Trying to open the sash window. Stuck solid. It looks like its been painted shut. Why would someone do that? The room needs air. A bit of life. OK. She tries the back door. The large iron key is jammed in the lock. Not safe to leave a key in a door when someone outside could see it, break the glass and open the door.
First job of the day. Open the back door, get the key working. Spraying lubricating oil, trying to turn the key. Snap! The lock turns. But the door won't open. Ah. A bolt. Likewise jammed. Rusted in place. This door hasn't opened in years. More lubricating oil and few more minutes tapping the bolt head with a hammer and the bolt slides back, millimetre by millimetre. The back door opens. Hinges creaking like hell. She sprays more oil onto the hinges which have not seen movement in some time, until the door opens silently. Now at least there is air moving in the kitchen.
Sammy not going outside to play around. Mind you the garden is completely overgrown on this side of the cottage. Brambles have long since taken over what may yet be a nice garden.
Sammy doesn't seem to want to go out there. Lying in the corner of the kitchen watching. Watching what though? Not her. "Go outside you silly dog!" Oh boy.
The next job. Much bigger. Cleaning out the kitchen. This is big. Best done in little chunks. Methodically. Emptying the first cupboard of maybe fifty empty whiskey bottles. Never washed out by the smell of them. Some have been there so long the design of the label has changed. Two packing boxes filled with the empty bottles, as the weight of the glass would split the rubbish bags.
Cleaning out the shelves where the bottles were stored. Black with dirt between where the bottles had been. 1950s Ideal Home white formica beneath. Cupboard doors and drawers which seem grey are actually blue once the degreaser had done its job. There was a woman's touch here, maybe fifty or sixty years ago. It must have been nice. Once. And it will be again, OK?
Buckets of black water poured down the toilet to try to help clear the pipes. The black water foaming like beer. Most of a bottle of bleach as a chaser after the gallons of dark foamy water swallowed by the cesspit. Wherever that is.
Sammy hasn't moved all morning. Still lying in the corner of the kitchen watching something. Lunch. A can of dog food and a ready meal. She was glad she brought a few of these. The microwave will have to do as the only means of cooking for at least another day or so. God knows once its cleaned if the electric cooker will work. Rusted to hell to be honest. Another expense. Oh crap.
By late afternoon the cupboards, Belfast sink and worktops are cleaned. Even the fridge is now pristine and buzzing annoyingly in the corner. Rubbish sacks breeding like big black rats filling the kitchen floor. Somewhere behind them lies Sammy, still skulking.
New crockery and cutlery are put in their places, and the provisions are stacked in the cupboards. A lot done for a first day.
One last drawer filled with clutter to deal with. Empty match boxes, string, bits of paper. All kinds of nonsense. Its been a long day. Enough. Carole tips the drawer into a rubbish sack. Wait a minute. What's that covered in dust? On top of the items in the bin bag is a very old wooden doll with blonde hair. Carved from a piece of wood. Dark stained in places. Dressed in a piece of rag. Looking up at her with oversized black eyes. There were kids here? This looks home made. The first sign of love in this house. Shame to throw it away.
Carole picks the doll out of the rubbish bag. Blowing the dust off it. Hang on. This is definitely a boy doll. What a weird thing to give to kids. Even here in the country and allowing for different times. Ah well. There's a place for it on the window sill.
The poppet watches her with those black eyes as she wraps up the last of the rubbish bags for the day.
Carole dumps the last of the day's rubbish sacks outside the garden wall. Rubbish collections are on Wednesday apparently. Mrs. Jones promised to tell the bin men that she will be there so the collections will start. The bin men will be busy with the amount of rubbish to come out of Pantyfedwen.
Wait a minute. This is new. Sammy following her around as if afraid to be left alone. The sky is reddening above the trees. The day has gone. Her first day at her cottage. A better one than yesterday. Shame to miss the sunset.
"Come on Sammy, it's high time we got some fresh air".
She pops indoors for the essentials; phone and keys. Carole locks the doors and heads off down the road towards the lake. Sammy waddling along in bored pursuit. What is the matter with this dog? Carole starts to jog down the road. "Sammy, come on!"
Sammy turns back for the cottage, but stops. Seeing something. Something unexpected. Yelping, the dog turns around and runs off after Carole. He is still chasing her as she disappears around the bend.
The hiss of the wind. The sun dipping moves the cottage into half light. There but being swallowed by the gloom. A shape approaching on the road from the village. Walking to the cottage. Stopping. Calling out without sound. Any sound would be taken away by the trees, but they are not there. Gone.
Open country like a century and more ago all around. The cottage, the road, the lake and the grove under a sunset sky. The shape, forming now as a man, walking towards the cottage's front door. Something large and low coming out to meet him, jumping up. A large dog. The bloodhound. Ebenezer, the dog owner, telling his dog to lay down. Entering the cottage through the open door. His cry still audible.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ghosts at Sunset
Carole jogs along the road through the darkening forestry with Sammy running beside her. The sky is changing to reds and mauves above. The wind drops; the only sounds are Carole’s footfalls and the panting of the dog. In a couple of minutes they are running down the slope to the clearing that visitors and fishermen use for a car park at the edge Llyn Celyn.
No one here this evening to see the golden colours of the sunset reflected on the mirrored surface of the water. No one but her and her best friend. The sun moments away from dipping over the horizon. Silence. Carole crouches down and whispers to Sammy. "Sammy. Look at that! Isn't it beautiful?"
Carole wanders over to the standing stone. Remembering how her father had told her that it had been there longer than anyone could remember. Centuries. Millennia. Who knows. How forestry workers had refused to move it, despite being threatened with being fired for leaving it there. How one of the workers brought a shotgun to work to ensure it wasn't moved.
Carole leans against a stone which may have stood there for thousands of years. Who put it there or why, lost in time. Watching the sun on the horizon that is heating the stone now as it has done for all of that time. The stone feeling warm, alive. The trees around the lake shimmering and getting lost in the glare of the sun as if they are not there at all. Carole can see a different landscape, one that is suddenly very familiar, open land with that ancient grove of trees on the hilltop silhouetted against the light.
Sammy watching her. Confused. Something is changing in the dying light. Carole's dirty blonde hair appearing black. Her body different. Slimmer. Carole's clothes seeming to hang on her for a moment. Confusion in the dog's mind. He barks.
"Sammy! Want to play?" Carole again. Picking up a piece of wood lying nearby. Waving it around Sammy's head. Sammy jumping up trying to grab it, barking.
Fifty yards away Geraint is fishing from amongst the trees along the lakeshore, but really reading. Revising. A major exam at school tomorrow. He is immersed in his notes on Wuthering Heights. That book had really surprised him. He thought it would be some romantic trash. How wrong could he be? Dark. Haunting. A doomed love story. Real emotions. People he sort of recognised. Like many of the people he meets at the shop. Set in a place not unlike the high country of Cwm Celyn. It may have been written well over a century and a half ago, but he can totally relate... The barking of a dog snaps him out of his notes.
Geraint sees Carole. How long has she been there? Alone apart from her dog by the standing stone. Lit by the setting sun. God she is sooo gorgeous! He starts to get up to go to speak to her,
but remembers she didn't recognise him yesterday. Best stay put? He can't exactly talk about what happened in the cottage last night. But there won't be a better time to talk to her than now. She's on her own. He can't call to see her at the cottage. That would be weird. Geraint is torn. He watches Carole play with her dog trying to make up his mind what to do.
Carole tosses the stick into the lake. Sammy fetches. Swimming out and rushing back to the shore. Sammy runs back out of the water to Carole. He drops the stick at Carole's feet. Carole crouches down to pick it up. Sammy shakes himself, spraying Carole with cold water. She screams in laughter and throws the stick as far as she can into the lake. A puckish look in her eye. Sammy races in after the stick. Carole begins to take off her clothes. Silhouetted against the setting sun her body is slimmer, her long black hair falling down her back, taking off her T shirt, shoes, jeans, bra, knickers and rushing naked into the water.
Geraint looks on in amazement fumbling for his phone as Carole dives into the water, coming up screaming because of the cold. She starts swimming out from the shore, with fast strong strokes. Sammy getting out of the water, lying on the shore with the stick. The sound of Carole splashing echoing around the lake.
Geraint watching in stunned amazement, screwing up his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. Thank you God! Watching Carole's head disappear and reappear on the lake as she swims. Her dirty blonde hair is now black on the surface of the lake.
She comes to a halt some way out from shore and treads water. Alone in the cold but soothing water. The water holding up her, hugging her with its cold hands against its cold body. She feels safe. She looks at the splendour of the sun setting over the trees. This place is her's. Her's alone. She catches her breath and drops beneath the surface of the lake. Swimming downwards seeing the bottom of the lake not too far away. Mari's long hair flowing behind her, her more girl-like figure catching the light. She turns for the surface.
Peter‘s unshaven face rises out of the bath. Hair covering his eyes. The bathroom filled with steam. Peter gets out of the bath and dries himself in a bath towel. The bathroom mirror is steamed up. Peter gets closer, his head leaning against his own reflection. Or is it his reflection? "You witch… I could kill you…" A dark face glowering in the steamed up bathroom mirror.
Carole swims for the shore. Geraint watches enthralled as she walks gingerly to the shore, more concerned about the sharp stones at her feet than her nakedness. Geraint zooms in as far as he can with his smartphone camera. Snap, snap, snap, his hands shaking so much, hoping to God she can't hear the sound of the camera nor his heavy breathing.
Carole suddenly realises that the is standing naked at the lake shore. She covers herself, pulling on her T shirt and jeans. She looks around - no one to be seen. Thank God! What the hell was she thinking? She's alone up here! Anyone could have been out there! Better get back to the cottage. She is jogging back up the road in moments with Sammy trotting behind.
Geraint lies back on the lake shore and closes his eyes — he simply can’t believe what he has just seen. He views the photos on his phone. Blurred, shaky. Carole's black hair covering her face. Is it Carole at all? He can't recognise her. But who cares! Oh my God!!!
The sun dips over the horizon. A rush of cold wind. A chill on a June evening chasing the trees from sight. The whole area now lightly forested. The trees shrunk back to a time when they were planted in the early 1950s. The open country just visible in the twilight beyond.
Two figures dressed in dour post-war 1950’s clothes walk along the lakeshore, hand in hand. Their pale complexions as one with the rapidly dimming light. Mr. Phillips it seems has always been colourless, even as a young man; a grey suit like a character from a cheap American film, slicked down hair. His wife, dressed in a faded dress, her face showing signs of recent tears, but she is smiling watching the brilliant colours of the sunset sky.
Mrs Phillips leans on the standing stone at the shore with her back to Mr Phillips. He is suddenly larger now, well built, filling out Phillip's slim suit. He stealthily crouches to pick up a rock, sneaking up on Mrs Phillips. He raises the rock high above his head.
Mrs Phillips leaning on the standing stone starting to sing a tune. Whack!!! The wistful smile on her face turning to surprise as blood starts to flow from her nose. Tears in her eyes again. She falls into the shallow water of the lake. Young Mr. Phillips drops the bloodied rock with a thump with a look of alarm on his face. Did he just do that? Blood floats around Mrs. Phillip's head in the water.
Geraint sits up with a start at the sound of the splash. What the hell was that? There are ripples in the water from a disturbance by the standing stone. Its a bit misty there. What the hell?
Geraint slightly spooked, picks up his fishing tackle and books. He carries his bike back to the car park. Nothing to be seen anywhere, except for that weird mist off shore near the standing stone. What is that? Geraint rides off hoping Carole will not be not around when he rides passed the cottage. God that would be embarrassing.
The mist near the standing stone: Mr. Phillips dragging his wife's body out into the lake in the fading light. He, the mist and the ripples disappear as the cold wind blows across the surface of the lake.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Missed Calls
The sun has gone. The forest has darkened to a sort of grey invisibly in front of her eyes. Its like the forest, the cottage and Carole are being covered by a black cloth. Holes in the weave of the cloth show the stars above. Thousands upon thousands of them becoming visible in the small piece of sky that the trees allow her to see. This darkness allowing her to see the starlight above. You never see the night sky in London's orange glow.
Carole didn't see this amazing star scape last night. Last night is strangely like another lifetime now. What's changed? The feeling inside her. She is somehow more at home here. Like it has always been her home.
But something is making her feel uncomfortable. Something; someone in the shadows of the cottage behind her. Unnerving yet welcoming. Its putting Carole both at ease and on edge.
The darkness of the forest, the oppressive silence. The lack of sensory stimulation driving Carole into her own mind. Her own thoughts. Her own insecurities. What was she doing swimming naked up at the lake? Anyone could have seen her! Luckily there was no one there, right? Wait! Something just moved in the gloom on the road coming back from the lake. No, now she's getting paranoid. Its her eyes playing tricks on her. There's no one there. For goodness sake!
Carole has learned from living in London that paranoia is useful. It keeps you on your toes. Riding the tube trains. Walking home after dark. You get a sixth sense if someone is watching you. Meaning you harm, or maybe something else. A vital animal instinct in one of the world's largest cities. Men are still animals. OK, people are still animals. She noticed Peter by the way he watched her when she wasn't looking. It started off being uncomfortable: then, something else.
Still, what possessed her earlier on at the lake? In one day here, she's let down her guard too far. She's relaxed. But isn't that the point of being here? Christ, she'll be having a holiday romance soon! She's almost forgotten about the outside world. About the fight with Peter. About what maybe the end of the first proper relationship of her life.
Carole looks at her phone. It has a signal. No missed calls. So nothing from Peter. That's ominous. Its gone ten pm, he should have been home late afternoon. Why hasn't he called to tell her that he's home? To ask if she is OK? To apologise! What could he say to apologise for what he did? Why is she thinking about phoning him?
Why? Because life will go on when she gets back to London. When he comes to fetch her. When he takes her back to their flat. When she goes to work alone, for someone else. Not going to work with Pete anymore. Maybe moving out of the flat. Not living with Pete anymore. Is that what's happening?
Carole paces nervously outside the cottage. She selects Contacts on the phone. She taps the contact for 'Flat'. Carole take
s a deep breath, not even sure what to say. The phone rings six times, the pause between each ring getting longer, and then the answer phone cuts in.
Pete's voice on the answerphone. Clear, strong, friendly. The Pete she thought she knew. "Hi, Peter and Carole aren't in, so please leave a message after the tone".
Carole stumbles over the words. She should have practiced these lines and not just thought about what to say if Pete had picked up. "Hi Pete... I thought you'd be home by now..." God, what to say next?
Carole's voice is coming over the answerphone speaker. Fighting against the loud techno filling the room. Peter sitting nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand ignoring the message. He is engrossed in an article on his iPad on his lap.
Carole's voice continues as the techno track reaches the drop. It's almost ten o'clock... I'll try to call you on your mobile... 'Bye". The message ends.
Peter takes another sip of whiskey. The article he is reading on the BBC News website, the Wales section is entitled, “Welsh Holiday Home Arson Attacks Intensify”. Peter scrolls on, engrossed. His phone is switched off on the table.
"Hello. This is Peter. Please leave a message. Thanks". Carole waits a moment, the old Pete flashing in front of her eyes. She blanks. Can't think of anything to say. "Hi Pete. Call me". She hangs up. The red mist descends as she walks back into the cottage, slamming the door.
Geraint grabs his chance. He thought she'd be out there all night! He rides by quietly, no lights in the gloom, heading quickly passed the cottage and on up the road towards the village. Oh God, he still can't believe what he saw tonight. He's still shaking.
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