Or perhaps it wasn't them at all. She didn't trust her own perceptions any more.
This morning she had been lo County Hall in Carmarthen to see an assistant in the office of the Director of Education. She had asked for Roy Phillips, who was nice and had helped her in the past and who could he relied upon at least to give her a sympathetic hearing. But Roy had taken early retirement, she'd been told. They'd sent her a chisel-faced young man with rimless glasses, like a junior officer in the gestapo, and she hadn't known where to begin.
Eventually, Bethan had made herself say it, and the junior officer had leaned back in his leather swivel chair and blinked.
"Mrs. McQueen… I hardly know how to react. Have you discussed this with the parents?"
"No. They would, naturally, object strongly. Parents always do."
He was looking urbane and half-amused. They were speaking Welsh.
"I confess, this is the first time such a proposition has ever been put to me by a head teacher. I find it rather extraordinary."
"The circumstances are fairly unique. The village is very enclosed. Too self… self-absorbed. I've been convinced for some time that the children need exposure to a wider culture. All I am asking is that it should go on the next list. That the possibility should be debated at county level."
"You are aware that this was mooted some years ago, when we were particularly short of money." He had probably still been at university at the time, Bethan thought. "And there was an enormous row. If you remember, the committee decided that this was a good school with a terrific record… And, of course, there was the question of transportation in winter."
"I remember, but…"
"And now, with the roll approaching a reasonably healthy level for a rural area, the prospect of fifty pupils in a year or two, you come here — one of our, ah, brightest head teachers — to say you think your school should be closed down."
"Yes." Bethan had stuck out her jaw, determined. "I don't think it's educationally viable. I used to believe in small schools. I no longer consider them valid. Not this one anyway."
"Extraordinary," he said. "You would be putting yourself out of a job."
"Yes."
"I think you should put all this in writing. Mrs. McQueen."
Oh God, Bethan thought. What am I doing here? He thinks I'm off my head.
The education official was peering at her over his glasses in the manner of a far older and more experienced man.
Bethan hated him already.
"I'm wondering," he said, "if there isn't something more to all this. How do you get on with the other teacher? Mrs. Morgan, isn't it?"
"I am sorry to have troubled you." Bethan said tightly, in English. "You are right. Perhaps I'll put this in writing to the Director."
"It would be best."
She'd left then, her dignity in shreds. She hadn't gone back to the school. Could not face Buddug — who, she felt, would know exactly where she had been and why.
Bethan had gone straight home — just over an hour's drive — where she'd thrown her coat on the settee, put the kettle on and was plugging in the electric fire when the phone rang. It was a welfare adviser in the education department, a woman she knew slightly. They had wasted no time.
"We think you should take two or three weeks off."
"Oh?"
"You've obviously had a very stressful time lately. Finding that body. And the man who… Why don't you go and see your doctor? Gel him to give you something to help you relax. Some of us thought you went back to work rather too soon after your husband died."
"What about the school?"
"Don't worry about that, We've spoken to Mrs. Morgan, and offered her a relief teacher. But she says that can manage very well on her own."
The phone shook in Bethan's hand.
They had rung Buddug. Well, of course they had. They must have rung her within minutes of Bethan leaving Carmarthen. She could almost hear the shrill babble over the phone… '"Oh, the poor girl… yes, very, very sad, I have tried to help her, but it has all been getting on top of her… No, indeed. I don't think she is good for the children in this slate, not at all… Perhaps a different post somewhere would be the answer…"
Bethan had flung her coat back on and walked around and around the town in the dark, feeling like a ghost condemned to an endless circuit. Well, she had to do it. She had to try. Now there was nothing left to try. She'd returned to the flat over the bookshop and made strong tea, her final bitter refuge.
Standing in the window now, watching the town filling up with strangers. New life out there.
Finding that body. And the man who…
… had been lying face-down among a scattering of books. Black books. Hands frozen like claws. Hands which had torn the book's from the shelves in a frenzy, nail marks scored down black spines.
Morgan had turned him over with one hand, effortless. His bloodless lips pulled back in a snarl. Eyes glazed-over but still screaming. How could eyes scream? Bethan had turned her head away and run from the house. Ran down the path, between the sycamores, leaving the iron gate swinging behind her.
Oh, Giles.
Oh, God.
"Where'd the guys go?"
He was addressing the Nationalist candidate, Evans. Nobody else in the bar he recognised, apart from a couple of MPs drinking Scotch and examining a map. "Buggered if I know, Keith." one of the MPs was saying. "By tomorrow night. I'll have done my stint, so I couldn't care less."
"Charlie and Ray," said Guto, "and young Gary…have gone for a meal. I recommended the Welsh Pizza House." He grinned malevolently. "Serve them right."
Berry Morelli noticed how Guto's beard split in half when he grinned. The guy looked like some kind of caveman.
"American, eh?' Guto said.
"Sure am." Berry said, like an American. "Just great to be in your wunnerful country." he added wearily.
"Yes, I bet" said Guto. "You want to ask me any questions before I get too pissed?"
"No," said Berry, who wasn't expected to file a story the following day, unless something happened — and Addison Walls's definition of "something" usually meant several people dead.
"Good," said Guto. "Bloody shattered, I am. I think I shot my mouth off again."
"I thought that was what politics was about."
Clearly less inhibited in the presence of someone who was neither English nor Welsh, Guto affected a drawling English accent " 'Seeaw! Tell us about yourself, Guto! Why does it say in your Press handout that you're only a part-time lecturer?'" His voice sank bitterly. "Because this is Wales, pal. I could only get a full-time lecturer's job in England."
"You wanna drink?" said Berry.
"Aye, why the devil not. Pint of Carlsberg? What can you say, eh? One day in politics and I've had it up to the bloody eyeballs."
"One day in politics is a long time, buddy."
"You know what else they asked me? What was the name of the rock and roll hand I played bass guitar with? What was the name of the flaming band? Why the hell would they want to know that?"
"You really are new to this game, aren't you?" said Berry.
"Is it that bloody obvious?"
"They had to know the name of the band so they could have it checked out in the morgue."
Guto looked mystified.
"Most members of most rock bands." Berry said patiently, "have stuff in their past that doesn't lie down too easy with a career in politics. Like getting busted for dope, smashing up hotel rooms. Yeah?"
"Ah… right," said Guto. "But no. Not me. Once got busted for Woodbines in the school lavatories. I did. But drugs, no."