Free Star Shot by Mary-Ann Constantine

loop, I mean: not the M . And finally, the single word: Parade .
    How about we get the schoolchildren to hold hands round the building and sing? Phoebe is as button-bright as ever.
    I thought the idea was to keep everyone moving? says someone else. We don’t want them to get trampled.
    Yes, it’s a parade, remember; everyone needs to keep marching, singing, yelling, whatever…
    Should they all be singing from the same hymn sheet? asks Aslan. Metaphorically, I mean.
    Why metaphorically? It wouldn’t be a bad idea – ddim yn ffôl o gwbl t’wbod. Beth am Calon Lân?
    Not multicultural enough? Luke sounds faintly apologetic.
    Ond mae pawb yn hoffi Calon Lân! We could have the Merthyr Male Voice…
    Colliery bands!
    No, no, says Aslan: I think we need to be more angry : more in your face, I mean in its face, you know what I mean. Like punk, or Pussy Riot, or the early days of Brith Gof. We should bang things. Car doors. Oil drums.
    That sounds satisfyingly medieval. Charivari .
    Mari Lwyd!
    The lot, throw the lot at it. Dylan as well, full blast. A hundred drama students all reciting Under Milk Wood . Or wait, ‘Do Not Go Gentle’, even better. That should finish it off. The Death of Silence.
    The professor flexes a hand and gets to his feet and writes a beautiful black M on the whiteboard; then draws a fluent loop around it, with an arrow to show the direction of travel, clockwise. Underneath, he writes the words: Fill it with noise. Above, in a firm hand, he writes Cacoffoni Cymru : Wales Wails . There is a wholly spontaneous cheer.
    30.
    Luke is in the Kitty O’Shea, with his second pint of something that is still, after seven years, slightly too authentic for him. He will get there. He loves this place, this country, too much not to acquire its tastes. He is working, sort of, on a précis of the Parade meeting, and dipping in and out of the most recent maps of the silence, and sending a few emails to get ahead of himself for more meetings tomorrow. But he wishes he had someone real to sit next to. The noise levels surge and fall around him, like waves on shingle. It isn’t a young crowd, in here. And mostly men. Some in suits, maybe with a journalist amongst them. Some scruffier ones, laughing at each other, trading insults. One curious pair, a man and a woman, talking with a kind of starry intensity; others sitting together in the kind of social British silence he has yet to figure out. It feels warm in here, it feels good; there is some undefinable Irish-sounding music washing out from the back. He looks at the portraits of Kitty and Parnell, facing each other bravely from opposite walls. He raises his glass to them both, he wishes them luck.
    After a while he comes to realise that the person he would most like to share this drink with is Dan. Which is a non-starter, of course, it being dark and cold and past nine, and the Kitty O’ Shea not being a suitable venue for a toddler. He starts to text a cheerful, slightly laboured message, about meeting up soon, and how he has news to report, and how he hopes they’re doing fine … and then, suddenly, he stops texting and presses call.
    The place is much too noisy for this, he thinks, too late, and presses one hand over his other ear, and leans forward looking pained. He can hardly hear whether it is ringing or not at the other end, and wonders, in a rush of regret at his own impulsiveness, if he’ll be able to hear anything even if Dan does pick up. Which he doesn’t.
    Luke puts the phone down on the table rather sadly, and has another sip of beer, and wonders if it might in fact be off, and wonders how you’d ever know. And he is just thinking about the best way to finish and send the original cheery text when the phone starts ringing.
    Dan sounds utterly panicked.
    What’s happened? He says. What is it?
    Luke clamps his hand over his free ear.
    Nothing’s happened. I just wanted to … ah