Old Flames

by Dewi Griffiths

  Carole puts a match to rubbish in the fireplace, watching as the flames start grow. Burning the rubbish from the previous owner of the house. Making the place her own. Making a warm welcome. She needs the warmth, still feeling the lake's cold embrace. She sits in front of the fire alone. Sammy wanders over and lies down beside her. She looks at the phone. Still a signal, but still no call from Pete.

  Peter is asleep on the couch, the empty whiskey bottle on the table. The lights still on. Behind him the never full bookcase has been emptied of books. There are gaps where there were ornaments and photographs on shelves. The place already feels unlived in. Visible signs that Carole has left. Peter doesn't do possessions. Everything he needs is on his phone or computer. Music, photos, videos. Why have them here when you can take them with you everywhere you go?

  Peter's eyes darting around under closed eyelids as he dreams. Dark hair falling over his face.

  Everything moving. Rising and falling. Sound crashing all around him. An earthquake? No a ship. A ship being slammed by huge waves. Water rushing across the deck. He loses his footing, his legs being dragged away by the receding wave. The slam on the back of his head. Seeing stars. Tasting salt water as it rushes over him. He can't breathe. The water filling his nose and mouth. Gasping. Reaching for anything. Someone calling him as the water pulls him across the deck. "Ifan!!!"

  Carole asleep on the mattress in the fire light. Sammy watching, growling. On guard. The firelight darting light and shadow across the room. Shadows. One of the shadows isn't a shadow.

  Mari sits in the firelight. She is making the poppet - wrapping Owain’s hair around the carved wooden body. She smiles as she knots the hair. She whispers like a sigh "Fy machgen i..." Repeating over and over as she makes the knot time after time in a loop, never completing the task. Making, making, making. Making him her boy.

  There is another sound. Beyond Mari in the bedroom...

  The bedroom door swings slowly open. The sound gets louder: the firelight illuminates the rope is hanging from the rafter. The noose.

  Ifan watches as the tearful, confused Young Mr. Phillips puts his head in the noose for the first time. He looks at the wedding photograph of himself and Mrs. Phillips beside the empty bed. He turns to Ifan and screams. "Pam y diawl? Why?"

  Ifan glowers.

  Young Mr. Phillips drops. He gasps. Hanging helplessly in mid air. Young Mr. Phillips swings, gasping, coughing legs kicking at the air. Hanging there. Ifan looking deeply into his eyes. Young Mr. Phillips struggling in the noose, forcing his head backwards. He drops to the ground with a bang.

  Carole wakes with a start. Nothing there but shadows in the firelight. Sammy cowering beside her. Something in the fire light, smoking slightly. Carole reaches out and picks up the poppet from the hearth. How did that get there? She holds its warm body in her hands, staring into its black eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Shrines and Shadows

  The summer sunshine breaks through the heavy foliage of the pine trees. Fighting its way through every branch and every pine needle to the next. It has built up enough strength by eight o'clock in the morning to light up the front of the cottage.

  Light pours through the living room window, falling on Carole's face as she sleeps in front of the long dead fire. Carole wakes up with a start. Sammy and the poppet staring at her in the bright sunshine. She yawns and looks at the poppet. Those black eyes stare back at her. She smiles, half remembering a dream. What was it?

  Peter wakes on the sofa. Dead eyed, unshaven, unkempt. He sits up and then feels the pain in his head and his guts simultaneously. The empty whiskey bottle on the table. A bottle in one night? He never did that even when he was a student! The iPad beside it. The Welsh arsonists. Yeah. Memories are forming through the throb of the hangover.

  Peter staggers to his feet and switches on his phone. He carries it to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. He pours a load of instant coffee into a mug straight from the jar. Milk on top. The brown mess turns his stomach.

  His mobile phone rings. Answerphone. Who the fuck is that? Peter answers the call. He catches sight of himself reflected in the aluminium splashboard. Jesus! He looks awful. Truly awful.

  The voice on the handset tells him he has one message. A familiar voice. Not one he wants to hear right now. Bitch. "Hi Pete. Call me". Peter deletes the message.

  He puts down the phone and heads off to the toilet to be sick.

  Carole lying on the mattress, studying the poppet. Processing it in her mind. Its becoming familiar now. The body. The appendage. That's rude. No, important. No, very important. This feels like a lost memory. But is it hers? Its becoming hers. It comes with the cottage maybe? Maybe. She places the poppet on the table beside the photo of her with her family.

  Carole fills the kettle and puts a teabag in the mug. Green tea. Tea to cleanse the system. Clear out the old Carole and the toxins of London.

  Washing her hair in the sink, the cold water pouring over her like it did in the lake. The water taking her head in its cold grasp.

  Sammy is waiting for her in the kitchen. By the back door. Nervous. Carole fills his bowl with water, and looks in the store cupboard. Dog food... The last can. Crap. Already? Sammy wolfs down the dog food. She needs to get some more. She clears the kitchen worktops and heads off to the living room.

  Carole rifles through her suitcase in the living room. The T-shirts, jeans and work trousers she's packed for working on the cottage. Carole pulls out a summer dress from beneath them. Light yellow cotton. Button up front. She holds it up to the light which streams through it. She pulls off her night shirt. The warmth of the sun on her skin feels good. Invigorating. She reaches for the clean underwear in the suitcase, changes her mind, and puts on the dress. She buttons up the front of the dress, pulling it tightly around herself.

  Sammy watches her from the kitchen door, not entering the room. Carole picks up a shopping bag, tosses her purse and her phone into it and picks up her keys. She heads for the door.

  Sammy is still watching her from the kitchen. Confused.

  "Sammy! Come on Sammy! Dere..." Where did that come from? The Welsh for 'Come'. Her Dad had taught her that. Amongst only a handful of words she remembers from those years when she would come here on holiday. "Dere Sammy!"

  The dog trots over to join her. She opens the door and the sunshine streams in. She is silhouetted against the light like an angel. Long dark hair, slim body beneath the summer dress which hangs loosely on her. Sammy watches her, confused. The leash snaps taught on his collar.

  The wind blows the confusion away. It ruffles Carole's blonde hair. Carole sets the pace, exuberantly playing with Sammy as they walk down the road through the morning's golden sunshine. Sunshine filtered into beams of light cutting through the pervasive darkness of the forest. Not a sound except her footsteps and Sammy's panting.

  Except for the hiss of the wind. That white noise. All spectrums of sound filtered by the pine trees. Carole has already got used to it; already acclimatising to the forest. This constant whisper, this hiss, has replaced that constant rumble of London which was always there so you never heared it.

  Carole and Sammy turn a sharp bend in the road. The hiss rises in pitch. The wind blowing directly down the short straight in the winding forest road. A sudden chill in the air. The sense of something wrong up ahead to the left. Something not as regimented as the rest of this uniform section of the plantation. One tree missing. No that's not right. One tree: broken. The upper section above say four feet up from the ground has gone. Cut clean across, neatly. But otherwise things are not neat. The undergrowth cleaved and parted by some sort of scar on the land. That scar stretching out onto the tarmac towards Carole. A scrape a good inch deep in the road in places.

  Carole stops. The chill is far more pronounced here. Something is catching the light at the foot of the broken tree. Glass reflecting the sunlight back through the undergrowth. Carole goes to take a look, walking along t
he length of the cleaved earth to avoid the undergrowth scratching at her legs.

  The tree is scarred. Torn. Black rotted flowers in decomposing plastic are tied to the tree. A note with the flowers, black ink having run blue and red, now undecipherable. On the ground an overturned, water filled jam jar. A little burnt out candle inside. The candle holder rusted, turning the water brown. A shrine to someone. The chill wind whistles for a moment.

  By the look of the tree and the damage to the road, a car crashed here. Someone drove off the road and lost their life. The damage to the tree beneath where its been cut is substantial. The tree is gouged and scarred. The impact must have cleaved the tree above or made it unsafe. The good part has been harvested. These trees are money. Thousands of trees. Millions of pounds. A different kind of industry scarring the countryside in this part of Wales.

  Carole stands there at the shrine in the forest with the wind flapping her dress. The scrape in the road, the cleaved earth, the broken tree tell a tale of life and death. Physical signs of a raw loss who knows how long ago. Probably not too long ago. These shrines are a pretty new thing in Britain at least. And the trees have only been here a lifetime.

  The cool breeze cuts through Carole' dress. Carole pulls at Sammy and heads down the road towards the village.

  Another five minutes down the road and Carole is leading Sammy into Capel Celyn. Carole's yellow dress catching the sun as she walks down the road, Sammy darting around on his leash.

  Carole pulling Sammy to heel as he smells at walls, doorways and gateposts as she walks along the pavement. Sammy pulling hard on the leash. Carole looks up and realises she is standing where her father died. She hadn't even thought of this when she came down a couple of months ago to view the cottage. Now it comes back to her. Her helpless panic. Everything that she had been taught on those first aid courses at work remaining locked in the depth of her head, completely inaccessible. Completely unable to remember what to do as Dad lay there, life ebbing away. People helping. Her helpless. A waste of space. In the way. A sideshow. Tears well in Carole's eyes. "Oh Dad... I miss you. I've done what you asked. I'm going to be here often. I promise. I'll be here to remember you Dad". Almost seeing her father's face looking back at her lifeless from the pavement.

  Carole composes herself and leads Sammy across the road to the shop.

  A cloud passes over the sun. Further up the street falls into shadow. People half visible. Ifan talking to another man with a huge hunting dog. A blood hound. The man, Ebenezer, exchanging the dog’s leash for money from Ifan.

  Ifan setting off up the street with the dog, passing where Carole's Father died. Heading off out of the village, back the way Carole has come. Man and dog on a mission pacing up the road. The padding of feet and clacking of walking stick on a road. The cloud clears the sun, sunlight lights and warms the street. The shadows are gone. An empty street in an empty village. No more ghosts.

  Carole loads half a dozen cans of dog food into the plastic shopping basket. Bread and a few other items fill the basket in no time. The shop is not so big, but very well stocked. And very quiet. Sammy sniffing around the shop. There seems to be nobody home. Sammy's head snaps around. Mrs Jones appears from the rear of the shop. Sammy barks.

  Carole looks around the shelves, and smiles. "Shwtmae Mrs Jones? How are you?"

  Mrs Jones' smile is as broad as the shop counter as she sweeps around to pet Sammy. "Carole bach! So you've moved in to Pantyfedwen? Wonderful! You're looking very well"

  "Diolch yn fawr. Thank you. So are you. I arrived on Saturday".

  Mrs. Jones plays with Sammy. "Oh wonderful! And your Welsh is coming back? That's good. So important. Your dad would be proud".

  Carole smiles, the tears from a few moments ago ready to return. "I hope so".

  "Is your fancy man up there helping you with the place then?"

  Someone watches Carole from the doorway between the shop and the main house. Watching the sunlight pass through Carole's dress as she stands in front of the window. How her figure fills the dress. Tight against her. Every curve. Geraint watches mesmerised. Imagining her last night at the lake... Now is a great time to talk to her. But Mam is here...

  Carole shrugs her shoulders. "He's gone back to London for the week".

  Mrs Jones stands up amazed. "What? And he's left you to fix up Pantyfedwen on your own? That's terrible! It’s in an awful state, Carole bach! Too much for you on your own!"

  Carole sighs. "Oh, I can manage".

  Sammy barks at Geraint trotting behind the counter. Carole calls after the dog. "Sammy!!! Dere!"

  "Geraint! Come out here. Be polite. You remember Carole?"

  Geraint emerges from the back of the shop, shooing Sammy as he walks forward, careful to stay behind the counter.

  Geraint smiles nervously, trying not to stare at Carole. "Yes. Of course I do. Shwtmae. I saw you've moved into Pantyfedwen"

  Realisation on Carole's face. The cyclist she passed in the van on the way to the cottage. What a transformation from the boy who helped her and her parents back at Christmas time. Taller. And bigger. Oh God... The blondish hair. Dark eyes. Just like the poppet. "You passed by on the bike on Saturday? You should have stopped to say hello. I didn’t recognise you Geraint. Nice haircut by the way!"

  Geraint blushes. Oh God, what to say to her. "Er, thanks... I could see you were busy…"

  Mrs Jones returns to fussing over Sammy who has trotted back to her from behind the shop counter. "He’s doing his exams. Almost done. Wants to go to University. He'll have time on his hands soon. It'll do him good to give you a hand with anything you need up in the cottage some afternoons Carole. It’ll keep him out of mischief".

  A mixture of panic and excitement in Geraint's eyes. Carole watching him. Smiling, no almost staring. Yes staring. What the...

  Carole flashes a smile and thank you to Mrs. Jones. "Oh that would be really good. Thanks a lot". The stare back to Geraint who raises his eyes quickly to meet hers. "Is that OK with you Geraint?"

  He has no choice. He doesn't want one. "Yes… er… no problem".

  Mrs Jones picks up Carole's basket and carries it to the till. She starts scanning the groceries. "This weighs a ton, Carole bach. Geraint can bring these things up to you later on if you like. And tell him if you need him around to help with anything. He needs to keep busy, a boy of his age".

  Geraint blushing again, as Carole stares and smiles. Those eyes. Watching him, running over him now. Oh God...

  Carole smiles at Geraint. "Thank you. It'll be nice to have a visitor up there". Especially one this good looking. Damn. "What do I owe you for this lot Mrs Jones?"

  "Twenty pounds, eighty two please".

  Carole digs in her bag for her purse. The money changes hands. She pops a can of dog food into her bag. "I better take this or my little friend here will be eating me for lunch... Thank you both. I'll see you later Geraint. Hwyl.'Bye". She gives Geraint a sly smile, before leading Sammy away. Geraint looks away at his mother who is boxing up Carole's provisions. The door bell chimes and she has gone.

  Mrs. Jones looks at Geraint with concern. "On her own up there in Pantyfedwen. What have I done? Poor dab, Geraint. Poor dab... Keep an eye on her, OK?"

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Back to the Grindstone

  Underground. A hundred feet down the escalators, lifts and walkways into the tube tunnels under London. Hurtling and rattling his way across from the west to the east end of the city. Crossing the Victorian centre of Empire into the docklands; transformed over a few short years from mud and decay into glass and steel by billions of pounds of investment. A new city for this new millennium. New jobs. New technology. New stress. New problems. Here every second counts. And he's over an hour late already.

  Peter standing crushed in with dozens of others in the packed tube train carriage. Everybody jammed up against each other. Avoiding eye contact. Faces in their phone screens or looking at the floor or ceiling of the tr
ain compartment. Everyone too close for comfort. A sheen of mutual sweat on everyone in the airless box on wheels.

  The train hums and shudders to a halt at the next stop. People fighting to get out of the carriage. An Asian couple pushing passed him, chattering away. A West London West Indian kid in this late teens, dressed like American street kid pushing up against Peter. His heavy coat in mid summer taking up more space than needed. Space is not at a premium in here. Nor is patience.

  Peter feeling the down jacket enfold him. The buzzing of the loud music in the kid's headphones as annoying as a fly by Peter's ear.

  Peter closes his eyes. Stifling heat. Overpowering. A crowded market. The chatter of foreign tongues. Only black faces around him. Pushing him as they jostle in the market place. A young black man too close for comfort. Much too close. He readies his stick.

  Screech! The tube car slams on its brakes, throwing passengers against each other. The West Indian lad pushing Peter hard against the support rail. Peter knocks his head. He turns around to face the lad. Maybe seventeen. Padded out in the sweltering car like an eskimo. Chicago Bulls baseball cap hiding his eyes and face. Oversized headphones drowning out the reality all around him. Peter stares down at him. He looks up, sees Peter staring. His forehead deep furrowed. Years of practice. "What blood?"

  "What did you call me?"

  The lad pulls aside his headphone. "Huh?"

  Peter engages his stare. Hair falling over his eyes. Dark eyes. Angry eyes. Bloodshot. Hating. Whiskey on his breath. The kid staring back. The man, who seems much bigger now, holding the stare. Looking wilder and more dangerous by the second. The train slides into the next station. The kid breaks off the stare, slightly alarmed, pushing his way off the train. He keeps his eyes locked on the lad as he goes. Following him onto the platform. The lad strutting off up the platform.