by Lex Sinclair
Alan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before they slipped off. Sweat dripped off him as though he’d just ran a few miles not been sweeping. He wasn’t overly obese, although Bobbie never once saw Alan going anywhere without taking his Renault parked in the garage. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I was wondering what the hell happened to the vote we had. We ticked either the YES or NO box. What with the Gillespie’s having given written permission to the Hydraulic Fracturing, I wanted to know what the outcome of the vote was.’
Shifting from his left foot to his right, Alan propped the brush against the garden wall. He seemed to be averting Bobbie’s eyes. ‘Far as I was aware it was still under consideration. The votes, along with the decision to enforce speed humps down on the cul-de-sacs, was - are - still under consideration. All the votes were gathered and forwarded to the mayor. The speed humps I can do something about. The government wanting to buy land for a ridiculously large sum to do what they’re gonna do anyway, is a little over my head.’ He paused. Then he wiped his damp forehead dry with a handkerchief. ‘I don’t really see what all the fuss is about. From what I’ve been told, and what I’ve looked up on the internet, it seems like a good idea.’
Bobbie sighed. He shook his head. ‘If the government had it their way, they’d turn our countryside town into a residential area where the only green was on the front lawns. It was bad enough when they started cutting down trees that were perfectly healthy seven years ago and leaving the hilltops bald and empty. Now this.’
Alan opened his hands so they were facing upright. ‘What d’you want me to do about it? I’m with you. But these days everyone is so hell bent on saving costs they don’t care about scenery. Let me show you the article I printed out the other day.’ He motioned Bobbie to follow him across the garden stones into his beautiful red-bricked country home.
The interior was dim and Bobbie had to close his eyes and then open them slowly so they adjusted to the sudden contrast. He followed Alan down the short narrow hallway up the timber staircase and into the den.
Alan gestured for Bobbie to take the wooden straight back chair from the wall and bring it over to the computer. He riffled through some sheets of paper on the desktop and found what he was looking for. ‘There. Take a look at that.’
Bobbie held the flimsy white sheet of paper in his hands and read:
“Hydraulic Fracturing” - a.k.a. drilling for natural gas.
Hydraulic Fracturing or “fracing”, involves the injection of more than a million gallons of water, sand and chemicals at a high pressure down and across into horizontally drilled wells as far as 10,000 feet below the surface. The pressurised mixture causes the rock layer, in this case, the Marcellus Shale, to crack. These fissures are held open by the sand particles so that natural gas from the shale can flow up the well. Well dug vertical then turns horizontal. The shale is fractured by the pressure inside the well. Sand keeps fissures open. Natural gas flows from fissures into well.
‘Well, what d’you think?’ Alan prompted, leaning forward on his swivel chair.
Bobbie didn’t actually know what to think. The whole operation sounded very complex and arduous. However, if this had been what other parts of the country, and the world, were doing then he supposed it was inevitable they too would have to follow suit. ‘I dunno, to be perfectly honest with you, Alan. It sounds like one huge effort for something that may or may not work.’
‘Oh, it works, all right. The U.S. have been doing it for the last few years and other countries. As Greg probably told you this “hydraulic fracturing” has been getting more and more attention over the last couple of years for the huge amounts of gas being made accessible and could also become a “cleaner-burning” bridge between fossil fuels and renewable energy sources. If nothing else, our small, unknown town will be put on the global map in a big way.’
‘Yeah. I guess so,’ Bobbie said, albeit reluctantly.
Alan smiled knowingly at him. ‘Transition of any sort is never easy at the best of times. If I had it my way, I’d take a good portion of the rich people’s money and give it to the poor. If my damn knee didn’t keep giving out on me all the time, I’d walk everywhere, save pollution and carbon dioxide. I’d change a lot of things. But I can’t. All I can do is go with the flow and hope for the best. That’s what the Keith and Ted did. They didn’t sell out, as such. They realised they were in a no-win situation and made the best out of it. There’s nothing wrong with that Bobbie. Everything’ll turn our right in the end, you’ll see.’
‘I hope so,’ Bobbie said. Yet he couldn’t get rid of the overwhelming doubt filling his consciousness that morning or since.
3.
NOW
January 2, 2015
When Eric Leibert got into his patrol car that morning outside the Neath Police Station the air cut his exposed flesh like a sharpened razor blade. The glorious sunshine shining in the azure sky was misleading as he emerged from his home in Skewen earlier that morning. He’d sworn under his breath and darted back indoors. He only emerged again when he’d put an extra pair of socks on and his thermals. The temperature according to his vehicle informed him that it was two degrees Celsius.
Eric had just moved into a bungalow at the top of Skewen. At twenty-eight and having worked his way to being an official member of the local constabulary, Eric’s euphoria could be considered understandable. He had his youth and a job which gave him a high level of authority of lots of other people. His mother always reminded him though to not become arrogant or misuse his newfound rank, as it would come back to haunt him later on. His mother, Agnes, had an old adage that she reiterated. “What goes around comes around, in this life and the next.” Eric wasn’t sure if he believed in life after death, although he concurred wholeheartedly with the first part. Some of his colleagues did strut around while out on patrol enforcing the law wearing shit-eating grins. Some even tried to intimidate youngsters who were minding their own business, prejudging them merely by their age and appearance. Not Eric though. No way ho-say.
After all, those youngsters were innocent until proven guilty, just like any other resident. Furthermore, if you started giving them hassle, when a crime was committed and they’d been at the scene of crime they were more likely to make a statement if you’d let them be. Otherwise they could turn a blind eye on something serious that might have got you an arrest on your collar.
On New Year’s Eve, Eric Leibert had made two successful arrests and had avoided having his jugular ripped open by a drunk wielding a broken beer bottle. He now knew what the older officers meant by “it’s nothing like they show on those big-budget Hollywood films”. Fortunately, he’d been so pumped up on his body’s adrenaline that he’d reacted swiftly and efficiently. Had he known what had been about to transpire Eric believed he would have been incapable under the pressure.
He now understood why some of the more experienced officers were far more inclined to go out on patrol and merely break up any potential pub brawls or clear youngsters off the street corners after dark. The incident gave Eric time to reflect on what had happened, sitting behind the wheel of his patrol car on his way back to the station. There had been an incident involving a citizens’ car that had been parked on the street being damaged. She’d only discovered it that morning. However, she and some of the other neighbours did claim to hear some drunken men on their way home from the local pub the night before being vociferous and using bad language. The only thing Eric could do was put it on record as a formal complaint and check the records for any similar incidents in that area of the same nature. Nevertheless, intuition told him it was a random incident, and if there were no witnesses than there wasn’t really anything he could do about it.
The wing mirror had been snapped off and smashed. It would cost the middle-aged woman a good few quid to get it replaced. Furthermore, there was no CCTV footage on that residential street. If th
ere was he could have done something about it. Even it was solely retribution. At least then the perpetrator would be the one paying for the damage and not the unfortunate victim of an idiot binge drinking until the early hours of the morning.
Eric flicked the indicator and turned left at the roundabout, using the gear stick to slow the patrol car’s speed. The town centre of Pontardawe was congested with narrow streets and pedestrians and vehicles going to and fro all day long. Eric had some time on his hands before his shift ended and decided to drive through the local town, just to let everyone know that the police were out and about on patrol nearby, in case they should break the law. The mere sight of a patrol car passing through town reminded the drunks, adolescents and anyone else considering doing something unlawful to consider their actions before committing crimes.
He pulled the patrol car alongside the kerb, applied the handbrake and got out. Parched, he wandered into the local superstore and picked up two bottles of Evian mineral water and a loaf of bread for his sandwiches. He said the obligatory hellos to the cashier and then strolled back outside. Some youngsters in a group of four who’d been about to cross the street to the superstore to purchase some alcohol, even though they were only sixteen, froze when they saw the distinctive patrol car. They whispered amongst themselves and then started to turn and go back the way they came.
Eric called out, ‘Best decision you’ll make!’
One of the boys glanced despondently over his shoulder and then kept on walking.
Eric got back in his patrol car and drove down the short narrow road and used the makeshift roundabout where a marble monument to the World War Two hero’s stood, slowly cornered it and headed up the slight incline, vigilant. He made certain to go slow to hover for as long as possible before departing.
The shortcut back to Neath Police Station was to take the route uphill and go through the sleepy town of Rhos Meadow where a certain amount of inexplicable deaths belonging to livestock, pets and residents hit the local and national news since dating back to early 2013.
Eric recalled reading an article in the south Wales Evening Post about it. The title exclaimed in bold print at the top of the page: LOCAL FARMER’S LIVESTOCK DIES DUE TO FRACKING! He’d been vaguely aware that there was some kind of new experiment taking place in the countryside town of Rhos Meadow. However, he didn’t know what hydraulic fracturing or the benefits of wind turbines were precisely. He’d queried his mother about it one Saturday afternoon after he’d taken her to Tesco to do her weekly shopping. She read a lot of newspapers and was an avid viewer of the national and local news on TV, radio and the internet. She’d explained in layman terms how the operation had apparently been a big success in the United States as a bridge between fossil fuels and renewable energy sources. Nevertheless, she did state later on when more headlines hit the news how there were many drawbacks.
CONTAMINATED WATER KILLS YOUNG BOY!
That headline had stopped Eric in his stride as he strode towards the newspaper stand a few months later. When he read how a boy, Jack Zane, had suffered from severe convulsions because he’d been drinking flammable drinking water and suffered from a fever that had induced gastroenteritis and later as he lay chomping involuntarily on his tongue, alone in his bedroom, a blood clot which induced a fatal brain haemorrhage.
According to investigating officers, the father, Greg Zane, had discovered the unfortunate boy, wondering what on earth that incessant light thumping noise was emanating from somewhere inside his home. It wasn’t until he ventured upstairs did he trace the sound to his son’s bedroom and saw Jack in a pool of sweat, spit and crimson blood.
The drilling operation had continued, as no one even considered the possibility that the hydraulic fracturing had been the cause. Two farmers, Ted and Keith Gillespie, had complained that ever since the “fracking” began just over their property line of their ranch, cattle began limping with swollen legs and infections. If someone had linked the two and done some thorough research and investigating into the now-accurate claims, the young boy’s death would most likely have been prevented.
Instead the small town mourned the passing of one of their youngest and innocent. Many residents from Rhos Meadow and the environing districts sent bouquets of flowers (particularly red roses), wreaths and sincere letters of condolences to the family. Furthermore, the South Wales Evening Post did a three page coverage of the untimely death and the heartfelt reaction and generosity by the community. The family had also put a brief thank you in the newspaper, but understandably they were still in severe shock.
He hadn’t been through the sleepy town for a long time. And according to gossip (normally he wouldn’t listen to gossip), the town was either haunted or felt haunted. Whereas before the small town used to attract people passing through, campers and potential buyers and anyone with car trouble to the Meadow Garage, now people were spooked by what had transpired to the residents’ pets, cattle and to Jack Zane.
A couple of occasions, Eric recalled David Grant, an experienced police officer, saying that the last time he and his wife went there in the spring of 2012, residents were distressed by their cats and dogs becoming violently sick, coughing up wads of coagulated blood and losing limbs before finally dropping dead. The ones who made it to the local vets’ watched in desperate hope as the vet did his utmost to find out what was causing the sudden sickness.
‘Some guy had taken his Labrador into the vet with all the same symptoms as the other animals, similar as well to the Zane kid. The vet had made a futile attempt - not his fault, ya know? But the poor mutt ended up swallowing its own tongue right in front of its owner. I’m tellin’ you, somethin’s not right with that town. Some folk’s sayin’ that it’s got a gypsy curse on it. Someone passing through got overcharged or didn’t get the service they expected and decided to get revenge that way. And, what I saw up there, me and my wife, I’m startin’ to believe it too. Never did believe in that superstitious shit. Or that supernatural bollocks. But those four dead cows and the hobbling herd of sheep in the cornfield, not to mention the stories of people’s pets, made me reconsider. My wife and I are big animal lovers. Couldn’t bear it if something like that happened to our corgi. Try to avoid that place if I were you, ya know whad I mean? It’s like fuckin’ pet cemetery up there.’
David Grant had been around a lot longer in life and on the force than Eric. He knew without anyone having to tell him that it took a hell of a lot to get under David’s thick skin. He was one tough S.O.B. He’d fought off two bodybuilder-type thugs single-handedly on duty once. He’d temporarily paralysed one by finding a nerve in his neck and seized the other by the throat before ramming his back against a stone wall and then hurling him onto the bonnet of the patrol car. Less than twenty minutes later he was down the station booking them both for dealing with illegal drugs (steroids), resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. David wasn’t one too embellish, either. He told you how it was, matter-of-fact.
Maybe if it’d been another officer, Eric might have been a bit dubious. However, the unnerving expression David exuded gave Eric the willies. And, in spite of heeding his warning thus far, going through Rhos Meadow was much quicker. Bone weary, Eric shrugged inwardly and took a left at the roundabout, came to another roundabout and decided there and then which route he’d take. However, he was consciously aware that he was going against his intuition, advising him to take the longer route.
***
His clammy palms clutched the steering wheel fiercely. In his mind’s eye he kept visualising the dead livestock; their limbs jutting from the cornfield, conspicuously.
The steep incline the patrol car was ascending had a blind corner. Eric used the gear stick to slow down. He liked the countryside homes with mowed lawns and red brick facades with arches over the front gate leading up the brick driveways. The properties had ample space, fresh air of the environing woods and peace. Especially now, as Rh
os Meadow was now nicknamed “The Uninhabited”.
As he rounded the corner the patrol car hit a wall of impenetrable fog.
‘Whoa! Shit!’ Caught completely off-guard, the young officer almost spun the wheel erratically to avoid collision. He didn’t. Instead his intuition reminded him he was on unfamiliar territory and could end up careening over the incline. The car would plummet down the ravine into the town centre hundreds of feet below. In his mind’s eye he could see himself being choked by the seat belt watching as the ground rushed up to meet him. Then there would be nothing.
Unless he was mistaken, the weather forecast on the T.V. hadn’t mentioned anything about their being any fog. Usually the Met office put a warning symbol on T.V. and made special weather reports on the radio to warn drivers in the district beforehand. And this wasn’t just some morning mist, either. This fog enveloped the vehicle like a blanket.
Vigilant, with all his instincts working overtime, Eric squinted, doing his utmost to see anything familiar that would help him not to crash. He flicked the fog lights. Nothing. He flicked the headlights on full beam.
The road five meters in front of him was made visible.
Eric felt the car ride over the incline and onto flat road. He slowed down. The speedometer told him he was doing ten miles per hour. He dearly hoped that at some point the fog would dissipate or at least be able to let him see more clearly. That didn’t look likely any time soon, though.
‘Knew I shouldn’t have come this way,’ Eric muttered, shaking his head.
He stood on the brake pedal in a vain attempt to stop the patrol car from ramming into the back of another car that was stationary.