Having posted the conclusion to Chapter Six of Fevered Fuse, there were a few invaluable revelations for Sparkle to move her life forward. The next two chapters lead to another impactful memory, long as originally written as a short story.
Here is a recap of previous events.
RECAP: After a strange text message draws a young woman to a bar, she is knocked off her motorbike as she answers her phone, saying, “Sparkle Anwyl”. A flashback to an earlier motorcycle accident confuses Sparkle when she wakes up at her family’s sheep farm. Amnesia has blotted out her occupation and the identity of her husband. She swims and sleeps to remember. Memories of an old lesbian relationship and an early case as a uniform police officer hint at her realising she had a ‘detective lover’.
If you wish to know more, there are links to the previous Fevered Fuse chapters that can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.
Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.
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FEVERED FUSE
Chapter Seven
Detective Anwyl
Saturday 2nd April 2016
Jackdaws caw and sheep bleat.
Blossom scents on the cool breeze. Home cooking tempts me as the jigsaw of shattered images takes form.
I’m a detective. My dying tad said, ‘CID is your logical way forward.’ Our war is against crime.
The visitors are downstairs. The 5 feet 8 inches grey-haired woman speaks Welsh fluently – unlike my English doctor. Fifties and warmly formidable. She must be my boss.
Dressed and head focused, I greet her.
“DCI Baines in person. Whom my tad called ‘the best detective NWP has.’ And I’m allowed to call you Ffion, even on duty in Porthmadog.”
She laughs and touches my shoulder. “Some might disagree and claim another detective is the best. You remember more than you told Robyn. Are you keeping secrets?”
I look at the doctor and motion to the breakfast table. Mam is already producing a full breakfast – eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, cockles, and laver bread, of course. Welsh plus.
“My head still has a few. Sleep helps. And your arrival triggered memories of my tad encouraging me into CID. Joining your team.”
Mam produces Ffion’s mint tea and my black coffee.
Robyn insists on tea diluted with milk. No sugar. Wife or medical sense?
“And no traumatic nightmares?” asks Ffion.
Lurking but not clear. “Convicted. Well, the school bully leader who got arrested – before I stopped being uniform. But I suspect Cadell Pryce is free – his sentence should be up. Or has he re-offended? No. Somehow, I sense he’s out there.”
“And you feel threatened? In reality or your head?”
Reparation paid. Maybe a clue, but no more.
“Revenge is over both ways. I’m moving on. One memory at a time – like a jigsaw puzzle.”
But there are mislaid pieces. A stray number – meaningless. My mind has buried secrets – like my husband. Except my grandparents walk in. Their expressions last night are a warning – don’t go there yet. Outside? Sidestep one issue. Feel for the piece at the centre.
“The most recent accident left me superficially bruised. So, I was wearing protection like motorcycle leathers and a helmet. But still bad enough to cause amnesia.”
I watch for reactions. Clues to the incident. Ffion remains silent, but the doctor has his excuse to display his knowledge.
“Your accident caused structural damage to the brain, a traumatic brain injury like a cricketer being hit by a ball. Your motorcycle helmet protected you from an external force and more serious injury.”
Tick – motorbike accident, hence the echo from my accident in 2011.
“Why the fragments? Isn’t post-traumatic amnesia immediate and concentrated on the incident – and, yes, that’s a blank.”
“I began my evaluation by performing a complete medical history. North Wales Police have detailed files, so your 2011 injuries were recorded. Yes, back then your doctor suspected concussion.”
Ffion and mam glance at each other, then me. I read their minds.
“Repeated concussion could be a factor. Yet my memories are returning. Can the brain reroute its way around damaged areas?”
Robyn hesitates, toying with his food. I give him time to think and eat some cockles, savouring the shellfish.
“I’d be remiss to lie. Studies suggest the brain repairs itself from one concussion, but from multiple concussions, depending on the severity of the injury, you could have mild … impairment, consisting of deficits in memory and concentration later in life. But by all accounts, your mind is unusual.”
“DC Anwyl – Sparkle is talented with brain puzzlers. The holes will vanish. I’m convinced of that.”
Ffion’s belief in me is uplifting and reassuring.
“So, if you all keep jogging my memory by exposing me to significant articles from my past, that should speed the rate of recall. Correct?”
Robyn nods and relaxes by spiking a mushroom.
“Wearing a helmet, both times, was crucial, so I agree that recovery is likely. Plus, I did a physical examination for traumatic brain injury, also known as post-traumatic amnesia, and I ran various diagnostic tests, such as neuroimaging, electroencephalograms and blood tests. Your symptoms tally with retrograde amnesia – the loss of memories that were formed shortly before the injury. Clearly, you have ‘holes’ in your episodic memory activity that match the damage to the hippocampus.”
Hippo as in Africa or as in Horses. The wrong trigger or a clue?
“My older memories seem clearest and more easily accessible than events occurring just prior to the trauma. But there are still gaps. And the events nearest in time to the incident that caused the memory loss may never be recovered.” I hesitate. Shivers of fear about what I have lost – who I’ve lost.
Gwawr signs, “Chill. Focus.” Reassuring. She switches to spoken words – careful and deliberate. “The neural pathways of newer memories are not as strong … as older ones that have been strengthened by years of retrieval and re-consolidation. Are the repressed holes memories?” She looks at me, then the doctor. Someone has been doing her research, as usual.
Robyn ensures that he faces her, so his lips are visible. “Impressive question. Yes, that is possible as dissociative amnesia is selective. It can be temporary, and memory may return once the stressors are removed. Sparkle, your sister is correct. If memories have been buried in the past, then those repressed memories will take time to emerge.”
Buried by what? Who was my secret lover? Not Bran, so who? My ring finger is a clue. I’m married or was. My memory of Nerys and Bran’s affair threw up suggestions that stirred thoughts about ‘my detective lover.’ One that tad didn’t suspect. Did Ffion ever know?
Why is it buried? Not just concussion.
I push my seat back and stand. “Sorry, I need to swim. It cools my mind – helps. Then we can continue – outside.”
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Chapter Seven = 967 words
Chapter Eight
Voice of Reason
Saturday 2nd April 2016
Ffion and Robyn are sitting on a rock with Gwawr, waiting for me to re-engage with reality after my swim. My boss is dabbling a hand in the lake.
My sister slips into the water as I climb out, then signs. “Knew you wanted to be alone with your memories.”
“Usually, but you help. Enjoy your swim.”
It is harder than I expected to face the truth. The jigsaw is still fractured. I mustn’t jump to conclusions. But Bran was my cover. How much did my family know?
Ffion hands me my towel. “Any clearer after diving into this cold water?”
What does she know?
“More like questions that could be progress. Questions about – relationships. I suspect keeping them apart from work might have locked some of that away.”
“Any clue what? Interacting with colleagues has never been a problem, most of the time. Although you’re a valuable team player.”
But her face says, not always. And it reminds me of nain and taid ignoring me. Except in my memory, my grandparents warned me away from same-sex relationships.
“There was an incident at school – before I joined the police. Nothing illegal, except in some people’s eyes.”
Realisation floods her face and Robyn’s. He intervenes.
“I’ve seen nothing that would affect your job. Even your tattoos are more strictly regulated. So, it’s unlikely that your relationship is connected to the accident.”
I twine my fingers together.
Ffion touches my arm. “Do you disagree? Have you remembered what your current case was? Or who you were assigned with?”
I close my eyes. Attempt to focus. Fleeting faces and names. Concussion has blocked their relevance and roles.
I shake my head. “I need another trigger – a recent case perhaps.” My bare ring finger tingles, as do my tattoos.
“Maybe if I were home.”
“Home isn’t here? Then where?” Ffion squeezes my hand. “What do you remember?”
“Black Rock Sands seems relevant – not just from an old uniform case. Swimming in the sea. And a relationship with another detective. Who? From my ring finger, I’d conclude we were engaged or married.”
“Correct deduction. Any names?”
Ffion smiles. She knows but won’t say. Male or female? Dead or alive?
“Only the ones of those it isn’t. They may not be police anymore. He may have been … killed in the line of duty.”
Robyn winces. What does he know? Was my husband a corpse he examined?
Not Robyn’s role. He’s a neurologist, not a coroner.
“Whatever happened, you made the right decisions, so don’t blame yourself.”
Does that mean I rejected ‘my leanings’ and conformed? Or that an investigation had consequences. Have I rejected what others called ‘strange tastes?’ Why can’t I remember?
Because the name is ‘locked in my heart’, and the concussion has sealed my mind tight.
“Until I remember more, I can’t blame anyone. I must find a trigger.”
The stray number in my head must be our phone – our landline.
“Ffion, I need to ring a number – now. Can I use your mobile, please?”
“As long as you don’t cheat and check anything else.” A wink reassures me.
“Copper’s honour I won’t. You can dial, and we can listen on speaker phone.”
I give her the numbers. “I think home must be this telephone number.”
The phone rings three times, and then we hear the recorded message.
“A is for Arson. C is for Cold Crimes. E is for Evidence. All these reasons are why we’re not here. So, use your intelligence.”
That voice – female, South Wales, the tone dark and sensual.
Shivers up my spine – warm and thrilling. My tattoos tingle.
The Voice of Reason – my partner.
I close my eyes. The dawn of our love returns.
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Chapter Eight = 624 words
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Chapter Seven & Eight = 1,591 words
Writing Wings 