by Cathy Ace
Helen’s sluggish thoughts sharpened.
Her father and Jackie Beynon? Jackie had been three years below Helen in school, so surely he wouldn’t . . . no. Not Dad. Helen tried her hardest to focus.
If her father had been with Jackie on New Year’s Eve 1999 . . . and Aled had been born in September 2000 . . .
The horror of it hit her.
‘Oh my God, no!’ she cried aloud.
Agata’s worried face appeared behind the bar, ‘Helen?’ She dashed out of the back door. Soon Liz, Betty, and Evan were hovering over Helen, as she felt the pub swirl around her.
Betty’s face seemed blurry. ‘Helen – what’s the matter, love? Can you tell me?’
Helen fought to form thoughts, and turn them into words. ‘New Year’s Eve 1999, you said Gwen was staying with Mair, right?’
Evan answered. ‘That’s what Mair told me. She said your mum couldn’t have seen your dad at Gwen’s house, in a state of undress, because Gwen was with her.’
‘But there was Jackie Beynon, too. What about Jackie? Aled’s eighteen. Born September 2000. Right age. Is he my brother? I think he’s my half-brother.’ She felt the heat of tears on her cheeks.
Evan spoke calmly, ‘Now don’t worry about that, Helen. I’ll admit I had the same thought, but I mentioned Jackie Beynon to Mair, who said she’d probably not have been in the village at all that night. Jackie would have been at a big party in Swansea. Mair seemed pretty sure about it.’
Helen felt her heart pound, her toes tingle. ‘She wasn’t. I know that for a fact.’ She waved her good arm toward the bar. Everyone looked around. ‘There’s a photo up on the wall by the optics taken that night – around one in the morning. The first photo taken in this pub in the twenty-first century. Jackie Beynon is in it. And Mum. And Dad.’
Helen felt as though she were sinking into the chair.
As if through the swirl of the dragon’s breath, Helen saw the people around her stare at each other, the looks on their faces telling her even they realized the importance of what she was saying.
Liz’s voice sounded harsh. ‘You mean you think Aled might be Sadie’s . . . half-uncle? Step-uncle? Is that even a word?’
Evan replied, ‘I don’t know if it’s a word – but if Jack Jones was Aled’s father, then Aled is Helen’s half-brother, making him related to Sadie in a way that . . .’
Helen couldn’t hold it in any longer, but she couldn’t form words. She had to let out all her anger, frustration, and horror.
She opened her mouth as wide as she could, and wailed. She didn’t know she was going to do it until the sound was coming out of her body. She just closed her eyes and let it all roll out of her.
As the noise reverberated inside her head she saw colors, felt vibrations and then . . . nothing. Everything stopped. She realized she had stopped screaming. She felt completely drained.
Betty was asking how she felt. All she could do was retch – dry, and raw. And sob. She wanted to say so much, but she felt so tired that all that came out was, ‘Sadie. Aled. My Mum. News on TV. Worked it out about Jackie.Heart attack. My baby girl. With Aled. Wrong.’
Somewhere Helen heard disembodied voices. One asked, ‘What tablets is she on? She seems to be really out of it to me.’ Another replied, ‘They gave her Co-codamol at the hospital, just a few, enough for three days. I gave her some last night, and this morning. Oh God . . . let me check.’ Another voice said, ‘Let’s get her outside, into the fresh air – Agata, can you bring some cold water, please.’ Finally, ‘Look, these were beside her bed. It’s a bottle of Solpadol, with Myfanwy Jones’s name on them. Do you think she took these?’
Helen felt herself being shaken. It felt bouncy – but not too bad. She tried to focus her eyes on the face in front of her. ‘Did you take extra tablets, Helen? Helen? Have you done something to yourself?’
A voice said, ‘I’ve called an ambulance. They said to keep her moving if we can. Keep her conscious.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said someone.
Then . . . nothing.
Betty
‘Evan, I’ll never forgive myself. We were here. We should have seen this coming. When I went up and found the tablets, I also saw Helen’s mobile phone beside her bed; over a hundred text messages. Forty missed calls. It must be Bob again. It must have been too much for her.’
Betty was close to tears. She felt the guilt as a physical force, her body vibrating, tingling. ‘I wish she’d said something. The bastard didn’t need to try to get into the pub itself overnight, he was already inside her head, and on her phone.’
‘This isn’t your fault, love. She could have turned her phone off,’ said Evan.
Betty was shocked. ‘You know what she’s like. She probably thought he’d start phoning the pub instead, then she’d be involving other people – including her daughter. The lengths to which a victimized person will go to to hide the fact they are under attack can be extraordinary. Sometimes they don’t want anyone to know because they feel guilt, other times they try to absorb all the effects of the harassment themselves, because they see it as their fault.’
Evan shook his head. ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t mean that. What I meant was she knew we were here for her – she didn’t need her phone to be switched on in case of an emergency last night. She should have told us if he was harassing her; we knew about what she’d been through. Surely she could have let us help her?’
Betty hated feeling so useless. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. But these things are never as straightforward as they might seem to an outsider; there’s such a complex set of potential responses . . .’
Betty’s flow was stopped by the abrupt arrival – through the pub’s kitchen – of Aled Beynon, accompanied by a couple she half-remembered from the funeral.
‘She’s got Stew, you’ve got to help him,’ wailed Aled. Betty was horrified to see blood dripping from a wound on the boy’s head, and noticed he was dragging his left leg, which was also bloodied.
‘Is that policewoman around?’ shouted the man. ‘I saw her park her car and come in here. Where is she? Sadie’s taken my son off somewhere . . .’
Evan replied. ‘DS Stanley is outside attending to an emergency situation. I’m a retired police officer, Evan Glover. Who are you, and what exactly is happening? Betty? Come and tend to Aled, please love.’
Betty did as her husband asked, steering the dazed youth to the chair recently vacated by Helen, where he flopped. ‘I’ll get a towel and some water,’ she said, but Agata raced in from the kitchen with just what was needed. As Betty mopped Aled’s forehead she could see he had a deep gash in his hairline. It would need stiches, she reckoned. There was a lot of blood. He was worryingly pale.
She concentrated on staunching the flow by applying pressure to the wound – so couldn’t see the unknown man behind her as he barked, ‘Stephen Wingfield. Wife Maggie. Rhosddraig Cwtch. Sadie Jones has abducted our boy. He was staying with Aled last night. She went to Green Cottage this morning and viciously attacked Aled, as you can plainly see, then made off with our son Stewart. We don’t know where she’s taken him, or why. But Aled says she threatened the pair of them with a gun. A gun!’
‘We saw Sadie out on the hillside earlier on. We thought she was with you, Aled,’ said Betty.
Maggie Wingfield wailed, ‘The hillside? Thank God. Please get that real policewoman to help. Whatever the emergency is outside, we need her more. Our son . . . she’s got a gun.’ Betty could hear the terror in the poor woman’s voice.
Agata responded to a pounding on the front door of the pub, and another woman in her forties Betty had never seen before burst into the lounge. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve just seen some funny business going on at . . . oh my God – what’s happened to him?’
‘Sadie attacked him,’ replied Stephen.
‘And she’s taken Stew,’ added Maggie.
‘And you are?’ asked Evan calmly.
The woman was agog. ‘Um . . . Alis Roberts. Fro
m the shop. Why? Who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Evan Glover, retired. You were about to say there’s something amiss somewhere? Where?’
‘Up at the Devil’s Table – I think there was some sort of fight going on, and now someone’s dancing around on top of it. It’s dangerous, that is. I saw DS Stanley come in here a while back. I thought I’d tell her. She should do something about it.’
Betty turned, momentarily, from tending to Aled’s wound to gauge how her husband would react; he was surrounded by anxious people, but looking perfectly calm.
I expect this is how he’s always been in times of crisis, and I’ve never known it, thought Betty.
‘How’s Aled doing, Betty?’ he asked.
Betty weighed her response. ‘I think he’ll need stitches in his head and it looks like his leg’s been slashed by some sort of blade. The ambulance that’s on its way here for Helen will be put to good use.’
‘Agata, take over from Betty putting pressure on that wound, please. Betty you come with me. The rest of you stay here. I’ll be back in two minutes. Don’t leave. Anyone,’ barked Evan forcefully.
Taking control comes to you naturally, thought Betty.
She and Evan joined Liz, who was more or less dragging Helen around the grassy picnic area; her husband communicated the news succinctly.
Liz nodded. ‘Betty, as you can see I’ve kept Helen mobile. I’ve advised central control about the medications we believe Helen might have ingested, and the paramedics should have treatments with them for an opioid overdose, but the Solpadol also contains acetaminophen, which can lead to liver and kidney failure. We can only hope we’ve caught her in time. Her condition might worsen before they arrive. Do you know how to administer CPR?’
Betty replied rapidly. ‘No, I’m sorry. Can you show me how to do it?’
Liz replied, ‘At a pinch. But check in the pub if anyone’s trained in it. Quick.’
Betty did as she was asked, and returned with Maggie Wingfield in tow who told Liz, through her tears and panic, ‘I’ve got a first aid certificate, for the restaurant. It’s up to date. Did my refresher day about a year ago. We covered CPR. Can I help with Helen? And will you please, please help my son? He’s in terrible danger.’
Liz said, ‘You keep Helen upright and moving, while I attend to your son’s needs. I suggest you collect your thoughts, and take a few moments to think clearly about your training, in case you need to use it. You could do worse than refresh your memory by checking current CPR practices online, while I sort out the situation with your son.’ She then repeated everything she’d said to Betty about the pills Helen appeared to have taken.
Betty followed her husband and Liz back into the lounge bar, where Liz was immediately assailed with loud requests for her to take action.
‘Quiet! I need information before I do anything. Who knows about Sadie being armed with a gun?’ Liz’s voice rang out strong and clear.
Aled timidly raised his hand.
‘Tell her what you told us,’ shouted Stephen. ‘She threatened to kill him—’
‘Please, Mr Wingfield, let Aled speak,’ said Liz forcefully.
Aled’s voice was weak, hesitant. ‘Sadie’s got a gun. A real one. It looks like a gun they have in old westerns. It’s her great-grandfather’s. From the war. From her attic. She . . . I know she’s carried it in her backpack sometimes. I don’t even know if it works. But . . . it might. She hit me on the head with it. There’s this ring thing on the end of it. It really hurt. She was shoving it in Stew’s back, then she hit me again. She must have . . . made him go with her.’
Liz nodded. ‘Give me a minute.’ She whispered something to Evan that Betty couldn’t hear, and stepped outside the pub’s front door, her phone at her ear.
All eyes turned to Evan. ‘DS Stanley is making arrangements for an armed response unit to be dispatched to this location. She has to go through her superiors to do this; it’s standard operating procedure. The nearest unit is stationed in Bridgend, but they could be mobile when the call reaches them, so we cannot be sure how long it will take for them to arrive.’
‘Dear God – I’m not waiting until some blokes with guns get here from Bridgend, man,’ interrupted Stephen Wingfield, loudly. ‘I’ll go over there myself. Better she shoots me than my son.’ He moved toward the door, and Betty saw Evan move faster than she thought he could.
‘Please don’t, Stephen,’ he said. ‘It’s not wise. We’ll need backup before we confront a young woman with a weapon which might still be able to perform its deadly function.’
Betty – and everyone else – turned as Liz reentered the lounge. ‘It’s being done, they’ll call out armed response. And they’re sending additional officers. We’re asked to sit tight. Observe, if we can.’
Betty could see that Stephen Wingfield was about to blow his top, so nudged her husband, who said, ‘I know this is difficult for you to understand, Stephen, but we have to think about the personal safety of—’
Stephen pushed past Evan, who almost fell to the ground. ‘You’re all insane. I’m not staying here. He’s my son. What are you going to do? Arrest me? I’m off.’
Liz was wrong-footed, and Stephen had made it to the road before she could get past Alis and Agata. Evan followed, with Betty screaming after him, ‘Evan, no!’
But he’d gone.
Evan
Evan followed Liz as she ran to the car park, jogging to keep up with her. ‘You haven’t got a spare tactical kit in there for me by any chance, have you?’ he asked.
Liz was pulling equipment from the boot. ‘No, and you won’t need one because you’re going to stay here and hold the fort.’ Her eyes were no more than slits. ‘You’re no longer on the job, Evan, and you have no police powers. You’re a civilian. I cannot risk involving you, as well as Wingfield. You’re needed here.’ She slammed the boot shut, and turned.
Evan sighed. ‘One, I have experience; two, you don’t know how to get to where you need to get; three, I can distract as well as engage. Let me at least get you to the site? Then I’ll back off, and you can take over. You need to go in this direction, not the way you’re going’
She didn’t reply, but he believed Liz would follow as he headed off, and she did. Evan knew he had to pace himself, so jogged, rather than setting out at an unsustainable speed. He pulled his phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Betty.
‘Tell Maggie Wingfield to phone her husband and get him to wait for us. Tell him to catch his breath, because he might need it. Just get him to stop. We’re on our way now.’ He hung up after he’d allowed Betty to beg him to be careful for a full ten seconds.
Betty
The pub was unnaturally quiet. ‘Can I cut into your trousers so we can clean up that gash on your leg?’ Betty asked Aled.
He looked puzzled. ‘I could just take them off. I’m wearing shorts underneath – Stew and I were going to the beach.’
He did, and Betty wiped the drying blood from his leg. The long gash wasn’t as deep as she’d feared. She couldn’t help but notice the bruises peeping out above and below his shorts. ‘Surfing must give you a lot of bumps,’ she said.
The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He started to shake.
Aled spoke softly. ‘Not surfing. Sadie. She . . . she hits me. Not just today. Lots.’
Betty pulled a chair close, and sat between him and the gossiping Alis and Agata, so they had less chance of being overheard. She’d read so much about him, and she’d been there when he’d spoken at his grandmother’s funeral, but she’d never talked to the boy before. Betty wondered what sort of person Aled Beynon truly was.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked in no more than a whisper. She felt her shoulders tense. Was Sadie being abused by this lad in the same way her mother had been by her father? The bruises on the boy’s torso suggested Sadie had chosen to fight back at least once.
The boy’s chin quivered. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. Only Stew knows . . . I haven’t told an
yone else. I . . . I can’t.’
Betty decided to dive in; she believed that if an abuser could be caught early enough, they might be able to learn to follow an entirely different path – she had to try her best.
‘Look, Aled, I’m not just married to an ex-policeman, I’m also a psychologist and trained therapist. I’ve heard most things, and although you’re not my client, I can be discreet. I’m used to helping people. So why don’t you tell me all about it? I thought you and Sadie were happy together, but even happy young couples can have problems.’
She recalled the photos the poor dead boy, James Powell, had taken that Evan had described to her.
‘You see, Aled, sometimes a young man doesn’t understand how to manage his impulses, and has to learn how to act and react in heated situations. If you’ve been fighting, and you’ve ended up being violent toward Sadie, and she’s had to fight back, you should consider getting some professional help – learn how to manage your anger.’
Aled’s eyes opened wide. ‘But I don’t hit Sadie, ever. And we’re not a couple. At all. We never have been. I do everything I can to avoid her.’
Betty was confused. ‘Pardon?’
‘I’m not Sadie’s boyfriend. I’ve never felt anything for her. Never led her on either, honestly I haven’t. I’ve never so much as gone out with her, or kissed her, or anything – I mean, why would I want to?’
He broke eye contact with Betty, and stared at the gash on his leg, tears rolling down his face. ‘Sadie makes my life a complete misery. She’s always phoning me and texting me. All the time. Day and night. She won’t leave me alone. I try to ignore her, but she knows that I . . .’
He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘She’s got something on me that could get me into trouble.’
‘Trouble with the police?’ Betty knew she had to tread carefully.
Aled looked lost. He was nibbling his dry lips, and seemed to be trying to make a decision. Eventually, he nodded, and wiped away his tears. He looked at her with what Betty judged to be a flash of guarded defiance. ‘Yes, with the police, and – if it came out – with some other people too. It would be even worse if they found out about it.’
