Last Tango in Aberystwyth by Malcolm Pryce

beamed at me. Her eyes were making dramatic downward movements and, following her gaze, I spotted her left hand tucked in tightly to her side, palm up, and making fluttering motions with the fingers as if she was tryingto tickle a trout. I put a pound coin on her palm and the hand disappeared into the pocket of her pinny.
    â€˜I knew straightaway he was a monk,’ she continued seamlessly. ‘Even though he was pretending not to be. We’ve had his type before. Up from the monastery on Caldy Island for a good time. They were room-mates, you see.’
    â€˜So what was in the valise?’
    â€˜How should I know, I don’t go looking in other people’s cases.’
    â€˜Not much you don’t!’
    She flushed. ‘Well of all the … any more of that and I won’t tell you the rest.’
    I nodded her to go on.
    She held out her hand and tickled another trout.
    I shook my head and turned to go. ‘Sorry, I can’t afford it.’
    â€˜But don’t you want to know what happened to the valise, it’s the best bit.’
    â€˜What was inside it was the best bit, but you say you don’t know. I don’t believe you, by the way. I don’t believe there’s a single bag, case, coat or drawer in that crummy hovel you haven’t stuck your nosey beak into. But if it makes you feel better to deny it, that’s up to you.’
    â€˜Oooh you dirty rotten chiseller!’ She sniffed forcibly. ‘I should have known what to expect from the son of a donkey-man. Well suit yourself. Now you’ll never know what happened to the valise.’
    â€˜I already know. There’s only one thing that could have happened to it.’ I walked out and threw over my shoulder as I left, ‘The Dean must have taken it, otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it.’
    As I left the house I bumped into someone arriving in a hurry. It was the old lady from the bay window at the Excelsior. She was heavily wrapped-up to disguise herself and pretended not to knowme, but it was her all right. I could feel the hot smothering shame that, underneath all the finery, the lorgnette and the etiquette, she was the same as the rest of them. Borne in on a floodtide of longing that she could no more defy than the beaver can stop himself from building a dam. That eternal drive to gather round the village well and pour scorn on her neighbours for failing to live up to a code that no one else had ever managed to live up to either.
    I walked out into the street as the room behind me thundered with the explosive percussion of five hundred orthopaedic boots stamping on the boards, accompanied by shrill Red Indian whoops. Above the tumult, a voice rose exultantly, crying, ‘E’d have bloody flattened her if he’d found out, wouldn’t he!’
    Out in the street Ionawr came up to me from the shadows and put her hand in mine. I could see now in the yellow streetlight she was dressed much like any other kid of her age. Faded jeans flared at the bottom over absurd platform shoes, too much make-up and too little on underneath the fur coat: a skimpy halter-neck top that didn’t reach down as far as her navel. You saw girls like this all the time walking down the street hand in hand with men old enough to be their fathers or even grandfathers. And they really could be were it not for that furtive air that marks them out and gives the game away: that strange awkwardness that comes from having to concentrate on the simple task of walking; and from the insane overwhelming belief that everyone in the street that night can read your thoughts. The walk of shame that only dissolves when the bedroom door slams gratefully shut.
    The cold had deepened and stung our cheeks like the kiss of a jellyfish. We cut through the castle and headed for Pier Street. There weren’t many dining options at this time of night – if you discounted the 24-hour whelk stalls on the Prom.
    â€˜We