the helicopter down, stirring up a fine wet lather from the golf course green). And now, as he moved through the misty, silent dawn its dew condensing on his face, he felt a terrible unease to know it stood there, defying logic in the chill reality of the day.
He turned the corner and saw it, shining and sharp, the long, clean lines of the Flamberge body, so much like the Rolls-Royce of MGs; the jaunty yellow hood, the green carriage, the polarised windscreen, the driver’s door open and ready: engine running. He went round to the side and looked down at the interior. Yes, it was his, even to the scar of Janet’s cigarette on the passenger seat, the tape in the player as he’d left it: Surrealistic Pillow.
The keys glittered, trembling with the low throb of the motor—gold chain hanging from them, his initials, J.D., on the fob. He reached in his trouser pocket: there was only the starched vacancy of the cloth at his fingertips. Yet those keys on that very chain had been there. He’d been given them as he climbed in. How, then, had they come here in the sun-filtered reality of the morning?
He looked across the sparkling lawn to the whitewashed façade of the hotel. It was silent and empty; nothing stirred behind the dark, shadowed windows. Yet he knew that this was the most popular resort in the Kingdom. And even it (as real and incontrovertible as the familiar tooling of the car here at his side) held a faint suggestion of unreality, like a set not yet in use.
Building (sharp and solid in the pearly light), air, shrubbery, worn stone fences: these were of the world he knew. Surely there was nothing sinister or harmful in them.
He turned his head and looked right, down the road. It wound up away from the grey-gabled houses of the village beyond. This much was familiar. This was real. This was the home he had chosen for his retirement.
‘It’s easy to pronounce,’ he’d told the girl. And it was. Portmeirion, on the Pembroke coast of Wales, second home of Coward, Shaw, and Russell. As real as it was easy to pronounce. And, weirdly, less real—for this was the world he’d left: the mad Disneyland of the village.
Somewhere, a cock crowed, and he stepped into the car, settling back against the seat, and swinging the door shut. He closed a hand on the gear stick, shoved in on the clutch, and let the engine rev. It gave a deep, full-throated roar, and he smiled, shifting into first and rolling forward over the drive and out on to the road.
The wind whipped in against him as he picked up speed, and he stared out through grey, polarised glass at green fields, hilly and rough.
The tarmac angled up, climbing the mountains, and he looked into the rear-view mirror, catching, for a moment, the reflection of the resort behind, its grey gabled spires the last visible reminder of the Village so far behind.
It dropped behind and was gone.
Then there was only the wind, the mist, and the roar of his exhausts in the primordial stillness of the dawn.
For, if he could not really trust this engine, at least he did not mistrust it. It felt right, as perfectly tuned as when he’d driven it last. This, then, was where he would let reality take hold: here, in this car, on this road, in this world he knew to be real.
Something in the harshness of the land, the strength of the rock, the preternatural silence of day, suggested a deeper, older, stronger reality than any they might alter or create. For the first time in two years, he let himself feel that there might be, outside himself, a place as secure and inviolate as that within.
The sun rose, a bloody disc behind the enshrouding fog, evaporating the dampness from his clothes, and the sleepy mutterings of birds, the bawings of sheep, the vague lowing of cattle woke to a clear, bright day.
He reached into a pocket and closed his fingers on a cigar, bringing it to his lips. He changed hands on the wheel, slid a hand into the other pocket and found the lighter.
The tart smoke
He turned the corner and saw it, shining and sharp, the long, clean lines of the Flamberge body, so much like the Rolls-Royce of MGs; the jaunty yellow hood, the green carriage, the polarised windscreen, the driver’s door open and ready: engine running. He went round to the side and looked down at the interior. Yes, it was his, even to the scar of Janet’s cigarette on the passenger seat, the tape in the player as he’d left it: Surrealistic Pillow.
The keys glittered, trembling with the low throb of the motor—gold chain hanging from them, his initials, J.D., on the fob. He reached in his trouser pocket: there was only the starched vacancy of the cloth at his fingertips. Yet those keys on that very chain had been there. He’d been given them as he climbed in. How, then, had they come here in the sun-filtered reality of the morning?
He looked across the sparkling lawn to the whitewashed façade of the hotel. It was silent and empty; nothing stirred behind the dark, shadowed windows. Yet he knew that this was the most popular resort in the Kingdom. And even it (as real and incontrovertible as the familiar tooling of the car here at his side) held a faint suggestion of unreality, like a set not yet in use.
Building (sharp and solid in the pearly light), air, shrubbery, worn stone fences: these were of the world he knew. Surely there was nothing sinister or harmful in them.
He turned his head and looked right, down the road. It wound up away from the grey-gabled houses of the village beyond. This much was familiar. This was real. This was the home he had chosen for his retirement.
‘It’s easy to pronounce,’ he’d told the girl. And it was. Portmeirion, on the Pembroke coast of Wales, second home of Coward, Shaw, and Russell. As real as it was easy to pronounce. And, weirdly, less real—for this was the world he’d left: the mad Disneyland of the village.
Somewhere, a cock crowed, and he stepped into the car, settling back against the seat, and swinging the door shut. He closed a hand on the gear stick, shoved in on the clutch, and let the engine rev. It gave a deep, full-throated roar, and he smiled, shifting into first and rolling forward over the drive and out on to the road.
The wind whipped in against him as he picked up speed, and he stared out through grey, polarised glass at green fields, hilly and rough.
The tarmac angled up, climbing the mountains, and he looked into the rear-view mirror, catching, for a moment, the reflection of the resort behind, its grey gabled spires the last visible reminder of the Village so far behind.
It dropped behind and was gone.
Then there was only the wind, the mist, and the roar of his exhausts in the primordial stillness of the dawn.
For, if he could not really trust this engine, at least he did not mistrust it. It felt right, as perfectly tuned as when he’d driven it last. This, then, was where he would let reality take hold: here, in this car, on this road, in this world he knew to be real.
Something in the harshness of the land, the strength of the rock, the preternatural silence of day, suggested a deeper, older, stronger reality than any they might alter or create. For the first time in two years, he let himself feel that there might be, outside himself, a place as secure and inviolate as that within.
The sun rose, a bloody disc behind the enshrouding fog, evaporating the dampness from his clothes, and the sleepy mutterings of birds, the bawings of sheep, the vague lowing of cattle woke to a clear, bright day.
He reached into a pocket and closed his fingers on a cigar, bringing it to his lips. He changed hands on the wheel, slid a hand into the other pocket and found the lighter.
The tart smoke
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