I’ve been having problems with my eyes, which makes it hard to write. So, I’ve been struggling to work on the next episode of my Ukraine saga, Freedom Flights.

Instead, I’m posting the next chapter of Fevered Fuse, but as it’s longer than the previous ones, I will post it in several parts. Also, as one reader suggested, 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, waking to “persistent thuds” in her head.

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.

FEVERED FUSE

Chapter Six

Goth Patrol

Part 1.

Sunday 22nd February 2015

Thump. Thump. Thud.

“Agor. Heddlu. Open up. Police.”

The words underline the rapping on the door, jerking me out of my bliss.

What the roses? Not on the Sabbath.

I slide out of bed, grabbing my discarded black jeans and thorny rose T-shirt from the chair where my real love threw them.

“Coming” doesn’t silence the knocking from the dawn-lit street. The crashing sea is muffled by the persistence. Loud enough to warn the neighbours. Intimidating. Next, I’ll be acting guilty when I reach the unchained door. Not me. Not this time.

Two uniform officers brandish warrant cards too fast to match their features to names. I don’t recognise them. Neither the greying black bear nor the wiry tent pole. Are they new? With an attitude towards women? My pulse quickens. Muscles tense. Heat builds.

Play it cool.

“Bran Blevins. We know he’s here. We need to ask him some questions.”

Questions? What sort? I’m alert but ready to evade.

“He left for work half-an-hour ago. After making me a black coffee. What’s this about?”

They peer past me, disbelieving – not trusting me. The mug is there on the kitchen table – proof enough.

“Kind of early for bar work. If you’re covering for him, we can arrest you.”

The gruff words from The Bear push past me. I’m ready to enlighten him when The Pole demands my attention – and amuses me.

“Who are you? Girlfriend?”

Amused, I reach for my back pocket, but The Bear grabs my hands. Instinct wants to topple him, but I force my body to relax. Focus on his voice.

“You’re a suspect too, if you’re harbouring a criminal. Answer PC Vaughn.”

I laugh. Toying is over. Time to disarm them.

“Sparkle Anwyl – PC Meinwen Anwyl. Sparkle to my colleagues. So, why do you need my boyfriend?”

They hesitate. The Bear releases one arm.

I remove my warrant card from my jeans. They glance at each other, then stare at me.

The Bear takes my card, and I smell his nervous sweat. “Not Sergeant Anwyl’s kid? He didn’t say you’d be involved, but—”

Is tad behind this harassment? Challenge the accusations. But The Bear is studying the cross-and-rose tattoos normally hidden by my uniform, now highlighted by the jeans and tee.

“You don’t look like one of us, more like—”

“A Goth.” I’m proud of my colours, even if I’ve shed one uniform for another. “Give me a minute to get my boots and gear. Then I’ll take you to Bran’s day job. Call Sergeant Anwyl and inform him I’m assisting you.”

I’m off duty, but tad always says, ‘Crime never sleeps on the Sabbath.’ Chapel can wait. The Lord forgives my erratic attendance, even if my mam’s tad, Hywel Pugh, frowns at this spiritual digression – and my tattooed crosses.

He’d do more than frown at the angel wings on my back – the tattoo I added for love – and at my ankle rose, now covered by my black Doctor Marten Dalton boots. At least, my partner approves, saying I am Goth to the skin despite the Heddlu appearance. Whatever uniform I wear, my heart is committed to justice.

So, what has Bran done to provoke my tad? Something that warranted constables at the door and questions. I had questions when Bran called at one a.m. What had kept him at the bar? At least, I had a genuine reason to refuse to share his bed. Was I wrong to insist that intercourse was not part of our arrangement? Our relationship must remain a deception.

Why doesn’t he believe me? Offering him cheap accommodation should be enough.

“The desk sergeant wants to talk to you. Switch your radio on – if you have it with you.”

I ignore the judgmental comment as I hit send.

“Why is Bran wanted for questioning? Did something happen at the bar last night?”

“Just tell our constables where he’s gone. Then come here.”

Evasive and demanding.

“I’m off duty.” But I wasn’t relaxing. “I’ll take these guys to Bran – then drop round to see you, tad.”

Calling him Sergeant Anwyl felt wrong – except on-duty and with people in earshot.

“Constable Griffiths and Vaughn will handle this – without you, PC Anwyl. Just tell them where he is. Then report back here. I need a statement from you, and don’t contact that guy who pretends to be your boyfriend. No warning – understand?”

A warning not to get involved – to stay clear. Why? What has Bran done? Serious or petty? Tad never took to the rugby guy when I produced him during that tough time back at secondary school, Ysgol Eifionydd here in Porthmadog. I needed Bran to cover my lies – my tad might know that. Or was Bran’s sleight-of-hand and knife-juggling too weird for tad?

True, Bran had mixed with the wrong guys – until the Goth Patrol dealt with them. Call us vigilantes, yes – but effective peacekeepers. Turbulent times and strange friendships. Yet a catalyst moment when life shifted, and I changed directions – or my chapel-devout family believed so.

“Understood. Be there in eight. As soon as I inform Griffiths and Vaughn.”

I’m caving again. But he is my tad. Over-protective, interfering, but always there – even after the divorce. I’m Heddlu, thanks to him – and this is his neighbourhood too.

#

At the station, Tad stares at me with all his bulk, his straggly black hair replaced with a bullet profile that would strike a criminal dead.

“New image, sergeant? The Rock?”

Does the tougher look suit him? Not today. He looks tired and strained as he glances around the waiting room. His frown slips into a smile, although I read sadness in his eyes.

“Close as usual, Constable, except I was more of a Kojak fan. Not sure about the lollipop as sugar is bad.” He blinks then adds, “Another killer.”

Killer? Is that why he’s arresting Bran? Except murder was a PIP 3 crime, so CID’s patch – even PIP 2 required a detective. Tad went by the regulations. If he knew about my detective lover, he wasn’t letting on.

“I need a statement from you, cariad. Your movements and what you know of your bloke’s activities.” Tad looks at me. “The standard formality.”

Reassuring, but something is wrong. The tattoos are screaming at me like knife pricks. Tad won’t tell me. I must figure this out.

In a corner, near a crying woman but out of earshot of an arguing couple, I stare at the pen strung to a battered clipboard. Uninspired, I force the words out, recalling the frustration as I sat alone in our flat waiting for someone. Shifts and caseloads I understand. Bran’s movements maintained the masquerade – if he wasn’t undermining us. He always calls – the perfect flatmate. But as one a.m. crept closer, my tattoos tingled. Worries about friends became concerns. The grim memory stumbles out.

He was later than usual but claimed to be held up at the bar – more after-hours clean-up. Strange as throughout his shift, Bran prided himself on keeping his area clear of the mess that plagued many drinking dives. His evening job was nearer to clockwork than his catering work. Short-staffed? Another woman? He never said, so I write what I can:

“Bran rang at 0130 from work, Surf’s Up in Morfa Bychan, an hour later than normal. He arrived at our flat on Mersey Street in Borth-y-Gest at 0200. We slept until his alarm rang at 0630. He dressed and left, half an hour before PC Griffiths and PC Vaughn arrived.’

Will tad read between the facts? He doesn’t care if we didn’t share a bed. But sleeping together would suit the family’s attitudes. Better if that’s what they believe.

Life has gotten complicated. Three people sharing a two-bedroom flat works – if we have rules. Bran thinks he can abuse them – believes that time will seduce me, and I’ll welcome his urges. My body isn’t sacred, but my love is. Only one person has that, and nobody else knows. I aim to honour that commitment. The name is locked in my heart.

A brief statement will suffice. Brief and factual. No emotions, even if my tattoos are tingling. Keying letters for an antonym on my bracer will suffice.

The big C for Crime covers Catering.

A for Awkward and Answers.

E for Evasive and Emotions.

B for Bran and Bar.

With an R that would be BRACE.

R for Reason and Righteous – I must get to chapel sometime. Do I need guidance to solve this Riddle? R is for Rape – a PIP 3 crime. But Robbery is PIP 1 without violence.

But Bran never steals, only borrows items for his magic. His voice catches my struggle as the two constables escort him in. I stand, and he shrugs with a frown. Everyone ignores me as my tad processes the latest criminal – my friend. Tad is stern and distant as he always is. Why doesn’t he trust us? He can’t know the truth. What is he hiding?

Once Bran is locked up, tad takes my statement – the evidence that might bury Bran unless I can dig up the real dirt.

“Thanks, Constable. I want you to go home. Stick to your routine. Then go to the bar where the suspect works when it opens. Tell his boss that Bran is helping us—“

“With our enquiries. Except as it’s the Sabbath, I need to go to chapel and then—”

“Don’t forget. ‘Crime doesn’t sleep on a Sunday.’ Pray for me, but get to that bar.”

Does he believe? Not like Mam’s parents – strict Presbyterians and my conscience. Was tad’s casual attitude and commitment to earthly justice why Mam left? Who abandoned whom? Bran grumbles about crazy hours and low pay – but whose? We all work strange hours, whether pulling pints or catching crooks.

I will pray for him. Yet tad asked me to pray for him. Both then.

Tears are building, but the reason is unclear.

“The bar, Constable. Where your guy should have been last night.” Tad is reading my statement, brow furrowed. “Before he called you. Not tonight – now.”

Tad turns away and checks the desk. Dismissed.

Left to piece together a crime with minimal clues. A challenge I relish.

#

I grab some food from the superstore across the road and run the mile home, shuffling the pieces in my head – starting the prayers and the plans. Slipping on my neoprene swimming costume under my street gear, I stride up the road to the nearby chapel in time for the morning service and a chance to touch my divine guardian. Enlightened and inspired by words and song, I jog along footpaths to the secluded bay below the golf course.

When I’m alone with my partner, we discuss finding a cottage overlooking Porthmadog Golf Club and closer to Black Rock Sands, where we met. But it will be without Bran.

Time for my daily exercise before Surf’s Up opens. Bran’s boss, Heilyn Trevor, never has a hangover and always unlocks on time. Fifty minutes is time enough for a swim, so I strip down to the costume and bury my clothes and boots in a black bag.

Wading into the bracing waves stirs my body and my mind. I crawl out towards a marker buoy. Then back-stroke and search the sky, reading the clouds. My tattoos are tingling in the salt sting.

Tad has sent me on an errand that demands focus.

T for Timing and Thieves.

A for Accomplice and Association.

H for Habits and Hate.

C for Crime and Character.

W for Witness and Watcher. And for WATCH. Focus.

I’ve been dismissed well before the bar reopens. Tad wants me to dig for clues. Grin and cry with love. Off-duty investigation, Sergeant-tad approved.

I flip off my back and start a steady sidestroke back towards the beach. Towards a figure in black sitting on my clothes and tossing shells into the sea, narrowly missing me. Black hair and lips. Same black uniform – black from the T-shirt to the Doc Martens, traced with blood red flashes. Underneath, there are similar tattoos and more. Memories.

Nerys Jernigan.

#

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