by Thomas Brown
“They’re not interested in us,” she said.
“Oh no? I’m not hanging around to find out. I’m an Essex boy, and those gulls out near Bradwell used to try and peck out my eyes whenever I walked to school.”
She looked back on the black blur of feathers descending into the hollow, then rising again, beaks full. One even tugged at the poor lamb’s spine and, having freed it, carried the trophy high over the forestry.
“Who lives over there?” Jason was pointing left to a neat bungalow nestling against a bank of cherry trees coming into blossom. A small white car parked outside.
“That’s Golwg y Mwyn. Aunty Betsan’s place. Must have been a cute cottage at one time, but the Welsh can never resist a new bungy. She’s that brilliant cook I told you about. You’d not have had spag bol last night without her help.”
“How come?”
“I cadged the recipe off her last Wednesday.”
Odd what her host had said about The Rat and that despite her smile, she’d seemed ill at ease. Odder still that she, Helen Myfanwy Jenkins of No Fixed Relationship, should be here of all places, with a guy she hardly knew.
In silence, she and Jason sloshed upwards towards that dark kingdom of firs and pines she’d never dared go near on her own. Nantymwyn Forest. Big moolah for someone, she thought. She hated destruction of any kind, and to see these majestic specimens cut down to a uniform size, their sap weeping, trundling along the local roads, made her too want to weep.
“What’s that racket?” Jason had stopped in his tracks. Head cocked.
“Only the sawyers hitting their logging targets. You wait till the trees fall. Sounds like thunder.”
“So we’re here just to listen to falling trees. Great.”
Instead of replying, she led him up a steeper gradient to where not only the bare, ragged top of the hill was just steps away, but also where more than four hundred men had once toiled above and below ground for a miserly wage. The land had become boggy, studded with bristling, fan-like reeds. “This is the Nantymwyn site I was telling you about in the car,” she said. “Terrible hard work it was, and dangerous. I’ve done some research into the living conditions of the men – women and kids too – who often came from miles away. Can you imagine what it must have been like here in the depths of winter?”
Jason nodded, staring at the all-too-visible industrial remains of what looked like an engine house guarding a dead tree, and nearby, a tall, two-tone chimney surrounded by silent, cropping sheep.
“There’s no sign of the mine manager’s house,” Helen continued. “And talk was that several workers and those living nearby became seriously ill from the smelting. That graveyard’s probably full of them.”
“You mean lead poisoning?”
She nodded, thinking again of Heron House’s two elderly occupants. “Never mind blood poisoning, it can cause mental illness severe enough for people to be institutionalised, hidden away by their families. Or worse. Apparently Caravaggio became really violent as a result of lead in his oil paints.”
Jason had obviously never heard of that sensual painter’s name.
“So no compensation, then?”
“I honestly can’t say.”
“You should have seen the Health and Safety freaks we had at Woolies. If it moved, disinfect it.”
She smiled. “There were also lung troubles from the tailings.”
“Hello?”
“Dangerous dust.”
“And what the Hell is that?” He waved at a half overgrown cave-like opening set in the grass and surrounded by barbed wire and another danger notice.
“An adit. It leads to the Angred shaft.”
“Adit? Never heard that word before. Do cavers and potholers come up here?”
Helen knew her second laugh was way too loud. Too out of place. He was staring at her as if she too was mad. “If you go down one of these, forget it. Make a will first. When Mr Flynn had a go, he said it was like descending to a watery Hell. Really shook him up, it did. He saw animal bones and God knows what else, so perhaps some predator had used that shaft as a kind of store.”
“Wish I’d not asked,” said Jason, clearly not joking.
Just then, a different object caught her eye. To the right of the opening stood the same eerie phenomenon she’d spotted three days ago. Black, motionless as before but now turned to face Dinas Hill opposite.
“Sssh,” she hissed to Jason. “Look over there. Quick!”
He followed her pointing finger. “Why? It’s just some old stone.”
“No, it isn’t. Can’t you see? It’s the figure of a man. Looks like he’s in mourning clothes.”
“If you say so.” Jason sounded more than fed up. And, despite the cup cake, was probably starving.
“Is that the best you can do? I mean, this is freaky.”
“Let’s check it out, then. I can try taking a video again.”
“No.” She held him back with surprising force. “He’s up here for a reason. He’s obviously interested in this place and we mustn’t interfere.”
“With no coat? No umbrella? And if he is real, how come he’s just appeared out of nowhere?”
“You’re right.” Yet she knew Jason was wrong. Could it be that whoever it was, had made a showing just for them, like for her on Wednesday? If so, why? “Let’s just hang around a bit longer,” she whispered. “All might be revealed.”
Suddenly, before she could stop him, Jason cupped his hands round his mouth and hollered out “Yo there!”
Damn.
The effect of this din was immediate. The previously faceless figure turned their way. Despite Jason’s closeness, Helen gasped in fear at that pallid, pained expression, and worse, as the young, brown-haired, pale man himself began to move. Towards them.
***
Jason began legging it down the forestry’s waterlogged track. She could tell he was a good runner, not like some, all flailing arms and legs. “So you’ve seen him before?” he shouted at her.
“Yes. When I called in on Aunty Betsan. His suit’s definitely from another era, and did you notice the black tie?”
“I’m thinking funeral too, if you must know.” He speeded up, now slithering over wet stones and pieces of bark left by the lorries. The whine of saws had resumed, once more turning the whole scene into a kind of vegetative abattoir. “Christ, what is it with this place?” he complained. “I’ve come all the way from Hounslow to try and hit the big time, not deal with a load of ghosts.”
Nevertheless, Helen couldn’t forget the spectre’s red-rimmed eyes. That open mouth set mutely in a cry. How, having reached out a hand as if to touch her, he’d merged with the drizzle.
“Why we’re calling on Aunty Betsan,” she said. “She swore blind to me that she’d not noticed anyone hanging around, but I think she was trying to protect me. Not give me any more worries.”
“More worries?” He almost twisted his ankle and swore. “What d’you mean?”
“Nothing. But Mr Flynn said the same to me last Wednesday, about his mortgage being the least of his concerns. I can’t help thinking he’s in trouble. Perhaps there’s no one else he can confide in. And do you blame him, given the alternatives there?”
“Look, you can’t take on the sins of the world. He’s a big boy. Not short of a bob from what I can see. Maybe he’s gone to London to get some new deal, probably with Coutts. There’s lots caught up in this slow-down now. Ex-bankers selling Big Issue under Waterloo Bridge, for a start.”
He’s right, she thought. Wasn’t that the reason for the planned writing courses? And weren’t there only four days to go until the first was due to begin? She then recalled something else.
“So why did she overhear him phoning Islington Police Station before he left?”
Jason didn’t reply, as if he was too busy thinking up an answer.
***
As they approached the welcoming dwelling, Helen noticed that the poor dead ewe and lamb, they’d seen earlier were now
just tufts of sodden fleece. And for an instant she wondered how she’d react if she heard her mam had suddenly died. What had their last exchange been about? When? Had it left her hopeful or miserable? She tried to remember, then realised it was her mam’s birthday on Thursday.
But what to get her? And then she had an idea.
A small painting could kick-start what she’d been putting off for too long. It might also perhaps help heal past wounds.
“Wait,” she said, as Jason reached the plateau first, where Golwg y Mwyn’s inky blue slates and newly rendered walls glistened despite the grey light. “Betsan doesn’t know you, and we don’t want her scared, do we?”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Nice car,” he said, admiring the immaculate white Modus aligned against the bungalow’s front wall. “Bit impossible here without one.”
Helen was too busy exploring the bungalow’s four windows to reply. Three had their curtains open except those belonging to what she remembered was the lounge. Maybe the seventy-five-year-old was taking a nap in there.
Jason caught up, smelling of rain and wood sap. A smell she could get used to. “She’s probably out the back in her herb garden. I’ll take a look,” she said. And, leaving him out the front, pushed open the unlocked side gate on to that same paved, weed-free path and glanced around at the beautifully tended plot that met her eyes.
No Betsan.
Helen made for the back door and found it unlocked, with no sign of any damage to either the Suffolk latch or the empty keyhole. “That’s strange,” she muttered to herself, finding it slightly ajar. “Betsan?” she called out. “It’s me. Helen, from Heron House. Are you alright? I’ve brought a new friend to meet you. He really loved your spag bol recipe.”
Silence, save for the distant call of birds and the rocking of Helen’s heart.
11.
Saturday 4th April 2009 – 11.30 a.m.
We don’t want her scared, do we?
Even though Helen had tried to laugh that off, she’d made him look an idiot, and he’d been there, done that more times than most twenty-eight-year-olds, especially when grovelling to keep his Woolies’ warehouse job.
“You ain’t the only one affected,” his boss, not far off his pension, had muttered as if he, Jason, had complained about some faulty piece of equipment, not goodbye to a monthly pay cheque and good managerial prospects. And now here he was clinging to his dream in a totally different world where, according to a Wonderful Wales brochure he’d skimmed through while waiting for his train at Paddington Station, myths and legends abounded. But nothing like that crazy, untraceable message on his phone, his shape-shifting library book and that body-shaped stain. Never mind the toffee-coloured time-slips…
He’d have to be extra focussed. Extra determined, otherwise, he’d be crawling back to TW4 with his tail between his legs, not having written a word. Which is why, when Helen called out to him from behind the cottage, he didn’t answer.
“Quick! Something’s wrong!” she yelled again, and during those next few seconds, while finally running in her direction, he knew that getting his best seller off the blocks would be a near-impossible task. That Monty Flynn who’d already plotted his route to fame, would soon be shifting his allegiance elsewhere.
***
He’d never seen a dead human being before. So waxen. So far away and so different from what he’d read in Evil Eyes. Unreal was how he’d describe it. The clean corpse, for a start. The peaceful pose. Betsan Griffiths sat propped up by cushions in a polished, wooden Captain’s chair, as if she’d merely dozed off. The kitchen, too, seemed normal. Full of cookery books of all sizes and ages, with a table set for two and a simmering pan of lamb stew which, according to that Wonderful Wales brochure, the Welsh called ‘cawl.’
The smell of it made his stomach lurch, so, using the nearby tea towel to cover his fingers, he switched off the cooker. His hands were trembling. Perhaps the early morning Citalopram was to blame. Perhaps not, but he’d already taken two more than prescribed.
Meanwhile, Helen was leaning over the dead woman, repeatedly and pointlessly checking the pulse in her neck. In her wrist. Smoothing her soft grey curls and, finally, tenderly closing her eyelids. Helen then turned to him, her own eyes shining with tears. “Poor old girl. She must have gone in her sleep. At least it seems she didn’t suffer.”
“You said the back door was unlocked?” Jason said as if he’d not heard her.
“So?” She returned her attention to the dead woman, fiddling with her beige twin-set and the well-pressed rayon slacks, telling her how much she’d be missed, and to rest in peace.
“Best not to touch anything,” he warned as gently as he could, careful not to let her see his less than manly lips quivering, “just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Either she opened this back door to someone she knew. Someone coming for lunch, or...”
“Rubbish! She was out in her garden. There’s not a mark on her. Look.”
“Wearing slippers? In this weather?”
Helen stood up as if defeated. He slipped a hand over her heaving shoulders, feeling her bones under her coat. “We should call the cops now,” he said, pulling out his mobile, and was about to go for 999 when she stopped him. “Waste of time. Too many hills and trees. Let’s check the landline phone.”
“Where is it?”
Most people he knew kept theirs in the kitchen. But here, there was nothing.
“Try the lounge,”said Helen, but as soon as she’d clicked open another Suffolk latch, she gasped, gripping on to the door frame. “Oh my God, Jason. Look at this mess! Why would anyone do something so wicked? So destructive?”
“And vengeful, it seems.” He stood right behind her, smelling her damp hair, taking in the chaos that had turned a once orderly room into a Council Tip. Thinking that maybe more than one perp had been involved. After all, Betsan Griffiths was hardly a lightweight if she’d been moved.
“She’s done me too much harm. Her and her mouth,” Helen repeated, picking up one smashed ornament after another. Elegant ladies posing, dancing; angels with outspread wings, children and dogs, you name it, but all with their heads broken off.
“Who said that?” Jason resisted the temptation to open the curtains. Evil Eyes had shown him a few tricks. Leave no trace, for a start.
“Betsan referring to The Rat. And I believe her. It’s been bugging me ever since, especially how that crone stared after me when I set out for here on Wednesday afternoon.” She examined the long, curly ears of a spaniel’s severed head, taking care not to let its sharp, glazed edges cut her. “She also tried spreading rumours about Betsan, but I made it quite clear I wasn’t interested.”
“Rumours?”
“That her mam had bunked off, leaving her so suspicious that any stranger who’d eaten here or taken away something she’d made, came to no good. I don’t know what her mam did, but that next bit’s got to be a foul lie. Betsan liked people.”
Helen picked up another decapitated head, this time belonging to a golden-haired boy. “These Ladro pieces were her pride and joy, but she’d no idea who’d inherit them after she was gone. Don’t you think that’s a peculiar thing to say? And something else,” she repeated the dead woman’s remark about Gwenno in full, but Jason was more concerned about a different kind of contamination.
“I’ve already said don’t touch anything,” he snapped. “Sorry, but there may be prints, and you don’t want to be fingered, do you?”
“Course not. I’m scared.”
Meanwhile, he was checking out the skirting board behind the newish-looking TV where only an empty hole remained. “No phone line,” he said. “It’s been pulled out. Might have guessed.” He got to his feet, and extracted his mobile. “Worth another shot with 999. At least she’ll be taken care of and the bungalow secured. Dammit,” he snapped again, seeing that same rubbish message flash up. He was about to go outside and try
a less sheltered spot, when he suddenly saw a yellowed corner of card poking out from under a carriage clock in the centre of the polished stone mantel piece. This time, with his jacket cuff covering his thumb and forefinger, pulled it free.
NANTYBAI PRIMARY SCHOOL
MONDAY OCTOBER 7TH 1946
FIRST PRIZE IN THE GENERAL KNOWLEDGE TEST
is awarded to BETSAN ANWEN GRIFFITHS of Golwg y Mwyn.
Signed: Lionel A. Hargreaves BA Hons. Headmaster.
For a moment, he tried imagining the keen, young schoolgirl; what she might have looked like then, and how it had all come to such a sad end. He also wondered about that kitchen table set for two. For herself and another, or... Just then, he spotted fresh damage to the mantelpiece’s edge. He called to Helen still staring at those two photographs. “This is what the figurines must have been bashed against. I just hope she wasn’t made to watch.” He turned to her. “We didn’t see anyone arriving or leaving here, did we?”
“No. And don’t tell me that ghost made his way over or I’ll freak out.”
It was then that Jason was aware of solid rain now hitting the roof. He felt hot. Short of air. He stumbled over the porcelain wreckage, back through the kitchen and the dead woman still tidily in place, out into the deluge where that same hill with its ragged top seemed to have swollen to twice its actual size and, if he wasn’t quick, would implode under its own weight, engulfing everything.
He then realised he wasn’t alone.
Helen...
“Get out!” he yelled back at her. “Hurry!”
But a mighty shotgun blast like thunder above the rain, drove away his words and a rush of blackbirds from the nearby trees.
***
What lunatic was out shooting in this weather? Jason pulled out his phone again, protecting it with a free hand, remembering what Helen had said about lead smelting. How it had driven some local people mad. While water coursed down his neck, soaking his skin, his clothes under the expensive and useless leather jacket, he dialled 999. Surely, from where he stood by the car at the front of the cottage, he’d get a signal. But no.