Disturbing Ground

by Priscilla Masters

  The sun escaped for a brief moment from behind the thick cumuli and framed Triagwn in a rainbow arch giving it a sudden, surreal beauty. Megan was reminded of a quote she had read by Herman Melville. “Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and the orange tint begins? Distinctly we see the difference of the color, but where exactly does the first one visibly enter into the other? So with sanity and insanity. In pronounced cases there is no question about them. But in some cases in various degrees supposedly less pronounced, to draw the line of demarkation few will undertake.”

  But there was no doubting Bianca’s insanity. Only now was she appreciating the deep and chilling truth expressed by Herman Melville more than a hundred years ago. In sudden frustration she splashed some water. Droplets sprayed up, caught and captured the sunshine but the cherub’s face itself was thrown into deep, sullen shadow. Not a chuckling angel but a wicked and malicious little faun.

  She glanced up, hoping to see Smithson’s face watching from the window. She was, in a way, fond of the old man and the sedatives were surely wearing off by now. There would be a return of the puckish, sharp wit.

  People in the valley have funereal traditions. They don’t stare at the funeral cortege but concentrate on their feet, on the pavement, elsewhere. They bow their heads and wait for the hearse to go by. Out of respect they do not peer into the funeral cars but avert their eyes from grief, from grieving, from suffering. The men wear black ties, the women their hats and their “tidy” black. Children are not welcome, certain hymns are sung. Abide With Me. The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, is Ended. The men boom out their bass; the tenors add rich harmony as full and satisfying as the gravy poured on a Sunday roast.

  And in the house of bereavement the curtains are drawn.

  Megan squeezed her eyes tight shut and flicked them open to evaporate the mirage.

  She had not been mistaken. The curtains to Smithson’s room were drawn.

  She pushed open the front door and walked very quickly to the door marked Matron.

  And all the time she knew that Smithson was dead.

  The room was empty, the chair pushed back. The desk was littered with papers. As Megan stood, motionless in the centre of the room the telephone rang.

  No one answered it. For the first time ever she was alone in Sandra Penarth’s room. She glanced around and saw the framed photographs on the coffee table in front of the window.

  Her grandparents? A painfully thin man with his arm around a plump woman in a print apron. At a guess the man had not long to live. The picture had been taken in the nineteen-forties or -fifties.

  She put the picture down and approached the staircase, aware that the nursing home seemed deserted. No one knew she was there. The silence on the staircase was more than threatening. It was deafening.

  She could hear a soft exchange of words as she neared Smithson’s room.

  “Just straighten out his legs. See if his eyes’ll stay shut.”

  They were laying him out.

  The old man who had babbled would babble no more.

  Valerie Simpson turned around and saw her. And Megan would have sworn to a court of justice that guilt flashed across her face.

  Sandra Penarth broke the silence. “We’d just rung the surgery.” She glanced down at the bed. “He died this morning. Bit of a surprise.”

  “It’s a shock.” Megan spoke firmly. “There was nothing to suggest …”

  “You never can tell with the old.” Sandra spoke with full authority. “I expect his heart just gave up.”

  She was putting words into Megan’s mouth, suggesting a diagnosis.

  “His heart was fine.”

  “Acute,” Sandra countered.

  “He was ninety-four years old,” Valerie said mildly. “Can’t you just put old age?”

  “Old age doesn’t kill.”

  “Heart failure does.”

  “You want to fill out the death certificate then, Sandra?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “And I won’t.”

  “Look, doctor,” Sandra said reasonably. “He was an old man. He obviously died from natural causes. What does it matter exactly what he died of? The family won’t want him all carved up. I’m sure they’d much prefer a death certificate than a post mortem.”

  It would have been so much easier to acquiesce.

  Megan shook her head and read a judgement in their eyes.

  She’s been a right old bag ever since that business with the Italian bloke.

  And in a way they were right. Had she been making whoopee with Guido, Bianca’s death would have passed unnoticed.

  Her examination of Smithson was brief but thorough. There were no physical signs. Merely an absence of life. No heart beat, no pulse, no pupil reactions. He felt cool to the touch but not cold. He’d been dead for less than an hour. Had she not stopped by Barbara’s house she might have been present at Smithson’s final moments.

  “All right, doctor?”

  Megan nodded.

  She would ring the coroner from her own mobile phone in her car from where she could not be overheard.

  She left Triagwn.

  Chapter 18

  She waited until she was alone in her car before dialling the coroner’s number and giving him the details. And as she had expected his attitude was relaxed. “Do you feel in a position to issue the death certificate?”

  She felt on the defensive. “I think the relatives would prefer a death certificate. He was ninety-four and the nursing home staff want a certificate as well. But he was so vigorous and cantankerous I can’t explain his dying so suddenly.”

  “You feel we should go ahead with a post mortem?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “It was an unexpected death.”

  “And you saw him only a week or so ago?”

  “He wasn’t moribund then.”

  The coroner gave a brief, dry laugh. “All right then, Doctor Banesto.” He was humouring her.

  And she felt a sudden and irrational hostility towards him.

  Go on, chortle away, you complacent old man. You may soon be in for a surprise.

  She drove back up the valley feeling this time she had, at least, taken some positive action. On impulse as she passed Barbara’s house she decided to call in again. She stopped the car and climbed out.

  A game of rugby had started up on the flattened tip. She watched someone pick up the ball and start to run - not far - no more than a few yards. Two players, one either side, caught him and pulled him down - lionesses dragging down a wilderbeast. Even the snarling face of the grounded animal was the same. But it wasn’t until the ruck dispersed, the ref blew his whistle and the player finally emerged that she recognised Alun. He gave a vague, rueful smile in her direction and trotted back up the pitch. She wasn’t sure whether he had seen her or not.

  Then Barbara was standing at her side, bulky in a hooded anorak, her eyes directed towards the field. “Lovely game, isn’t it? Poetry in motion. I do enjoy it when they do their training up here. Often come and watch, cheer them on. It’s the police, you know.” She hesitated then gave Megan a brief, tentative smile. “Do you know what I fancy? Having dinner out.”

  “What a great idea.”

  “Wait a minute and I’ll put something a bit more glamorous on.”

  Twenty minutes later they were climbing into Megan’s car. “Now - do you need to get changed as well? I know a great place to eat.”

  A little over an hour later Megan was dressed in a grey, net mini dress smothered over by a fake fur jaguar coat. They had manoeuvred their way through the Cardiff Docks Regeneration Scheme and were pushing open the door of La Casa Guido. Barbara’s idea this - to lay the ghost.

  Guido swarmed forward to meet them, greeting Megan with the warmest of kisses on both cheeks. “My darling, Megan. Cara Mia. It is good to see you.” He held her at arm’s length. “I forgot how lovely you are. I didn’t think you ever would come here. I am gla
d to see you. Really.” He didn’t stop talking all the time he was removing their jackets and sitting them at a table as though he had a thousand things to tell her in his curious blend of spaghetti talk. “I missed you, Megan. I missed you. I really did.”

  She’d forgotten how good he looked - and smelt. Tall, slim, black haired, snake-hipped, the scent of garlic, fresh herbs and something exotic in the spice line seeping from his pores. Beautiful, white teeth. Olive skin. She didn’t love him any more but she suddenly realised how much she liked him - and missed him. She hadn’t been so misled. He was a warm, attractive, affectionate man. And he loved her. He just didn’t want to be married to her - or to sleep with her - or any other woman for that matter. So …? It was no longer a problem.

  Barbara peered at her over the rim of her glasses. “As I said, Megan. There comes a time when you have to lay the ghosts.”

  And she was intensely glad she had come. Because she knew she could still feel this fondness for her ex-husband, one particular part of her sealed up heart was opened up again. She knew now exactly who she was. It was as simple as that. Her judgement had not been so completely wrong. Only slightly. She had misread his sexuality. Maybe, in fact, he had too. Marriage had forced him too close constantly to a woman and for him it had only served to expose his preference for his own sex.

  She glanced around the restaurant. The place was crowded. A small queue waited at the door although it was still early. There was an atmosphere of Mediterranean energy around. Behind a counter the chef was ostentatiously spinning pizzas. Maybe he was Guido’s paramour. He gave her a broad wink and a dazzling grin and she grinned back, without rancour. Light guitar music was playing in the background. Glasses chinked. And there was the sound and the smell of cooking. She leaned right back in her chair and stretched her legs out, for a brief moment all the concerns of the last few months wiped out. She had forgotten how very good it felt to be in a contintental type restaurant, breathing in the combined scent of garlic and red wine and enjoying herself so thoroughly. On impulse she reached across the table and touched Barbara’s hand. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re right. It was time to lay a few ghosts.”

  Guido snatched the menus away teasingly. “You let me choose,” he said. “I know what you will like.”

  “And me?” Barbara asked archly.

  “I can guess. I understand the palates of women.”

  Megan raised her eyebrows and she and Barbara burst out laughing, feeling like a couple of young girls, giggling over a clumsy advance. Guido took no offence. Barbara met his eyes boldly.

  “In your hands then, Mr Banesto.”

  The food came thick and fast. Far too much to eat, Guido brandishing the huge pepper grinder like a sub machine gun and sprinkling fresh Parmesan cheese liberally over every course. He had done well in this place; this studious attention to detail was paying off, the check tablecloths, carafes of good house wine, even the frenetic, dextrous service. It was a family run trattoria on the edge of the capital city of Wales. Megan made a silent pact with herself. One day - soon - she would return to Italy. She would indulge in their hedonistic aesthetics again.

  They left the restaurant at ten, threading their way through the late evening traffic of the city before crossing the M4 and turning up towards the valleys. Llancloudy seemed dark and quiet after the hurly burly of the metropolis. Although Barbara’s house was further down the valley Megan invited her back for a coffee with a promise of a lift home. The house felt a little cool as they entered and somehow sterile after the colourful atmosphere of the restaurant. Barbara took in the white walls, pale carpet, cream sofa and the large abstract painting which hung over the fireplace. “Is this what they call minimalist? I’ve always wondered what it looked like.”

  Megan laughed. “My own brand of it. A full blown minimalist would disown the books. But I like the feeling of emptiness. Like a glacier. It helps me think. Coffee?”

  “Mmm. That would be nice.” Barbara continued to prowl around the room, peering at the books. When Megan headed off towards the kitchen, Barbara followed her so the first thing they both saw when the lights were switched on were the four boxes, still standing against the wall. She had meant to remove them to the garden shed but one day it had been raining, another she’d had a bath and didn’t fancy lugging the boxes up the garden path. And so they still stood. She would move them in the morning. Megan busied herself filling the cafetiere and carried it through to the sitting room where she kicked off her shoes and they sat in front of the fake - flame fire and gossiped about the lives of the girls who had shared Megan’s year in school - the ones who had succeeded, the others who had fallen by the wayside. Some classmates Megan kept in contact with, others still sent cards and/or letters to Barbara and a few had simply vanished from view.

  At eleven thirty Barbara picked up her handbag with a sigh. “I don’t want to go but it really is time I was off, Megan. You’ve got work in the morning. It’s been lovely talking to you, reminiscing.”

  Megan uncurled from the chair. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll drive you home. Thanks for the great evening. We’ll do it again.”

  They were silent in the short car journey back to Barbara’s house, the lights of Llancloudy spinning passed them. The roads were quiet, the pavements deserted. The cold and wet must be keeping people indoors.

  Barbara thanked her politely for the lift and ran through the rain towards her front door. A swift fumble with the key and a second later the lights came on. Megan turned around near the rugby pitch and headed for home.

  She let herself in with her key and took the coffee cups back into the kitchen. Yes, she thought, turning around. “Tomorrow I must tidy up and throw the boxes away.”

  But on the following day she didn’t carry out her resolution because she woke up to the news that Stefan Parker had vanished.

  Chapter 19

  It was her custom to set the radio alarm for seven even though she didn’t need to be at the surgery until nine. It gave her time to listen to the local news bulletin, pad downstairs to make a drink while the adverts were on and bring the mug of coffee back to bed.

  That morning her eyes were still shut when the radio alarm clicked on. She heard the pips followed by the announcement, “This is the news on Tuesday November 12th. You are tuned in to BBC Radio Wales.” Then there was the usual pause.

  “The police are still searching for missing ten-year-old, Stefan Parker.”

  She sat up, her eyes wide open. “Stefan has not been seen since early Monday and police are concerned for his safety. His mother left for work yesterday at eight o’ clock but Stefan failed to turn up at school yesterday morning and has not been seen since. Mrs Parker has appealed for her son to return home. Police have started searching the area around Llancloudy and are conducting house to house interviews. If anyone does have any information about the missing boy would they please ring Llancloudy police station at…” The telephone number followed.

  Megan stared around her bedroom and felt cold. It was another disappearance. She flung the covers off and went downstairs. While she waited for the kettle to boil she stood, staring at the boxes in the corner and rubbing the side of her head with her fingertips.

  She took her coffee back to bed and listened to an extended news bulletin with a heart-rending plea from Mandy Parker for Stefan to return home. There would be, she tearfully stated, no recriminations.

  Megan drew back the curtains on the dullest day in November and stared out over rows and rows of slate roofs dripping with rain. Beyond them must be the mountains. But she couldn’t see them.

  On her way into work she bought the Western Mail. Stefan had made headlines here too.

  Megan scanned through the stories as she sat in the car, reading the story beneath the lead, Missing Llancloudy Schoolboy.

  Using the description, schoolboy, made Stefan sound an innocent - nothing like the little tough-head he really was. As she read through the story she was struck at the similarity between Stef
an’s disappearance and George Prees and Neil Jones. Like the two boys, eight years previously, Stefan frequently missed school. He was one of the aimless kids who hung around the chip shop, the video shop, the recreation ground or hitched a lift to one of the nearby towns to hang around there. Maybe he would trip to the seaside on a fine day. But Monday had not been a fine day. It had been cold and drizzly. A truant would have been more likely to haunt a coffee shop or the house of a friend. But Stefan’s friends, Mark Pritchard and Ryan Jenkins had been at school and claimed not to have seen Stefan since the Sunday night.

  According to his mum Stefan had been up and dressed in school trousers and a clean white shirt, his brown and red striped school tie knotted around his neck when she had left for work at eight o’ clock on the Monday morning. But he had not gone to school. Afterwards the police had looked at the Attendance Register. And by his name was a large, black cross - one of many.

  Mandy Parker hadn’t worried when he was late home for tea. He would often get that from the chip shop anyway, wander the streets a bit, call on a few mates. When he hadn’t shown up by eleven o’clock on the Monday night she still didn’t worry but rang round a few of his buddies - and drew a blank. None of them had seen him all day. They hadn’t thought anything of it and neither did she. She still wasn’t worried. She knew her son. He was a wanderer, streetwise, tough, one who could look after himself.

  So she hadn’t raised the alarm but had waited and waited for him to turn up, her anger compounding by the hour. Afterwards she said she did think about ringing the police but had rejected the idea. It would have been a foreign act to have spoken to the police, she had explained. Stefan wouldn’t thank her for alerting them when he got home. Which he would. And Mandy Parker had already decided she’d give him a “bloody good hiding” for not even bothering to telephone her. At that point she thought he might have hitched a lift to the Rhondda to see his dad. She had tried to ring there but had had no answer. Only a jaunty answerphone which had invited her to leave a message. So she had waited four more crucial hours before finally alerting the police at three in the morning. And by nine am they had followed her enquiries with more of their own. No one had seen Stefan since his mother’s last sighting, except for one neighbour who had spotted the boy letting himself out of the front door at eight thirty-five - and had assumed he was heading for school. It was now Tuesday morning and no one had seen him since. Not his mum, nor his dad, his Mamgu or any one of the cronies he usually hung around with.