by Rebecca Bryn
She stopped in front of him, grinning. ‘How’s it going, Greg?’
He grinned back like an idiot. ‘I hoped I’d see you again. I was just going to get a coffee…’
‘My turn, I think.’
‘You have time?’
‘I have half-an-hour, then I have to be somewhere.’
She surely hadn’t come on the off-chance he was here. He packed away his instruments before she changed her mind, and emptied his capful of coins in to the tramp’s bowl. ‘We’ll find somewhere close by.’
‘You’re still unemployed, then?’
‘I start part-time in a call-centre, next week. Shift work.’
‘It’ll give you time to sing.’ She linked her arm through his and smiled up at him. ‘I brought a coat.’
‘So I see.’
Maddy cupped her hands around her coffee mug. ‘That tramp… You’re a good person, Greg Anderson.’
He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Mum always has a houseful of waifs and strays. She can’t walk past anyone in trouble.’ He paused, wondering whether to continue. ‘I’m one of her long-term projects.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She and Dad adopted me as a baby. I sent for my birth certificate, recently… but I can’t bring myself to open the envelope.’
‘Not that envelope?’ Maddy pointed to the floor beneath his chair.
He bent over and retrieved it. ‘I almost wish I’d lost it.’
‘You don’t want to know?’
‘Mum and Dad say it’s my decision. They’ll stand by me, whatever. It seems…’
‘Disloyal?’
‘They’ve given me everything… my real mother gave me away.’
‘Surely you want to know why?’
‘It eats away at me all the while… why didn’t she want me? Who was she? Who was my father? One day I want to know, and the next…’
‘I wrote an article once, for college. It was a story much like yours. The adopted child was forty before she discovered the truth. Her mother was forced by her parents to give her child away. Illegitimacy was a stigma once… she’d spent forty years hoping the child would find her. It must be a heart-breaking thing to do, give up your baby. Try looking at this from your birth mother’s side of the story.’
She was right, of course. There were two side to every story. Her blue eyes captivated him. The smile on her lips teased. ‘And stories are your stock in trade, Maddy Wilder.’
‘It could be an interesting one.’ She peered over her coffee cup, a picture of innocence. ‘Go on, open it. You don’t have to do anything about it, if you don’t want to.’
She was right again, and he was a coward. He ripped it open before he changed his mind. He unfolded the paper. Gregory James Reece. Mother: Nerys Reece nee Jones. Father: James Reece.
Maddy glanced at her watch. ‘So… are you a prince, or a frog?’
‘Worse, I’m Welsh.’ He read on and his mouth fell open. Maddy’s voice brought him back to the table in the London café, tearing him from the horror of giving birth in chains. ‘I was born in Holloway. My mother was in Holloway prison.’
***
Saturday night, and the smell of sweat and beer filled the bar of The Flying Horse. Greg lifted a pint glass to his lips and swallowed. He’d sung three numbers, the last with Maddy accompanying him, and his throat was dry. It was time Maddy went it alone.
He put down his beer and strummed the opening chords, stamping out the beat with one foot. He addressed the audience over the murmur of voices. ‘Now, I’d like to introduce the amazing Maddy Wilder. She’s going to sing Bonnie Tyler’s classic, Holding Out For A Hero. This is her first gig, and I don’t have a drum-kit, so if you’ll stamp along with me, by way of encouragement, that would be great.’ He picked out the melody. ‘If you’re too drunk to stamp without falling over, then clap, and if you’re too drunk to clap, God help you.’ He played the intro again and nodded at Maddy. She began hesitantly, and he smiled and mouthed the words with her. Her voice gained strength and the audience starting hand-clapping and stamping in time to his beat.
By the time she reached the second chorus, the crowd were singing with her. She turned towards him, her face radiant. Would it take a superman to sweep her off her feet? He grinned back; she was going down like a well-earned pint after two bags of salted peanuts. She shouted the last words and punched the air with a triumphant fist. He swung his guitar out of the way and hugged her. ‘That was brilliant, Maddy.’
She beamed at him, her face beaded with sweat, and planted a kiss on his lips.
He didn’t have time to respond before she pulled away. It had meant nothing to her. ‘Get your breath. Will you sing again, later?’
‘Try and stop me.’
He refilled their glasses and carried them back to their table; the place was buzzing. ‘The landlord wants to make Fridays live music night. How about making it a regular spot?’
‘I’d love to, but... I can’t. Not Fridays.’
‘What’s so important about Fridays? This is a massive opportunity.’
‘I just can’t, okay? Greg, have you thought about what I said?’
‘About what?’
‘Finding out more about your birth mother.’
‘She was a criminal, a low-life. Why would I want to know her?’
‘You don’t want to know what she did? Where she is now?’
‘Not really.’
She stared into her cider glass. ‘It’s just that… I did a bit of digging. Well, a lot of digging, actually. Old newspaper reports, mainly. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-nine, why?’
She counted on her fingers, borrowed his, counted on hers again and added an imaginary one judging by her nods. ‘That would fit. The newspaper reports were from just before you were born.’
The little boy who’d stared out of the window, wishing the mum who didn’t want him would walk up the drive, surfaced, despite the man he’d become insisting he didn’t care. ‘You know where she is?’
‘No, but… things have changed since she was convicted.’
‘Changed? How?’
‘You should read this.’
He unfolded the photo-copied cutting she handed him. Maddy would give him no peace until he read it.
Nerys Reece, aged 36, of Coed-Y-Cwm, Pembrokeshire is being questioned by police following the death of eight week-old Tomos Reece, her son. This is the second tragedy to strike the Reece household; three years ago, three month-old Angharad Reece was found dead in her cot. James Reece, the babies’ father is said to be distraught.
‘I had a brother and sister? When was this written?’
Maddy fiddled with a beer mat. ‘About thirty years ago. She lost two children… almost certainly cot deaths. It happens. It’s no-one’s fault.’
‘And they jailed her for that?’
‘Not exactly. Cot deaths weren’t well understood. One could be presumed natural causes... two…’
‘Looked like murder? Who’s to say it wasn’t? After all, she didn’t want me.’
She slapped the beer mat on the table. ‘If they were genuine cot deaths, misdiagnosed as murder, you’d have been taken away from her. How do you suppose that would feel?’
He nursed his drink in both hands. ‘I can’t imagine. But you said she wasn’t jailed.’
‘She wasn’t, not for that.’
‘So what for?’
‘She had another child, between Angharad and Tomos, a daughter called Bethan.’
He searched her eyes for a glimmer of good news. ‘I have a sister?’
Maddy held his stare unflinchingly. ‘She went missing when she was two years-old, not long after Tomos died. A week or so later, another little girl disappeared from the same village. Your mother…’
‘Was prime suspect?’
‘So it seems. Nerys must have been pregnant with you at the time of Bethan’s disappearance. Witnesses reported seeing her behaving oddly around that time, and you were born sho
rtly after her conviction. Nowadays, possibly, they’d use a defence of depression, or hormonal problems… diminished responsibility. Greg, she may not have been responsible for her actions. Back then, attitudes were different.’
‘How long a sentence was she given?’
‘I can’t find a report that mentions a specific term. If she was sectioned she’d have had treatment, I suppose. I don’t know if she’s still being held.’
‘So what happened to James Reece, my father?’
‘I’m not sure but, from what reports I’ve read, I suspect he divorced her after the trial.’
‘He obviously thought she was guilty. Did she confess?’
‘DNA could perhaps have proved or disproved her guilt, but it wasn’t used forensically until much later. Witness statements backed up evidence that might otherwise have been circumstantial, but no, she didn’t confess.’
His mind refused to take it in. Either his mother was a murderess or she was mentally unbalanced, maybe even psychopathic. Where did that leave him? Some superman. ‘She lost three children and still gave me up.’ He waved aside Maddy’s objection. ‘My real father thought her capable of murder. What does that say about her? Even he didn’t want her child. As far as I’m concerned she can rot. They both can.’
Maddy’s cheeks flushed. ‘Greg, she lost four children… and a man alone bringing up a baby…’
He pushed his drink away. ‘And if Nerys hadn’t been stopped she’d have murdered me, as well. That would have saved James the decision.’
The landlord walked towards their table. ‘Are you singing more songs for us?’
‘Give us a minute, yeah?’
‘People are leaving. They came to hear live music.’
‘Okay, sorry.’ He stood up and struck the strings of the guitar with a discordant twang. James and Nerys Reece: why had Maddy insisted on ruining his fantasy? Fleetwood Mac fitted his mood: Tell Me Lies.
Chapter Six
Rhiannon sighed, aware of Nerys staring through the window onto the green, as she stared every night in lonely vigil. It made no difference which window she stared through, the outcome was always the same.
She stroked her companion’s mind with a gentle hand. ‘Who do you think the girl is, Nerys? She stayed a few days then she was gone again. I put the sign of Wunjo, reversed, on her door to show she isn’t welcome. Do you think that’s what sent her away? Wunjo will bring her sorrow and disappointment, as it brought Siân before her. If she returns, she won’t stay long.’
Nerys didn’t answer: she seldom did, and then only in a whisper. The eyes reflecting in the glass were withdrawn, years away.
She turned from the window and picked up the ginger cat, smoothing his silky coat. She’d been Nerys’ only confident, her only grasp on reality, sanity even, through the long years of incarceration and therapy. Her mind had slipped almost beyond her reach, though her cries still haunted her nightmares. She buried her face in Pryderi’s thick fur. ‘What would Nerys want us to do next, do you think?’
Pryderi answered with an impatient yowl and she let him go. He’d adopted her when she moved here, and she loved him: it didn’t mean he’d suffer her cradling him like a baby. ‘Nerys didn’t hurt her little ones, Pryderi. I know she didn’t, and she didn’t murder Bethan or Cadi. She acted from desperation, not malice, not that anyone would have believed her. Suppose that girl stirs it all up again.’
Pryderi rattled his bowl with a paw. She fetched milk from the fridge, poured a little for him and straightened. ‘Poor Nerys would never have hurt Bethan. She was never a risk to little Gregory. Worthies…’ She spat the word. ‘Liars and cheats… They’ll pay. I’ll make sure they pay.’
The sun tinged the chapel roof as it set behind the building. Lights came on in the tall, austere windows; the chapel ladies would be inside, living their sham pious lives. Dusk was her friend, protecting her from the eyes of the worthies. She left the house and skirted the green. Who next would pay her price… Mair Parry or Non Richards? Mair, what did she treasure most? Her home, of course, her beautiful house; appearances were everything to Mair. And Non? Her good name and reputation, among her chapel friends. Close as thieves… Non would be hard to get alone but Odin’s rune said anything was possible. What had the other runes shown? Perthro… Kaunaz, not reversed… the answer was suddenly clear. Non could wait.
She hurried silently to Mair’s door and drew a rapid forty-five degree downward stroke to the left and another back to the right… like the mathematical sign for less than. It was the sign for the rune Kaunaz. Less than Mair Parry deserved: light from the darkness, a beacon a torch. She would have her trial, by fire, and Perthro would determine if it ended in death.
She stopped at her own door and took out the marker pen again. She had more runes to draw on more doors, and it would look less suspicious if hers was marked too. Algiz… the connection to her spirit guide and, for Nerys, protection… a promise kept. She drew the swift vertical stroke and appended a rough upward slash either side of it like a pollarded tree with too-few branches.
Back inside, she searched her cupboards for ingredients. It was a particular type of liquid she needed and a rag. ‘An old tea towel will do, and a tin I can stuff it in. That toffee tin will be perfect. See, Nerys? The runes don’t lie. I promised you revenge, and I won’t let you down. A promise is a promise.’
What are you planning, Rhiannon? The voice was tremulous.
‘Don’t be afraid. Algiz protects you. I drew his rune on our door. Nothing can harm you or Lowrie, now.’
But what are you planning? The runes are a dangerous guide.
‘Nonsense, Nerys. The runes serve only to make our course clear. To help us decide which way our future journey should take us. Kaunaz has shown me the way, and Perthro has told me how. Something hidden.’
Then how you use the runes is dangerous.
‘Only to those who hurt you. Those who lied. Those who took Bethan. Stole her life.’
My baby. Nerys fell silent.
Odin’s rune demanded boldness. She soaked the threadbare tea towel in the liquid, scrunched it into a tight ball and stuffed it into the tin. She washed her hands, then put on her coat and pulled the trip switch on her power supply. All the lights went out. Hiding the tin beneath her coat she crossed the green and rang Mair’s doorbell.
Mair’s husband opened the door. ‘Can I help you?’
She smiled her most helpless smile and shivered, hugging her coat close. Did he have any idea about the monster he’d married? ‘My electricity’s gone off. I rang the helpline but no-one else has reported a problem. I wondered if you had any candles. I’ll replace them, tomorrow…’
‘Of course… I’ll look. Come in, it’s freezing out there.’
She followed him into the hallway.
‘They’ll either be in the kitchen or the garage. Mair would know but she’s at chapel.’ She followed him into the kitchen. Judging by the flue, the central-heating boiler stood between kitchen units: a cupboard at its side would almost certainly have hot-water pipes. She needed to distract him. ‘A large torch would do, if you have one… just until the electricity board come out to fix it.’
‘It could be your trip switch. I’ll take a look for you. Wait here, in the warm, while I find a torch.’
A false door hid the boiler. Behind it, the pipes were hot to the touch. She slid the open toffee tin from under her coat and pushed it into the space at the side of the boiler so it rested on top of the hot pipes. She needed something flammable to help the fire along. A newspaper lay folded on the table; she scrunched up the centre pages and pushed them in above the tin. The back door clicked shut and she refastened the false door.
‘Here we are. We’ll soon have you sorted.’
He would: he would find the trip switch instantly but Mair wouldn’t find the tin of soaked cloth that could spontaneously combust, even at room temperature, and by tonight that tin would be nice and warm. It was one of those useful facts she’d picked
up from a long-gone husband who’d worked with wood. If her plan succeeded, Mair was in for a nasty surprise: if she survived the smoke long enough to feel surprise.
***
The high-pitched yap of a dog woke Rhiannon. Light filtered through thin curtains. She drew them back and peered through the low window. Smoke rose from the house next to the chapel, not the white smoke of a wood fire but the black choking smoke of melting plastics and man-made materials.
She dressed and went downstairs. Her time-bomb had done its work. ‘See what I did, Nerys?’
You’re a wicked woman, Rhiannon. Nerys’ voice held accusation.
‘If I am, Nerys, they made me one. Don’t think it stops here. I’m doing this for you.’
You deceive yourself. Only forgiveness brings healing. The runes didn’t help when Bethan disappeared. They didn’t protect Cadi.
‘You know your trouble. You’re a pushover, always have been, cringing in your corner. You let father beat you. Let them put you away after Bethan and Cadi… and take Gregory. You let James walk away. You should have told the truth.’
What good would it have done? Nerys shouted her anger. Who’d have believed me?
‘I believed you.’
You understood. Her voice was small again, defeated, frightened.
‘It will be all right, Nerys. You’re safe here. I’ll always look after you. I promised, didn’t I? I put Algiz on our door to protect you, remember.’
You should call the fire brigade. This isn’t right.
She opened the door and stood outside in the cold of the dawn. Nerys retreated into silence: she couldn’t face open spaces, any more than she could be behind a locked door. Flames licked from Mair’s kitchen window. Mair’s husband was in there, as well: another innocent caught up in the twelve’s evil. Nerys’ words nagged at her until she went inside and phoned the emergency services. By the time they arrived it could well be too late.
The explosion that whumped through the air brought on lights in cottages around the green. Doors opened and people started running towards Mair’s house. She hurried after them. Non Richards and Elin Davis clung to one another as their husbands attacked the front door with sledgehammers and a crowbar. The other chapel ladies seemed more concerned about the fire spreading to the chapel close by, than Mair’s fate.
