Free See How They Run by Lloyd Jones

ridiculous passes at the women – all of them, indiscriminately, even the grandmothers: he was a natural magical realist. He went to their tables at dusk with rosebuds in slender vases, he lit their cigarettes, he indulged in crazy episodes of tap dancing as he carried the plates, he sang Tyrolean love songs from the windows above, he even brought out his fiddle on special occasions, swept around the place playing gypsy music and ogling the ladies close up with incredibly mournful eyes.
    And the food, ah, the food was out of this world. Seafood a house speciality, but the a la carte menu was huge and catholic, a high church liturgy for a swelling congregation. It was just a hobby to Big M; just another string to his bow. But he was booked up every night, and soon enough he’d garnered a Michelin star and a great review in the Sunday Times . The chief ape himself, A.A. Gill, had declared that the food was much too good to be served so proximate to the dark ugly trolls who lurked just over the border.
    And so it went on, a new paradise on earth was created by the four of them, but it didn’t go on for long enough. That old human worm, envy, crawled around the gutters of Hereford and spoke in many ears, whispering who is this man who wears his blue suede shoes in bed, seduces your wives and daughters, wriggles his hips and says he’s a love god? Why do our burghers crowd his tables, laugh in his sunny courtyard, go home with their wives to love again after years of cold indifference?
    Soon, a brick sailed through one of the front windows. A few scenes occurred in the courtyard, staged by paid thugs. It was happening all over again, but no threatening gunshot was needed this time round. Customers were melting away and worse was to come, said the rumours. Bad stuff: a knife in the dark, or fire through the letterbox. Pryderi stowed his Beretta in his sock again. Ziggy started to chain smoke. Rhiannon doodled pictures of horses on napkins and dropped plates in the kitchen. It couldn’t go on.
    Pryderi was mad with rage. He wanted to fight fire with fire; he wanted to take them on at their own game. He prodded Big M, urged him on with fighting talk. But to no avail. Big M wasn’t having any of it, his fighting days were over. Last thing I need is a spell in the cooler. Maybe he was ready for a change anyway. Cooking all day could get boring, and there wasn’t much time to chill. Big M spread his hands wide, shrugged his shoulders, and said: ‘Let’s move on. What’s the point? Trouble breeds trouble, anyway I’ve had enough of small-town people with small-town minds. The river’s getting colder, autumn’s on the way. Let’s crack on, let’s have a nice easy time for a while, see some places and watch the leaves fall.’
    Infuriated, Pryderi gave in, sold the place for a song, and had the Bentley serviced.
    Soon they were gone.

    Lou read the story till his eyes ached, then went for lunch in the students’ caff downstairs. Tray in hand, he looked around for someone to sit with, but all eyes seemed to be elsewhere, anywhere except where he was standing. Again he felt isolated, and soon he was morose too. His sandwich tasted artificial and his too-hot coffee came in a false styro-mug. Nothing felt real any more. Even the students around him had an ersatz quality about them, a submissive Stepford Wives blandness. Perhaps they were the Stepford children. Modern education had reduced the world to twelve incontrovertible bullet points, and the rest of the universe fitted neatly onto a Facebook page. Any restlessness was quickly numbed by a limitless flow of celebrity trivia. Christ, it was depressing. But he himself was a product of the same system. How much more exacting were his methods? Not nearly as good as Dr Dermot Feeney’s, who’d actually gone out and found some of Big M’s relatives. Yes, he’d got the story straight from the horse’s mouth. Or maybe the cat’s. Feeney had traced one of Big M’s cousins,