"Roberto. Jimmy. You are disturbing me in prayer."
"Sorry Peter." The lad's voice is shaking. What the hell is this? The clean cut guy from work standing there in stinking jogging gear. No shirt. Unshaven. And you can smell the whiskey. Hair over his wild eyes. Grasping the Bible in his hand for grim life, whilst the other hand steadies him on the whitewashed pillar outside the door. "Frances said we should bring you with us to the office."
"Ensuring my attendance? Tell that negress I shall not attend. I have other matters which need my urgent attention. She and you can go to hell." Peter disappears inside and slams the door.
Painting the walls of the living room has been a better experience than doing that kitchen wall. With the dirt of ages gone, the emulsion lies thick on the walls. No bleed from the colour of the paint beneath. The walls shining and rapidly drying to a beautiful clean matt. The room changing its tone and its smell with the fresh paint. Carole lost in her playlist of trance music on her iPhone. The earbuds blocking out the hiss of the wind as it blows through the cottage, blowing away any remaining 'atmosphere' now Mrs. Jones has done her Exorcist stuff. OK, her nice gentle 'helping the spirit move on' stuff. Seeing off that girl who used to live here and died up in that grove of trees all those years ago. History now. Gone. Soon to be completely forgotten, lost in time.
Carole shudders remembering the violence of the death she had 'seen'. Just in the same way her Dad had described how he 'saw' things when he was younger. Understanding now at last why Dad never spoke about it, even in the days when she thought it was cool. Not a gift. Not at all. More of a curse.
The trance music takes her mind as she dips the roller in the paint and continues working down the wall towards the front door. The music stops. Her phone is ringing. Carole wipes some stray paint off her hands and fishes the phone out of her jeans pocket. 'Work'. Meaning her old work. Peter? Oh fuck!
"Pete?"
"Hi Carole, no its Frances. Sorry to bother you. Listen, this is urgent. Has Pete been in touch with you?"
"Frances, hi. Er no, I haven't heard from him since Sunday. I've been phoning but he hasn't been answering my calls. Oh God, is something wrong? Has he been in an accident?"
A moment of silence at the other end of the phone. "No, nothing like that. He's been very flaky in work, Carole. Now he is skipping work completely..."
"That's not like him. Is he sick?"
"Maybe. We found some of his emails. Disturbing. Some are very threatening".
"What? Threatening to who?"
"You, amongst others..."
"But I haven't had any emails from him".
"They went to your work email account. That's been suspended since you left. Carole, I sent a couple of the office lads around to find him. At your flat. Apparently he was in a hell of a state".
"Oh my God! You mean he was sick? What are you going to do?"
"He was drunk Carole. Rolling drunk at eleven in the morning. Not much we can do. But it may be too late. He's really screwed things up with some of our clients with these emails he's sent". A long pause. "I'm just letting you know that all is not well. Should you speak".
Carole stands in silence, not knowing what to think. How can he have gone down hill this fast? He was here a few days ago. But never so angry. Never ever violent like on that night. Her first night in this cottage. Their first...
"Carole?"
Carole snaps out of it. "Thanks. Thanks for letting me know".
"One more thing. Its not my business I know. Do you have a new boyfriend?"
What the hell? How could she know about Geraint? Oh God! "No".
"OK. Take care yeah?"
"Thanks Frances. I will".
The line goes dead. Carole stares at the phone. What the hell's going on with Pete? Something moves in the daylight outside. She looks up. A tall figure silhouetted against the light. She drops her phone in shock, suppressing a cry. The figure from last night? No. "Pete?"
"Hi".
Geraint. Filling the doorway. Looking older than his years until he steps inside where she can see him clearly. A young kid really. What the hell had she been thinking this week? Oh God.
Geraint stands in the doorway. Unsure of how this crazy woman is going to react. He's going to play things very... Professional. "Mam said you wanted me to come up here and help move some furniture".
"Hi Geraint. Thanks for coming up. I bet its very difficult for you coming here".
What the hell does that mean?
"I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we're still friends. Your mum sent the spirit of the young woman away. The one haunting me. I guess they've all gone. Including yours. If you think the young lad is having an influence on you, let her know. I feel so much better after her blessing, I can't tell you".
Oh no! Religion meets hippy shit. She is bonkers. Don't get drawn into it. "What do you need me to do Carole?".
"I like you. But we can't be anything other than that any more. Just friends. In case they come back. Its too dangerous".
Oh Christ, its not working. She is so bloody gorgeous. Geraint feels the now familiar knot in his stomach. "Why dangerous?".
"Last night. In the middle of the night. There were sounds from the bedroom". She's beside Geraint now, frightened like a little girl. Taking his arm. "There were ghosts. I saw them. But I know your mum sorted it. She told me to get the last of the furniture out of there. The last of the things of the past. So I can burn them. Can you help me?"
Geraint nods.
"Thanks Geraint". She leads him by the arm to the bedroom. She opens the door.
The 'atmosphere' is still here. Curtains flapping in the gentle breeze moving through the room now the door is open. "It was horrible. The man was hanging just over there. I really don’t want to be in here".
"So you want the wardrobe moved?" Geraint trying not to get drawn in again. To get hurt again. But its not working.
"Get it out of my house!"
"Anything else I may be good for? Or shall I go home then?"
Oh no. "I never meant to hurt you Geraint. And I do care for you. The point is we’re not puppets replaying the lives of old flames who haven’t moved on from this place. We are our own people. We’ve got to end this. You and I, we both need to shake off these ghosts".
He limps along the pavement. Orange hazard lights flash. He drops into the Porsche. Tossing a holdall bag onto the passenger seat. Strapping himself into the body-hugging driver's seat. A seat a little bit tighter around him than usual. His hooded top filled by a bigger build. Hair rubbing against the convertible roof. Dropping the seat as far as it can go. Adjusting the rear-view mirror. Hair hiding his face.
Ignition. The engine throbs. He feels cocooned in this throbbing machine. The machine roaring as he pulls away, pushing him hard in the small of his back. Exhilarating like a ship in full sail suddenly catching the wind. Braking hard and being pushed back into the seat. Man and machine joining the traffic at the main road at the exit from the square. Aggressively pushing into the flow of traffic westwards. Turning up the music to drown out the voice in his head. The voice saying "No. No. No. No. No."
The Porsche prowling like an angry animal through the traffic. Soon on the dual carriageway heading west. Tall buildings towering on either side of the motorway. Figures in the windows working indoors on this lovely day. Clerks counting the money when honest sailors like him risk their lives to colour their balance sheets.
Huge televised billboards lining the roadside. Two lanes of traffic becoming three. Three lines of sparse traffic leaving the city heading west. On the other carriageway thousands of cars standing still, queuing to enter the city.
The sat-nav view opening out showing the motorway stretching out forever. The Porsche moves effortlessly into the outside lane. Travelling in a fast moving convoy of cars, up to over 80 miles per hour then coming to a stop, then starting again. No apparent reason for the ebb and flow. Soon the road will be clearer. Soon
.
Ahead above the motorway a line of planes with lights on seem to hang in the sky. Bringing thousands more people every minute into this city.
But he is leaving now. Heading back to the cottage he built with his bare hands in one night. To the piece of land he claimed by throwing his axe at dawn. All of it done for his cheating wife. Time to correct his mistake.
He is heading for the open fields of the Celyn Valley. Home. The traffic comes to a halt again. He types Capel Celyn into the sat-nav.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Beneath
"Its bloody freezing in here". Is he really talking to himself or to the other person in this room? Geraint's skin is covered in goosebumps. Checking behind him. He can feel someone watching him. Close. Angry. But there is no one to be seen.
The scream of the kettle boiling in the kitchen. Geraint jumps. Jeez, he's really nervous. He sees the hairs standing up on his forearms.
Geraint works on dismantling the wardrobe. And the sooner he can get that done the better. He came here very nervous about being around Carole after the way she just broke up with him. Carole has been all consuming this week. Screw his exams, he hasn't been able to think about anything else. A rollercoaster ride doesn't start to describe it. And now he has reverted to his childhood fear of this place.
He and his friends used to ride their bikes as fast as possible past the cottage on their way to the lake. His father had told him to keep away from the place because of the ghosts, but obviously it was to keep away from Phillips.
Geraint had seen music documentaries on the BBC about ageing punks. Some of them reminded him of Phillips, even if he was twenty years older than them. They seemed to be difficult, hard men. Maybe they were in part, but it was really an act. But Phillips didn't act. He was. He would have been the town bogeyman if there was a town, and if there were bogeymen.
Bogeymen are not monsters. They are people. So they are far more frightening than monsters anybody made up. They don't disappear when the sun comes up. They are always there. Always a menace. Somehow most kids naturally understand this. And horror films remind the rest.
Once Phillips took a boy hostage for a few hours, for spying on him. Forty years or more ago, long before he was born. Those were different times his dad had said. The police were called. Nothing happened to the boy, so nothing was done so nothing was said. That was that. Except all the children were told to keep away from the haunted cottage. And so by implication from Phillips. The bogeyman.
If he'd kept away from the haunted cottage this week maybe he wouldn't be feeling as hurt, angry and confused as he does now. Wound up and wanting to lash out. But that isn't down to Phillips. No. It is down to her.
The last of the screws come out. The mirrored wardrobe door comes loose. Geraint gently lowers it. Something reflected moving behind him. Geraint drops the mirror in surprise. He spins around. Carole with his coffee.
"Careful! That could have been seven years bad luck!". Carole holds out Geraint's mug of coffee.
"I'll drink that outside if you don't mind". Geraint picks up the heavy mirrored door and carries it out of the room, leaving Carole holding his coffee.
The mirror leans beside the front door. Two half drunk coffee cups in front of it. Carole and Geraint reflected in it, carrying some of the remaining parts of the wardrobe to the place where she lit the fire last night.
Geraint drops his pile of wood and walks away, leaving Carole pointedly alone. Geraint marches off wordlessly into the cottage. Carole watches him go, partly exasperated, partly sympathetic. Noticing the way his head is tilted forward and his shoulders sag. Hurt. Totally different body language to Pete who was wound up tight in his anger at her on Sunday morning. Was it really only Sunday morning? She follows Geraint inside.
Geraint stomps from the living room into the bedroom. The sound of his footsteps turning from pats on the solid earth floor to the more percussive floorboards as he crosses the bedroom towards the remains of the bed. Stepping on floorboards that groan and give under his feet. Geraint stops in his tracks.
These floorboards look the same as the others. Geraint taps on the surrounding floorboards. Then the four in this section of floor. These sound hollow. A little play in them. They actually bow when he stands on them. Why? And why should he care?
"What's the matter?"
Geraint looks up at Carole with a scowl. What's the matter? You've broken my heart you bitch! You've changed me. But what do you care? "These floorboards. Its like there's something hollow beneath them. Is there a cellar?"
"I wouldn't think so. This cottage is pretty basic".
"You're probably right. Its a Ty Un Nos. A one night house. If someone could build a house in one night on Common Land it was theirs. And the land around it too as far as the builder could throw an axe. Nant y Cadno is a Ty Un Nos too".
Carole can't help but smile. An old head on a young body. "How do you know this stuff?"
"School project". Her smile. It breaks Geraint's scowl. "Most of them, like Nant y Cadno are buried in the forestry now. Our primary school teacher brought a few of us up here to see if Phillips would let us do a project on this cottage". Geraint smirks.
"What happened?"
"Phillips told her to fuck off in front of the whole class. We'd whisper 'fuck off' in an old man's voice behind her back all the time after that". Her laugh. Oh God... "So why do these sound hollow?"
"We just need to nail them down properly".
"Do you mind if I take a look?"
"You don’t know what can of worms you might be opening up there". But why not? The boy is doing her a favour and if it helps get them back on better terms. "There's a er... claw hammer in the kitchen drawer. Second one down. That might get the nails out".
Geraint heads off to the kitchen. Carole gets on her knees and taps the floorboards. He's right. This bunch sound very different. Could there be something underneath? Should she leave it alone? No, she needs this place to give up its past. Out with the old...
Geraint stands behind her. Hammer in hand. Looking down at her. At the back of her head. The weight of the hammer making his arm feel strong. At one with the hammer. His mind racing out of control. The lust that turned to love that turned to hate that has turned to anger that is turning to rage. The hammer arm starts to swing. Beep beep.
"Did you hear that?" Carole turns around and takes the hammer from Geraint. "That beeping. Its like someone's watch. But where is it?"
Geraint coming back to himself. "Yes, I heard it".
Carole hooks the claw side of the hammer down the side of the floorboard and tries to wrench it free. It lifts a little, the two old nails holding it down raising with the old wood.
"Let me". Geraint uses the hammer claw to remove the two nails. A whiff of mildewed air. He coughs. "Carole, look, there’s definitely a space under this". Geraint begins work on the other end of the board, freeing it, pulling out the nails. He flips over the floorboard to reveal what's beneath.
There is no cellar, rather a shallow hole. The joist on which the floorboards lie has been knocked aside to make room for an old sail-cloth bag, discoloured to black by damp mould. The release of mildew and fungus forcing Geraint to his feet in a fit of coughing.
It hits Carole. The 'atmosphere'. Overpowering. Like a wave breaking over her. Carole choking on her words. "What the hell is that thing?"
"A bag I think". Geraint loosens the next floorboard. In a moment its up too. Lying beneath, the bag is around six feet long and quite broad. Tied with rope. Bag and rope once white are now mouldy and black.
"Why is it buried in the cottage?"
"It must be valuable to be hidden away like this". Geraint positions himself kneeling over the bag, ready to lift it, taking the strain as he was taught in weight training. The bag flies out of the hole, not as heavy as it looked. It thumps onto the floorboards. The ropes are just wrapped around the bag to keep it closed. As the wrap comes apart, white dust from
the bag whitens his hands. "This dust… its lime…"
"It doesn't smell like limes".
"Lime. Farmers put it on land that's acidic to help things grow".
Geraint struggles to open one end of the bag. Something beneath the coating of lime. Geraint brushes the lime away and snaps back his hand. A human skull.
The sunlight suddenly white hot and blinding him. The dust filling his mouth and nose, burning and choking. Stinging his blinded eyes. He can't breathe. The car veers sharply to the left across two lanes of traffic on the motorway. Car horns and the screech of brakes of fast moving vehicles nearby. The Porsche's powerful brakes pulling it to a halt on the hard shoulder. Whooshes as huge trucks whizz past inches away. He rubs the dust from his eyes, squinting against the blinding light. Coughing the dust from his lungs. He is as white as a ghost. Gasping for breath. What happened?
Geraint is shaking. Near panic. Why the hell did he come here today? His brain spinning. Talking to help keep it all together. "Lime is an alkaline. It used to be put on dead bodies". He retches.
Carole puts her arms around him, hugging him from behind. Looking down at the two eye sockets staring back at her. The sockets getting deeper and the teeth being revealed as the breeze blows the lime off the face. "What are we going to do?"
The folded sailcloth is falling away. The lime dust revealing a dark coat. Nineteenth century probably. The once white shirt is now grey black, stained by the decomposed body beneath. Something in the jacket pocket. A piece of paper or card. Geraint snatches it quickly, not wanting to touch the body. The card is folded in two.
"What’s that?"
Geraint unfolds the card. A photograph, Covered in dust. He blows away the dust. Two figures outside a chapel. "That's Bethlehem. The chapel in Capel Celyn. Its just been rebuilt. See the date? 1904".
Old Flames Page 17