The monument of a thousand radio plays

and midnight angry violent arguments in which the host would

invariably

find the stirring spoon such a joyous toy in which to thrill his sterile wife

who listened in to make sure he was really at work,

was barely visible

as David Owen, former prison inmate of a town near Prestatyn,

former, yet not reformed, alcoholic like his father,

former fighter, brawler and unreformed gambler, better, debtor

like his mother and a thief of uneasy time, as well as the odd

two thousand pounds here and there as well as from everywhere else,

stood shabbily upright on this new town’s platform and smiled.

David Owen, daft David, despicable David, Dai the drunken Dick

smiled and felt safe for the first solitary time in months.

Having never paid for his crimes against the town,

never once,

having to apologise for being the man he was,

his life had suddenly become dire, he no longer

was able to shine

when the past caught up with him.

His briefcase and backpack, one shabby, beaten, no good to him now;

the other might just keep

him alive and contained the last of the money he had

stolen from the new bookmaker in town,

pompous, arthritic and as lame as the

horses he gave exceptional odds on and the odd football scandal that was

nothing of course to do with him.

He knocked back the last of foul tasting ginger concoction

and broke wind, placed the can into the black bag being carried

by the woman in the blue, dark blue vest and who didn’t notice him

but thought lovingly of her bed instead

and wantonly of the man

she had left tied up to the metal posts.

He had gotten away with it, the crime against the new town’s bookmaker

was worth the damage done and the town would not long be mad at him.

Dive down Dai

he whispered as the sound of the next departing train was

announced, For once you have money, legal money,

money not made by causing misery to others.

Funny money no longer David.

Through the late August mist, past the revellers, the shoppers, the mass

of hysteria, past the sound of a pair of strutting seagulls

mocking him with

laughter,

raising their beaks in delight at his plight and

misfortune to choose the town in which to run to in which

the bookmaker knew everybody before he took semi-retirement

in the solace of the Welsh hills and the ease of counting

other people’s money.

David Owen saw the man at the end of the platform nine

and recognised the shape of a well

-used gun under the camel-tanned coat

that had seen better days.

All had been for nought

nothing could he do but hand over some of the money

plead for his life and promise to get the rest back

obviously with interest.

In that

moment

he knew

He would be forever Dai Owen.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014.