reached the services on the road back to Cardiff, the weather was closing in again, visibility low, the rain turning to driving sleet. Her heavy bike was slipping in the slicks left by the trucks, her leathers soaked through by their spray. She decided to pull in, stay the night.
She parked and peered at her phone. She’d found Huw Powell’s number the old way, in the telephone directory. She’d left two messages already, but still no reply.
The café area at the back was brilliantly lit up, but there was no one in sight. Next to the door, a jukebox – a replica fifties model – was playing a medley of Tom Jones hits. She’d heard them so many times it was like walking into silence.
She helped herself to a coffee from the counter, sat by the window. The dimly lit car park was empty. Down at the pumps, a single figure was filling a heavy-goods truck. The only other sign of life came from a television, the screen covered with weather warnings. A notice showed that all ferry services out of Fishguard had been cancelled. On the ticker she saw the bad weather had closed many smaller roads along the coast in the far west.
The truck driver went over to a booth. She’d noticed the truck had come from the west, a Cardigan address on the side, its roof dripping with melting ice.
She caught the man’s eye. ‘How is it out in the far west?’
She could hear him chuckling under his breath, making the gurgling sound typical of a heavy smoker.
‘That area’s been cut off best part of a week already,’ he said.
Next to the shop the door led through to a motel section, a recently built, no-frills Travelodge. Beside the empty reception desk, a swipe machine took her card details, then spat out a key into a plastic receptacle.
The maroon theme that dominated the reception area had been continued in the rooms. The furnishings looked barely used, but old all the same.
The lights along the walkway outside were tripping off automatically, the night closing in. All that was visible outside was a lone figure in a parka at the pumps filling an old van.
Sitting on the bed she opened the bag she used to store her CDs, the top covered with stickers from Spillers Records in Cardiff, now faded and peeling.
Though she’d never cared much for Seerland and Owen Face, she knew she still had some of their early stuff. Rhys had given to her the compilation way back in the mid-Nineties, the second year they’d been together.
She switched on her Mac and settled back on the bed.
The first track was one of Seerland’s early numbers. She closed her eyes as she listened to the opening bars. First came the strumming of the balalaika, then the bass notes that drove the track forward. Then Face’s cracked voice gradually filling the room like an ancient scent seeping from a broken bottle.
It was a song to be listened to in the depths of the night when even the world’s insomniacs had drifted off to sleep. It’d been what Rhys liked to hear on night surveillance shifts, the trip-hop’s unearthliness drifting out of his car stereo. She’d gone with him sometimes, to allay the boredom, getting her first taste for police work.
It had been the same routine every night, the same faces, every hour or so a runner bringing through the stones bagged up for sale by the boys on the corners. There wasn’t much to do to pass the time except listen to music, or talk, or not talk.
She’d reach across and hold his hand, or lie with her face buried in his chest, nothing more than that, just lie there, forgetting herself in him, her shallow breathing merging with his until she could no longer hear her own breaths.
Sometimes she’d sense him shrinking away from her, the first sign that there were parts of him she’d never reach, bowing his head over the box where he stored his chocolate bars, the sheets of paper he used to make his origami birds. Acting as if she wasn’t there at all.
She went to the track which had made Seerland famous, one of the
She parked and peered at her phone. She’d found Huw Powell’s number the old way, in the telephone directory. She’d left two messages already, but still no reply.
The café area at the back was brilliantly lit up, but there was no one in sight. Next to the door, a jukebox – a replica fifties model – was playing a medley of Tom Jones hits. She’d heard them so many times it was like walking into silence.
She helped herself to a coffee from the counter, sat by the window. The dimly lit car park was empty. Down at the pumps, a single figure was filling a heavy-goods truck. The only other sign of life came from a television, the screen covered with weather warnings. A notice showed that all ferry services out of Fishguard had been cancelled. On the ticker she saw the bad weather had closed many smaller roads along the coast in the far west.
The truck driver went over to a booth. She’d noticed the truck had come from the west, a Cardigan address on the side, its roof dripping with melting ice.
She caught the man’s eye. ‘How is it out in the far west?’
She could hear him chuckling under his breath, making the gurgling sound typical of a heavy smoker.
‘That area’s been cut off best part of a week already,’ he said.
Next to the shop the door led through to a motel section, a recently built, no-frills Travelodge. Beside the empty reception desk, a swipe machine took her card details, then spat out a key into a plastic receptacle.
The maroon theme that dominated the reception area had been continued in the rooms. The furnishings looked barely used, but old all the same.
The lights along the walkway outside were tripping off automatically, the night closing in. All that was visible outside was a lone figure in a parka at the pumps filling an old van.
Sitting on the bed she opened the bag she used to store her CDs, the top covered with stickers from Spillers Records in Cardiff, now faded and peeling.
Though she’d never cared much for Seerland and Owen Face, she knew she still had some of their early stuff. Rhys had given to her the compilation way back in the mid-Nineties, the second year they’d been together.
She switched on her Mac and settled back on the bed.
The first track was one of Seerland’s early numbers. She closed her eyes as she listened to the opening bars. First came the strumming of the balalaika, then the bass notes that drove the track forward. Then Face’s cracked voice gradually filling the room like an ancient scent seeping from a broken bottle.
It was a song to be listened to in the depths of the night when even the world’s insomniacs had drifted off to sleep. It’d been what Rhys liked to hear on night surveillance shifts, the trip-hop’s unearthliness drifting out of his car stereo. She’d gone with him sometimes, to allay the boredom, getting her first taste for police work.
It had been the same routine every night, the same faces, every hour or so a runner bringing through the stones bagged up for sale by the boys on the corners. There wasn’t much to do to pass the time except listen to music, or talk, or not talk.
She’d reach across and hold his hand, or lie with her face buried in his chest, nothing more than that, just lie there, forgetting herself in him, her shallow breathing merging with his until she could no longer hear her own breaths.
Sometimes she’d sense him shrinking away from her, the first sign that there were parts of him she’d never reach, bowing his head over the box where he stored his chocolate bars, the sheets of paper he used to make his origami birds. Acting as if she wasn’t there at all.
She went to the track which had made Seerland famous, one of the
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