Old Flames

by Dewi Griffiths

  Geraint alone in the forest once more. Swallowed by the gloom as the sound of his freewheeling bike chain is drowned by the hiss of the wind in the trees.

  The wind is rising. Hissing through the trees outside the cottage. Sending the smoke from the chimney off into the murk.

  Carole has lit the fire, burning more of Mr. Phillips' memories as fuel. Old magazines and newspapers. Stuff the old man's family should have disposed of. Still, its keeping her warm.

  Carole sits on the mattress, drinking the wine and watching the flames burn on the hearth. Sammy lying at her feet, asleep. Someone watching her though. She can feel eyes on her. From the hearth. From the shadows in the firelight. Stop it. There's no one there.

  The poppet. Watching her from the hearth. Its hair in its eyes. No, not its hair. Geraint's hair. Carole picks up the poppet and the strands of Geraint's hair. The poppet is warm. It must be the fire. Its head a little sticky. Carole realises that the hair is attached to something black. Pitch. Sticky in the heat. She presses Geraint's hair into the pitch. It sticks, meshing with Owain's hair. Carole puts the poppet back down, further away from the fire. Somewhere cool. Somewhere that it is not watching her. But the sensation does not go away. So what's watching her from the shadows of the firelight behind her?

  A light swinging gently in the darkness. Squeaking as it moves, as the ship groans. He is lying in his bunk, his leg bound straight. In pain from his damaged leg. Sipping whiskey from a flask to take the edge off his world. Looking at the photograph of himself and Mari outside Bethlehem Chapel on their wedding day. Not a look of felicity. Rather suspicion and anger. Turning to hatred.

  Mari or is it Carole in the fire light back at Pantyfedwen. Laughing. Not laughing with him. Sneering and laughing at him. Someone with her. Putting his hands over her bare chest, pulling her back into the darkness, as her laugh turns to groans of pleasure.

  Peter wakes up with a start. A shooting pain in his leg. He climbs out of bed, trying to stop the leg muscle cramping. The pain searing him awake. Limping across the room, trying to find something to steady himself.

  A voice in the darkness. "Pete, are you OK?"

  "Carole?"

  "What do you want her for? You've got me now..." Patricia pulls back the covers. "See anything you want?"

  Peter still confused by his dream. That bitch. Laughing at him. Destroying his life. The pain sears through Peter's leg. He turns away and leans for support on the bedroom wall. His heart thumping in his ears.

  Patricia holds him from behind. Her body warm against his. Patricia smiles. "You're with me Pete. Remember?"

  The wine bottle empty. The wind howling in the chimney. Carole asleep on the mattress. The fire is just embers now.

  Mari smiling as she works by firelight. Binding Owain’s hair, and pushing it into the pitch on top of the poppet's head. Mari kisses the poppet. "Owain..."

  Carole groans in her sleep. Her eyes darting beneath closed eyelids. Breathing harsh. Dreaming a wild dream.

  The wind howls. Something is creaking nearby. Inside, as regular as the creak of a ship at sea. Mr. Phillips swinging from the noose in the bedroom. Eyes bulging as he realises he's about to die. At last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Blinding Light of Day

  Peter's leg hurting as he and Patricia emerge from the DLR at Canada Square. He limping. She is clinging on to him. She was never clingy before. Maybe she's helping him walk. More likely she thinks she needs to be all over him now that she's sleeping in his bed again. Marking him as her boy. Making a point of kissing him deeply before heading off for her office. Damn she's hot. Just what the doctor ordered to help forget about her. That bitch. Carole.

  Peter's head turns. The smell of fish. Billingsgate Fish Market is not too far away. The wind must have changed. Unusual for this time of year to have a wind from the north east. A good wind to have at your back in the English Channel. Peter heads south for the office, the sun in his eyes, reflections from the glass towers all around him, the limp now very pronounced.

  Peter limps quickly through Reception, hoping to avoid anyone who notices that he is already running late. He closes the office door and drops into his seat. His leg is killing him. He logs in. No he doesn't. Not again! What was the new password? Oh crap.

  A click, creak and click. Frances has let herself in and closed the door behind herself. Leaning against it. Angry. Very angry. "Where the hell were you yesterday?"

  The log in fails again. What the hell is it? "I had to go home. I didn’t feel well…"

  "Really? Why not tell me? You left your mobile off. I couldn’t get hold of you. Carole called too"

  Peter groans. Carole. She doesn't work here any more. He's come to work to forget about her. Having her stuff still at the flat is rubbing salt in the open wound as it is. Now this bitch is carrying on about her. Peter gives Frances a look. No words needed.

  "OK, that’s between you and her, but you left TP to me yesterday. He was pissed off that I couldn’t find you, and he wants you to run the presentation for him this afternoon at 3pm".

  "OK". Yes! Logged in. "Thank you Frances". Opening up the emails. Bollocks! Loads of them.

  Frances stands ignored at the door. She can do sarcastic. Now is an example. "You’re very welcome, Peter". Frances exits slamming the door behind her.

  Carole is painting the kitchen wall. Trying to brighten up this dark room. A lighter pastel shade. This place needs is a woman's touch. After a while the gloom in here is overpowering.

  The bedroom door slams. Carole jumps out of her skin.

  Sammy scratching at the back door desperate to get out. "Don't do that, I'm going to paint that next!" She opens the door and Sammy runs out. The dog stops and turns. Yelping, wanting her to follow. "I'll come out to play later".

  Carole carries on with the painting, adding the light tone to the wall. It seems to darken in front of her eyes. A trick of the light maybe. She can still see the colour underneath. This will need a few coats. Its almost like she can't cover up that miserable old man's life here at the cottage.

  The miserable old man who is standing behind her. Screaming at her. His cheap electronic watch beeps on the hour.

  Carole stops in her tracks. What the hell was that sound? She feels someone behind her. Carole turns around. Nothing there. Apart from a sense of darkness. Darkness unseen. And cold. Suddenly quite cold. It raises goosebumps on her arms. And that damn smell. Stronger than ever. Turning her stomach.

  Sammy barking and yelping wildly outside the door. Carole puts down her paint brush. "OK, OK, lets go for a walk shall we?".

  Geraint serving some 'hippies' in the shop. He has less patience with them than his mother. A gawky couple. As out of place here as they probably were where they came from. English people moved out here to the middle of nowhere, selling an expensive little house in the South East of England to buy a big house or a small holding up here. Most don't last a winter. The cold. The wet. The isolation. Depression was what brought them here. Its usually what drives them away. This couple have at least tried to say his name, but still murder it. Calling him Grant now. Jesus! Mercifully they leave before he needs to correct them yet again. Geraint alone again in the shop. Him and his revision notes. Not that he can concentrate for one second.

  Carole is different to that lot. Hopefully she'll be staying. He can't stop thinking about her. Geraint takes out his phone and watches the video from the lake. Its a shame its so blurred. It hardly looks like her. A trick of the light probably.

  He closes his eyes. He is looking down Carole's dress again. Feeling her touch him. Watching her swimming naked in the lake. Imagining her lying in the sun at Nant y Cadno. Imagining lying beside her. His hands on her. Everywhere. Her grabbing him, but she's different now. Dark haired, thinner, desperately pulling him into her.

  Geraint leaning forward on the shop counter, lost in the daydream. His reflection in the security mirror distorting. Shorter. Slighte
r. Blonde hair longer.

  He is in the woods with this woman. A mix of arms and bodies and mouths. The woods are different. Old oaks. A mist around him and this woman writhing beneath him. Reaching up for him, crying out. But that's not his name...

  "Geraint!"

  What the hell? Mrs. Mathias has come in to get the paper and milk. Standing right in front of him. He never saw her. Geraint tries to focus. He was completely out of it.

  Carole hasn't bothered to change out of her work jeans and T shirt. She needs to get out into the fresh air. She can't shake that atmosphere in the cottage. Cold. Morbid. Oppressive. And that smell that seems to follow her around everywhere she goes.

  She needs to lighten her mood. She is carrying a rucksack with a towel, sunglasses, can of pop, her phone, headphones, keys and a book. A bit like going to the beach. Heading for her own private cove in the trees, at the ruined cottage. To catch some sun. Warm up. Clear her head. She closes the front door, locking it. Turning her back on this for now. Carole pulls on the rucksack, puts on some lightweight headphones and selects a music playlist on her phone.

  The music kicks in, filling her ears with the sound of her younger summers; trance. The rhythm and repetition of the dance music immediately taking her out of her fugue. To another place. Holiday music. Sammy comes bounding around from the side of the cottage in time to the rhythm. Everything hits the beat. Carole popping the sunglasses on the top of her head. Putting Sammy on a leash and leading him off down the road.

  The music driving her footsteps as she walks between the towering trees. The hiss of the forest sounding like the distant sea, taking Carole back to those brief summers in the Balearics. Drinks, pills, pools and parties. And boys. Week long relationships. Sex anywhere you could get away with it. Why hasn't she done that in so long?

  Sex anywhere. Is that possible here? Yes, definitely. In the open countryside all around her. At the shore of the lake. But best of all in the grove. Beautiful. Her private place. Where no one would find her with him...

  Carole stops in her tracks. What is she thinking? The grove? The boy? These aren't her memories. The breeze passes over her, blowing her away, leaving someone else. The music carries on, clouding her thoughts. Lost in trance. The smell of the pine trees fading. Open fields in front of her closed eyes. The countryside smells from a hundred years ago. Flowers. Grass. The wind in her long dark hair.

  Sammy barks. Her eyes snap open. The pines. Nothing but the pines. Carole walks on.

  In a few minutes she is at the entrance to the overgrown track to Nant y Cadno. Bright sunshine there through the trees, drawing her in like a fly into a web. Walking out of the breeze and into the shade of the trees. The cool air enfolding her. Cocooned for a moment.

  Breaking the tree line. Walking into the sun and the summer heat. The sun searing her face and the bare skin of her arms. She is in a different place, with a different climate, now that the pine trees are at a distance. A small vestige of what was here in Cwm Celyn before the trees came. Dragonflies buzzing around the green algae which covers the pond. Insects everywhere. Butterflies, bees. Life in the middle of the deathly forest. Everything moving in sync with the trance music in her headphones which fills her head; but is it her head?

  Spreading the towel on the ground. Kicking off her shoes. Taking off her jeans. Her T shirt and her knickers. Standing naked in front of the house. In front of his house. Wishing he was here, watching her. Who's house again? The boy in Geraint's story? Yes? The sun heating her skin. The wind breathing on it. The music taking her to another time.

  Frances looking through Peter's office window. She dials a number on her phone. A buzzing sound. Frances enters the office. That weird smell is getting worse in here. The buzzing sound is coming from Peter's desk. His mobile phone is by the computer.

  Peter's answer phone message in Frances' ear. Frances looks around in despair. "Pete, you’ve done it again! Have you got a death wish or something?"

  He is at a bar, the only customer. He downs his whiskey and heads out into daylight. It hurts his eyes. He limps off to find another bar. Plenty here in the docks. All day to explore them.

  Geraint leaving the shop, mounting his bike and riding off at speed.

  She is lying face down on the towel in the long grass. Insects buzzing around her naked body. Sammy lying nearby, asleep in the sunshine. Her headphones pumping music into her head, displaces any reality outside. Her eyeballs moving around wildly under her closed eyelids. Breathing heavily. In a shallow sleep. Dreaming, or is it remembering?

  Laughter on the trance track. Owain and Mari’s laughter as he chases her around the grove. Mari is easily caught and she falls to the floor pulling Owain down on top of her. The love-spoon Geraint has made for her falls from her hand. Owain kissing her.

  Geraint rides the bike up the road heading for Carole's cottage. He couldn't wait any more. He has to see her. Rehearsing what to say if Carole makes a move on him again. He's not going to mess it up this time. This is possibly a day he's going to remember for the rest of his life.

  Slowing as he reaches the path to Nant y Cadno. Considering. She is probably at her cottage. Its only late morning. But she said she comes here and its a glorious morning. She could be here. He stops the bike. Geraint carries his bike up the track, stowing it a few yards in. Moving quickly and quietly up the track, through the gloom towards the sunshine beyond.

  His mind drifting. She's here. He knows she's here. All he can think of is Carole's body. But now its not Carole's body. And he is not Geraint.

  Kissing her in the long grass of the grove. In the shade of the ancient woodlands. Looking down at her. The dark haired girl. Not Carole. Someone else. Someone from the past. Someone wanting him with a passion. Yes. Its Carole.

  Carole gasps as she lies dreaming in the sunshine. She rolls over onto her back. Laughter and breathing on the trance track. Mixing reality and dream, or is it memory?

  Owain kissing Mari, opening up the front of her dress as she looks up at him smiling lustfully. Mari suddenly distracted, pushing Owain away. She sits up and looks around, listening intently. Owain looks at her questioningly. A mist flowing around them, appearing out of nowhere. Muffled sounds. The mist killing any echo so the sound could be coming from anywhere. Breathing. Footfalls. Thumps.

  Mari's face fearful. She knows. She knows something is coming for her. The snap of a twig and the growl of a dog. A bark!

  Carole sits up to the sound of Sammy barking. She looks around in surprise, still half asleep.

  Geraint is twenty feet away, on his knees, desperately trying to keep the dog quiet.

  Carole stands up, making no attempt to cover herself.

  Geraint is completely caught out, watching her with surprise which turns to lust and embarrassment. Carole is coming closer, walking naked through the long grass. Carole is silhouetted against the sun. The sun so bright that he can't make out her features. She looks slimmer, with long dark hair like the girl in his head today. But that makes no sense. How to explain his way out of this hopeless situation? "I was on my way to see you at your cottage. But I thought you might be here... Sorry".

  "Sorry for what?"

  "For disturbing you".

  "I told you I'd be here. Maybe I want you to disturb me". Carole has reached him. Inches away.

  He can smell her, almost taste her in the breeze. This can't be happening. Geraint watches Carole almost warily. She reaches out suddenly. Geraint prepares for a slap. Instead she runs her hand through his hair.

  "Come on". She takes him by the hand and leads him to the towel on the ground. He awkwardly kisses her, hands by his sides. "What’s the matter?"

  Geraint is still in turmoil. What if he is reading this wrong? What if she shouts or screams? What if she tells his mother? What if... "It’s my first time…"

  Carole smiles. "So enjoy me".

  Excitement overcomes him. Its like someone else is in control now.

  Carole kis
ses Geraint deeply. Undoing the belt of his trousers was his hands tentatively explore her body. She yanks down his trousers and pulls him down with her to the ground. Wrapping her legs around his back, pulling him out of sight into the long grass.

  Exploring each other. Kissing. Entwining. Holding each other as the pine trees blur away. Focussing on nothing but each other. The oaks in the grove up above seeming to reach down to enfold them in an different place and a different time. The sun sears them, obscuring everything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Afterglow

  No clouds. A clear blue sky. Jet trails crossing westwards towards America. The thin trails spreading out to wide ribbons of white cloud tens of thousands of feet above them. The little silver shapes creating them shining as they catch the sunlight. When this cottage was built, the only way to travel those distances was by ship. A journey of weeks. Not hours. The sailors making those trips would not be home for months at a time. The world is a smaller place now. You are only hours away from anywhere. Even here.

  Carole is waking up. Waking up to a new situation. Geraint who she saw grow up as a schoolboy when she was here on her holidays is asleep beside her. Naked like her in the long grass. What has she done? What got into him? What got into her?

  The sun blazes down and Carole falls back to sleep to the distant sound of a jet engine rumbling above the quiet hiss of the wind in the pines.

  The roar of engines. Rush hour. Misnomer. All day is rush hour. Millions of people trying to get around a convoluted city. He is navigating by the sun, at least when he can see it between the high buildings. Right now on this road alone, thousands of people trying to get home through grid lock. No rush. Just building frustration.