smile, which dazzled even in this over-bright environment. For some reason I took an instant dislike to the fellow.
‘Chica Bonita! Is been too long – you finally come back to us.’ He wrapped her in his massive arms and gazed down at her in adoration. Cheeks burning, I felt my fury mounting.
Gwen patted his stubbly cheek affectionately and gazed back at him. ‘Old friend, we need your help. Code Red I’m afraid.’