Rhos Meadow

by Lex Sinclair

  Then Greg’s voice broke through the lapping waters of a calm sea.

  Yes. Say goodbye to the peace and quiet.

  Bobbie gazed out over the expanse that was the green and yellow fields. A pang of melancholy settled into the pit of his stomach, realising in a sudden, unpleasant moment that soon everything in Rhos Meadow would be changing... for the worse.

  That night Bobbie dreamed of drilling operations and wind turbines.

  2.

  The night was becalmed and mysteriously silent, as though the small town of Rhos Meadow was a forsaken and windless beach in the eye of the storm, between the tempest past and the tempest coming.

  Tony Little rested fitfully in his armchair beside the picture window in his living room, staring unwaveringly in the direction of the open field. His wife, Amy, was in bed fast asleep. She had turned on her side and left him with more than half the mattress and still he couldn’t sleep. Tony Little had a lot on his mind. In a town as small and as close-knit as Rhos Meadow, every resident had skeletons in the closet. Everyone had secrets. However, some were worse than others. Tony’s biggest secret lay beyond the picture window, out in the open field, buried deep beneath the earth. That was where he’d believed his biggest secret would remain until the end of time.

  Now with the rumours floating around Rhos Meadow, lingering like the dark, foreboding clouds, Tony’s biggest secret was under threat of being unearthed and exposed. He doubted no one would be able to prove he was the culprit of the heinous crime. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t stop the townsfolk from whispering behind his back at how he was the likely suspect. After all, no one had forgotten about the incident in the Hope & Anchor nearly two years ago between Tony and an old acquaintance of his, John Ditko.

  John Ditko had been an old school friend of Tony’s. They’d practically grown up together, sat next to each other in class and hung out after school. They were spit brothers. It didn’t mean anything as grown-ups but as two boys, being spit brothers meant being closer than a cousin. Tony remembered John’s words that day they’d made a pledge. ‘No matter what happens, from now till the day we both die, we’ll always have each others backs. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Tony had replied. Then they’d rubbed their spit-covered hands together until each others became intertwined. They had been ten years old when they’d made that lifetime pledge. It was nearly eight years later when destiny had altered their friendship irrevocably.

  John had recently passed his driver’s test and had been permitted to take his father’s Ford Escort out for a drive to celebrate. John had called his best friend, Tony, to tell him that he’d passed and that he was aloud out on his own for the first time. He was a bit nervous and asked if he’d like to come. Tony didn’t hesitate. He waited with excitement outside on the porch for John to arrive.

  Ten minutes later they were cruising on a countryside road, poorly lit due to the fact that the trees and foliage had overgrown and blocked out the sporadic streetlamps on their way to the nearest petrol station. John told Tony all about his driving test and how he’d passed with only a few minor errors and that as soon as he finished college he was going to get an engineering apprenticeship and start saving for a car of his own.

  Tony sat in the passenger seat while John filled the tank up for his dad and went into the store to pay. When he emerged five minutes later, Tony frowned at the six-pack of beers John had in his grasp. He didn’t even think to ask if John was going to drink the beers there and then because the asinine thought would have insulted his friend if he mentioned it aloud. Nevertheless, when John pulled into a lay by and killed the motor, Tony became slightly unnerved.

  John opened his can and gulped down more than a mouthful. He belched and then offered Tony one. Tony tentatively opened one and sipped unenthusiastically.

  ‘What’s up?’ John asked ‘Why so quiet, huh?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Tony had replied. ‘So, how does it feel to have passed and be driving without an instructor?’

  ‘Pretty fuckin’ awesome.’

  Tony nodded and smiled.

  John finished his can, crushed it, rolled down his window and tossed it onto the asphalt.

  Tony was facing his passenger window when his heart jolted at the distinct sound of another beer can opening. He turned to face his friend and said, ‘D’you think that’s wise? I mean you are driving an all.’

  John cocked his head. ‘You don’t think I deserve to have passed, is that it?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just you know what they say about drink driving? How it -’

  ‘I passed my test today. I am a certified driver, qualified to use the roads. I’m not pissed outta my skull, so what’s your problem?’

  Tony could feel his cheeks glowing with embarrassment. ‘I’m just saying that drinking slows your reaction, that’s all. I mean another driver might make a mistake and you might not react in time or somethin’ like that.’

  ‘What other drivers, Tony?’ John swept his arm towards the deserted highway.

  ‘Perhaps we should finish the other cans when we get back. Better safe than sorry. I wasn’t having a go at your driving skills.’

  They finished their beers in complete silence. Then John revved the engine, clearly frustrated and sped off, the rear tyres kicking up a rooster tail of stones and a plume of dust.

  The silent journey was more or less uneventful until the front right tyre slammed over a deep pothole. The Ford swerved. John had to fight to regain control and when he did, he breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced at Tony who was clutching the side of his seat and turned back to face the road just in time to hit another pothole, lose control and slam into something big and solid. The car screeched to a halt and rolled over something big and solid. Something bigger than a cat, squirrel or a bird. Probably a dog or...

  Cussing, John turned the engine off, unfastened his harness and stepped outside. Tony remained motionless in his seat eyes squeezed shut, his white knuckles digging into the passenger seat, desperately wanting a hole to emerge in the ground to swallow him.

  John staggered backwards against the boot of the car when he saw what the shape was that he’d run over. An icy hand seized his pounding heart, clutching it, stopping its rhythm, chocking the breath right out of him. He jolted at the sound of the passenger door closing and footfalls drawing near. Then a sledgehammer the size of a detached house knocked him off his feet at the cries of Tony seeing the crumpled, lifeless form sprawled out on the highway that had seconds ago belonged to a girl approximately their age.

  Had the incident happened only last night, Tony’s recollection would have been just as nebulous as it was now sitting by his picture window more than twenty years later. What he did recall was there had been a huge argument that very nearly ended up in two best friends, closer than most brothers, getting into a brawl while the girl they’d just killed lay with her limbs at impossible angles on the quiet road. The sight of her snapped bones and crushed skull that had transformed her beautiful visage into a bloody pulp, with bits of bone, brain matter and flesh protruding from the indentation which resembled a rabbit hole.

  Tony wanted to go to the police and tell them the truth; although tell the authorities that the girl had wandered out in front of them. John had argued that once they’d failed the breathalyzer test, no officer in their right mind would believe the story. Especially with the beer cans inside the damaged car. He’d never be allowed behind the wheel ever again, not to mention they’d both go to prison and be unable to get any respectable jobs when they did serve their time. ‘Our lives will be as over as hers!’ John had yelled, doing his utmost to convince his friend.

  At that point Tony had begun weeping uncontrollably. ‘But if we get caught lying, we’ll get a life sentence at least, for hit and run.’

  ‘Not if we dump the body. I’ll tell the old man I hit a pot hol
e and that’s why the front bumper is hanging off. There’s no blood on the car. No one will ever know. It’s my arse more than yours. You weren’t driving. All you gotta do is keep your mouth shut.’

  Tony had said, ‘No’. That was when John had taken him by the throat and threatened to kill him there and then. That was the moment their friendship had died.

  Tony had helped place the ruined cadaver in the back seat and buried his head into his lap. They’d found a spot on the hilltops and checking to make sure the coast was clear they carried the cadaver up the small rise. John’s father, Dick, kept a small shovel in the boot of his car when he went to collect coal from the mines for their fireplace in the living room. Tony watched in horror, fighting back the nausea causing him to become light-headed and unsteady on his legs as John dug fervently. Then they unceremoniously bundled the corpse into the hole and covered it back up again.

  ‘You swear on your life you’ll take this to your grave,’ John had warned him.

  ‘I’m an accomplice to murder, who on earth would I tell?’ Tony had replied. ‘But from here on in, I never want to speak or see you ever again or so help me God I’ll bury you.’

  Tony had walked the rest of the way home that cold October night as empty as seashell.

  When he married Amy and she told him where she wanted to live, Tony’s blood froze.

  Nothing he remembered more clearly that fateful, life-changing night more than the death and concealment of the unfortunate soul they’d killed was the sign he’d passed on his way home: RHOSE MEADOW: Population 479.

  It was always in the back of his mind, festering away at his subconscious over the years, reminding him that no matter how much good he did in his life it would always be tainted with the secret that lay out there beneath the earth where he and John Ditko had buried it. He wondered now that the hydraulic fracturing, which consisted of drilling for natural gas would unearth the cadaver, reuniting him with the girl he’d never known and yet was eternally attached due to the behaviour of a boy whom he’d shared every day of his life with until the harrowing incident ended their fifteen year friendship.

  Nothing’s dead until it’s buried, his mind echoed.

  Tony wished he could believe that adage. However, in some extreme circumstances (and let’s face it folks, this is extreme) the past comes back to haunt the living.

  ***

  Gary Williams rose early the next morning having fallen into a deep slumber the night before. Once he’d gone through his usual morning ritual, the forty-four year old divorcee grabbed his wallet and house keys off the sideboard and stepped outside.

  The unpolluted morning air smelled of the environing countryside. He inhaled deeply, savouring the air filling his lungs as he strolled down the gravel-drive onto the pavement towards the Meadow Fish Bar & Restaurant for his cooked breakfast. He’d heard the rumours in the Hope & Anchor last night but didn’t trust his drunken memory with what he heard - or though he heard. The gossip of the small town’s residents was always lucid and plausible first thing in the morning.

  The brass bell at the top of the entrance door rang, announcing Gary’s arrival. Brenda Davies lifted her head from beneath the counter to see who it was and smiled benignly at yet another regular customer. Her auburn hair was damp at the fringe and tousled. Gary could tell that the woman ten twelve years his senior was struggling more and more with the early mornings. Fortunately, she had Dennis Wilson as head chef and her niece, Caroline Jacobs working in the kitchen while she busied herself taking orders, pouring tea and coffee.

  ‘Morning love,’ Brenda said.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Same as usual?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Just gonna get me a paper.’

  Brenda nodded. ‘Right you are.

  Gary almost bumped into Bobbie Hopkins as he turned towards the door.

  ‘Hey. What’s up, Bobbie?’ he asked, clapping a hand on Bobbie’s arm.

  ‘Same old,’ he said. ‘Hey, did you hear about the Gillespie’s farm?’

  Gary was about to say yes. However, nothing came to the forefront of his consciousness, although he did hear their name mentioned last night in the local pub on numerous occasions. ‘No. Bit worse for wear, last night.’

  ‘Huh, that makes a change,’ Brenda said.

  Both Bobbie and Gary laughed at the sarcastic remark.

  Gary told Bobbie he’d return and exited the diner and hurried next door to the local convenience store belonging to the Texaco garage. Bobbie ordered and took a window seat and gazed outside and the quiet stretch of road in his peripheral vision.

  Raymond Jones arrived shortly after Gary popped back in carrying a copy of The Sun newspaper. Then five minutes later Sara Banks wandered in and ordered a cup of coffee and blueberry muffin.

  Bobbie told Raymond and Gary what Greg Zane had told him about the Gillespie’s selling the majority of their five acres to the government for a drilling operation called “Hydraulic Fracturing”.

  ‘I know one guy who won’t be disappointed if they up and move,’ Gary said, deliberately keeping his voice low so Sara didn’t overhear.

  ‘Yeah. Who?’ Bobbie asked.

  ‘Harold.’

  ‘Never mind that. What about all that lovely countryside being dug up and spoiled by a load of construction workers and heavy goods vehicles. Not to mention the noise,’ Raymond said.

  Bobbie nodded, bringing to mind what Greg had said.

  Yes. Say goodbye to the peace and quiet.

  ‘Tell you who will be missing one of the Gillespie’s though,’ Gary said.

  ‘Who?’ Bobbie asked.

  ‘Ted’s little fuck buddy over there.’

  Brenda sauntered over to their table and placed their mugs of coffee down on coasters, careful not to spill any and then returned with their breakfast. She had caught a little of the men’s conversation about the Gillespie’s and wondered whether the whole operation would be a good thing or not. Nevertheless, if there were hungry workmen just over the field over yonder then they were most likely going to come into her fish bar and restaurant which would help her business prosper. Of course she didn’t know much about the details of what the drilling consisted of, as long as it wasn’t going to spoil their peaceful little abode and cause pollution she didn’t care.

  ‘So what is this Hydro-whatcha-call-it do then?’ Raymond asked, looking concerned.

  Bobbie shrugged. ‘As far as Greg told me, it’s an oil and gas drilling rig that extracts natural gas from the ground.’ He could tell that neither Raymond Jones nor Gary Williams were impressed with his vague description.

  After a long silence where the men busied themselves devouring their hearty breakfasts, Gary wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand. He took a sip of his steaming mug of coffee, cleared his throat and spoke slowly. ‘It’s just the same when they dig up the roads. Council used to do it only after severe rain had made cracks and potholes in the main roads. Now, they just seem to be doing roadwork all day every day whenever they can. They dig one road up for one reason, two months later they come back and do something else then to the water mains; that’s how desperate they are for work.’

  ‘Yeah, well, whatever the case a coupla months from now there’s gonna be so many tanker trucks going back and forth in our once small, peaceful town, you’re both gonna think you woke up in the middle of Armageddon.’

  The two men stared fixedly at Bobbie, deliberating what he’d said.

  ‘I thought we’d voted some time back at the town hall whether we wanted a wind farm or not?’ Gary said, visibly dazed.

  Bobbie focused his attention solely on Gary and asked, ‘Did Councillor Alan Willard tell anyone the results?’

  ‘No. He just sent them off to the mayor. Least that’s what he told me. Anyway, the wind farm issue is a separ
ate matter.’

  ‘Well, whatever the case there’s going to be a drilling operation - one of the biggest in the country - taking place in our hometown, and there’s not a single thing we can do about it.’

  ‘Government must have paid a huge sum to the Gillespie’s, though,’ Raymond said.

  ‘If they’re not building on a plot of land the government are working on it. Why can’t they just leave things be. They’ve fucked up this great nation of ours more than enough as it is,’ Gary added.

  ‘Maybe this is a good thing, though,’ Raymond said in a voice filled with demur.

  ‘Maybe,’ Bobbie said.

  ‘Or maybe, as a town, we should’ve protested before we knew a little bit more about this “Hydraulic Fracturing” escapade,’ Gary said, doing well to keep his voice low against the sudden urge of anger festering inside him.

  The men finished their food and coffee in a subdued ambience.

  Brenda Davies watched them leave through the long windowpane crossing the small parking bay that invited drivers of heavy goods vehicles to stop by on their journey, which they often did. She wondered what the other town residents would think when the drilling operation began.

  A cold shiver ran down her spine. She shuddered involuntarily.

  ***

  Alan Willard’s bald head gleamed under the resplendent sunshine like a bowling ball. He was sweeping dirt off his concrete driveway when Bobbie Hopkins stepped onto his property and called out, getting his undivided attention.

  Once they went through the obligatory greetings and remarked what a lovely day it was, Bobbie said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about that meeting at the town hall coupla months back. You remember one of the topics was this hydraulic fracturing that the government had proposed as a huge economical step forward, but how it’d require local farmers surrendering some of their land.’