Old Flames

by Dewi Griffiths

  Peter's face telling her to keep away. Peter staring at her with cold eyes.

  Carole sees that his mood has not improved and goes back inside. Sammy races out from under the van to join her.

  Peter is alone. Or is he? The black shadow clouding him and his mind. The hiss in the trees. That static. He shakes his head to clear it. He hasn't done that since he was a child. Trying to keep calm. Peter picks up another box from the rear of the van and heads into the cottage.

  Sammy runs to the kitchen door as Peter carries the box through the living room to the bedroom. The dog sees the shadow return to the front door. The black shape steps inside. It follows Peter into the bedroom.

  The door slams. Peter spins around and freezes. Its definitely colder in here now. The smell getting worse. A knot of fear in Peter's stomach. Nothing to be afraid of. Its an empty room. Peter puts down the box he is carrying. Something is moving in his peripheral vision. A patch of semi-darkness like before. But different now. Circling around behind him. Just out of sight. Peter turns trying to catch sight of whatever the hell is there. He sees the room reflected in the filthy wardrobe mirror; something moves behind him. Dark. Getting closer.

  Peter spins around again. The darkness is growing around him now. Peter backs up and bumps into the wardrobe. That smell worse now. Overpowering. Filling his lungs. Ifan's reflection in the mirror beside his own. Peter's face shows terror, then mirror's Ifan’s fury. Their problem the same. An understanding. Unspoken. Ifan is gone. Peter remains.

  The bedroom door edges open. Peter emerges from the bedroom. Sammy growls sensing something wrong with Peter.

  Carole comes out of the kitchen to see Peter standing silently watching her in the bedroom doorway. Sammy still growling. Snarling almost.

  Peter puts his head in his hands. "I'm confused. What's happening?"

  "What’s wrong Pete?"

  Peter looks up, dark eyes hidden by the hair falling over his face. "What’s wrong? It’s you! I get you a great job, but you leave it. I give you a good home, but you buy this fucking place".

  "I need to get away sometimes".

  "Why do you need to get away from me?"

  "No Pete, I want you to come down here with me, away from work. I want us together. like a family". Carole steps forward towards Peter.

  His eyes still saying, 'stay away'. "Children? Is that what you want?"

  Carole looks perplexed. What's going on in this guy's head today? "Maybe in a few years, but I'm too young yet…"

  "Too young? Mum had me when she was seventeen! You’re almost twenty six!"

  "Those were different days Pete, I want to see the world, have a bit of freedom before I settle down".

  Peter explodes. "You are settled down! Crazy bitch!"

  "Pete, what’s got into you?"

  Peter moves forward sharply pushing Carole out of his way. He grabs the champagne bottle and opens it swiftly, tearing out the cork. The contents jet all over Carole and the floor. Carole watches him in shock, wiping the foam from her face. Sammy barking wildly.

  Peter stares at her angrily. He walks to the front door, leaning on the doorframe staring out into the woods, swigging the bottle of champagne.

  Carole is breathless with apprehension. What the hell has got into him?

  Outside. He is standing in the shadows, drinking from the bottle. As Dai saw him before he saw the toili at the lake. The same dark image. The angry, jealous, dangerous man.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  History Haunts Us

  Smoke rises from the chimney through the pine trees and into the clear sunset sky up there above the forest. A fire in the old hearth for the first time this year. The white hire van is more prominent in the half light than the cottage, which has learned to hide itself back in the shadows of the trees. Silence except for the hiss of the wind through the pines. And the clicking sound of a bike freewheeling down the road.

  Geraint rides out of the gloom on his way back from the lake. He brings his bike to a halt. The sun is setting now; twilight. 'Rhwng dau olau' in Welsh: between the two lights.

  Geraint standing there between two thoughts. Weighing up what to do. To go home with the fish for supper, or wait and see more of Carole.

  A shape walking directly through the trees. Through the trees like its them that's not there. Making for the cottage like a column of light mist. A white shape, formless as yet. Moving swiftly up behind Geraint.

  As the form leaves the treeline it becomes clearer; a lad about Geraint's age. As he becomes more prominent the trees slip away. Gone in the changing of the light: behind him open fields, the nearby lake and the grove of trees up on the hill pale in the gloaming. The lad watching the cottage. New, on open ground, no van, no Geraint, no forestry. Firelight shining from the cottage window and smoke rising from the chimney into the cloudless June air. June 1904.

  The lad, Owain, heads stealthily towards the cottage. Climbing silently over the garden wall, moving in the shadows towards the window.

  The forest returns. The van too. The hiss of the wind in the trees. Geraint has made up his mind. He stows his bike, fishing gear and rucksack in the trees. He follows Owain's path over the wall towards the cottage and to the window. Staying in the darkness, out of the fire light from the cottage window. Watching, listening.

  Carole is sitting on the new mattress laid out on the floor in front of the hearth. She stokes the fire she has made from some of the huge amount of rubbish in this room alone. The room is now warmer, and smoky which hides that smell a little. Sammy lies beside her.

  The empty champagne bottle lies on its side. Peter sits with his back to Carole, leaning against the wall, his face in shadow. He is drinking from a wine bottle. Drunk. Peter doesn't do drunk. Not since Carole's known him. And its not friendly drunk. What's got into him? Not a word for half an hour at least.

  "I don't want you here on your own. This is the middle of nowhere..."

  "I'll be ok. I've got Sammy here".

  "Right. Proper little guard dog. And look at you! You don't belong here. You live in the flat. In London. With me!"

  "Hey, I'm not your property Pete!"

  "No?" Peter is on his feet snarling at Carole.

  Carole backs away, on her feet too in a flash. Frightened. She hasn't seen this before. "Pete, you’re scaring me!"

  Peter pushes Carole backwards. She falls onto a pile of boxes. Peter stands watching her, drinking the bottle of wine.

  Carole sits there in shock. Shaking. Sammy barking.

  Peter's face hardens, and makes a fist to strike Carole. "No!!!!" Carole grabs him by the wrist. "Pete! Stop it!"

  Peter stops, confused. Not himself. He pulls himself free from Carole's grip and walks way. Eyes closed, leaning on the bedroom door. Breathing heavily.

  Carole gets quietly to her feet and backs away into the kitchen. Terrified.

  Geraint outside, watching in disbelief. He makes to leave. He has seen enough. He shouldn't get involved. Or should he knock on the door? Why? What would he say? No, it'll make things worse. But its Carole. Shit! Geraint stays in his hiding place watching Peter leaning against the bedroom door, shaking with rage.

  Carole close to tears, backing into the unfamiliar kitchen. Trying to get away. Bumping into something, the Belfast sink. She turns around in alarm. Her face is reflected in the near darkness of the kitchen window. Is that a double reflection or is there someone watching her? Someone with long dark hair. Dressed in an old brown dress. Mari. Carole gasps. Mari watching her. Understanding. Carole is held in awe, as Mari smiles. Mari is gone. Carole remains.

  Peter still seething in rage, leaning on the bedroom door.

  Behind him Carole emerges from the kitchen. Calm, loving, sexy. "Come on now... let’s be friends..." Carole crosses to Peter holding his shoulders, turning him around, kissing him passionately.

  Geraint watches in disbelief as Carole and Peter kiss in the firelight. Increasingly passionately. Ang
er meeting lust. Lust winning.

  Peter's hands running up Carole's spine, her hands clawing his back. Taking off Carole's top. Tongues entwining, naked skin exposed. Unhooking Carole's bra. Her hands pulling open the sailor's shirt, running all over his chest. Hands grabbling at her bum through the brown dress. Mari’s face appears over Peter’s shoulder. Whispering in his ear. Ifan biting Mari's neck. Opening her dress exposing her naked body beneath. Owain watching transfixed from outside the window.

  Ifan pulls away. Mari smiles at him, half naked in the firelight. Ifan looks puritanically shocked by Mari’s behaviour. Shock turns to fury. Mari cries out in alarm "Ifan? Na!"

  Peter viciously slaps Carole, pushing her away in disgust. "Whore!"

  Carole stunned. Covering herself in disbelief. Carole furiously strikes out at Peter who easily parries the blow, throwing Carole backwards, knocking her into a heap on the mattress in front of the fire.

  Ifan towers over Mari in drunken fury. He draws something from his britches pocket. A poppet. A home made toy doll. Or is it? Human hair, clothes made from a piece of rag. A piece of Owain's shirt. "Witch! What is this?"

  Mari looks up at him in terror.

  Ifan raises his fist bringing it down on Mari's face. She screams as he beats her. Owain watches helpless at the window. Owain moves away, disappearing into the gloom outside as Ifan's shouts and Mari's screams continue. Owain runs off across the open fields towards the lights of a nearby cottage.

  Geraint still in his hiding place, unable to watch any more. The sounds of Carole crying out and Peter shouting haunting him as he runs, panic stricken to his bike, collect his rod and bag, and rides away into the darkening forest.

  The firelight plays shadows across the room. The filthy room Carole has bought from Phillips. More of the detris of Phillips' life on the fire keeping her warm at least. And the smoke hiding the smell.

  Peter drunkenly asleep on the mattress.

  Carole standing by the fire, wrapped in a blanket, watching him tearfully. Her nose is still bleeding. It won't stop. Her face and nose feeling like she has just been on a bad trip to the dentist.

  Carole glances at the framed photograph of her with her parents. Her tears blur her vision. Reflected in the photograph in her place is Mari, crying, beaten.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hangover and Afterglow

  The dawn sun illuminates the forestry. Lighting up the tops of the trees. Even in mid summer the sun is too puny, unable to penetrate down within the trees.

  A couple of hours later the light is bringing the cottage out of shadows and back into the world. Slowly the sunlight creeps through the window across the living room.

  Carole wakes with a start. Dishevelled huddled in front of the dead fire. Why didn't she sleep in the bedroom so she could get away from him? The smell in there was too much. The smell seems to be everywhere now. In here too.

  Peter is still asleep on the mattress. Snoring quietly.

  Carole feels around her slightly bruised face. It feels like she has tooth ache. Nagging in her head. Unshakable. Not letting her forget what happened.

  He hit her. Never in a million years did she expect that. In the two years together they never really had a fight. There was the not speaking period after Dad died. Which has become the no sex period. But how has it come to this?

  Carole gets up, desperately trying not to make a sound. Behind Carole, in the shadows a grey mass. Phillips shouting inaudibly at her. Angry at these people in his house.

  Carole enters the squalid bathroom, wiping some of the dirt off the mirror to see her reflection. She looks bedraggled, face puffy from crying, with slight bruising and dried blood in her nose. Whispering, partly in fear, partly in anger. "Bastard!"

  She begins to clean up her bloodied nose. She winces, and tears well in her eyes once more.

  In the living room, Phillips stands glowering over Peter. Phillips' electronic watch beeps. Peter snaps awake. What the fuck was that? Movement somewhere in the gloom. Peter sits up. Where is he? Oh God his head! It feels like he's been kicked. The champagne and wine bottles on the floor. Seriously? He doesn't drink like that.

  Carole is creeping back into the room.

  "What time is it?"

  Carole jumps in alarm. Nervous. No scared is more like it. "About ten I think"

  Peter staggers to his feet. "What!?! Why didn’t you wake me? You know I’ve got to get back home this morning!"

  "Sorry. You were sleeping… I didn’t want to disturb you…"

  "I don’t believe this! The fucking day is gone!"

  Carole backs away from him towards the light from the window. The bruising and redness on her skin becoming more apparent.

  "What happened to your face?"

  "Its… it’s ok Pete".

  Peter's whole world reels. "Did I hit you?"

  Peter comes crashing out through the front door bedraggled and confused. He unlocks the van, and throws his phone and bag inside. He looks around for a place to turn the van. No chance out here. Single track road, no verge, just trees. "Fuck!"

  Carole at the door cottage door now. "You should stay until you've had a coffee and something to eat. We need to talk".

  Peter turns to her aggressively. "Talk? Yeah? We haven't talked all year. Let me tell you something. I’ve never hit a girl. Never in my fucking life! Look what you’ve done to me! I help you, I give you a fucking life and you spit it all back in my face! I’ve got to get the hell away from here, and the hell away from you, you evil witch!"

  "Pete, please... what’s the matter with you?"

  Peter gets into the van, fires the engine, the tyres scrapping on the earth as the van gets back onto the road. Peter powers the van angrily away, down the narrow road towards the lake. Carole feels the rage coming from the van.

  Shee watches the van disappear out of sight.

  The lake, tranquil but for the hiss of the breeze through the trees. The roar of an engine. Peter's van barrels down to the empty car park. An angry three point turn and it shoots off the way it came. A rush of wind through the trees and its sound is buried again.

  Carole standing on the opposite side of the road from the cottage, the drivers side, waiting for Pete to return. The roar of the engine somewhere in the hiss of the wind through the trees. Getting closer. Headlights in the gloom. Approaching fast. Carole standing waiting, apprehensive but she has to talk to him.

  The van approaching at speed. Showing no sign of stopping. The reflection on the windscreen hiding the driver. The driver? Pete surely? Who else would it be? Is it him? The reflections make it seem like someone else. Darker. The van roars passed Carole, almost hitting her, and speeds off down the road. Gone. Carole left alone.

  The van rises angrily out of Cwm Celyn, leaving the forestry behind crunching through the broken glass on the brow of the hill. Roaring off across the mountain top road heading east. Driving blindly. The clear blue sky now reflecting on the windows. Peter at the wheel. Confusion and anger lining his face. What the hell happened with Carole last night?

  The same emotions on Carole’s face as she contemplates throwing herself into work. Its the best medicine. It always works. Filling your mind with busyness to block out the hard realities of life.

  She can start by cleaning the kitchen. The fridge needs to be condemned. Good thing she at least brought the kettle and the microwave. The filth in here. Mould. Horrible. Its all horrible.

  Everything has gone to hell in hours. What is wrong with Pete? What he did was unforgivable. Carole picks up Peter's Chelsea mug and smashes it against the wall. She bursts into tears. Letting all that emotion go. Tears that hurt. Her nose running, but not with blood this time. Sammy watching her from the doorway. Whining as Carole cries herself out as something else comes in. A brown form moves in the room.

  Carole in the bathroom. As much of a mission to get clean as the kitchen. Come on girl, face it, as much as the rest of the entire cottage! Carole at
the wash basin leaning forward, putting her face under the running tap. Mari reflected in the mirror now. Carole stands up straight, a new spark in her eyes. "Good riddance!"

  Peter out there on the mountains. Not recognising this road. Passing an abandoned chapel on the mountainside. How did he get here? He doesn't remember this. Its not the right road. Where's the sat nav? Ok, lets find a place to stop and set it up. Getting lost is not what you need right now on these single track winding roads with high hedges. The road twisting, rising up over another valley edge. No trees here at least. Quite a view if that is your thing. A pull-in up ahead, outside a house.

  Peter pulls up in the van outside the ruin of a burnt out cottage. Not at all unlike Carole's cottage. Same single storey style. But the roof, windows and doors gone. Two eyes and nose and hair blackened like some character from a horror movie he saw as a kid. It scares him.

  Peter turns off the van and gets out. The whole place still smells like a barbecue. Woodsmoke. Pretty recent. Police cordon tape. Was this on the radio yesterday? Peter stares at the building. "What the fuck happened here?"

  Ifan reflected in the van windscreen.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  You Are Never Alone

  The kitchen is airless. Fetid. The fragments of Peter's shattered mug on the floor. Why did she do that? She wraps the pieces in a newspaper from 1973. The Sun. A naked girl smiling at her through faded newsprint. This probably kept that old guy happy, which is why he didn't throw it away. Sad mind you.