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.

#

2,024 words

At last, I’m posting the next chapter as promised yesterday… the longer chapter today.

Links to previous Fevered Fuse chapters can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.

Chapter Six (Goth Patrol) should follow in a week or so, possibly in two parts, as it began life as a short story.

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

**

FEVERED FUSE

Chapter Five

Police Response

Friday 1st April 2016

The llŷn mirrors my splintered mind. But only when my skimming stone fractures the calm reflection. White sheep scatter and chase black jackdaws. Memories jumble, trigger like images.

Ripples from the past.

Did Cadell throw the brick? A brick thrown from the bridge could even kill. The debris in my periphery. Revenge ambush? Why? The choirboy look-alike from Hell who wielded the school bullies like a gang leader.

Or another from Cadell’s bully gang? Like Don Howard and Rod Trendle. The gang tried to drown me. Why not crash my bike?

An accident or assault?

Barriers where there should be answers. Blue and white incident tape flaps in my memory. Was there a police enquiry? Tad must have had questions.

And my response? Evoke the Goth Patrol. Gut reaction.

Or did tad rein me in – focus my anger on a police response?

Yes. His plan – intentional. Ensure the police treated this as more than a traffic accident. Even with his work demand causing my parents to separate. But the incident involved me – their own flesh and blood.

Mam will know – if she will talk.

I jog back to the old restored farmhouse, planning how to uncover the truth.

Did I learn this sneaky approach from tad?

#

I change, then head to the kitchen, drawn by smells of simmering stew. Tea is always a treat, with or without guests. However, there’s an extra place laid at the table.

“The doctor’s coming for tea? What time?”

“Trust you to make that deduction. Did you expect someone else?”

A clue. Deduction is a skill. Am I police material? Did I go that way? Mam and her parents wouldn’t have approved after tad caused problems with his commitment to work.

“Logical conclusion as I’m sick. Plus, you went to ring him. And I’ve had time to think about the old bike accident on my way to college.”

She smiles at me, then hugs me. “What did you deduce?”

The opening. “That it wasn’t an accident. Hence, the police investigation – initiated by tad.”

“Mental games, Meinwen? You’re good at those. An expert even as a kid. You were never one to let an incident stay cold.”

So, nobody was convicted. Did the mind games become a career? Tad needed me to commit to being Heddlu. Did I join the force? Or raise sheep?

No callouses. But a ring mark.

Married off?

No – my pounding heart says my choice.

A car draws up outside. Scrunch on rocky earth drive. Handbrake. Car door.

Doctor Robyn Vaughan has arrived, as warned, at six in time for tea.

His knock is soft but enough. I open the front door.

Familiar. He’s middle-aged with greying hair, once black and now receding, and amber-framed spectacles, brown eyes, well-fed judging by the face and his bulk, 5 feet 10 inches.

A medical man and more. He’s assessing me, as I am him. He has the advantage of knowing me – from my case files and more.

“The memories are coming back. Seems your therapy is working.”

He chuckles. “Fishing for clues? That’s not—“

“Rugby or cricket. But isn’t that the way this works? I need triggers to push around my amnesia. And re-arranging memories has begun. I know who I am, where we are, and what happened. Maybe not why.”

He laughs as mam guides him to a seat. “Withholding information from you is hard. But if your brain is processing memories that is an excellent result.”

Mam produces her variation on lobscows. She would have started preparing the lamb stew yesterday. We are treated to chunks of homemade bread and Welsh cheese on the side.

“A meal to relax us. However, I need to hear what you have recalled, Sparkle.”

The bare facts. I describe my old accident and my thoughts about having been married. Even drop suggestions to close. “The police response made me what I am today – inquisitive for justice and the truth.”

Robyn smiles, then kneads a piece of bread before popping it in his mouth to delay his reply. Outside some sheep bleat their thoughts first.

“You can’t ignore your heritage, Sparkle. Or ask me to betray any secrets. There is more than one way to the truth. You know that and so much more.”

T for Tasty Truths and Tattoos Tingling.

T for Therapy.

The bracer and acronyms. My way.

“Okay, you all are teasing me towards more triggers. For now, the sheep are part of therapy. But they are the past – before I was married. This isn’t where my heart is – just my roots.”

Chilling with my sister by the lake proved that.

I play with the mark on my finger. Watch everyone. Mam and Gwawr smile and nod. Robyn strokes his chin. Nain and taid are ignoring the gesture – or are oblivious.

Was my partner a secret?

 Nerys promised me a ring, but did we take that step? Or I have – had a husband. Widowed by 22?

“If this isn’t where you live, where’s home?” My doctor stares and demands answers. Insists I play the game – even if he’s not providing a trigger; not until I say more.

“Doesn’t amnesia vary? A motorcycle crash can cause concussion – as can a rugby injury or a fall from a horse. Has my brain connected two incidents that occurred years apart? Five years, if I deduce correctly from the calendar on the wall there and the date of my first crash.”

My Aprilia smash was not the last accident. A stray thought. Let the doctor reply.

“Correct but I’m reserving judgement, although I have my suspicions. First, give us details of the most recent incident you can remember, even if it’s not the cause.”

“Concussion can create a hole – post-traumatic amnesia. Or is this something else? Will I regain all my memories?”

If post-traumatic, how bad was the recent incident? An incident that only left bruises to my body but holes in my memory.

“Sometimes recovery is merely days, but 45% of those affected experienced amnesia for longer than a month. But all the signs are that you are processing information faster than I would expect. However, let’s hold on the jargon until you give us more. Let’s enjoy your mother’s food instead.”

Pressure off. Well, his anyway. I can observe others in peace. Play with theories. Like I had a husband, but not one that everyone knew about. And the incident was traumatic. So, not kicked by a sheep or hit by a tractor.

When Robyn leaves at nine, I have too many theories.

“I’ll drop round tomorrow, Sparkle. I’ll bring a friend who might be interested in your progress. Sleep well. Dreams, yes, as they can help. But don’t feed the nightmares. You must leave those for others. A team needs to delegate. Goodnight.”

“Nos da. Drive safely – and don’t work late. The bags under your eyes are the clue.”

We grin at each other before he saunters to his Vauxhall Corsa. A fleet car or his?

T for Team not Therapy. I’m part of a Team. Police? Paramedic? But not Fire like my brother Owen.

My fingers tap rivets. S for Sibling. R for Rivalry and Revenge.

I didn’t join the Fire Brigade as my rival brother, Owen, did. No. The crash created another Route for my Revenge.

A for Accident and Assessment.

RATS. Full circle to Cadell and his Cronies.

Am I still living with my past? Did I cause the new Incident?

Investigation? Police like tad?

Never too young, but wrong lifestyle.

Except there’s no evidence.

Just a ring mark and a secret marriage.

H for Hidden not Heddlu.

TRASH?

I mouth goodnight farewells, then wander upstairs to my room. I’m confused. Want to be Heddlu, but worry I’m trapped. My hidden marriage was trash.

Why is the Cadell case relevant? Where is the ring? Lost or thrown away?

I stare at my mirror. Do I want to remember who Sparkle Anwyl really is? Why she lost her husband?

The reflection is whole, but my head isn’t.

Focus. Try to sleep. Can dreams trigger memories? Or just fantasies?

What’s real enough to follow into the Rabbit Hole.

Change into my night clothes. Slip into red sheets. Red for Romance.

Nerys. No.

B for Bran Blevins. He was real too. Or was he a fantasy?

E for Evidence. The mark on my finger. The Reactions and Evasions.

BATHERS.

Swimming is the reality. Despite Cadell and his gang, I’m still plunging into our lake. And into seawater. No Trauma there. Nor with Riding bikes, if my stray memory holds true.

And there’s another bather, not Gwawr. A bather who rides a bike.

Focus on that. A figure shrouded but real. My husband. Sleep and dream.

#

The shadowy figure helps me sleep until fingers of sunlight wake me. Dawn brings clearer images – of a once familiar room. My past settling into reality. Is the figure lost forever? Why can’t I see them clearly?

Outside, sheep bleat, jackdaws chatter, and a tractor chugs.

And another engine. Familiar but not family. Who? A car arriving. Robyn and his friend – their car.

Rapping. Louder – not Robyn.

Persistent thuds. In my head – in my memories.

***

1,537 words

After a few delays, I’m posting the next two chapters on consecutive days, as together they’re over 2,000 words… short chapter today.

I’m still juggling life problems, so it’s been tough writing my next Freedom Flights episode. I’m aiming to post it by the end of the month.

Now enjoy another Fevered Fuse chapter. Links to previous chapters can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.

*Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

FEVERED FUSE

A Snowdon Shadows Mystery

by

Roland Clarke

(Police Procedural Fiction)

***

Chapter Four

Revenge

Friday 1st April 2016

Images, memories flicker on the edge of my mind as I skim stones.

The smell of musk and jasmine.

A name hovers out of reach as warmth floods my chest, and invisible fingers tease my body.

Someone I loved. I stare at a white mark on my finger. From a ring? Am I married?

My first love?

I tap my bracer, and letters tumble out.

Gwawr had signed ‘Enigma Code’. A nudge – a clue.

C for Cryptology – my Cryptograph. My weird juggling of the initial letters of clues to get an acronym.

But who hovers in my past?

B for Bran Blevins – my secondary school’s star rugby player.

Sunlight scatters across the llŷn.

Bran was not the first. Not musk and jasmine.

N for Nerys.

Nerys Jernigan kissed me – another girl. We fell in love. Shared lips and secret fondles.

Faced our fears and the taunts. Who realised? I knew how to stay low-key – as a Goth. My identity – at first.

Nobody discovered my first tattoo – or even the second. Except Nerys.

But we were outed by the bullies. C for Cadell.

Cadell Pryce, the choirboy-look-alike from Hell with the manic smile. He wielded the school bullies like a gang leader. They called us ‘dykes.’ D for Dykes and Degenerates.

A threat we thwarted. O for Outsiders and Organised.

My defiant words echo in my head.

“We have to stand up to them, resist—”

R for Resist and Rebels.

Nerys persuaded me to teach our friends Jiu-Jitsu.

At first, the situation didn’t escalate.

The bullies were suspicious. They sensed the change. We stuck together whenever we could – deterrence. Created a Goth patrol. Stalemate for a few weeks.

Our black garb spread, as did our concealed thorny-rose tattoos.

Mine is visible now on my naked ankle. I caress my rose, remembering fingers tracing its leaves. My caresses climb up my legs, between my thighs – until I shiver.

A chill wind stirs the lake, fractures the peace, shatters the calm. It disturbs my lonely urges. I tremble and glance around.

Can’t I have such drives? What do I need?

Water calms me – cools my confused feelings. Another swim.

Swimming in a lake is safe – safer than a pool.

The stink of chlorine makes me shudder and remember.

Bodies bomb me, hands grab me, push me underwater. That acrid taste fills my mouth. I lash out. Wriggle free – but no escape.

Dive deeper and away.

They follow. Trapping me with their bodies and arms. I can’t breathe. Water engulfs me. My vision glazes – after I see a leering face.

A black arrow darts past – grapples with an attacker. Then another arrow shoots past.

Hands pull me onto the side. Lips reviving me.

Is that a tongue?

Focus through the fog. Musk and jasmine disperse chlorine. The tongue is teasing and tasty. I want more.

We made time for more – three weeks of passion on the beach. Secret and forbidden.

Forbidden in the Welsh chapel eyes of my nain and taid.

Something, someone, forced us apart. Changed us.

I shudder and clutch my body, pressing my left breast to calm my pounding heart. Through tears, I remember my taid’s words. ‘In the eyes of the Lord, we can’t be the judges. But our reputation in the community.’ I perjured myself in the eyes of God. I pretended to like a guy.

Did one weakness destroy another? The shakes don’t settle. My pounding blood floods my head.

 The ‘C-O-R-D-O-N’ I let divide us. C for Convert. O for Organised. R for Resistance. D for Degenerate. O for Outsiders. N for Nerys.

Was my enforced ‘change of heart’ so easy? Did I conform? Get married?

B for Bran Blevins. The perfect match in my family’s and God’s eyes. Leaving Nerys as a doomed first love. A schoolgirl crush – betrayed.

But R is for Revenge. Whose? Nerys? C for Cadell?

I stare across the llŷn needing answers.

***

657 words