by Lex Sinclair
Title Page
Rhos Meadow
by
Lex Sinclair
Publisher Information
Rhos Meadow
Published in 2016 by
Acorn Books
an imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2016 Lex Sinclair
The right of Lex Sinclair to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Quote
Every eye sees it own special vision;
every ear hears a most different song.
In each man’s troubled heart, an incision
would reveal a unique, shameful wrong.
Stranger fiends hide here in human guise
than reside in the valleys of Hell.
But goodness, kindness and love arise
in the heart of the poor beast, as well.
- The Book of Counted Sorrows
Prologue
NOW
January 2015
The spectral-grey fog was impenetrable. It swirled in dense layers lethargically, inexorably. It appeared to embrace its invisible wet fingers around the disorientated man whom stepped out of his blue Citron fearful of driving headfirst into oncoming traffic. He’d driven through the small town on occasion previously to get petrol or to stop at the famous Meadow Fish Bar & Restaurant. However, the last time he’d been here was a couple of years ago on his way into Neath town centre. He vividly recalled the rolling hilltops rising and falling, like magnificent dunes obliterated by the Hydraulic Fracturing site and the five wind turbines spinning hypnotically, distinctly slicing the once pleasant fresh air with great swooping chops.
In a blue and white chequered fleece and denim jeans, the man had emerged from the confines of his reliable automobile to the eerie silence that unequivocally belonged to a town, uninhabited.
The unnerved man edged forward. The sound of his boots deafening as he walked on the main road. The fog was too dense to be natural, he thought to himself. Invisible spiders crawled up his spine causing the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck to prickle. The sensation was virgin to him - and he didn’t like it one bit.
‘Hello,’ he called out, although his vocal cords were strangled. He tried again after clearing his throat. ‘Hello! Can anyone hear me? If you can, answer! Please answer!’ He knew that he sounded panic-stricken and desperate. Nevertheless, under the circumstances, it was quite understandable.
Two minutes passed and no sounds save his own breathing and the jackhammer beat of his heart penetrated his ears. The man (approximately in his mid-thirties) whom seldom came this way rummaged around in his jeans’ pocket and extracted his mobile phone. In doing so, the unnerving sensation that was foreign to him increased its velocity. Because no matter how many times he turned the mobile phone off and back on again he couldn’t get a signal to even dial 999 let alone speak to an operator.
Exposed and helpless, the young man squinted through the swirling fog and swatted it out of his central point vision. What he saw was more fog; more fog as thick as a duvet rolling endlessly towards him, like billowing clouds. Only the fog had an ominous radiance beyond the undulating vapours. Aware that any attempts he made on getting through the inexorable stream would be fruitless, the man pivoted and tried to see the road behind him which he’d travelled.
A sound escaped him that could only be described as something between a high-pitched whimper and a sharp intake of breath. He marched past his blue Citron towards the Texaco garage and round the serpentine bend obscured on a clear day by the immaculately-trimmed hedgerow. His hurried walking became a jog. Everything in his sight was that spectral-grey fog and nothing else.
Somethin’s not right! his mind screamed at him.
Okay. What’re you gonna do?
The question was apt. Unfortunately there had been no forewarning of fog on any of the channels weather reports, either on TV or the radio. He’d been listening to the local news and weather on the car radio after killing his Eric Clapton CD. Nothing. No warning about heavy fog and dangerous driving conditions; just another mundane grey sky day in South Wales.
The man ran a trembling hand through his thick black hair and sighed. Then he turned around and headed back to his car, blindly. However he decided to proceed, it was paramount that he got the car off the main road before someone got killed.
His outstretched right hand found the rear end of his blue Citron. He was about to open the driver’s door when someone no more than ten yards (judging by the sound) emitted a long, carnivorous growl.
‘Hello?’
The man received no verbal response. Instead he heard something heavy scraping on the road’s surface, becoming louder as it neared.
By the time the man recoiled the putrid, flesh-eaten hand seized him by the oesophagus in a fierce grip. The man tried to cry out but the fingers, as hard as stone, deepened into his exposed flesh, effortlessly crushing his larynx. In a desperate attempt to save himself from the invisible assailant, the man swung with a taut fist and whacked the side of an elongated head. As he struck again and again and again, the man realised that the head was not only parched but also void of some flesh at the side of the head. His knuckles were rapping cold, unyielding bone.
Then the entity that used to be a human being, who went by the name, Alan Willard, town councillor, leaned forward, head butted the man right on the bridge of his nose. Tears sprang to his eyes, blurring his vision. Blood poured out of his nostrils. But what frightened him more than anything else was the ashen, dissected visage filling his entire vision before its mouth opened and clamped down ravenously on the side of his neck.
The fog filled the young man’s vision entirely then relented to the perpetual darkness.
1.
THEN
June 2010
The sweet, refreshing aroma of freshly cut grass and the burning disk that was the sun slinking beneath the horizon beyond the cornfield bleeding the sky a maroon hue dazzled Bobbie Hopkins. His parched lips curled at the corners. The lawnmower had been switched off and returned to the garden shed. It was only now as he gazed at picturesque sunset did he marvel at how heaven and earth intertwined.
In all the fifty-eight years he’d been a member of the human race, Bobbie could unequivocally say he’d never seen anything so amazing. Its silent beauty that most folks take for granted was its very essence. If only there was some livestock in the pastures in his field of vision he could truly believe in everything that his naked eye saw.
He averted his gaze from the orange disk and shook his head inwardly at the sign Ted Gillespie had erected at the side of the only road going through their small town of Rhos Meadow. SAY NO TO WIND FARM!
Bobbie had been getting his shopping from the boot of his Renault two months earlier on a Saturday morning when, in his peripheral vision, he spotted Ted knocking the signpost into the soil. At the time Bobbie hadn’t taken much notice. Ted was a crazy son of a bitch on
a good day. His grandfather, Fredrick Gillespie used to own two horses and a small herd of sheep until one June morning his grandson had discovered them all butchered to death in the overgrown cornfield on the other side of the main road. Bobbie had heard the rumours that the government were planning on building a wind farm not fifty yards from his home, and agreed with the sign.
Across the meadows and hilltops stood the slaughterhouse - a green corrugated steel structure. Beyond that a giant silver Ariel mast glinted in the splendid sunlight.
Bobbie could still envision in his mind’s eye Ted screaming at the top of his lungs amidst the corn. He and his old man Keith Gillespie went door-to-door to try and find out who the culprit was, threatening to ‘tear them a new arsehole’. Bobbie did feel sympathy towards the Gillespie’s, although he didn’t think their approach was a good idea. Furthermore, he didn’t believe any of the five hundred townspeople would do such a thing. For one, the children loved to cross the often deserted 30mph limit main road to feed the horses and sheep. More than likely, Bobbie theorised, some out-of-towner had come through the Rhos Meadow one night and thought they’d have themselves some sick fun before any of the residents knew what had happened.
The Gillespie’s still put signs up alongside the road outside their timber-framed farmhouse advertising fresh eggs and chickens. But ever since Fredrick Gillespie died late last year of pneumonia the once vociferous Gillespie family had suddenly disappeared into their shell. Of course, it didn’t help that Ted had been caught sliding his swollen member into Sara Banks. Sara’s dad, Harold Banks was a big, powerful man. By the time he’d taken Ted somewhere discreet to have a private chat Ted’s face had looked as though it had a long and hard head-butting bout against a brick wall. When Bobbie queried what had happened to him in the local convenience store, Ted muttered, ‘I fell down the stairs.’
Later on when Bobbie found out the real reason he felt bad for asking. Ted probably thought he was trying to wind him up. The regulars usually met and discussed the goings-on in the small town in the Meadow Fish Bar & Restaurant or the Hope & Anchor: the local pub. Raymond Williams had been sitting at the walnut bar chuckling to himself so hard that he almost toppled off his stool. Eventually he got himself under control to be able to tell Bobbie about the incident that got Ted his battering.
Apparently, Ted had been pumping away inside Sara Banks like a an out-of-control piston at the back of the convenience store, unaware that Harold had entered the shop and was picking up some groceries thinking it was some tart Ted had picked up on one of his nights downtown. Harold had dutifully waited, smiling at the sounds of Ted’s groin area slapping the girl’s bottom, increasing in speed and friction until he himself got hard listening to the sound of their noisy climax. Harold’s broad grin and hard-on vanished instantly when he saw Sara following Ted out into the store, scarlet faced, flustered and satisfied.
Bobbie spat his beer across the bar when he’d first heard the story, and even now it made him laugh just thinking about Harold’s reaction.
In spite of the sun slinking beneath the hilltops, out of sight for another day, Bobbie shivered with cold. He returned his attention to sweeping up the shredded blades of grass into green bags until he’d filled four of them. He tied a knot on each one then carried them down, two at a time, to the front wall at the end of the garden.
He was brushing the bits of grass off his denim jeans when Greg Zane who lived in the five-bedroom beige-bricked farmhouse next to his emerged from the door at the side of his house and stepped over the wall onto Bobbie’s property.
‘Whatcha, neighbour?’ Greg called out.
‘Hey. What’s up, Greg?’
‘Your garden sure looks the business, Bobbie.’
Bobbie smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘Have you heard the latest?’
Bobbie shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Crooked government have declared that there will be drilling operations to go ahead for a wind farm. The local committee had a meeting with some high class group that call themselves Energy in Depth to dismiss any concerns about townsfolk and farmers’ livestock.’
‘I knew that there was some ongoing debate these last couple of months, cause the Gillespie’s decided to organise a petition against it going ahead. But I had no idea they’d come to a decision. If the locals weren’t happy and refused, I didn’t really think there was much anyone could do about it. I mean its private property.’
‘Aye. But ever since poor old Freddy Gillespie popped his clogs and they started having to borrow money after their livestock got slaughtered, they never really recovered fully. Frederick didn’t have much money and the funeral costs also set them back a bit too. Not to mention the time off work Ted missed for goosing Harold’s daughter. He ain’t just been lying low to avoid Harold. There’s no money in the pot for him to live on like he used to. No going out drinking till the early hours of the morning. Some business folk came knockin’ on the Gillespie’s door, told them some spiel about how over the last couple of years horizontal hydraulic fracturing - a.k.a. “hydro-fracking” - has got itself really popular over in America because of the staggeringly high amounts of gas it makes accessible could serve as a “Cleaner-burning” bridge between fossil fuels and renewable energy sources. The majority of the four acres they got is gonna be turned into a drilling operation.’
Bobbie frowned, hardly believing what he’d been told. ‘And Keith and Ted just agreed, like that?’
Greg shook his head. ‘Nah. Daft as the Gillespie’s are, they got themselves quite a lot of money; enough to buy themselves a decent home and not worry about no mortgage and struggling to get along, either. They’ll still stick around for awhile with their remaining cattle, though.’
Bobbie swore under his breath.
‘Yeah. Say goodbye to the peace and quiet,’ Greg said.
***
Darkness had enveloped the sky. Heavy rain-leaden clouds drifted by endlessly, obscuring the distant moon that looked more yellow than white.
Jack Zane was in his bedroom stepping into his pyjama bottoms, one leg at a time. He tried to do two legs simultaneously on a few occasions but gave up after falling over too many times. He didn’t even know why it was important. Nevertheless, Jack Zane was considered by the townspeople as “peculiar” or that eloquent word he’d looked up in the dictionary, “eccentric”. Jack had been eavesdropping on his parents’ and some of the neighbours on Boxing night last year and had heard them talking about him. He didn’t think much of it at the time. However, when he decided to look both words up, he’d been unable to sleep peacefully that night. He knew he was different. But he also believed in his heart of hearts that it was a good thing, too. After all, if everyone was the same the world would be a boring place to live.
John Carpenter’s The Thing was about to start on ITV4. Last week he’d seen Halloween , also directed by John Carpenter. He’d only had a proper night’s sleep on Tuesday, four nights after he’d seen the terrifying film. If The Thing was half as good he was in for a treat.
With his pocket money, Jack planned on saving up enough money so he could buy all the Halloween films on DVD. It’d take him a while but it’d be worth it. Sweets and chocolate were good, but those things didn’t last very long. Anyway, it’d do him some good to cut back for a while. He could drink water and eat the fruit in bowl downstairs in the dining room.
Jack cocked his leg, like a dog peeing against a lamppost and dropped his guts. He laughed at the bubble-breaking sound that was distinctly a fart emanating a well-tuned arse. He was just about to climb into bed when there was a rap upon the bedroom door. Jack whirled round and saw his father step into the room.
‘Was that a fart?’ Greg asked, and then grinned.
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘You watch you don’t shit yourself, all right?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Not gonna be watching another scary film, are you?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
Greg sighed. ‘You piss the bed and you can buy your own new mattress. You hear me?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘You’re like a broken record.
Jack smiled. ‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Goodnight son,’ Greg said, pivoting and then closing the door on his way out.
The opening credit sequence of The Thing began.
***
Smoke hung in the air like fog in the Hope & Anchor. Music blared from the duke box, boisterous chat that could be heard faintly over the din of music, TV and the clinking of beer glasses and the sounds of the cue ball smashing the triangle of spots and stripes on the pool table open reverberated in the cramped pub.
Harold Banks looked as though he wasn’t going to be able to get up from the leather sofa he and his wife Sofie occupied along with Tony Little and Gary Williams. Most of the other regulars were draped over the bar gawking at the stunning bartender, Imogen. They all knew she’d got her magnificent 34DD boobs out for men’s magazines and for the Daily Sport. She’d dated a local rugby and football player. It hadn’t worked out with either of them and Imogen, along with her brother Peter Jewett, had moved back home in February.
Bobbie sat in one of the leatherette booths staring fixedly at the TV screen, squinting through the blue-grey coils of cigar smoke hanging in the air dissipating or being inhaled by smokers and non-smokers alike. In a couple of months the government were issuing that all public places refuse smoking indoors. A lot of the regulars were grumbling about how they’d have to go outside every time they wanted a puff, and how the authorities were out to stop everyone from having a good time.
Suffering from a pounding headache, Bobbie gulped down the last of his beer, returned his empty glass to the coaster, got to his feet, grabbed his coat off the hanger and silently slipped outside. He welcomed the chilly fresh air and breathed deeply. His lungs appreciated it. The background din was behind closed doors. He was outside and the further he walked away from the Hope & Anchor along the worn path next to the foliage, the sounds of drunken laughter and shouting faded away and were replaced by the dulcet sounds of the night birds singing in the treetops. Yes, this was much better. Already his head started swimming back to the island of tranquillity where he could through the anchor overboard and settle for the night.
