What could it have been about? First one police car then a second and then a big van load of them, their blue light flashing all the way down Great Darkgate Street. Then they all got out and went to a flat along Northgate Parade, pressing the bell first before they all filed in. This sleepy town where nothing much happens except the occasional drunk student throwing up outside The Angel. What do you think? I asked him at breakfast. A drugs haul? Raid, he said, and no, they wouldn’t have rung the doorbell first but bashed in the door. Perhaps they are more solicitous here.

Two of them were just leaving the flat when I walked past on my way home. A female officer was the last to come out and I watched as she gently pulled the door to. Who knows? Better watch out for The Cambrian News then, he said.

It was his funeral last week. A private affair. I understand that. This town can feel like it owns people. It would be the same with him. My decision, our decision will thwart them. They won’t be happy, those professional mourners with their black ties and black suits ever ready. They must’ve reached their decision as to the cause of death. Let it lie now. People still speculate. I hope I didn’t add to it. I didn’t want to. I still think of him. Rest in peace.

The work was done, though my laptop started to go haywire. She will need to be seen to. Not yet, please God, not yet. Let me finish what needs to be done, first. Please.

Still dark. So dark. Dark upon dark. A trace, a hint of blue. We talked of Spring on the escalator and then a man, a postman, was behind us, our intimacy laid bare. I felt exposed. I would’ve hung back. I forgive him.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.