by Rebecca Bryn
Cadi… The computer screen stubbornly remained blank.
***
Early-afternoon sunshine shone through the windows of Maddy’s flat and lit the keyboard of Greg’s laptop. He stretched his back, and scratched his head in frustration. ‘This is useless, Maddy. According to the electoral-roll search she doesn’t exist, or not in Wales.’
Maddy frowned. ‘And Holloway won’t divulge her forwarding address.’
‘Hang on, there’s a Nerys Reece in Liverpool. Ah, she’s the wrong age.’
‘Nerys’ marriage certificate shows her living in Tenby at the time she was married.’
‘South-west Wales… What was her name before she was married?’
Maddy smiled apologetically. ‘Jones.’
‘Oh great. There should be half a million or so Jones’ in South Wales.’ He tapped in Jones and Tenby. ‘There are twenty-one people with the surname Jones in Tenby.’
Maddy had added red to her green spiky hair. ‘I don’t suppose any of them still live at her old address. She could have a parent still alive.’
‘They’d be pretty damn old. Nerys must be about seventy.’ He bought credits, and searched the data one Jones at a time, noting down addresses. ‘There’s one living in the same street.’
She leaned over his shoulder, her face close to his, her hair tickling his ear. ‘Any of them could be a relative. You could write.’
He breathed in the warm smell of her. ‘Maybe someone didn’t turn their back on her.’
‘And while you wait for replies we can focus our attention on James Reece.’
James Reece, his genetic father, who’d left his mother to rot in jail. Despite his reservations he was curious. ‘I wonder what she’s like. I wonder what he’s like.’
‘Have you a last known address for James?’
‘He and Nerys lived in Coed-y-Cwm at the time of the alleged murders. I can’t see him hanging about afterwards, can you?’
‘No.’
‘So try the website again.’
He typed in James Reece. ‘Location? It would help if we knew. I’ll try Wales.’ There were six entries in the name of James Reece, three of them in South Wales and all living with other people.
‘Six more letters to write, then.’ Maddy pointed at the screen. ‘There are eleven birth records, six marriage records and eighteen deceased records.
‘He could have remarried and had another family. He might not welcome me stirring up mud. He could even be dead.’
‘Look, if you don’t want to do this…’ She held his eyes with hers and his pulse raced. ‘He’s still your father, Greg. You have a right to know about him. Have you tried the electoral-roll link?’
He clicked on the entries in turn. Cardiff, Neath, Port Talbot, two in Merthyr Tydfil and one in Clynderwen. ‘Where the hell is Clynderwen?’
She grabbed the mouse from his hand. ‘It’s west of Carmarthen, look… and due north of Tenby. We could be on to something.’ She clicked back to James Reece’s details. ‘He lives with an Irene Reece.’
‘His wife?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Go back to the previous page… How many marriage certificates are there?
‘Six, why?’
‘It would show if he’d been married twice, surely?’
He used more credits checking.
Maddy thumped the table. ‘Bingo, his first marriage was to Nerys. If he’s in the phone book you can ring him.’
‘And put him on the spot? He’d probably die of shock or tell me to get lost. No. I’ll write to him at the address on the census. If he wants me in his life he’ll get in touch.’
Her eyes were alight with excitement. ‘Or you could go knock on his door.’
‘I’ll write first. If all else fails, I’ll go knock on his door.’
‘I could always go and interview him for my story about miscarriages of justice.’
He smiled despite his reservations. ‘That should really help. Back off, Maddy. I’ll do this my way or not at all.’
She held up her hands. ‘Okay, okay. I’m only trying to get results.’
‘I know and I’m grateful, but this isn’t just a story. These are people’s lives we could be wrecking.’
‘Sorry. I get carried away… Ignore me.’ She opened a drawer and took out writing paper and envelopes. ‘In your own hand-writing is more personal.’
He smiled. ‘Maddy…’
‘Okay, okay. I have an article to finish and I’m working to a deadline.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘And if you turn up late for your shift at the call-centre it will be your last one. You need that job if we want to buy better sound equipment.’ She turned her attention to her laptop.
Maddy chewed a knuckle in thought, brow creased in concentration. He was a fool to think she’d fancy him. He must be seven or eight years older than she was. He had two hours before his shift. How did you begin a letter to a father you’d never met? How did you persuade him you didn’t want to turn his life inside-out? Or make him want to love you? He looked across at Maddy, her head bent over her laptop. How did he make her want to love him?
‘Greg?’
Her voice made him jump, he’d been so engrossed in his letter. His pen hovered over his signature. Should he tear it up and begin again? ‘What?’
‘My flat is bigger than your bedsit…’
‘Which is why we’re auditioning for a drummer here.’
‘And if this band is going to work we need to spend time practicing… Why don’t you move in? The spare bedroom’s pretty poky but it would save one lot of rent.’
For a moment, he’d dared to hope. ‘And have your landlord throw you out when he gets complaints about the noise? One or two short auditions are different to regular band practice.’
Maddy was undeterred. ‘Then we’ll use the rent we save to hire a hall one or two nights a week. Somewhere with decent acoustics. You and me could practice in the underground, but you can’t tote drum-kits down there.’
‘Maddy, there’s nothing I’d like more but…’ Being so close to her, when all she wanted was to flat-share would be more like hell than heaven.
‘You do want this band to work, don’t you? We need cash to make it happen. Say you’ll think about it?’ Blue eyes captured him; her dimples deepened.
‘It’s a great idea. I’ll bring my stuff tomorrow.’
She fetched a key from a drawer. ‘Let yourself in. I may not be here.’
Tomorrow was Friday. ‘You’ll be back in time for the Flying Horse?’
‘I’ll do my best. Sorry.’
He knew better than to press her. He put the letter, with a self-addressed stamped envelope, in a larger envelope and sealed it. Maybe, once it was posted, he could concentrate on the future rather than the past: Maddy might be impulsive, with the subtlety of a brick, and things in her life she wasn’t ready to share, but she deserved his best effort. His love for her wouldn’t feed them. He stuck on a stamp and flattened it with his fist. The next move was his father’s.
Chapter Nine
A twelfth I have, if on a tree
There hangs a man
Throttled up on high.
Then I write some runes
And the man climbs down
And talks to me.
Rhiannon stood in the circle of Cerrig o Týr and faced the twelfth stone, her arms outstretched, and chanted the words again. The full moon paled and faded, hanging ghostlike in the dawn as the sun rose over the sea. Wotan, renewed and reborn after his self-sacrifice, climbed down from the world-tree and imbued her with his power. Phoenix flew from the ashes of night: both personified on earth by the young Sun God, the Sword God, Týr.
She drank the power, revelling in renewal after her own self-sacrifice. Týr, the twelfth rune stood for rebirth, reincarnation and victory. Truly, death could not kill her; she would be reborn, like Wotan. Like the shamans of the Teutons, and the Vikings who’d named nearby villages for their Norse gods, Týr, Freyr and Haga
l, she could carve the runes that had power over life, love, healing, fertility… and death.
She took a soft pouch from her waistband and loosened the string that closed it. Runemal, practised here in Tyr’s circle, would have special power. She cast the stones within the stones, upon the slab of stone: a group of three, further potency to the telling.
She waited. The shadow finger inched across the slab and the Sun God himself illuminated the runes. She bent forward eagerly, hardly aware of the chill of the dawn air on her skin, and formed her question. How to wreak vengeance on the remainder of the twelve. Thurisaz promised she would have protection and see the truth. There was Uruz again, the male sign. Ansuz, reversed, meant trouble: she must watch out for trickery, and be cautious of her dark side when others interfered with her plans. Had she been right to set the fire?
Mannaz, the letter M… M for Mair Parry, the busy-body? Mannaz signified the nature of humanity, attitudes of one to another, the collective consciousness, oneness. What did this mean for Mair? Collective consciousness: the conspiracy of silence that laced together the worthies with righteous injustice? There was one more rune that had fallen face up; Nauthiz or N. Lying next to Mannaz, Mair’s rune, that had to mean N for Non Richards… Nauthiz was the negative of human needs: caution, constraint, distress, delay… It also cautioned her to reflect on what she had. She had nothing left but Nerys and little Lowrie, who had both long suffered the negatives of human need. What did it portend?
She plucked her carrier bag from the stone slab at her feet and took out the fine chisel and mallet. She would see the truth… The standing stone where she’d carved Kaunaz, for Mair, was crooked and cracked. She cleaned lichen from a flat area beneath Kaunaz and began to chisel a shallow groove, angling the tool to form a vee. Mannaz was a complicated shape, like two upright posts with crossed beams between them at the top; it would take time and strength, for the rock was hard. She struck the chisel with the mallet in a rhythm of threes and cursed Mair with each stroke.
Martin Richards and Dai Parry were still in hospital. Dai had been critical last she’d heard. If he died, her revenge on Mair was complete, but the curse with which she imbued the Mannaz rune would make sure of it. She would mark a rune on each of the twelve’s doors in turn, and carve them deep on each stone. When the man throttled up on high climbed down, he’d explain why… why the twelve worthies had seen fit to destroy Nerys, and they’d know that their days of living with their perjury unpunished were over: the noose tightened.
She moved to the next stone. The rune for Nauthiz was simpler, more like a cross drawn by a drunk. Her arms ached, her hands and elbows hurt, but she hammered on. Non Richards always thought herself better than everyone else. Distress… delay… Focus on Non in distress. Non knowing her death was inevitable: delay as she waited for it to strike. Mannaz and Nauthiz had fallen together. An idea began to form as she chiselled her hatred into the ancient stones of Cerrig o Týr.
***
Alana sank, untroubled, into Tony’s arms. A smile creased the corners of his eyes. His hands were soft on her naked skin, caressing and loving. His lips met hers almost shyly as if it were their first kiss. She closed her eyes, and luxuriated in the feel of his skin against hers, floating on a heady mix of happiness and five-too-many rum and cokes. The party had been a blast and she’d drunk herself legless.
His breath was soft but urgent on her neck, and smelled of warm beer. ‘You know you’re gagging for it, you cock-teasing bitch.’
Her eyes shot open. Mike’s face pressed against hers. Rough hands pushed up her dress. She opened her mouth to scream but his lips smothered all sound. She couldn’t breathe: the weight of his body flattened her against the wall, compressing her lungs. She tried to kick out but her legs had lost all strength: legless took on a new meaning. The thought was bizarre: her head swam, the alleyway rotated and the night air bit her thighs. Footsteps approached. She flailed her arms wildly, trying to push Mike’s lips from hers. She moaned, it was all she had air and strength for.
‘Go for it, Bro. Fuck the cunt.’
Tony? No, not Tony, but the voice was familiar, even drunk. Mike’s knee forced her legs apart. No… No… Had she managed to say the words out loud? Tears streamed down her face. Her fists hammered against his back, fighting for breath. Fingers tore at her panties and he thrust himself inside her again and again. She wrenched her head sideways, caught at a breath and screamed. Sated, Mike zipped his fly and let her fall to the ground. She tried to crawl away but now she was truly legless, and she had only one arm. She dragged her torso through the litter and let out a long, forlorn howl.
‘It’s all right. I’m here. It was just a dream.’
‘Tony?’ Joy and blessed relief flooded through her.
He put his arms around her and pulled her close. ‘He’ll never hurt you again, Alana.’
Her heart ceased its wild thumping, her breathing became less frantic. Home: safe. It was a dream. Tony loved her. Everything was fine. She snuggled against his chest and watched the dawn through the uncurtained window. A thrush sat on the window sill, tap, tap, tapping at a snail. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of it.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap… tap. She woke blearily. The tapping became more urgent. ‘Damn thrush. Tony…’ The bed was empty, cold. Hail hammered on the Velux window: light, barely earning the distinction of the word day, sulked through it.
She sighed as the bottom dropped out of her world, yet again. It was all a dream, the same dream she had over and over. Reality was her alone, in The Haggard, and Tony hating her. She peered at her watch: she should be up. She pulled the duvet over her head and curled into a ball, the distance between her bed and her dressing gown being several steps too far, and reality too much to contemplate. Urgent knocks hammered on the door.
‘Damn.’ She leapt out of bed and wrenched open the Velux. ‘Hang on. I’m coming.’ Icy balls stung her face: she slammed the window shut and threw on jeans and a jumper.
The Picasso face stared at her mournfully. Behind him, curtains twitched in several cottages. For some reason, the villagers were watching her every move, or they’d directed her visitor to her door and wanted to make sure he arrived safely. His mouth twitched in time to the curtains. ‘I suppose you thought I wouldn’t find you here.’
She smothered a sigh and smiled despite her nosey neighbours. Praying to the god of bank balances about to suffer imminent demise hadn’t worked. A periscope in the roof would have been more useful: to all of them. ‘It was worth a try.’
‘Do I have to stand here like a drowned… ouch!’ Mr John warded off hailstones.
‘I suppose you’d better come in. Coffee?’
‘If it’s no trouble. You in the middle of a painting?’
She looked down at her paint-splattered jeans. ‘No, these are all I have.’
‘This may help, then.’ He handed her a brown envelope. ‘It was returned Gone Away. I thought it was worth seeing if you were here since The Haggard didn’t seem to be on the market, yet. I volunteered to deliver it.’
She recognised the quality of the envelope. Davies and Davies might have a tatty office but they didn’t stint on stationery. She ripped it open. Valuations, disbursements to include funeral costs, bills… How much? Legal fees… what… and he could only afford a tatty office?
The impressive cheque held a less than impressive figure. After expenses, she had under ten thousand pounds and she still owed Mr John his twenty percent.
She put the letter down. ‘I need that coffee.’
He took the cup she offered. ‘I realise you need to sell the cottage before you can pay me… I’m not an unreasonable man, but shouldn’t it be on the market by now?’
She sat beside him and tried to look him in both eyes at once. ‘I’m not selling. This is my home now.’
The demented caterpillars fought for position, the left a full inch higher than the right. ‘So how do you propose to settle up?’
‘I’ve had this bri
lliant idea.’ She opened her sketch book and turned page after page. ‘I sculpt as well as paint. I’m planning a contemporary work that has its roots in pre-history. These stones… they have marks on them, a long-forgotten language, probably. If I can get the funding, do a large-scale work… Think history. Think Celtic. Think tourism. This is a tourist area. People will come to see it. This will make my name, launch my career.’ She paused to let the idea sink in. ‘I could pay you interest.’
The right caterpillar shot up to match the left. ‘You want me to wait for my fee until you’re famous?’
‘I want you to invest in my future. The stone will cost a bomb, and this nine grand will barely keep me for a year. It could take me two years to complete a full-size work even if I can source the right stone straight off.’
His eyes seemed to grow larger, more penetrating. ‘You’re asking me to give you more money? You have to be joking.’
She got up and walked across the room, returning with a small stone sculpture. She handed it to him.
‘It’s beautiful.’ He frowned. ‘I’m not sure what it’s meant to represent but it does something… in here.’ He pressed a hand to his heart.
‘I have a daughter. She doesn’t live with me. It’s her, or rather, how I feel about her.’
He smiled and his eyes seemed to see into her soul. ‘You obviously love her very much.’
Is that what he saw in the carving? Love?
‘And you can carve feeling like this into large works?’
‘To be honest, I’ve never tried a major work. Never been able to afford the stone. I’d have to do a smaller mock-up first.’
Mr John stared at the carving. ‘You do have talent.’
‘I need cash. I already owe you thirty thousand.’
‘Thirty-one thousand, nine hundred and ninety pounds, to be precise.’
‘What’s another ten grand? I’ll put The Haggard up as security... a proper agreement. If I fail to pay you in full, with interest, in two years’ time, I’ll sell the cottage. Look on it as an investment. The banks pay eff-all at the moment.’
