Last Tango in Aberystwyth by Malcolm Pryce Page B

course!’ She handed me the food. ‘You round-eye are so sentimental about your animals. Bon appetit! ’
    On the Prom the wind roared past our ears like a tube train rushing out of a tunnel. The tide had risen and each time the water thundered into the base of the sea-wall, spray flared up like a series of jack-in-the-box ghosts. I had one arm over Ionawr’s shoulders, clutching her against me for warmth, and I held the brown paper bag with its cargo of hot caawl at arm’s length like a lantern – two wayfarers lost in the night.
    â€˜Do you know what she was talking about?’ I said. ‘Asking Calamity for some placebo?’
    â€˜No idea, but if she’s getting it from Calamity, who knows what it is.’
    Electro-illuminated dwarves danced drunkenly on the swinging cable overhead, and down by the bandstand we heard the sound of youths jeering. We walked on and as we got closer the jeering of the youths became punctuated by faint Spanish cries, ‘No, please leave us alone, Señores !’
    The lads were dancing round in a circle, and in the centre there lay a man. Next to the man, on the floor, was a ripped-open suitcase.
    â€˜Hey!’ I shouted. Slightly wrong-footed by the intrusion, they stopped and turned to face us. There was silence for a while, except for the sea exploding like distant artillery, and then I heard the Spaniard again, squeaking above the muffled roar. ‘Please, sir, we are just humble peasants!’ It was the dummy, Señor Rodrigo, and lying on the floor, battered and kicked and covered in cement grime, was Mr Marmalade. Ionawr gasped. One of the youths was holding Señor Rodrigo by his ankles, upside down over the railings. His eyes had rolled upward in their sockets and in the garish mix of bright lights and shadows thrown by the streetlamps and the overhead illuminations, his wooden face had acquired a cast of terror.
    The youth gave him a shake and the other lads cheered. Mr Marmalade was making desperate attempts to get up, but every time he half-raised himself one of the lads would shove him back down with the sole of his boot.
    â€˜Gottle of fucking geer!’ they shouted. Mr Marmalade was clutching his chest above the heart and gasping.
    â€˜ Somos solamente campesinos pobres, mi amigo! ’ wailed the dummy.
    â€˜You leave him alone, you bullies!’ shouted Ionawr. The leader of the youths shouted, ‘What the fuck do you want?’
    â€˜ Somos solamente campesinos pobres, mi amigo! ’
    â€˜And shut that fuckin’ dummy up!’
    The kid smashed the dummy’s head twice against the metal of the railings. One of the eyes came out. Ionawr screamed. Mr Marmalade was now making obscene sucking sounds and holding his chest, his eyes bulging as if something was pushing them out of his head from the inside.
    â€˜ Somos solamente campesinos pobres, mi amigo! ’
    I stepped forward and punched the lead yob. Despite the swagger and posturing, he was probably not much more than eighteen or nineteen and slightly built. He fell sprawling on to thepavement. I kicked him viciously in the stomach and he grunted in pain. Across the road a casement window screeched open and a woman in a nightie leaned out and cried, ‘I’ve called the police, you bastards, they’re on the way!’ And as if in confirmation we heard the distant wail of a siren starting up. None of the lads had the guts to make a move on me. The leader got to his feet and, seeing the distant blue flash of the approaching prowl car, took to his heels, followed by his gang.
    We kneeled down by Mr Marmalade. Over by the railings, like the dummy that continues talking as his master drinks a glass of milk, the shattered mannikin continued to plead for their lives.
    â€˜ Somos solamente campesinos pobres, mi amigo! ’
    Maybe it was the wind plucking strange notes from the musical stave of the seaside railings. Or maybe the terror of the