The Meifod Claw: A Comedy

By J W Bowe

Herbert, Derek and Benjamin have a secret.
It flies.
Now who are they going to trust?
Boys, girls, wheelchairs… secrets beyond gravity, a comedy above North Wales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Jul 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995672925

Book preview

THE MEIFOD CLAW

BY J

W

BOWE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A Serious

Biscuits

book

.

www.seriousbiscuits.com

First

printing

2017

J W Bowe asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of

this

work

.

Copyright © J W

Bowe

2017

Version 1.0 (ePub) eISBN: 978-0-9956729-

2

-

5

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Illustration Copyright ©  J W

Bowe

2017

Cover design by Kit Foster Design.

www.kitfosterdesign.com

Book design and set by Katherine Trail.

Line and Copy Editing by Katherine Trail.

www.ktediting.com

www.seriousbiscuits.com

ISBN: 978-0-9956729-

2

-

5

For

Anna

.

And Jason Copping.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

PART I

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

PART II

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Epilogue

Coming soon…

THE BRINE IN ME

Preface

One

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Dearest thanks to those who have aided, abetted or otherwise contributed.

To those who have given, and most especially those

who

gave

…

By my tail, all my

love

xxx

Tangwhin Farmhouse had seen little activity for some time when it fell into the care of old Derek Gainsborough in the chill winter of 1991. At some point in the past it had perhaps been immaculate, but over the years the house had quietly retreated into a more modest display of rising damp and falling eaves. The farmhouse, surrounding gardens and barn had cost Derek most of his life’s savings, with the vast majority of its total purchase paid for by a familial benefactor who had yet to move in with him, despite encouraging displays of certitude that that would be the case. In any case, the nephew had paid his share to the effect that the house was more his than Derek’s.

Left alone, Derek found there were qualities to this formerly impressive house and surroundings that he enjoyed, but still he struggled to endure his first winter above the rising hills and heathlands of Cerrigydrudion, North Wales. Bound to his wheelchair for indeterminable years, he compensated as best he could, and the kitchen of Tangwhin Farmhouse became the majority of his home. Weeks rolled by with greater regularity than the wheels of his chair, and all word of company ceased

at

all

.

What circumstance should press a man

to

this

?

PART

I

One

Mornings pressed hardest upon Derek – chiefly the difficulty of remaining warm. Having dragged his bed to sit opposite the Aga in the kitchen, he found himself with an increasing desire to stock the wood burner and remain in bed for great periods of his days. These periods ran to weeks, and Derek wondered if he might have been forgotten to the world entirely. Some days he thought that was the case and others not, but regardless, the white-capped hilltops of North Wales bore down hard upon the man whose needs were the oils and vigour of summer.

With effort and a heave, Derek yanked his left leg to meet his right over the edge of his bed. He breathed heavily, slowly, deeply, down beyond the ridge of his great beard, where one hundred thousand serpentine hairs wove themselves into his woolly jumper. He waited for the morning to find pathways through his body, and in half-pained twitches and contortions, life began to move inside him again until it coursed with great pressure into the fibres behind his eye, and with a start, he stood heavy upon his slight frame. Throughout the kitchen there was stillness.

He looked across and saw the kitchen windows that opened into the courtyard were thick with condensation and bites of frost, while the worktops were littered with the flora and fauna of one hundred days of winter. Gloves, glasses, papers and tools, everything reflected upon the chrome kettle that sat on the hob of the Aga. Derek thought he had found himself within a snow dome that waited for life to be shaken upon it. Not that he even liked to be shaken any more, and so today Derek simply held himself upright as best he could and imagined the chances of him not

being

mad

.

Herbert and Benjamin weren’t coming, he concluded. Of course they weren’t; he was too old and they were both too young to recognise folly. That’s why he hadn’t heard from them in over a month. Perhaps it was two months, he thought.

A fold in his left knee sent Derek craning over then, and with a half-fall, he twisted into his wheelchair and caught his breath slowly in careful measures.

Once again there was stillness.

‘Plots and schemes are not plans,’ he told himself quietly and at once felt alone, old and

a

fool

.

By chance then he heard a vibration.

He looked up and peered towards the windows as a single pane danced with irritated jolts inside its frame. A dense sound of humming followed and then the sharp bang of a door closing. The postman, he guessed. Boots stepped onto fresh snow outside with a sweet crackling compression in every step. Then in two groans, the wooden kitchen door banged to attention, and within an hour, Derek was sitting on a chair, taking considered pulls upon a joint while five open boxes sat on a rectangular table next to him. Three of these boxes contained a multitude of provisions – enough for several weeks of careful consumption. Another contained a letter and a highly wrapped plastic container of ready-ground cannabis. The last box contained an item that he began to stare at while he rolled up another paper. It held a coil of copper with two wires running through it that led into a plug. He smiled a little and pulled on his beard. If the letter he had been given would reveal the object’s purpose, it would be all the more satisfying still for him to figure it out himself, he reasoned. After all, he had been, without certification, trained as a mechanic in his early years, flirting with motorbikes before he settled into engine rooms at sea. Somewhere between his knowledge and his tales had always been the truth – to everything.

Carefully, he placed what remained of his joint onto the rim of an ashtray and pulled again on his beard while his studious eyes pondered the coil. He blew a lungful of smoke onto the object and was equally amused and disappointed that this approach had failed to entice the object to life. Reaching for the letter, he took another pull and unfolded the A4 piece of paper before reading.

Derek,

A delay in our plans . . . and my apologies . . . it really is one thing or another, isn’t it? Hope these parcels will see you through till we arrive. What’s that about the coil, you say, Uncle? Ben’s gift. Plug her in and tell your regional electrical provider to swivel. Sure you’re enjoying the smokes already – sent you thrice the ounce.

Anyways, we’ll both be with you by two weeks Sunday.

Much to

do

then

.

Much to do

before

then

.

See you soon, lots of love, cluck-cluck,

Herbert

xx

PS! Benjamin urges you to unplug all appliances in the vicinity that you do not want running when you plug in that gift. That thing

runs

hot

!

Otherwise have a safe and pleasant journey.

See you soon, Uncle.

Derek placed the letter down, took the coil and plugged it into the nearest socket. Immediately, both overhead light bulbs fired to life and burst. The microwave started but was drowned out by the sound of Jim Croce blaring sentiment from the radio.

Derek stared into the distance. Herbert would be with him by two weeks this Sunday.

So what day of the week did that make today?

Derek thought on that for the rest of the morning.

Two

March arrived in North Wales with its timely reticence. Threads of spring, brooding earlier mornings, sprouts of dandelions and dotted anemones wove their way into the fibres of the landscape. The tenacious wind bags of winter persisted, lifting away pieces of the passing season while threatening weeks of spring rain soon saw the eaves of the farmhouse and its barn shed their deepest tears. It was to the irrational patter of these droplets that Derek had found himself an engrossed audience, sitting in his wheelchair and looking out across the courtyard to

the

barn

.

From some distance away, he heard them then: the growing sounds of a diesel engine that rose and fell with the landscape. He leaned forward from his chair and looked down the driveway. Droplets of rain smacked on his head and he saw Benjamin pull the van onto the track while Herbert reached over from the passenger seat and gave repeated thrashings to

the

horn

.

‘Ahoy, shanty man!’ Herbert called out as they pulled up close to the centre of the courtyard. He leapt down from the cab and in a half spin, sent the van door slamming back into place.

For a few moments, Herbert stood there amongst the rain in front of his abandoned uncle. Derek sat back in his chair and hid behind the door frame.

There followed a pause.

Herbert headed for the door as a crest of smoke flowed out, and he stopped again.

‘You’re late,’ came Derek’s voice from inside the frame.

‘And wet,’ replied Herbert as he stood to the side, out of sight of Derek. Over in the cab, Benjamin sat himself back in the driver’s seat, thinking he would let this scene play out till its inevitable lapse to distraction. He looked over to the barn and began considering many things to himself.

‘It’s been a miserable winter, Herb,’ Derek went on, still out of sight. ‘Too long . . . too long on

my

own

.’

‘Yeah, I did see your beard, Derek. Is it tame? I don’t think I can come in until I know

it’s

safe

.’

‘Your sister hasn’t been to visit for I don’t know

how

long

.’

‘Well, we’ve come to sort all that

as

well

.’

‘Then I better put the kettle on. Does your friend come out before

night

-

time

?’

Herbert looked to Benjamin and slapped his hand onto his thigh. ‘Come on now, lad! Come by!’ he yelled, and with an arthritic heave, the driver’s door opened and Benjamin gathered himself together and made fast across the courtyard to the kitchen. He stopped just inside the door and looked up to the broken light fittings while Derek filled the kettle from his chair, his back to

them

both

.

‘Did you bring any more light bulbs, boys?’ he asked.

‘I’ll adjust the coil,’ Benjamin replied, still looking up. ‘Shan’t happen again.’

With a squeak, the tap was turned off, and Derek sat the kettle on his lap, turning his wheelchair with critical purpose until he faced the two boys. Herbert was sitting on a chair beside the table, aimlessly looking about the kitchen. He was cross-legged, fitted out in old denim and woollen weaves with mouse-coloured hair hanging loose about his head. Derek saw his nephew finally look back to him and open his mouth to speak, but he raised a finger in protest.

‘Let me get a look at the pair of you first,’ he told them and placed his hand back down. ‘I’ve almost forgotten what you

look

like

.’

Benjamin shuffled a little on his feet. He did not take to games and considered that if this was how it would be, he might as well take his brown cords and navy sweater and walk the hell out of there, right there and then. He turned his receding black hairline towards Herbert with a look of frayed patience and scratched at his short beard. Herbert returned the gesture with a face that tried its best to temper him, that said he knew his uncle’s games.

A warm smile grew from every wrinkle of Derek’s face then, and like flowers, his eyes unfolded in colour, the grey wash receding and refreshed. Then he laughed, great

and

warm

.

‘It’s very good to see you both,’ he told them and Herbert leapt from the chair, engulfing him in a tangled embrace of woolly jumpers and wheels.

‘This one doesn’t hug then?’ Derek asked as they separated and looked to Benjamin.

‘Nah, he doesn’t,’ Herbert told him and put his right arm around Derek’s shoulder while they both stared at Herbert’s awkward friend. ‘But he does mastermind the impossible.’

Having busied himself making the boys tea, Derek outlined some terms he insisted upon, the sum of which was that the three of them agreed to do nothing more with their day than cooking and smoking and catching up on stories with tea and rum. Derek had offered by way of reason that the house had been quiet for so long that any sudden bustle, exclamation or redecoration could greatly disturb the equilibrium he had been maintaining. Herbert wondered if perhaps his uncle just wasn’t yet ready to give up his life in the galley-house and be forced into a cold bedroom at night.

‘It’s a fair enough plan for the day,’ Herbert broadly agreed. ‘But I’ll be buggered if I’m driving the van into town for provisions while it’s still packed with our belongings. We’ll clear her out at least and then we can go and get some chicken to keep us going.’

This agreed upon as well, Herbert and Benjamin had their tea with something to smoke and then made fast to unload the van while a gathering north-east wind began to drive away the drizzle from the landscape. Derek brewed more tea and noted the rise in bag use. With regular beats of time, he watched Herbert and Benjamin leave and return through the kitchen door and on through to the sitting room. Boxes, bags, weights and measures, beds and other things somehow made their way out of the finite space of a Bedford van and ballooned across the entire sitting room. Above them, the vibrations of a room long forgotten observed these goings-on much like an infant, considering from every corner and beam the tenure of this new habitation as a young child sees fresh toys in

a

pen

.

Moments later, following a hurried goodbye-for-now, Derek found himself alone once more. Only now the stillness around him had been rattled and would not come to settle again.

‘Didn’t they have any luncheon meat?’ Derek asked.

Herbert had been rifling through shopping bags heavy with the weight of all the riches available to the Sunday afternoon Welsh shopping experience of 1992. Derek had spied a tin of

corned

beef

.

‘They did, but luncheon meat always looks sweaty,’ Herbert

told

him

.

‘And corned beef looks like veins,’ added Benjamin half to himself as he sat at the kitchen table.

‘Got some tea bags, didn’t want to chance that,’ Herbert said, much to his uncle’s satisfaction.

‘And rum?’ Derek thought to ask a moment later.

‘There’s rum, Uncle.’

‘Then we’re good to go, boys. Sit yourselves down for a few minutes. Not you though, Ben, you can make my electricity behave and then you can sit down and tell me how your device works. And Herbert . . .’ Derek made sharp eyes across to his young nephew of twenty-six years. ‘Roll something up there, good chap, while you’re not busy. And then after that, either one of you are welcome to explain to me, properly . . . why have we come to live here? Reasons were beginning to

escape

me

.’

Benjamin picked himself up and went into the sitting room to collect a small screwdriver. Herbert sat himself down and looked over the table for some card while outside the sun began to drop away in steep dives across the kitchen window. By the time it had dropped away altogether and shadowed the three souls of that kitchen, they had found themselves at the wheels and mechanisms of conspiracy.

‘But what about friction?’ Derek asked Benjamin, with open palms resting off the end of his wheelchair. He had recently seen Benjamin tame the electricity in their house with no more than a fractional turn of a screw to the coil that he had been sent. Benjamin had given Derek an answer that referred to electromagnetism and frequency harmonics. From this, one thing led to another and some hours later, Derek thought to ask again that simple question of friction and energy.

‘Fuck friction,’ Benjamin summarised, taking a long swig on the bottle of rum and a pull on a joint before he fell into various spasms. It humoured Derek to

watch

him

.

‘Well, that’s certainly the spirit!’ he told Benjamin before looking to his nephew. ‘What say you, Herbie? You’re obviously putting a lot of stock in all this electromagnetics. And the condition of

the

barn

.’

Herbert was leaning onto the chrome bar of the Aga, facing the pair at the table. He was about to speak when the kettle peeped to life and he spun to attention. Taking the kettle from the hot plate, he poured a handsome amount of water into a glass coffee pot. Meaning to answer Derek at this point, he instead peered over the rim of the coffee pot and saw an archipelago of caffeine shorelines descend into their depths, a wave of decadent scents rising up into his nostrils. With a snap, he turned around and saw those with him waiting for some form of response, one that wasn’t the one he had just displayed. Herbert put a joint to his lips, took a pull and went for a seat, passing the smoke on to his uncle.

‘Well, Derek,’ he began slowly. ‘Friction is . . . an attention seeker.’

Displeased with this explanation, Benjamin rolled his eyes and dropped his forearms onto the table in a bid to take control. Not to be undone, Herbert kept his eyes on Derek, raising his left hand up to Benjamin in protest.

‘Okay, okay!’ Herbert said. ‘I’ll answer properly.’

The two boys sat back in their chairs and Herbert began again. ‘Benjamin reckons on there being a relationship betwixt gravity, electricity and magnetism.’

With this, he stood up and went to pour three cups of coffee, leaving Benjamin just enough time to utter that there was a relationship, as Herbert

well

knew

.

Picking up the coffee pot, Herbert continued. ‘I guess us three being here means that all three of us think that there is something to this. Two-thirds of us at least. Maybe we . . . I . . . didn’t include precisely all the details before you agreed to pay your share for the house, Derek.’

He looked down and poured the first cup. ‘Regardless, you can see what Benjamin can do with a couple of strips of alloy.’

Two

cups

.

‘But when you see what Benjamin can do with magnets, electricity and mathematics . . . well, you’ll know why we chose to do this out of the way,

out

here

.’

Three

cups

full

.

Herbert returned to the table in a quiet embrace of his own pride, believing the conviction of what he had said. He passed a cup to Benjamin and one to Derek, sat back and relaxed in his chair.

‘Once again, what about friction?’ Derek asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

Benjamin pulled his chair up to the table with a sudden scrape on the wooden floor and got straight in with his answer.

‘Humans are pretty much at one end of a spectrum,’ he began. ‘Gravity, or whatever gravity turns out to be, owns us. Technology, however, need not be like that. We can lean it towards something other . . . I have two high-quality magnets with their positive sides joined; just dropping it from the roof of this house will show you the delay in gravity. To be honest, that’s a pretty simple system and it’s not really enough for us, for what we have planned. We’re going to have to encourage or coerce a considerable density of electromagnetism to negate gravity or anything else. And without her realising, obviously.’

Benjamin paused for a moment to finish his joint and take the remains of the next one passed along by Herbert. Noting how little remained, he took a pull and stubbed the remains of that one out too. Derek opened his hands out in a gesture that he may continue explaining.

‘That’s not the difficult part – just where we start,’ Benjamin said. ‘The difficult part is getting all that together to power a flying saucer. I’ve never built a flying saucer before, although I’ve built a few odd things the past few years.’

A moment of hesitation filled the space between

them

all

.

Derek would have none of it. ‘When I first set to building my concrete boat, most of the people around me assumed it a funny turn,’ he told them and groped down his beard in long thought. ‘Some still do, even though I built the bastard. Of course’—Derek’s eyes met Benjamin’s across the table—‘I had seen someone build a boat before, if you know what

I

mean

.’

‘Well, this is basically just an air boat,’ Herbert thought out loud, his eyes becoming distant. ‘. . . less concrete . . .’

Thus considered, he took a swig of coffee and looked for a way back into the conversation. Benjamin continued to explain himself, and his summation was simply time, space and money.

‘Speaking of which,’—he glanced to the back door—‘it would be good to actually see the barn. The operations suite, I

should

say

.’

‘It’s a great deal messy in there,’ Derek told them, placing his coffee cup down and reaching for a box of trucker-sized rolling papers. ‘Not good, not good at all. Unpleasant in

there

,

boys

.’

He then spread a large pinch of stout-coloured tobacco up and down the paper, Herbert observing his method.

‘Went in there a few weeks ago,’ he went on, ‘on an off day when the weather was sunny.’ Fumbling for the plastic container, he placed a similar amount of cannabis to sit

on

top

.

A clumpy arrangement, Herbert thought.

‘Bird shit. Rat shit,’ added Derek for effect while his eyes watched his hands at work. He collected the bundle of Rizla together and began to roll it up. Herbert offered him one of the many roaches that he had been making over the course of the day, and Derek took one with a courtesy nod, pushed it carefully into the near end of the roll and tapped it down onto the table with a gestured poise of strike. He then placed it through the small frays of his beard and to

his

lips

.

‘I think it’s structurally pretty much alright though, from where I

can

see

.’

Herbert frowned a little and looked between his uncle and the joint. ‘Are you still talking about the joint, Derek?’

Three

At a little after nine that evening, Derek looked at the clock on the wall and began to pile the evening’s dishes from the table onto his lap. The boys must have been in the barn for over half an hour, he thought – more than enough time to gather the disarray of things. Perhaps he ought to go and check on them.

Perhaps

not

.

What charms there might possibly have been in wheeling outside to the sodden greys in daylight were thoroughly quenched by the time of night. If he was going to be sport enough to wash up, he certainly wasn’t about to stick his head out on deck and get weather-beaten. Carefully, he wheeled himself over to the sink and one by one took the five plates from his lap and stacked them in the washbowl. His arms had meant to push himself up from the wheelchair so he could lean against the sink and steady himself upright for washing the dishes, but they did not do this and instead went back to the wheels – and, in turn, towards the kettle. He wasn’t going to wash up, which somehow meant that he was most definitely not going outside either. He took to making three cups of tea instead and had returned to the table when Herbert and Benjamin came through the kitchen door. Herbert was holding two knitting needles in his left hand, bent at ninety degrees from a third of their length.

‘Had fun out there?’ Derek asked as he watched them take off their shoes.

‘Yup,’ replied Herbert as he came across to the table. ‘We’ve been rutting. With these . . .’ He held up his knitting needles and leaned onto the top of the chair nearest Derek.

Derek peered down his nose at the needles and back up. ‘Ah. So you’re dowsing these days

are

you

?’

‘Indeed. Been showing off some moves to Ben in the barn, taking measurements and that sort of thing. She’s just as she was when my sister and I came to view this place last summer. I had to dowse in front of the estate agent that day and he wasn’t exactly impressed. Nor was my sister, come to think

of

it

. . .’

‘Who is just as she was?’ asked Derek. ‘There’s tea for you both

as

well

.’

The boys sat themselves down at the news, but Herbert moved his cup to the side and placed his hands together edge-down onto the table. He looked at Derek and smiled, slowly moving his hands apart until his arms made an arc in front of him. ‘There’s an energy line running through the barn this big! Bigger, in fact. I can’t show you like this because I’d have to knock my tea off the table.

Even

then

. . .’

He placed his hands back down onto the table. ‘If we didn’t have other plans for that barn, it would house the perfect vibration for a rave . . . but we’re not planning

a

rave

.’

Herbert looked to Benjamin for a sign of approval, but his friend did nothing more than take his first and final sip of that particular cup of tea. Putting it down, Benjamin went to lead the topic of conversation. He even coughed before he spoke.

‘The energy lines appear to have genuine density to them. I thought if Herb’s readings of the line were right when he came for the house viewing, there might be bleeding of its density throughout the house. There might just be a lot more than we thought, which is encouraging.’

Derek scratched at his beard and watched Benjamin from across the table.

‘Ignoring what you just said, Ben, just for a moment . . . what of the barn itself, what did you think

of

that

?’

‘Proper shit hole.’ Herbert leapt in to answer as he took

his

tea

.

‘That might play to our advantage a little if we let it,’ said Benjamin over him. ‘If I built a scale model saucer first, then we could have a reasonable grasp on our theorem and its application. See if it works without having to clear the whole barn out and start again. Maybe it’ll need only a few weeks’ work to

find

out

. . .’

‘That quickly?’ Derek asked as he flashed a box of trucker papers to Herbert’s attention and settled himself back down for the answer.

Benjamin indulged him with some truth. ‘These techniques, this approach, Derek . . . it’s hardly even little-known, and I’ll have to make up a lot of the map along

the

way

.’

‘You mean it might

not

work

?’

‘Perhaps not, but even then that might not be the worst thing. I’m thinking more along the lines of massive electromagnetic over-unity – blowing up the barn. And the house . . . possibly frightening amounts of energy. So I think initially that we should concentrate on doing the necessary to the barn and make a small flying craft, a metre wide . . . two, maximum. Then if that doesn’t blow up the house or cause an electromagnetic apocalypse throughout North Wales, we’ll clean it all up in there and make space for the real saucer, what I came

here

for

.’

Derek sat back into his wheelchair, his eyes glazed with everything he was taking in. For a long moment he thought of the myriad schemes and plans of the men and women that he had known. That which they had sought to do; that which must be done. Where were

they

now

?

Feeling some discomfort, he twisted himself and his great beard around, and looked over to his bed in the corner of the kitchen. When he turned back, he saw Herbert’s hand close to his face, twirling a large joint around between his thumb and forefinger. He saw more then . . . the innocence in the young man’s eyes and a quiet promise that if their scheme went askew, it would not be because the boys knew it secretly to be beyond them. He took the joint with a smile of courtesy.

‘Splendid,’ he said as he lit it up. ‘You’re good boys, both of you. That being said . . . here’s to madness.’

Derek inhaled, then blew out not only smoke but something altogether more surprising. ‘You know . . .’ he started, ‘all this conversation has me feeling social all of a sudden . . .’

‘Suddenly,’ Benjamin corrected while he looked down at the table. When he looked up again, he saw two pairs of eyes looking back at him. ‘Sorry,’ he told them. ‘Pedant for life . . . carry on, Derek.’

‘Thank you, Ben,’ Derek said. ‘Now that’s settled, and even if you are correct, as I was saying . . . I think we should go to

the

pub

.’

He paused to take a final puff and examined the size of the joint as if to make sure it was his final pull. Satisfied, he blew out smoke and passed it along to Herbert while waiting for a reply. When it did not come, he went to cement

the

deal

.

‘I’ve been in dry dock for a long time as you both know. But there’s fresh water about me now and wind in the sails . . . let’s go upstream a little. It’s not too late yet

is

it

?’

‘No, no . . . it’s not,’ answered Herbert, less than enthused at the idea. ‘And we could,’ he continued, looking over at Benjamin before his eyes rolled away over the whitewashed wall to Derek. ‘Or we could . . . not. Honestly, Derek, I’d rather have to talk about the situation with my sister. Plus, I’ve already eaten some crisps today.’

Derek relented. ‘Well, I suppose you two have had a long day,’ he told them, his tone translucent with disappointment. ‘And given that I haven’t seen or heard anything of your sister in weeks and weeks, I could entertain that subject.’

Herbert finished off his tea and took a thoughtful breath. ‘She was seeing a local mechanic called Andrew,’ he said. ‘Uncompromising individual he is, probably a deviant . . . that’s speculation. And she seems to have stopped seeing him for the last time, last I heard.’

Herbert nudged at Benjamin with his elbow and winked before looking back at Derek, who shuffled about in his chair.

‘So you don’t really want to talk about your sister or go to the pub either, Herb. Interesting, but you’re going to have to talk yourself better out

of

this

.’

‘Cocaine,’ his nephew said back, as if ready to play his

trump

card

.

‘Cocaine?’ repeated Derek.

Herbert nodded. ‘Was going to save it for when we catch up with my sister but you may have forced my hand. And enthusiasm.’

‘I see . . . where did you find that

then

,

boys

?’

‘Llewellyn.’ Herbert jumped to

tell

him

.

‘Who?’

‘Llewellyn’

‘A local?’

‘Yup. He runs the pub that you want to go to, The Dragon. My sister said he was a trouper, and he is. He swapped an ounce of weed for a couple of grams. Good beers too. I like the people around here; more than some people do . . .’ Herbert cast a finger of accusation towards Benjamin.

‘Him stayed in the van when we pulled up at the pub. Him thought it was coming on a bit strong to offer a straight swap of narcotics to a man neither of us had ever met before. Him was wrong.

Hang

on

. . .’

With that, Herbert was up and out of his chair and heading into the sitting room. Derek and Benjamin met each other’s attention in a quiet moment.

‘It did seem a bit forward,’ reasoned Benjamin across the table.

Derek nodded a fraction. ‘Not a lot of stopping once that train gets running though,’ he said of his nephew while taking the joint that Herbert had left in an ashtray and blowing life into it. It glowed orange, and he took a long pull and passed it across the table to Benjamin as best he could. Benjamin took it, reclined and began to take generous pulls. The distance between the words of their conversation stretched out and a sense of quiet began to well into the room, the long day beginning to gather around Benjamin. His face wore the shadows of travel and make-do cuisine. The pressure of the tasks ahead, the very reason he had moved to Wales, began to swell in his mind, and he blew smoke up to the far reaches of the kitchen. Derek watched him as the keen watcher he had become since taking a back seat

in

life

.

‘So you two have been to the pub already then?’ he asked quietly.

Herbert strode back into the kitchen, keen to answer before Benjamin did so. ‘I’m afraid so, old sport!’ he told his uncle and placed a small but plump foil wrap of cocaine onto the table. ‘Llewellyn Baiter is his name, the bloke who runs The Dragon. They call him Badger, The Badger Baiter . . . he’s got more going through his pumps than just

pale

ale

.’

They all looked down to

the

foil

.

‘Shall we . . .?’ Herbert

went

on

.

Derek sat back in his chair, resigned to the likelihood that little of the evening would be under his influence. He abstained from answering the question but seemed willing to follow the course.

‘Squire?’ Herbert then asked Benjamin, with no small amount of social pressure. ‘

Shall

we

?’

‘I think we should stick with the plan,’ Benjamin told him as he stubbed out the remains of his smoke. ‘Have it when your sister arrives.’

The room took a breath – sudden but not entirely surprised.

‘But you’ve already had some,’ Benjamin perceived correctly, looking at Herbert.

‘Before I came back in

here

,

yes

.’

‘Is it

any

good

?’

‘Feeling some aggravation to my vex gland so it must be, yes. Hats off to The Badger. Fuck it, I’m just going to have some more regardless of either of you. Have we got a china plate, Derek?’

Like a sprat, Herbert went about his greed. If Derek had answered his question, then Herbert had already forgotten as he opened the stove door of the Aga with the cuff of his sleeve.

‘Good good, that’s calmed down in there,’ he said, peering inside before he closed the door again.

‘You mean you’ve let the fire go out,’ Derek told him and lurched around to get a

better

view

.

‘She’s just settled for our needs, Uncle. You got a china plate?’

‘I do indeed but only if you listen

this

time

.’

Herbert picked himself up and leaned back against the Aga, putting on his best face of concentration.

‘It’s outside . . .’ Derek began. ‘In a box . . . choose your piece. I’m afraid that china doesn’t agree with my old hands. Or the floor for that matter.’

Herbert looked to the back door and back again. ‘Thank heavens we only need your nose for the next part, Uncle. We’ll forget about trying to heat the china and just

enjoy

it

.’

With that, Herbert took a large white plate from a pile of dirty dishes and turned it upside down, considering. Satisfied, he returned to the table and placed the plate down towards its centre, the foil wrap dumped on top before the contents were unwrapped, poured, chopped, divided and presented in six mighty white lines.

It was now 10.15 p.m., Sunday, 21st

March

,

1992

.

Four

Before seven o’clock the next morning, there had been an idea, and that idea had led the three of them outside the house and to the edge of the courtyard, the sky above them still caught in the underworld of pre-dawn. Birdsong called for daybreak, but the hills and peaks of North Wales are not entertained so early in March; rather, the first rays of day look to the east where low-lying sandlings welcome the light amongst the shorelines. Ever old guardsmen, the hills that surrounded Tangwhin Farmhouse would withstand a further turn along the disc before gifting the morning to those who would dwell at their footings.

‘It won’t be until seven twenty-five at least,’ Benjamin remarked of sunrise while he forced his right arm into a beige popper jacket. The clouds had kept the ground from freezing, but the air carried a chill that was pervasive, and feeling that his comment had gone unheard or roundly ignored, he said it again, looking around as he popped his final jacket button to see the other two already halfway down the drive and involved in staccato mutterings between themselves. Benjamin sniffed, grimaced down the back of his throat and set about catching

them

up

.

The cobblestones of the courtyard quickly faltered once he strode onto the driveway, a place where striding ought not to be done on a wet morning. Pools of water fought to gather around peaks and troughs of grass at the verge of the track, and Benjamin would have thoroughly whined and moaned at the conditions had he not been met with the similar appearance of Derek and Herbert as he approached them, all three seeming to have forgotten what had driven them this far. The driveway ahead dropped down a little to a gate opposite the small back road that met their drive. Past the gate, a hill loomed before them that had no discernible track to speak of. Herbert jumped up to the top bar of aluminium, feet swamped and dripping, a poor-quality dye-and-weave jacket pulled over his jumper. Sitting in his chair and feeling at many angles, Derek tucked a blanket further around his legs and looked over the side of the wheelchair to inspect its new creaks and shudders. Leaning his forearms onto the top bar of the gate, Benjamin squinted to the top of the hill

before

them

.

‘That’s a long fucking way with a wheelchair,’ he said, still

looking

up

.

Herbert looked at him and then craned his head around to check for himself. He was craning further and further when his left hand slipped on the wet aluminium bar and he went crashing head first into the field. The quick volley of concerns from Derek and Benjamin were drowned by groaning and Herbert’s own volley of cuss words in return. He sloshed about and finally reached for the gate and pulled

himself

up

.

‘Are you quite finished?’ asked Derek, looking between the bars

at

him

.

Herbert began to wipe away at the cold, wet clods of earth that clung to his jacket and everywhere else. Mania set in his eyes and he looked back at his uncle.

‘Fuck it,’ he told Derek. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound . . . Right, ramblers at the ready?’ His filthy fingers grabbed at the gate and pulled it open to welcome them into the field. ‘No locks on gates, I love Wales,’ he added with a smile.

Benjamin cautiously stepped behind Derek and inched his wheelchair into the field. The small front wheels of Derek’s chair ploughed into the sodden earth then, and Herbert launched himself forward to catch Derek before he was posted into the hillside. They both fell back into the chair, and for a moment, Herbert felt his face and breath mesh within the curtain of his uncle’s beard.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked from within Derek’s chest.

‘I think so. I’m covered