Old Flames
Page 10
He reaches out, pulling off the lads hat, wrenching off the bluetooth headphones and tossing them under the train. The lad turning around in fury to see the wild eyed man baring down on him pushing him hard against the train. Murder in the eyes behind that hair.
The lad runs. He follows, pushing and shoving along the platform. The Platform Guard shouting at them as he chases the lad through the commuters on the overcrowded platform.
The lad heading to the Exit. Up the stairs, the lad slowed by his belt-less black jeans falling down. He is now limping badly in pursuit but keeping up, dragging at the collar of the lad's oversized parka. The lad struggling free of the coat. The lad getting up the slippery steps to the city above. The coat getting trampled on the stairs.
The lad running along the wrong side of the barrier on the walkway, pushing through oncoming commuters. He follows the best he can with his limp, losing the lad now.
The lad running up the escalators. He stands at the bottom. Breathless. Snarling. People watching him. Black faces. White faces now too. The market disappearing. The tube station smell returning.
The rush of wind from the tube. Peter coming to himself. Where the hell is he? Tottenham Court Road? What? Not at his stop! Peter joins the tide of people flowing down to the trains below. The wind rushing passed Peter as he walks. Clearing his head. The limp less prominent. What was he doing? What's going on? He's already late for work. The next train east pulling onto the platform as he arrives. Straight onto train before the Platform Guard spots him.
Daylight. Canary Wharf with its massive glass and steel buildings shining light into Peter's eyes. Across the square to the huge monolith he calls work. Peter straightens up and walks purposefully through the doors.
Out of the lift and into Reception. Office Workers milling around as Peter limps towards his office. TP at the door. Looking at his watch. Fuck.
"Peter, just coming in?"
"Good morning TP. I'm a bit off colour today".
"Big week Peter. Need to see how you're getting on with that presentation at the meeting at eleven".
"Absolutely". Peter enters his office, checking his watch. 10:20. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Booting up his computer. Logging in. Forgetting the log in. He changed it last week. What is it? Bloody IT department. Christ, his head. A knock on the door. Now what?
Frances steps into his office. Her afro glistening around her face. Beaming. "Morning. How did it go down in Wales with Carole?"
Peter still trying to log into the computer. "Meaning?"
Frances bristling slightly. "Meaning, good weekend Peter?"
Peter doesn't respond, finally getting the log in right. He looks up. Frances studying him. "Just a heads up. TP has been kicking off this morning already. He’s as nervous as a cat with the Chinese visit this week. You remember we have a meeting at eleven, right?"
Peter puts his head in his hands. Sensing Frances moving closer. Smelling the whiskey maybe. Smelling something, and she thinks its unpleasant. She recoils. "Something wrong Pete?"
"Get me a black coffee Frances".
Frances expecting a joke or a smile. None. "Get your own! I'm not your negro!" Frances leaves the office.
Peter opens his presentation on the computer. He stares at the screen but can't engage. The emails. Too many. Peter takes a deep breath and wishes he hadn't. The knot in his stomach tightening.
Peter enters the Men’s Toilets and catches sight of himself in the mirror. Pale, sweaty, sunken eyes. He splashes water on his face. Water gets in his eyes. He doesn't really recognise his own reflection at all now. Unshaven. Long dark hair. That's wrong. The world swimming, his guts swirling. Peter rushes into a cubicle and throws up. And again. And again. Gagging and struggling for breath. Dropping to his knees. Coughing and recovering. Breathless, but ok. He wipes his face and flushes the toilet.
Standing to wash his face at the basins. Bending over is too risky. Peter looks at his reflection. Pale and ill. Even worse in the sickly light. Peter adjusts himself, straightens his tie and jacket. "There you are TP you wanker, one servile fucker reporting for duty, sir". Peter heads back to his office. The door slams.
There is a flush. The other cubicle door opens. TP emerges, his face like thunder.
Peter is back at his desk, staring blankly at the computer screen. He snaps out of his reverie as Frances taps on the door and enters.
Frances gets that smell of something again. Unpleasant. Decay? "The meeting is in five minutes. How’s that presentation coming on? Can I see it?"
"It’s not ready Frances, it’ll be ready by the end of the day".
"You what? What’s the problem? We talked it through on Friday, remember?"
"I'll get it to you in good time".
"For fuck's sake Pete! A Good Time is now! The meeting starts in five minutes".
Peter starts to sweat. "I'm not going". Peter back in the heat, seeing an African trader. Trying to focus on Frances. Its not working. The trader clearer in his head.
"Pete, this isn’t like you. You know how important this week is for us. Bring what you have. Don’t forget who is the Captain on this ship!" Frances slams the door on her way out.
Who the hell does this woman think she's talking to? Who does she think she is? Peter jumps to his feet but has to steady himself. He crosses to the window and leans against the glass, sweating profusely.
A seagull whirling around outside the window. It screams, drawing Peter's attention. The sun burning away everything outside. The reflections on the glass, on the sea. A flock of seagulls now swooping around the ship and the mast above his head. The swell rising and falling. He's having to hold onto the rail to steady himself. Leaning on his stick. The crew buzzing around. The smell of the sea. Overpowering.
The meeting convening. No one sees Peter limping out of the office and getting into the lift.
Leaving the building. Disorientated by the hubbub around and the bright sunshine. Limping away from the building and out of the direct sunlight which is killing his eyes. The seagulls swooping overhead between the mast-like buildings. Peter limping into the shadows to get out of the sun. Along walkways finding railings and pillars to hold himself steady on the rolling deck. The river ahead. Limping onwards towards the water.
Up ahead tables being put out. An open door to darkness within. Limping into the bar. Inside. Silence. Darkness. Whiskey. Taking a seat at the bar. His mobile phone rings. 'Office'. He turns it off.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Detours
Carole leaves the empty village and returns into the forestry which surrounds it. Returning to the constant hiss of the pines, and the chill air. Padding along the road with Sammy in tow. Walking beside the regimented pines. Uniform. Same height. Same girth. Same space between them. Orderly rows and columns. Like an army imposing order on these wild mountains unlike any human army has ever been able to do. Stretching forever into the gloom.
Except. A gap in the pines. A gap, say two trees width wide. She hadn't noticed it on the way to the village. It heads off into the gloom of the forest and a brightness beyond. An old track? Pretty overgrown at the roadside but seeming to be clearer deeper in the forest. Its not a forestry service road. Not wide enough surely? An old farm track? It hasn't been used since God knows when.
Carole stops and looks down the track. Clear sunlight at the end of the tunnel of gloom. What's down there? What is down there? Familiar. Important. But she has never seen this before. What is this place? She picks up Sammy in her arms. "Come on Sammy, let's see where it goes". She carefully picks a route around the worst of the undergrowth. Around five yards in, the path is walkable. She puts down Sammy and leads him down the track.
As Carole walks along the last twenty yards or so of the forest track, a tumble down cottage comes into view. Carole finds herself in another world hidden within the forest.
A single storey cottage much like hers. Smaller, much smaller in fact. The remains of a door and a window. The roof h
as fallen in. The timbers rotten. The slates now light grey and shattered. Creeper and brambles over the walls. What looked like a lawn from a distance back is actually a small pond, covered in algae. Totally still.
Beyond the cottage, up the hill are the trees she saw from the lake. A grove of old trees, oak maybe, covering the hill and stretching up to the skyline. Old. Very old. A snapshot of how Cwm Celyn looked before the new trees which otherwise surround her. This place is idyllic! And also familiar. Why? Almost deja vu. But no, she could never have been here before.
Carole remembering her Dad and Mrs. Jones chatting in the shop when she was a girl. Talking about the farms swallowed up by the forests. About their school friends and their families who lived on these farms. How the farmers sold up, and either moved into Capel Celyn village or away to South Wales to make a new life. Like the Highland Clearances in Scotland, but for trees, not sheep. Her father hated these trees.
Now for the first time in her life she could physically see why. A way of life and a community gone. Her father had seen this land change irreversibly, though still there beneath his feet. And now here beneath his daughter's feet. An entire history hidden in the trees.
Carole lets Sammy off his leash, the little dog rooting around the tumble down cottage. Carole walks over to the remains of the cottage, looking through gaps which were once windows and doors. The roof has fallen inside, but the hearth, the centre of the home still visible. Nothing else left behind. Probably the occupants didn't have much to take away to wherever they went. A little wooden sign nailed to the door. Faded. Hard to read. Nant y Cadno. Carole wonders what that means. 'Nant' means 'stream'. 'Y' means 'The'. 'Cadno'? No idea.
Carole looks upwards at the grove of trees. The sound of birds up there, totally missing down here in the pine forest. Birds flying overhead. The whole grove sunlit and warm. Warmth reaching down here by this old forgotten cottage too. The sun beating down in fact. Carole feeling the warmth on her skin. She finds a spot in the long grass, and lies down on her back. The long grass enfolding her. The smell of the pollen and summer flowers. The sound of the birds up above. The bright cloudless sky. And that sun, warming her. She needs to be warm. She's felt so cold lately. Carole undoes the front of her dress and lets the sun warm her naked body.
Peter is at the bar. Even though his eyes have grown accustomed to the gloom, the room is full of shadows. He is the only person here apart from the staff. Or is he? The shadows moving on the periphery of his vision. Disconcerting for a sailor in a strange bar. Watching him. Awaiting a conversation or confrontation with one of their own.
It puts him on edge. The whiskeys aren't lasting too long, so he's taken to doubles to extend the warm feeling they give him. No tobacco smoke in the air. Strange for a pub. Where are his crew? Nowhere to be seen. Miserable bastards to a man.
The cottage beneath the grove. Nant y Cadno. Not as it is now. A home. Bathed in the warm sunshine of a summer over a century ago. A woman hanging washing near the pond where Carole would lie asleep. Her feet trampling the grass near Carole's head, causing her to stir in her sleep.
A loud tap. Tap. Tap. A young man chopping wood in the heat of the midday sun. Once his mother has gone inside he takes off his shirt. Feeling the sun on his back. Owain, dragging more deadfall from the copse nearby. Chopping firewood ready for the long cold winter ahead. Mari watching him from nearby within the grove. Moving down to be closer. Watching his body move and the sun tan his skin. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.
Owain chopping through the last log which falls in two onto the ground. He swipes the splintered offcuts away. A piece holds fast, driving the wooden splinter deep into his hand. Owain winces. He pulls at this splinter embedded in the palm of his hand. It doesn't come free. He winces. Blood now.
A hand taking his hand. Mari. Looking deep into his eyes. Holding his hand. Drawing out the piece of bloody wood. She raises Owain's hand to her mouth and kisses it. Looking into Owain's eyes. Lustful. The boy smiling. She runs her hand through his blonde hair. A call from the house. Owain's head turning sharply, leaving a clump of hair in her hand. Mari seeing Owain's mother coming out of the cottage. Mari disappears into the shadows of the trees.
Owain pulls on his shirt, picks up the wood he has chopped and heads for the house. Mari watches him walk away. Holding his hair and the blood soaked piece of wood in her hand. Smiling mischievously.
Carole tossing in her sleep by the ruined cottage. Sammy asleep by her long dark hair spread out on the ground.
The silence of the bar broken. Half a dozen people entering the bar, talking and laughing. Peter pays no attention, staring into his whiskey glass. A loud man ordering drinks further up the bar.
Someone beside Peter. He knows her scent before he turns his head. Those hazel eyes bright above her thrilling smile. Long black hair pulled back. Patricia. Fuck.
"I was just thinking about you".
"Oh that's nice, considering you didn't come over to talk to me at the Christmas do". She pouts playfully.
"How are you?"
"Still a single girl. He was fun for a while, but hey. Haven't met anyone to replace you on a full time basis yet... And you? How's that little office junior? Carole. The one you had in our bed? Is she lurking around here somewhere too?"
Ouch. Same old Patricia. "No. Gone to Wales for a while".
"What, and left you all on your own? Not nice. Little bird tells me that she left your firm too. You can't be seeing much of each other these days. Must be lonely for you".
Whatever the down side of her high maintenance personality, Peter missed her directness. The sexy bitch. "Do you want a drink Pat?"
Patricia picks up Peter's glass and takes a sip. "I'll have a whiskey too". Running her finger up and down the glass, her smile widening. "I wonder what she could be up to down there on her own?... Dear me, the mind boggles..."
Carole is still asleep outside Nant y Cadno cottage. Her eyeballs flicking around wildly, caught up in the dream. Or is it a memory? The poppet in her hands, being shaped as its whittled. The wood still dark with Owain's blood. The head. Arms. Body. Legs. The appendage, so big, being shaped by the knife in her hands. Mari's hands. Making the eyes with an Indian ink pen in the fire light at Pantyfedwen. Black eyes.
That boy's eyes concentrating hard here at Nant y Cadno. Owain whittling. Shaping a love spoon from a piece of birch wood. Y Fedwen in Welsh. Fitting for the girl from Pantyfedwen. Owain absorbed in his work. His mother shouting at him from the cottage to get back to chopping logs. Owain ignoring her. Whittling some more. An intricate pattern of leaves and branches revealed from beneath the wood shavings. A heart. The spoon. For Mari.
She is standing watching him from the grove above. Almost as one with the trees. Her thin frame and dark hair hiding her from view. Owain looks up and sees her immediately. He climbs the hill and joins her in the trees, handing her the love spoon. Mari smiles, kissing him passionately, running her hands over his body. Owain's mother calling him from the cottage below. Mari grabbing him by the hair when he tries to return to her.
Mari leads Owain further up the hill and deeper into the Grove. The hill getting steeper, the trees thicker. The smell of the earth stronger as they climb. Panting as their feet slip on the wet ground as they scramble upwards hand in hand. The sun bathing them in a golden light as they climb higher, birds singing in tops of the trees way above their heads.
Beneath them, Cwm Celyn in its summer glory. To the east, Llyn Celyn lake glistening with its distinctive standing stone. Capel Celyn to the west. Nant y Cadno and Pantyfedwen to the south. Unnoticeable from this height, a figure walking along the road between the two cottages.
Mari and Owain reach the crest of the hill and enter the fabulous grove of ancient oaks. Wood pigeons coo softly. Mari looks around her in wonder spinning around breathlessly, giddy with excitement. Owain catches her and lays her on the ground. He takes off his shirt and his breeches. Mari smiles up at him, undoing her dress.
"Mari... Mari..." Owain gasping and calling out her name as she smiles up at him.
Mari rocking back and fore as Owain pounds her wildly. Mari cries out in lust.
Patricia's cries out as she rides Peter. He grabs her and rolls her onto her back. Wild frantic sex. Peter bites her neck and licks Patricia’s face.
Carole wakes with a start. Sammy licking her face. She is caught for a moment between dream and reality. Aroused. Confused. "Sammy!.... Stop it... What time is it?" She fetches her phone from her bag. "Jeez. You must be hungry". She puts Sammy on his leash and gets up, realising that her dress is open. As she buttons her dress she looks up the grove on the hill above. Half remembering her dream.
Sammy barks, and starts to lead her back up the track into the trees. "OK, I'm coming. I'm so glad you're here. Good boy".
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Visitors at Dusk
"She thinks more of that scruffy mongrel than she does of me". Peter lies on his back in bed, Patricia with her head next to his, watching him.
"Why haven't you split up? Thrown her out?". A hint of hurt on Patricia's face. The relatively recent history behind this. Peter and her. Two short years ago. A year after moving in together. The lease on the flat came up. Carole came up. Bang! She was history. Unceremoniously dumped for an office junior. That's not happening again. Now she's taking back what's hers.