Candlenight by Phil Rickman Read Free Book Online Page A

was in
Colwyn flamin' Bay . . . Anybody ever been to Colwyn Bay?"
        "Called in once, but it
was closed." Charlie Firth said.
        "Bloody Welsh," one
of the newcomers said. "Frogs, Krauts, Eyeties—I can get along with all of
'em. but the bloody Welsh . . ."
        "Right." Giles was on
his feet, swaying. freckles ablaze. "I've fucking had enough of
this." He was very angry and began to extricate himself from the table.
"Bigoted, racist
bastards . . ."
        "No, mate, they're the
racists," Ray Wheeler of the Mirror said gleefully. "The Welsh. Ever since we beat the brown stuff out of 'em
back in, when was it, I dunno, Edward the First and all that."
        "Piss off" Giles
snarled, and slammed his glass down so hard that it cracked in two places.
Giles being Giles, he paid for it on his way out.
        Berry hesitated a moment, then
followed him.

 

    Chapter VII
     
    Giles had been pacing the pavement under a mild summer drizzle. As Berry
came up behind him he swung round murderously. Berry swiftly put a lamp-post
between them.
        "Who the hell's
that?" Giles said.
        Berry stepped out from behind
the post.
        "Oh," Giles said.
"You."
        "Yeah."
        "If it was that fucking
Firth I was going to—"
    "Sure."
        Giles grinned, white teeth
flashing in the headlight of a Bentley whispering somebody home. "Bit
pissed. Those bastards." He pushed fingers through his heavy fair hair.
"Feel a bit of a prat now, actually. Shouldn't have let them wind me up.
Shouldn't have gone for old Winstone like that. Not like me. Am I very
pissed?"
        Berry looked him up and down.
"Smashed outta your skull," he said.
        Giles laughed. "You're
probably quite a decent guy, Berry, for an American. You didn't say anything
bad Wales."
        "That's because I never
went there, Giles. It most likely is the armpit of Britain."
    "Bastard."
    "Sure."
        The pub door opened and Giles
swung round again in case it was somebody he felt he ought to hit. Ted Wareham,
of the Independent, came out grasping
a bottle of Scotch and didn't notice them.
        "So you're leaving us,
Giles," Berry said.
        Giles said, rather wearily,
"I don't know. Don't know what to do. For a while I've been looking around
thinking it's time I moved on. Where do you go? It's a trap."
        "Trap?"
        "The money for one
thing," Giles said. "We moan sometimes, but, bloody hell, where else
can you collect on this scale in our job? Plus, it's an addictive sort of life.
Policing the Great and Good, or whatever it is we do. But the thought of
spending another thirty years around this bit of London, drinking with the same
blokes, getting older at shabbier and ending up, at best, as some lovable father
figure with a face full of broken veins and a knackered liver . . ."
        "That wouldn't happen to
you. Giles." Berry said, meaning it. "You're not in that mould."
    "What's that mean?"
    Berry shrugged.
        "Anyway I reckon we've
been thrown a lifeline, Claire and me. To pull us out of our complacency. Just
came out the blue. Something we'd just never thought of. We drove out there—couple
of weeks ago—first thing in the morning. Quite a grey morning, everything
really drab. But by the time we got there it was a gorgeous day, and it got
better and better. And we found the cottage almost straight away just as if we
were being guided. Up the street, over the bridge, past the church, along this
shady country lane and there it was. I felt—"
        Giles hugged the lamp-post in a
burst of passion, then pulled away. "Bloody beer. This is not like me, not
like me at all. You'll go back in there and tell them what I said and all have
a fucking good laugh."
        "Aw, Giles, come on . .
."
        "Sorry, sorry ... an
injustice."
        "Those guys didn't even
notice me leave, 'cept for Winstone. So what did you feel?"
    "What?"
        "When you saw the place.
What did you