Although I knew February’s Insecure Writer’s Support Group post was approaching, I’ve been having eye problems, which have made it hard to clear my writing desk. So, I’ve delayed the next episode of my Ukraine saga, Freedom Flights.
Slava Ukraini
Heroiam slava!
Since my January IWSG post, I’ve been posting Fevered Fuse, the first of my Snowdon Shadows novels featuring Sparkle Anwyl, in serial form. Links to each post can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.
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Every month, IWSG announces a question that members can answer in their IWSG posts. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience, or a story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Remember, the question is optional!
February 4 question – Many writers have written about the experience of rereading their work years later. Have you reread any of your early works? What was that experience like for you?
First Snow on Snowdon ~ Juanita Clarke
After my number one reader, Rebecca Douglass, gave the opening three chapters of ‘Fates Maelstrom’ her seal of approval, I continued to revise what was originally the first of the Snowdon Shadows series, until various Sparkle Anwyl shorts evolved into ‘Fevered Fuse’, now chronologically first.
As a result, I reread the other draft books in the series to see whether they matched the openers. A worthwhile exercise, especially as they don’t follow events in the first two books. Otherwise, my reaction was a mixture of surprise at how my writing had changed, surprise at some of my plot twists, and uneasiness over how much needed reworking. One common element, even in the draft of ‘Fates Maelstrom’ I’m revising, is Sparkle’s relationships with romantic partners.
In ‘Fevered Fuse’, someone emerges who should be in every sequel but isn’t. Yet I created that special someone in a short story after drafting those other novels, and since I’ve made them a central character alongside Sparkle. Instead, there will be rivals for Sparkle’s affection, demanding I change the plot in the other books to retain their role
Last year, I also reread drafts of other novels. It was interesting, as there were a few of them that I regretted abandoning, when another idea dragged me in a new direction. Some were written for NaNoWriMo; others were developed as sequels to earlier drafts. The aim was not just to see if my writing had improved, as I still don’t feel it has. But ultimately, I needed to decide which novel to focus on, given my age and health. Today, bedbound with a fractured leg, aching back, stomach pains, and multiple sclerosis & CLL, any time feels precious.
Although my decision is made – Fates Maelstrom – there were two close contenders. ‘Tortuous Terrain’, the US-based sequel to my only published novel, Spiral of Hooves, but, despite the plotline, the lack of sales and mixed reviews for Spiral of Hooves deterred me.
The other was my Alternative History, Eagle Crossing, which grew out of the question, “What would have happened if Leif Eriksson had settled Vinland permanently in 1000 AD?”, spawning a short story, then the draft novel and its related Viking Age history from 1000-2020. Maybe another short story is possible.
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG, and our hashtag is #IWSG.
Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group Day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and return comments. This group is all about connecting!
As I’m still having problems with my eyes, I’ll continue posting Chapter Six of Fevered Fuse. I am posting it in three parts because of the length, since it was originally a standalone short. This part is the longest, as it closes one plotline.
Also, as one reader suggested, here is a recap of previous events. Please ensure that you’ve read at least Part One to make sense of the “persistent thuds” mentioned in the recap.
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 2
Sunday 22nd February 2015
I shake as I step ashore, water dripping from me. Shivers from mixed sensations. My teenage crush whistles at me, then stands and gently drapes a love-red towel around me, hands teasing my shoulders, caressing them gently. Fingers knead my neck. Then work down, drawing out buried secrets. Our experiment of exploration, caressing tattoos and more re-awakens.
A teenage mistake. Before my conscience set me right.
Or not. Tremors agree, ‘Not.’
I love her fluttering touch. My semi-naked body pulls her closer. My hands reach behind to her hips. Her thumbs massage around my thighs. Hands float together, spiralling towards my still-damp centre. Hovering and teasing. Gentle, yet firm.
She knows what I adore. The touch of a lover. Her soft hands can find places guys miss. They’re back and familiar. Why did we part?
The call of the streets and justice.
Love not lust.
Nerys spins me around and eases my swimsuit down, exposing me – to the sea breeze. I stiffen, then giggle. Who cares? My true partner. Who will arrest me? Not for this flirting that means nothing.
My breasts are free, and a tongue is licking my nipples.
The wave of pleasure overtakes me. Butterfly wings dance on my exposed stomach. The costume drops to the beach. I shouldn’t do this but can’t stop. Betrayal or temptation?
Guilt stalls time. I can’t tease her tee up. A warning as my gut twists.
She kisses me on the lips. Lingering, as our tongues twine and tease. I pull her closer – but it’s over. There’s a new taste that deters me. Ash – cigarettes. And our affair ended years ago.
Lust loses. My duty calls. And I treasure my true love, the one Nerys pales beside.
I wrap the towel around my shivering body. Nerys lets me finish drying myself as she walks towards the road with her backpack. Laughing.
I sit beside her on the seafront wall, letting the chill air banish the remnants of seawater and frazzled emotions. Why is she here?
“I guessed you’d be here. You are a creature of habit, Sparkle. Always our favourite beach.” I shiver as more guilt creeps up my back. She reaches into her pack and removes a thermos. The smell of fresh black coffee spirals into my nostrils as she hands me a cup. “They arrested the wrong person for the sports shop break-in.”
I stare at her. Bran is innocent, and she knows. How? Goth Patrol vibes?
“Two hours ago. But aren’t you still living in Pwllheli? What brings you to Porthmadog?”
“Do I need a reason to visit my BFF?”
I peer into her eyes. Passion – but not for me. Her voice is seductively husky – the cigarette bite. I hate kissing ashtrays.
Let her continue. I wink. She might know important clues.
“Didn’t dare ask for you at the cop shop. But there are guys over here from the old school. You in touch?”
Which ones are in Porth? Bran and who else?
“People move. Who did you ask, Nerys?”
She flutters her thick lashes. “Bran knew where you lived, of course. Gratz on staying together, despite everything.” I squirm inside. She knows the fraud – as the original cause. “I went to your flat, but you were out—”
“Keeping the streets crime-free.” Or pursuing other pleasures in secret. “Never much time to relax – especially when the wrong guy gets arrested. So, who robbed Del’s Diverse Den? Clues?”
I am trawling my mind for the usual suspects – and fingering my bracer.
E for Evasion and Evidence.
S for Suspects and Streets
A for Accomplices and Answers.
C for Crime and—
“Cadell Pryce wants revenge – so he had a minion tell Bran. Seems the idiot is here, out of work and slumming it.”
I tense. Cadell – a name I’d buried. Why didn’t Bran warn me? Loyalty to an old school friend? Heart racing and eyes closed. Focus. Revenge on me. The school bully the little kids feared, and the weak minions followed – Cadell.
“Didn’t we warn him off? The Goth Patrol was effective back then. I need evidence he was behind the burglary.”
Arresting him for the past wouldn’t stick.
Nerys shakes her head. “He had as much respect for us as he does for the Heddlu. Can we find any proof?”
I shiver and drain the coffee dregs from the thermos. The air is cold, but the past sends nails raking up my back as I dress – glad at least that the wet costume is off.
But the memories remind me. Teenage troubles at Ysgol Eifionydd.
Dressed in black, the Goth Patrol became the school’s vigilantes, protecting the bullied kids. Except first Cadell and his mates had isolated me at a swimming pool stinking of chlorine. Even today, I can smell the acrid stink as they tried to drown me – and Cadell’s leering angelic face.
My Goth colleagues had rescued me in time – dished out our rough justice, martial arts style.
J for Justice and Jealousy.
R for Revenge and Rumours.
A for Accomplices and Accusations.
My tattoos are tingling overtime. The information JAR is filling up.
“Thanks for that nugget. If Cadell committed the burglary and stitched my friend up, he’ll leave a trail – stolen goods don’t vanish totally. We start at Surf’s Up, where the rumours are reliable.”
I lace up my boots. As I stand, Nerys kisses me again – lightly and passion-starved. Just friendship, even if her hands are still exploring. Her fingers trace the edge of my breasts and tease the nipples. My confused body screams for more, but my head is focused.
I break the clinch with my seductress friend. The tang of salt air drives me forwards.
What does she want? Justice and Revenge are powerful motivators. Do we share a goal?
“You’re Heddlu, so you need to arrest Cadell before Bran takes the fall. I can’t legally interfere, but I can lend support and swagger.”
Explore her face. Gone is the vigilante streak despite the uniform. The jeans are designer, the makeup cries PA or estate agent. Nerys has revamped herself. But on the surface the intimidation without menaces is there.
“We can tramp the streets as before with less of the ‘old attitude’ vibes. After a quick drink as I’m off-duty. And I need more clues. Your treat, as my pay is stretched to nothing.”
That husky laugh and a wink as I expose her career move. At least she doesn’t mention my partner’s pay some levels above mine.
“I may spend my work-life juggling clients and properties, but I still work out. Race you to the bar.”
Sprinting in Docs is a regular pursuit of petty criminals. Nerys still mounts a challenge in our half-mile dash across the sands and into the holiday park lined with mobile homes. Pedestrians add to the effort, cheered on by jeering seagulls.
A final weave and a burst of speed notches up another win as I push the bar door open.
Surf’s Up already smells of beer and burgers. I want coffee, bacon and laver bread to sweep me inside, but my stomach is making the wrong prompting sounds. I switch mindsets. The lunchtime crowd gets here early, drawn by reputation and gossip.
I head for the central bar, where the owner runs this smooth operation. Heilyn Trevor, or HT to regulars, gestures to two stools.
“Hello ladies. A pint of Dark Side of the Moose for Sparkle, I suspect, and a Black Russian for Nerys if I remember right. Be right back.”
HT knows my preference for the local dark ale with its smoky, toffee aroma. But Nerys. Has she been here often enough to be a regular? When she’s selling local properties? The tattoos tingle. When? She knows Bran from school. Friend or more? Have I missed the warning signs? But he has his own life and I have mine – as long as he doesn’t expose my secret.
HT returns with the drinks, and Nerys hands him a twenty. He pushes it away.
“On the house. If the rumours are true, I need you two to prove Bran innocent. I’m not giving up on my best barman.”
“What is the rumour mill saying? My colleagues acted on something.”
A tip-off from one of the thieves? Cadell had a grudge against me. So maybe he had taken that out on Bran.
“Word is that Bran refused to be involved robbing Del’s. But he left here early. Why?”
And called me late. Is HT warning me that Bran is hiding something? Or ensuring I pursue every lead?
I down a swig of Dark Side and finger my bracer. Acronyms scroll in my head. Eyes closed, letters form. C-A-S-E. Cadell has Answers and the Streets hold Evidence. But concern darkens HT’s face and his eyes glance from me to Nerys.
She raises her cocktail and knocks it back. No change there.
HT points at the empty tumbler.
“One’s enough, HT, for now. We’ve punk thieves to catch, the dirt that fingered Bran.” She smiles at me. “Where do we start? Corner Cadell?”
HT starts. I shake my head. Furrows line his brow.
“Isn’t this a police matter, Sparkle? Can’t you pull him in for questioning or something? Heavy tactics never work.” He glares at Nerys. “That’s why I hate bouncers.”
I turn to my Goth sidekick. “Balance. Some guys need judicious persuasion. Cadell was always spineless at school. So he’s unlikely to be alone. I made that mistake and nearly paid—”
With my life. Never again. I savour my chestnut brown pint, tasting the roasted crispness and the bitterness. I drain the glass. Stand and lead Nerys to the door.
The tattoos tingle. HT puts a hand on my shoulder. Whispers to me alone.
“Watch out. Bran has secrets he treasures more than yours.”
#
The seagulls are noisier outside than the milling holidaymakers pouring out of their rented homes. Tourist numbers are creeping up as spring awakens. In a couple of months, the flood will herald 24/7 workloads on the streets of Porth.
Enjoy the interlude. And the chance to chill with my passion. Not Nerys – she’s my ex, so just a friend to spend the day with. A day for proving a mutual friend innocent.
“I’m presuming that you left your car in town. Ready for another run – a quick two miles along the seashore?”
Nerys nods and gestures toward town. “On a day like this, I prefer fresh air. Where are we heading?”
“First, we collect my bike in Borth-y-Gest. Helps when swooping in for the sting.”
“Hope it’s black and fast.”
“A Kawasaki Ninja ZX6-R – my luxury necessity. She was lime-green when I bought her second-hand for only £1,900. But with my brother’s help, making her metallic spark black was easy and cool.”
We giggle as we weave around tourists on the sand. “More importantly, I refuse to have a car. I get enough ‘fun’ driving patrol cars.”
At the flat, the bike is chained at the back. Donning two ebony helmets with thorny roses and black studded gloves, our uniform is complete.
The swoop to the industrial estate near the railway tracks takes five minutes as speeding is not an option. The treasure trove for old junk and fenced items is hidden away. The chain-link gate is open and peeling rust.
A dark blue Ford Transit is parked beside the shipping container that serves as an office and stronghold. I park to block the quick exit. Helmets on, we stride up to the van, peer through the back windows. Bare. Sliding along, one on either side to the front. Nobody. But the keys are in the ignition. I commandeer them.
“I’m heading inside to see if we have builders or burglars. Stay close and watch my back, please.”
“Like the old days.”
Two guys in torn cargo pants and camouflage jackets are haggling with the junk-rat. Two familiar guys. Shivers – adrenaline and old trauma. Cadell and his slimiest lackey. They are too busy arguing the value of a scuba tank to hear my approach through the open door.
Stolen sports goods litter the counter – evidence 101.
Tense. Focus. Control the breathing.
I jingle the keys.
“Careless leaving these in your van. Someone could nick it.”
The guys swivel to face – a figure in black.
“Remove that helmet, girlie. What you afraid of?”
I lift it off. Hold the protector in front as a shield. Have they got knives? Guns? Sometimes. Wits rule us Heddlu.
They gape for a moment, then comes Cadell’s crazed chuckle.
“Meinwen Anwyl – and alone again. No teenage ninja thugs. Our friend here will say nothing if we smash your pretty head.”
Let him talk. Let him convict himself.
“Sorry, that should be Constable Anwyl, I presume. Naughty girlie, no uniform so I guess no warrant. Time to punish you again. Your boyfriend won’t miss you.”
They don’t know Bran that well, or my partner-in-crime-busting. I stare at them, then smile.
“Heddlu are never off duty while crime is creeping around our streets. Plus, you should recognise this uniform. Your nightmare never comes alone. We’re always waiting.”
I glance at his slithering accomplice. “And when your gutless sneak runs, you’ll be alone. Remember the rough justice our Goth Patrol dispensed – sorry, dealt.”
I clench my studded gloves and both guys bolt for the doorway. Yellow One trips over my sidekick’s black jeaned-leg, and Cadell flies over his minion with a roundhouse kick from me.
As the two guys scramble to their feet, I rugby-tackle Cadell and back-mount him. My legs hook inside his thighs, and my hands force cuffs on him – for evading arrest.
Nerys grabs the minion’s right arm with both hands and drives her hip into his gut. He drops to the ground, and she drops on him. I drag Cadell over and cuff a second bully.
She lashes with her tongue. “Taste your own medicine, wimps. Effing balls. These guys are useless. You were tough before, Cadell.”
He spits at her, but she ducks and her laugh echoes across the lot.
I read them their rights. Stick to the rules, or the CPS will struggle.
“I’m saying nothing more. Except that bitch is no friend. Lies. What’s her alibi?”
Ignore him – and the whimpering excuse of a hired help.
I call tad.
“As you implied when you tasked me with my off-duty role, the real thieves accused Bran. Constables Griffiths and Vaughn can collect the pair plus the goods at the Snowdon Street fence. I’ll get his statement – might be an interesting confession.”
“Impressive, Sparkle. Your guy will be processed out of here and sent around to show you proper respect. I still say that you deserve better.”
Tension vanishes as I exhale. Tad only sees Bran as intended. My cover is secure.
#
Our black coffees are a welcome respite as we chill by the Cob.
“Thanks for the help, Nerys.” There’s a risk in saying more, but I need friends. We need friends that understand. “Great we’re back in touch. Give me your address.”
She hesitates, then kisses me on the lips – lingering. A feather-touch across my cheeks. A caress that is empty even if it creates tremors. She opens her leather wallet and shakes her head.
“I seem to be out, so I’ll leave a card at the bar with HT.”
Shivers and tattoos tingling like an out-of-tune violin. Seagulls wheel above the yachts, screeching for attention. I chose this place to reconnect. The marina is filled with expensive boats that might be her clients. The seagulls cry, ‘Don’t go there’.
How regular is Nerys at Surf’s Up?
“Anyway, I need new cards as I’m moving to a better view. Not far. And I know where to find my BFF.”
She knows Bran from school. She’s social. Surf’s Up is THE bar at our favourite beach.
Stop with the suspicions.
“I’m heading back home to wait for Bran. You want to hang out there?”
“You two need time to move on from this. Forget Cadell’s lies. Drop me at the HSBC Bank. It’s on your way home and I need to get some money so I can celebrate.”
Words and letters jumble as I drive into Porthmadog and drop her.
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.
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.
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.”
“Nosda. 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.
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.
Apologies for the delay in posting the next two chapters. I’ve been juggling life problems and writing my latest Freedom Flights episode. Once that was posted on Thursday, I could schedule this post.
In Chapter One, Sparkle thinks about creating a ‘mnemonic’, which I am changing to an ‘acronym’ to be more accurate, although an acronym is a type of mnemonic
I would like to know how often you would like me to post, for instance, three times a week? I realise daily might be too much, whereas weekly breaks the flow.
That is more of a problem if I post short segments. So, second question: what’s the best length? Under 300 words? Around 1,000 words? This time, Chapter Two is 264 words – similar to Chapter One. Chapter Three is 1,706 words, which might be too long. However, there are longer chapters that I’ll have to post in parts to make them more readable.
Your feedback will be much appreciated. Many thanks.
Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.
*
FEVERED FUSE
A Snowdon Shadows Mystery
by
Roland Clarke
(Police Procedural Fiction)
**
Chapter Two
Speed Kills
Monday 11th July 2011
Lime-green is not cool. I’m resolute. Well, I try to be.
I wanted a Kawasaki Ninja, even if it wasn’t black. My scooter bored me. Will this blood-red Aprilia motorbike satisfy me instead?
B for Blood not Black. OK.
Speed is the addiction to drive away my frustrations.
But my tad says speed’s another killer he must curb. It’s his job.
I soar around a bend, then open the Aprilia’s throttle down the last straight towards Tremadog. The distinctive blue and yellow markings lurking behind a stone wall warn me and I slow – Heddlu.
I can’t have Sergeant Anwyl’s North Wales Police colleagues reporting his daughter for speeding. Seventeen is never an excuse. I must evade a first offence. Bad career move.
The town is busy, although not heaving like nearby Porthmadog which draws the tourists now the warmth of summer has banished the rain for a few days. Reason to avoid going that way and getting held up. I have a better way to save time. No marks for getting to college late.
The main road north is busy, and I wait for my chance to dive across the roundabout, then cut through to the coastal road along the Llyn Peninsula.
Control the speed. Other adrenaline boosts will come. Time to negotiate traffic.
The shadow of the railway bridge looms. As I slow for the roundabout beyond, a brick dislodges.
It falls. I swerve – into the ditch.
Instinct causes me to smash my bike. Tumbling. Alive.
Sheep bleating. Ewes and lambs. Whistles. Commands to dogs.
A distant tractor.
A farm. Familiar and hovering at the edge of my mind.
Smells are an elusive clue. Blossom scents drift in on the cool breeze. Baking bread tempts my nostrils and stirs my stomach. Clean laundry spoilt by sweat – mine.
So hungry. How long have I been unconscious? Or asleep?
Finally, vision. Shafts of sunlight creeping across a wooden floor. Towards the bed with its blood red sheets – wrinkled and tossed off. Embossed bracer undisturbed on my wrist. Black nightdress not hiding the bruises. Superficial. So, something protected me. Motorcycle leathers and a helmet.
As I stir, the nightdress rides up revealing a spiral seashell tattoo on my right hip. Hidden, unlike the red briar roses on my right arm and ankle.
When did I get so many?
But facts fragment like a mirror crashing without end. Like my motorbike tumbling in pieces.
Use that last memory. Bad move as my head throbs. But the accident is an anchor in a storm of memories.
I shuffle the sounds and smells into order.
Home. Well, at the family farm in Snowdonia. Mam must be cooking.
What meal?
The light on the floor suggests middle of the day – lunch?
Once she’s finished home schooling my chwaer. Lack of hearing hasn’t dulled my sister’s mind, and Gwawr has ambitions. Sign language and lip-reading have taught the family to adjust to her world without sound – to understand more.
My problems dissolve to nothing in comparison.
Was the accident connected?
I’ve been confused for years about who I am. My identity as a girl. Is that why I was attacked? If it was targeted bricks on the edge of my vision – edge of my memory?
Concussion causes memory loss, but enough remains.
Revenge. Mine or theirs? I’m presuming it was an attack. Wasn’t it?
Who by? Names taunt out of reach.
Get dressed. Food might trigger clarity.
I open my wardrobe and clues tumble out. Black clothes – tick. Long sleeve wetsuit – tick. Doc Martens – tick. Scuffed motorcycle leathers.
Why aren’t I in hospital? I should have been taken to one.
Why am I hearing lambs in mid-summer? Spring?
How many months have I skipped?
A wall calendar tells me. Five years.
What have I lost? Missed?
I want answers even if my mind won’t co-operate.
Who gave me the extra tattoos? The spiral seashell on my hip makes my heart race. Why?
Choosing the right gear is not hard. Bomber jacket the final touch over a T-shirt. Doc Martens setting off the jeans and studded belt. All black. They trigger a reaction. I tap my bracer. A for Assault. B for Bike. R for Revenge.
A knock at my door derails the thought process.
I respond in Welsh. “Dewch i mewn.”
Nothing happens, even when I repeat “Come in” in English.
I open it. Stare at Gwawr. Or is it? She’s older. Not the pre-teen in my head, but a beautiful teenager. No longer our childhood protégé, but an attractive woman.
Bury the confusion.
Too late. She reads me so well.
I sign, “Head spin moment.”
“We were worried about you, cariad.”
Embrace her. Tears.
My last memory is not who I am. I’m not that speed-obsessed seventeen-year-old.
The gap in my head is a chasm of years.
Hide this turmoil. The holes will vanish.
“I sensed you were awake.” Her smile betrays concern. “Everyone will be pleased. We feared the worst. But we aren’t meant to give clues. Doctor’s orders.”
Standard procedure for amnesia.
How do I know that?
“Mam’s food always inspires me.” My observation impels Gwawr to link arms and lead me down the stairs, saying.
“Always my inquisitive sister.”
Mam is carrying a steaming pot to the wooden table by the kitchen. More names – more memories. Mam’s parents, my nain and taid, sit at either end of the farmhouse table.
Everyone looks at me and cries out.
“We prayed for you to wake.”
“We missed you.”
“Welcome back.”
Hugs and kisses for the resurrected.
“Let’s eat. I’m starving.” Mam’s vegetable soup is superb – thick and hearty. The bread, fresh and memory laden. “I can’t remember the last time I ate properly. Before I left for college?”
Years have passed, but I want a reaction – information.
“Is that your last memory?” Mam struggles to hold back her tears. “Anything else?”
I ensure I’m facing Gwawr as I speak. She’s mastered reading lips, if we enunciate clearly.
“I remember where I am. The family farm, Tyn-y-llyn. Tick – who you all are. And who I am. Yes, crashing my bike on the way to college is the most vivid image, even if some of the details have gone.”
Mam stands up. “I need to call Doctor Vaughan.”
“Is he the one treating my amnesia? If that helps us. I realise the accident must have been years ago. But it’s where my mind returns to.”
And there are fragments demanding attention as they drift on my periphery.
Why? The doctor might clarify – if he wants to.
Childhood memories. Another home.
Before the divorce. Did I cause the break-up? For the same reason I was attacked?
My identity.
But the speeding teenager on the bike isn’t me now.
“Did I smash up another bike?” Searching faces is better – sometimes – than asking simple questions. “That bridge over the A498 was the perfect spot for an assailant. I always slow there. Position myself for the roundabout—”
I’ve been there since. On another bike – a black Ninja.
“Taught by the best.”Gwawr signs the clue.
Who is the best? Motorcycle cops. Tad’s colleagues.
So, the accident had positive consequences – their help. Or was their involvement in place already?
More questions. More rabbit holes for my mind.
Nain and taid grasp each other’s hands – glance at me then each other. Shaking more than old age brings.
“Please, give me time. Everything is there.”
I stand. Touch my toes, then my nose.
Tap my bracer as my tattoos tingle a thought.
S for Siblings.
“Time to walk down to the lake. I have to swim.”
“Not in those clothes, cariad. You have—”
“A wetsuit upstairs. Thanks, nain.”
#
My skin remembers the fabric – warm, protective, close-fitting. Neoprene. Perfect for wild swimming in any weather.
I change, keeping the bracer on as usual.
Gwawr joins me in her suit. She brings towels in case the sun fails us.
We jog to the shimmering water, the llyn that gives our home its name. Generations of Pughs have worked these mountain pastures above the lake.
We lay the towels on rocks warming in the sun. I climb another rock and dive in. It was always safe here. Embraced by the water, the moorland, and the sky.
I dive deep, feet propelling and arms pulling. Breath retained, released slowly. Push for the far bank. It’s possible. Determination.
But something feels wrong. This isn’t the water I crave. No waves pounding the beach. I grab for a fleeting image, but it shatters leaving just a taste – sea salt.
Why?
The coast road to college in Pwllheli by the sea. Except I’m no longer that teenager.
I dive back into the freshwater. My sister a rippling shadow beside me.
My mind knows but teases me. Sidestep the jagged edges. Lateral game-play. The childhood quirk. Gwawr looks the same age as I was when I crashed. Seventeen with my life unclear. College awaiting a real vocation. Indecisive. Torn between parents. Sheep in my blood but an urge to help people.
C for Crafty and Curveball and Clues.
Gwawr will play by my rules. Not the doctor’s orders.
Back on the home shore, the chance to probe.
“How’s college? Better than mine was?”
She dries herself, humming melodically, then signs.
“My sneaky sister. Research will get me to Uni – history probably. I’m tempted by law. But potential clash. Any suggestions? Advice?”
Law sounds like tad’s calling – law keeper. Heddlu.
“Not farming then.” I glance at my hands. Not calloused enough to be a true Pugh. “None of us had Alwyn’s gift with machinery, except Uncle Ivor tinkering with the tractors.”
“And Owen serves by fighting fires. Uniforms don’t appeal to me. And you always were a fighter. The teenage champion outsmarting law and order. Age has never stopped you – or troublemakers.”
Encouragement to delve. Have I got time? Time is different for a historian than for police like tad. A fighter for justice. What do I believe is worth fighting for? Did I challenge tad? Or did I heed his example?
“For truth and justice – and the Welsh way of life. From sheep to streets. Never a dead end then.”
“Can I leave you, Sparkle? Until your doctor comes. I have an essay to write on the Enigma Code.”
I gesture back to the farmhouse and smile my agreement. Her clues have been enough triggers for my mind.
C for Cryptology as in the Enigma Code.
A for Assault. B for Bike. R for Revenge. S for Siblings.
CRABS
Acronyms – my mind triggers. The rivets on my wet bracer help. And the tattoos tingle with new thoughts.
A number tumbles through my brain. For what? Evidence 101.
BRACERS if E is for Evidence and a second R is for Risks and Riding.
Could tad have persuaded me to join the police? At 18? Could I stand the discipline? I’ve never conformed, even if chapel keeps me from straying too far. But I’ve taken risks – risked the censure of others.
Where did those risks take me? Was the accident the price I paid? Did someone attempt to stop me? Even try to kill me? I had enemies even then and earlier.
But murder seems extreme. Or did I deserve it? I was a target. I took risks and stood up for the underdog. Do I still? Or was that my lesson? A lesson that decided my fate and career.
I skim stones across the llŷn and shift focus, unleashing my mind.
Writing Wings 