AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see blog: The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.
In the previous episode, Constable Painting patrols the CIA with his dog sniffer dog as Erm interrogates a barmaid. Red leather shoes (Italian, size 9) are worn. We return now to Dddwwchlyff and the call girl…

The Cardiff Grandma Chapter 8

When Ddwwchllyff made his half-hearted attempt at small talk to cover his unease at becoming poorly drawn by asking if microchip technology was incredible, Miss Cassleberry wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at but decided it would be best to play dumb. She smiled broadly and sweetly. “Umm”. Though sketchy, he was still awfully close to the chest. She rose from the desk – the desk in the library not the desk in the room with the grand piano where the Hamilton’®s gin and tonic was kept. “My, I think I’ll stroll into the next room and see if there’s still fog outside that window after all these days.”

It was easy to lose track of time in the fog. But Ddwwchllyff had instructed her in the use of yet another invention. Taking advantage of the natural seven day characteristic of weeks, he’d created a two-dimensional matrix of squares. Each square represented exactly one day and all identically named days were conveniently stacked vertically. Adding date numbers into the squares sequentially horizontally produced a foolproof “map” of a month and those privy to the system could easily decode the date and day at a glance. Though it be dark as night for weeks on end, so long as Ddwwchllyff ticked off each passing day when the clock struck twelve he’d know what day it was. It was surprising how disoriented one could get – he himself found it surprising that four days had passed and it only ‘felt like’ two…He’d taught Miss Casselberry the system in a careless moment, and now he wished he hadn’t. He could have utilized that time more productively. He never practiced the piano anymore and his aper aping technique needed honing.

To make up for lost time, he mimicked Miss Casselberry’s mincing stilettos into the other room. Swigging the gin and tonic from the top the grand piano, an awkward but sloppy habit, he became less drawn, more realistic. Miss Casselberry politely pretended sudden interest in his desk, the one Wolfcastle had earlier rifled, where unopened envelopes lay strewn across one corner of the desk and a postcard from “Sunny Quito” had been given pride of place in the middle.

“Sunny Quito!” she exclaimed “Do you know him too?”

“You know Sunny?! Where do you know Sunny from?” Dddwwchllyff asked, amazed.

“Ecuador.”

“Ecuador! Oh my god – me too. When were you there?”

“’97. I’d been swept up in the white slave trade and was working in a brothel.”

“Oh my god! Me too! Which one?”

“That one in the capital, above the travel agency in la Avenida del Camino.”

“I was right across from you – do you realize we might have met? This is incredible!”

“Not as incredible as microchip technology,” Miss Casselberry smiled broadly, “Now that’s incredible!”

“Sunny Quito. Do you know he’s in Luxembourg now?” Dddwwchllyff posed rhetorically.

“Now I do, yes. It’s where the postcard’s from. About that microchip technology you were using to conceal your embarrassment – may I borrow it for a minute?”

“Yes, yes of course. And look out that Revolving window© while you’re at‚ it. It may have cleared up.” He strode into the library shutting the door behind him, as was his wont. He always did these things in the exact same order. He was, in some ways, very predictable, even too predictable.. making him ironically easy to pose as.

She skipped over to the Revolving window©, another of Dddwwchllyf’s inventions. It was cleverly designed to let a constant flow of light and air into a room. The really clever bit was that it also worked at night too…and in fog!