The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  I wonder if Aled’s Grannie Gwen will be at church tomorrow? She never misses. She’ll probably go to pray for Aled. If I go, I could ask her what she knows when I see her there. That would be good. Mam and Nan have been watching me every minute since Aled got dragged away, so I haven’t been able to get over to his house at all. Yes, maybe I can talk to his gran in church.

  Alright, I’ll get up really early to go for a walk up on the hill, then I’ll do what Nan told me and go to church, but I’ll use the opportunity for my own ends.

  Shove that in your pipe and smoke it, Nan.

  17th February

  Helen

  Sitting on the edge of her bed massaging her feet, Helen wondered, I was worried about Mum getting old, but what about me? She cursed herself for not having put the special arch supports she’d invested in into her pub clogs that afternoon. As she rubbed and twirled her swollen ankles, she noticed how the condensation in the room was starting to get a bit out of hand; it often did as the colder months wore on.

  The pub might have been built to withstand everything the elements could throw at it, but that meant the moisture created inside didn’t have a chance to escape. She’d have to give the walls a good wipe down in the morning, and leave the tiny window open as often as possible to air the place out.

  Best to catch it before the mold sets in, she told herself. But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight, I think I’ll sleep well; I’m tired enough.

  It had been a strange, and challenging day. She tried to sort through it for her own peace of mind.

  When she and Sadie had left for church that morning the dragon’s breath had been really thick. Helen reckoned people who didn’t live in Rhosddraig couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like when the mist rolled down from the moors, and the entire area was bathed in the eerie light that filtered through the thick, swirling eddies of milky air.

  It was magical, but not in a good way.

  She’d grown up hearing older villagers spouting dire warnings about the effects of the dragon’s breath, and – over the years – it was true there’d been some nasty smashes on the road, and people had fallen and hurt themselves quite badly when it was at its worst. In the daytime, the entire landscape would disappear, terrifying her when she was a child; there’d be no Dragon’s Back, no Vile, no village, and no moors or cliffs. But Helen knew the sayings went back a long way, and had real menace in them, telling of times when people would disappear into the fog, never to be seen again – because the dragon had breathed on them, then the devil had taken them.

  Helen didn’t ever like leaving the pub completely unattended, but on Sunday mornings it had to be done. She’d especially hated leaving her safe cocoon that morning – the pub had smelled lovely when she locked up; she’d already roasted half a dozen chickens, and the beef was in the oven ready for the lunchtime crowd.

  Outside, it was as though the seaweed down on the beach had somehow found its way up to the village; there was a pungent, unpleasant smell in the air. Every sound was deadened by the fog. Sadie hadn’t been in a particularly talkative mood, which was good, because Helen suspected she couldn’t have coped with the chatty version of her daughter. And hanging over her was the dreadful fear that maybe Bob was somewhere close by, waiting to pounce on her, and her child.

  It didn’t help matters that the nervous tension in the church was palpable, especially when Gwen Beynon arrived. Helen’s mother stared daggers at her, and the poor woman was ignored by almost everyone. Helen’s heart had lifted when Sadie went to help Gwen get her hymn book, and sort out a kneeler. She’s a good girl, thought Helen.

  Sadie even had a little chat with Gwen, who looked as though she’d aged a decade over the previous couple of days. Helen hadn’t been surprised; she couldn’t imagine what Gwen must be going through.

  As she contemplated the situation, Helen had to admit to herself she’d never thought badly of Aled; but then told herself the police wouldn’t have taken him away if they didn’t have a good reason. She was glad he’d only given that Valentine’s card to Sadie as a laugh, out of friendship; it would be dreadful if he’d been her boyfriend. She was grateful Sadie hadn’t formed an attachment to a boy who might turn out to be a killer.

  Helen plumped the pillow beneath her head. She hoped Sadie would make better choices of men in her life than she had. She’d never forgive herself for having been so stupid about Bob. But how could she have known? He’d been so charming, so wonderful when they’d met, and even for about a year after the wedding. What had made him change so much? She’d never known then, had spent countless hours thinking about it, so wasn’t likely to have a breakthrough now, she told herself.

  In her chat rooms, people talked about patterns of behavior being passed from one generation to another, but Helen supposed she must be the outlier in her family, because her mother couldn’t have picked a better man as a husband than her dad. I miss you, Dad. He’d always told Helen to keep her head and her temper, and her marriage would all be alright. Well, Dad, it wasn’t, but I know what you meant. If her mother had been able to pick a good man, how on earth had she managed to get it so totally and utterly wrong? And would Sadie pick the wrong boy too?

  As her thoughts returned to her daughter, Helen recalled the moment that morning when they were halfway through singing the first hymn and the door to the church had banged open. The dragon’s breath had twisted its way into the nave, and there, in the midst of it, stood Aled, looking like an abandoned child, with tears running down his face. Of course every head had turned to find out who was coming in late, and there’d been an audible gasp when people saw him.

  His grandmother had let out a little yelp, dropped her hymnal, and then the two of them had stood in the aisle, holding each other tight, rocking gently, both crying.

  Everyone had stopped singing, and eventually Hywel had stopped playing the piano. The Reverend Thomas had joined the pair where they stood, blessing them both and praying with his hands on their heads. It was an incredibly moving moment. It had even brought Sadie to tears.

  That in itself takes some doing, thought Helen – though she knew her daughter could turn them on like a tap when she wanted something.

  Seeing Aled like that – desperate to have his gran’s arms around him, sobbing his little heart out – Helen had realized how much she’d allowed her mother sway her opinion of him; he’d always been a good boy, so how could Helen have gone along with her mother’s reconstruction of his personality the way she had?

  And if the police could come and haul away a decent boy like him without giving any good reason for doing it, then maybe it could happen to anyone. Like Sadie. Or someone else, for that matter.

  Did the police really know what they were doing?

  They’d never been able to help her, not even when she’d been desperate for their intervention.

  Maybe they really were as useless as her mother was always saying they were.

  20th February

  Sadie

  It’s so weird being in school without Aled. Him and his Grannie Gwen came in to see the Head on Monday; Mr Wingfield from the village gave them a lift – I saw them getting out of his car when we were walking to English. Aled didn’t see me; he was cuddling his gran.

  The Head’s told us he’s allowing Aled to take this week off, so he can catch up and concentrate on his studying, and that we’re all to understand he’s been released from questioning, without being charged. At least somebody’s telling us something. The whole village is pulsating with gossip. And Nan’s to blame for most of it. The really nasty stuff, anyway.

  I hope it helps Aled to be back at home.

  I suppose it’s helping me to concentrate with him not being around, though it’s terrible to not see him, to not be able to talk to him. I miss his voice, his glances, so much it hurts. We’re not even texting much. It’s like I’m hungry all the time and I can’t eat. I feel so useless, so hopeless. I don’t know what to do.

  But, at least he�
��s at home, safe, now. So that’s good. Maybe it’s all over. I hope so. That’s all I’ve wanted all along. For it to be over, so we can be together, like we want.

  I reckon the best thing I can do for us both is to work as hard as I can to get the points I need from my A levels. I expect that’s how he sees it too. We think very much alike, I know that much. The trouble is, none of us know why the police even took him in. It makes no sense. I have no idea who this Dean Hughes is, or how they might think Aled is connected to him. I’ve seen his photo online, and I’ve never seen him before. It’s a real mystery to me.

  I wish I could stop people saying horrible things about Aled, his mum, and his gran. But no one listens to me. They all think of me as a little kid. And even if they don’t think I’m a kid, because they’re the same age as me, no one seems to take much notice of me, anyway.

  So I had an idea, and I did something. Something for us. I hope it works. I went into the Internet area of the library in Killay today and got myself a new email address and a new account on Twitter. No one uses Facebook these days – well, no one who really matters, anyway – and Instagram is good for photos, but I don’t want to get photos out into the world, I want to get ideas and words out there.

  I worked out that if people don’t know I’m me, they might take notice of what I have to say, because they don’t think it’s me saying it. I’ve seen such a lot on Nan’s favorite TV series about how they track people down using their IP address that I think it’s best to take precautions from the outset. I don’t want people to know I’m me. At all. Ever.

  The good thing about being anonymous is that it lets me say what I want about the police – about how they dragged my Aled away from people who love him when they didn’t need to, and have maybe messed up his chances of doing as well as he might at his A levels. That could be our whole future gone, in a flash.

  It’s not fair.

  I said all that in Tweets. Well, not the bit about our future, because I don’t want people to know it’s his girlfriend who’s saying all this; then they’d take no notice. I did a few little things that would make clever people think I was a boy, not a girl; people take more notice of boys, even if they’re not supposed to.

  I Retweeted the Tweets as myself – because that’s something I would do – and quite a few people in school picked up on them too; I tagged the school, and we all have to follow the school’s Twitter account because they use it to talk to us, or if there’s an emergency. So I’m starting to get the word out.

  I set up the account @wrongboy10, which I think is a good handle because it’s the main thing I want to say – that the police focused on the wrong boy, and I used the hashtag #wrongboy10, too.

  Well, it’s clear now that even the police know they had the wrong boy because they let him go; but I don’t want people to think they had even one tiny real reason to pick him up in the first place.

  It’s funny, I wanted to use @wrongboy, but there must be at least ten other people who wanted that name, so @wrongboy10 it will have to be.

  It’s not much – but that, and doing my best at my exams – is about all I can do. And I’ll be there for Aled when he comes back to school next week. Maybe by then my Tweets will be beginning to change what people have been saying about him.

  Thinking about it, it’s possible that going to Exeter University would be better for us than staying in Swansea; that way Aled could have a fresh start, without this all hanging over his head. As long as I’m with him, and I can take Mrs Hare with me, of course, I’ll be happy.

  1st March

  Betty

  Betty was enjoying a delightful evening. Much against her better judgement she’d gone along with Evan’s idea to invite a group of people to drop in for cawl to celebrate St David’s Day. She wasn’t usually one for big displays of what she thought of as over-simplified nationalistic pride brought on by the celebration of Wales’s patron saint, but had agreed it would be a good way for a bit of a get-together.

  Evan had plopped daffodils in vases around the house, but she’d made a poster to go above the door to the front room that read NO RUGBY TALK – in an attempt to staunch the tide of conversation that was bound to flow after the match played between England and Wales the previous Saturday.

  She’d spent the best part of that memorable day in the kitchen making about a hundred Welsh cakes in preparation for the soiree, while Evan had screamed at the television as though every player and official on the pitch could hear him if only he shouted loudly enough. She preferred to listen to the rugby on the radio – her years of avidly watching Evan on the field, and her father before him, allowing her to see in her mind’s eye every move described by the commentators.

  They’d agreed on a sort of open house arrangement, to run from five until ten o’clock; the shifts and hours their guests worked made it impossible for there to be a definite start time. Evan was serving a couple of his long-time colleagues with bowls of the hearty mutton and vegetable stew-like soup in the kitchen, while Betty was happy to sit in the front room where Gareth regaled her with stories about Evan’s early days on the rugby team where they’d played together – this topic having been accepted by her as not counting as the sort of ‘rugby talk’ she’d intended to discourage.

  Evan entered the room just as Gareth was wrapping up a story that involved an inflatable sheep, a pair of rugby shorts, some electrical tape, and a large pot of vanilla ice cream. Evan stopped Gareth from bringing the story to its conclusion, leaving Betty in a state of suspended horror at the thought of her husband being caught up in such shenanigans.

  People came and went, with Rakel Souza arriving just in time to pour her husband into the car to drive him home; Betty insisted Rakel took a plastic container full of cawl and a few Welsh cakes to eat when she finally got him there. It was gone ten when everyone had left, and Betty and Evan were left to survey the shambles in their front room.

  ‘That was fun,’ said Betty as she kicked off her shoes, and shoved her feet into her slippers. ‘How about we have a bit of a sit down, then give it a fifteen-minute clear around to get rid of the worst, so we don’t have to face it in the morning?’

  Evan agreed, so they sat in silence, Betty internally recalling some comments made during the evening. She wondered if Evan had heard them too.

  ‘Sounds like they’re about to bring that lad back in for the Rhosddraig thing,’ he said.

  Betty smiled. She’d had an instinct he wouldn’t have missed it. ‘Apparently so,’ she used her most innocent-sounding voice.

  ‘I couldn’t get much out of anyone. Seems Jenkins is running a pretty tight team on the case.’

  ‘Was that the doorbell?’ Betty stood. ‘I’ll go.’

  Betty was surprised to see Liz Stanley on the front step. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Liz looking a little ashamed. ‘I know I’m late, but I just wanted to drop these off, and say hello to you both.’ She held up six cans of Felinfoel Nut Brown Ale.

  Betty stood back for Liz to enter. ‘He’s in the front room with his feet up. He’ll love you for bringing him those. Go on through.’

  She saw her husband’s eyes light up at the sight of his ex-colleague, and didn’t think it was just because he was pleased to see her, or the beers; she didn’t expect the small talk to last long.

  About five minutes later, Betty tried to suppress a smirk when Evan idly inquired, ‘So what’s this about you bringing in that lad again on the Rhosddraig case?’

  Sitting at the dining table, with Evan slouched in an armchair, and Liz trying to look relaxed on the settee opposite him, Betty didn’t have to move her head to watch as the conversation bounced between the two like a tennis ball during a long rally – all she had to do was slide her eyes from one to the other, and drink her beer. It fascinated her, both as a wife, and psychologist.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything, you know that, Evan,’ opened Liz.

  ‘So you’re not bringing Aled Beynon back in?’

  ‘You know his name
?’ Liz sounded surprised.

  ‘I do. And several other pertinent facts.’ Fifteen-love to Evan, thought Betty.

  ‘How’s that then? Got a source in the division?’

  ‘Better than that.’

  ‘Really? In the village?’

  ‘At its heart.’ Thirty-love.

  ‘We did have him in, just for questioning under caution, but let him go.’

  ‘Insufficient evidence, or the wrong bloke?’

  ‘Could be either, or neither.’ Thirty-fifteen.

  ‘Come on, Liz, we both know it’s usually one or the other at that stage. Why’d you bring him in in the first place if you had nothing on him? I can’t believe that would be smiled upon, not bearing budgets in mind, and the overtime that accrues when there’s a rush because you’re on the clock.’ Forty-fifteen.

  Liz sighed – or, as Betty saw it – she took her eye off the ball.

  ‘It’s been difficult,’ said Liz sounding deflated. ‘He looks like a kid, and yet . . .’

  ‘So you’ve got circumstantial stuff; hints of opportunity and motive, but you can’t tie him to the scene. Right?’

  ‘Yes, sort of.’ Game to Evan Glover.

  ‘There’s a dome of confidentiality over this room, if that helps, Liz,’ said Betty, knowing she had to take Evan’s side, or he wouldn’t sleep soundly for possibly weeks.

  Liz put down her beer. Her facial contortions told Betty she’d made a decision. ‘We’re picking him up again, and charging him in the morning. No real rush, as we’re keeping an eye on him and we don’t think there’s a chance he’ll do anything stupid.’