Old Flames

by Dewi Griffiths

  The phantoms are gone.

  Geraint appears from out of the cottage and sees Dai leaning against the chapel railings. Geraint walks over to the old man. "What do you see there Mr. Morris?"

  Dai replies in Welsh. "A wedding".

  Geraint looks towards the Chapel. "No weddings here as long as I remember. Maybe you were remembering one, Mr. Morris. Good night". Geraint walks off to the shop, shutting the door.

  Dai stands staring into the gloom. Maybe something is staring back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Merciful Release

  Phillips limps back to his cottage through the darkness of the forestry. No street lights out here and no moon or stars in the cloudy mid December sky. This is the road he's walked almost every day for the six decades since he moved into that cottage with his new wife. No children because she didn't last very long. In that time it is the forest that has grown up around him, not children. A forest that has grown to hide Capel Celyn from sight. Phillips doesn't miss it.

  He reaches the spot where he usually stands when he has to get away from the cottage. Driven out of there. Sometimes he has to stand here for hours until things subside back there. Those times that he needs to be alone out here, where no one will bother him. He is not lonely. Living here has taught him that you're not alone even if there's no one else there.

  Tonight something has been following since he left Capel Celyn. There is something in the woods. It can't be an animal. There are no large animals in the woods.

  Phillips stops. A sound coming from somewhere in the trees. No, not an animal. Strange. Unnatural. Something he has not heard before in his nine decades. The sound starting as a moan, building into a howl. What the hell is that?

  Phillips' mind goes back to one of his early memories. Sitting on his grandmother's knee. Her explaining the sounds of the night to him. Fear mounting now as it did in his grandmother's arms. This is the sound no one wants to hear. The death portent. The sound you hear before you die. Y Cyhyraeth.

  Dai sitting in the chair by the fire place. Carole watching him from the opposite armchair. The holiday cottage is nice, cozy, but not Christmassy. Not a family home anymore. Just like the flat her mum and dad bought, to replace of the house where she grew up. That flat is not the family home. So why spend Christmas back there? Why not here? The Morris family home. Capel Celyn.

  Downsizing. The term Peter uses to describe her Mum and Dad selling the place she called home. Making more money available for their retirement. Very sensible. But now Dad is ill. He may not have long to enjoy his retirement within that new flat's unfamiliar walls. And Dad seems to need the familiar more and more as he gets older.

  Carole watches him sitting by the fire. Cold despite being almost close enough to burn himself in those flames. The burning logs from the forestry heating the house. Probably the only thing her father thinks the trees are good for. Firewood.

  Dai is silent. Lost deep in thought. Communicating nothing. Carole watching her mother work on getting him to respond by nagging him. Remembering unsent Christmas cards. Worrying whether the Christmas dinner booked at the hotel in Lampeter would be any good. Would it be worth what they had paid for it? Would there be any of her favourite biscuits in the shop? Carole tunes out, closes her eyes and lets the last minute rush at work, organising mum and dad for the trip, and the long car journey wash over her. She's asleep in moments.

  Outside darkness and silence permeate Capel Celyn.

  The City of London. Lit up like a Christmas tree. Peter at the bar with his work colleagues. Hardly mates. Tonight the place is theirs. Private function. Christmas bash. Chessboard floor. Oak bar and furniture. Glass. Class. No tasteless trendy colour schemes here.

  Every surface reflecting the eighty people who work together everyday but seldom speak. Reflecting superficiality. No depth. No one really mingling. Staying in work groups even on this one night out a year. Loud music. Shouted conversations. Mostly about work.

  Peter with no Carole means Peter on his own. When did that happen? Peter's world is already blurring. Champagne on tap. A few French brandies. A Christmas kiss from Frances the Office Manager. Not bad for a woman in her forties. Not bad at all. He's never seen so much of her as tonight. She should dress like that at work. That afro, the exotic dark skin and those curves. Damn.

  No Carole. He is missing her a lot already. He was not expecting that. Wanting her, not really wanting anyone else here; not even Frances quite yet. He'll miss Carole even more later. Back at the flat. And at Christmas alone in the flat. No point going to see his family. A waste of time. Christmas is going to be as miserable as...

  OK. Time to focus. Time to be as sober as fucking possible. TP, his boss. Incoming like a guided missile. Working his way along the bar. Talking to everyone with a pre-rehearsed off the cuff speech, as slick as his sales presentations no doubt. Late fifties. He's forgotten how to let his hair down, not that its an appropriate description for a balding guy. Chatting to Frances. His turn coming.... NOW!

  "Peter. Where's Carole this evening?"

  "In Wales with her parents".

  "Oh damn yes. Her father. Not well I'm told. Your family? Well?"

  "What are you doing for Christmas TP?"

  "A quiet Christmas. Off to France on Boxing Day. Snow seems a little sparse this season but.."

  Behind TP. Coming into the bar. That long black hair. Hazel eyes. It can't be. That body. Unmistakable. Patricia! Who's that wanker with her? She's scanning the place. Making eye contact. God it is her!

  "Peter? Do you think you'll have it done in time?"

  "The Altmeier Industries thing? Yes no worries."

  "Good. Merry Christmas. See you in the New Year".

  "Merry Christmas TP".

  TP gone. Moving on to the next poor bastard in for the festive interrogation.

  Patricia. Damn. Where is she? Talking to Frances and some bar manager at the door. So she's not welcome? Shit. That's not good. Patricia leading the wanker out of the bar. A glance and a wink his way. She is still game! Damn! Good girl. Peter raises his glass but she's gone.

  Frances returning to the bar. A warning look to Peter. Peter mumbles drunkenly under his breath. "Its OK Frances. I was only looking". Frances turns to start a conversation with someone else.

  Patricia. Outside the window on the pavement. Hailing a cab with the wanker. His girl before Carole came to the company. Working late with her took on a whole new meaning until that CCTV was put in. God she was good. Mad as a bag of snakes though. Incredible in bed. The two go hand in hand. Now she's gone. History once more. Fuck.

  The Saab winds its way cautiously along the forestry track. Headlights on in mid morning. Carole not wanting to run over the grey man and ruin her Christmas. Keeping straight on at the road junction heading deep into the woods towards the lake.

  Dai smiles. Carole's heart soars. Mum half asleep in the back seat. This could be good after all.

  The Saab rumbles towards the traditional single storey Welsh cottage all alone out here in the woods. Carole slows the car. The cottage looks neglected. The closer she looks the more she sees the signs of an old person on their own in a place they can't maintain.

  "So this is where that man we almost ran over last night lives?"

  "Phillips? Aye. He's lived there since I was a kid"

  "Is he a widower?"

  "Aye. Stories are it was his own doing".

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just stories. His wife drowned. People talk". Dai stares at the cottage. Seeing something. "Stop the car".

  Carole pulls over. "What's the matter Dad?"

  Dai stares through his eyes' clouded lenses. Taking things in.

  "Dad. Do you want to go to in see him?"

  "Hell no!" Dai watches the way the light is not quite right at the cottage doorway. Bastard cataracts! The shadow moves. Still indistinct. Then clear: the ghostly figure of Ifan at the front door, drinking from a whiskey bottle.
Ifan brings down the bottle and returns Dai’s gaze. Burning eyes from beneath the thick black eyebrows. Mean. Angry. Drunk. Vindictive. Dark.

  A chill shoots through Dai. He visibly shivers. "Let’s get out of here." Carole starts the engine.

  There's a movement at the cottage window. A figure in the darkness within.

  Carole puts the car in gear and drives away.

  Phillips is at the cottage window watching the car leave. Something dark blocks the light. Phillips lets out a sigh of angry frustration. Ifan's face getting clearer outside the window.

  Phillips growls at Ifan in Welsh. "So, Devil. Got your eye on someone new? Good!" Phillips turns from the window and heads for his old armchair.

  The inside of the cottage is as unkempt as its owner. Phillips limps across the rubbish strewn floor towards a steaming cup of tea on the chair arm. Behind him the front door swings open as the dark shadow enters the room. Papers on the floor are driven by the wind.

  Phillips spins around and sees the dark shape moving in the room towards him. Phillips' voice cracks as he shouts at Ifan. "Stop tormenting me, bastard!"

  Phillips' cup of tea crashes to the floor, shattering. The shape, Ifan forming before him now. Phillips' fear is becoming alarm. Phillips coughs and retches at the smell. With mounting panic, he limps for the front door, but it slams shut. Phillips struggles with the door but it won't budge. He is cornered. Phillips limps along the wall and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

  Phillips backs off into the bedroom, watching the door rattle. Then silence. Not a sound in the cottage. That will pass for peace for now. The devil will go away and leave him alone for a time. Then all this will start again. That's life here. Cycles of fear. Its over for now.

  BANG!!! The door rocks on its hinges and swings open.

  Its not over! Phillips backs further into the room. Three paces back something hits the top of his head. Phillips looks up. The noose. "Again?!? No!!!" Phillips sees himself reflected in the full length mirror on the door of the old wardrobe. Ifan is beside him. The shape and the stench unmistakable. Watching him. Waiting impatiently.

  Phillips closes his eyes. He lets out a sigh of resignation. "Bastard creature! Why do you make me do this? I am not your toy!" The smell is overpowering. The sense of something malignant beside him which he has lived with for decades. This repeated ritual which seems to put the ghost to rest for a period. Meaning he gets peace.

  Phillips pulls up the bedside chair and climbs onto it. A grim routine. "So here we go again! Maybe this time I will die. Then I will be free of you, you Devil! You can go and torment someone else!" Phillips puts his head through the noose, and steps off the chair.

  Phillips swings from the rope, coughing and spluttering briefly as Ifan watches him. The stench becoming overpowering. The noose tightens. Surprise and fear on Phillips' face. Phillips claws at the knot in panic. He can't loosen it. His efforts only tighten it further.

  Phillips opens his eyes. He is face to face with Ifan. The stench alone makes it hard to breathe. The knot is tight. Alarmingly tight. Phillips tries to get his feet back onto the chair but it falls over. Phillips swings free.

  Seconds pass by, measured in slowing heartbeats. Seconds turn to minutes. Images and feelings passing through his mind like dreams. But he has had so few dreams.

  Phillips’ face registers surprise as he expires. Gasping. His tongue coming out. Body swinging limp on the rope. The struggle has ended. Phillips is dead.

  His cheap electronic wristwatch beeps to mark the hour.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Toili: A Ghost Funeral

  The surface of the lake rippled lightly by the wind. One element kissing another in this remote spot like two forbidden lovers. The wind hisses through the trees sounding like a detuned radio. Static. White noise. Not random noise, but the whole audible spectrum created by the wind passing through these trees. Just as the light is white light, all the colours of the rainbow filtered through the low white clouds of midwinter. White light and white noise meet in Cwm Celyn. People see and hear ghosts in static. Obsessed widows and widowers study Electronic Voice Phenomena in universities in distant cities in other parts of the world. Here in Cwm Celyn, a community now buried beneath the trees whisper and appear in the wind and half light. Cwm Celyn is a place of ghosts.

  The lake, Llyn Celyn, silent and grey under the leaden sky. The Saab drives out of the forest towards its shore. The low growl of the engine and rumble of tyres on the hardcore road drowned in the all encompassing hiss. The car stops.

  Carole helps Dai out of the car, while her mother gets out wrapping herself up against the cold. Carole leads Dai down to the standing stone at the water's edge.

  "It’s so quiet, Dad. No birds. Nothing."

  "Dead. I know. When I was a kid you'd see herons. Hawks. All sorts up here. They don't take to the pine trees. You only find birds up at the grove there". Dai points to a dark patch of trees, standing out on a small hill above the pines. These trees are leafless and black in the midwinter gloom, but more natural in this place than the evergreens.

  "I used to love fishing here with you when I was a girl".

  "You always wanted a boy, didn't you Davey?" Mother joins them, making herself heard.

  "My fishing days are over, Carole".

  "Don't be silly Dad. We'll come up here again come summer. You’ve still got your fly fishing rod..."

  Dai is not there. Lost in memories. In another time, when this lake was so different. No forestry. Open farmland. Birds, animals, insects, fish, friends, girls.

  Carole's mother draws her away. "He mopes like this wherever you take him. I don’t know what to do with him".

  "All we can do Mum, is cheer him up as much as we can. The rest is up to him". Carole gives her mother a peck on the cheek. The first in years.

  They both watch Dai lean on the standing stone staring out at the lake. They don't see the tears in his eyes, knowing he'll never see the lake he remembers from his childhood again. Dai lost in his nineteen fifties Technicolor memories.

  Dai's eyes widen. The colour drains. The sky darkens. The lake black. The sky black. The trees black. The wind hissing like an angry snake. Dai is alone. Then there are people. Phillips limping leading a funeral procession. A simple pine coffin. Coffin bearers. Few mourners. Mrs. Jones and Geraint, totally unaware of Dai as if in a trance. Other mourners have features Dai recognises. The adult children of his past friends and neighbours. The procession passing silently. Silence. Not even the wind now. Just the darkness. Growing more intense. Blotting out the last vestiges of the world.

  A Toili. A phantom funeral, led by the person who has just died. Phillips.

  Dai has never seen one, but knows what it is. He knows very well. His blood turns to ice. Dai drawn to follow the procession but he can't move. He is gasping for breath. Left behind. This is a funeral he won't be attending. The final figure in the procession, dressed in funeral black stops and turns to look at him. Ifan glowers at Dai.

  Dai drops to the ground. The cold wet ground. Soon to be his eternal home.

  Carole and her mother hear Dai hit the ground.

  "Dad!"

  "Carole, call an ambulance!"

  Dai rolls onto his back. "I’m ok, I just had a funny turn is all. A couple of minutes and I’ll be fine."

  Carole kneeling beside him in shock. "We’ll get you to the doctor in no time Dad"

  "No need. I had a shock, that’s all. Coming home like this. Its my mind playing tricks on me". Dai stares at where the toili had been. The world brightening, the hiss of the pines getting louder.

  The Saab drives back through the forestry towards Capel Celyn. Dai closes his eyes as the car passes Phillips' cottage. Dank. Cold. Ominous now. He'll mention that someone should pop in to see Phillips. But he's probably dead already, the miserable old bastard.

  Carole drives swiftly into Capel Celyn and pulls up outside the holiday cottage. Carole's mother r
ushes out and opens up the cottage, switching on lights.

  Carole leads Dai from the car towards the cottage door. Time to ask the question that's been bothering her about how her father is acting. "What happened at the lake Dad?"

  "I saw a toili".

  "A what?"

  "A Toili. A phantom funeral. They’re seen hereabouts when the person at the head of the funeral has just died".

  "Come on Dad, you’re seeing ghosts now?"

  "I’ve always seen ghosts, girl. You know that. Now they’re seeing me. That's the problem. I can't have long".

  "Oh Dad don’t be silly..."

  Dai is not looking at his daughter. Rather up the road. Beyond what Carole can see. Capel Celyn, but a different time. Hearing a tap, tap, tap. Seeing Ifan walking up the road leading a bloodhound. Ifan, funeral black in dress and mood, head down, angry, determined. Ifan staring maliciously at Dai as he passes.

  Dai drops into Carole’s arms.

  "Dad! Help someone! Dad?"

  Dai dropping to the pavement. Carole screaming. Her mother coming out of the cottage. Mrs Jones running from the shop.

  Shouts echoing up the street as Ifan walks out of Capel Celyn.

  CHAPTER SIX

  From Grief, A New Beginning

  Leaden skies. The retirement flat. Unfamiliar. Unwelcoming. Nowhere for Carole to sleep on Christmas Eve.

  Peter's Porsche finds a parking space in the West London town house square. Peter with his arm around Carole protectively, wheeling her Cwm Celyn Christmas suitcase back to the flat.

  Through the communal door. Up the stairs. Into the flat. Sammy the dog bounding to greet them. Carole on her knees playing with Sammy. Peter has already taken down what Christmas decorations there were. That probably helps. Christmastime will now forever have new connotations.