He is trying not to lose his way beneath a leaden sky. Dark clouds rolling in overhead. A dark cloud of diesel smoke engulfs him from a passing red double decker bus. An old tourist bus. Not the new 'cleaner than thou' buses that seem to be the norm now. He coughs as the noisy smoky machine passes by.
Constant traffic crawling by and coming to a halt. Now he is moving faster than these machines, even with his limp. Passing the bus, moving up the line of traffic. Passing bored faces behind steel and glass. Cut off from the reality outside. But still mindlessly performing their functions in this Devil's Ant Hill.
He prefers the company of sailors. And them as drunk as he is now. Their emotions clear for all to see. Raw. Vital. Not like these faceless bastards passes on his way home.
Home. The flat. What was that to him now? His wife gone. Rather, not his wife. She wouldn't take a ring on her finger. The heathen bitch, up to something in his absence. Something sinful no doubt, back there in the forests. He has to find her. Correct her. God will tell him what to do. God will know how to deal with her.
She looks up at Geraint above her. Sweat on his face from the exertion. Sun in her eyes. He looks different, the curls in his blonde hair more pronounced. They are both breathless. Spent. He lies down on her, she holding him close.
A large bird with a pronounced forked tail circling above. Watching them.
"What kind of bird is that?"
Geraint screws up his eyes as he looks into the sky. "A Red Kite".
"I've never seen a bird of prey that big".
"They were almost extinct. Now you often see them up on the open mountain. I've not seen one here before though. The trees are too thick for them to hunt here".
The bird wheels off on the breeze and glides into the trees of the grove up above. The grove. Resplendent in the sunshine. Different from everywhere around. And old. Very old. "I've never been up there on the hill. Have you?"
"Where? Gelli Dywyll? No, I've never been there either".
"Lets go up there. Another day".
The late afternoon sun finding the angle between the trees to fill the forestry road with light. Carole and Geraint walking back through the late afternoon light. Walking out of the sun. Sunlight searing their forms. He pushing his bike. His laughter pealing out like a bell. She thinner and darker holding him. The sun dips behind a cloud. Instant shadow. A change of light.
Carole climbs onto Geraint’s bike, and he pedals them both up the road. Sammy running behind. In a couple of minutes they arrive at her cottage.
Carole unlocks the cottage door but holds Geraint back at the threshold. "Wait there. I'm just going to fetch something". Carole emerges with a bottle of wine and the corkscrew which she pops into her ruck sack. "Come on".
He stands in the flat holding a plastic supermarket bag. Surveying the scene. Near empty shelves where she has taken her things away. He doesn't miss the things. But these things are just the tip of the iceberg. She's taking something bigger away from him. She's taking away everything he's worked for. Everything.
He looks in the mirror, not really recognising himself any more. Face grey and sullen. Long dark hair in his eyes. When did he last have long hair? What's going on?
Falling onto the sofa. Clonk. The bottle in the shopping bag hitting the floor hard. Careful. He mustn't break it. It helps him to focus.
That bitch. She is causing this. It must be witchcraft. There in her hovel in the mountains. A place that feels like its in another century. But maybe that was a simpler time. Black and white. Right and wrong. A time when you could burn a witch.
The iPad on the table. He reaches for it. Opening up the web browser on the last page he looked at. The Welsh Holiday Home Arson campaign. The page updates. New weblinks. Another fire. Today! "The attack has been linked to the current campaign of arson attacks on rural cottages owned as second homes in the Welsh speaking heartlands. The First Minister of the Welsh Assembly...".
Crazy bitch. She's out there in a cottage alone in a place where these houses are being burnt down all around. Very remote. No neighbours. No transport. All alone. Anything could happen.
More weblinks to explore. Politicians distancing themselves from this popular movement. Just as they did before Brexit. Just as they did with Catalonia. Spineless self-serving bastards.
In moments he's asleep. Holding back a big dog. A cottage behind him. Not somewhere he recognises. The dog pulling him now as fast as his damaged leg can go. Pulling him upwards to that woodland up on this hill. Taking him to somewhere where something is happening he doesn't want to see.
Carole and Geraint sitting in the trees at the lakeside. At Geraint's favourite fishing spot. Hidden from view, but with the view out over the lake, the grove up above, and the sun now dipping behind it. The wine bottle half empty. Sharing the earphones connected to Carole's phone. Trance music mixing with the light wind in the trees, and rippling of the little waves on the lake shore. Her head on his shoulder. Half awake.
He hoping she doesn't realise he could have been there when she went swimming a couple of nights ago. Things are happening so fast. Its incredible. "You’re so gorgeous".
Carole smiles at him, kissing him. "No, I’m just an ordinary lass..." She puts the other earpiece in Geraint's other ear. She pulls off her shoes and jeans and wades into the water, gasping as the cold water grabs her. Once she is up to her waist, she ducks under. The water pulling her T shirt tight against her body. Slimmer. Her hair dark down her back. She swims out into the lake. Geraint sits on the shore watching her for a moment. He undresses quickly and wades into the lake after her.
Peter asleep on the sofa. Being pulled through the woodland by the powerful dog. His leg buckling, having to use the stick to support himself as the dog pulls him onwards. Climbing the steep hill into the trees. Into the grey mist that is descending. No bird song. A bird of prey way overhead, circling. Quickly obscured by the mist that's falling fast. The mist deadening the sound of the dog panting and the sound of fornication nearby. The dog pulling him towards it. Losing his balance. Stepping on a branch. Snap! Everything stops. Seeing them in the mist. Turning the dog loose... It doesn't bark. It buzzes.
The dog buzzing, fading as it runs towards the naked couple. Everything disappearing except for the buzzing. He opens his eyes. Dusk. A long continual annoying buzz. The intercom. Who the hell is that? Peter staggers over to the door and views the tiny CCTV screen. Patricia at the door. Peter presses the access button. Patricia steps inside.
He opens the flat's front door. Patricia coming up the stairs. "What do you want?"
"Charming! I thought you'd be glad to see me". Patricia reaches the apartment door, and Peter pulls her inside. He throws her across the room onto the sofa. Walking towards her slowly. Patricia gasps. "What are you going to do to me?"
Peter's hair covers his black eyes.
"You’re quite the gentleman. Walking me home like this". Carole kisses Geraint in the doorway of the cottage.
"I aim to please… Same time tomorrow?"
Carole looks slightly perplexed. Where is this going? She loves it but...
Geraint seeing the worried look on her face. "Don’t worry, I'll be here tomorrow afternoon, right after I run out of excuses not to come here…"
"Bad boy. On your way!" Carole gives Geraint a playful push.
Geraint rides his bike away down the road towards the village. His lights fade into the gloom of the forest. Carole watches him disappear from view and turns the key in the door. She opens the cottage door and the atmosphere hits her.
Patricia reels from the blow, sobbing. She pulls his hair, he wrenches free. She hits him with the whiskey bottle, spilling the contents everywhere. The bottle bounces off across the floor, pouring the whiskey on the white rug. He reaches for the bottle and Patricia gets away from him. She grabs her clothes from the sofa and backs towards the door. He rights the whiskey bottle. placing it carefully on the table.
"You bastard!
What the hell possessed you? Do you want to hurt me?" She pulls on her blouse and skirt.
He ooks at her from behind the long dark hair with those angry dark eyes. He gets to his feet. Taking his belt out of his trousers. Coming towards her. Raising the belt.
Patricia watching in disbelief. Backing away. Getting through the door and slamming it. Standing there in the hallway half dressed. Scared. Checking her pockets. Has she got her keys and her phone and her money? Yes.
Fuck! Yes that's what they did. Fuck. No endearment. He used her and then he hit her.
Silence for a moment. Click. Patricia jumps backwards. The door opening inch by inch. The face in the door. Not really Peter. What the hell?
"Ast!"
Patricia stands in shock. "What did you just call me?"
The door flies open. Smack! He lashes her with his belt. Patricia cries out and runs off down the stairway. Out of the building. Into the square. Down the road towards the main road. Then realising that she is still half dressed. Making herself presentable as possible she runs off out of the square.
He calmly closes the door to the apartment. Closing out the world outside. Crossing over to the sofa, picking up the whiskey bottle on his way. Sipping from it. Picking up the iPad. Clicking on the Photos app. Pictures of Carole smiling at him. His hair in his eyes. He spits out the word which has come into his head from somewhere... "Ast!"
"Ast!"
Mrs. Phillips cowers on the cottage kitchen floor, crying.
Mr. Phillips, the younger Mr. Phillips, stands over her threateningly, belt in hand. The slight grey man in his early twenties is shaking with the same rage as his older incarnation. Time would never let those shakes go away.
"John, stop, please. We work together in the same school. Its normal we meet to discuss matters after work. I have to talk with him. But very well. I promise I'll come home directly school is over in future".
He stands over her, looping the belt back around his trousers. "That's all I ask. People talk. I won't have people talking about you... us..." Mr Phillips reaches out his hand to his wife, and helps her up, giving her an awkward hug.
Mrs Phillips whispers conspiratorially in his ear. "We have to get out of this house John. Everything was good until we moved here".
Mr. Phillips nods. "Let’s go out for a while. Down to the lake. Clear our heads".
Mrs. Phillips walks into the living room. Phillips watches her go, his hair falling over his eyes. He limps into the living the room following Mrs Phillips out through the front door. It slams.
What was that? Carole wakes up with a start. "Pete?" Carole lies back on the mattress. She hugs her pillow. Trying to shake the nightmare she was having. Pete hitting her with a belt, Christ! She could feel it.
A rhythmic squeaking sound comes from somewhere in the house. What the hell is that? She looks at her phone. 3am. She's not going looking for that noise at this time. Carole puts the pillow over her head like a scared child. The swinging belt, the creaking sound repeating over and over. Carole screws her eyes shut.
In the bedroom Mr. Phillips swings in the noose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cleaning House
Carole in the kitchen, looking at the wall she painted yesterday. The smell of new paint masking the 'atmosphere' in here at least. The wall is now lighter but she can still see the original colour deep beneath. It may take another couple of coats of paint and a bit of time, but she's not going to let this beat her. She will make this cottage hers. Why is she even thinking this way? As if there is a battle going on between her and... Who?
Geraint in the shop. Totally distracted. Watching the second hand on the old plastic electric powered clock turn. Too slowly. His exam revision work on the counter in front of him not registering. The buzz of the fluorescent light. The hum of the fridges. The sound of his breathing. Dying to get out of here. Dying to be with her. Listening to her breathing. Her gasping his name. Her crying out.
The painting in the kitchen redone. But already there's a bit of the darkness showing through from beneath. The back door propped open to help dry the paint but also to let in the fresh air and to drive out the 'atmosphere' that's still here. The smell is always there somehow.
Carole in the living room now, washing down the painted walls. Readying them for repainting too. She needs to brighten up the entire place. Bring a woman's touch to this place once more. Lighter. More feminine. Welcoming for Christ's sake.
The sugar soap in the water hardening her hands. The odd rough patch of plaster chaffing them. The dirt of decades in that bucket of water at her feet. It has turned as black as the devil in no time. Pitch black and foaming. It looks malignant. This dirt needs to go. Right now. Out with it!
Carole carries the bucket out through the open front door and across the road. She throws the filth away into the trees. The darkness can stay out here in the forest, not in her house. Her house is going to be her sanctuary.
She looks at her cottage in the woods. Still looking forlorn. A lot of work to do yet. The front door slams hard startling her. The wind. You can be in places where you don't notice the wind. Pantyfedwen isn't one of them. Its always hissing, occasionally howling, like some sort of angered animal. Of course, she left the back door in the kitchen open to dry the paint more quickly and to get rid of the smell. Maybe she should prop the doors open. Stop that happening again.
Carole crosses the road back to the cottage. She feels someone watching her. That city paranoia stopping her in her tracks.
The cottage watches her with a sad face. Two black eyes for windows. The eyes are the windows to the soul. Why did that just come into her head? And a shut mouth. Saying nothing about what has happened here. Not confessing anything.
Something watching her from within the left eye. To her right. The bedroom. With such a strong reflection on the glass, its hard to see anything within. Its like looking into a dark mirror. Is that her reflected? That pale face watching her? It must be her. But it must be!
Carole tries to open the door but it doesn't budge. She shoves it with her shoulder. Solid. But then giving slightly, like someone pushing against it, keeping her out. One more time. A hard shove. The door gives. She nearly falls into the house. The bedroom door slams! What the hell? The front door slams behind her. The kitchen door slams. Sammy barking wildly. What the fuck! "Hello?"
Sammy still barking madly in the kitchen. She's scaring herself now. 'Hello'. Like anyone is going to answer. Pull yourself together girl. There's no one here.
But wait a minute. The bedroom door slammed. She's not been in that room since she got here. The door was closed. She's sure it was.
Only four rooms in the entire cottage and she has not been in there since she arrived. Why would that be? Something telling her not to go there? Maybe Frances seeing a shape in her photo of the room had more of an effect on her than she realised? That was spooky. But. Oh come on girl! Don't be silly.
She opens the door into the bedroom. The door opens with a creak. The smell really hits her. Carole coughs. Oh God! It smells like something died in here. Maybe this is what the 'atmosphere' is.
Carole steps into the bedroom. True her eyes are still adjusting from having been outside. Its murky. The dark wood abandoned furniture from the previous owner, the wardrobe and that mirror and the box Peter brought in. And the bed. They could have at least taken away the mattress! Maybe that's what the smell is. Jesus Christ! Did Mr. Phillips die on that? Carole retches.
Even walking across this room sounds different. The floor is bare boards in here, not solid like the other rooms. Newspapers and assorted rubbish scattered around on the floor getting kicked as she walks. Dirt everywhere that you can see, even in this low light. The old man's family could have least made an effort to clean the place. A butterfly caught in a cobweb. This is disgusting.
But to look on the bright side. This room could be nice. What were once white walls are faded to a discoloured grey. At least rep
ainting won't be a chore. Oh God, the smell though.
Carole pulls back the tattered curtains. Dead flies on the window sill. Hundreds of them. Dying trying to leave this room. Why did she think that? Some more light just shows the dust hanging in the air. You can see it move, forming patterns against the light in the middle of the room. Not beautiful. Weirdly unnatural somehow. Kind of human in shape.
Carole is coughing harder now. That smell is awful. She tries to open the window. Stuck. Carole pushes the sash up with all her might. It moves, but not enough to clear the wooden frame. Carole fights with it to open the window further. She wins. An inch at a time. Still coughing until the forest air flows in. A victory. Damn. But the dust does not go out.
Carole heads back into the living room to find a broom, dustpan and brush. The cloud of dust follows her as far as the door. Watching her.
He sits at his desk staring at an email. From Mr. Radcliffe. Where does he know that name? Oh by God! Radcliffe! He's found him. Wishing his attendance on that damned ship no doubt. The same ship which almost spoke for his leg. The limp he will always bear, but he will not receive any settlement as the Captain swore he was drunk on duty. Can't that devil leave him alone? Surely Radcliffe must consider the contract of service terminated after all this time?
He hits 'Reply' and types quickly. 'Mr. Radcliffe. I have no doubt you think ill of me. Let me explain the facts of the situation to you sir, in my defence. I did not attend to sail that night because matters are pressing at home. The Lord tells us in Exodus, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'. God is my master for eternity. You are but my master whilst I remain in your employ on this mortal coil. You tasked me with taking coal to Marseilles, sailing under ballast to Odessa, taking grain to Rotterdam and returning to Cardiff. That, sir, would take too much of God's precious time. The witch has to die. As a matter of urgency. When my task is done I shall report to your offices and shall be as ever, at your disposal. Your obedient servant'... Damn! What is my name?
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