Last Train to Gloryhole (59 page)

Half-an-hour or so later, when Chris next woke up, he slowly turned his aching head and saw the red, single-decker bus, bearing a gorgeous, white-dressed Rhiannon, driving off towards Pant. She was seated at the rear of the vehicle, next to an enormous lad in the year above him who played lock-forward in the school’s rugby team, and whom he knew was soon going to be leaving for university. The sudden sight of the girl Chris loved, as well as the fact that he himself was completely covered in blood, caused him to lie low for a while and conceal his gory face.

As the roaring bus climbed the steep hill and rounded the bend, Chris got unsteadily to his feet, and, his head still swimming, made his weary way back home again, now for the very first time beginning to fully accept that, as his dream had plainly told him, he would no longer be able to be intimate again with the adorable, flame-haired girl his body plainly still yearned for, despite the fact that he realised she was his half-sister.

The young constable smoothed down his bleach-blond fringe, then, seeing the wink his superior gave him, switched on the tape-machine that would now record the interview.

‘You saw the CCTV-DVD as we all did, Brynmor,’ said Sergeant Foley, waving the small case that now contained it in front of the young man’s face. ‘Have you got anything to say about it?’

Brynmor considered the question for a moment then spoke. ‘B-G-I-P,’ he replied, waving his open hand back at him in a similar fashion.

‘What?’ asked Foley, his grey brows raised, his head tilted to the side.

‘Bloody good in parts,’ the skinny lad told him, smiling. ‘Except for the bits I’m in, of course. The action seemed to sag a little there, don’t you reckon?’

Sergeant Foley spun round and frowned at his two colleagues, as if to suggest this wasn’t likely to be an easy interrogation, then stared at the interviewee, who now sat slumped in his seat, and asked his key question. ‘As you’re no longer attending Pennant Comprehensive, Brynmor, what reason do you have for being outside the school-gates at that time of the day?’

‘Well, that’s my effin’ - er - no comment,’ said Brynmor, checking himself, and sniffing the air.

The three police-officers exchanged glances once again.

‘Can you tell us why you ran away when the police arrived?’ enquired the sergeant.

‘No comment,’ Brynmor replied, removing and lifting up his trainer in both hands, and sniffing it, thereby verifying that there was nothing attached to the sole.

Sergeant Foley wasn’t to be de-railed by his response and ploughed on regardless. ‘And, when you were - er - persuaded out of the car, why did you have so much cash in your pocket?’

The young man shook his head and sniggered, then responded, ‘No comment.’

‘Four hundred smackers to be exact, I understand.’

‘No comment,’ said Brynmor.

‘Brynmor - tell me - were you selling something?’

The boy looked down at the surface of the table that separated them and said, ‘No comment.’

‘Were you selling something illegal?’

He yawned, then decided to check the state of his finger-nails. ‘No comment.’

‘Were you selling drugs?’

Biting one that seemed to him a little long. ‘No comment.’

‘Were you selling the school-pupils drugs, young man?’

‘No comment,’ said Brynmor.

‘Well, I put it to you that that is exactly what you were doing,’ said Sergeant Foley, leaning forward.

‘No comment.’

‘And who bought you the flash car that you were driving? Because, you see, we’ve established that it’s not nicked.’

‘No comment.’

‘Well, it’s neither yours nor your brother Steffan’s, that’s for sure. It’s top-of-the-range for a start, and it was purchased for cash from a large garage in Bristol just a month ago.’

‘No comment.’

‘Mm. And whose shed is it we caught you in today? Eh? Yours, or your brother Steffan’s?’

‘No comment.’

‘Because it’s my belief that it’s neither. ‘Because, you see, I reckon you’re both being bank-rolled by some city big-fish from England, and the Volvo you were in was part-payment.’

‘Did you say Volvo?’ asked Brynmor, looking alarmed. ‘Er - no comment.’

‘Say - do you think, young man, that refusing to answer my questions is going to get you released from custody?’

‘You betcha!’ exclaimed Brynmor, glancing up. ‘Er, sorry - no comment.’

‘Look - I don’t see much point in persisting with all these questions, sergeant,’ said D.I.Dawson, pushing open the door and joining them. ‘Because we know what his answer is going to be. And I suppose in a while we’ll just have to release him on bail.’

‘Told ya!’ said Brynmor.

‘What was that, lad?’ asked Dawson.

‘I said - I said - ‘No comment.’ ’

‘No, after that, he means, lad,’ cut in Sergeant Foley. He and Dawson stared down at the boy and waited.

Brynmor leaned his head to the side and checked out what quantity of wax he could manage to eke out of his left ear with his littlest finger, then did the same to the right. He then looked up and smiled at the pair of senior officers poised before him. ‘What? Er - no comment,’ he said. ‘As I keep on telling you guys, ‘no comment.’ ’

The sergeant turned round to address his Cockney colleague. ‘Look - I hear what you’re saying Jeff, but just let me put a few more questions to him, yeah?’ Then turning back once again to the boy they had arrested by stealth just hours before, he said, ‘And what’s the point, do you think, of all the stupid answers you keep giving to my questions, such as -?’

‘No comment?’ ventured Brynmor.

‘Precisely. I mean, what is the point of it all?’

‘No comment.’

‘Listen - I was just being rhetorical that time.’ Foley stared down at the empty plate that lay before the arrested man and pondered his next move. ‘Say - Brynmor - which is your favourite sandwich, eh? Ham, egg, or cheese?’

‘No comment.’

‘I see. And which is your favourite car?’

‘No comment.’

‘T.V. channel?’

‘No comment.’

‘Comic?’

‘No comic.’

‘Comment,’ the sergeant corrected him.

‘Comment - sorry. No comment.’ Brynmor smiled a pinched smile at his error.

‘And your favourite newspaper?’

‘No comment.’

‘Oh, you mean the F.T.?’ asked the constable from the corner.

‘No comment.’

‘F.T. - No comment,’ said Dawson, chuckling loudly. ‘Nice one, Thomas.’

Sergeant Foley turned and signalled to Constable Thomas for him to switch off the tape-machine. Then after hearing the click sound, he said, ‘Look - you wouldn’t describe yourself as mentally challenged exactly, would you now, Brynmor?’ The confused boy stared up at him, brows narrowed. ‘Undiscerning, I mean. Feeble-minded, you get me?’

‘Er - no comment,’ Brynmor responded once again.

‘Oh, go easy, Sergeant, please,’ said Dawson, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

‘What? Oh, I see,’ said Foley. ‘Then I’ll try and make it simpler for you, shall I? Be more - more monosyllabic, perhaps.’

Brynmor stared up at him. ‘You know, that’s always bothered me, that has,’ said the boy.

‘Sorry?’ said Foley, somewhat shocked at the normal conversational response he had just received, and quickly opening up his note-book.

‘What has?’ asked Dawson.

‘Why
monosyllabic
is such a bloody long word. Say - why do you think that is, Sergeant?’

Foley tapped his pencil on the table a few times, considering his comment. ‘Brynmor - I see that you’ve at last begun answering my questions. Now that we’ve switched the tape off, I mean.’

‘Yes, I must admit I’d noticed that myself, officer,’ Brynmor answered him, smiling.

The sergeant signalled to the constable to press the on-switch again, then smiled back at the boy. ‘You do realise, young man, you already possess a criminal record, don’t you?’ he told him.

‘No comment,’ came the lad’s reply.

The sergeant closed his eyes and let his head fall heavily onto the table. The thud this made caused his two colleagues to suddenly jump to their feet.

Dawson patted Foley on the back and said, ‘I can see you’re getting rather tired, sergeant. Look - let’s wrap it up for the day, shall we?’

‘No comment,’ said the sergeant.

‘What!’ stammered Dawson.

‘What?’ exclaimed Brynmor, breaking into a laugh.

‘Sorry, boys,’ the sergeant replied, sitting up once again and rubbing his weary eyes. ‘Look - in six months time I plan to retire for good, as you guys very well know. And I’d - and I’d just like to go out with one final success, you know. Just one.’ Then much louder, ‘Is that too much to ask do you think? Eh? And don’t any of you guys dare say ‘No comment.’ ’

Carla had received written confirmation from her bank that they had transfered a five-figure sum from her private account to a small company in Switzerland. She didn’t like seeing her father suffering and dying like this, and had told him again and again that she was prepared to bring into the house a carer who lived in the locality, or even one who was happy to have the box-room as a bed-sitting room for as long as he remained alive. But it was her father, who, having read about the activities of the private clinic in Zurich, and after tearfully explaining to Carla that her
Welcome Respite
medication no longer worked for him, made his decisive, heartbreaking decision, and told her that, as long as she was prepared to fund it and arrange it for him, and promised not to question his decision, then this was how he wanted to go.

Hearing her Uncle Gary in earnest conversation with her dad, Carla, slipped on her slippers and crept upstairs. But discerning the topic they were busy discussing before she reached the top, she paused for a moment, then sat herself down on a triangular step where the staircase doubled back on itself, and listened intently to the conversation that the pair were having.

‘But don’t you feel, Tom, that our God is as much a stake-holder in our lives as we are?’ she heard her uncle telling her father.

‘Gary, I’m not sure what you mean exactly,’ she heard her father reply hoarsely. ‘But I’d be glad if you’d kindly explain yourself.’

After so many years, Carla told herself, when the behaviour and antics of these two elderly brothers had seemed to a large extent to disprove the theory of relativity, it would now appear that they had become just about as close as two, quite unalike, nay, two radically different, brothers ever could be.

‘Well, since we all have free will,’ remarked Gary, ‘we clearly have the power in our possession to kill ourselves, right?’

‘Right, I see that,’ responded her dad, suddenly breaking out into a harsh cough.

Gary waited for him to settle, then continued, ‘But do you really believe we have the moral right so to do?’

‘I don’t think I’ve properly considered it,’ Carla heard her father reply.

‘Well, consider it now, then, would you, Tom,’ said Gary. ‘Because, personally, I believe that we don’t.’

‘You think we don’t have that right?’ asked Tom.

‘No I don’t,’ Gary replied. ‘And, by electing to commit suicide, to me you’re simply snatching the reins out of the hands of God, basically choosing to set the timing of your termination - of your death - without any reference, or deference for that matter, to the life-giver Himself.’

There followed a protracted pause, then Tom said, ‘Yes, I can see what you’re saying, Gary, but I’m afraid you still have a way to go to convince me to even consider putting the matter off.’

‘But wait, Brawd - there’s a whole other issue completely that is involved here, you know.’

‘Can you feed me my milk?’ his ailing brother asked him, ignoring his words.

Gary dutifully performed the required task, which involved a loud gurgling sound, then carried on explaing to his brother what was in the forefront of his mind. ‘You know I believe that we have a great deal to learn from the actual process of dying - of dying a
natural
death, I mean,’ he said.

‘Oh, really?’ said Tom. ‘From dying! You mean from dying!

‘Why, of course,’ said Gary.

‘And how on earth would you know that?’ Tom asked him. ‘When did
you
ever go through it?’ There being no response, Tom added, ‘I rest my case.’

‘Hey! You can’t just say that,’ countered Gary.

‘But, Brawd, you aren’t the one lying here in terrifying pain every day of the week, are you?’

‘I know, but -’

‘Unable even to get up, let alone go to the toilet in the normal way. It’s thoroughly humiliating is what it is Gary, especially when you and Carla aren’t here to help me.’

‘Yes, I know, Tom, but -’

‘Then why should I listen to you? Eh? Aside from the fact you’re a lot cleverer than I am, I mean. Why should I accept any of your advice on this particular subject? Anything else, maybe, but not on this.’

‘Why!’ repeated Gary. ‘I’ll tell you why. Because it’s right. How about that, for a start?’

‘Listen to me, Gary. I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I fully intend to choose euthenasia.’ Tom broke out into a cough again. ‘And - and if
you
won’t assist me, then I know for sure that my Carla will. You see, I think it might have been her idea to begin with.’

Gary wasn’t surprised at this, but at the same time wasn’t prepared to put his young niece down. When you’ve got as much wealth as she has, he thought, then there is no limitation to the range of options on offer. ‘Then tell me, Tom,’ he began, ‘Are you seriously telling me that you would actually want to short-change yourself of that learning?’ he said.

‘That learning!’ exclaimed Tom, scrunching up his nose.

Carla smiled at her father’s anger with Gary’s words. She imagined the fiery look he must have given him, then shivered from the sudden draught that swept up the stairs from behind her.

‘Yes - that crucial learning,’ replied Gary. ‘That knowledge of - that learning about the vital, vibrant, existential suffering involved in the process of normal ageing, and equally normal dying.’

‘What! Are you being serious?’ asked Tom. ‘But why shouldn’t I want to avoid the suffering? What on earth is to be learned from going through it - from just - just putting up with it all?’