FROM EMPTY HARBOUR

TO WHITE OCEAN

for Euan and Susan

1

I am not much of an expert at making pictures but this one is quite simple. All you need is a blue sea and a yellow sun. You need to see the docks, of course, and a rusty red ship moored along the quay. Spreading out from the quayside are acres of stacked containers, row upon row of them shimmering in the sun. Beyond lies the city reclining on a pillow of hills. While here on the quayside a nervous crowd spills in a ragged semi-circle from the shadow of the ship. The soldiers close in on them, holding them like dogs working their flock into a sheepfold, forcing them back from the sunlight that falls on their heads, back to the shadow of the ship where the light fades from their teeth. Over on one side barking is heard and shots ring out. The smell of gunfire floats by. A commotion of voices and footsteps ensues as heels hit the wooden walkway back towards the gangway. More shots crash closer to the ear, bullets going skywards perhaps, but they still took fright. They stampeded back across the gangplank. In they went into their iron sheepfold. The rest of the flock were not long after them, hauling their bundles back into their worn out pasture of rusty tin. Only a very few, some of the ones who came without family, managed to evade the militia's shepherds and creep unnoticed to hiding places among the grid of stacked containers up behind the quay.

One of these was Gregor Marini, a trainee architect from the other side. He had been in two minds whether to chance it or not. His dreams of a new future made him sick. Who but an idiot could have thought, as he had once, that all there was between him and better days was day and night and a carpet of sea? He would go back, like a beaten dog. He would return to search again. For opportunities that did not exist. To hammer on doors no key would fit. Back to Alice to talk about the qualifications of his empty hands. The sun beat down. Through narrowed eyes he could see the crowd being sucked towards the ship. He winced as the hot metal of a container burnt his back. Two steps and he would be out of sight. He saw his opportunity and could not move. He was given no second chance. Vice like hands grasped him, he was plucked into the gap between two containers and a rough hand closed on his mouth like sandpaper against his lips. He could see nothing, could not breath, could not cry out - to struggle seemed pointless. He yielded to the hand that grasped his face.

'Follow me, Gregor, and don't stumble,' said a grating voice in his ear. His eyes, grown accustomed to the shadows, made out a dark face beaded in sweat glaring at him inches from his nose. He saw two light blue eyes under heavy brows staring at him. The hand was taken off his mouth.

'Petrog!' he said gulping air.

Having crawled among the containers a good field's length from the quay they found an empty metal box twelve meters by three and climbed into it.

'What's your game, Gregor?' demanded Petrog. 'Trying to attract the soldiers' attention or what? You've got to take your chances when they come to you, mate. You'll go nowhere dawdling around like that.'

'I know,' admitted Gregor as he tried to get the container doors closed without rasping.

'Don't close it tight,' advised Petrog. 'Leave it ajar. Look, use the chain up there...and be quick about it.'

Once the doors were pulled together it was dark as an eclipse but with the temperature rising. Gregor was beginning to regret that he had not followed the others back into the ship.

'How do we get out of here, Petrog?'

Petrog was sprawled on the floor with his face to the bright crack of the door. 'Wait till evening,' he replied nonchalantly. 'It will be easier now that there's two of us, easier to confuse them, I guess. Got any money?'

'A bit,' confessed Gregor fingering the paper currency in his pocket. He was thankful that most of it was sewn up tight in the lining of his jacket. 'That's all I've got.' He handed Petrog two ten dollar bills.

'H'm, they're worth something over here,' said Petrog getting to his feet. 'Hey, take a turn at the door to get some fresh air.'

Gregor rolled over to face the door and sucked in the feeble breeze which managed to slip through the gap. He tried to work up some saliva in the back of his mouth to moisten his tongue. Between his face and the steel he placed his neckerchief. He drew his hand across his face and his chin. The sweat was oily on his skin. He rubbed his nose between finger and thumb and filled both nostrils with the bitter-sweet aroma of his sweat. Did that help assuage his apprehensions? He pushed his fingers comb-like through his hair, shook his head and went back to staring through the gap in the door. Was he doing the right thing? What was he doing in a place like this in the first place, knowing nothing, knowing nobody. 'Petrog,' he croaked, 'what will become of us?'

'Shut up with your moaning,' said Petrog. 'As soon as we're over the fence there'll be no stopping us. It'll be full speed ahead to the Capital States once we're over.'

Gregor turned his face towards him but could not see him. 'What if we're turned back when we get there?'

'Listen, Gregor, with your attitude no one would ever have got anywhere. Anyway, it's only a tourist border between the North Country and the Capital States, not a real border. The worst bit is behind us.'

'Is it now?' said Gregor turning back to the shimmering light through the slit in the door. Perhaps a stray cloud had pacified the sun somewhat, at any rate he could now see as far as the quayside without blinking, he could make out the source of the clanking chains, and he heard the hum of engines. The humming grew stronger until it became a growl and he detected the sound of water churning. The ship's horn blew long and hard as Gregor saw her gradually pull away, as slow as the minute hand on a tower clock. He followed the white path which spread behind the vessel and imagined the smell of the breeze over the cold foam. The red ship was a toy on a blue carpet, turning by degrees towards the harbour mouth. He strained to hear the seagulls' shrieks but the breeze must have changed.

Petrog was next to him with a stripe of sun across his face that lit up his eye. The stubble was dark on his chin. 'I need to breath as well, you know.'

Gregor gave up his place at the door. Petrog put his lips to the opening, drinking greedily from the foreign afternoon.

As the sky turned a deeper shade of blue and the waves began to loose their shine, the cranes' long shadows made snails paths across the concrete and the metal boxes. Gregor was slipping in and out of troubled dreams. Swallowing and swallowing from a bottle of sparkling water and the water streaming down his face but not quenching his thirst. He was sitting at a pavement table by the Aircol Hotel. Architects plans formed the table cloth and on these stood an empty glass. Gregor was calling to the waiters for more water. Didn't he know them all? Were they not his colleagues? There was Steffan, yes, and over there was Zwingli. But none of them seemed inclined to notice him. He watched the occasional person crossing the beach below. Seagulls were diving in the wind. At last Steffan brought him his bottled water on a tray and set it before him. But each time before he could take a draught Zwingli's hands would come to snatch it from him. Another bottle would eventually be brought, but the same would happen. He was running from the hotel as fast as his legs could carry him. Was anyone chasing him? He was running from the town to the fields that rise above until the sea was far away below and the yellow eyes of the gorse followed him from the dikes. And here was the wood and the crystal stream gurgling between smooth stones and the sun flowing white in the foam. He threw himself down the banks and dipped his head into the shuddering depths until his head was filled with its deep rumbling noise. Gulping and swallowing with all his might and still there was no release from thirst. Drinking until his stomach was bursting and still needing more. All the water in all the world's rivers will not erase this burning drought. A great black heat fills his body pressing it down like a lead weight as daylight recedes far above. His inside is a dark Ferris wheel turning without end and his eyes see nothing but bubbles coming from the depths. A claw closes on his arm and drags him in it's pincer grip through the dark acres. It is dragging him to the cave on the ocean floor. He kicks and he struggles and awakens into a black world.

'Awake are we?' Petrog released his arm with a dismissive shove. 'About time too.'

'Where are we?' Gregor could barely draw his tongue across his teeth. Then he remembered. Through the gap in the door he could see the moon's silver patchwork bobbing up and down in the bay. Sleep had not refreshed him.

'It's time to go.' Petrog put his arm on Gregor's shoulder. 'We'd better share out the money now, just in case. Ten dollars each will be enough for now in a place like this.'

A shudder went through Gregor as the door screeched open. Someone must have heard it... Or was it only in his head that the noise was loud? Was that the crunch of heavy boots outside? Or simply the scratching of the waves on a pebbled beach? They sprang from the box and crawled through the shadows.

Having reached the edge of the container terminal they found themselves facing a wide open area far from the line of cranes along the quay. A flat expanse of tarmac stretched into the distance, warm acres of the stuff bathed in moonlight. Once out in the open the low moon made their shadows dance like puppets in front of them. The sound of their footsteps seemed to fall around them like summer rain. On one side the rectangular port buildings were dark but for the occasional square of yellow window. They heard a snatch of laughter on the breeze and the sound of glass breaking.

'We'd better split up,' hissed Petrog.

'What do you mean?'

'Split up. Twice as hard to catch two. I'll pay you back the money when we get through.'

'But Petrog...' There was no time to argue. His colleague was already moving off away from him under an orange circle of sky. They parted like two beetles separating on a village square. The fence did not seem to be getting any closer. Gregor was on the verge of running after his friend when a searchlight clicked on and lit up the night. Gregor dived to the floor. Beams of light came from several directions, cutting through the night air like windmill blades. He saw the light come to rest on a moth like man caught in a candle flame, his ragged clothes hanging from him like a sack. Voices barked, dogs growled, a loudspeaker blurted commands. He saw Petrog slowly raise his hands.

Gregor lay still as the soldiers milled around his companion. Their boots echoed all around. He ventured a peek towards the shadows beyond the open space. Inch by inch he hauled himself snake like along the ground away from the animated throng pressing around his friend. His instincts drew him away, over towards the huts whose silhouettes gradually came into view where the open space met the fence. He did not look back, he concentrated on this slim path to freedom. His fingers found a purchase somehow on the walls and his body slithered silently to the roof of a hut close to the wire. Between two hockey stick shaped concert posts he spread his jacket on the barbed wire which overhung a dark lane below. What did it matter that he tore the sleeve as he jumped?

He remained crouched down for a long while before he stood. Warehouses. Goods yards. Nobody about. Lights in the distance. Wide dark streets of solid stone Gothic houses with curtains drawn. Beyond, lighted streets offered crowds, anonymity and a place to eat.

The evening streets were busy, car headlamps shone like sun on a water-wheel as the pedestrians wove their unseen pattern in and out and up and down the sidewalk. Globe like street lamps hung from intricate cast-iron brackets fixed to the buildings at even spaces all along the street. Underneath the neon advertising signs flashed red and blue. Gregor let himself be drawn into the crowd and yielded himself to its flow like seaweed on swelling tide. He noticed a grand looking lady with a lap-dog under one arm standing on the edge of the pavement with her free arm outstretched. A huge white cab pulled out of the stream of traffic towards her. Two lovers arm in arm were wide eyed together, talking of things Gregor knew he did not understand. She was beautiful, his chin was smooth, he had curly hair, she flashed her teeth every time she smiled. On her head a white coif bobbed white like a lily. The lovers were forced back as crowd of uniformed militia lurched by. One of them thrust the curly haired lover in his back. There was boisterous laughter. An inn keeper wearing a black apron stood hands on hips on his doorstep. Gregor was sure he was watching him. The innkeeper whispered in the ear of a tall bony scar-faced man who stood by his side. The tall man smiled, making the scar twist on his cheek. Gregor walked on, past a tramp with his arm up to his armpit in a concrete rubbish bin, his vast coat tied with string and his hair matted and wild. Gregor glanced over his shoulder to check that the inn-keeper was not still watching him. There was no sign of him or of the other man. Would his accent betray him if he asked for something in a tavern? His ragged clothes would surely be no help either. They might ask for his papers... he had to be careful until he found his bearings...

'Hey, you!' shouted the tramp.

Gregor looked around him to see who the tramp was calling. He took a step forwards and pointed to his chest. 'Who, me?' he asked.

'What the hell are you doing on my patch?' demanded the tramp. 'Go on, get lost, you're not allowed here!' The tramp turned back to his work rummaging in the bin.

Gregor waited a while and watched him. 'I had better luck on the other side of town,' he said eventually, taking a few copper coins from his pocket.

The tramp wheeled around and brought his huge face close to Gregor's. 'Where did you get that?'

'Here you are,' said Gregor handing him a coin. He felt in his pocket for another few coins. 'I got these as well.'

The tramp bit the coin. 'What do you want?' His eyes searched Gregor Marini's face.

'Got a drink?'

'Yes, thanks,' said the bum.

'You can keep the money if I can have a drink,' said Gregor.

'Haven't got that much worth of drink.' He pulled a big brown plastic bottle from his coat pocket and held it up to the light.

Half full. Gregor took it. The warm, flat beer revived him and gave him strength. As it emptied, his grip crushed the plastic under his fingers. He pushed the empty bottle into the bin and offered the tramp his hand.

'Gregor is the name.'

'Llygad Bwyd,' said the tramp brushing Gregor's hand aside. 'Was it only drink you wanted?'

'I could eat something.'

'Got any more money?'

'A little.'

'Come on then.'

Having shoved their way through the crowd they reached the quiet backstreets. Gregor wondered about the black dust that clung to the stone buildings making the place seem old. As they wandered down towards the dark end of the street he turned once to see the square of light with people moving across it where the main thoroughfare began.

Shortly they came to a huddle of men pushing and shoving one another on a wide stairway leading into an anonymous building with long rectangular windows on either side of the stairway. In spite of the dark stains on the windows outside and the condensation within one could make out that it was full of people. Llygad Bwyd strode into the crowd which immediately made way for him, closing around him as he passed. 'Not you!' someone shouted at Gregor as angry hands hauled him back.

'He's with me,' said Llygad Bwyd, stretching a hand to Gregor and pulling him after him.

Once his eyes got used to the harsh strip lighting that illuminated the interior of what appeared to be a dining hall Gregor noticed a hatch in one wall through which white sleeved and pink gloved hands were passing out soup and bread. They both soon received a similar ration and Gregor offered some money.

'That is for me,' shouted Llygad Bwyd above the din. 'The money is mine for bringing you here. The food is free.'

They found room at a long table in a corner of the packed hall and began to gulp down their food. Steam rose from the coats of the diners and from their soup and the whole place was permeated with the smell of boiled cabbage and urine.

Gregor felt thirsty again.

'Beer?' laughed Llygad Bwyd. 'This is a temperance hall. There's a water tap in the wall over there.'

It was only later, somewhere in the backstreets, that they came to a beer stall - nothing more than a trestle table with several shiny fat plastic bottles on it. The beer seller stood on one side and about two dozen men shifted about unsteadily on the other. Llygad Bwyd took some more of Gregor's coins and pushed past the men. After a bit of pointing and haggling he returned clutching two heavy plastic bottles and a clear glass one. 'Here,' he said pressing one into Gregor's arms. 'By the way, there wasn't any change.'

They drank the first flagon there and then, watched by the men. Llygad Bwyd left a few centimetres in the bottom, screwed on the cap and chucked it towards the crowd who immediately started fighting over it. They could hear the quarrelling for a long while as they walked, passing the second bottle from hand to hand.

They could now relax, having eaten and drunk. As they swapped slugs of the white spirit Llygad Bwyd laughed for the first time. He wanted Gregor to sing sea shanties. Gregor refused. What did he know of sea shanties? All he wanted to do was rest. They got to a desolate patch of waste ground bounded by a cement faced wall.

'Here we are,' said Llygad Bwyd.

'Where?'

'Home,' said Llygad Bwyd. 'Of course, if the accommodation is unsuitable... the park benches are usually free this time of night... and those soldiers are always so nice to refugees...'

'Here is fine,' said Gregor. 'You actually live here?' He felt the side of a box between finger and thumb, the box was up against the wall.

'That's my box.' Llygad Bwyd struck angrily at his hand away. 'I've got a wife and family, you know,' he added, fetching out the remains of the white spirit. 'And a blasted stepson. So I'm not quite homeless, mind. It's just that at the moment I'm a common wanderer of the streets at night. Don't you see the moon waxing? Would that not be enough to draw you wandering? I can do without the drink, mind. It's my fault. But he's no help, that boy! He's not my son. He's turned the old woman his mother against me. Left me here to sleep under the stars. Pass the bottle, won't you.'

Gregor found it hard to get drunk, he was too tired. He wasn't that enthralled by Llygad Bwyd's life history either. In fact he didn't listen. Perhaps he should have. He went for a piss and by the time he got back the tramp had gone to bed. Gregor laid his head on a wad of papers and tried to pull some loose broadsheets across his body. He fell into dreams almost before he was actually asleep. The ground's cold bite only hurt when he woke - maybe two or three times during the night. While he slept he was walking Cae'r Dibyn sleep-walks above the old town looking for a path down. The whitewashed houses of the port rise in steps from the granite quay. In the windows he sees grey faces like old photographs peering at him from an album. Roof tiles rise above laurel leaves. A white gravel drive scrunches under foot as the house turns the corner. Alice's face is in the window, half obscured by her breath on the glass. He waves his hand. When he walks back down the drive, down the road past the photograph faces, past the marching feet to and fife and drum, he feels light. A cloud splits open spilling sunlight on the rooftops. He woke to the touch of hands, his eyes met the face of Llygad Bwyd bent over him going through his pockets. He stood with his feet either side of Gregor's chest. Gregor turned away from the sight of his filthy toes poking out the front of his boots. The old man saw he was awake and sprang back with a 'Come on, get up.'

Gregor got up. He put his hand to his breast to feel the satisfaction of his hidden pocket. Then he looked up and saw the city angular and hard. Beyond, in the distance, there were hills on which clouds caught and got divided.

Leaving the waste ground they soon came to a path choked with fallen leaves and flanked with trees encased in tall narrow cages all along the river flowing under arched bridges. They walked down towards the town centre as the sun came up. Chestnut trees, last to bud, first to fall. He watched a leaf spin on the river's skin.

It must have been quite early, there were few people about, and they probably had better things to do than stare at two tramps. Llygad Bwyd explained that today they would be searching the rubbish bins on the river walk. Gregor could share his patch, the spoils would be shared two thirds to him, one third to Gregor, and Gregor would pay for the food. 'Good bargain you got there,' said Llygad Bwyd. 'You'd get nothing otherwise.'

Gregor nodded. He supposed it was one way to make a living.

Gregor found a heap of magazines - weeklies, still current - stacked on a bin lid. In the bin itself he found a ball of lime green wool (grade III) which he also took. Lower down he came to a bag of half eaten chips and the remains of a beefburger still in its yellow dome of Styrofoam. Everything wound up in his bag. In another bin he excavated a pair of pink pumps (plimsolls) without laces. 'These might fit him,' he thought.

'What the damn use are these?' shrieked Llygad Bwyd flinging the shoes to the ground. He leafed through the magazines tarrying on the lingerie section.

'Those mags are current,' announced Gregor. 'I'll sell them, just watch.'

He took them to an intersection and tried to accost pedestrians. Didn't get much luck.

'At the lights, dummy!' shouted Llygad Bwyd from his seat by the river walk.

Gregor made it to the traffic lights on Park Avenue and started selling car to car. This seemed to work better as the drivers seemed willing to give up a few coins to dissuade Gregor from getting his finger marks all over their cars.

Llygad Bwyd was obviously impressed. 'Not too bad,' he said taking his two thirds. 'You're getting the hang of it. That meat thing in bread was OK, too, but next time I want one with ketchup on it. These shoes are too big.'

'Tie them with the wool.'

'You can't have lime-green laces with pink shoes!'

'Why not? Try them... There, you see, they suit you!'

'Rather stylish, actually,' said Llygad Bwyd.

They split up again, Gregor went up towards the market area with all the stalls. On one of them an old woman wanted to sell him some wrinkled vegetables and a couple of fat yellow apples all covered in brown spots. He wondered who had written her business plan. A little farther on he came to a second hands clothes stall.

'Leave them goods alone!' shouted the stall-keeper.

Gregor pulled out his ten dollar note.

The stall holder carefully put down his cigarette and got up. He started passing Gregor all kinds of jackets and shirts. Gregor traded in his old clothes, paid some money on top and walked away in a white shirt with a satin black jacket and dark trousers. He was looking for a hairdressing stall.

Shaved and washed, and with an old travelling razor in his pocket, he was ready to meet Llygad Bwyd. Back down by the river Llygad Bwyd eyed him up and down. 'What's all this?' he enquired. 'Who paid for all this?'

'I'm not quite homeless yet, either,' said Gregor. 'So I'll not be sleeping rough again tonight.'

'Do look at his nibs,' said Llygad Bwyd. 'Fur coat and no knickers, that's what you are. Where the hell will you be going then in that rig-out?'

'I thought perhaps you might recommend somewhere, Llygad Bwyd, somewhere not too formal, not to steep...'

'Somewhere that won't ask for your identity card, is it? Because you'll be needing one of them soon. So if you need any help... And in the meantime, go to Ostán Laban, it's open day and night, cheap and clean and plenty of room.' He tried to explain to Gregor how to find it. Gregor tried to remember.

'You said about the identity card?' said Gregor before they parted.

'Its up front only, I'm afraid,' said Llygad Bwyd. 'Pro-forma. Cash. Readies. OK?'

'You want me to trust you?'

'Llygad Bwyd's word is as good as his word. And mine is the only word you got. Get it? Now, do you take it or do you leave it?'

'Words cost nothing,' said Gregor. 'But beggars can't be choosers.' His fingers plucked the notes he needed. 'Here's half. The rest you get when I get the card.'

Llygad Bwyd did nothing but snatch the dollar bills from his hand and turn without a word. The first drips of a shower were falling into the brown leaves. Gregor watched him go in his pink pumps with lime-green laces, cleaving through the fallen leaves on the path like a snow plough.

2

The smell of new mown hay plays on the breeze as she picks her way along the path by the stream. They are mowing Fron Olau meadow; she sees them now through the trees and sees the meadow round and green around them. The trees that bend over the meadow are in dark shadow. Their highest leaves are light against a blue sky and a white cloud. Its only when she reaches the field's end that the swishing of the scythes through grass is heard. The stubble scratches her ankles and her arms are heavy from balancing the pitcher on her head.

And good riddance to you too, thought Gregor as he watched the tramp lumbering up the riverside path away from him. He breathed in deeply of the damp afternoon air, feeling that yesterday's oppressive heat was already fading far away. What a relief to have got away from Llygad Bwyd, got away from his grumbling and reproaching, it was good to be on his own again to watch the stars come out. No one could scold him now, no one was going to grab him by the arm and drag him to one side. He'd get an identity card tomorrow, and if he could trust Llygad Bwyd, and if he couldn't, he was none the worst really, was he? You can't win if you don't play, he thought to himself as he wandered down towards the town centre. In order to be sure he decided first of all to find the place where he was supposed to pick up the identity card the following day. There was no one sitting at the pavement tables, in fact the chairs were all stacked on the tables with their legs in the air and the umbrellas were all closed. It

was strange how suddenly the weather had changed, he thought. He imagined families taking their leisure here on sunny summer days, sipping white wine and laughing under a blue sky. There was something sad about these outside tables now, with raindrops hanging like bells from the upturned backs of the chairs.

Wherever he walked strange smells wafted around him, fried food, spices, sweet sticky smells, and unaccustomed noises seemed to swim around his head. Even the dogs' barking sounded different in this country. He was getting hungry. If he got something to eat maybe the city would seem less unreal to him. From a street stall he bought some oily cubes of meat wrapped in a flat pocket of bread. There were some hot seeds in the bread and the red sauce was also fiery hot and once he had eaten up his food he was dying for a drink. He pushed the food wrapper into a concrete bin and strode into the nearest bar. It was dark and the throbbing of the sound system was welcome to Gregor as no one could interrogate him with such a wall of sound around him. He downed his cold beer and got out, suddenly feeling very tired. His feet were lumps of clay and every joint in his body ached. What time was it? It couldn't possibly be very late - but the night was already fallen and even the neon lights above the cafes and bars were being turned off one by one.

By the time he found his hotel the place was in darkness and the front door locked. He struck a match to see if there were any instructions for late arrivals. Nothing. Either side of the main entrance were large stone pillars made up of squares alternating with a central cylindrical column. This struck Gregor as quite out of place and unnecessary, probably turn of the century, when all the worst crap was built... He raised and released the knocker and jumped back, startled at the booming noise it caused in the interior. A short while later muttering was heard and bed springs creaking, followed by a light coming on behind thin red curtains in the right hand ground floor window closest to the front door. The hall light came on and the door opened as far as a security chain would allow it. A flashlamp clicked and shone a beam straight into his eyes.

'What'd you want?' demanded a grumpy voice from behind the light.

'A room for the night,' said Gregor squinting and shielding his eyes.

'No room. Too late. Good night.' Her voice was angry.

'If you don't mind,' said Gregor slowly and courteously, 'I was given to believe that you are open day and night and hardly ever full. You would hardly leave me out here on the streets?'

The flashlamp took a walk over him from top to bottom. 'Well,' she said a little less grumpily, 'what do you mean by arriving here at this time of night? Where are your bags?'

'They will be sent on tomorrow. I regret my late arrival, however I am not responsible for the reliability of the train timetables. Or for the scarcity of taxi cabs in this city. Come now, madam, show a bit of hospitality to a tired traveller. Don't leave me shivering on your doorstep. You are, after all, in the hospitality business, are you not?'

'You and your fine words...' She sounded pensive. 'Without bags in the middle of the night...' In a few moments she continued. 'Well, you better stand back while I open up.'

She stood in the doorway in her white night-dress and her flashlamp pointing to the floor. 'I know you now,' she said. 'Come in. I'm sorry if there was any misunderstanding earlier on...'

'Don't worry about it,' said Gregor with a yawn. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. 'If I might now go on up to my room, I will see you about the formalities in the morning...'

He was allocated a room on the fifth floor. It contained an iron bedstead, a cupboard, one table and a chair plus a big white sink. Over above the bed-head a small window with lace curtains opened onto a back yard. He found that it did open, and by placing one foot on the bed-head he could stretch out far enough to see a white ribbon of river winding through the town. Above, long dark clouds, thin as smoke, lit up as they crossed the moon. The slate rooftops shone. To the other side a mass of cast iron pipe-work clung to the wall by his window, merging with some iron steps lower down. Everything seemed black and hard. He pulled his head in. 'Maybe things will work out,' he thought as he climbed into bed in his under clothes. He winced as his forearm touched the metal frame, and shuddered as he drew the clammy sheets over him.

The next morning, having shaved and washed in cold water, he went downstairs. His door opened on a landing off the main staircase and he saw now that corridors led off it in several directions. Peering down the stairwell he could see heads and shoulders moving about on the ground floor. Above him, the top of the stairwell was lost in murky shadows. He noticed that the corridor carpet had long since lost its pattern with the sacking underneath revealed in several places. Although Llygad Bwyd had been correct that the place was not full, it was certainly busy enough. The thin partitions of the rooms did little to muffle the various coughings, quarrellings and musics that went on within the various walls. On the stairs late risers bounced down two steps at a time; night workers dragged themselves upwards, their fingers white around the banister rail; people stood in doorways. The stairway was narrow; those coming up had to squeeze past those going down. 'Good morning' said Gregor to someone he met on the stairs. He got no answer. Two night workers came up. They climbed towards him as if they were ridding a tandem bicycle up a steep hill. He got ready to greet them, sure that they would say something. They said nothing.

On the last flight of stairs he was almost knocked over by a red headed lad who rushed past him. Gregor just managed to grab the handrail in time. The lad didn't turn a hair, he leapt the last four steps and bounded out through the front door.

The landlady was waiting for Gregor outside the door to her apartment off the hallway. 'The books are ready inside,' she said. Gregor noticed a little window next to the door, used to keep watch on the hallway, he assumed.

As well as the hall window she had a wide sash window overlooking the street, now pushed open a few inches, making the red curtains on either side rise and fell gently in the draught. To one side was a bed and opposite, below the hall window a low desk laid out with open ledgers. 'Here they are,' she said making a sweeping movement over them with the back of her hand. 'Won't you sit.'

'What exactly am I supposed to do with them?' Gregor sat at the desk and pored over the lined pages.

'Why, that's for you to say, surely. New to the job are you?'

'I don't understand,' said Gregor.

'Well, wasn't it you who announced yourself last night as a quality inspector. You would not have got in here otherwise, my lad.'

'I said no such thing,' protested Gregor. 'I don't know what you're on about. What do I know about inspecting standards?'

'You're from the Office, though, aren't you? Why else would you be here? I've got nothing to hide!'

'I'm not an inspector. I'm a student.'

'Oh, well...' She leant over the desk to close the books. 'I don't like those silly inspections. You never get to know what they complain about. It's too much for me, my husband used to do all the paperwork... never mind, would you like some tea?'

'A student, you said?' She asked as she poured. 'And your things are being sent on, did you say?'

'Well, no, as a matter of fact they won't.' Gregor felt a warm flush to his cheeks. 'In fact I'm afraid I did tell you a little white lie about my luggage. You see I was rather embarrassed at arriving empty handed. The truth is I lost my luggage - in fact it was all stolen - that's what I suspect - on the train down here as I slept. All I've got left are the clothes on my back, but I can pay for the room of course... You know, I searched that train from on end to the next but they must have got off before I woke up.'

'College term does not start for a month, Gregor.'

'A month? Why, no, of course. That's exactly why I'm here now, I was hoping to find work for a month in the city to help tide me over the coming term... This hotel of yours seems busy, Mrs Laban.'

'I see,' she mused.

'Tell me, Mrs Laban,' continued Gregor, his teacup held in mid air a few inches from his lips, 'why are your lodgers always in such a hurry, too busy to give a word of greeting or anything? I was nearly knocked over...'

'Everyone is like that here, Gregor. Who knows what they get up to or where they go. Don't expect a greeting from the people who stay here; they wouldn't risk speaking with a stranger. I mean, what with all this talk of refugees - that's really what scared me when you turned up so late - I thought you were an inspector, see. If the inspectors found a refugee hiding here, who but I would have to take the blame?'

'Well, thanks for the tea,' said Gregor fishing in his pocket for some money. 'How much do you need for the room?'

'Come now,' said Mrs Laban waving the dollar bills away, 'that's not for me to say. The Office's messengers will let you know when it's time to settle your account.'

'Do they keep your accounts too, then?' Gregor put the money back in his pocket.

'They keep everything in the end, my boy. You'll be looking for work, then, will you, Gregor? Anything special in mind?'

'Not much,' Gregor admitted. 'I guess it's as hard to get a good job around here as anywhere else. I'm not without qualifications, see: I can make scale drawings, do estimates, draw up bills of quantity...and I know how to sell wine. Is there much demand for skills like these?'

'No,' she said. 'And do you know why? It's the fault of those blighters from overseas. They'll do double the work for half the money - how can anyone compete? It's an absolute scandal. Of course, it's also who you know, my Adam says. He'll be home for dinner in a minute - he will help you.'

Gregor noticed for the first time in the corner of the room a folding bed stacked against the wall. Steam was rising from a pot on a little stove by the window and the pot cover was just starting to clack up and down. It must be lunchtime, thought Gregor as the woman hurried to turn it down. It was time for him to go.

'The son works in the library,' said she proudly as she wiped her hands on a cloth. 'He is very well thought of there.'

'I'd be honoured to meet...' At that moment the door was flung open and in stepped a tall bony man with a white scar across his cheek. The man had on an open necked shirt with a little gold ingot on a chain nestling among the protruding hairs of his chest.

'Adam,' said the mother, 'this is Gregor Marini. He's been looking forward to meeting you.'

'What does he want?' growled Adam without looking at Gregor. 'Is he staying here?' He turned two sullen eyes on Gregor. 'No residents allowed in this room, thank you. This room is private!'

'Now, now, Adam,' scolded the mother. 'Don't take any notice, Gregor. Adam always gets bad tempered when he's hungry, don't you little one?'

Adam proceeded to pull on each finger of his right hand causing them to make cracking noises.

'There, there, Adam,' his mother continued, 'Gregor is a student looking for work until term begins.'

'Is he indeed!' shouted Adam angrily. He cracked the knuckles of his other hand slowly. 'Well you had better be in the cafe across the road at six o'clock. Now fuck off, I want my food.'

It was nice to stride into the daylight after the damp smell of boiling potatoes in her room. It was an afternoon of sky and sun; the side wind was fresh rather than cold. Gregor felt reasonably confident that he knew his way around by now. He was looking for the back street with the terrace of cafes. At the river he walked the banks under the shadows of the chestnut trees. Circles of sun fell through the branches and danced in front of him. He filled his head with the smell of Autumn and listened to the crisp whispering of fallen leaves. Sometimes he would kick them up just to see them turn. The river's current was smooth except where it broke into foamy eddies on the pillars of stone arched bridges. The river flowed South so he guessed he better cross it eastwards. Or maybe this was the East, he didn't really know. He crossed it anyway into a little park of emerald grass and hydrangeas. The air smelt of rain on leaves. He hardly noticed that his shoes were getting a soaking in the grass. The hot box seemed far away. A newspaper kiosk stood in the corner of the park. He walked up. 'Today's paper,' he said in a strangers voice. He took it to a bench. But his eyes couldn't do anything but swim around the pages as he began wandering the streets of his memory over again and looking in at all the windows.

It was lunch time that Saturday at the Aircol. The satisfied tinkle of knives on china and refined conversation filled the room. Waiters' feet padded across monogrammed carpets. He complimented the American's choice of a Calon Ségur 1982 but frowned when the fat man said he was to open it at the table. If he could have decanted it in the back this fine mess would never have happened. Oh! they wanted it opened in front of them like it was some part of the show. Treating good wine like it was a toy. Was it the Sommelier's fault the cork was gone to bits? How did he know it was going to fly out spraying a shower of wet red crumbs over the white blouse of the lady next to the fat man. She started screaming. What was a blouse to her? She probably had tens of them - he only had one job. And what chance of another in such an area? Who would want the Sommelier who spilt the wine? Who wanted an architect with no way to practice? Well, he did at least know his wines. He might be given another chance. Some agreed; they were mainly the new recruits. The old hands shook their heads in doubt. Gregor did not know what to think as he stood outside Zwingli's office behind the Front Desk. He listened to the clickety clack of the typewriters and wondered if they were already typing out his letter of dismissal.

'Gregor,' said Zwingli raising a pair of steady eyes from the note on his desk. Gregor was not used to seeing him behind a desk. He usually saw him sweeping past with a number of assistants in tow. Gregor stood in front of the desk under the light in his dark uniform. He related everything as it happened, how they treated wine like a toy, how he was not to blame, how he was not a circus clown, it was not their fault. Zwingli listened, making notes with a pencil on the edge of the document in front of him. He waited for Gregor to finish.

'Gregor,' he said, 'if it were up to me alone... if the whole matter was in my gift, - because you know I am fairly satisfied with your progress...And as I say, if only it were a matter for me alone. But it is not, Gregor. These were seriously important clients, Gregor, and you screwed up. It is out of my hands. We need to show that action has been taken. We are all answerable to someone, Gregor, there can be no exceptions.'

'I'm willing to pay for the blouse, sir,' Gregor offered. 'You can deduct it weekly if you like.'

'That won't be necessary, Gregor.' Zwingli ruffled through some papers. 'H'm... yes, I thought so. You completed your seven years to be an architect. There we have it, there's plenty of scope, isn't that what they say? What are you wasting your time here for? I wish you luck, Gregor. You'll be paid to the end of your shift tonight. Oh, and we'll need you cupboard. I'm sorry about all this, Gregor, and as I say, if it were up to me...'

His co-workers were either on a shift or out on the town. Gregor was thankful. He felt nothing but empty as he threw his things in a bag and looked around one last time at the room he'd shared these six months. He picked up his bag and walked out.

When he got to the yard he had to force his way through a boisterous queue of lads all trying to be first in line. 'Howdy, Gregor!' said one. Gregor saw it was the boy they called Coesau Hirion. Gregor didn't know his name.

'Trying for a job, then, Coesau Hirion?'

'Why not?' Coesau Hirion laughed in Gregor's face. But I won't get it. What do I know about wine?'

'I've heard you know how to drink it,' Gregor said and walked on.

There are green benches on the beach-side pavement that runs in a semi-circle sweep above the beach opposite the promenade hotels. He sat on a green bench for a long time with his beak in his feathers, only occasionally watching the waves moving towards the beach, and the walkers on the beach taking their dogs for a walk. It had happened too suddenly. And even now as he sat on another bench in a strange city he was still pissed off at the injustice. He didn't either have much faith in Adam Laban's ability to find him work. He needed to head off for the North Country pronto. Maybe he'd make something of it then - his worse had made it. Out of the bowels of the city a muffled bell tolled slowly. He remembered Llygad Bwyd and the identity card. The newspaper he left, unread, folded on the top of the bin by his seat as he got up.

The sun had come out. From downtown, purring of traffic sounds rose towards him. On the roadside the black exhaust coughed over him as he waited to cross. He turned back towards the river, trusting the natural contours above the made landscape, making his way back to the sidewalk cafes. The sunshades were out over the pavement, shading some of the tables. At some of them garrulous groups gulped glasses of wine or expresso. At others people read papers alone. He checked to see whether Llygad Bwyd was around. All he saw was a big lady with a pile of hair on her head dragging a tiny white dog after her, reluctantly as Gregor noted, not too keen on its 'walkies', apparently. The lead got caught as the animal ran under a chair. She was pulling and the lap-dog was pulling back. 'Fifi, come back,' she implored, shaking the chain and the empty collar. Fifi was gone. 'Make the most of it, Fifi,' thought Gregor.

Although it was not that busy, all the tables had been taken. There were a few animated groups and ones and twos otherwise. There was a couple sharing a bottle of wine. Better leave them be. Some anoraked crank with funny eyes who was looking at Gregor. Best avoid him. Someone reading the Financial Pages. Perfect. He wouldn't take any notice. The table was at the edge of the pavement, beyond the sunshades. The newspaper reader did not look up. It was a very small table. The chair was hard and it back was at such an angle that if he leant back his feet would be on the other man's lap. If he leant forwards his face would be right in the other man's paper. So he sat up straight like a soldier. Presently, he noticed a shadow on the table and looked up. The landlord stood at his shoulder, menu in hand.

'Black coffee and a toasted sandwich,' said Gregor turning the menu over in his hands.

The proprietor snatched the menu from him and walked off. The man reading the paper lowered one corner to stare at Gregor for a second. Gregor noticed that he was not reading the paper but using it to shield a writing pad on which he was jotting down notes in a tiny spindly ants' legs' handwriting.

Eventually the man folded his paper, pocketed his notebook and tossed a few coins on his saucer. Gregor was now able to put his feet up on the vacant chair. He started to wonder about his food. No one would have been made to wait like this in the Aircol. In the Aircol you got your order within three minutes or your money back - that was the promise. And there was no one faster than he was. Even Zwingli had to admit that. Well, there was no going back to that at any rate. No point pulling up a petticoat after pissed, he supposed. He needed to be positive, he just didn't know what positive meant. He remembered how he used to sit on the benches of Rhodfa'r Môr with the idea fermenting in his head that he had to take his chances overseas. He had some hard currency from the dollar tips and a bit more he'd saved up for the so called big day. He remembered it well. 'Now I've lost my job, another postponement, obviously.' How could they have thought of marrying now? Alice might say it didn't matter, but to him it did. He would show them, though. When he got back from across the sea they would all see. He would show them he wasn't good for nothing after all. He remembered how these thoughts would flit about his head as he sat on the bench outside the Aircol, waiting for his shift to end. He did not want to go early or Alice would know something had happened. She had that sense. Anyway, she'd always said he should get at it with trying to get work as an architect. Some architect, he though, he hadn't even been able to open a bottle of wine. That story would run and run. The work was gone and he was getting out.

When three o'clock came he dragged his feet up the cliff hill, past the whitewashed houses ranked in steps up from the beach. Gulls screeched above his head. When he got there she asked what would he do now. 'I've have no choice,' he replied. She wasn't keen. 'Even if our borders are open, the Capital States don't want people us, Gregor. You'll get turned back.' 'Petrog said there's a boat.' 'Don't go, Gregor,' she said. 'We can work things out for you.' 'I don't need that.' 'When will you be back?' 'I'll write soon just as soon as I arrive.'

He left her standing on the wide porch. His soles churned the white pebbles. He had no choice. Down on the street a sea breeze blew into his face.

'Your coffee,' said the landlord slamming a tiny white cup and saucer on the tin table top. Gregor jumped and hit his knee under the table making the coffee spill. 'Your toasted sandwich.' He struck a small plate down in the spilt coffee and tucked a bill under it.

'Excuse me,' said Gregor, picking up the bill. 'I was supposed to meet someone here today and...'

'Yes,' snapped the landlord. 'And it's usual to pay up front around here, not half and half, do you understand?'

Gregor felt something hard in the folded paper. Unfolded, a credit card size piece of blue plastic was revealed. He checked the bill. 'Hey, that's more than I agreed,' he protested.

'The food and the coffee is extra,' said the landlord, his silver tray held firmly to his chest. 'Come on, stranger, hurry up. I've got other customers to see to.'

Gregor paid. He drained the dregs of the coffee and grabbed the remaining toasted sandwich. Once he got a bit of distance between him and the cafe he examined the card. Not very professional, he thought. Someone had actually signed his name on the band. Nothing like his signature. He looked for a clock somewhere in the streetscape. A quarter to six already? In fright he legged it back to the river bank and followed its avenues down. Heavy gutted clouds hung in the sky and the lights were coming on in the harbour below. Did he know this area? He saw someone throwing crumbs to the pigeons and he ran up to him.

'Can you tell me where Ostán Laban is please?' he asked with his breath in his fist. The man made a slight sideways movement of his head and threw a few more crumbs towards the birds.

Gregor glanced where the man had gestured and saw Ostán Laban in electric blue lettering blinking on and off through the branches on the avenue. A big OPEN hung lop sided on the glass door of the café opposite.

The mechanical bell clucked as Gregor walked in. The café was hung with smoke. On the wall the clock was striking six. Adam Laban was at a table near the back drumming his fingers. When he saw Gregor he stood and immediately came forwards.

'I'm sorry if I kept you waiting,' said Gregor when they met.

'Didn't I say six o'clock sharp?' demanded Adam Laban. He marched out of the café and down the road, with Gregor running after him.

'Is the library far, Adam?' called Gregor.

Adam did not answer. Possibly he couldn't hear. Gregor could not keep up with him at all. He lost him once, even thought of going back, but then caught a glimpse of him between two buildings. With a huge effort that made his heart ache he almost caught up; Adam just walked on swiftly as before. 'Yes, it's very far,' he tossed over his shoulder as he sped ahead.

'Can I come there with you, in case there's work?'

'That's what you seem to be doing now, isn't it? And if I say six, it means be at a quarter to.'

'Yes, chief.' Gregor felt he was beginning to be accepted. He followed Adam Laban down some subway steps through wide gates into a large space. It was like some bare hall with benches all along the walls and one opening in the far wall with the words 'THE LIBRARY' above it in black angular lettering. Gregor felt that underground was probably not a good place for a library, unless of course they had no damp problems in this country.

'Sit there,' said Adam. 'I'm off. So long.'

It was more like an underground car park. Bare concrete walls and ceilings, exposed pipe-work, naked lights. 'I expect the library is quite grand inside,' Gregor mused. The place was filling up. People were coming in, men and women of all ages, streaming in through the gates until their bodies began to warm up the clammy air. Soon condensation was forming on the ceiling pipes and plopping down to the floor. When the benches were tight with bottoms and Gregor was trying to lock his legs against the floor avoid being squeezed like a pip, the outside gates were closed an official strode up to a lectern.

'Today's opportunities,' he announced reading off from a clip-board. 'Weeders. Six with experience and not afraid of work. Word Department.' A lot of arms went up. Six were chosen and taken away.

'Burners. Two with appropriate qualifications. History Department.' Only three applied for this position and there was some dispute before one of them was turned away. He pretended to go out but actually slid back to the bench.

'Lying dogs. Twelve. Department of Politics.' Gregor noticed that the one who had been rejected before was now accepted, as well as eleven lucky others chosen at random from an enthusiastic row of waving arms.

'Ash tray cleaners!' announced the official. 'Two to be under Adam Laban. Ash Tray Cleaning Department.' Gregor put up his hand.

He was too late. Two others were already being congratulated by less successful colleagues.

'Cataloguer. One. No experience required. Department of Mythology.' Not one hand was raised. The people seemed to plant their feet on the floor and push their backs against the walls, hands deep in their pockets, staring at the floor. The official held a palm to his brow and scanned the benches. Gregor's hands were on his knees, his head was not bent. The official's eyes alighted upon him. Examined him. Slowly Gregor raised his hand.

Staff members came to fetch him, he was taken away. He heard the next announcement: 'Dog Walker. One. A thick-skinned skilled communicator required. Department of Taking the Chief Librarian's Dog for a Walk.' Gregor heard a commotion of feet on concrete and imagined that this was a job with pulling power.

It didn't seem to matter what job one tried for, the registration procedure was all the same. Name, age, address, qualifications. Gregor offered his new identity card but they did no more than glance at it, nod, and usher him through. ' This way,' said an official, prodding him.

'Stand there,' spat another one like a camel when they got to a high arched double doorway with one door open. Gregor could see nothing beyond the door but a kind of wooden pulpit and no one to be seen inside. Presently a scratching noise came from the pulpit and a head covered with a mop of black hair rose up and a furious pair of spectacles framed two burning eyes that glared at Gregor. 'Come here!'

'Good day,' said the hairy one in the pulpit accusingly. 'Who have they sent me this time?'

'Gregor, sir. I've come to catalogue your department.'

'I am the Du Traheus,' said the furious pair of spectacles. 'I am head of this Department. I decide who does what. Do you have any relevant qualifications?'

'No, sir.'

'Can you at least read and write?'

'I am a student.'

'You avoid the question? Well, no worse than the rest I suppose.' The Du Traheus descended from his pulpit. 'Come,' he said shuffling across the floor like a chimpanzee, one large hairy paw wrapped around Gregor's wrist.

Gregor was put to work at a low desk piled with books. The Du Traheus drew a black fingernail over them. 'Register, classify,' he said. Both these words are better than the word 'catalogue'.

'Sorry?' said Gregor.

''It's not you're fault, my boy,' said the Head of the Department, scurrying back to his pulpit, muttering.

3

On the edge of the square she looks back at him. 'Rhyd-y-Felin,' he mouths. As she climbs the cart road up from the village the mewing of the bagpipes gradually fades away below her. She cuts across the fields, through the trees up the side of the valley.

On by one Gregor drew the books towards him and turned them over in his hands. He was by now starting to forget his empty stomach. 'What the hell am I supposed to do with these?' He looked up at the myriad shelves of books he saw in all directions...no beginning and no end, just shadows swallowing them. He looked at the books on his desk, browsed through them, looked for a pattern. He drew five columns down an A4 sheet and a line across the top for his headings. Title, author, publisher, place and date. Surely that would do it. In a while he had filled the first page altogether. He

believed he could now venture back to the porch, where he saw a sliver of light, to look for his master and show him the work he had done.

The Du Traheus in his pulpit raised his head from his book and peered over his spectacles.

'So, you can write?' he enquired dubiously, taking the paper from Gregor's hands.

'Of course I can,' retorted Gregor indignantly.

'Well, that's excellent,' said the Du Traheus. 'We'd better celebrate.' He went to the cupboard in his pulpit and got out three bottles containing different coloured liquids. There seemed to be fruits of some sort swimming around in them. 'I take it you are not a practising teetotaller?'

'Lapsed Methodist, actually,' said Gregor.

'Cherry brandy it is, then,' announced the Du Traheus. He shook a good dose into two glasses. ' Long live the old ways!' he said and clinked his glass on the glass of his disciple.

'Health to the Bookworm!' added Gregor, hoping it was an apt response. The brandy was fiery and at first it burnt Gregor's throat.

They drank another dram each. Once the burning in his throat had passed Gregor began to feel quite cheerful. Perhaps the Du Traheus was not such a bad sort after all. Gregor plucked up his courage and asked, 'Is the work correct at all, sir?'

'No,' said the Du Traheus. He went back to his cupboard and got out a loaf of bread a round cheese and a knife. 'Are you hungry?'

Gregor ate the bread and cheese he was offered. They finished the cherry brandy. The Du Traheus got out his pipe and filled it methodically. Soon a fragrant smoke was fanning out around him. He sucked on the stem of his pipe, occasionally striking it against his teeth. 'It's midnight,' he said. 'Your apprenticeship is over.' He climbed up into his pulpit and rummaged around for a while. What was that he held aloft? Looked like a small broach, or maybe a stone or a ring? It turned out to be a little broach which he pinned to Gregor's lapel. 'There you are,' he said. 'Your badge of office.' It was shaped in the form of a ship under full sail with the legend Gregor Marini. Under-Cataloguer, Department of Mythology on it.

'Go now,' said the Du Traheus. 'It suits you fine.'

'Back at a quarter to, is it, sir?' Gregor saluted and stumbled towards the door.

An official raised his finger to his cap as Gregor left the bunker. It was raining outside. The tyres of cars wrung water out of the gutters and sent it slewing over the pavements. Webs of rain passed by the street lights, the drops freezing for a second before falling. Fallen leaves squelched like wet paper under foot. He was passing the park back towards the cafe when he heard the nightingale. How he knew it was a nightingale he could not imagine. He hadn't ever heard one before. Her song flowing over him as the prickly rain touching his forehead. He tried to catch a glimpse but could not find her. Something like homesickness chewed his gut. She stopped suddenly and a flurry of wings told Gregor she was gone. 'Good luck to you,' said Gregor imagining her beak cleaving a path for her through the raindrops.

Although it was late the cafe was open, a fug of smoke and fatty smells hit him as he walked in the door. Some people were eating breakfast, others were having tea. He got to sit between to night workers having lunch. He ordered a bowl of cawl with bread and butter and a bottle of country wine.

'Howdy?' said the night worker to the left of him.

Gregor had to spit out half a mouthful of cawl into his bowl. 'Well, fine thanks,' he replied, dabbing is lips with a napkin. 'And yourselves? It's a rainy night. I heard a nightingale singing earlier, do you know are they...'

'All I said was 'Howdy'' said the night worker, stuffing a fork-full of meat into his mouth. 'I don't want to hear your life story.'

'Sorry,' said Gregor, lifting up his spoon.

How come if these guys did so little talking it was so loud in here, he wondered. It seemed like most of the nose was coming from the back room. The sound of furniture crashing to the floor. Glass shattering. The commotion was increasing by the minute. No one in the cafe seemed to notice. Gregor kept looking up, and eventually from the fug of smoke which came from the side room entrance he observed Adam Laban staggering out with blood spouting from a hole in his head. Gregor rushed up to him, tearing a hanky from his pocket. 'Are you all right, Adam?' he cried as he dabbed the hanky at the wound.

'I was OK 'till I saw you,' said Adam Laban.

'I just popped in for a bite on my way home.'

'Home?' demanded Adam.

'Back to the hotel, then.'

'Back from where?'

'My new job.'

'So they employed you, did they?' Adam Laban sneered.

'Under the Du Traheus.'

'Humph!!' said Adam Laban. 'What do you know about it?'

'Well, I did try for a job cleaning ashtrays but I was unlucky.'

'Unlucky?' said Adam Laban through his teeth. 'Luck had nothing to do with it. I didn't want you, that's why you didn't get it. I do not take on work-shy riff-raff in my department. Apparently the Du Traheus does not set such high standards.'

'What happened to your head?' asked Gregor.

'Is this hankey clean?'

Gregor nodded. Adam dabbed the side of his head.

'Goodnight then,' said Gregor. 'I'm off to get some shut eye.'

' "Shut eye"? cried Adam. 'Why can't you just say "bed" like everybody else? Now get lost.'

He turned on his heel and Gregor watched him walk back into the smoked filled room.

As he had no alarm clock Gregor decided to stay awake all night. Unfortunately he fell asleep about three o'clock in the morning and the first light of dawn was already in his window before he woke up.

He went straight to the cafe over the road. Apparently it was only just past five a.m. Even so, he gulped down his porridge and his cup of tea and legged it for the library. Once there, he had to shuffle around trying to keep warm for ages waiting for the gates to open at a quarter to. The wind seemed to go through him and his bones were all hurting. He showed his badge and in he went.

'What kept you?' shouted the Du Traheus from his pulpit when Gregor knocked. 'Come in, for gods' sakes.'

'Does this devil live here all the time?' wondered Gregor. 'Good morning, Du Traheus!' he said.

'Is it?' said the Du Traheus taking his spectacle in one hand and rubbing a knuckle to a tired eye. 'I'm dubious. Now, get back to work.' He perched his spectacles back on the bridge of his nose.

Gregor was sorry that he was doing it all wrong. However as no alternative method had been suggested to him he carried regardless for the time being. During his lunch time he went over to the library's main entrance to look up the big register. He found Reference Department on the board. It happened to be quite close to his own department. He would only be a few minutes. He showed his badge at the door.

'I'm looking for the letter C,' he said to the door-keeper.

'Why don't you look between B and D then?' yawned the door-keeper.

'No, you misunderstand,' Gregor said carefully. 'I wish to find the section where every word begins with a C.'

'Well look between B and D, then,' repeated the door-keeper making as if to get up from his deck-chair. 'What's the matter with you?'

Gregor went passed cast-iron, castle, cast-off, castor-oil, skirted catacomb, catalepsy and finally stopped at catalogue. He got back to the Mythology Department with a couple of books under his arm and without the Du Traheus even noticing that he was late.

Getting back to his desk who should he find idly sitting there but Adam Laban, chewing gum and with his arms folded across his chest.

'Hello, Adam!'

'We've you been?' Adam Laban got up and grabbed Gregor by the lapels. 'Turn that cheek so that I can give you one!' He straightening a palm to strike.

'Let me go!' Gregor struggled.

Adam shook him and flung him down at his desk. 'Sit!' he said, pointing.

Gregor squeezed himself back behind his desk. He had to squat down like a big spider in a little box. Adam sat on the corner of the desk, head lowered towards Gregor, as if waiting for an explanation. Gregor noticed that a black blob of blood had coagulated by the side of his ear. He had obviously not washed or combed his hair. And he smelt of whiskey and tobacco.

'What?' asked Gregor.

Adam pointed to his wrist even though there was no watch there. 'You are late!' he snarled.

'Better late than never, I suppose,' said Gregor. 'Anyway, the Du Traheus didn't say anything. And it's up to him, I think, isn't it, Adam?'

'Yes, and its up to me to that baboon runs this department properly,' spat Adam. 'You've held this department back by ten minutes with your wild gallivanting and you've put the Du Traheus into big trouble.'

'I don't believe it,' said Gregor. 'You're an ashtray cleaner. You're not his boss.'

'Come here.' Adam took hold of Gregor's wrist and dragged him like a rag doll back to the pulpit by the entrance. 'Come down here you hairy ape,' he shouted up at the Du Traheus who eventually clambered down shakily and stooped before them, his knuckles sweeping the floor. Adam Laban picked up a weighty tome from a nearby table. The Du Traheus looked impassively from Adam to Gregor and back again. Adam weighed the volume in his hand. 'Books are terrible things for making you sleepy, don't you think?' he said, raising the book up high and then crashing it down upon the old man's skull. The Du Traheus fell poleaxed to the floor. He lay there with arms and legs spread-eagled as his spectacles on the floor by his pulpit.

'Don't let this happen again, Du Traheus,' shouted Adam Laban, aiming a vicious kick at his ribs.

When he was gone Gregor fell to his knees by his master's side. He turned him carefully over on his back. Under his head he packed some paperbacks like a pillow. He placed the spectacles back on his master's nose. He got some brandy and poured two glassfuls, one of which he drank and the other of which he tried to pour down the Du Traheus' throat. Most of it went over his beard and clothes but some must have gone in as he began to stir and in a moment was calling for another glassful. 'That's better,' said the Du Traheus. 'Now,' he added, propping himself up on one elbow and wagging a scolding finger at Gregor, 'this must not happen again.'

'I promise it won't, sir,' said Gregor.

'Do we know what it is?'

'What, sir?'

'The thing that mustn't happen again.'

'Well, me coming back late from lunch, sir.'

'Oh,' said the Du Traheus picking himself up from the floor. 'Well that's easy. Don't come back late from lunch again, Gregor.' The Du Traheus dusted down his suit. 'I'm glad that's settled.'

'I'm very sorry I caused you all this trouble, Du Traheus. Is it really true he's your boss?'

'Who, Adam Laban? Well, that's what he tells me,' answered the Du Traheus dreamily. 'But everyone has to serve somebody in the end, even Adam Laban.'

'Does he clean ashtrays?'

'Only mine. I'm the only one in the library allowed to smoke. All the other departments are non smoking, but I've retained my right to smoke my pipe whenever I like. I'm also allowed to keep bread and brandy as so on in my cupboard. How else could I live here? It would be unbearable.'

'So you do live here?'

'I hear that Winter is on its way outside, but that doesn't worry me down here, does it? And I pay no rent. So what are a few blows from Adam Laban compared with all that?'

'Is he allowed to be insolent towards you?'

'No, that's not allowed.' The Du Traheus fingered the egg shaped bump that shone on his head. 'He's allowed to be impertinent, audacious even, but not insolent, according to his service contract.'

'But calling you a 'baboon' and a 'hairy ape' is surely insolent rather than impertinent, is it not?'

'Not at all.' He thought for a while. 'No, in this instance he was just downright rude.'

'Well, you know the rules, I guess,' muttered Gregor and he slunk back to his desk, vaguely speculating on whether the Du Traheus was crazed, cracked, potted or just simply mad.

He learned plenty from his borrowed books. Apparently he should have been using index cards, not A4 sheets. These he found were available in the department's storeroom. He soon found it was better to begin at the beginning of a shelf and work along it, rather than snatch up volumes haphazardly here and there. Although the Du Traheus did not show much interest in Gregor's work, Gregor did his best to impress. He would work through his lunchtimes sometimes, even, stopping only for a few minutes to share a bite with his master and knock back some dubious looking and highly alcoholic syrups referred to by the Du Traheus as 'Brandy'. The only one who would darken his cramped desk was Adam Laban when he did his rounds and emptied the Du Traheus's ashtray.

Despite the deplorable lack of encouragement given by his head of department Gregor managed all alone, during the first few days of the new card index system, to catalogue quite a distance along several shelves. His desk was at the hub of book-lined avenues radiating out from him and making 360 degrees around the spot where he sat, like the spokes of a wheel. The only avenue that reached anywhere, as far as he could tell, was the one that led back to the pulpit and the exit door. He was delighted some days later when it was announced that he could have the afternoon off. Surely this was a sign that his diligence had been noted. He was allowed off on the understanding that he was needed for the evening shift at a quarter to. Six hours, he thought; almost a whole day. He needed some things. Underwear, soap, envelopes and paper, and a stamp. At one of the second-hand stalls by the park he asked the price of a big black old-fashioned radio set. It was not dirt cheep. It seemed to work. He got it anyway. On another stall he got a silver plated ornate photo frame. With all these things accumulating he needed somewhere to put them so he bought a second-hand leather holdall and packed them in it. It was a shame he had no photo of Alice to put in the frame, he thought, as he set it up on the table in his room. At least the place was a bit more homely now. He felt a bit like a magpie with his bits and pieces arranged around him in his cold nest. He extended the radio aerial and played with the tuning knob. In due course through the sounds of frying and squeaking he heard words from his own country murmuring faintly. The whispers that reached him through the hissing of the airwaves made him feel very far from his life before. He turned off the radio and pushed it to the bottom of his bag. A piece of paper and a pen lay before him on the table. He realised with some surprise that he had never had to write to her before. The words did not seem to fall easily on the page. He thought and thought and started. She would be disappointed to hear the whole truth of the matter, and anyway, things might improve - why upset her for no reason? On the other hand, he did not want to raise her hopes either... in case it all came to nothing in the end. What could he say? He would let her know he had arrived safely, that he loved her, that he was thinking about her that he had a job already but was hoping to head North soon... Having addressed the envelope and stuck the stamp in place he looked up to find evening shadows growing on the walls. Why the hell did they need a night shift anyway? It was only a library. On his way out he dropped the letter into the mail box next to Mrs Laban's apartment and then hurried on his way to the library for a quarter to six.

Gregor had decided he would tackle a whole shelf this evening, right to the end. It would probably take a long time, could be weeks even - but eventually the Du Traheus would recognise his efforts. He would find that his assistant was on top of things, was an asset to the department, and he would finally get the approval he felt he deserved. He felt he ought first to reconnoitre the task he was set upon, and he decided to take a walk down one of the avenues along it's whole length. Quite soon the light from the bulb above his desk was no more than a far off twinkle. The shelves were deep in shadowy dusty darkness. He had quite close to his desk that the parquet flooring was covered with a thin layer of dust but here the dust was thick under foot, muffling the sound of his footsteps. Narrow book-lined ravines opened off the main avenue, their upper reaches lost to the eye far above. The twinkle of the light above his desk was gone. He did not remember turning a corner. To be on the safe side he slid a heavy volume down from a shelf and positioned it as a milestone to guide him back. He walked onwards as dust swirled, and clung to his hair and clothes and to his sweat soaked brow. Dust crunched between his teeth and irritated his tongue. There was no sound to be heard other than the slight crunching of his feet as if he were walking on powdered snow. He thought of the men who walked on the moon for the first time, leaving their footprints there for evermore; he thought of the crustacean collectors who walked the primeval estuaries, leaving their fossilised footsteps in the sandstone of an ancient shoreline. Not much chance of his footsteps lasting that long, he thought as he sank up to his ankles into the dust. It filled his socks, it was in his pockets, hanging cobwebs caught in his hair. He ran a finger along the front of a shelf and watched the warm trickle of dust flow silently like an egg timer the floor. The cobwebs were getting denser. He tried to brush it aside but the farther he went the tighter it wrapped itself around him like elastic threads. Grabbing hold of a big fat book he threw it towards the thickest part of the web. The book swung to and fro as if it sank, as if in a hammock. He threw another after it which broke the web and both books fell with a thud into the dust. It seemed like a good time to turn back. Now, however, where he had previously struggled through the web the strands appeared to have closed behind him obliging him to fight harder than before just to go back the way he had come. With no purchase for his feet in the dust he slipped and fell and the weight of the net of dusty cobwebs obliged him to crawl and then slither on his stomach like an eel in wet grass. When he got back to the marker-book on the floor he felt great relief. His relief promptly disappeared when he came to another similar book on a similar cross-point and another after that. 'Master!' he called out but the webbing held in his shriek. Even to draw a breath was an effort. The web held fast to his ankles and pulled at his hair. All this just to catalogue some dry old books that no one was ever going to read! He damned the books, damned the library, damned the city and all who lived in it. And looking up with wild eyes, suddenly noticed a hole in the web. He struggled with difficulty on all fours and forced himself through it as if battling through a blizzard. Gradually the storm abated, he was back on his feet, the wind was dying down. He felt his heart beating hard as he ran the last fifty meters towards light-bulb he saw twinkling at him at the end of the tunnel.

The Du Traheus was poring over the books on the tiny desk, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He hardly looked up as Gregor burst from the tunnel of books and fell head first to the floor at his feet followed by a swirling mass of dust and cobwebs.

'Drink?' asked the librarian casually as he offered Gregor a glass. 'Its rather dusty down there, I'm afraid.'

Gregor grabbed the drink and gulped it down. 'Dusty?' he gasped. 'Have you been to where the nets close in?'

'I know every spider down there personally. They're big brutes too, well, never mind, you obviously didn't meet one.'

Gregor shook his head. 'You've got quite a department here,' he said, brushing the cobwebs from his trousers.

The Du Traheus picked up one of the index cards from Gregor's desk. 'What are these cards?' he asked turning it over in his hand. 'What exactly are you doing?'

'I'm cataloguing the department, sir. One card for every book, one box for every letter of the alphabet. I've already catalogued over five thousand volumes for you.'

'Memory is your best memo,' said the Du Traheus. 'Five thousand, you say?'

'Correct.'

'And you are twenty something?'

'Seven, sir.'

'Well, you'll need to live to be three hundred and fifteen to do them all, in that case.' He replaced the index card on the table. 'I had better not hold you up.'

'Sir,' said Gregor as he squeezed himself behind his desk. 'is all the mythology in the world kept here?'

'No,' answered the Du Traheus. 'Only words are kept here. They try to make me give up the rest but my words come from the North Country. They can't be pinned down between book covers. Our words like to play on the breeze. They congregate in the hollows of streams and fill the ravines. The authorities don't like to think about things like that, now, do they? Could you recognise an adder stone? Do you understand that you're here to help me? Do you?'

'Well,' said Gregor, having understood very little, 'You're the boss.' He held back a yawn. The Du Traheus began lumbering back towards his pulpit. Gregor began leafing through one of the books on his desk. Five thousand in the bag, he thought. Only fifty eight million or so to go, then, if the Du Traheus was to be believed. There must be a better way to make a living. Such boring, repetitive work it was too, cataloguing Mythology. Was that all that these books were about? He started reading about the fairies in their caves who passed their days juggling golden balls and passed their nights wandering the countryside, seen only by children and old people. He saw three golden balls trickling from hand to hand and their colour flowing yellow in a black stream. He heard sharp little voices chirruping and laughing. Between tree trunks of oak he could see their paths weaving across the floor of the forest, and among the moss covered stones that bubbled like green foam. He could hear a river rumbling. In the distance there was a bright gap where the woods seemed to end. As he got nearer he saw fields of pasture swelling under their lattice of walls. He went towards a plume of smoke which came, as he saw presently, from the stone chimney of a farm where hens scratched around the farmyard and ducks waddled. As he knocked the door swung open creakily of its own accord; its base was worn as if chewed by a dog. An old woman wearing a white lace cap and black clothes was ladling broth from a cauldron into the bowl held out by an old man with long grey hair. Gregor sat at the table and was given a bowlful of broth full of potatoes and carrots and swirling steam. Just then a young girl came in, dressed like the old woman, and put two loaves of bread in the middle of the table. When Gregor asked about the fairies and their balls of gold the old man laughed and reached for a volume on the dresser from which he read aloud. Gregor listened to the words flowing from his lips and watched them flutter like butterflies off the page and climb along the bars of the setting sun through the window as the pale blue plates on the dresser flushed orange and the shadows deepened. The words rose and flew towards the sun, black like crows against the red sun. And as the sun sank into the branches of the trees the red eyes of the charcoal winked on the hearth and the glow softly hissed and the voice of the old man grew quite. Slowly Gregor sensed a new presence close to him.

'Sleeping on the job, is it?' Adam Laban poked him spitefully. 'What's the matter with your bed at our place? Has a pea got under your mattress or something?'

'I Dozed off, Adam. I'll work late to make up the lost time...'

'The Du Traheus will pay for this,' said Adam Laban. 'And if it were not for mother holding up for you, you'd be getting it in the neck and all.'

Gregor felt rather ashamed to have been caught out again. He reached for another volume and started to browse through it but could not concentrate. The letters simply swam before his eyes as the words began lifting up off the paper one by one and circling around his head like mistle thrushes following one another around a tree. His eyelids were closing like shutters on shop windows. He found himself standing on a grassy plain with fields and dikes and woodlands all around. Above him a big sun was beating down upon him. It was so hot that every breath burnt his throat. Under foot he could feel the earth was hard and dry. There was no wind or breeze moving through the brambles. From afar there came to him the voices of men, increasing gradually; voices shouting and laughing. The heat was in his nose and throat. He heard feet drumming on the hard earth. Then he saw them. Fifteen, perhaps twenty of them. Some in uniform, others wearing civilian clothes. Bayonets flashed in the sun, automatic rifles clanked against buckles, two men carried a band saw on which the sun glinted. A young man was being frog marched before the mob. His white shirt was open to the waist, his red neckerchief hung loose around his neck. He was trying to keep his balance as the soldiers shoved and kicked him from behind. Sunlight gleamed on bottles that were being passed from hand to hand. The youth stumbled once, and fell; he was grabbed roughly and given a shove that sent him sprawling. The men's voices were muffled by the heat. They were soon out of sight. Gregor stood where he was until he could once again hear the droning of insects above the beating of his own heart. He ventured after them. Something bright caught his eye. He bent to pick up a silver button that lay in the dirt. There was a rustling in the leaves. Perhaps a breeze was getting up. A cloud was preparing to slide across the sun. Was it only he who felt the earth stirring and rising and falling like waves on the sea? He felt his legs were going to give under him and he tried to steady himself by grabbing at the dike but he was falling through the earth's skin with stones and soil flowing down on top of him. His stomach churned; his forehead gave a bang as it struck the desk.

The Du Traheus laughed. 'Up to no good again, I see,' he said rubbing the side of his head. 'Its no wonder that Adam Laban is annoyed. What would he do if he knew you were actually reading the books?'

'I'm sorry,' Gregor apologised. 'I must be tired. Did he hit you?'

'That's nothing new,' said the Du Traheus with a wry smile. 'But listen here, we won't have any books left the way you keep devouring them.'

'How do you mean, sir?'

'Just look,' said the librarian gesturing towards the open book that Gregor had been reading. Gregor jumped to his feet. There was nothing left but plain white paper.

'The words!' said Gregor. 'Where did they go?'

'That's for you to find out,' said the Du Traheus tapping his nose. 'But come, it can wait. I've got rather a nice plum brandy that I would like you to try.'

4

'By the way,' said Gregor as they sipped the plum brandy, 'about what you said about the North Country just now?'

'What about it?' said the Du Traheus.

'Well, its just I've heard a bit about the place. Isn't that where they dress up all old-fashioned like?'

'They do retain a certain attachment to their traditional garb,' said the Du Traheus. 'But the costumes are on the outside. What's much more important are their ancient legends. It would be worth your while hearing their tales. There are only a few left who know them now.' He knocked the edge of his pipe against his ashtray. A far away look was clouding his eyes. Gregor imagined he was probably watching a cloud pass over the North Country about now.

'I take it is important for these tales to be retained?' he asked as he emptied the remains of the bottle into his glass. A variety of soft fruits fell down into the neck of the bottle causing several drops to splash out over the table. Whatever the Du Traheus used as an infusion in his brandy, it certainly gave it a strange taste.

'Of course it's important.' The Du Traheus glared at him. 'What else do you think we're doing here? Don't the authorities insist that we catalogue every last one of them? And I'm told we need to hurry too, before they've all been wiped out. They need the material for some museum, apparently.'

'Aren't you from the North Country yourself?' Gregor felt he needed to get things straight.

'Yes, among other places.' He drew a hand down his beard. 'And a storyteller to boot. I don't mean to boast when I say I could beat the lot of them - except maybe Dail Coed, of course. And just look at me now, the keeper of books in a prison of words.'

'Do you regret stealing their words, then?'

The Du Traheus looked horrified. 'I stole nothing, Gregor. It was me that was stolen, not the words. Mabon does not come close to what I got, and as for that dim-witted Gwair, he doesn't know he was born. No one has got it worse than I have, never was anyone so sorely chained. And do I every minute moaning about it? No, unlike Mabon and Co. I suffer my fate in silence. But here I shall remain, and all for the want of an little adder stone. Of course the words came with me but they won't get them from me no matter how hard they try. And in the meantime, my North Country adder stone is still far away.'

'I thought you were happy here,' said Gregor.

'What's that?' asked the Du Traheus.

'Well, you've always seemed quite contented down here in your underground shell, swigging brandy to your hearts content. Not everyone can live in the past, you know.'

'I'm not everyone,' said the Du Traheus defiantly. 'And this is not the past. Sometimes I can feel like I'm a hundred years ago and sometimes I feel a hundred years hence, even a thousand years, what difference does it make? It's a circle, like rain.'

'Oh, sure it is,' said Gregor raising his glass. 'Here's to the next thousand.' He drained his glass and picked up a book with a fine leather spine. He looked at the Du Traheus through the corner of his eye. 'Am I right in thinking that you need someone to bring you something from the North Country?'

'Who would be my messenger, Gregor? One with black plumage and a yellow beak, perhaps? Or a fleet messenger with neither feet nor wings? No, neither the blackbird or the wind will help me this time, son. I'd be hard pressed to find anyone who'd be man enough for that job. Very bad in the North it is. It’s a backward place at the best of times - got no use for technology, see. No machines, no television, just words. You wouldn't like it there, Gregor. It's well I remember those hills thick with tourists; from the Capital States they were. Come to down to see us with their cameras and their video. They don’t get many tourists in the North Country now, I’ll wager. Who would go to a place like that now it's all shot to hell?’

‘Me, sir.’

‘No one in their right mind would go there now,’ said the Du Traheus firmly. ‘Tourists are a timid breed, Gregor. They used to come a-plenty, like bloody locusts they were, in their air-conditioned coaches. They never seemed to talk to one another very much, maybe that was why they couldn't understand our language. They laughed at our words because they could not use them. When the trouble started they all buggered off back to their air-conditioned coaches. You won’t find a lot of tourist traffic through the mountains tunnels nowadays, Gregor, or over the passes.'

Gregor coughed into his fist. ‘If you want someone to record some fables for you in the North Country, I'm your man.’

‘The North Country?,’ mused the Du Traheus re-lighting his pipe. 'Yes, I remember it well.' He sat back staring into space as if contemplating the geography of his mind.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Gregor.

‘I know what you said, Mr Under-cataloguer,’ said the Du Traheus starting up and gripping the arm of his chair. 'Can't you see I'm busy?' He sank back into his chair. In due course his head began to droop until it sagged to his breast and his breathing turned to snoring. Gregor was already part way through another bottle. It looked like this was going to be a long night. Perhaps there was some more bread and cheese left. He got up to look. The Du Traheus opened his eyes and said 'That will be all.'

'What?' said Gregor.

'You can go now.'

'But what about...'

‘Yes, you can go to the North Country.'

‘I can?’

The Du Traheus got clumsily to his feet and struggled up his pulpit. ‘I’ve got a licence for you somewhere here. Lets see your identity card.' He looked askance at it. 'Is that the best these cowboys can do nowadays?' He tossed it back to Gregor. 'How much does he charge for rubbish like that?’

Gregor told him. The Du Traheus laughed and threw the . ‘Here,’ he said throwing Gregor a new licence. ‘Please don't try crossing any borders with that Mickey mouse plastic you got from the tramp.’

Like Llygad Bwyd's effort this was like a business card encased in plastic, but this time with his own mug-shot embedded in it like a fly in amber. The words GREGOR MARINI: RECORDER OF FABLES. CITY LIBRARY were embedded also, not simply written in crayon. ‘Very impressive,’ he said. 'Where did you pick up the photo? From the security camera?'

'You’ll get more details later,’ said the Du Traheus.

‘Why don't I just write down some details now,’ offered Gregor taking out of his jacket pocket a little address book. It came out between his finger and thumb and between them a silver button round and clean. Gregor turned it over several times between finger and thumb.

The Du Traheus shook his head. 'No, keep those things. You'll them later.'

Gregor looked up. 'OK,’ he said, 'Do you think a tape recorder might be useful?’

‘It would not,’ replied the Du Traheus. ‘All you'd get would be an empty tape. You can't trap their words that easily. Come on, its late. Go home.’

Gregor pocketed his notebook and the silver button.

He was only just blowing on his stew and putting some butter on his bread. A redheaded lad burst in. Gregor recognised this one. Apparently he recognised Gregor too, because he was coming over towards him. Wasn't he the boy who had sent Gregor flying down the stairs?

‘It’s rather unthoughtful of you, Gregor,’ said the boy.

‘What is?’

‘To stay out late like this, without rhyme nor reason or going near your residence all day. I've had to race from valley bottom to hilltop ridge all day looking out for you. It's just not good enough. What right have you got to interrupt their busy schedule. The Office’s messengers are busy enough as it is, Gregor.’ He sat down heavily at Gregor's side and reached over for the bread and butter.

Gregor decided to ignore this impudence. ‘As it happens,' he said, 'I was in my room all afternoon.’

‘I don’t care tuppence for your excuses,’ said the redhead. ‘All I’ll say to you is you better go to your room at once. Even this is more than I should say. I’m doing it to get your co-operation. You better leave this here food and go.’ The readhead glanced up once or twice. He drew the stew towards him and dunked a piece of bread into it.

The red haired youth's appearance had taken away Gregory’s appetite anyway. He hoped the red boy would choke on his stew, Gregor didn't want it. A shudder went through him as he pulled open the door to his room. Cold rooms were not his favourite. He sat on his bed to wait. It was not warm. He was also bloody tired and his eyes hurt. In the end he just got up and went out to look for them. He stuck a bit of candle from the drawer onto a saucer. That proved a waste of time as the draught kept putting it out and he only had a few matches. There might always be a night porter on duty, though. Someone who could tell him what it was about. The house grunted and groaned as it settled down for another cold night. It was not a draught but a wind that blew low along the long corridors. There were steps too.

On one of the upper floor a warm current of air suddenly stroked his cheek. He turned towards it. A little stairwell led off the main corridor downwards. At the foot of the stairwell the carpet hardly covered the wooden boards of the passage that led to a door framed with light. From within came laughter. He stood a moment. Voices were discussing. When he got closer he could see a tall thin man in a tail-coat talking with his back to the door. He kept shaking a piece of paper held in his hand. ‘We’ll call him up presently,’ he said loud enough for Gregor to hear. The man then bent forwards and Gregor saw a little crystal glass sparkle in his gloved hand. Firelight splayed from glass straight into Gregor’s eye. He shifted position and a board creaked underfoot.

The door flew open. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ said the tall thin man. He pocketed his piece of paper. ‘Eavesdropping, is it? Come in here so as I can see who you are... It's him. Better the man who came after a year than the man who never came, is it? I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but you are rather late. Even messengers have given up on you and gone to bed. This will not do.’

Unsure what to say, Gregor stood where he was, on the threshold. A log fire sent warm gushes towards him. Not greatly to his surprise there sat Adam Laban on a leather sofa by the fire. A black-haired, dark-eyed slender girl sat on in his lap. And not particularly trying to draw attention to himself in the corner hunched Llygad Bwyd with his glass held heavily in his hand.

‘Come it and shut the door,’ shouted Adam Laban. ‘And come here too. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, mate.’

Gregor looked about him.

‘Come on in,’ said the girl. 'And welcome.' The flames from the fire reflected on her bracelet. ‘Sit down with me here for a while,’ she said.

Gregor looked up at the tall thin man in the long coat. ‘No chance,’ said the tall man. He pointed Gregor to a hard chair. At least the fire was nice and warm.

‘Let me introduce you, Gregor,’ said the girl, ‘I’m Mwnwgl Wyn.’ She raked her fingers through Adam Laban’s matted hair. 'And of course, you know Adam, don’t you.' She looked up at the tall thin man in the long coat. ‘And this is Sebedeus,’ she said with a sweep of the arm.

The tall thin man made a contemptuous bow towards Gregor and said nothing. Mwnwgl Wyn turned towards the tramp. ‘And of course as we all know this is Llygad Bwyd.’

‘How are you Llygad Bwyd?’ asked Gregor.

‘I don’t know you, you dumb fucker,’ said Llygad Bwyd.

‘Oh, I see.’ Gregor put his hands in his pockets. ‘Well,' he said calmly after a while. 'If I'm late, I'm sorry, is that enough? Look, the message was to wait in my room.’ He noticed Sebedeus give Adam Laban a searching glance. ‘So I wait, right. I'm there freezing cold for ages so I go look for somebody in authority. So obviously it was the messenger who made the mistake, not me.’

Sebedeus continued to stare coldly at Adam Laban.

‘Oh, you scumbag!’ snarled Adam lifting Mwnwgl Wyn off his knee. He walked up to Gregor and put his arms either side of him on the arms of the chair. His sour breath engulfed Gregor. ‘How dare you insinuate that a messenger representing this house got his message wrong! When Mam hears of this! Even she will see through you then! I’ll call for Cochyn Messenger right away so as we can have proof of your lies you lazy unreliable git!’

‘We need not disturb the read-headed one tonight, Adam,’ said Sebedeus carefully. ‘The insinuation is preposterous. It would be a stain on a white steed to give half an ear to such ridiculous nonsense. He tries to pass the blame like it were a parcel. But I’m afraid he’ll find you can't do that in my country.’

‘Thanks, Sebedeus.’ Adam Laban got up. 'Mam and I are grateful for your confidence in us.' He walked up to Gregor. ‘You'll pay for this,' he snarled.

‘He's a stranger,' said Mwnwgl Wyn. 'He didn't understand. Don't be so hard on him Adam. Look, we might as well not fight like this. He can see the messengers tomorrow, what's the panic? In the meantime he’s our guest.' She turned to Gregor. 'Come on now, take a little glass-full with us, Gregor, come closer to the fire.’

Gregor didn’t refuse the glass he was offered. ‘Look, if I’ve messed up your plans then I'm sorry. I didn’t do it voluntarily but out of unfamiliarity.’

‘Unfamiliarity?’ asked Llygad Bwyd.

‘Yes,’ said Adam Laban. ‘He has that a-plenty and....’

‘Mwnwgl Wyn is right,’ broke in Sebedeus. ‘Nothing can be achieved tonight in discussing his case. OK, so its not often it happens. For once the Office messengers are prepared to come back in the morning, so no worries. I'd say Gregor owes Mrs Laban a thank you for arranging for them to wait. But, please, Gregor, would you mind making sure you appear before the Office messengers tomorrow morning at a quarter to please?'

‘Yes, that's fine by me,’ said Gregor nodding amiably towards the company trying to think should he ask where and when exactly. He decided not to and placed his empty glass on the table. ‘Well, if that's all, and with your permission, I’m off to get some sleep before the interview.’

‘At last,’ growled Adam Laban. ‘Now give me your identity card.' Gregor passed him the card he had bought from Llygad Bwyd. 'You'll get this back in the morning,' smiled Adam Laban taking the card. He turned to Llygad Bwyd. 'You used to be so good with these cards,' he said. 'This is shoddy.'

The following morning just before dawn there was a commotion at Gregor’s’ door. Adam Laban stood on the landing pounding the door with his fists and shouting.

‘Get out of bed, you maggot!' he screamed. 'Come on, wake up! You're late again, you asshole, get out of bed!'

Mrs Laban, with arms folded, stood in her dressing gown behind her son.

‘Why don't you just give me the key, Mam?’ pleaded Adam. ‘Why spoil a good door.’

This line of argument seemed to sway her and he handed it over. He turned the key in the lock.

A cold morning met them through the window. The curtains waved briskly at them in the breeze like a hanky from a train window. Paperweighted by some coins on the table was a note and some paper money. Adam rushed to the bed and turned it over. He ripped open the wardrobe while his mother read the note. Adam stuck his head out the window as she pocketed Gregor's remittance.

‘Adam,’ said his mother when he finally climbed down swearing uglily from the window, ‘I don’t ever want to hear you using that word again, do you understand?’

‘Sorry, Mam,’ said Adam.

Sebedeus came into the room. ‘What happened?’ he said.

Adam pointed to the window.

Sebedeus put his head out. He brought it back in again and shook it.

‘What the fuck is he, a fly?’ demanded Adam.

‘Well, he’s not here is he,' said Sebedeus.

'We were watching the door all night, weren't we Mam?' said Adam. 'And anyway, I know where he'll be. I'll catch him!’ He began to chew on his left knuckle. ‘I’ll kill you for this you...’

‘Adam!’ warned Mrs Laban.

Sebedeus pointed his finger at Adam. ‘If you don’t get him back you know what will happen.' His upper lip rose in distaste.

‘I’m not worried.’ Adam Laban's face was taunt as a greyhound’s. ‘I want him too.’ He pushed passed them and ran down stairs. Some moments later the whole house shook under the weight of the slam that he gave to the door.

‘Good morning, Adam,’ said the Du Traheus. He put down his quill pen and pushed his spectacles to the end of his nose.

‘Where is he?’ Adam looked quickly about him.

‘Who exactly, Adam?’ asked the Du Traheus. He got out a piece of blotting paper to dry his nib.

‘Don’t you start,’ screamed Adam Laban. ‘Who but that snake Gregor? You’ll suffer for this, ape-arse, I’m going to tool you up real good when I've sorted out your monkey.’ He threw some chairs and table to one side.

Adam dragged the Du Traheus by the beard to Gregor's desk. ‘Are you going to deny it now, you bearded baboon?’ He pointed to Gregor’s footprints slinking off into the distance. ‘Wanted to protect your protégé, was that it? You are going to be sorry, you untranslatable profanity. But first we get your boy.’

‘Adam!’ shouted the Du Traheus after him, ‘He was never my protégé. Why would want .I wish to protect him? All he did was mess around and play tricks and get in my way. Those are his footsteps. The guilty flees with nobody chasing him, they say. Just follow his footsteps, there's no escape.

The Du Traheus could hear his spluttering and muttering get fainter as he followed Gregor's footsteps away from the pool of light. The Du Traheus scratched his head for a moment. He couldn't hear anything any more. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Oh, by the way, Adam!’ he called. ‘Adam, be careful with the spiders.’ He peered down one of the tunnels of books but there was nothing. ‘Adam!’ he shouted again. He was quite horse shouting and needed a drink. Anyway, they had not been fed for ages, poor huge greedy things. He pulled the cord that worked the light bulb above Gregor's desk.

A light always burned above the pulpit. He got out a bottle of sloe gin. As he opened it the thread of a voice came across the acres of books, like the remains of a scream. He put back the sloe gin. If that was what he thought it was nothing but the green bottle with the china cap would do. ‘Good hunting, Gregor.' He raised his glass.

5

The tram rumbled and clanked along its silver rails. A little mist was curling around the street corners. Gregor picked off bits of paint and plaster from his clothes. The bruised dawn was spreading all around them. Sometimes the sun even threatened to break through the clouds. He was thinking about the black drainpipe and the back yard wall. If nothing else he'd have a good story to tell back home. Whenever that might be. A crack was appearing in the eastern sky. The sun’s finger-tips probed through and snatched a sudden flame from a line of puddles. A tide of rubbish rolled around under his seat. The tram was cheap enough, he supposed, too cheap to bother with a heating system, obviously. When the Tannoy announced his stop he dragged his bag off the rack. After the rolling tram the pavement seemed hard and unyielding. Spats of rain speckled his jacket and his hair. Clouds of white steam rolled out from long black grills along the walls. Men in white coats were hurrying here and there, their aprons spattered red. On their shoulders they heaved split pigs with their skin still steaming. Apparently the station was next to the slaughterhouse district. An oily, fatty smell filled the air. Here and there the yellow lights of cafes broke the shadows. Some squealing pigs were dragged past. From behind a wall he heard the deep lowing of cattle. The cobbled street shone after the shower making the pools of blood stand out darker than the stones. He stepped carefully to avoid the pools as he crossed over to the main entrance. The northern line station was housed in a huge oblong dusty building with windows so grimy that the light from inside was not visible from without. As he pushed the door open he was met by a gush of warm stale air. Why did every railway station have to be smell like this? On the walls were pasted huge paper timetables. He tried to make sense of the tiny lines of print.

Giving up on the timetables he joined a queue. The person in front of him seemed to be discussing a fabulously complicated itinerary with the clerk in a mutually unintelligible language and disputing the correct fare. Just when Gregor was deciding to join a different queue the person in front of his moved away and the green light came on indicating that it was Gregor's turn. He walked up and spoke into the microphone.

‘What?’ asked the clerk. His head and shoulders could vaguely be seen moving to and fro inside his cage.

‘As far as she goes,’ repeated Gregor into the mouth-piece. 'North.'

The clerk bent towards the grill. ‘North, you say?’

‘Is there a problem?’

The clerk laughed. ‘Been there before, have you?’

‘Yes,’ lied Gregor.

‘Place your travel documents in the tray.’

Gregor placed his library card into the trough.

‘OK,' confirmed the Clerk. 'North it is then. All the way. That’ll be seven hundred million five hundred thousand and ten in local currency or seven dollars if you're paying with foreign notes.’

Gregor placed a ten dollar bill in the tray.

When it opened again his ticket and library card lay in it. ‘What about my change?’ demanded Gregor.

‘You said you'd been before,’ said the Clerk pressing the green light.

‘Yes, but...’

'So you know what hap