Having posted the conclusion to Chapter Six of Fevered Fuse, there were a few invaluable revelations for Sparkle to move her life forward. The next two chapters lead to another impactful memory, long as originally written as a short story.

Here is a recap of previous events.  

RECAP: After a strange text message draws a young woman to a bar, she is knocked off her motorbike as she answers her phone, saying, “Sparkle Anwyl”. A flashback to an earlier motorcycle accident confuses Sparkle when she wakes up at her family’s sheep farm. Amnesia has blotted out her occupation and the identity of her husband. She swims and sleeps to remember. Memories of an old lesbian relationship and an early case as a uniform police officer hint at her realising she had a ‘detective lover’.

If you wish to know more, there are links to the previous Fevered Fuse chapters that can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

#

FEVERED FUSE

Chapter Seven

Detective Anwyl

Saturday 2nd April 2016

Jackdaws caw and sheep bleat.

Blossom scents on the cool breeze. Home cooking tempts me as the jigsaw of shattered images takes form.

I’m a detective. My dying tad said, ‘CID is your logical way forward.’ Our war is against crime.

The visitors are downstairs. The 5 feet 8 inches grey-haired woman speaks Welsh fluently – unlike my English doctor. Fifties and warmly formidable. She must be my boss.

Dressed and head focused, I greet her.

“DCI Baines in person. Whom my tad called ‘the best detective NWP has.’  And I’m allowed to call you Ffion, even on duty in Porthmadog.”

She laughs and touches my shoulder. “Some might disagree and claim another detective is the best. You remember more than you told Robyn. Are you keeping secrets?”

I look at the doctor and motion to the breakfast table. Mam is already producing a full breakfast – eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, cockles, and laver bread, of course. Welsh plus.

“My head still has a few. Sleep helps. And your arrival triggered memories of my tad encouraging me into CID. Joining your team.”

Mam produces Ffion’s mint tea and my black coffee.

Robyn insists on tea diluted with milk. No sugar. Wife or medical sense?

“And no traumatic nightmares?” asks Ffion.

Lurking but not clear. “Convicted. Well, the school bully leader who got arrested – before I stopped being uniform. But I suspect Cadell Pryce is free – his sentence should be up. Or has he re-offended? No. Somehow, I sense he’s out there.”

“And you feel threatened? In reality or your head?”

Reparation paid. Maybe a clue, but no more.

“Revenge is over both ways. I’m moving on. One memory at a time – like a jigsaw puzzle.”

But there are mislaid pieces. A stray number – meaningless. My mind has buried secrets – like my husband. Except my grandparents walk in. Their expressions last night are a warning – don’t go there yet. Outside? Sidestep one issue. Feel for the piece at the centre.

“The most recent accident left me superficially bruised. So, I was wearing protection like motorcycle leathers and a helmet. But still bad enough to cause amnesia.”

I watch for reactions. Clues to the incident. Ffion remains silent, but the doctor has his excuse to display his knowledge.

“Your accident caused structural damage to the brain, a traumatic brain injury like a cricketer being hit by a ball. Your motorcycle helmet protected you from an external force and more serious injury.”

Tick – motorbike accident, hence the echo from my accident in 2011.

“Why the fragments? Isn’t post-traumatic amnesia immediate and concentrated on the incident – and, yes, that’s a blank.”

“I began my evaluation by performing a complete medical history. North Wales Police have detailed files, so your 2011 injuries were recorded. Yes, back then your doctor suspected concussion.”

Ffion and mam glance at each other, then me. I read their minds.

“Repeated concussion could be a factor. Yet my memories are returning. Can the brain reroute its way around damaged areas?”

Robyn hesitates, toying with his food. I give him time to think and eat some cockles, savouring the shellfish.

“I’d be remiss to lie. Studies suggest the brain repairs itself from one concussion, but from multiple concussions, depending on the severity of the injury, you could have mild … impairment, consisting of deficits in memory and concentration later in life. But by all accounts, your mind is unusual.”

“DC Anwyl – Sparkle is talented with brain puzzlers. The holes will vanish. I’m convinced of that.”

Ffion’s belief in me is uplifting and reassuring.

“So, if you all keep jogging my memory by exposing me to significant articles from my past, that should speed the rate of recall. Correct?”

Robyn nods and relaxes by spiking a mushroom.

“Wearing a helmet, both times, was crucial, so I agree that recovery is likely. Plus, I did a physical examination for traumatic brain injury, also known as post-traumatic amnesia, and I ran various diagnostic tests, such as neuroimaging, electroencephalograms and blood tests. Your symptoms tally with retrograde amnesia – the loss of memories that were formed shortly before the injury. Clearly, you have ‘holes’ in your episodic memory activity that match the damage to the hippocampus.”

Hippo as in Africa or as in Horses. The wrong trigger or a clue?

“My older memories seem clearest and more easily accessible than events occurring just prior to the trauma. But there are still gaps. And the events nearest in time to the incident that caused the memory loss may never be recovered.” I hesitate. Shivers of fear about what I have lost – who I’ve lost.

Gwawr signs, “Chill. Focus.” Reassuring. She switches to spoken words – careful and deliberate. “The neural pathways of newer memories are not as strong … as older ones that have been strengthened by years of retrieval and re-consolidation. Are the repressed holes memories?” She looks at me, then the doctor. Someone has been doing her research, as usual.

Robyn ensures that he faces her, so his lips are visible. “Impressive question. Yes, that is possible as dissociative amnesia is selective. It can be temporary, and memory may return once the stressors are removed. Sparkle, your sister is correct. If memories have been buried in the past, then those repressed memories will take time to emerge.”

Buried by what? Who was my secret lover? Not Bran, so who? My ring finger is a clue. I’m married or was. My memory of Nerys and Bran’s affair threw up suggestions that stirred thoughts about ‘my detective lover.’ One that tad didn’t suspect. Did Ffion ever know?

Why is it buried? Not just concussion.

I push my seat back and stand. “Sorry, I need to swim. It cools my mind – helps. Then we can continue – outside.”

##

Chapter Seven = 967 words

Chapter Eight

Voice of Reason

Saturday 2nd April 2016

Ffion and Robyn are sitting on a rock with Gwawr, waiting for me to re-engage with reality after my swim. My boss is dabbling a hand in the lake.

My sister slips into the water as I climb out, then signs. “Knew you wanted to be alone with your memories.”

“Usually, but you help. Enjoy your swim.”

It is harder than I expected to face the truth. The jigsaw is still fractured. I mustn’t jump to conclusions. But Bran was my cover. How much did my family know?

Ffion hands me my towel. “Any clearer after diving into this cold water?”

What does she know?

“More like questions that could be progress. Questions about – relationships. I suspect keeping them apart from work might have locked some of that away.”

“Any clue what? Interacting with colleagues has never been a problem, most of the time. Although you’re a valuable team player.”

But her face says, not always. And it reminds me of nain and taid ignoring me. Except in my memory, my grandparents warned me away from same-sex relationships.

“There was an incident at school – before I joined the police. Nothing illegal, except in some people’s eyes.”

Realisation floods her face and Robyn’s. He intervenes.

“I’ve seen nothing that would affect your job. Even your tattoos are more strictly regulated. So, it’s unlikely that your relationship is connected to the accident.”

I twine my fingers together.

Ffion touches my arm. “Do you disagree? Have you remembered what your current case was? Or who you were assigned with?”

I close my eyes. Attempt to focus. Fleeting faces and names. Concussion has blocked their relevance and roles.

I shake my head. “I need another trigger – a recent case perhaps.” My bare ring finger tingles, as do my tattoos.

“Maybe if I were home.”

“Home isn’t here? Then where?” Ffion squeezes my hand. “What do you remember?”

“Black Rock Sands seems relevant – not just from an old uniform case. Swimming in the sea. And a relationship with another detective. Who? From my ring finger, I’d conclude we were engaged or married.”

“Correct deduction. Any names?”

Ffion smiles. She knows but won’t say. Male or female? Dead or alive?

“Only the ones of those it isn’t. They may not be police anymore. He may have been … killed in the line of duty.”

Robyn winces. What does he know? Was my husband a corpse he examined?

Not Robyn’s role. He’s a neurologist, not a coroner.

“Whatever happened, you made the right decisions, so don’t blame yourself.”

Does that mean I rejected ‘my leanings’ and conformed? Or that an investigation had consequences. Have I rejected what others called ‘strange tastes?’ Why can’t I remember?

Because the name is ‘locked in my heart’, and the concussion has sealed my mind tight.

“Until I remember more, I can’t blame anyone. I must find a trigger.”

The stray number in my head must be our phone – our landline.

“Ffion, I need to ring a number – now. Can I use your mobile, please?”

“As long as you don’t cheat and check anything else.” A wink reassures me.

“Copper’s honour I won’t. You can dial, and we can listen on speaker phone.”

I give her the numbers. “I think home must be this telephone number.”

The phone rings three times, and then we hear the recorded message.

“A is for Arson. C is for Cold Crimes. E is for Evidence. All these reasons are why we’re not here. So, use your intelligence.”

That voice – female, South Wales, the tone dark and sensual.

Shivers up my spine – warm and thrilling. My tattoos tingle.

The Voice of Reason – my partner.

I close my eyes. The dawn of our love returns.

##

Chapter Eight = 624 words

###

Chapter Seven & Eight = 1,591 words

Apologies for the delay in posting this conclusion to Chapter Six of Fevered Fuse. Here is a recap of previous events. To make sense of the characters mentioned in this chapter finale, please read at least Parts One & Two.

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… back in her memories of a past relationship.

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 3

Sunday 22nd February 2015

As I sit at home waiting for Bran, my confusion grows.

Cadell wanted revenge. Lies feed that – even after the crime is solved.

What was Nerys’s alibi? What was her motive for helping me? Love?

A bell rings. The front door. Bran by the key turning in the lock. He steps in, grinning and carrying the tell-tale roses, champagne and chocolates. Still acting as the boyfriend even when he’s not the one. So, why the guilty act?

He hugs me, caressing my shoulders gently, fingers kneading my neck. His kiss is lingering, his tongue teasing. But it never means anything. It never has. Play-acting – the friend who wants more.

My mind lingers on the stupid gifts. Alarm bells.

“Put the roses in a vase, annwyl – the bubbly and chocs in the fridge. First, we celebrate my release—”

“A meal at our favourite restaurant?”

“Not yet.”

He scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom. I protest. My heart thumps against my chest. Mind flips. Unexpected. Wrong. It’s not this easy. It will never be with him. I have a lover.

He lays me on the bed, hands caressing me. Lifting my tee. Kisses like butterfly wings on my exposed stomach. Hunger is forgotten. Betrayed by desire.

This isn’t what I want. Bran has always tried too hard – ignoring my leanings. This man tries slow seduction. No frantic fumbling to remove my jeans. Hands find places he’d missed before. Tremors tempt my resolve. This is all wrong. Bran knows I won’t do this.

The wave of pleasure feels wonderful. My hands dance on his chest.

No. Wrong person. This can’t happen.

A feather-touch on my lips. Fingers exploring my face. Down, searching for hidden nipples.

I clutch my head. Blood pounding. Gasping for breath. My body wants this – needs him. Betraying me. Pull him closer. He smiles. Grins? Why?

He slips off my jeans. My body screams for him as fingers move down, drawing out buried secrets.

This must stop. My boundaries are being invaded. Why, when we had an agreement?

Don’t let him. He doesn’t stop. Just continues his fluttering exploration of my semi-naked body. Fingers tracing the edge of my sports bra.

My body betrays my resolve. Shivering. Squirming. Aroused.

My mind wants to fight – call this rape. But Bran is my mask. I can’t accuse him. I’ve encouraged him – want him. This feels wrong.

Thumbs massage my thighs – float teasingly together. Hovering touch of my damp knickers. Gentle, yet firm. Spiralling to the centre where—

Where only one person has the right to go.

But not the first.

Nerys Jernigan. She aroused me this way.

The shivers and tattoos tingling return. The out-of-tune violin screeches. I break away. Reality hits me. I perch on the bed.

Bran slinks beside me, kisses me again – lightly. Another passion-starved lover. And traces of an ashtray.

Adrenaline becomes Anger.

“What’s wrong, annwyl? You were enjoying that. We’ve pretended for too long. This time, I made all the right moves—”

“Ones that Nerys taught you. You slept with her – last night. And then you both seduce me. Why?”

He looks at me as if I’ve hurt him. He gapes innocently. “That’s crazy. I just realised I needed to be gentler – more responsive. Isn’t that why you have strange tastes?”

His eyes contradict the excuses.

“No. You mimic her caresses. The slut plotted with you. Her alibi. You left work early and rang me late. Pric pwdin. You stink of her. I’ve been so stupid. Why her?”

“You ask why, when you work 24/7, or your mind does.” He stands and points at the bed. “You want me to cover for you. What do I get? Nothing. I want sex too. This is the twenty-first century. Jeez, eff cripes. You’re such a hypocrite. You get sex when you want it. You fucked Nerys and then left her – and I covered for your betrayal. Payback is a bitch.”

I close my eyes and try to remember the real passion. It is there – but only with the right partner. Bran can never replace my real love. It’s impossible – despite my compromised resolve.

“You and Nerys deceived me. Did she set this up?”

“Not exactly. We slept together, twice, maybe three times. And it felt good. Isn’t that why you were lovers?”

Yes, I nearly let her seduce me today. But nothing happened.

“Yes, and we had to part. But I didn’t break a commitment to my partner – even if you both tried. Why?”

“Nerys was there when you weren’t. She had time for me and laughed with me. She proved my innocence. Yes, she was my alibi. But she dealt with Cadell. You just did your damn duty. Without Nerys, you would be tramping streets – or dead in the water.”

I fume at his naivety – and mine. And at the betrayal. They played me. But it ends here. I don’t need a fake boyfriend to threaten my life.

“It’s been…interesting…knowing you. I can’t judge all men by your deviousness, Bran – nor all women by Nerys’s lies. Yes. I slept with her, not you. But I’m glad our deception is over. We can’t trust you with our secret. Get out now – and leave the spare key and any copies you made.”

No scene. Bran grabs his clothes – plus the cheap champagne and chocolates for Nerys. He slinks out – no doubt to her.

Then the silence, broken by body-shaking tears. Frustration and confusion. My resolve was broken. I am the betrayer.

Where have I gone wrong? What clues did I miss? I recall the events that led to the empty room – the upended life. The deceptions that were forced on us.

The crime. Too focused on Crime.

Deaf – metaphorically. Gwawr is physically registered as deaf. Yet she hears with a deeper sense – a talent that I’ve yet to learn. A gifted person who hears more clearly than anyone else, using her heightened awareness and appreciation. Why haven’t I learnt to read the signs?

Meaningless letters jumble.

Blinkered by the crime.

Distracted by a simple burglary. By the spiteful bully and the false friend.

C was for Cadell and Crime.

And for Cheats. All the letters were there, but my mind games failed.

C for Cadell, H for Habits. E for Evidence. A for Accomplice. T for Timing. S for Suspect. CHEATS.

And N for Nerys. Ffwc. Crime. Answers. Evidence. Reasons. The big C—

The blow constricts my breath.

I must ring my tad. Is he working? Unlikely. He needs me. I call his mobile.

“Marc Anwyl.”

Bleary. Tired. I’ve woken him.

“Tad, I’ve been so wrong.” Choke back tears. “Please, I need to talk. I’ll come—”

“No. I’m on my way to your flat. Stay there, Meinwen.”

This flood is not me – the cool cop.

#

I’m still crying when the doorbell rings. Tad.

I hug him and stroke his bald head.

“I didn’t realise. It’s cancer – the treatment. You didn’t want to tell me – anyone. I understand. But I’m here, and I love you.”

I pull him closer. Too late?

He holds me. Weeps with me, although his grip is as firm as ever. Never willingly weak.

“I don’t blame you. I hide behind a tough facade every day. Always have done.” He strides into the front room and eases into the sofa. Wipes some tears away. “Was I too tough as a father?”

I stand beside him. Hold his naked head and caress it. Precious. What is too tough?

“Strict, yes. Never harsh. You made me what I am – as did mam. Gave me rules – a code to honour.” Tested me every day. Today. He’d wanted me to investigate. “Pushed me to be—”

“The best, Meinwen. That’s what you are becoming. As a child, you were inquisitive… needing to solve everything.”

“Except I missed all the signs – your baldness, Bran’s cheating, Nerys’s lies. And I forgot the rules. I don’t even know what I want anymore.” I look at him, into his soul. “I want you back with mam. I want our family whole again. I will convince her, as I know she still loves you in her heart.”

He drops his head in his hands. Our tears become gasping sobs.

I drop to my knees – grab him. Trembling as he cries. Eventually, he settles, while my heart breaks.

“I don’t have much time. Maybe four months. I was diagnosed too late with stage four prostate cancer. I kept missing check-ups.” He shakes himself – smiles. “But, if you want, I’ll come home with you. Learn to be a family. I can do that, at least, although I dreamt of more.”

More? What do fathers want? Love. I crave that affection and fear the outcomes. Like losing him again. Torrent of tears. And confusion.

“I have a confession, tad. The relationship is over. Bran was sleeping with my best friend.” He nods. Don’t stop there.

Not yet. Too much shit to handle. Not everything – some things must remain hidden.

“Inevitable, even without my concerns. The warning signs were there. Your sister sensed those—”

I start, then stare. And I didn’t see them. “Gwawr told you? When?”

Tad closes his eyes and smiles. She has that effect.

“When we all lived in Garndolbenmaen, and you first started dating Bran. Even back then, she sensed something was troubling you. She was frightened for you… all the bullying … the Goth Patrol.”

My sensitive sister frightened for me – unaware of how deep I had gone. Of what I was becoming – a vigilante. Or did she suspect? Had she tried to talk to me? Blinkered to her love. So, Gwawr talked to tad. Our precious role model.

“So, that was why you dropped suggestions that my class do a project on Heddlu Gogledd Cymru and their operation in Porthmadog.” I laugh at the blatant but clever move. “Kept me off the wrong streets but on the right ones.”

“It worked. Although I had to let you solve the Bran issue.”

I gesture to the kitchen. Make us our favourite fresh black coffee. Delay my hardest confession. When do I admit my mistake? If it is one.

Settled in the front room, I sip the black motivator. The thoughts escape.

“Nerys Jernigan helped me. Today … as before. But the reasons were false. She used me to get Bran.” Pause. Breathe. Heart beating. Tattoos tingling – encouraging. Half-truths are bubbling. “Confession – I slept with her a few years ago. Bran was the … rebound. Relationships like that must be wrong. The chapel condemns it. Taid Pugh would cane me.”

Will my Heddlu colleagues call me ‘dyke’ as the bullies did? Ignore that. My decision is made as I continue. “A mess. I’m confused, tad.”

His tears begin again. He shakes his head. Why didn’t I remain quiet? His rejection is next. Found then lost.

He takes my hands and smiles.

“I knew about your ‘affair’ with Nerys. You need to discover yourself, and that’s not a sin, whatever preachy chapel folk say. You’ll find the right person – maybe a woman, maybe a better guy than me. Who cares if you truly love each other? That’s all I want.”

He isn’t angry. I’m not being thrown out on my arse. He doesn’t suspect. The right person lives with me.

“You knew? How?”

“Clues. Concern about the Goth Patrol. You and Nerys were so close. Teachers talked but didn’t know. Life gets complicated. Crime can be complex. Cops sense things. You’re learning that. Gut feelings, or in your case, tattoos tingling, and lateral thinking. You started young, and that helps.”

I laugh. Tad even sees my weird quirks. What next?

“This time, I don’t have the time to waste edging you on to the next step. I’ll be blunt. As I suggested last year, CID is your logical way forward.”

Alarm, even with hints. “But aren’t I too young? Maybe in a few years—”

“As I said, you learnt to read the signs growing up, even if you took a strange path. You’ve had three feverish years on the street. Your mind is your gift. CID needs your wiles. Never forget my tad was eighteen when he landed at Normandy.” He reaches into his jacket and removes a folded form. “Anyway, applications are open. This will get you started, although there’s a lot of studying and learning ahead.”

“I’m already learning – from you, tad. And from others.”

Does he realise how close one detective is to me? Same flat. Same bed. Same quirks.

“Keep learning from the best. I even made a recommendation that you post here in Porthmadog, which might fast-track the process. You know DCI Ffion Baines from various cases, even from before you did your initial training. She’s the best detective NWP has had for a few decades, and she’s understanding.”

I glance at the form. Mind racing. Is there time?

“Once I’m accepted, it’ll mean seventeen weeks away perhaps. Will you be here when—?”

“For you, Meinwen Sparkle Anwyl, I will be down here for that day… and then forever.” From around his neck, he shows me a dove on a chain. “My mam gave me this emblem of Saint David … so I never lost her.”

Forever in my heart and actions. We embrace. Homecoming beckons.

##

2,214 words

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.

#

2,707 words

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