Looking back, I’m not proud of what I did next. While this is true for much of my life up to that point, what happened next was a particular nadir. But you’ve got to understand the pressure I was under – I’d been running for my life through a bizarre mixed-up world that made no sense to my fevered brain. I wasn’t exactly operating at my usual cool and rational best. Once I’d had it rammed down my throat what Gwen truly thought of me, there was no way I was hanging around. I was determined not to burden her any longer. She’d saved my life countless times already, enough was enough. My pride could only take so much. I grabbed my meagre possessions and headed for the door.
At first I worried I’d stand out like a sore thumb, my every step marking me out as an interloper from a distant world. I needn’t have worried. There was such an eclectic mix of people swirling through the open sewer which was Swansea I would have fitted in if I’d had two heads and wings. Some claimed they’d built this city on rock and roll – I thought an ancient Indian burial ground was more likely.
I had no clue where I was going, or what I’d do when I got there – perhaps a great summation of my life to date. I had a pocketful of cash Gwen had given me in case we got separated, and the extent of my thinking was to get plastered and eat a kebab. I intended to heroically drown my sorrows, to blow it all in a bar on leek daiquiris or something worse. Swansea is nothing if not a reliable venue for getting hammered. Before the day was out I intended to join the melancholy parade of sloshed poets honking in Cwm Donkin. Maybe not a good one, but it was ‘A Plan’.
As I stumbled through the grimy rain-soaked streets, I reflected this was my long dark teatime of the soul, even if – as far as I could tell – it was about 8am. Time was fluid round these parts, much like the available consolation. Crowds of locals and tourists parted before me as if they could sense I was not a man to trifle with. I walked and I thought until my feet ached as much as my brain, and the conclusion I came to was this – much like my wanderings, my life lacked direction.
By the time he was my age Grandad had experienced more than I could ever imagine. And this wasn’t even the guy who transformed this world a myriad ways for the better. Forget inventing the J-Drive, the Isaiah I knew had lived through the Second World War. I’d heard all about it because he never stopped telling me from the earliest age I could remember. Until well into my teens I don’t think we had a conversation which didn’t reference The War in some way. It had given his life meaning and direction. His character had been forged in the white-hot crucible of conflict. Was it this that gave his twin the potential to achieve such great things over here?
And what had stopped him doing so where I came from? A horrible realisation was dawning – it seemed the thing that held him back must have been me. A thought which went no way towards making me feel any better about my sorry existence. I was nothing but an albatross around the neck of everyone I met – only difference was no one was getting cursed if I got shot. If anything, quite the reverse.
In a perverse way Isaiah’s generation had been lucky. The War had been both a blessing and a curse; a blessing, in that it gave purpose to their lives; a curse since lots of them had been shot, blown up or maimed – but hey, every cloud. When you’ve saved the world from fascism everything else looks tame by comparison. How was my generation meant to compete? Crafting the perfect social media presence wasn’t going cut it as a life-defining experience. I thought The Windy Ninja was shaping up pretty nicely, but I had to admit it didn’t compare to facing down Hitler. The grandfather I knew might not have created Anthracite, but he’d learned a practical philosophy he’d tried in vain to pass onto me. I’d once asked him, a few years before, why he was spending so much time with me, helping with my education – how could I ever hope to repay him?
He’d looked down at me with his watery, pale eyes and said, ‘There’s no need to repay me, bach. One day you’ll be in a position to help someone else – not because you owe them, or because they have a call on you, but because they’re in need. We all have a duty to pay knowledge forward – to leave this world in a better place than we find it. That’s how you can pay me back, by helping some stranger further down the track.’ He told me to Pay It Forward. Even without the mad inventions it was impossible to escape the conclusion my grandad was one of the good guys. How could I ever live up to that?
It was no use, I gave in. I was down by the seafront and turned into the first bar I came to. There were plenty to choose from. I’m not sure what I ended up drinking but in half an hour I was past caring. I made some new friends, a stage party down from Llandeilo. We did a bit of singing and we did a bit of drinking. I told them I was secretly the rightful heir to the globe-spanning Jones Corporation, and they lined up the drinks for us to celebrate. Some of them even made it as far as our mouths. The lads must have sensed the darkness infesting my soul because they slipped away when I wasn’t looking. The bartender was less understanding when I told him of my woes.
‘Get out, you mingin mochyn,’ he shouted, as he threw me onto the street. ‘We wants no manky piss-’eds ’ere!’
I didn’t care; there were plenty of other distractions in that part of town. Even at that time of day the promenade was thick with hookers. They came in all shapes and sizes and seemed to cater to every taste – at least if the sandwich board menus carried by the touts could be believed. I was propositioned more than once.
‘Hya luv, fancy a rub?’
Even if I’d been in the mood for romance I don’t think I’d have been up to the job. Politely I demurred, then vomited on her platform shoes.
‘Ffwcing pervert!’ Her pimp appeared and chased me away.
In a park just across the road I noticed a crowd gathering, watched by a wary TV camera crew. The sign on their van read ‘S4C News 24’. The congregation were there to listen to a ragged man wearing flowing robes, who moved like a drunken octopus – perhaps he’d have my answers, he had a better chance than me. I latched onto the back of the throng and strained to catch a look. In the distance I could hear the wail of approaching sirens.
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The speaker had a long grey beard full of twigs and the mad wild eyes of a prophet – Swansea seemed well stocked with these of late. His voice shook with emotion as he bobbed on his makeshift stage.
A hefty middle-aged man stood beside me wearing a ‘Make Cymru Great Again’ cap. I’d spotted a lot of these on the street. He had a tub of popcorn and a beer in a plastic cup. My new friend nudged me and winked, gesturing towards the speaker. ‘Iestyn von Däniken, one of the best. Bang tidy he is, mun. The sort of manic street preacher we actually needs, not some bloody lefty in make-up and a frock.’ He settled back to enjoy the show. On the stage Iestyn was just getting warmed up.
‘We live in great times, my children. Our nation is blessed like no other. Why hold back the full force of our might? The rest of the world curse us whatever we do. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as they say up Brynamman way.’
There was scattered applause and cheering. The sirens sounded closer.
‘But first we needs to drain the swamp! The Liberal Elite have held sway in Cardiff too long. They preach to us about equality, then fill our cities with immigrants and even worse abominations. In their hellish labs they spawn artificial creatures indiscernible from you or I – walking, talking monstrosities vomited forth to satiate our leader’s warped carnal desires. The true Welsh stock are the lost tribe of Atlantis. We must not corrupt our sacred seed!’
‘Wanker!’ someone shouted from the back. Amongst the cheers there were scattered boos. A nasty fight broke out nearby, but Iestyn wasn’t stopping, he was only getting into gear.
‘Just as we will not suffer this witchcraft to continue neither will the Sons of Cambria be led by degenerates, feminists and even… LIBERALS! Barry Island wants to shut us down. Look what happened to that traitor – good riddance I say! When the time comes to cast your vote make it count, cast it for the Gorsedd!’
If he was looking to polarise his audience he was doing a good job. Even in my inebriated state I could detect an air of confrontation amongst the throng. Fists were thrown, as well as plastic cups full of amber liquid, I hoped it was only beer. Von Däniken wasn’t deterred.
‘We need to spread the wealth. The snowflake Taffia down in Cardiff can’t block the will of the people for long. We can roll back their globalist agenda. We just needs a leader with the Will to Power! Vote early, vote often, vote Llywsiffer Pendragon!’
But he’d lost the crowd’s attention – supporters and detractors alike seemed more intent on rioting than listening to his words. The crowd surged and milled around me like a sweaty human maelstrom. Meat pies, shattered teeth and worse flew past my double-glazed vision. Then something genuinely weird happened. Von Däniken caught sight of me and did a cartoon double take. One bony finger shot out like a wand.
‘You – the Chosen One has returned!’
I glanced behind me – nothing but a scene of chaos. It seemed he was speaking to yours truly. Drunk as I was, it seemed rude to hold back now. I held out my hands towards yet another new friend. Iestyn jumped down from the stage and staggered towards me. The TV camera crew followed in his wake, recording his every move. The sirens sounded right upon us.
‘The light of destiny burns bright in you, my brother! Your halo is cowing lush!’
Rambling though he might have been this maniac seemed able to sense my budding genius. I let out a mighty burp and did my best to get him in focus. ‘Have you read The Windy Ninja? Always good to meet a fan.’
Confusion washed across his face – looking back I can’t say I blame him. I did my best to help make things clearer. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I’m heir to the Jones Corporation fortune – Isaiah’s long-lost grandson from another dimension. Ssssshh!’ I tried to put a finger to my lips but only succeeded in poking my eye.
Iestyn opened his mouth as if to speak but never got that far. There was a loud thunk, like a high-board diver arriving in an empty pool. The preacher’s eyes glazed over, he swayed for a moment, before face-planting before me like a felled oak. A riot policeman in full SWAT gear stood behind him, weighing his nightstick in gloved hand.
‘Move along now, sir. Best not interfere with the due process of law.’
I wasn’t about to let this interloper get away with molesting my fan base. I marshalled the full might of my dignity. ‘What seems to be the ociffer, problem? This man did nothing wrong.’
The cop raised his gas mask and sighed. He looked bored. ‘Ewe trying to be clever with me, butt? We’re taking your mate in for questioning. Move aside, unless ewe wants to join ’im, chopsy bugger.’
Drunk I might have been but I knew my rights. ‘Does freedom of speech count for nothing round here? Did Magna Carta die… zzzzzz!’
I think he must have tasered me; either that or I fell victim to a localised micro-thunderstorm. Next I knew I was writhing on the floor, every limb doing its own thing, bereft of central control. What they mainly seemed to be doing was striking out for pastures new on their own accord. Through a haze of stars I watched the police cart the unconscious prophet away. The TV crew filmed as much as they could but were soon bundled from the scene. With practised efficiency the cops cleared the park of warring factions. I got the feeling they’d done this before.
As my muscle contractions eased I was overcome by a serene inner calm. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of nature – the tweeting of the birds, the rustling of the tress on the breeze from the bay, the departing sirens of the police VTOLs. I sensed a great shifting of internal gears, a moment of catharsis like no other. I was next to the road to the Mumbles, rather than the road to Damascus, but the effect was much the same. If I breathed deeply there was a good chance I’d avoid throwing up again.
As I lay there on the grass a vision formed before my eyes. It was the face of my grandad, Isaiah. The one I knew from home, not the turbo-charged version from over here. I was overjoyed to see those familiar features. But grandad looked far from happy, his ancient rugged brow sad as he spoke softly in my ear.
‘Kev bach, what do you think you’re doing with your life? What a mess you’ve got yourself into.’
It made me ashamed to disappoint him. Deep down I knew he was right. I was squandering what little talent I possessed, always taking the easy path and hoping it would turn out a shortcut. ‘I don’t know, Grandad. Sometimes it all seems too much. It’s not easy being me.’
‘Dew, dew, lad – always getting your excuses in early – you’ve got the Welsh disease proper bad. Time to end the whining. Have a word with yourself, will you. This sort of thing can’t go on.’
Stung by Grandad’s message I resolved to turn my life around. Compared to the problems he’d faced mine were nothing special. Sure, I was being hunted by multiple teams of crack assassins bent on my destruction, and another mob who wanted to pick apart my brains apart, but Grandad had been through far worse with nothing but a fag and a cup of milky tea. Starting right then, I resolved to live up to his example. I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news.
But a change had come over Grandad, he was no longer the kindly old man I knew and loved. He shook me roughly, and his tone grew more strident – this wasn’t like him at all.
‘Kevin, what the hell do you think you’re doing!’
His voice had changed too, gone up several octaves, hectoring. ‘You trying to get us killed?’
He shook me harder, and I began to think I’d been optimistic about avoiding the sick. Something else odd was happening – Isaiah’s face began to swim and morph before my unfocused eyes. His features softened and before I knew it, Gwen was staring down at me.
‘Kevin, have you lost your bloody mind?’