Gwen and Juan somehow got me back to the apartment. There might have been a bit of vomit along the way, but the streets of Swansea were no stranger to the pitter-splatter of that gentle carroty rain. By the time Juan dialled us through his fortress-like security lobby I was feeling better; maybe tasering was a good way to sober up. Gwen, on the other hand, was still tamping.

‘I can’t believe the trouble you’ve caused! Have you any idea what it’s like finding another pisshead in this drunken town? You’ve shaved years off my life.’

I sagged in her arms. ‘How did you track me down?’

She pulled back – I don’t think my breath was the sweetest. ‘We just followed the trail of chaos. You’d only gone 400 yards – the most pathetic attempt at the Mumbles Mile I’ve ever seen. Your breath is mingin.’

I could only apologise and try not to throw up in her lap. I didn’t think it would help her mood. Meanwhile Juan was being the practical parent. He bundled me out of the lift, stripped off my clothes and dumped me in his shower. I don’t think what he saw impressed him much, but I wasn’t at my best. His bathroom was big enough for a choir, and the sound system did a great job of recreating one. There was panel to control the lighting effects, and a dial to set the wetness of the water. Amazonian Monsoon sounded like me. I slumped on the floor and began the long journey back to my senses as the warm water cleansed my soul.

A lifetime later I was clean and dry. Wearing one of my host’s voluminous bath robes I sat at his kitchen table. A wall-sized screen silently carried the lunchtime news. We were trying to work out what to do next. It wasn’t easy. Juan took the floor.

‘Kevin Amigo, Gwen here has taken it upon herself to see you safe and well. Show her some respect. She is a serious individual.’

‘Seriously stupid,’ muttered the lady in question.

Juan shushed her and went on. ‘When she sets her mind to a task she sees it through, to the bitter end. She has requested my aid in this matter. Why fight against us? You put us all at great risk.’

My words struggled past the lump in my throat. ‘All I can say is I’m sorry, to both of you. I know I’ve let you down; Grandad too.’

Gwen snorted. ‘That’s an understatement. This is like babysitting a toddler.’ She would not forget this fiasco in a hurry.

I jumped back in while I had the chance. ‘I’ve been having a serious think about my life choices. I’ve not been great at taking responsibility. That will change, starting now.’

She looked at me with something close to pity. ‘I’m glad to hear it, Kev. Not before time, if you ask me.’

Juan interrupted (maybe he was braver than I knew), ‘Gwen Amiga, at least he is trying. Let us be giving him a chance, no?’ Her face softened just a little as our host went on. ‘The question is, what is it we are doing with our guest now?’

With impeccable timing the rolling news channel, playing silent on the big screen, chose that moment to intervene. The shot cut to a close-up of the messy denouement of my earlier chat with Iestyn von Däniken in the park that morning. My eyes looked a beautiful shade of blue, if a little glazed. We didn’t need the voiceover: a ribbon of text along the bottom gave the images all the context they could need. Alt-Right Rally Throws Up New Jones Family Claimant. We each watched the broadcast with a mounting sense of despair. There was no good way to spin this development.

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Gwen sounded tired. ‘Only you, Kevin, could gatecrash that nutter’s latest stunt. This channel is beamed around the world.’

Juan shook his head sadly. ‘That man is a living, breathing cunning stunt. Maligno.’ He brushed his fingers beneath his chin.

Gwen rose to her feet. ‘We have to assume our cover here is blown. We’ve got to move on, but where?’

Juan shifted awkwardly. ‘Gwen my friend, there is always that other, of whom we spoke – El Coronel. I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumours?’

Pacing the kitchen, Gwen waved him away. ‘That’s the last thing we need right now. I thought you told me this is no time for herding lost sheep.’

‘No, Amiga. But the Old Man has been claiming some strange things. Some strangely relevant things.’

Gwen halted in her tracks. You could almost hear the screeching of brakes. ‘Relevant how, exactly?’

Now it was Juan’s turn to backtrack. ‘Bonita, they are just rumours, but word is he sees visions.’

‘What sort of visions?’

Juan seemed reluctant to elaborate. ‘The man has gone full Colonel Kurtz. He claims a saviour is coming from another world. A hero who will reverse this nation’s malaise. Most dismiss his words as the babblings of a madman. Others flock to hear him speak.’

‘A saviour? If he’s describing Kev then we’re totally fucked.’

Juan was not perturbed. ‘He says this messiah is Arthur come again to lead us – the true heir to the House of Jones.’

There was a lengthy silence. Gwen chewed her lower lip. I had to fight to stop myself biting my nails. I felt we had reached a turning point, maybe a crux in history. I thought it best not to mention the queer things Iestyn had said along similar lines. Events were already unfolding way too fast.

Eventually Gwen found her voice. ‘I guess – maybe we should pay him a visit. Where can we find him?’

For a moment Juan seemed to wrestle with a dilemma. ‘Some say he dwells halfway up Cader Idris, leading his flock in strange hellish rituals not meant to be performed by man. Claims it helps him talk to the spirits. Plus he likes the view.’

I could stand it no longer. ‘Who the hell are you talking about – who is this prophet who seems to know so much about me? If he’s anything like von Däniken you can count me out of a sit-down chat!’

‘So much for taking responsibility.’ Gwen rolled her eyes in disgust.

Juan put his hand on my shoulder. ‘He calls himself Taliesin these days –’

‘– but we knew him by another name.’ Gwen had a tear in her eye. ‘Once upon a time he was Colonel Frank MacIntyre, Welsh Special Forces, Patagonia Expeditionary. He was our CO.’

It took a moment for the news to sink in. ‘You mean the mad guy with the wooden leg and corned beef addiction? The one you left behind for dead?’

Juan shot me a look of reproach as Gwen looked down at the floor. She nodded. ‘The very same.’

I was about to ask if seeking out another deranged lunatic was a good idea – we seemed to have a magnetic attraction for them already – when my train of thought was violently derailed. A series of thumps and bangs reverberated from the roof above, followed by an ominous silence. Three sets of eyes panned slowly to the ceiling. Juan went pale, quite an achievement for someone with his complexion.

‘Something just landed on my roof. This is… not so good.’

Gwen made a dash for the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the square. She strained to peer first upwards, then down at the city below. I was soon by her side. Far beneath us, at the doors to Juan’s establishment, a column of black vehicles pulled up in a haze of dust and scattering pedestrians. Squads of black carapaced figures poured forth like hungry warrior ants. It appeared the Celtic Fringe was about to get a scalping of its own.

‘How long will the doors hold?’ Gwen began calmly checking the action of her gun. From beneath the kitchen counter Juan produced some terrifying hardware of his own – a magazine-fed shotgun complete with underslung grenade launcher. For some reason it was bright pink. I scrambled to find my pants.

‘Depends how good their forced entry team is.’ There was a brace of muffled explosions from above.

‘That was the rooftop doors. We have to move, right NOW.’

For the first time in what felt like ages Gwen grabbed me by the arm. It seemed the Consortium, or someone equally unfriendly, had tracked us down again.