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.
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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.
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1,537 words
Writing Wings 