Last Train to Gloryhole (67 page)

‘It’s not one of hers, I’m afraid,’ said Carla, smiling to herself, and shaking her head from side to side.

‘Is it not?’ asked the woman, who then tutted disappointedly, promptly flushed, and went out again.

Later Carla was to acknowledge that she should really have slipped out the side-door after that and made her way straight home, since events that fateful night were, sadly, to take another turn completely.

‘What the hell bloody name is that?’ Jack asked the dark stranger, loud enough so that he could be heard above the blare of the loud music that was hammering out from the two vast speakers alongside them. ‘My girl had one of those that I recall being partial to once,’ he told him, grinning.

‘It’s his name, so just leave it,’ Steffan told the wind-blown Welshman, swiftly moving in between the pair of them, and then aggressively staring him down.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Jack told him, shaking his head in disbelief at the tall man with the beard, then smiling at them both, but failing utterly to suppress the loud belch that followed, and was, for him, the inevitable result of drinking far too much lager and omitting to eat.

‘
You
can talk, pal,’ Jake told him, moving ahead of Steffan, so that he too could be heard. ‘Jack Belt! What sort of a name is that, for Christ’s sake? Jack Belt!’ he repeated, smiling. ‘I mean, isn’t that something you get given for martial arts?’

‘What! I’ll have you know I’ve never dabbled in any of those,’ Jack replied angrily. ‘And I tell you I never will. There was one of those crazy covens operating up in Cefn one time. Up near the golf-course, it was. And I got given a parcel to deliver to one of them - one of their - their wicker-men they had up there, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had to pass up the commission, like. You see, I get scared shitless by all that kind of stuff, I really do. And in the end I had to let the Royal Mail deliver it instead. Imagine that. I know you probably can’t believe it, but I even paid them the proper postage and everything. I swear I’d never had to do that before. I even post all my own Christmas cards normally, and always have done.’

Volver gently eased his two side-men out of the way, and confronted the speaker he couldn’t understand, just as a second belch emerged from his mouth and blasted him in the face like a sharp gust of wind, which, of course, is exactly what it was; except the Afrikaner with the weird name didn’t quite see it like that, in fact, he appeared to view it as some kind of personal slight, which was a first for Jack Belt, who had never slighted a single soul in his entire life. And this was unfortunate for Jack, as things went. In fact, the whole evening quickly turned into one massive, great regret for the man, if truth be told, and he soon wished that martial arts were something he’d decided to look into after all. No - won a belt of some kind in, he told herself. Preferably a big black one.

‘I’ve got a job for you,’ said Volver.

‘I start work at six in the morning,’ Jack answered, sipping his drink.

‘Well, it needs doing tonight,’ the South African told him. This statement he repeated, a lot more firmly the second time, just in case the tipsy Welshman hadn’t managed to catch it.

‘Well, I’d be interested,’ Jack told him, ‘but you see, I don’t drink and drive as a general rule.’ Which response, sadly, turned out to be the wrong answer completely as far as Volver was concerned. And everyone in the group surrounding Jack knew that instantly, and, at first smiled at him benignly, and then shook their heads from side to side and chuckled loudly over it.

And, seeing this, Jack suddenly sensed that, against his better judgement, he might be about to do some drink-driving that night after all! And, given that, he would therefore need to refrain from drinking any more of the
Stella
tonight, and stay awake, so as to endeavour to concentrate on whatever he was going to be asked to do when the time came for him to be asked to do it.

And, some time between eleven p.m. and midnight, while taking a much needed leak in
Les Messieurs
alongside his three new compatriots, an inebriated Jack somewhat inexplicably realised that, in the circumstances, his CSE’s in Woodwork and Welsh might not turn out to be a great deal of help to him that night. He had cause to smile at this bizarre observation, which seemed to him to have entered his brain from the gushing water-tank above his head, and, looking up, and chuckling raucously at the sheer impossibility of it, promptly soaked his trainers.

‘Bloody hell, Jack!’ cried Jake, climbing aboard. ‘Say - why has your camper-van got a big, round hole in the floor, for God’s sake?’

‘Air-conditioniong, is it?’ asked Volver, peering over his friend’s shoulder.

‘It’s so his passengers can take a dump en route, I bet.’ Steffan announced, climbing into the passenger-seat instead, and moving up, so that the South African could slip in alongside him.

‘No, it’s not that, guys,’ Jack Belt told them, climbing into the driving-seat and switching on the lights. ‘I bought it off this bloke who used to use it to knick man-hole covers, you know.’

‘God Streuth!’ cried Jake, suddenly losing his footing in the back, and almost falling through.

Jack Belt continued with his tale. ‘Yeah. People used to wonder why he and his lovely Missus used to park up on different parts of the Heads-of-the-Valleys Road at odd hours of the night. Together I mean. Folk deliberately stayed out of his way, of course, as any normal person would, you know. Even the police, as it turned out. The chap’s a millionaire now, they tell me.’

‘Metal thieves, eh?’ said Volver. ‘They’re a damn sight worse than terrorists, if you ask me. I’m thinking it won’t be the bloody terrorists who put a halt to the Olympics next year, guys, you get me?’ With a bout of hearty guffaws the other three men concurred.

‘You know those five rings they normally put up outside the stadium?’ said Steffan, his eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘Well, I bet you Steptoe-and-Son will have melted them down before the opening ceremony’s even started.’

‘And God help ‘em in the pole-vault,’ said Jake. ‘They jump up, and, blimey, the bar’s gone!’

‘And the same goes for them in the hammer,’ said Steffan. ‘And the discus, and the shot.’

‘Do you want to buy some big ball-bearings, mister?’ added Volver, grinning. ‘Fell off the back of a Russian. Know what I mean, guys?’ They all laughed again at this.

‘And Usain Bolt might have to change his name, don’t you reckon?’ chipped in Jake.

Nobody laughed at this one except Jake himself. Instead Volver and Steffan turned their heads round as Jack became fully occupied in trying to reverse his van out. In his drunken state he managed to scrape against two neighbouring cars, and so opened his door to climb out and assess the damage. But before he could do so, he found himself crudely grabbed at the collar.

‘Where do you think you’re going, dumb-fuck?’ shrieked Volver. ‘So they’ve got a small scratch on them. They should be so lucky. That’s what you call superficial damage, right? Then we’ll send ’em a cheque in the post.’

Jack turned and looked into the wild eyes of the bearded South African sitting beside him, and quickly realised the futility of taking issue with him. Volver was clearly the govenor of this crew, Jack told himself. And what he said you’d best do, it seemed, even inside your own camper-van.

You know, I really loved your set,’ said Steffan. ‘But it’s a shame you didn’t get to do the gang-bang song.’

‘Gang-bang song!’ said a mystified Carla from out of the shadows. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘You know the one,’ he told her, suddenly beginning to sing -
‘Sometimes I’m last to love, but often I’m first instead.’
His sneering tone was evident as he went on to justify his random, but malicious comment. ‘I just love that one. I can sort of identify with it, if you know what I mean.’

‘Sadly, I believe I can,’ said Carla, cringing at what she took as the creepy lad’s foul attempt to intimidate her, and quickly turning her head aside to look out of the window. ‘But that’s definitely not one of mine, I’m afraid,’ she told the boy.

‘Oh, is it not?’ quipped Steffan, beginning to relish the power he felt he now had over this acclaimed, yet still only female and diminutive, musical icon.

‘So is that what you pulled me in here for, then?’ Carla asked. ‘Is it, Abram? A gang-bang.’

‘Abram!’ stammered Steffan in response, turning smartly so as to register the expression on his governor’s face. ‘Magic!’

‘Abram-cadabram!’ said Jake, chuckling loudly behind them, but swiftly realising that he may have gone just a little too far.

‘Stick to
Volver
, please, Carla,’ the Afrikaner responded slowly, and with obvious authority. ‘We’re not in London now, my girl. And you’re no longer head down like some rutting rodent, clambering around in the gutter outside ‘
The Half Moon’
in Putney for the greasy tab you were too fuckin’ spaced-out to hold onto.’

Carla closed her eyes at the memory of it. She straightaway regretted even mentioning his name.

‘And it’s a long while now since you were forever calling me up in the middle of the night, and screaming out for it. ‘Oh, please Abram! Please!’ ’

‘Sex, do you mean?’ asked an intrigued Steffan, spinning round to see the look on Carla’s shadow-strewn face. ‘Famous singer or not, she certainly does look the type who’d scream out.’

‘Smack,’ said Volver. ‘Yeah - you guys heard right - smack. And coke, of course, and ketamin. You know, Carla, my business back in the smoke might easily have gone tits-up without your new record-deal to keep me going.’

‘Ain’t that the truth?’ quipped Carla, trying her best to match the cocky, masculine tone that pervaded the gloomy, rattling van, but clearly falling short. She elected to try a different tack. ‘But, you see, things are a damn sight different now, aren’t they? I mean, since I stopped touring, and then returned home again.’

‘Are they?’ retorted Volver derisively, spitting a thread of tobacco from his mouth at the windscreen before him, almost as if he were answering his own question. ‘I don’t really see how, do you? My contacts in the smoke all tell me you’ve still been using again this year, Carla. And, as you well know, every single penny you’ve been shelling out on the stuff only helps to fatten up my wallet in the end.’ He spun his head round. ‘And you know what they say, don’t you, boys?’

‘What’s that?’ asked Jake.

‘Once a smack-head, always a smack-head,’ Volver told them. ‘That’s rule number-one in my book, boys. Follow that and you won’t go far wrong, I can tell you. I got to learn it a very long time ago, and that’s why I can afford to drive two top-of-the-range sports cars at the same time.’

‘Wow! That’s bit of a stretch, isn’t it?’ said Jake, smiling, and imitating the trick with his two hands held out before him.

‘Well, his driving can’t be any worse than when he’s sitting in just the one car,’ said Carla, emitting a low chuckle. ‘And nobody would ever know that he’s officially banned from driving, would they? Still, it’s common knowledge that Abram Volver changes his number-plates almost as often as he changes his boxers, these days, and so I guess there’s little chance he’s ever going to get stopped by the police.’

‘O.K. You can shut up now, Carla,’ said Volver, staring through the rear-view mirror into the eyes of the petite, but feisty girl sitting behind him, and gritting his teeth aggressively.

‘Say, where are you taking me, by the way?’ Carla asked them. ‘And why is there a dirty, great hole in the floor? I can’t believe none of you guys have even bothered to mention that.’

‘Oh, I can explain that, love,’ Jack Belt told her. But, as it turned out, he didn’t get the chance. One sudden, side-long glance from Volver and the van-driver quickly froze. Yes, although inebriated, and terribly worn out after another twelve-hour shift, even Jack could work out what was likely to happen if he elected to say another word.

Carla was gradually getting more and more concerned for her safety, as the rattling van rolled past her father’s home, and ploughed on out of
Gloryhole
- its enormous, arched viaduct barely visible now in the darkness to her right - and soon rounded the tight, left-hand bend, and rose up the hill, past Vaynor, with its own tight bends, and on towards the hill-top village of Pontsticill.

There, receiving instructions from the Afrikaner to carry straight on, Jack Belt took the broader road to the left, which headed north, and rose even higher, rather than take the right-turn that led down towards the dam of the great reservoir and its gloomy tower, under the shadow of which Carla had once watched helplessly as her brother Will had tragically drowned. Gazing out of the left-hand window at the group of wild horses which stood together grazing on the skyline, the singer was glad at least of this particular twist, since she had no desire to re-visit that site again so late at night, and in the company of her current drunken male companions.

‘Go faster, would you, old boy,’ Volver commanded the driver. ‘We’re late already.’

‘Late for what?’ asked Carla, staring into the rear-view mirror so as to seek out his eyes, but failing, and now starting to shiver noticeably. ‘Where the hell are you taking me?’

Steffan suddenly spun round so that he could take in the expression of panic on the singer’s pale, but pretty face. ‘Didn’t you say she knows it well?’ he asked Volver, who also studied her reaction when she got told of their destination.
‘Cwm Scwt!’
Steffan announced to her shrilly.

‘Or, as you know it,
Candice Farm
,’ Volver told the girl, grinning. Carla shook her head in astonishment. ‘Yes, I knew you’d be shocked. And that was the title you gave your second album, wasn’t it, Carla? Tell me, won’t you -
why was that
, exactly?’ But he saw there was no hint of a reply. ‘It wasn’t on account of the magic-mushrooms growing round the place, was it? Or the day-night, summer rave-parties that were said to have taken place there, and to which you regularly got invited? The owner of the place sadly passed away, you know, Carla.’

‘Emlyn Hughes is dead!’ she suddenly stammered, eyes bulging, mouth wide open.