More than a few victims had come forward, along with dozens of damning character witnesses. A class action for compensation was being sought by lawyers for the victims. Most were unwilling to enter into it, not wanting to give any indication that what he did was made okay simply by throwing money at them.
“But you’re owed more than most,” Emyr prompted his daughter. “You became attached to that house purely because of the trauma he caused you. It’s not the same for you. He put your life at risk twice.”
Elin had given up being angry with her dad. She knew he only had her best interests at heart. He’d argued that nothing would change what happened. If anything faintly positive could come from it, then she was owed it.
Of course she was. And when she’d learned how much she might be able to claim, she had been tempted. She would never accept anything from him personally. But the criminal injuries compensation the police were encouraging her to take seemed somehow separate. Compensation from them for their failure to prevent Jon’s abuse of women, rather than post-abuse remittance which sounded like prostitution.
After a lot of consideration, she decided not to accept any compensation from wherever the source. Anything she bought: a holiday to put it behind her, some nice clothes, or a car or whatever else, she feared would only serve to remind her of her lengthy ordeal. She just wanted to try to forget.
“I’m not taking any money, Dad. I’ve told you. Please don’t go on,” she said calmly, but with no hint she would ever change her mind. He smiled warmly. He admired her so much, and deep down, he knew she was making the right choice.
Six weeks later…
Elin laid her nicest outfits on the bed. Her dad patted her on the head and left her in peace. It was lovely to be home again. At her parents’ home in any case. She hadn’t made plans for the future yet, but apart from still needing a stick to walk for the time being, she felt better than she had in months.
And, tonight, she had a date. Well, kind of. Neil had been such a sweetheart, coming in most days for companionship; and it was obvious the debt of gratitude her mum and dad seemed to consider they owed him. When he’d asked her if he could take her out to dinner to celebrate her return home, she hadn’t the heart to refuse.
Now, she had to admit to quite looking forward to it. He was certainly good company, and after her ordeal, she couldn’t wish for a less threatening individual. She didn’t want to encourage him too much, but opted for a classic LBD. She trusted Neil to behave himself and it had been such a long, long time since she’d had the opportunity.
She didn’t wear a lot of make-up, but what she wore, was applied expertly, accentuating her best features (which was all of them.) Seeing herself looking so well was a real comfort. By the time she heard wheels on the gravel of the long drive of Erw Lon, she felt fantastic. Her mother’s soft tones called gently from the foot of the stairs that Neil had arrived to take her out.
Glenda had become deeply spiritual since nearly losing her eldest daughter. She talked regularly to the spirit who resided in the hallway who wasn’t a dreamer, but the ghost of the lady who’d lived there before them. She’d succumbed to frailty after a long illness and fallen to her death on the staircase. Her new friend, Sylvie had told her.) Having offered her love, and welcomed her to their home, they’d found comfort in occasionally feeling her presence.
Glenda ceased her own deliberate dream-travelling to the old Treharne family home. Knowing she was being seen, she didn’t want to scare anyone. She wondered if everyone had the same power—to travel to places they felt particularly connected, or if it was the Treharne women’s unique ability.
Sylvie hadn’t heard of anything like it before, but thought it unlikely they’d be the only two women in the world it happened to. They pondered, dreamily, the possibilities and implications, but for now were just thrilled everything was okay again.
Ambling from her room, Elin sensed the ghost of the old lady smiling at her. She turned instinctively but wasn’t surprised when she was no longer there. She thought she heard a faint whisper, “You deserve to be happy, my dear,” but then she was distracted by the adoring gaze rising from the hallway.
As she descended the stairs, Neil opened and closed his mouth a few times before uttering a simple, “Wow,” as she reached him. He was taller than she remembered, and as he stumbled taking her arm, she stifled a chuckle, noticing his several inch high Cuban Heels.
She was glad she hadn’t worn a heel herself. Her poor mobility, not just deference to Neil’s insecurities, had prompted a flat pump, but she was still inches taller.
Glenda and Emyr both appeared in the hallway to see them off. It felt like prom night. As Emyr held the door open and they stepped out, a shiny black Jaguar sat in the driveway. “It’s my dad’s,” Neil said sheepishly. When he caught sight of the huge grin on Elin’s face, he was pleased Collin had insisted on him borrowing it.
He opened her door like a true gentleman before settling himself behind the wheel of the executive saloon car.
“Where are you taking me?” Elin asked with a wink. The tan leather squeaking as she crossed her legs.
He fumbled with the electric seat adjustment for a perplexing moment, turning with a grimace to his evening’s date. “Somewhere nice,” he promised.
As his face reddened, Elin reached across and placed a reassuring hand on his thigh. “It’s alright, Neil. There’s no hurry.” As he gazed at that perfect smile, he relaxed. He remembered how to access the seat’s memory. It whirred into action raising him to the perfect position to commence their journey.
After an initial awkwardness, they chatted comfortably as Neil steered the beast around the tight bends from Llandovery to nearby Lampeter. A smile played on his lips imagining them in a movie scene. Him the hero saving a damsel in distress. His smile soured picturing how unsuited he was to the role. He shrugged it off, determined to enjoy his good fortune.
The Jaguar’s fat wheels crunched on the stones as Neil steered into the sweeping drive of an enormous Georgian mansion. It was a wonderful scene, stepping out of the car onto the shingles with the girl of his dreams, surrounded by the stunning splendour of the Cambrian Mountains.
Elin took Neil’s arm and left her stick in the car. The date he’d fantasised of when he’d helped her in the hospital was now a fabulous reality.
Smartly dressed front-of-house staff greeted them and showed them to an intimate table. Neil blushed as he caught sight of the buck-toothed midget walking arm in arm with the exquisite vision that was the reflection of the two of them. Elin saw it too and felt immensely proud to be with her kind and funny date.
Their conversation turned to plans for the future when Neil’s face reddened. He took a gulp of mineral water (he wouldn’t dream of drinking and driving.)
“I’ve been offered some interesting work. A group of hotels in Gran Canaria want me to set up their computer network. It’ll take most of the summer and it pays pretty well.”
“I’ll miss you,” Elin pronounced between dainty mouthfuls. She’d come to rely heavily on his friendship, and had presumed tonight’s wonderful date would be the first of many.
“Well…” he tugged at his collar. “I can bring someone with me. It’s all free. Food is included. And we can have separate beds. Separate rooms if you like. But it’d be amazing if you’d come with me…” Neil was almost puce now.
He wished he had a camera as the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, leaned in, pulled him close and kissed him full on the lips.
“I’d love to,” she said.
The End
The Nightmare of Eliot Armstrong
Glossary of Welsh from the story:
Bach – term of endearment. Lit. ‘small’
Hwyl - Used as goodbye. Lit. ‘fun’
Cwtch – Cuddle. (can mean cubbyhole)
Chapter One
My heart is thumping. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. Swallowing for the hundredth time in a minute, I fight not to
give in to the nausea tightening its grip on my throat.
Someone brought me here. I squint in my effort to recall, then shudder at the memory of the tap, tap, tap on the window; and the ghostly face peering in at me; a face I almost recognised before it flew into the night.
It nearly comes to me—who’s face it was, but like a stubborn sneeze it fades, leaving me squinting into the middle-distance.
Whilst the face won’t come, I remember the feeling. Tap, tap, tap. I don’t know how long it took for me to notice the noise, but when I did, I jumped awake. But I wasn’t in bed, I realise with a frown. I should have been in bed, but I’m sure my next recollection is stepping from my car.
A beckoning skeletal finger drew my attention, and I was in the air, flying over trees, the cloaked figure of what had become the Grim Reaper soaring inches in front, me following behind like a macabre re-enactment of the first scenes of Peter Pan,
And now I am here. But I don’t know where here is.
Unseeing eyes dart to the furthest fringes of my surroundings, but proffer only poor perception. Waves of thoughts crash into the sides of my skull, smashing into intangible torrents of turmoil. I stagger forward in a daze.
I feel the trembling of my fingers against my leg and bring my hands up to examine them. They are my hands, but they look odd: pallid. Every hair on my arm stands rigid, as though craning to see where we are, preparing to defend me.
This is useless. I need to understand. I stand still and make a show of rolling my shoulders and inhaling a deep, calming breath. A shudder rocks me and sends my hairs so far on end, they threaten to leave; float away on the breeze like seeds from a dandelion.
A nervous laugh erupts in my throat but stalls at my lips, resulting in a stifled cough.
It’s silent now, aside from my throbbing pulse, and the echo from my choking, but I sense it hasn’t been for long.
A glint of red catches my eye, and I’m intently staring at something I only half recognise. Something familiar that seems out of place.
My brain wracks, and I hit my forehead with my open palm to jolt it into action. It’s the key to why I’m here. I know it. I know I should recognise it, but it won’t come to me. I want desperately to recognise what it is. I’m certain it’s important; vital.
My thoughts offer countless suggestions, some of which are so ridiculous they almost seem to mock me. The stress of deliberation throbs my temples, and I turn away from the conundrum.
Sniffing the air like a dog scenting spore, the night hangs with the acrid stench of burning rubber and oil. Vision beyond a few feet is nothing but a haze, so my nose more than my eyes tells me I’m at the scene of an accident.
I glance back at the shiny red object, hoping this new realisation will effect recognition, but I can no longer locate it in the darkness.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” I cry out to silence. “Does someone need help? Hellooww!”
My heart clenches. A stabbing pain knots in my stomach. Not a physical pain. Frowning, I struggle to identify the grief threatening to rip me open.
Stumbling in the dark, I step forward, a crippling giddiness stops me and I lurch with flailing arms to the floor. Desperate to get to my feet, my limbs refuse to obey and I topple straight back down again.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, the loss echoing in the hollow chamber of my throat, unable to breach the gaping hole of my mouth.
Before the foreboding can be expunged, a distant buzzing noise grates my senses. Slowly, it begins to drag me to a more familiar world.
As the excruciating sound fills my head, the images of the night fade, replaced by the realisation that it is morning.
Adrenaline floods my veins and I’m sure the noise has reverberated the bedroom for more than a few minutes. My eyes ping open and I gulp a noisy, croaking breath, choking on my own saliva.
Throwing my weight forward, I struggle to suck in air through the gurgling in my lungs, setting off a coughing fit. Trying over the rasps to cry out for Imogen to tap my back, I manage to clear the airway without her.
I throw my arm from the bed in an effort to shut off the alarm. I don’t remember selecting this hideous noise to greet me in the mornings, but I must have.
Noticing that I’m alone jolts me. “Imogen!” I yell. The nightmare flooding back to me in a sickening flash.
My heart rate quickly lowers in recognition that the danger has passed and it was just a dream. “What the fuck was that all about?” I say out loud to the room, before making a more concerted, squinty eyed effort to shut the alarm off. “What’s this god-awful noise all about, as well?”
Seeing I’m alone in the bed provides the explanation. Oversleeping has been a problem lately and I must have selected this racket, in a bleary-eyed stupor, as being more likely to wake me than (What’s the story) morning glory? which used to bring a smile to my face. The fact I’m alone means it hasn’t worked.
I jump in the shower, knowing it will make me unbearably late, but I can’t risk the nicknames my pupils might give me if they caught a whiff of a grungy teacher. There are other motivations for my meticulous cleanliness, of course. I have a reputation to maintain.
I throw my usual tailored suit on and decide against a tie when, for the third time, I get the thin bit longer than the fat bit. I curse under my breath and rush downstairs in socked feet, hoping my shoes aren’t in different rooms as they frequently are.
There is cold toast waiting for me on the table, but apart from that I am alone. I am sure I was supposed to take Jess to college today. I glance at the clock. It’s nearly nine. Shit! Imogen must have taken her. She’ll moan at me for making her late for work, I’m going to be in trouble at the school, and Jess’ll probably give me the silent treatment too.
I slip my shoes on whilst biting down on the unpleasant toast. I have to leave without coffee, but I’m sure I can last until ten o’clock break.
When I arrive at Radcliffe School, the street is empty and I am able to find a parking space straight away. Brushing toast crumbs from my jacket, I depress the lock button for my car with the other hand.
Plucking my briefcase from the floor, I scurry along the pavement, holding my head to face the wind so that my hair isn’t restyled too much by the strong gust which has risen to greet my day at work.
I catch sight of my suave reflection in the spotless glass of the door before it slides open, and smile. Stepping into the enclosed reception area, Alix, the receptionist, buzzes me in.
“Good morning, Eliot,” she greets me, her cheeks reddening as she tries not to display her interested in my arrival.
“Good afternoon, more like,” I say in deference to my lateness, and she chuckles a little too enthusiastically, repeating my greeting as a treasured joke we have shared.
My smile broadens at the effect as I pass through the security door.
“It’s assembly today,” Alix calls out behind me. How did she know I’d forget? I turn around and walk in the other direction, up a small flight of three steps to the Hall.
As I get closer, I can hear the droning intonation of our esteemed Headmistress as she brings the attention of the students to whichever of the school’s tiresome rules is buzzing in her bonnet this week. I’m irked, as I push the door open as quietly as possible, that it’s lateness drawing her focus today.
More than two thousand eyes turn to me as I fail in my attempts at a Ninja-like entry when the door, which creaked as I slowly pushed it open, bangs loudly on its arc back to its frame. As if to emphasise my late arrival further, it rebounds twice more, banging only slightly less loudly each time.
When the pupils recognise it was me who had made the noise, a steady cacophony of laughter grows until the entire school is splitting their sides at the irony.
I put placatory hands in the air and offer my best boyish grin. Gradually the amusement dies down and I take my seat. Even Mrs Monotone (Merriman in actuality, but Monotone suits her so much better) has her mouth turned faintly in a smile.
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“Thank you, Mr Armstrong, for illustrating so perfectly the need for punctuality. Hilarity aside; demerits will be assigned for persistent latecomers.”
I’m sure I hear my name again, so grin, but my attention has been taken by the alluring smile of Miss Yazbeck, sorry, Mrs Taylor.
As she peers seductively at me over her Deidre Barlow spectacles, I shake my head ruefully and look at the floor, determined not to catch her eye and encourage her. I know old habits die hard, but she should concentrate on making her marriage work. She knows we were just a bit of fun. We could never have lasted.
As Mrs Monotone concludes the important student bollocking, I rush to leave the Hall before Uma Taylor catches up with me. I really could do with some preparation time before the first lesson.
I’ve scarcely started when there’s a tentative knock at the door: one of the young female students who seems to have taken a shine to me pops her head in.
Flattering as it is, I would never jeopardise my career in the pursuit of the most inappropriate liaisons. Not that there hasn’t been plenty of offers. They all just look too much like Jess, and I would kill any of her lecturers if they dared to behave improperly towards her.
“Come in, Isabelle,” I say, almost uttering Jezebel by mistake. She obeys and is followed by the rest of the class. They sit down. I instruct them to read their textbooks while I go and do some photocopying. It’s a lie and I’m really going to grab a coffee.
I drum my fingers while I wait for the kettle to boil, jumping out of my skin as feminine fingers stroke down my back.
“Are you avoiding me, Mr Armstrong?” the faint Eastern-European accent of Uma Taylor reverberates in my ear. I turn suddenly, toothy grin already in place. I can’t quite meet her eye as I declare that of course I wasn’t.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 61
